The Howling Trilogy Page 26

  “It’s all right, dear,” her mother said. “We understand. You stay with us as long as you like, and if there’s anything at all we can do, you know we’re ready to help.”

  Karyn turned in the seat to smile at her mother. “I know you are.” She reached over to touch her father’s arm. “You too, Daddy. You’ve both been wonderful when I needed you. I’m very lucky.”

  For the rest of the drive, the conversation returned to inconsequential things. They pulled up to the big, comfortable house on Altair Drive, and Karyn was pleased to see it had not changed at all.

  She moved into her old room upstairs in the rear of the house. The room brought back mixed memories: There were her carefree high school days with photos of friends tucked into the frame of the mirror, and posters of the Beatles and Joe Namath on the walls; then there was the nightmarish period right after her breakdown. In the shadows of the room lurked reminders of that time when insanity seemed the easy way out.

  Karyn set about unpacking the few things she had brought with her, and concentrated on keeping her thoughts positive.

  It was three days before Karyn finally began to relax. At the dinner table her father told a small joke, and Karyn found to her surprise that she was honestly laughing. It was the first time she had laughed naturally in weeks. She realized then just how tightly wound she had been. At last she was sure that coming home had been the right thing. That night she learned she was wrong.

  It was the howling. At first, only half-awake, Karyn thought it was the dream again. She sat up in bed and stared at the window––a charcoal-gray square in the blackness of the room. She waited, praying that it had been only the dream. Then she heard it again. The deep-throated, tortured howl of the werewolf. It had no direction, but seemed to come from everywhere. And it was near. They had found her once more.

  The werewolf howled no more that night, but Karyn lay tensely awake. By dawn she was exhausted, her nerves frayed.

  At breakfast her mother studied her from across the table. Karyn was sharply aware of her pallor and the shadows around her eyes.

  “Didn’t you sleep well last night?” Mrs. Oliver asked.

  “Not really,” Karyn said. “A touch of indigestion, I think. I shouldn’t have gone back for seconds on your roast.”

  She got no answering smile from her mother. Mrs. Oliver continued to study her daughter’s face.

  “I thought that dog might have kept you awake,” she said.

  “Dog?”

  “Somebody must have left him locked out or something. He made quite a racket about two o’clock.” Then, casually, “Didn’t you hear it?”

  Oh, I heard it all right, Karyn thought. Only it wasn’t any dog. There was no point, though, in getting into that discussion with her mother. She said, “No, I didn’t hear anything.”

  It was clear that Mrs. Oliver was not fully satisfied, but she did not push it. They closed the topic with a couple of remarks about how people should take better care of their pets.

  The breakfast was link sausage and moist scrambled eggs. Ordinarily Karyn would have loved it, but this morning she had little appetite. She ate as much as she could, knowing her mother was watching, but finally had to push the plate away. She was spared answering further questions by the ringing of the doorbell.

  Mrs. Oliver excused herself to answer it. Karyn followed her out to the living room and was introduced to a neighbor, Mrs. Gipson, a chunky woman whose face was flushed with excitement.

  After briefly acknowledging Karyn, the neighbor turned back to Mrs. Oliver. “Did you hear about the awful thing that happened last night? Over at the Stovalls’?”

  “No.”

  “Somebody killed Zora Stovall’s horse!”

  “I don’t believe it! That beautiful palomino?”

  “That’s not the worst of it. You should see the way it was done. The poor thing’s throat and belly was torn right out. There’s two policemen over there now. They say they’ve never seen anything like it. They say it must be some crazy sadist like the one who was cutting up cows out in the valley a few years back.”

  Mrs. Oliver glanced worriedly at Karyn.

  “Have they any idea who did it?” Karyn asked.

  “Not really. They say they’ve got some leads, but the police always say that. It’s a terrible mess. They won’t let anybody go out near the corral. Poor Zora is all broken up. She loved that horse.”

  Karyn had heard enough. She left her mother and Mrs. Gipson looking after her, and went up to her room to begin packing. As she had feared, the wolves of Drago had found her again. There was no doubt in her mind who was responsible for the slaughter of the horse. Now she had to run again.

  Abruptly, Karyn’s icy calm fell to pieces. She sat down heavily on the bed and began to cry. She could not go on running like this every time Marcia Lura and Roy caught up with her. There was no way she could escape them. They seemed to have no trouble finding her, and could probably take her any time they chose.

  Karyn got up and looked at herself in the mirror. She dried her eyes and blew her nose lustily into a Kleenex. Stop this, girl, she told herself. It’s time to stand and fight. She felt a little better then, but still knew she could not go up against them alone. And it was futile to try to enlist anyone to help her who did not know the horror. In all the world there was just one man who knew, and might help her now. He had once before. Chris Halloran.

  16

  In the morning Karyn rummaged through her things and found an old address book with Chris Halloran’s phone number. At the time, he was living at a singles’ complex in Marina Del Ray called the Surf King. She called the three-year-old number from a phone in her parents’ kitchen while Mr. and Mrs. Oliver were in another part of the house.

  After a series of clicks a recorded female voice came over the wire: The number you have called is out of service. Please check your directory to be sure you have the correct number, then dial again.

  Karyn followed the recorded instructions and again reached the disembodied voice. She banged down the receiver in frustration. She should have expected it, of course. In Southern California, where businesses, buildings, and people come and go overnight, it was a lot to expect that a telephone number would get the same party after three years.

  There was still the possibility that Chris lived at the same place, but had changed his telephone to an unlisted number. It was, Karyn decided, worth checking out. She could not give up now. She borrowed the car keys from her father and left the house. It was shortly before noon.

  The Buick seemed like an excess of automobile to Karyn after the little Datsun she had driven in Seattle, but it rode smoothly, and the power equipment made it easy to handle. She drove down the San Diego Freeway past Culver City to the Marina turnoff.

  The Surf King Apartments consisted of four interconnected buildings in cream-colored masonry with harmonizing pastel balconies. Karyn parked in an area marked Visitors, and entered the complex through a palm-flanked gateway. She crossed the red adobe central court and passed the Olympic-sized swimming pool where an assortment of young men and women presented their bodies to the sun. They eyed her speculatively from behind their Foster Grants as she walked by. Karyn ignored them and followed a series of arrows past the sauna and the Jacuzzi to the manager’s apartment.

  She touched the buzzer, and the door was swept open by a muscular young man with a full black beard, wearing a t-shirt printed with the Coors logo.

  “Hi,” he said, “I’m Ron.”

  “Hello––” Karyn began.

  “You’re really in luck,” he said. “I have a vacancy opening up the first of the week. You’ll love it. It’s a bachelorette, balcony, built-ins, dishwasher, wet-bar, sofa makes into a queen-sized bed. Want to take a look?”

  “No thanks,” Karyn told him. “I’m not looking for an apartment.”

  Ron’s smile dimmed.

  “I’m looking for someone who lives here. At least he used to. His name is Chris Halloran.”
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  The manager frowned. “Halloran? It doesn’t sound familiar, but I’ve got two hundred units here with people moving in and out all the time. I’ll check the list of tenants.”

  He sat down at a desk and pulled out several sheets of paper with names typed on them. Many were crossed off and inked over. Ron traced a finger down the columns of names.

  “Nope, sorry. No Halloran.”

  “He must have moved,” Karyn said. “I know he was living here three years ago.”

  “A lot of people come and go in three years,” the manager said. “I’ve only been here four months myself.”

  “Could you look it up for me?” Karyn said. “You must have the records.”

  “We have ’em, but they’re all locked up out in the back.”

  Karyn switched on one of her best smiles. “I’d really appreciate it if you could check for me. It’s awfully important.”

  Without much enthusiasm the young man left Karyn sitting on the sofa that probably opened into a queen-sized bed, and he disappeared into another room. After several minutes he came back carrying a ledger-sized book.

  “You’re right,” he said, “Christopher Halloran was in 314-C three years ago. Had the place a year, moved out the next April.”

  Karyn calculated that Chris had given up his apartment here shortly after their split-up in Las Vegas.

  “What was the forwarding address?” she said.

  Ron scowled down at the ledger. “There isn’t any.”

  “But there has to be.” A note of panic crept into Karyn’s voice.

  “Well, there isn’t,” Ron insisted. “There’s no law that says you have to give one. Listen, if you’re so hot to find this guy, why don’t you hire a detective?”

  Because there’s no time, Karyn thought. I need Chris now, today, before something else happens. Before someone else dies.

  “Anything wrong?”

  Karyn realized she had been staring right through the manager. She shook her head and managed a smile. “No, nothing. Thanks for your trouble.” She turned to leave.

  “Sure you don’t want to just take a look at that bachelorette? We’re building tennis courts, and there’re parties three nights a week.”

  Karyn gave him another small shake of her head and walked on out of the Surf King. The dashboard clock in the Buick told her the day was half gone. She felt a terrible urgency to locate Chris before nightfall.

  Her next stop was Techtron Engineering, in Inglewood, near the airport. She went inside and spoke to the personnel manager in his small, functional office.

  “Chris Halloran left Techtron two years ago,” he said.

  Karyn felt a sudden emptiness.

  “He took a long leave of absence, and when he came back he was never quite the same. Restless, sort of. We were all sorry to see him go. Everyone here liked Chris. In the last few weeks here, though, he couldn’t settle down to handle the routine parts of his job. Said he needed more freedom. So he quit.”

  Afraid of the answer she would get, Karyn asked the question, “Do you know where he went?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Hope flickered again.

  “Chris and another man who worked here at the time, a man named Walter Eckersall, went into partnership and started their own consulting firm. They were a perfect team. Chris supplied the enthusiasm and the creative thinking, and Walt took care of the solid, practical details.”

  “Are they still in business?”

  “Yes, they are. And doing very well, too. We even call them in to do a job for us now and then.”

  The personnel man wrote down an address in North Hollywood. Karyn thanked him and hurried out to the Buick. It was mid-afternoon. Time was slipping away.

  The building on Lankershim Boulevard was a low, cinderblock structure with clean lines and a modest sign on the front identifying it as E & H Engineering Consultants. Karyn scanned the automobiles parked in the diagonal spaces in front of the building, half-hoping to see Chris’s bright red Camaro. It was not there. But of course, she told herself, he would have a different car by now.

  Inside, the girl at the reception desk, a chesty brunette, smiled up at her.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Halloran,” Karyn said.

  “Mr. Halloran isn’t in,” the girl said carefully. “Can Mr. Eckersall help you?”

  Karyn’s spirits sagged again. Finding someone in real life could be so difficult. In the movies all you did was pick up a phone, and there they were. But in the movies there was always a parking place in front of the bank too.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Eckersall,” she said.

  Walter Eckersall was a tall, loose-jointed man with bushy brown hair. He wore black-rimmed plastic glasses and spoke in a voice of surprising gentleness. “You had some business with Chris?” he said.

  “Not really,” Karyn said. “It’s more personal.”

  Eckersall’s eyes shifted their focus to a far corner of the room. “Chris is taking a little vacation just now. If you’re a friend of his, you’ll know how he appreciates his leisure.”

  “Yes, I know,” Karyn said quickly. “Can you tell me where he’s gone?”

  Eckersall looked uncomfortable. “Uh, I don’t know if I can, really, uh––”

  “I should tell you,” Karyn said, “that there is no romance involved here. My personal business with Chris has nothing to do with his private life.”

  Eckersall gave her a relieved smile. “Sorry. When an attractive lady comes in looking for Chris I sort of assume––well, never mind that. He’s down in Mexico now. Staying at a hotel just outside Mazatlán. The Palacia del Mar.”

  “Thank you,” Karyn said. “And don’t worry, you haven’t gotten Chris in any trouble.”

  “There’s one more thing I’d better mention,” Eckersall said. “He’s not down there alone.”

  Karyn hesitated only a moment. “Knowing Chris,” she said, I didn’t think he would be.”

  Heading back to Brentwood in the late afternoon, Karyn silently cursed the traffic on Sunset Boulevard that slowed her progress. Soon it would be dark, and the night, she knew, belonged to the werewolf.

  By the time she reached her parents’ house the sun had slipped down behind the Santa Monica Mountains. Darkness fell like a curtain. Karyn put the car away in the garage, then stood outside and swung down the counterbalanced door. She started for the house. Halfway along the walk to the front door her heart froze.

  A sound.

  Something moving in the bushes.

  Karyn turned for one terrified look. It was just a dark shape. A shadow moving among shadows. But there was no mistaking what it was.

  Karyn fought off the paralysis and ran for the house. Please, God, let the door be unlocked! She banged into the solid oak panel, fumbled a split second for the knob, turned it in her slippery hand and half-fell into the house.

  Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, startled, rose from their chairs in the living room. Karyn slammed the heavy door shut and cranked the deadbolt lock into place. Outside something thudded softly against the door. Then there was silence.

  Her mother came quickly toward her. “Karyn, what’s the matter?”

  “Is someone out there?” her father said. Karyn stood with her back braced against the door and struggled to keep her voice at a normal level. “It’s all right. Something startled me for a moment.”

  Mrs. Oliver put her hands gently on her daughter’s shoulders. Frank Oliver reached for the doorknob.

  “If somebody’s bothering you––” he began.

  “No, Daddy, don’t go out there!!” Karyn cried. Her father looked at her sharply, and she went on in a quieter tone. “Please, Daddy. For me.”

  Reluctantly he drew his hand back.

  “Is the back door locked?” Karyn asked. “And the windows?”

  “Karyn,” her father said, “If something’s happened, I want to know about it.”

  “Frank.” Mrs. Oliver’s tone caught his attention. “It won’t do any harm to make sur
e the place is locked up. And it will make Karyn feel better.”

  Frank Oliver looked from his wife to his daughter. “Well, sure. All right.”

  “Could we do it now?” Karyn said. “Right away?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Oliver exchanged a look, then began checking the windows. Karyn hurried through the house and tried the back door. She was relieved to find it locked. After making sure the kitchen windows were secure, she relaxed a little. She knew her mother and father thought they were humoring a somewhat neurotic daughter, but that was all right. Better than taking a chance with the thing that was out there somewhere in the night. The beast was taunting her, Karyn felt. Letting her know it could kill her at almost any time it chose. Well, maybe it would pass up one opportunity too many.

  She drew a deep breath and walked back into the living room to join her parents.

  “Everything’s locked up tight,” Mrs. Oliver said.

  “And double-checked,” Frank Oliver added.

  Karyn hugged her mother, then went over and took hold of her father’s hands. “Thank you both,” she said, feeling the depth of her love for these people. “You won’t have to worry about this after tonight. I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Leaving?” said her mother. “I’d hoped you could stay longer. A week or so, at least.”

  “I wish I could,” Karyn said, “But there’s something I have to settle once and for all before I can ever stay anywhere comfortably again.”

  She waited. Both of her parents wanted very badly to ask her questions. It showed plainly in their faces. Where was she going? Why? For how long? But, God bless them, they held their questions inside.