The Howling III h-3 Read online

  "Shot it. Shot at it."

  "Right up here in our own Tehachapi Mountains?"

  "Yeah. Bear." The big man in the chair seemed to try to pull his head down into his shoulders.

  Ramsay took a kitchen match from his shirt pocket and stuck the end of it between his teeth. He did that sometimes when he wanted to look rustic and relaxed. He also did it to keep himself from losing his temper and yelling at a citizen.

  "Abe," he said very quietly, "there has not been a bear reported in La Reina County or anywhere within a hundred miles of here since the 1930s." Ramsay had no idea if his figures were correct, but they were close enough to make the point of what he thought of Abe Craddock's bear sighting.

  "It was a bear," Craddock insisted. "A big one."

  "Where's Curly, Abe?"

  The sudden question seemed to jolt the big man, as it was supposed to.

  "It… it got him."

  "The bear got Curly?" Ramsay fought down his rising impatience.

  "Not the bear. Worse."

  Craddock began to shake. He raised the styrofoam cup and swallowed the dregs of the coffee, gagging as he did so. Ramsay moved over and took the cup from his hand. He shook the few remaining drops of coffee into the metal trash can.

  To Milo Fernandez he said, "Get me Roy's office bottle."

  The young officer looked doubtful. "Gee, Sheriff, I don't-"

  "It's in the centre drawer of his desk. Behind the Mexican travel brochures."

  Milo sat down and pulled open the desk drawer with obvious reluctance.

  "Don't worry," Ramsay told him. "I know it's there and Roy knows I know. I don't give a damn if he has an occasional shooter. Right now I'm appropriating the bottle for official use."

  Milo pulled out a bottle of Seagram's Seven Crown and handed it to Ramsay. The sheriff poured a generous slug into the coffee cup and gave it back to Abe Craddock.

  "Here, Abe, this will do you more good than coffee. Steady you down."

  Craddock seized the cup and drank greedily, swallowing the entire contents in two gulps. He held out the cup for more.

  "That's enough for now, Abe. We don't want you to get too steady. Now do you want to tell me once more about you and Curly and this… bear?"

  Craddock slumped in the chair. The shaking in his hands lessened as the whiskey took hold. He spoke in a hoarse monotone. "It looked like a bear. We thought it was a bear. No shit."

  "And you shot at it."

  "Curly did."

  "He was the only one who fired?"

  "Well, I guess I did too."

  "Did you hit it? The… bear?"

  Craddock's head dropped. He frowned down at his hands as though they had betrayed him. In a voice barely audible he said,'We hit it."

  "It wasn't a bear, was it, Abe."

  "No." The words were wrenched out of him. "It was a man." He looked up beseechingly at Ramsay. "It looked like a bear, though. Anybody would of thought so. All hairy the way he was, and he jumped up so fast. How was we to know?"

  Ramsay drew a deep sigh and walked back over to sit on the edge of his desk again. It was Milo Fernandez who finally broke the silence.

  "Is it the guy over in the hospital freezer?"

  Ramsay nodded. "I picked up the pathologist's report this morning. Three 30.06 slugs in the chest; face blown away by a shotgun blast. Nibbled on by small animals." From the corner of his eye he saw Abe Craddock flinch. "Name's Jones. Kind of a local character. Been living up in the woods since before I got here. Came to town once in a while to do odd jobs. Harmless. Kind of likeable, matter of fact."

  "We didn't know it was no man." Craddock's voice took on an unpleasant whine.

  Ramsay turned back and gave him a hard look. "Tell me about Curly Vane."

  Craddock began to tremble again. "Something got him."

  "Not another bear?"

  "No." Craddock shook his head emphatically. "It was real. Like a wolf, kind of."

  "Come off it, Abe," Ramsay said. "I didn't buy your bear, and I sure as hell don't buy your wolf. What happened to Curly? Did you shoot him too?"

  "No, Gavin, I swear to God!" Craddock braced his hands on the arms of the chair and strained forward. "It was like a wolf, but it wasn't a wolf. Bigger. Bigger than a man, even. And it kind of… stood up." His voice faded, as though he knew his words lacked conviction.

  "What did you do then? Did you try to help him?"

  "There wasn't nobody could help Curly when this thing hit him."

  In spite of himself, Ramsay felt a chill between his shoulder blades. "Do you have any idea what it was, Abe?"

  Craddock nodded, his eyes shifting toward the door. "It was one of them things from up at Drago. Some of them got away, you know."

  "Give it a name, Abe."

  "All right, dammit, call me crazy if you want to. It was… a werewolf."

  For half a dozen ticks there was dead silence. Then Ramsay said, "Keep an eye on the office, Milo. Abe and I are going for a ride."

  There were about two hours of daylight remaining when Gavin Ramsay brought Craddock to the spot where the two young hikers had stumbled across Jones's body. Although he paid little attention to the fantastic stories about Drago, the sheriff had no desire to be caught in these woods after nightfall.

  He gestured at the patch of ground where they stood. There were dark stains visible on the carpet of fir needles.

  "This is where we found him, Abe," Ramsay said.

  "Remember the spot?"

  Craddock looked at the ground, then quickly away. "Yeah. You can see the bush here where he kind of reared up. We had no way of knowin" if it was a man or what."

  "So you blasted away?"

  "Honest, Gavin, I'm tryin" to tell you how it happened."

  "Okay, okay. After you shot and he fell, what did you do?"

  "Then we seen the other one and we — "

  "The other one?" Ramsay snapped.

  "Oh, yeah, didn't I say?"

  "No, Abe, you didn't."

  "Well, when we came closer we seen there was another guy. Smaller. Like a kid, maybe."

  "A kid," Gavin repeated.

  "Yeah. Well, he saw us coming and he took off running. We went after him."

  "Why, Abe?"

  "Well, we, uh, thought he'd be scared and might hurt himself, or something."

  "You weren't going to shoot him too, were you, Abe?"

  "Jesus, Gavin, shooting the hermit was an accident. What do you think I am?"

  I know damn well what you are, Ramsay thought. I know what Curly Vane is, too. Or was, as the case may be. He said, "Which way did you go?"

  Craddock looked around, seeming to sniff the air. He was on surer ground now. He pointed off at an angle. "That way. The kid left the trail and took off through the brush. Curly and me went after him."

  "Show me."

  "I am showin" you." Craddock jabbed with his forefinger.

  "Off that way."

  "Let's go."

  "You don't want to go in there, Gavin."

  The muscles tightened around Ramsay's jaw. "I said let's go. I'm not playing games with you, Abe."

  Craddock met the sheriffs hard gaze for a moment, then turned and led the way through the brush in the direction he had pointed.

  "I want you to show me where this "wolf or whatever it was jumped Curly," Ramsay said.

  Some fifty yards into the brush Craddock stopped. He pointed. "It was up there at the base of that leaning fir tree. I was just about here when it hit him. He never had a chance. Nobody would of had a chance with that thing."

  Ramsay walked in careful steps to the tree Craddock had pointed out. He hunkered down at the base of the trunk and examined the ground. The dead needles were stained dark and crusted. He pulled out one of the plastic zip-lock bags he had brought from the office and carefully scraped a few of the needles into it. There was also a whitish powder and bits of what might have been bone. Ramsay took some of that too.

  A flash of colour beyond the tree
caught his eye. He walked over and prodded the brush aside with his foot. A bright red cap with a Budweiser logo on the front lay there upside down. There were shredded bits of a jacket, tough denim trousers, a boot, and part of another boot. All of it was stiff and black with clotted blood.

  Ramsay turned and beckoned. "Come here, Abe."

  Craddock approached reluctantly, taking care not to step where the ground was stained dark.

  "Recognize these?" Ramsay said.

  "Oh, shit." Craddock turned away. He clapped a hand to his mouth too late. The coffee and whiskey he had taken in sputtered out between his fingers. He bent over and retched until nothing more would come.

  Ramsay stood quietly and waited for him to finish.

  Finally Craddock stood up. His normally ruddy face was pale and bloodless. He nodded. "That's Curly's hat. The other stuff, that's his too, as best as I can tell."

  Ramsay scanned the area. "It sort of looks like that's all that's left of him."

  From off toward the mountains came a sound that froze the two men where they stood. A long, wild, ululating howl.

  In the sudden deeper silence that followed, Abe Craddock turned a stricken face to Ramsay.

  "Sheriff, do whatever you got to do to me, but in the name of God, let's get the fuck out of here."

  Ramsay hesitated only a moment, then he nodded and they started back toward the trail.

  Chapter Eight

  "I am going to count up to five, Malcolm," said Holly Lang. "At the count of one you will begin to awaken. When I reach five you will be wide awake, and you will feel rested and refreshed."

  The boy sat propped comfortably in the hospital bed. His eyes were closed, the lashes moist and dark against his pale skin. He smiled gently and nodded.

  "You will remember everything you have told me," Holly continued, "and you will not be frightened. I am going to begin now.

  One. You are beginning to wake up."

  The boy on the bed stirred. His slim fingers flexed, testing the texture of the hospital blanket.

  "Two… You are feeling good, feeling rested, a little more awake now."

  The boy sighed. A soft, contented sound from his chest.

  "Three. Waking up now, feeling refreshed and rested."

  His eyelids fluttered. His lips parted slightly.

  "Four. You can open your eyes now, Malcolm, and look around if you want to. You can hear the birds outside in the trees, feel the breeze coming through the window."

  The boy opened his eyes. He blinked. His eyes moved comfortably about the room, settling on Holly.

  Five. Wide awake now. Wide awake and feeling fine." Holly smiled at the boy. "Hi, Malcolm."

  The boy pulled in a deep breath, stretched his arms, and returned the smile. "Hi, Holly."

  "That was pretty easy, wasn't it," she said.

  "I didn't really go to sleep, you know."

  "I told you it wasn't like that. None of this trance stuff. That's only in comic books."

  "I knew what was happening all the time. I could hear you asking me questions, and I felt myself answer you. It was just that all of a sudden I could… remember." A shadow crossed the boy's face.

  "And now you remember everything that you told me, don't you."

  "Yes. I remember the fire. And living in the woods. Running, always running because men were trying to catch me. I remember the trap. And… oh, I remember Jones." Malcolm stopped, a look of pain on his face.

  "It's all right, Malcolm," Holly said gently.

  "He's dead, isn't he," the boy said.

  "I don't know that for sure."

  The boy nodded. "He's dead. Jones was the best person I ever knew. And they killed him. Those two men. But I told you all about that, didn't I."

  "Talk about it all you want to," Holly said. "Sometimes talking helps take away the hurt."

  "They killed him. With guns."

  Holly watched closely as the boy's gaze drifted off somewhere beyond the walls of the hospital room. She leaned forward in the chair where she sat beside the bed. Was there a change in the colour of his eyes? Or was it a trick of the late afternoon sun slanting in through the window?

  "Something happened after that and I can't remember. Did I tell you what it was?"

  Holly shook her head silently. There were still empty patches in his memory that the hypnosis had not penetrated. She did not want to break into the boy's train of thought now. He did look different. She was sure of it. The shadows were deeper under his cheekbones. And there was something strange about his nose and his upper lip.

  "I don't know why the men didn't kill me too," Malcolm went on. His voice had grown deeper and had a rasp to it.

  His throat must be dry from all the talking, Holly told herself. But his eyebrows… weren't they heavier now than a moment ago? And she did not remember them growing all the way across the bridge of his nose.

  "The next thing I remember I was running again. I didn't know if the men were chasing me or not. I just knew I had to get away. I was afraid again, only this time it was even worse than before. It was worse because Jones was dead. He was my friend, and I lost him."

  "It's all right to grieve for a friend," Holly said softly. "It hurts to lose someone, but at one time or another it must happen to all of us. There will be other friends."

  Malcolm was silent for a minute. Then he spoke again. "I was so tired of running. When the other two men saw me, the ones who brought me here, I didn't try very hard to get away. I knew they were different from the first two — the ones who killed Jones."

  "How did you know that, Malcolm?"

  "I could tell by the way they smelled. You know you can smell it when somebody wants to kill you, or when they're afraid of you."

  Holly nodded. She knew the sweat glands emitted a different chemical under the stress of fear, but few humans were equipped with a sense of smell keen enough to recognize it.

  "Excuse me, Malcolm," she said, standing up. "We don't need those curtains drawn any more. Let's catch what we can of the last of the sunlight."

  She spread the curtains all the way open, brightening the room with an orange glow from the setting sun. With a reluctance she could not explain, Holly turned to look at the boy in the bed.

  He smiled at her. Just a normal, somewhat thin fourteen-year-old boy. His eyes were a warm green. There were no unusual shadows under the cheek bones. Straight nose, well-formed upper lip. Rather fine, arched eyebrows. Nothing strange here at all. As she had thought, it was a trick of the lighting.

  "The funny thing is," Malcolm said, "it seems like only a few minutes ago you were going to hypnotize me. But that was morning, and now the sun's going down."

  "Sometimes hypnotism plays tricks with time," Holly said. "A few seconds can stretch into hours. Or the other way around. How do you feel otherwise?"

  "Fine. Tired, though. I feel like I did all that running all over again."

  "You'll get a good night's sleep tonight," she said. "I'll have your dinner sent up right away."

  "Thank you."

  Holly gave an unnecessary tuck to the blanket on Malcolm's bed. She smiled at him and started out of the room.

  "Holly?"

  "Yes?"

  "About Jones. You said it hurt to lose a friend, and it does. And you said there'd be other friends. I wonder… will you be my friend?"

  "I'd like that," Holly said. "I'd like that a lot. See you."

  She slipped out of the room into the corridor and stood for a moment with her back against the wall. She swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in her throat. Right now she should be feeling quite pleased with herself. In a remarkably short time she had brought the boy out of an apparent catatonic state and restored at least a portion of his memory. Why, then, did she feel this chill of apprehension? There was more to Malcolm's story. Much more. Holly Lang was not sure she wanted to know it all.

  Enough of that kind of thinking. She had work to do. She turned to start down the corridor and gasped as she almost ran in
to Gavin Ramsay. The tall sheriff caught her to avoid a collision. He held her for a moment with his strong hands on her shoulders, then released her.

  "I was just on my way to call you," she said.

  "And I was looking for you."

  "After you left this morning Malcolm talked almost nonstop. He told me all about your dead man in the woods."

  Ramsay nodded. "Jones."

  "You know?"

  "Your pathologist caught me on the way out of here this morning with my deputy. He told me who the dead man was and how he died."

  "Then Malcolm isn't in trouble any more?"

  "Not with me, he isn't. But we still don't know who he is. Did you find out?"

  "Not really." She hesitated. "I think he's from Drago."

  "No kidding."

  "His memory begins with a fire that destroyed his town."

  "If he is from Drago, he'll be the first survivor to turn up," Ramsay said.

  "You understand I'm not sure. I'll want to work with him a lot more."

  "No problem. The Drago business is none of my affair, anyway."

  "One thing will probably interest you — he remembers the two men who shot Jones."

  "I know who they are too, but the boy's testimony will be important."

  "Could it wait until tomorrow? He's pretty tired."

  "I don't suppose a day will make any difference." Gavin rubbed his jaw, bringing a rasp from the stubble of beard. "You have any plans for tonight?"

  Holly turned brisk. "I always have plans. Tonight I'm going to write up my reports, go home, take a long bath, grill myself a steak, and watch an old Bogart movie on television."

  "Let me rephrase the question," he said. "Will you have dinner with me?"

  "A date? Why, Sheriff, I had no idea

  "I hate it when they get cute," he muttered.

  Holly laughed. "Dinner sounds like fun. But considering the quality of the restaurants hereabouts, why don't you come to my place? I've got two of those steaks."

  "That is an offer I can't refuse. What kind of wine do you like?"

  "Something dark red and dry. You pick it out. Is eight o'clock all right?"

  "Fine. Where do I show up?"

  "I have a little house in Darnay. Seventy-one Garden Street. I'll leave the porch light on."

  "I'll find you."