Return of the Wolf Man (30 page)

Stevenson had seen enough the night before to suspect that Talbot wasn’t insane or delusional. Nor did he believe that Talbot was dangerous—except, as Caroline had said, when the moon was full.

But the sun was out and now that Stevenson was upright his neck didn’t feel all that bad. And he desperately wanted—no, he
needed
to know more about what he’d witnessed last night. Rising from the bed, he pulled off the collar and carefully rolled his head around to make sure that he could hold it erect. It hurt when he bent too far in any direction, but he’d survive as long as he was careful.

Slipping his jeans, green shirt, and jacket on over his hospital gown, and shoving the bottle of painkillers in his pocket, Stevenson went to the door. He peeked out; when the corridor was empty he headed toward the stairwell and another section of the clinic.

TWENTY-TWO

W
hen he was thirty-one years old, Lawrence Talbot had listened from the shadows of a church crypt as Maleva said a prayer for her son Bela. To this day, he could remember the smells and sounds of the place. The moldy musk of the rotted leaves that had blown through the door in autumns past. The drops of pooled rainwater leaking between the stones of the roof and falling to the stone floor. The woman’s frail breath and the sun-baked skin stretched thin over her bony cheeks and fingers.

The old Gypsy woman had spilled no tears that day. She’d spoken softly, almost with relief, as she mourned the werewolf whom Talbot had slain the night before with his silver-topped cane.

The way you walked was thorny, through no fault of your own,
Maleva had said.
But as the rain enters the soil, the river enters the sea, so tears surround your predestined end.

And with that, the long and difficult journey of Bela Blasko had ended. It had always seemed unjust to Talbot that the man who was the source of his own infection had died so quickly, so permanently, while he himself never could. Yet that wasn’t the only irony in his miserable life. For as long as he could remember, Talbot had desperately wanted to have a father—a father’s love. Yet within a day of returning to Llanwelly Village and to his natural father, Sir John, Talbot had taken a new father: the Devil himself. Perhaps that was Lawrence Talbot’s punishment for not having honored his own father enough, however formal and aloof Sir John had been. For not having visited more or been there when his father buried his firstborn son and heir. Never mind that Talbot’s own brother hadn’t wanted him there. The younger Talbot should have fought that. He should have fought for the love and attention of their father.

Satan,
Talbot thought. Ah, Satan was not so impersonal and remote. He was the master of indulgence, of vengeance, of sin. And though Talbot never saw him he knew the Devil was present every night, taking an active hand in the Wolf Man’s fiendish labors. That was another part of Talbot’s torment. From his very first lover, Hollywood High School choir soprano Joan Mallory, to Gwen Conliffe in Llanwelly Village, Talbot had wooed and used women to satisfy his animal desires. Knowing that Gwen was affianced to Frank Andrews, he nonetheless took her out to the Gypsy camp with the intention of seducing her in the fog-shrouded darkness.

Now Talbot was cursed to seek out women to satisfy his deadlier animal needs. When women weren’t afoot he would kill men—elderly men, usually. Someone else’s father. Maybe he would tell all of this to Dr. Werdegast. Perhaps Caroline was right; perhaps his problem was mostly psychological. Possibly other people could benefit from what they learned about him.

It would be good to give something back to society. He had failed in his one good ambition, other than to die. He had failed to rid the world of Count Dracula and the Frankenstein Monster. He wondered if that were another part of his curse, being unable to use his strength to stop a greater evil.

He asked himself again, in agonized silence, the same question he had asked himself so many times: what had he done to deserve this?

He had lacked the proper respect for his father and for young women.

Guilty.

He had been jealous of his older brother.

Guilty.

But he had loved and cared for his mother and he had been generous to his fellow workers at Browning Optics in Los Angeles. When he killed Bela in Wanderers’ Woods, Talbot had been risking his own life in an effort to save Jenny Williams.

Were the crimes he had committed greater than those of the men who had started the World Wars? Did he really deserve this special place in hell? Or was he God’s new Job, an upright man whose poverty, sorrow, and physical infirmity were designed to test his faith?

If it weren’t for Caroline, Talbot would be content to stand trial and let these people kill him with their advanced medicine and science. But Caroline was in danger. Why should she pay for his sins? If there were a God and He cared for His children, he would let Talbot go to her.

As Talbot lay there, sinking deeper into bitter reflection, he heard the door groan open. He looked over with disinterest, expecting to see Trooper Willis or the psychiatrist or maybe even that newspaperman who’d come to the castle during the fire. It took a moment before Talbot recognized the long-haired young man dressed in jeans and approaching furtively.

Talbot’s features brightened. It was Tom Stevenson.

“You’re all right!” Talbot said.

“I’m ambulatory and conscious, if that’s what you mean,” Stevenson replied. “I’ve got the world’s sorest neck and a headache to match.”

“I’m sorry,” said Talbot. “I hope I wasn’t responsible for that.”

“You weren’t,” Stevenson said. “Neither was your shaggy alter ego, whatever that was.”

“Then—you saw?”

“Oh yes. I saw.” Stevenson looked at him curiously. “You don’t remember any of what happened?”

Talbot shook his head. “Once the malignancy comes over me, I don’t remember much of what happens. Sometimes memories come to me later, in pieces. But I try not to think about them.”

“I understand,” Stevenson said. Careful not to make any sudden moves that might strain his neck, Stevenson lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. He frowned when he noticed the straps. “Has Willis charged you with anything?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Talbot replied.

“Then I hope they had a good reason for using those.”

Talbot looked down at his wrists. He turned his forearms slowly, the leather straps twisting with them. “I was angry,” he admitted. “Trooper Willis refused to listen to anything I had to say.”

“Matt Willis is a good man,” Stevenson said, “though no one would ever accuse him of having a lot of imagination—or patience. But
I
want to listen, Mr. Talbot. Last night at the station house I saw you turn into something. Something astonishing. I don’t know what it was but I know I didn’t imagine it.”

“What you saw, Mr. Stevenson, was a man become a Wolf Man. There’s no other way to describe it.”

Stevenson looked into Talbot’s sad eyes. “I saw it happen,” the attorney said, “so I’m not about to tell you it didn’t and that you’re crazy. That’s not why I came to see you. You became this creature, this werewolf—and you also saved my life.”

Talbot seemed astonished. “How?”

“A man in a cape killed Deputy Trooper Clyde. Then he attacked me. He would have broken my neck if you hadn’t gone berserk in your cell. You got his attention and that caused him to forget all about me.”

Talbot’s eyes brightened slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Stevenson. You’ll never know how welcome that news is.”

“It’s true.”

“If only—” Talbot said. “If only I could have saved Caroline.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Stevenson said. “You told Matt Willis that the name of the man who assaulted us is Count Dracula, that he’s a vampire. Someone who lives by drinking human blood.”

“He doesn’t ‘live,’ ” said Talbot. “He survives. For centuries Dracula has survived as one of the undead.”

“Whatever Dracula is, Willis also told me that you believe he kidnapped Dr. Cooke.”

“I saw him take her away on his boat,” Talbot said. He added quickly, “But not to hurt her. I believe that Dracula needs a physician to help him rejuvenate the Frankenstein Monster.”

“The Frankenstein Monster,” Stevenson said. “That’s the giant who attacked you at the castle?”

Talbot nodded.

“And now you’re saying that he’s tough enough to have walked away from the crash of the LifeSaver helicopter?”

“Mr. Stevenson, you have to stop thinking in mortal terms,” Talbot said. “Dr. Frankenstein’s creation was torn from the grave and reborn in the belly of a lightning storm. No force of man can stop him. Perhaps the Monster caused the helicopter accident at Dracula’s bidding. Once the Count has put someone in a trance, he can enforce his will across great distances.”

“I see. Then after the crash, Dracula came to LaMirada to collect the Monster. But why would he have gone to the station house?”

“To try to destroy me,” said Talbot. “Trooper Willis said that the deputy was killed by a blade of some kind.”

“It was a short, silvery sword,” said Stevenson.

“Yes, I remember a sword!” Talbot said excitedly. “And that’s proof Dracula came to destroy me.”

“Why is that?” Stevenson asked.

“Because silver is the only substance that can kill a werewolf.”

“But I don’t understand. Why would Dracula try and kill you when he could have gotten away?”

“Because he knew that I would follow him,” Talbot replied. “That’s why I came to Florida in the first place. I’ve committed myself to the destruction of Count Dracula and those who serve him.” His eyes fell. “It’s the only way I can atone for the evil that I myself have caused.”

Stevenson regarded Talbot for a long moment. “You know, Mr. Talbot, I believe you’re telling the truth about who you are and what you’ve experienced. God help me, I can’t think of anything else to explain what I saw last night.” He was still looking at Talbot. “But even if I could, I’d give you the benefit of the doubt. You strike me as a man of unusual integrity, Mr. Talbot.”

“Thank you again,” Talbot replied.

“The question is, do you have any idea where Count Dracula might have taken Dr. Cooke?”

“No,” Talbot said. “I don’t remember any landmarks. I only remember the boat leaving the cove and the Count following it as a bat.”

“A bat? You mean—”

“Yes,” Talbot said. “The ability to become a bat, a wolf, or mist is another of Dracula’s hellish abilities.”

“Then metamoiphoses like these are endemic to your world?”

“ ‘My world?’ ” Talbot said gravely. It was unsettling to hear it put that way.

Stevenson flushed. “That was stupid,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lump you with—”

“Dracula? But that
is
the world we inhabit. And the transformations are a part of that world. Shape-changing has been a cloak for evil since the Devil first took the form of a snake and tempted Eve.”

Stevenson exhaled. “This is almost too much to process. Maybe we’d better stick to the problem at hand. Do you happen to know which direction Dracula was headed when he left LaMirada? Was it north or south?”

“All I know is that he sailed toward the moon.”

“That’s something,” Stevenson said. “Let’s see. Dr. Cooke vanished from the station house at about eight o’clock. That would put them leaving the cove at about, what? Nine o’clock?”

Talbot shut his eyes. How long would it have taken him to pursue Dracula’s scent? To kill that poor woman whom Willis had been asking about? To reach the cove? These were things he’d never had to consider before. “Yes, that’s probably right,” he said, opening his eyes. “An hour.”

“Then the moon would have been in the southeastern sky. I’m a recreational pilot, Mr. Talbot. If Dracula went by boat and was heading south, then he was almost certainly making for the Florida Keys or the Morgan Islands.”

Talbot rose from his lethargic state. “The Morgan Islands—of course!”

“You’ve heard of them?”

“Yes,” he said. “I read about them when I was trying to determine where Dracula might have headed after leaving Europe. I remember thinking then that the islands would be a perfect place for him to hide.”

“How so?”

“They were an old pirate haunt where the natives still believed in voodoo and other black arts. When Count Dracula lived in Transylvania, he ruled by fear. A land already rich in supernatural lore would have received him without a struggle.” Talbot nodded with sudden understanding. “It makes sense, Mr. Stevenson. When I fought Dracula fifty years ago he escaped without the Monster. But time means nothing to a vampire. He simply went to the Morgan Islands to wait for the Monster to reappear.” Talbot looked at the door. There was a clock in a cage above it. “Mr. Stevenson, Count Dracula cannot bear the sunlight or any other symbol of purity. During the day he must rest in a coffin lined with the soil of his native land. At such times he’s helpless.”

“I see,” Stevenson said. “So if I went there and tried to reach Dr. Cooke while the sun was up—”

“Count Dracula couldn’t stop you. But it would have to be done today.”