The Howling III (12 page)

“It looks great. And I promised the next meal was going to be on me.”

“I’ll catch up with you,” Holly said. “Dig in while it’s hot.”

Ramsay began to eat. He could feel Holly watching him. “Go ahead and ask,” he said.

“All right. How are you doing?”

“Just swell. It appears that a nice-mannered fellow named Mr Derak walked into Dr Qualen’s office, bit him to death, jumped out the window, and disappeared. It’s a piece of cake.”

“You know Malcolm is gone, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The nurse, Rita Keneally, says Dr Pastory came in early this morning, had Malcolm sedated, and took him away.”

“So?”

“Don’t you think there’s a connection? This man Derak came here wanting to see Malcolm.”

“If there is a connection, I’m sure it will come out when we talk to Dr Pastory.”

“But I’ve asked, and nobody knows where he is.”

Ramsay swallowed a mouthful of roast beef. “Holly, I am investigating a murder. I have two capable deputies and more help than I really want from the sheriffs of Ventura and Los Angeles counties. Suppose you stick to curing the sick and leave crime to me.”

“God, I hate it when they get condescending.”

“If by “they” you mean me, I’m sorry that’s the way it sounded to you, but I do have an awful lot on my mind.”

“Isn’t kidnapping a big enough crime to get some attention?”

“Kidnapping? You’re talking about Malcolm?”

“Who else?”

“As I understand it, that was a fairly routine transfer of a patient from one facility to another.”

“Bullshit!”

Ramsay lowered a forkful of mashed potatoes back to the plate. From a desk drawer he drew a clear plastic folder with several sheets of a printed form inside. The sheets were spattered with a brownish stain.

“I have here,” Ramsay said, “what they tell me are the official and correct forms for transfer of our patient Malcolm from La Reina County Hospital to some clinic. They are a bit messy because they were found on the desk of the late Dr Qualen, who was more or less lying on top of them.”

“Have you read them?”

“Well,no, but-“

“I have,” Holly snapped. “And there are some glaring irregularities.”

“How did you get hold of these reports before I did?” Ramsay asked.

“I have friends here. The point is that although Dr Wayne Pastory’s name is all over those forms transferring Malcolm to his own clinic, nowhere is the location of that clinic spelled out.”

“So?”

“So I want to know where Malcolm was taken.”

“When Dr Pastory shows up we’ll ask him. How about that?”

“Fine, but what makes you think he’s going to show up?”

“What happened here this morning won’t exactly be a secret by the time the six-o’clock news hits the air,” he said. “Unless Pastory is a damn fool, he’ll show up here voluntarily and give us his version of what happened.”

“Pastory is no fool,” Holly said tightly, “but he may be something much worse.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Malcolm could be in real danger. While you sit here waiting for Pastory to stroll in and chat, he could be harming that boy in some dreadful way.”

“Now listen to me, Holly. I know you have a special feeling for Malcolm, but it seems to me you’re letting it get in the way of your professional judgement. I will want to question Dr Pastory as a witness, but as far as I know, he has committed no crime. This man called Derak is a bona-fide murder suspect. That is my number one priority, and it’s going to stay that way until I have reason to change my thinking. Is that understood?”

She glared at him. “Oh, absolutely, Mr Sheriff, sir. You just go ahead and play Dirty Harry and hunt down your phantom murderer. I trust you won’t mind too much if I do what little I can to try to find a boy who may be in trouble like you’ve never imagined.”

“Do whatever you want to, Holly,” Gavin said, making an effort to soften his tone. “But I’ll appreciate it if you’ll try not to interfere with the investigation.”

She sprang to her feet and glared, fists clenched at her sides. “Don’t worry, Sheriff. I won’t come within shouting distance of your precious investigation.”

Without giving him a chance to reply, she spun on her heel and marched out of the office, startling Nevins and Fernandez, who were finishing up their lunches out in the corridor. By the time Ramsay got to the door she was not in sight.

“What did you do to the lady doctor, Sheriff?” Roy Nevins asked. “She came out of there like her tail feathers was on fire.”

“I asked her to please stay out of the way.”

“Oh. Well.” The deputy nodded as though that explained everything.

When he could postpone it no longer, Ramsay made his way out through the crowded lobby of the hospital. Every third person seemed to be carrying a television minicam on his shoulder. Those that didn’t have cameras had tape recorders and phallic microphones which they thrust at anyone who moved within range. When Ramsay appeared they surged toward him like piranha to a goldfish. “Have you made an arrest, Sheriff?” “Any suspects?”

“What kind of wounds did the dead man have?” “Is it true his head was bitten off?” “Is there a link to the killings last year at Drago?” “What’s your opinion of the werewolf theory?” Ramsay held up a hand like a traffic cop and waited a full minute until the reporters subsided into near silence. He said, “There have been no arrests. We are following up on several possible suspects. I cannot describe the fatal wounds at this time for fear of jeopardizing the investigation. The victim’s head was not bitten off. No connection has been found to any other crimes. In my opinion werewolves exist only in cheap horror movies. Thank you all very much.”

As he started toward the door the reporters crowded in around him, thrusting their ball-headed microphones close to his face, gabbling questions all at the same time.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry. I have a very important meeting that could be vital to the investigation. No, I cannot give you any more information. Excuse me.”

Ramsay’s progress through the crowd slowed to a near standstill as the mass of bodies around him pressed closer. As he was about to be pushed backward, a thick-shouldered man with forearms like Popeye shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the complaints and curses from the reporters.

“Right this way, Sheriff. The car’s outside.” The man was vaguely familiar, but Ramsay could not immediately place him. However, this was no time to ask for ID. He fell in behind the man like a running back behind his pulling guard, and together they ploughed a furrow through the gaggle of reporters, out the door, and down the wide walkway to a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle.

Ramsay jumped into the passenger’s side and the other man wedged himself behind the wheel. He slammed the little car into gear and they took off, barely missing a camera crew from the Los Angeles ABC affiliate.

By the time the reporters had collected themselves and dashed for their own vehicles, the Beetle had roared around the corner and turned off the road on to an all but invisible wagon track that led out of sight behind a row of eucalyptus trees. There the driver stopped and cut the engine.

When the caravan of media cars had roared past on the highway, Ramsay turned for a better look at his driver. “Thanks for the rescue,” he said. “You’ve got a handy way with crowds.”

“I played a little football years ago at Stanford.”

“Do I know you? Ramsay asked.

“You might have seen me around. Name’s Ken Dowd. I own a little shop in Darnay. Heard about what happened at the hospital this morning and thought maybe I could help you out.”

“That so? In what way, Mr Dowd?”

“Call me Ken. Well, I heard how they’re saying this killing was like the ones they had over at Drago before the town burned down. Werewolves, you know.”

“I know,” Ramsay said wearily.

“Well, back then I had occasion to help a fellow out. Came up from LA. Had to go into Drago after a woman or something. He came to my shop.”

“What do you call your shop, Ken?”

The broad-shouldered man looked embarrassed. “The Spirit World. My wife’s idea. I told her it sounded like a liquor store, but that’s what she wanted, and half the money to set it up was hers. We sell occult books, Ouija boards, powders, potions, charms, chants. You name it.”

“That’s interesting, Ken, but I don’t see how it’s going to help me.”

Dowd reached behind the seat and brought up a cardboard box the size of a double deck of playing cards. He handed it to Ramsay. The box was surprisingly heavy for its size.

“What is it?”

“Take a look.”

Ramsay raised the flap and looked inside. It took a moment for him to recognize the contents.

“Silver bullets?”

“Calibre.38. I figured they ought to fit your police revolver.”

“You’re not joking with me, are you, Ken?”

“I am not. And I won’t waste a lot of time arguing with you about whether there’s such things as ghosts and vampires and werewolves. I have my own beliefs, but I’m not interested in convincing anybody else. I saw the way some of those people died in Drago, and I don’t want to see any more. You can take these bullets or not, whatever you want. I happen to think they might save your life, and maybe some others too.”

Ramsay looked closely at the man and decided he was not drunk or crazy or a fool. He hefted the box of bullets and dropped it into a side pocket of his uniform jacket.

“Thanks, Ken. I’ll take them.”

Dowd nodded soberly. “I don’t think you’ll be sorry, Sheriff.” He fired the Volkswagen engine and drove back to the road.

It was impossible for Malcolm to tell how long he rode inside the van. There were moments when he was almost awake and he could see Dr Pastory sitting close by, watching him. There were heavy curtains across the rear window, and the only illumination came from up front in the cab where the other man was driving. Malcolm did not have the strength to turn and look up there, and he soon lapsed back into unconsciousness.

He had only vague sensations of when the ride ended. First the vibration of the engine stopped; then there were the metallic sounds of doors opening and closing, and the voices of the two men. The chill of outdoor air was on his face briefly, and then it was warm again. He felt the familiar touch of sheets on his body and the slight give of a mattress under him. To his drugged brain that meant he was back in the hospital. Safe. Holly would be here soon. He slept.

When finally his brain cleared and he came fully awake, Malcolm saw at once he was not in the hospital. The bed was similar, and the room had the same kind of medicinal smell, but there was a coldness here. Not in the temperature, for the room was quite warm, but in the atmosphere. Malcolm had no idea where he was; he only knew it was a bad place.

The room was very plain. There was his narrow bed, a four-drawer bureau, a little night stand, and a straight wooden chair. The room had one door and no window. In a corner was a white enamelled sink with a mirrored cabinet above it. On one wall hung a picture of a dog on a hillock overlooking a flock of grazing sheep. The picture showed storm clouds building on the horizon.

Malcolm peeled back the covers and swung his feet out of the bed on to the floor. He was dizzy for a moment and had to shut his eyes. When he opened them he felt a little better. He looked down and saw that he was still wearing the foolish little garment they gave him at the hospital.

He stood up, and carefully walked the few steps to the door. He tried the knob. Locked. Malcolm was not surprised. He prowled around the room touching things; feeling their surfaces.

He ran some water over his hands at the sink and splashed it on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The young face that looked back at him was very sad. Dark half-moons shadowed the eyes.

The bureau was unfinished wood of some kind. Malcolm pulled out the drawers one by one. Three of them were empty, but the top drawer contained clothes. There was underwear, jeans, Tshirts, sweaters, socks, and tennis shoes.

“Well, hello, Malcolm. How are you feeling?”

The voice startled him so that he spun away from the bureau and almost lost his balance. Dr Pastory stood in the doorway. He had opened it without making a sound.

“I see you found the clothes. It’s all right, they’re for you. I hope they fit. I’m not used to buying clothes for a boy. Young man, I should say.”

Malcolm shrugged.

“I thought you’d be tired of wearing that hospital gown. I don’t blame you.”

Pastory was trying hard to make his voice friendly, but it was still oily and cold to Malcolm. The doctor came over and took his arm to guide him back to the bed. His touch was as unpleasant as his voice. He had an antiseptic smell to him. Malcolm sat down on the bed. Pastory took the chair and hitched it over close.

“Now then, how do you feel?” he said again.

“Sick to my stomach,” Malcolm told him.

“Well, that’s not unusual. The drug does that sometimes. It’s nothing to worry about. We’ll get some food into you and you’ll feel tiptop again.”

“Where are we?”

“It’s a little place of mine where we can get you all well again.”

“I’m not sick.”

“That’s a matter of opinion, Malcolm. Definitely a matter of opinion.”

Dr Pastory was looking at him in a strange, piercing way, but then he put on the fake oily smile again.

“Why don’t you put on some of your new clothes? Are they what boys are wearing today?”

“They’re okay.”

“Good. You just get dressed now and I’ll show you where we’re going to work together.”

“Work?”

“In a manner of speaking. You’re an unusual young man, Malcolm. I’m going to give you a few tests - oh, nothing that will hurt or anything like that - and see if we can find out what makes you so unusual.”

“I don’t think I want to take tests.”

Pastory’s little eyes glittered. “I told you before, Malcolm, in this life it doesn’t always matter what we want. Now will you get yourself dressed, or should I bring in somebody to do it for you?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Good. That’s the spirit I like.” The doctor went out. The door closed soundlessly behind him. There was a whispered click of the lock. Malcolm turned the knob just to be sure. It was locked all right.