The Howling III (25 page)

“Yes, yes, can we get on with it?” The doctor looked at his watch. “My time is limited.”

“Yes, well, so is mine. So let me tell you without further palaver what you can do with your two hundred dollars. You can take these bills, roll them up, and stuff them one at a time up your ass.”

Pastory blinked. He stared at the showman. “I don’t think I understand what you’re saying.”

“I don’t know how I can make it any plainer.”

“Is is a matter of more money?”

“It is a matter of you getting the hell out of my sight. So you’re a doctor. Good for you. I’m a carny. Been one all my life. I’ll tell you something about carnival people, Doctor, we have a code of our own, and we try to live by it. Sure, we may work a scam here and there: put pictures out in front of attractions we don’t have inside; weight the milk bottles so they won’t tip over. But there are some things we do not do. We don’t sell human beings. Not for two hundred lousy dollars. Not for any price. Now get the hell out of my tent.”

Styles let the four fifty-dollar bills nutter to the dirt floor. Pastory stared at him for a moment, then bent to pick them up. When he straightened again his face was mottled with anger.

“You don’t know what you’re doing. Malcolm is not just another boy. He is a unique specimen of active lycanthropy. I want him.”

“Get out of here,” Styles said. “I can’t stand to look at you.”

Pastory reached out and seized the lapels of Styles’s brightly checked coat. “Damn you, old man, you can’t do this to me. I want that boy. I will have him!”

Styles opened his mouth to shout, and Pastory’s fingers moved up to clamp around his throat, shutting off his air. The smaller man squeezed. The tendons stood out like cables in his forearms.

Styles’s eyes bulged. His face turned an unhealthy bluish colour. He scrabbled ineffectually trying to pry loose Pastory’s fingers. He staggered backwards, Pastory following, until the smaller man’s grip was broken.

Styles pulled in a wheezing breath. He gave a strangled cough, clutched at his chest, and staggered into one of the tent supports, making the canvas shiver. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell heavily to the dirt floor, his chest heaving. Pastory came over and stared down at him. Styles’s body bucked once, twice, then lay still.

Pastory looked quickly toward the entrance to the tent. Assured that no one had heard the short scuffle, he ran to the stage at the far end, mounted it, and pulled aside the curtain.

The hate-filled face that glared up at him from the crouching figure only faintly resembled the boy Malcolm. The muzzle was pushed well forward, the eyes slanted and deep green, the ears pointed and cocked. The black upper lip curled back to show the outsized killing teeth. It growled.

Pastory spread his hands as one does with a strange dog to show he carried no weapon. He advanced slowly.

“It’s all right, Malcolm. No one is going to hurt you. You remember me, don’t you? I’m your friend. You know that. I’m going to take you back with me to where no one will hurt you again.”

Another growl. The creature drew back slightly. The shoulders and deep chest were covered with coarse hair. The clothing he had been wearing hung in tatters.

Pastory could barely contain his excitement. This was the furthest along in the change he had yet seen the boy. He ached to get Malcolm back to the laboratory. This time there would be no bungling Kruger to mess things up.

“Come along now,” he said, putting just the right note of authority into his voice. “There is nothing more for you here. Your place is with me.”

The answering growl this time was deeper. The teeth seemed to have grown.

For the first time, Pastory felt a small doubt about his ability to control the boy. He took a step back. “I’m here to help you, Malcolm. Now stop this foolishness and come along.”

The attack was so swift that Pastory had no time to cry out. From the crouching position on the floor Malcolm sprang at him. The flashing teeth seized him by the throat, the powerful jaws clamped together. Pastory felt the hot splash of blood down the front of himself. He screamed, but all that came from his gaping mouth was a soft bubbling sound. He had a last impression of the hot, snorting breath of the beast on his face, then the life drained out of him.

The beast, with its jaws still clamped on the man’s throat, worried him the way a dog does a rabbit. Blood spattered the wooden floor of the stage, the velvet curtain, the canvas of the tent, and the cage. Finally he dropped Pastory’s pale and broken body with a thump.

He came through the curtain, and in two long bounds was at the side of the still figure of Bateman Styles. The muzzle poked down close to the showman’s livid face and snuffled questioningly. There was no answer from Styles. No movement, no breath, no heartbeat.

The beast whirled from the body of the showman and ran out through the opening in the rear of the tent. Outside he lifted his bloody muzzle to the night sky and he howled.

It was a sound Malcolm had heard many times from others in the night. He howled again - a long, ululating cry of loneliness and rage and despair. From up in the distant hills, faint but unmistakeable, came an answer.

Along the carnival midway people stopped and turned to stare toward the unearthly howling. Small children began to cry. Women pressed closer to their men. The men glanced at one another, each waiting for someone else to make the first move. Then several of the carnival people started toward Bateman Styles’s tent.

Malcolm heard them coming. He swung his great beast’s head to and fro, searching for a way out. Seeing a path that led off towards the town between the parked trailers and trucks, he ran; ran with ground-devouring strides. If any of the carnival men saw the powerful figure loping across the field, they did not try to give chase.

Gradually Malcolm’s pace slackened. His breathing grew laboured. He became aware of an ache in his muscles and the slap of his bare feet on the pavement. He slowed to a walk, watching behind to be sure there were no pursuers.

The shadows seemed to deepen. His listened to the tiny chirps and rustlings of the night creatures. The air was cold on his skin where the clothing was torn, and he realized that the transformation had reversed itself. Once again his appearance was that of a normal human.

He gathered the torn remains of his clothing about him and looked around to get his bearings. He saw he was on the state highway that formed the main street of Silverdale. A mile ahead he could see the scattered lights of the town. A couple of hundred yards before him was the neon sign for the motel where Holly Lang was staying. He hurried on.

There were only four cars pulled into the spaces to accomodate the twelve rooms of the motel. Curtains were pulled across the windows in the occupied rooms. In the office Malcolm could see a young oriental woman working on a crossword puzzle.

He crept along the wall to the motel room with Holly’s Volkswagen parked before it. Softly he knocked.

When she opened the door Holly’s shocked expression reflected the boy’s dishevelled appearance.

“Malcolm, what happened to you? Are you all right?”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.” She stood aside while Malcolm entered the room. She led him to a chair, then snapped off the old movie that was playing on television.

Malcolm sat stiffly in the chair for a moment, breathing hard. Then he started to cry. At first he made an effort to hold back the tears, then gave in to them. All the pent-up sorrows, frustrations, and pains of his young life burst forth in uncontrolled sobs. Holly took a chair across the room and sat quietly, letting him cry it out.

After a while he subsided. He used the tattered sleeve of his shirt to wipe his eyes, and looked shyly over at Holly.

“I’ve never done that before,” he said.

“Then it was about time you did. Everybody has to let the hurt come out once in a while.”

“It does feel better.”

“Of course it does. People shouldn’t hold those things inside.”

The boy’s faint smile faded. “Oh, Holly, it’s all over now. I’ve ruined everything.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it.”

The boy spoke haltingly, glancing at Holly’s face from time to time for a reaction. Mostly he kept his eyes downcast.

“Dr Pastory came to the tent tonight.”

“How did he…” Holly interrupted, then caughfherself. “No, never mind. Go on.”

“He… he wanted to take me back. He offered to buy me from Mr Styles. For a minute I thought Bate was going to do it, but he never would have. He told Dr Pastory to get out. Pastory grabbed him and there was a scuffle. Mr Styles choked and fell down. I was behind the curtain and heard the whole thing.”

The boy paused. His gaze drifted off to a corner of the ceiling, as though seeing there again the events of the night. “I didn’t want it to happen to me then, Holly. I didn’t want to change. I tried to fight, but I couldn’t help it. When Dr Pastory came to get me, I couldn’t help myself.”

“There’s blood on your shirt,” Holly said. “Did he hurt you?”

Malcolm shook his head. “It isn’t my blood. It’s his. Pastory’s.”

“You… attacked him?”

“I killed him, Holly.”

“Oh, Malcolm, are you sure?”

“I killed him, all right. And do you want to know what else?”

“What?” Holly said quietly.

“I liked it. I hated him so much, both for what he did to me and for hurting Mr Styles, that all I wanted was for him to die. And when he did I was happy.”

Holly stretched out a hand and touched him on the shoulder. “Oh, my poor, poor Malcolm.”

“Then I went to Mr Styles and I saw he was dead. If I could have killed Pastory again right then, I would have. I ran out. People started coming toward the tent. I just kept running until I got here.”

“I’m glad you came to me,” Holly said.

“I shouldn’t have. They’ll be looking for me soon. I’ll just get you in trouble too.”

“You mustn’t think that way, Malcolm. What happened was not your fault. Wayne Pastory was an evil man. Whatever happened to him I’m sure he provoked.”

“But I killed him, Holly. I turned into an animal and I killed him. If they catch me, they’ll lock me up.”

“Not if I can do something about it,” she said. “Come with me, Malcolm. Now, tonight. We’ll go where there is help for you.”

“Why should anyone want to help me?” he said.

“You are not to blame for what happened. You have to remember that. What you have is like a sickness. And sickness can be cured.”

“But, this is… I’m… different,” the boy said.

“Yes, Malcolm. And it is because you’re different that you can’t be held responsible.”

“It could happen again,” he said.

“We must see that it doesn’t. You were put under unbearable stress tonight. The man you most hated attacked and killed a good friend. A lot of so-called normal people would have lost control too.”

Malcolm was silent for a long minute. Then he said, “What can we do, Holly?”

“The first thing is to get out of here. I can pack in ten minutes, then we’ll start back to Pinyon. There are people there we can trust.”

Malcolm looked at his torn, blood-spattered clothes. “I can’t go like this.”

“It doesn’t matter, Malcolm,” Holly said. “No one but me will see you.”

“I don’t want to,” he said, trying to cover himself.

Holly sighed. He was, after all, an adolescent boy with the normal adolescent’s dread of being embarrassed. She said, “I might have something you can wrap yourself in, at least until we get to Piny on.”

“I have some things in the trailer,” Malcolm said. “Mr

Styles’s trailer. I can go and get them.”

“Do you think that would be safe?”

“I’ll be careful. If there are people around, I won’t go near it.”

“I think you’re taking a big risk just to pick up some clothes.”

“They’re kind of special,” the boy said. “Mr Styles bought them for me. I don’t have anything else to remember him by.”

“All right, Malcolm, if you feel you have to. Promise me you’ll be very, very careful.”

“I promise,” he said.

They walked together to the door. Holly looked out to be sure no one was around. Then she gave the boy a hug, and he slipped away into the night.

*****

He stayed in the shadows of the brush at the side of the road as he made his way back towards the carnival grounds. Circling the perimiter, he saw that all normal activity had come to a stop. The lights still blazed, but the sounds of the carnival - the jangly music, the rumble of the rides, the talkers, the laughter of the people along the midway - were missing. A car from the Inyo County sheriffs department was parked near the entrance gate.

Malcolm slipped on to the grounds between the food tent and the shooting gallery. He could see a crowd milling around in front of the Animal Boy tent. A man in a sheriffs uniform stood guard out in front to keep back the curious. So far there seemed to be no one back where the trailers were parked.

As he made his way toward Bateman Styles’s battered old trailer, Malcolm stopped suddenly. The breath caught in his throat. Ahead of him a man-sized shadow detached itself from the others and moved into his path.

“Hello, Malcolm.”

It took a moment for him to make out the sandy-haired, mild-looking man who stood regarding him calmly. Then recognition came with a jolt.

“Derak! How did you find me?”

“We’ve known where you were for months,” he said. “One or more of us was always nearby, waiting for you to call and tell us you were ready. Tonight you did.”

“I called you?”

“We heard it from the hills. The howling.”

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Malcolm said. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“I understand,” Derak said. “The fact remains that you called to us. By now you have learned that you cannot live among the others as one of them. It is time for you to join us.”

“H-how many of you are there?”

“More than you might think. There is a band of us now in the hills above this town. Some of them you will recognize from Drago. We’re all waiting for you, Malcolm.”

The boy peered into the darkness. He thought he saw movement among the shadows.