The Wolfman (39 page)

Far above, the sun was carving a path toward twilight.
Lawrence did some math in his head and judged that there was nearly a full day left until he reached the Hall. The thought made his stomach clench and in disgust he threw the last of the chicken away. He was exhausted and he knew that if he didn’t get sleep now he would never have the strength to do what he needed to do tomorrow.

Drawing his jacket tightly around him, he curled up on the cold ground. As he lay there, he thought of Ben and of his mother. He thought of his father. He thought of the horrific things that had been written with grotesque attention to detail in the newspapers.

But when he dreamed, he dreamed of Gwen.

I
nspector Francis Aberline opened the carriage door and stepped down onto the cobbled high-street of Blackmoor. Adams and Carter alighted behind him. Aberline had hoped never to return to this benighted little town, and had sworn to himself on that last bloody night that he would not do so alone. That part of the promise he kept. The doors of the carriage behind his opened and a half dozen of the toughest and most experienced officers of the Special Police stepped out. They were grim-faced men, all ex-soldiers, all battle hardened. Every one of them wore a gunbelt and carried a shotgun or heavy hunting rifle.

The townsfolk saw the men, the guns and the unflinching determination in the eyes of these men, and they fled the streets. Doors were slammed and barred, windows shuttered. The church bell began to ring.

Aberline smiled at this, and it was no longer the mocking smile he’d worn before the terrible incident out at the ruined abbey. No, this was the grim smile of a hunter who knows his prey and also knows that he has brought with him the right hunters and the right weapons to do the job. Francis Aberline would be damned before he would allow another slaughter.

He led his men into the tavern and commandeered a long table. The men sat down and immediately took
stock of their weapons and equipment. One man set a heavy ammunition box in the center of the table and flipped open the lid. Inside were rows upon rows of gleaming silver bullets.

Carter reached out and selected a bullet from the box and admired it in the candlelight.

“You’re sure he’ll come?” he asked.

“Quite,” said Aberline. From an inside pocket he produced several maps on which names had been written and red crosses to indicate posts. As he handed them out he said, “Everyone knows their posts. Priory road, train depot, south lawn and the river. Adams . . . tell Sir John we’re here, and then stay in close to the estate. But not too close. We want to trap Talbot, not scare him off.”

“What do we do if we confront the suspect?” asked one of the officers.

Aberline’s eyes were as hard as flint. “Don’t engage him, don’t be drawn into conversation. You are to shoot on sight. Shoot to kill. Does any man here have a problem with that?”

All of them had been in London during the massacre. The eyes that stared back at Aberline were as hard and cold as his own. No one had a problem at all.

D
ISHEVELED AND DEFEATED
, Gwen returned to the tavern where she had booked a room. She dismounted outside and stretched her back, aching from hours in the saddle. Over the last twenty-four hours she had found a dozen Gypsies, but none of them had given so much as the time of day. If any of them knew Maleva they shared nothing with Gwen. However, before she had gone two paces a figure stepped out of the shadows of the stable
that adjoined the tavern. Gwen gasped and retreated a step . . . but it was only an old woman.

A Gypsy woman. Instantly Gwen knew who this old woman was.

“Maleva,” Gwen said, and the old woman nodded. Despite her years, the Gypsy woman’s eyes were sharp and shrewd.

“What do you want from me?”

Gwen licked her dry lips. “Lawrence Talbot.”

Maleva’s eyes didn’t flicker. She said nothing.

Gwen said, “You’re the only one who truly understands what has happened to him. Please . . . help me. I must save him.”

The old woman took a step closer and peered at Gwen.

“Do you love him?”

There should have been a denial on her lips, or at least a hesitation in her response, but Gwen said, “Yes. I do.”

“Then,” said Maleva, “leave him to his fate.”

This was not what Gwen had searched all these miles to hear. She could feel her face flush with anger. “I will not! I’ve sought him for weeks. The moon is nearly on us.” She stepped forward, softening her tone. “Please! I beg you . . . tell me what to do.”

For just a moment the stern mask of the Gypsy woman softened and the eyes lost their harshness.

“You would risk your life to change what cannot be changed.”

“I would risk everything for someone I love.”

Maleva narrowed her eyes. “This love of yours. Is it selfish? Or is it fearless and true?”

It was an odd question, and a dangerous one, and Gwen found herself unable to sort through the jumble of emotions in her heart. “I don’t understand.”

“You will when the moment comes. You will have but one chance,” said Maleva quietly. “Look closely for it. Only then will you know the truth of what I say.” Then Maleva stepped closer and grabbed Gwen’s arm in a surprisingly powerful grip. “The Devil walks among us. May the Saints protect you . . .”

The hand around Gwen’s arm was painfully tight, the fingers like talons.

“May the Saints give you the strength to do what you must.”

Their eyes were locked together and Gwen suddenly felt strange, as if the hand touching her and the eyes staring into her were more than just ordinary connections. She had the oddest sensation that something was passing from the old Gypsy woman and into her.

The Gypsy released her and staggered back, visibly weakened.

“Now go,” she gasped. “Go to him. Save him from the beast.”

“I—” Gwen began, but Maleva cut her off.

“Go!”

Gwen backed away and then spun, swung into the saddle, and headed out of town, riding hard toward Blackmoor.

N
IGHT CAUGHT HIM
on the road and flew ahead of his labored pace so that by the time he reached Talbot Hall the sun had burned away and darkness swept the world. Since the moon was still down, the sky was littered with a billion stars and by their light Lawrence emerged from the forest and beheld his ancestral home. No light shone in any of the windows. The walls looked cold and empty.

Lawrence dropped his traveling satchel and hurried across the fields toward the house, running through the woods parallel to the road. From a hundred yards out he could see that the huge front door stood ajar, and as he drew close and climbed the stairs he saw leaves and other debris scattered outside and in. The house looked abandoned.

As Lawrence reached to pull the door the rest of the way open a shiver of icy pain rippled up his back and he turned, thinking for a moment that he’d been struck. But he was alone.

On the far horizon, above the sloping hills, the first white curve of the moon began slicing its way into the sky.

“God . . .” he breathed.

A
BERLINE STOOD AT
the edge of town, holding the reins of his horse as he watched the edge of the moon begin to creep over the horizon. When he heard a second horse galloping up the road, he turned to see Adams coming from the south. The detective reined in.

“Carter hasn’t reported. He’s not at his post in front of the house.”

“Maybe he’s . . .” he trailed off as a second horse came up the same road. Aberline turned, expecting it to be Carter or one of the others, but it was not. “Bloody hell,” he breathed.

G
WEN CONLIFFE SAW
Aberline and another standing at the edge of town, on the road that led to Talbot Hall.

“No!” she cried softly, and then set her jaw, jerked the reins hard to the left, and kicked her horse into a
fast gallop down a side path. She knew every deer trail and walking path on the estate, but could she get to the Hall in time?

“M
ISS CONLIFFE
?”
CALLED
Aberline, but the woman vanished in the gloom behind a row of trees. “Get the others!” he yelled as he swung into the saddle. Without waiting for a reply he spurred his horse and raced down the road to follow the woman.