The Howling III

Chapter Seventeen

He was alone again.

Alone and running.

Malcolm stumbled blindly through the forest, tears blurring his vision. Only an ancient instinct saved him from repeated collisions with the trees. He ran on tirelessly with no thought of direction or destination. He knew only that he had to get away, far away from the terrible house where the men had done hurtful things to him. He blanked all thoughts from his mind except escape.

And he ran.

Alone and crying through the forest.

The daylight waned and night crept in and Malcolm ran on. The sky was tinted grey with the coming dawn when he finally dropped sobbing to the ground. He had used up his youthful body, and in seconds he fell exhausted into a dreamless sleep.

When he awoke, it was night again. He was hungry. And he was cold. He still wore only the oversized pyjamas provided for him by Dr Pastory. Both top and bottom were ripped by thorns. The legs were soaked through by the dew.

His feet were bare, though remarkably uninjured after his wild run through the forest. Malcolm sat hugging his knees, and shivering. He pushed away the panic that nipped at him and willed himself to relax.

The smell of woodsmoke was in the air. Not the greasy smoke of the raging fire he remembered from the night of terror in Drago. This was small. Almost friendly. A campfire. There was the aroma of boiling coffee. Malcolm rose and tested the air. Where there was a campfire there were people. People meant food and clothing.

Malcolm followed the smell of the campfire, moving without sound through the trees. He heard the lapping of small waves as he approached a mountain lake. At a safe distance he stopped and hid himself among a cluster of fallen fir boughs. From there he silently watched the camp at the lake's edge.

There was a tent and two men. The men sat across the fire from each other and talked with the familiarity of old friends. Their backpacks were leaned neatly against the trunk of a fir. The play of the flickering flames across their faces stirred in Malcolm memories of the drunken hunters who had killed his friend Jones. As the remembered rage returned, a growl built in his throat.

But watching these men, Malcolm sensed that they were not like those others. These were fishermen, not killers. They laughed easily together and talked with rough affection of the wives they had left behind for this weekend excursion. Malcolm's anger subsided; the growl never left his throat.

It grew late and the fire crumbled into glowing coals. The men banked the dying fire carefully and laid out their sleeping bags.

"Funny, isn't it," said one. "Here we can stay up as late as we want, and I'm dead tired at nine o'clock."

"It's the mountain air," said the other. "Anyway, we can get an early start in the morning. Get at the fish before they've had their coffee."

"You going to sleep in the tent?"

"Nah, it's too pretty out here. Nothing in these woods to worry about."

"Except the Drago werewolves."

Both men laughed. They crawled into their sleeping bags and soon fell silent.

Malcolm waited patiently until the snoring of the men assured him they were asleep. Then he stole down to their camp, placing his feet with care so there should not be the smallest sound.

His vision at night had always been nearly as sharp as in full daylight, and he quickly found the men's supplies. Their backpacks still leaned against the fir. Malcolm opened the packs carefully and took only the clothing he needed — underwear, a woollen shirt, tough denim pants and warm jacket, heavy socks, and a pair of boots. Then selecting food he could carry easily, he slipped away.

He moved softly until he was far enough from the camp so the men would not be awakened, then he broke into a loping run. After a mile he stopped and rested and examined the things he had taken.

He ate a portion of the food and dressed himself in the men's clothes, carefully burying the torn pyjamas. The clothes were too large for him, but he hitched up the trousers, and rolled up the cuffs of the shirt and jacket. He put on both pairs of thick socks under the boots. Then he moved on again. More slowly this time; he had to think, to plan.

The days passed. Malcolm knew he would have to leave the area. The town of Pinyon, the county of La Reina would never be safe for him again. Yet he had to return one more time. There was something he had to know.

He waited for a cloudy night when the moon and stars were hidden, then crept down from the hill behind the hospital. There were still searchers in the hills, but they were amateur woodsmen and easy to elude. There were no helicopters or organized parties as there had been when the doctor was killed. Several times Malcolm passed within yards of the searchers without being seen.

He found a vantage point from where he could see everyone who entered and left the building. There he waited. In the afternoon of the following day he saw the one he waited for. His friend. Holly Lang.

She walked up to the entrance of the building with the tall sheriff. They stopped to speak, then kissed briefly and Holly went inside. Malcolm watched with a mixture of unfamiliar emotions as the door closed behind Holly and the tall sheriff walked away. There was the joy of seeing Holly and knowing she was safe. But there was also the pain of knowing he could never go to her again. Because of what he was. Holly's place was with people who were normal. People like the tall sheriff. Malcolm's place was… Where?

When night came again Malcolm left La Reina County for the last time and made his way to the coast above Ventura. There he left the forest and took to the highway. Hitching rides, he headed north.

In San Francisco he stopped for a time. In that city he found acceptance among the street people. Many of them were outcasts like himself. They asked no questions of him, and he offered no explanations.

There were times when powerful emotions and strange hungers took over his body, and he felt the changes coming upon him. At those times Malcolm would find a hidden spot in some alley or a field and there struggle against the strange transformation that he was just beginning to understand.

In that terrible sunken room of Dr Pastory's clinic, when the beast had crashed through the window, Malcolm knew, really knew for the first time what he was. The beast was Derak, and Derak was Malcolm. Or what Malcolm would become.

The knowledge filled him with horror. Malcolm wanted to live among people and not be a thing of loathing to them. He despised the thought that he might lose control and attack someone who meant him no harm. He fought against what he was during the times of changing, and while his body cried out for release, he was able to slow and finally halt the transformation, and eventually he would come back. But the effort cost him dearly.

In the city he could not live off the land, and stealing always carried the danger of being caught. There were other ways to survive. Worse ways.

The street boys taught him their way; the only way they knew. Malcolm did it, but he hated every moment. He loathed the touch of the men who approached him. He hated the things they did to him, the things they asked him to do. To keep his sanity he learned to empty his mind at those times. He had to, or the change might have come and he would have killed those men without a thought. More than once he had felt himself losing control, and he'd had to run even before the man could pay.

It was an ugly existence, but he survived. Moving on, always moving so he would not become well known in any one place. He moved from the cities to the smaller towns and through the countryside, taking a bus when he had money, hitching rides when he didn't. Surviving. Searching. He knew somewhere his destiny waited. He would find it, or it would find him. There was no escape.

In La Reina County the sensation faded slowly into yesterday's news. For a few weeks there were reports of "werewolf sightings, but they turned out to be somebody's dog, or a tree, or an unfortunate bearded hiker. The hunt continued for the sadistic killer, but official opinion was that he had left the area. The search spread beyond county and state boundaries. The hunt for the killer was based on the description of the mild-looking man who had been seen entering Dr Qualen's office. It was the best lead they had. As for Malcolm, a runaway boy held a low priority.

For a time writer Louis Zeno was held as a possible suspect in the Pinyon killings, but he was never considered seriously. When he was released Zeno hurried back to Los Angeles and went to bed for a week. When he emerged Zeno avoided all discussion of Pinyon, Abe Craddock, and what he found in the isolated cabin. He still planned one day to write that book, but for the present he was content to crank out articles about two-headed calves and movie stars" romantic problems.

Dr Wayne Pastory was questioned at length when he returned to his isolated clinic to find a dead assistant, a missing patient, and a sheriff and lady doctor waiting for him outside. However, his transfer of Malcolm from the hospital in Pinyon to his clinic had been handled according to the rules, and there was no crime he could be charged with. Nevertheless, the new administrative chief at the hospital, replacing the late Dr Qualen, made it clear that Pastory was no longer welcome there in any capacity.

There were changes, too, in the office of La Reina County sheriff. Milo Fernandez finished up his training tour and returned to school to study police science. His next assignment would be at some larger jurisdiction than La Reina County, but it could hardly be as exciting. Milo left with regret, and with good wishes from all.

Roy Nevins, having had a taste of real excitement for the first time since his early days in Oakland, had second thoughts about retiring. The law would allow him to stay an additional five years. He sold the idea to his wife by pointing out that the pension would be bigger. The real reason was that Roy Nevins, past fifty, had found a pride in his profession. He had started watching his diet and running, and had lost so much weight that he had to buy a whole new set of uniforms. It was money he was glad to spend.

Gavin Ramsay watched the departure of one deputy and the transformation of the other with, respectively, regret and pride. The investigation of the local killings had largely been taken over by other agencies as the search for the killer widened, and it was the old routine again in the sheriffs office. Given Roy's new dedication to the job, one deputy was enough to handle the workload.

The sheriff found himself for the first time in months with spare time. Fortunately, he had a place to spend it — with Dr Holly Lang. It was natural that they should be together because of the terrible secret they shared. As they had promised each other, neither had spoken of the nature of the beast that destroyed the brutish Kruger in Pastory's clinic.

There were people around who would be only too ready to embrace the idea of werewolves in their midst. But they were the same people who believed in little men from outer space and went to flying-saucer conventions. Their support could only hinder the very personal search of the sheriff and the doctor.

They did make one attempt. On a morning about a month after their return, Gavin had said, "I know one man who would believe us."

"I thought we agreed that kooks were out," Holly said.

"This guy is no kook. He knows about these things, and he might be able to help us."

"Then by all means, let's give him a try."

They went together to Ken Dowd's shop in Darnay. Ramsay was disappointed to see the shades drawn and a Closed sign taped to the glass on the inside of the door. He and Holly went into the neighbouring leather goods store to inquire about the owner.

"Ken Dowd?" the young clerk repeated. "He closed up about three weeks ago. He made a bundle during the werewolf boom, then locked the store and split. Wish I could have had a piece of his business at the time."

"Do you know where he went?" Ramsay asked.

"Back east somewhere is all I know. Cape Cod or something like that. Him and his wife. Told me he was going into the antique business. Something that couldn't possibly scare anybody, he said. Maybe he hasn't checked the price of antiques."

"You have no address for him?"

"No. You might try the real-estate company that's selling the store for him."

Ramsay thanked the young man and he and Holly left the shop.

Back out on the street he turned to her with a shrug. "I don't think it's worth chasing him to Cape Cod. You got any suggestions?"

"Afraid not. But we've got to keep looking, Gavin. I'd feel we were abandoning Malcolm if we gave up."

"Hey, nobody said anything about giving up. I thought Ken Dowd might help us from the, well, occult end. We missed him, but we can sure as hell keep looking. I told you we were in this together, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. All the way, you said."

"And all the way I meant. Let's go."

Ramsay received hundreds of pictures from police agencies all over the country. Pictures of boys — delinquents, runaways, pick-ups, strays. He and Holly spent hours going over them. Many resembled Malcolm in one small way or another, but Malcolm himself was not among them.

One evening at Holly's little house, after a session with a new batch of photos from the police chief of Seattle, Ramsay shoved the pile of glossy prints aside irritably.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I'm sick and tired of looking at pictures of young boys," he said.

Holly laid a hand on his knee. "I know it's boring, but it's one thing we can do."

"Well, I'm beginning to feel like a damned paedophile."

"Are you going to sulk now?"

"Sulk, hell. It's been half a year."

"You said-"

"I know, I know, and I'm not backing out on you. I understand how important Malcolm is to you, and I'm willing to make every reasonable effort to find him. But do you realize how much time we're spending looking for a boy who could be anywhere in the western hemisphere by now? Or dead?"

"Malcolm is alive," Holly said stubbornly. "I know he is. I can feel it."

"Okay, so he's alive. He's becoming an obsession with you. We can't even go to the movies without Malcolm sitting there between us."

Holly's cheeks showed pink spots of anger. She took her hand away from Gavin's knee. "Oh, is that so? I don't remember a lot of complaining from you last night about the bed being too crowded."

"Last night was fine," Gavin admitted. "But those times are getting to be mighty rare. We started out with what I thought was a pretty good sex life. Lately it's Malcolm this and Malcolm that, and we're lucky to have an uninterrupted twenty minutes for fooling around."

Holly stood up abruptly from the couch. Gavin scrambled to his feet to face her.

She said, "If you want out, Sheriff, you've got it. Thank you very much for sticking it out this long. I'll handle it myself from here on. Goodnight."

"If that's the way you want it, goodnight!" he said and stomped out the door.

Ramsay had gone all the way down the walk to his car and had his hand on the door handle when he stopped. Asshole, he told himself. He squared his shoulders, turned, and walked back up the path to Holly's little house. As he reached for the bell the door opened in his face.

"They always come back," she said.

"You're too smart for your own good, lady. Want to look at the pictures some more?"

"Not tonight," she said.

"Want to go to bed?"

"Try me."

He gently closed the door behind them.