The Howling III

Chapter Thirteen

Sheriff Gavin Ramsay of La Reina County had moments during the next few days when he seriously questioned his choice of career. The investigation of Dr Dennis Qualen's murder was not going well. It was, in fact, going very badly.

The search of the surrounding hills turned up nothing. The only flurry of excitement had come when one of the searchers shot another in the foot. After that the fun was out of the whole thing. The volunteers had gone back to their jobs. The helicopters had returned to their home counties or their TV station heliports. Only a few men from the State Forestry Service now combed the woods, doing mostly clean-up and repair to the damage to the environment done by the searchers.

The detailed pathology report had arrived from Dr Underwood and had done nothing to lift Ramsay's spirits. The wounds that killed Qualen were definitely identified as being made by teeth. Unfortunately, they were not the teeth of any animal known to exist on the face of the earth. The traces of saliva were no more helpful, falling somewhere on the spectrograph between human and canine.

While the sheriff suffered, the media had a field day. Every man, woman, and reasonably articulate child in Pinyon had been interviewed at least once. Deputies Nevins and Fernandez became media heroes; the first to his delight, the latter with some embarrassment. All the old horror stories of Drago were dug up and embellished until La Reina County was presented to the rest of the nation as a sort of southern California Transylvania where no one walked out of doors at night.

Most galling to Ramsay was the fact that Abe Craddock had been bailed out by one of the supermarket tabloids and was being kept in seclusion while his personal eyewitness story was being ghostwritten for the paper. Rumour had Craddock collecting a comfortable five-figure price for his lurid recollections of the thing that had eaten his buddy.

And, in fact, a pall of fear had descended over the tiny mountain town. Blinds were drawn, shutters reinforced, doors double-locked at night where before no one had bothered with so much as a hook and eye. Nightly patronage at the Pinyon Inn dwindled to a few hard-core regulars who drank little and talked in guarded tones. They came and left in pairs or groups. No one wanted to be alone.

The tiny library was immediately denuded of all books touching on werewolves, vampires, witches, or anything remotely occult. Then the librarian refused to stay there alone any longer, and the doors were locked.

The happiest man in the county was Ken Dowd whose Darnay occult shop, The Spirit World, emptied its shelves of all manner of charms and talismans that might protect the bearer from whatever evil lurked in the woods.

Nor was the occult dealer the only beneficiary of the werewolf boom. The Light of the World Christian Store, also in Darnay, had a run on crucifixes from customers who did not know Calvary from the Seventh Cavalry. The Light of the World people had to reorder crosses on a rush basis from a religious supply firm in Los Angeles, and still they could barely meet the demand.

Bibles were also a hot item, with King James topping the list, but even the updated versions were outselling the newest Garfield book in La Reina County. Enterprising roadside peddlers appeared with pictures and statuettes representing Jesus, Mary, and a variety of saints, and were doing fine business until local authorities clamped down. From outward appearances, La Reina County was the scene of the greatest Christian revival since Billy Graham filled the LA Coliseum.

As if all this were not enough to add grey hairs to the head of Sheriff Ramsay, Holly Lang was after him continually to devote more of his efforts to locating the missing boy, Malcolm. The sheriff was trying to maintain an expression of gentle concern on an early morning several days after the killing as Holly stood across the desk from him gesticulating angrily.

"Damn it, Gavin, that weasel Pastory is keeping him somewhere," she insisted. For a moment Ramsay thought she was going to pound on the desk, but she brought herself under control. "Why aren't you doing something? Why aren't you looking for him? You're supposed to be the sheriff."

"Comments from the public are always welcome," Ramsay said. "Maybe you will be kind enough to suggest where I might look."

"That's just it. I've talked to everybody at the hospital, and nobody knows where this mysterious clinic of Pastory's it, or if it even exists."

"Ah, then you see part of my problem."

"Problem, hell. I want to hear solutions from you." "I am doing the best I can, Holly," Gavin said with all the patience he could muster. "I have a warrant out on Pastory as a material witness. His relatives, of which there seem to be very few, deny all knowledge of his whereabouts." He pulled a sheet of paper from an overflowing basket on his desk. "To quote his brother Kyle in Boise, Idaho: "I don't know where the s.o.b. is and I don't give a damn." His clinic is not listed with the California Medical Association or any other group that I've been able to turn up."

"So what are you doing now?"

"Right now I am doing what I can to find the killer of Dr Dennis Qualen."

"So, are you making any progress?"

"I have before me reports of all killings in the western United States during the past five years that were in any way similar to that of Dr Qualen."

"And?"

"And you'd be surprised how many people are ripped to pieces. When I eliminate the chainsaws and the axes and the certified mad dogs and the circus maulings and one farmer in Oregon who seems to have been eaten by his pigs, do you know what's left?"

"Please tell me," Holly said.

"Drago."

"Oh, Jesus!" she said in exasperation.

"Amen," he added piously.

"I trust, Sheriff, that you won't mind if I do what I can on my own to locate Dr Pastory and Malcolm."

"Holly, I hope you are not going to get a gun and go rushing off like a crazed vigilante."

"I do not believe in guns," she said.

"I am relieved to hear that. As long as you stay within the law, I can do nothing to stop you. I have to insist, however, that you will in no way interfere with the actions of legitimate police officers."

"That sounds like something you memorized," she said.

"It is," he admitted, "but I mean it."

"Good enough, Sheriff. You go your way and I'll go mine."

She turned smartly and marched out of the office, giving him no chance for a reply.

What reply could be make, anyway? Everything she said was essentially correct. He was the sheriff, and he was doing a lousy job. Moreover, this business had split him and Holly apart just when he was thinking something good might develop there. It was with an honest feeling of loss that Ramsay watched her climb into the little Volkswagen Rabbit with the Greenpeace emblem and drive off scattering as much gravel as she could manage with the underpowered car.

Holly was so angry when she left Gavin Ramsay that she had to exert a force of will to pull her foot up off the accelerator. She felt like the fabled knight who leaped on his horse and rode madly off in all directions. This was not like her. She was a calm, reasonable woman, always in control of her emotions. What right did that Gavin Ramsay have, anyway, keeping her awake nights thinking about the way they had kissed at her door.

All right. She would handle it. She got the Rabbit down to an acceptable speed and headed west on Highway 126 that ran along the Santa Clara River. She kept the window on her side rolled down to let the moist morning air flow in and cool her feverish face.

She drove through Fillmore and on toward Santa Paula, taking deep breaths, feeling the muscles at the back of her neck and along her shoulders gradually relax as she ordered her mind, putting everything into its proper compartment.

Number One. She was worried about Malcolm. The boy had special qualities that she had only begun to discover. In time she would have found out who he was and what he was, and helped him to live with it. That time had been stolen from her.

It hurt to know that she had been gaining the boy's trust.

It was she he had first spoken to. She for whom he had called when he was hurting. What must he think of his new friend now?

Number Two. She was mad as hell at Gavin Ramsay. He brushed off her suggestions and her requests like the Heatings of some hysterical woman. Well, maybe that was overstating the case. Nevertheless, he was a whole lot more interested in catching his Werewolf Killer, as the media were now calling it, than he was in locating a missing boy. But wait, she cautioned herself, isn't Gavin doing his job the very best way he can? Was she being unfair? Maybe so, but what the hell, life was unfair. If he was going to treat her like some addled, helpless female, then to hell with him.

By the time she pulled into Ventura and parked on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean and the Holiday Inn, she was under control and feeling better. She had a plan.

The foremost supplier of medical equipment in the area, Landrud & Co., was located in Ventura. If Wayne Pastory had ordered anything medical for this phantom clinic of his, it would have been from Landrud.

Holly restarted the engine and drove until she found a Texaco station with public telephones. She riffled through the Yellow Pages and located the number for Landrud & Co. She dropped a coin into the slot, punched out the number and asked the switchboard operator to connect her with the Sales Department.

"Hello," she said, making her voice brusque and businesslike when she was put through. "This is Dr Hollanda Lang of La Reina County Hospital. I wonder if I might see someone there about an order for new laboratory equipment."

"Of course, Dr Lang," came the answer. "We'll be glad to talk to you. Would you like to come in this afternoon, or any time tomorrow, at your convenience?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm rather pressed for time, and if possible I'd like to make it sooner. I'm only about ten minutes away from your building right now."

She could almost hear the salesman calculating the probable commission on the other end. "Well, yes, I'm sure that would be possible. I can reschedule one of my own appointments and see you right away."

"Thank you, I appreciate that. Your name is?"

"Schaeffer. Olan Schaeffer. I'll leave word with the receptionist to expect you."

"Very good. I'll see you in a few minutes, then, Mr Schaeffer."

Holly replaced the receiver and drew a deep breath. She had managed a couple of white lies there without even flinching. And Gavin Ramsay thought she would get in the way of his police work. Hah!

Damn, why did she keep thinking about the loose-jointed sheriff with those hard blue eyes that could soften like anything sometimes? So what if he was one hell of a kisser? Nuts to him.

Landrud & Co. was in a low, unimaginative cinderblock building with lots of glass around the entrance and some fake-looking greenery in front to soften the antiseptic effect. Holly parked brazenly in a slot marked Customer, and entered the chrome-modern reception area.

She handed her business card to a lacquered receptionist and said, "I believe Mr Schaeffer is expecting me."

"Oh, yes, Dr Lang. He asked me to tell him at once when you got here." The receptionist smiled with several thousand dollars worth of porcelain and touched a button on her telephone panel. Maintaining the smile for Holly she said into the mouthpiece, "Dr Lang is here, Mr Schaeffer." A moment's pause. "He'll be right out, Doctor."

Olan Schaeffer was a short, ruddy-faced man with thinning hair and cigar breath which he disguised inadequately with Tic-Tacs. His suit was a muted sharkskin as befitted the serious nature of the product he sold, but he allowed himself a touch of playfulness in the orange and blue figured tie.

"Well, Dr Lang," he said after seating her in his compact office, "I believe you said you were interested in laboratory equipment. I have our catalogue here, and several brochures you might want to glance through."

"Actually, that won't be necessary," Holly said, wishing she had better prepared her story. "I'd like to talk to you about equipment ordered by a colleague of mine, Dr Wayne Pastory."

Schaeffer's smile slipped a notch as though he felt his commission shrinking. "Uh, was that order placed for La Reina County?"

"No. Dr Pastory is associated with us, but the equipment I'm interested in was ordered for his own private clinic"

"I see," Schaeffer said, not seeing at all. "May I ask specifically what it is you want to know?"

"We've had excellent reports at La Reina County," Holly improvised, "about the quality of Dr Pastory's equipment. And the price offered by you people, of course."

They exchanged little insider smiles.

"Our board of directors is interested in making a similar purchase for a new wing we have under construction."

"Ah, yes, I see. Excellent." The commission light returned to the salesman's eyes. "Well, we'll just punch it up on the old computer here, and see what we shall see."

He swivelled his chair around and lifted the dust cover from a computer terminal as though unveiling a prized objet d'art. "Everything's done on the computer nowadays. Sometimes I kind of miss poking through the old filing cabinets, but I guess that's progress."

Holly forced herself to sit quietly and smile while Schaeffer flipped on the terminal and waited for the screen to come to life. She crossed her legs to give the man something to look at other than her smile, which was becoming strained.

The computer beeped politely and prompted him in pale green characters to get on with it.

"Would you spell the doctor's name for me?" he asked.

Holly wrote it out for him on a desk pad. Stiff-fingered he punched the proper command keys, then spelled out WAYNE PASTORY, MD. The computer beeped and buzzed and Holly began rehearsing her exit in case no information came up on Pastory. She needn't have worried, for after a final buzz and beep the screen was filled with pale green readout that listed dates, medical apparatus, prices, and other coded information.

"Dr Pastory has been quite a good customer," Schaeffer said. "Especially in the last month."

"Ah, yes, that's what I understand," Holly said, leaning forward trying to decipher the computer language on the screen.

"Can you tell me specifically what pieces of equipment you're interested in? Or I could run a printout of the whole file, if that would help."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it would, but I want to be certain this is not material the doctor ordered for La Reina. It's his own clinic that I'm interested in."

"Of course. The computer knows all, tells all." Schaeffer tapped several additional keys. "No, all this was shipped to his clinic up near Bear Paw. Is that the place?"

Holly almost laughed with relief. "Yes, Bear Paw. A funny name that I can never remember. That's the place."

"Not much of a town, from what I hear," said the helpful Schaeffer. "A few skiers in the winter is about it. Anyway, they've got a post office and your Dr Pastory's clinic."

Holly stood up. "Thank you so much, Mr Schaeffer. I can't tell you how helpful you've been."

The salesman scrambled to his feet. "But the equipment? Didn't you want to go over the list?"

"Why don't you run off that printout and send it to me in care of La Reina County Hospital? I look forward to doing business with you."

Holly made her second hasty exit of the morning, leaving a befuddled Olan Schaeffer wondering whether his commission had just sailed out the door.