The Howling III

Chapter Twenty-Two

It seemed to be his day for meeting doctors, Bateman Styles decided. The first had taken away his livelihood, now this one was offering him a proposition. Holly Lang appeared to be authentic, but Bateman was inclined to be sceptical about Wayne Pastory. He had known too many self-proclaimed "doctors" who used the title as part of a scam. And this wiry man had the over-intense look of somebody not playing with a full deck.

"You say you have a proposition, Dr Pastory," Styles said carefully.

"Yes, I think it might be of some interest to you. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Right here is as good a place as any."

Pastory looked back doubtfully at the entrance. "We won't be disturbed?"

"There won't be anybody coming in," Styles told him. "The rest of the shows have been cancelled."

"Ah, yes, so I understand. That rather undercuts your income, I would guess."

"You could say that."

"Perhaps I can make that a little easier for you." He looked quickly at Styles. "I don't know what your relationship has been with this, er, Animal Boy, but I assume he is of no further use to you."

"The relationship has been a professional one," Styles said slowly. "And no, it doesn't look like we'll be performing again."

"All right, here's my proposition — I'll take him off your hands."

"Off my hands," Styles repeated.

"Exactly. We both understand he has no future with you. Oh, I expect to compensate you, of course, but inasmuch as he is worth nothing to you now, I wouldn't think we'll have to do a lot of haggling over the price."

"No, I wouldn't think so," Styles agreed. He tilted his head to one side and stared down into Pastory's bright little eyes. "May I ask, Doctor, precisely what your interest is in the Animal Boy?"

"I don't see as that is of any importance to our transaction."

"Call it curiosity."

Pastory sighed and spoke rapidly, like a man who knows he is talking over his listener's head. "I am a researcher in psychobiology. The, er, phenomenon of the boy's physical change is of great interest in my field. I want to complete a series of experiments that will shed greater light on his condition."

"And maybe make you a few dollars?"

"I am a researcher, Mr Styles. Monetary gain is not important to me."

"Ah, yes, of course. Forgive me."

Pastory nodded brusquely. His eyes flicked hungrily up to the curtained stage.

"But as you saw tonight," Styles continued, "this phenomenon, as you call it, is not so reliable."

"There are laboratory methods of triggering the process," Pastory said. "Shall we get down to business?"

"I'd like to hear more about these laboratory methods," said Styles.

"I don't think they would be of much interest to you. Highly technical, you understand."

"That so? What makes you think these methods of yours will work?"

"Because they have before." Pastory was losing patience. "I assure you it is nothing you could duplicate here. The boy was in my care for a short period about a year ago and I was making significant progress until an interruption by outsiders brought my experiment to an end."

"What a shame," Styles commented.

"Yes, yes, but that's not important now. I can pick up where I left off. How does a hundred dollars sound for transferring the boy to me."

"A hundred dollars. My, my." Styles rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

"I'll make it two hundred just because I am eager to resume my work with the boy."

"You must be."

"That's cash, of course."

"Oh, of course."

Pastory reached for his wallet. He opened it and slipped out four fifty-dollar bills. He was careful not to let Styles see how much more he was carrying.

Bateman took the money. "Ah, yes, two hundred United States dollars." He held the bills up one at a time to the light bulb that was suspended from the top of the tent. He grasped them by the edged and snapped them out. "Crisp new currency, yes, indeed."

"The money is quite genuine," Pastory said. "Can I see the boy now?"

Even from behind the curtain Malcolm recognized the voice of Wayne Pastory immediately. He felt that his past was catching up with him from all directions.

He parted the curtain just a crack and peered out into the tent. The sight of the doctor made him shiver with remembered terrors.

As the conversation continued between Pastory and Bateman Styles, Malcolm's high spirits of a short time ago plummeted. The showman, his friend, was actually dickering to sell him out. Malcolm felt a sob rise in his chest. He forced it back. His vision blurred as tears squeezed into his eyes.

He let the curtain close and sank slowly to his knees. His face was feverish, yet his body shook with a chill. He felt the muscular spasms that preceded the change. He ground his teeth and fought for control.

Be reasonable, he told himself. He couldn't blame Bateman for taking a few dollars from Pastory. Malcolm knew he would never go back to that hateful clinic anyway. Holly was waiting for him. Why did it matter to him what kind of a deal Bateman made with Pastory? His body jerked convulsively.

"Do we have a deal?" Pastory said.

Styles continued to hold the bills in both hands. "Let me be sure I understand," said Styles. "You are offering me two hundred dollars for the boy. I take the money and you take Malcolm."

"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.