Return of the Wolf Man (31 page)

“Why?”

“Caroline was merely in a trance last night.” Talbot said. “Dracula would have fed before coming here, and he never feeds twice in one night. But tonight he’ll drink from her throat. His blood will mingle with hers and his control over her will be complete—and eternal.”

Stevenson glanced at the clock. “There might still be enough time,” he said, thinking aloud. “An hour to get the plane ready, two hours to fly down there. Then I scout out the islands by air—”

“But just saving Caroline won’t be enough,” Talbot said. “If you succeed in getting her away, Dracula will come after you. He needs her medical skills.”

“Then what do I do?”

“The Count must be destroyed,” Talbot said. “A wooden object must be pounded through his heart, the symbol of the cross. But even that isn’t always enough. If the stake is ever removed Dracula will be revived.”

“What else must be done?”

“To make sure that Count Dracula and his spawn never return, their heads must be severed and their mouths filled with raw garlic. It has the power to purify the blood and the smell is repugnant to all the Devil’s own. It will prevent any of his servants from approaching the body and attempting to revive him.”

“I understand.” Stevenson rose slowly, still trying not to strain his neck.

“Yes, I believe you do,” Talbot said. “But you can’t go there alone. Even if you find Dracula’s lair he’ll have guards or traps, probably both.”

“But you can’t come with me,” Stevenson said. “This is the last night of the full moon. What if
you
have one of your attacks?”

“Those islands all have bazaars,” he said. “There’ll be something made of silver we can purchase. Something you can use against me before it’s too late.”

“No,” Stevenson said emphatically. “I won’t kill you.”

“You may have to,” Talbot replied. “For Caroline’s sake. Now, please—we don’t have time to argue.”

Stevenson looked back at the door. “That’s true. I might be able to take you through the delivery entrance. The laundry and food probably have been dropped off by now. No one should be down there.”

“Then untie me,” Talbot said. “I beg you. Dracula must be stopped, not just for Caroline but for the sake of innocents yet unborn.”

Stevenson regarded Talbot for a moment. Then, nodding, he began undoing the straps.

Two minutes later Talbot was dressed and following the attorney down the hospital corridor.

TWENTY-THREE

B
y the time the shaken and exhausted citizens of LaMirada had collected into their midmorning cliques—the men at Jameson Thomas’s Four-Bits-a-Cup Café, the women at Lucille Lund’s pricier Coffee Bar None—Trooper Willis was already knee-deep in doubt. By the time the lunch special was being served at Albert Conti’s Coed Pizzeria, Willis’s confidence was utterly deflated. But by the time he called Kernan Cripps, the state trooper was enjoying the kind of enthusiasm that comes from being disencumbered of doubt and suspicion.

Commander Holmes Herbert at the Florida state police barracks had sent a Mobile Operations Vehicle to LaMirada to help coordinate efforts. The investigation encompassed several sites: the cordoned-off station house, the helicopter wreckage at Vesta Cove, the Bally murder scene, and all of La Viuda. Trooper Inez Seabury was based in the MOV, along with Deputy Trooper Rex Lease.

After leaving the hospital, Trooper Willis went to the MOV as well. He sat at a computer station tucked against the back wall of the van. Behind him, Trooper Seabury and Deputy Trooper Lease worked the phones and computers. Above, the air conditioning vents sighed out a stream of cold air. Because Seabury had had homicide experience in Naples, she’d been put in charge of the Bally, Clyde, and La Viuda murders. Lease had been a Navy chopper pilot racing Apaches around the Mediterranean, so he was handling the LifeSaver investigation.

Ordinarily, Willis’s ego would have been badly bruised by their autonomy. Especially with Seabury being a woman and Lease being a rookie. In this case, however, their presence allowed him to concentrate on something he desperately wanted to disprove: the details of Talbot’s fantastic story.

Sitting in the contoured plastic chair, Willis brought up the files of the
LaMirada Good Times Dispatch.
The date: Halloween, 1948. Willis wasn’t surprised to find that on that night there was indeed a masquerade ball held at the Ferguson Country Club. The next day there was a full-page spread featuring photographs from the bash. Talbot or anyone could have gone to the newspaper offices and checked the microfilm, learned details about the party. Willis felt vindicated when he didn’t see any pictures of Talbot or Sandra Mornay. Then he noticed a sidebar about local impresario James Karl McDougal, owner of the local House of Horrors. McDougal claimed to have been bitten in the throat by someone wearing a wolf mask. The final paragraph quoted shipping clerks Chick Young and Wilbur Grey as insisting that they saw a “wolf man” as well as other monsters on La Viuda. Among them, according to the article, were the legendary Count Dracula and the Frankenstein Monster.

That doesn’t mean anything,
Willis told himself. They’d been to a Halloween party. The “monsters” could have been people wearing costumes. Or Young and Grey could have been drunk.

Shortly thereafter, Medical Examiner John Dilson phoned from Naples with something far more puzzling than whether or not Lawrence Talbot had read old copies of the local newspaper. He said that the body that had been brought from the cove was indeed that of an eighty-year-old woman.

“However,” he reported, “according to computerized Interpol records on file at the F.B.I., the fingerprints of the deceased exactly match those of a Dr. Sandra Mornay.”

When Willis heard that, a chill ran up and down his lower back. “Maybe there were two Sandra Mornays,” he said. “Maybe the one who lived here in the nineteen forties was a different person.”

“That’s very unlikely, Trooper Willis,” said Dilson. “The file that was sent along with Dr. Mornay’s fingerprints says that she disappeared from Europe in 1947, apparently using a fake American passport. Polish officials were looking for her to ask about medical research she’d conducted in a Warsaw laboratory during World War II. The F.B.I. sent a couple of agents to her family castle in LaMirada in 1949, but she wasn’t here.”

“Did they ever find her?”

“They did.” Dilson said. “Six feet under, right there on the island.”

“I see,” Willis said. “Exactly what kind of medical research had Dr. Mornay been conducting in Europe? Does it say?”

“It does,” Dilson said. “Her work involved human organ transplants and experiments into the reanimation of dead tissue.”

“So of course she came to LaMirada,” Willis said. “What is it about this place that attracts people like her?”

“Maybe it’s the weather,” Dilson said. “Same reason the nutcakes go to Los Angeles.”

“I guess,” Willis said. “Tell me. Did you find anything unusual about Dr. Mornay’s body?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Dilson said. “For one thing, I found fur under her fingernails.”

“What kind?”

“I’ve only done a very preliminary examination,” Dilson replied, “but the hairs look like they may match the specimens we found on the Bally woman. I’ve sent the samples up to the medical examiner in Tallahassee. She can do a DNA check there. Also—and this one I’m going to have to go back and recheck, because it doesn’t make any sense—but it looks to me like Dr. Mornay’s liver, stomach, and intestines haven’t worked in a very long time.”

“How long is ‘very long’?”

“I’m talking decades, Trooper Willis. Frankly, those organs look calcified. Almost like she had advanced scleroderma.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“A pathological thickening of the skin. The point is, you can’t live with a case of scleroderma that bad. It’s just not possible. I sent tissue samples to Tallahassee as well for a more detailed examination. On top of all that there’s one more thing, though it may be nothing.”

“Let me have it anyway,” Willis said.

“I found bugs and dirt in her hair.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Willis said. “From the looks of her clothes she must’ve been homeless for quite a while. Maybe she picked them up living in the park and sleeping on the ground.”

“It’s possible,” Dilson said, “but not very likely. I do some gardening, Trooper. The bugs in Dr. Mornay’s scalp were termites—workers. You usually don’t find those aboveground. You find them digging tunnels in trees, inside housing beams, and also underground.”

“Underground,” Willis repeated. “How far down?”

“In these parts, given the level of the water table—which they have to live near—about five or six feet,” Dilson replied.

Willis thanked him. He hung up. Then he sat there for a very long time staring at nothing.

Dead organs,
he told himself.
Reanimation of human tissue.
Dr. Mornay was a scientist. Maybe Sandra Mornay—if this was Sandra Mornay—had some kind of atrophying disease and she was conducting research into a cure. Maybe she
found
a cure and that’s what kept her alive in that condition. As for the termites in the lady’s hair, maybe she hadn’t been sleeping on the ground but in a ditch or up in a tree. And the fingernail fur? She could have been petting some dog that had also been sniffing around Mrs. Bally’s body. It was possible. Certainly it was more possible than the notion that she and Mrs. Bally had shared dances with werewolves. Or that Sandra Mornay was what Talbot had called her, a mistress of Dracula.

Still, Willis’s confidence was rattled. It was shaken just enough so that when the report he’d requested from the Coast Guard came in, Willis went from uncertain to downright insecure. Not one but two ships had picked up a boat on radar. The vessel had been heading from LaMirada due south. The first spotting occurred at 9:11 p.m., with arrival at the site occurring at 9:23. Another spotting and investigation came just over an hour later. Both times the Coast Guard crews reported finding nothing but open sea. The radar equipment was being checked for malfunctions.

The coup de grâce was delivered by Fire Chief Jerry Frank, whose crew was searching the helicopter crash site. The only remains they found in the smoking hulk were those of the three crew members.

“Whoever they were transporting from La Viuda was either burned to ash or else he walked away from the wreck,” Frank said. “And if he walked away, I don’t ever want to meet the guy because he isn’t human.”

By this time, Willis was beginning to believe that. He was also beginning to believe Talbot. Especially after he phoned Louise Brien at the LaMirada Historical Society. Talbot had had a key from the Hotel LaMirada in his pocket. Willis asked Mrs. Brien what she had on file about the hotel. She said there was some nineteenth-century flatware, several paintings from the lobby, as well as guest registers from the last twenty years of the hotel’s existence.

This is it,
Willis thought. The moment of truth. He asked her to look up October 1948.

Happy to oblige, she took the portable phone to the basement, where the boxes with the hotel records were stored. She complained good-naturedly about the years of dust piled on the cardboard carton, sneezed several times in succession, then carefully removed the volume for 1948 and examined the yellowing pages.

“I’ve got October right here,” she said. “I assume you’re looking for some name and date in particular?”

“I’m looking for the name Lawrence Talbot,” he said. “Try the twenty-ninth through the thirty-first.”

“The twenty-ninth through the—ah! Got it right here!” she said just seconds later. “Lawrence Talbot. He checked in on October thirtieth and—well, this is odd. He doesn’t appear to have checked out.”

Odd?
Willis thought.
That’s an understatement.

Shortly after speaking with Mrs. Brien, Willis got word from Dr. Benson that both Tom Stevenson and Lawrence Talbot had disappeared from their hospital rooms. Benson said he had nurses and attendants searching the hospital, but so far they hadn’t turned up a trace of the two—nor any sign of foul play.

Willis wasn’t surprised, nor was he angry. To the contrary. With the burgeoning zeal of a convert, he phoned Kernan Cripps and asked about Stevenson. The low-keyed air traffic controller at LaMirada Field informed him that Stevenson did indeed take off three-quarters of an hour earlier. The flight plan he’d filed described a short hop to the south, over the Morgan Islands.

After hanging up, Willis sat at his station with his arms folded. He thought of Deputy Trooper Clyde, of Caroline Cooke—and of Talbot. The whole story was impossible, unbelievable, mad. But there was no getting around one thing: it had happened. All of it. Just as Talbot had said.

Silently, he wished Talbot and Stevenson good luck. For there was one thing Willis knew above all. If the rest of Talbot’s claims were as accurate as these, he was going to need it.

TWENTY-FOUR