Return of the Wolf Man (4 page)

A Gypsy woman had helped Talbot through the first hellish days of his death-in-life. And the human consciousness buried within the Wolf Man, the suppressed part that was still Lawrence Talbot, remembered her kindness. Because of that, the Wolf Man would spare the woman he had seen at the dock—the Gypsy woman who was standing by the castle door. He would hunt the man instead.

His nose twitched as he sniffed the air. Though the man had entered the castle, the werewolf easily picked up his scent. It was coming from high along the side of the building. The Wolf Man moved quickly and silently in that direction. The thickly padded balls of his feet sank into the soft earth as the werewolf slipped behind the lazy curtains of Spanish moss. His eyes shifting from side to side, the Wolf Man brushed aside the high grasses and thin-stalked tiger lilies. The underbrush ahead of him rustled as nocturnal birds and mammals scurried away—an act of deference as old as life itself, the flight of lesser hunters from the king of predators.

The Wolf Man stayed wide of the castle until he reached the side. Then, as he crept closer, his small black nose crinkled and his head jerked this way and that. After a moment he determined exactly where the man-spoor was coming from. Glancing up, he saw a smashed window and smelled the man beyond it. But he also smelled someone else nearby—Count Dracula. Baring his incisors, the werewolf crept through the last of the grasses and saw the body of a woman. She was lying below the broken window amid blood, shattered glass, and splinters of wood. What the Wolf Man had recognized was the foul stench of Count Dracula’s blood mixed with the woman’s blood. The surgical mask she’d been wearing had been torn away and as the Wolf Man neared he recognized her. It was the vampire’s pale-skinned companion. The werewolf opened his mouth wide and exhaled hotly, angrily. He did not feed on carrion. Looking disdainfully away from her remains, he padded toward the castle wall.

The shattered window was halfway up the high corner tower of the castle. With a low snarl, the Wolf Man bunched his legs beneath him. He jumped to a low window outside the castle library, then reached for the blanket of vines and ivy that covered the wall above it. As he climbed, a cloud slipped away from the moon, which shined clear in a blue-black sky. The reappearance of the full moon was comforting, though the color of the sky was not. Soon it would be dawn. If he hadn’t fed by then, the werewolf’s hold on the soul of Lawrence Talbot would weaken. Whenever the Wolf Man had transformed in a locked hotel room or dank prison cell, unable to kill, Talbot had returned faster and more forcefully in the morning. Except for the few times when he had been forced into hibernation by wounds or natural disasters, the Wolf Man had never missed more than one full moon evening’s feeding.

There were large stone griffins on either side of the window. Their wings were spread wide and their eyes were turned heavenward, as though they wished to soar. Only their beaklike mouths were downturned, a mournful acknowledgment of their earthbound state. The werewolf felt a sad kinship with the statues.

When he was within arm’s reach of the griffin on the left, the Wolf Man stopped climbing. He listened, sniffed. The man was still inside. It sounded as though he was moving things around.

Saliva pooled around the werewolf’s thick tongue. He reached up. The claws of his shaggy hands closed around the base of the statue, its once-proud wings and face pocked and eroded from the salty air. The Wolf Man pulled himself up and perched low on the sill. He looked inside. The man was noisily pushing aside a piece of equipment. Though the full moon threw the Wolf Man’s elongated shadow across the floor, the man was oblivious to it.

The werewolf watched the man for a moment. It was rare that the hunter was able to watch a mortal man hunt. Grunting and breathing hard, this man was clearly searching for something. Finally, he picked up something that had been lying beneath the equipment—a thin book. With obvious excitement the man held the book in both hands. He stared at the cover and said something to himself.

Words were difficult for the Wolf Man to understand so he ignored them. He was glad the man was happy. Happy people were distracted. When the attack came it would be more of a shock, his fear more palpable.

Rising on the clawed tips of his toes, the werewolf judged the man’s distance. A single leap would be sufficient to cover the distance between them. Fixing his eyes on the victim’s exposed throat, the Wolf Man opened his mouth wide in a soundless expression of anticipation. Then, sitting back on his coiled legs, the werewolf jumped.

IV

Just standing outside the castle made Joan Raymond feel vulnerable, though she didn’t know exactly why. She also didn’t know to what. But she needed to move and decided to go for a little walk. She turned to her right, toward the side of the castle and the sea. Beyond the water were the winking lights of LaMirada—the playground of the rich which had become a hideaway for the damned. Part of her had always believed that ghosts and devils could exist—the same part that wanted to believe in God and His angels. But her rational side had always beaten down the spiritual side. Even now, though the woman had felt the cold touch and hot eyes of the undead, her logical mind sought some other explanation. Perhaps they were hallucinations caused by the gloomy castle, compounded by the masquerade ball on the island. Or maybe they were a hypnotic trick. Yet reason could not overcome desire. As frightened as she’d been, she
wanted
to believe.

Her Gypsy jewelry jangling, Joan enjoyed the invigorating wash of the bay wind. It helped her shake off the long, choking shadow of Count Dracula. Helped sweep away the wispy remnants of dense fog that had clouded her mind. Helped deaden the memory of the blazing red bat’s eyes that had burned through her will and transfixed her. She used to think she was strong, tough. But the vampire had effortlessly cut through her defenses. It had been a humbling experience.

She took a long breath of salty air. She smiled at the moon, then followed its light to the turret of the castle tower, down its lumpy walls to the dark windows, one of which was shattered. Then she looked down at the deeply shadowed grounds—

Joan stopped. There was something lying just ahead on a field of broken glass.

No,
she thought after staring at it for a moment. Not something. Some
one.

Joan ran over, caution forgotten for the moment. Her high heels stuck in the soil and she tried running on the toes of her shoes. She nearly tripped and fell and finally pulled the shoes off. The cold earth felt good on her bare feet.

The body was lying on its left side, its back to her. Kneeling beside it, Joan turned it toward her; it was Dr. Mornay. Her lab coat was covered with slivers of glass. Though her mask had come off, the scientist was still wearing the white surgical cap and rubber gloves she’d had on in the laboratory.

The insurance investigator picked up the scientist’s wrist. It was cold. She felt for a pulse then held a finger under Dr. Mornay’s nose. There was no sign of life.

Joan looked up at the castle. The scientist must have been pushed or thrown from the laboratory window. She looked back down at the white and broken figure.

“You poor, misguided soul,” Joan said. There had been a tragic majesty in the demise of the Frankenstein Monster, its arms outstretched as it strode through the fire—almost as though it were finally welcoming destruction. But there was nothing heroic in the death of this poor woman.

Joan rose. As she did, she noticed ugly bruises on the back of Dr. Mornay’s bloody right leg. She’d been gripped by something powerful. Since Count Dracula had been fighting the Wolf Man, she assumed that this was the work of the Frankenstein Monster. It was ironic, thought Joan. The creature she had helped to revive had ended up destroying her.

Joan looked back toward the front of the castle. Whether or not Stevens had found the journal of Dr. Frankenstein, she was going to have to telephone the mainland and ask the sheriff to come out. Concealing knowledge of a homicide would only serve to cast suspicion on them.

As she started toward the door, a bestial howl ripped through the castle and poured through the windows. The cry echoed across the island even after Professor Stevens’s squeals of terror and pain had begun.

“Professor!” Joan cried.

Silence.

“Professor! What is it?”

The young woman turned and ran to the castle, losing her shoes as she ran. She was tired but alert as she pulled open the massive door and stepped into the candlelit entranceway. A wind followed her through the open door and puffed out the candles. She stopped and listened. The professor screamed again, just once, and she followed the cry to the brightly lit laboratory.

Though the castle was dark and chilly and the stones were cold on her bare feet, perspiration ran down Joan’s throat and trickled between her breasts. She was hot and frightened yet she didn’t consider running away. Professor Stevens was in trouble. Besides, the sensual appeal of mystery and danger were qualities that had compelled her to become an insurance investigator in the first place. No relationship, no other job, had ever made her feel so alive.

She swung through the open laboratory door and froze there.

During her seven years of specializing in missing persons and lost goods for Shippers Insurance, the twenty-nine-year-old had witnessed many horrors. In addition to the routine shootings and bludgeonings and knifings, there was the body of the union organizer who had been thrown in front of a speeding train in Poughkeepsie and the corpse of the New Orleans shipping magnate, which had been stuffed inside a fish barrel where it lay undiscovered for twelve days. Then there was the publisher who’d been mangled to death in his own printing press. She could actually read passages from Upton Sinclair’s
The Jungle
on his forehead. But Joan had never seen anything like the sight that waited for her in the laboratory.

The werewolf hadn’t perished, as they’d thought. The creature was perched on one knee. The other knee was upright and the body of Professor Stevens was lying across it. Stevens’s head was twisted unnaturally to one side, his eyes shut, his dead mouth hanging open. A great jagged gash ran from behind his left ear to his larynx. Blood pumped in ugly jets from around frayed muscle. Some of the blood spilled behind the cervical vertebrae; some of it gushed onto the professor’s white shirt. Some of it had been lapped up by the Wolf Man; his thin, leathery lips and hairy chin were matted with blood and gore.

The werewolf looked up when she arrived. He stared at her and snarled, his eyes glowing with fierce contentment.

Joan fought down her nausea as she stood absolutely still. She didn’t even breathe. The creature had already fed; perhaps it wouldn’t attack her as long as she remained calm. The young woman had no idea how much human intelligence the monster had and she didn’t want to provoke him by making any sudden movements.

The Wolf Man cocked his head to one side and looked at Joan. The eyes, which had seemed so satisfied a moment before, suddenly changed. They became almost sorrowful. He put his large left hand over Stevens’s face, dug his claws into the cheeks, chin, and forehead and placed the professor’s head on the floor. He moved it carelessly, as though it were an overripe melon. Then, noticing Joan’s horrified eyes, the werewolf glanced down at the dead man’s face. When he looked back at her, he seemed almost ashamed.

Breathing again, Joan took a small step back. She had it in mind to move away slowly and shut the laboratory door. Her Gypsy blouse was heavy with sweat. It clung stubbornly to her arms and chest. Even the soles of her feet were damp.

The werewolf growled menacingly. Joan did not take a second step. The Wolf Man stood nearly straight, his hands held waist-high. Though his claws scratched the air slowly, Joan didn’t get the feeling that he was going to attack. He reminded her of the springer spaniel she’d had as a child. Baby Ruth would sometimes rake the air when she was asleep. These were like the reflexive twitches of a creature in a trance. Even when the Wolf Man began padding toward her there was nothing threatening in his manner. Perhaps because the eyes had grown melancholy even the werewolf’s bloody muzzle seemed tragic rather than grotesque.

As he approached, the Wolf Man turned his head to the side. He crouched slightly and bayed. When the cry ended, the werewolf drew a short breath and howled again. Only this time the sound was different. It resembled a human moan and it became more manlike with each moment. Then, as the first lemon-yellow light of dawn glinted off the broken glass in the window frame, the Wolf Man began to change. His powerful chest, arms, and thighs deflated slowly. His black snout smoothed and became less swarthy. He stood more erect and his hands dropped to his sides, the fingers limp. Most incredibly, the light brown fur began to disappear. It evaporated in layers, taking most of the splattered blood along with it. It retreated to the forehead, cheeks, and chin; then to the hairline and beard; and finally to the jawline and ears. When it was gone, the eyes changed. Their sadness became the deepest despair Joan had ever seen.

The man who had been a wolf looked at her.

“Forgive me,” he said in a deep, pitifully anguished voice. He looked at his hands and then tore them through his longish black hair. “God, forgive me!”

Joan swallowed hard. The sweat on her blouse cooled quickly as she tried to focus on the tall, brawny figure and not on the butchered remains of Professor Stevens.

And then it came to her. “I know you,” she said.

The man lowered his hands and looked at her.

“You’re the man who threatened Count Dracula at the masquerade party this evening,” she said.

The forlorn eyes were suddenly alert. “Count Dracula! Where is he?”

“He’s dead,” Joan replied.

“I know that,” said the man. “He’s been dead for five centuries.”

Joan stared at him. Despite everything she’d witnessed tonight, she wasn’t prepared to go quite that far.

“Where is his body?” the man pressed.