Wolfwraith (35 page)

When Shadow caught sight of it, the steeple showed no signs of occupation, but then it never did. How could he find out if Lorene was crammed together with a killer—or two killers—in that small space?

He slowed as he drew closer, even though there was no danger of anyone hearing his approach above the howling wind. Remembering the peephole, though, he approached from an angle where he could not be seen.

When he stepped over the foundation, he felt a powerful surge of the same malevolent force, even stronger than when he’d found the first body. Why is it so much stronger now, he wondered, than in this same spot yesterday? The aura didn’t come from False Cape Frank or Shadow would have felt it when the old man hid in the back of his truck. Shadow was sure, however, the evil was somehow connected to Frank.

A small branch had been blown up against the base of the steeple. Shadow stooped and picked it up. What if Frank thought some animal was attempting to get inside the steeple in order to escape the storm? Or maybe a tree branch had blown against the door. Would Frank investigate? It was worth a try.

He broke the smaller twigs off the branch and positioned himself on the left, a couple of feet from the door, so close to the shingled roof he couldn’t be seen from the peephole. Then, he reached out with the branch in his left hand and scratched at the bottom of the hidden door. He waited several seconds and then repeated the scratching.

Shadow guessed the wind would probably rip the door from Frank’s grip, surprising him. It might be the break Shadow needed to bring his right hand, holding the lug wrench, into play. At least, that was his hope.

Chapter Thirty

Frank?

Shadow hardened his resolve to deliver a sucker punch, even though it was against his nature. He thought of the cop in the sedan with a hole in his head, and remembered an animal-ravaged arm sticking from the sand, and the slack face of a once-pretty girl with her throat ripped out. Maybe the old man hadn’t killed the girls as he claimed, but he’d had something to do with it. Shadow had to stop him before Lorene joined the other victims. Since Frank was armed, Shadow knew he’d only get one chance and had better make good on it.

Was that movement or a muffled voice from inside?

He couldn’t be sure over the storm noises. The door moved slightly. He raised the lug wrench above his head.

The door opened slowly, a bony hand pushing it. After a few inches of movement, the howling wind caught the door, which whirled around on its hinges and slammed into the steeple wall. He heard a tearing sound as screws ripped loose from the old wood and the door sailed away. Stepping forward, he swung the tire iron down toward where he expected Frank’s head to be.

Instead he saw the face of a wolf, its teeth exposed in a snarl, glaring at him with cold yellow eyes.

Something flashed up at Shadow and he felt a jolt of pain as something tore into his arm, which was speeding down with the lug wrench. His already aching fingers let go of the wrench. It splashed ineffectively into the water.

His right arm enveloped in pain, Shadow stepped back as an impossible creature emerged from the opening. The thing had the body of a man, wearing clothing, False Cape Frank’s clothing, including the man’s preferred short khaki pants, exposing his scrawny legs. The head was not a wolf’s head as he’d originally thought, but a hybrid. Instead of a muzzle, the hairy face showed a human nose and snarling lips revealing a black mouth and the dirty yellow fangs of a canine. The hairy ears were still at the side, human-like but pointed like a dog’s.

The wolfman’s head glared at Shadow with the expression of a carnivore regarding his prey. Shadow knew immediately he’d found the unearthly source of the malice he’d felt all along. Its narrow eyes were neither man nor wolf, but yellow, glowing as if the lights of hell shone out from within. Despite the radiance, the eyes seemed dead. The pupils were vertical black slits, like those of an alligator or snake.

Shadow looked down quickly and saw red seeping onto his sleeve. The cloth was torn and he saw a deep gash in his upper arm.

The wolfman took a step forward through the water. There was a knife in its hand. Shadow backed away.

As he backpedaled, he sensed evil flowing from the beast like a tide of malice. He had often felt such magic in his youth—though nothing nearly so malevolent—when his grandmother called spirits. Similarly, someone must have summoned this being, this wraith of a long dead wolf who had taken over Frank’s body and mind. It had to have been a person with power like that of Shadow’s grandmother. Frank? Not likely a white man could do it, but Jonesy had said Mamie Bunch lived with a half-blood Indian, and if Frank was descended from her...

The wolfwraith came nearer and Shadow put up his fist and claw, boxing style. He’d done some boxing, years ago, and he’d been pretty good at it back when he’d had two hands. He knew he couldn’t throw a hard punch with his injured right arm, and the lightweight plastic claw wouldn’t pack much of a wallop. Too bad he didn’t know any of the oriental martial arts. He didn’t have a prayer against those jaws, not to mention the knife.

As his opponent began to circle, Shadow glimpsed Lorene, squirming around inside the steeple. She had been gagged and bound, hand and foot.

Shadow continued to retreat, sloshing through the rapidly rising storm surge. He didn’t want to tangle with the wolfwraith until he could come up with some strategy.

The storm surge must have hit the coast then, because a thigh-high wave of water slammed into Shadow. He fell backward with a splash. He scrambled to his feet, afraid the wolfwraith would be on him before he could rise, but his opponent came on as though it had all the time in the world, the wind whipping froth from its slavering tongue.

Rain stinging his face, obscuring his vision, Shadow continued to back away until his heels came up against the bricks of the low foundation, now nearly underwater. He could have easily stepped over them but, somehow, he felt safer within the confines of the old church. He moved to his left, trying to stay away from the wraith, who moved with an easy grace.

The killer came calmly after him, plodding through the water. For some reason the wraith appeared to be focused on Shadow’s throat. Shadow had only a moment to wonder if that had something to do with a wolf’s preferred method of killing, when his adversary unpredictably lunged forward. The creature’s onslaught was slowed just enough by the water’s drag for Shadow to fall backward. The sharp teeth of the thing snapped shut, close to his face. It hissed loudly in frustration and anger. He splashed into the water and spun himself over, crawling away for his life. Heaving himself to his feet, he staggered away through the water.

Yes, it’s going for my neck—my throat—Shadow thought, while he regained his feet. Damn, it’s fast!

As he spun around to face the wolfwraith again, he risked a quick look at the steeple. Lorene had crawled partially out the doorway and was sitting so her head stayed clear of the rising water, watching helplessly. The water was up to Shadow’s knees now, with occasional waves up to his waist, and he wondered if his body would wash away after his opponent killed him.

The wraith came forward again, on the attack. Shadow backpedaled quickly enough to save his life, but not so fast he lost his footing. When the creature lunged, Shadow ducked beneath the jaws and slammed the claw into the indistinct torso of the beast. It grunted, but spun around on him faster than seemed possible. He had no chance to retreat. The jaws came at his throat again. Shadow was too close to retreat this time. Instead he ducked, seeing the fangs go above him. Then came a ripping at the back of his head as teeth scraped his skull. He slammed into his foe’s waist, grabbing him with both arms. They went down into the water. He desperately grappled with the wolfwraith, pinning the arms, trying to stay so close that the creature would be unable to turn its head and bite him.

Suddenly, it broke his grip and he confronted the creature face to face. Those malevolent dead eyes looked directly into his, from only inches away. Absurdly, he smelled sardines.

The jaws loomed open like a trap, the long incisors gateways to death. They could have belonged to the devil himself. Shadow was all too aware how close he was to the fangs of the beast. One quick slash and it would tear his neck open.

He pushed away and frantically crawled, hoping to get clear. Something slammed into his shoulder and he felt a searing pain slice into him. He lurched to his feet and sloshed away, though the wind attempted to push him over face forward. His left arm was wooden; he could barely lift it.

After he’d gone a few yards, he painfully turned to face the enemy again, knowing he didn’t have much fight left in him. He raised his aching fist and the claw.

A great burst of wind struck him and he staggered. At the same time, a loud groaning sounded above the howling wind. The wolfwraith, startled, looked over at the steeple.

For an instant, the wolf head seemed to shimmer. False Cape Frank’s features appeared, shadowy and dark. His face was set in a tortured look of intense concentration as though he were struggling to do something, or not to do it.

Shadow looked over his shoulder to see what had distracted the wraith. The rain had increased with the howling wind, obscuring his vision, but there was no doubt what was happening. The conical structure was falling, creaking as it went. Then there was a sharp snap. The wooden cross on the peak broke loose. Propelled by the wind, it rocketed in a blur through the mist, directly at Shadow!

Instinctively, he pivoted at the waist and threw a right hook from his boxing stance. As his hand flashed out, he opened his fist to slap the deadly projectile off course. Incredibly, his tortured fingers closed around the shaft, below the crosspiece. A weapon! Too bad it was clutched in his right, clumsy hand, which was also numb. Nevertheless, he tightened his hand around the slippery, rain-soaked wood and spun to his right. With lightning speed, he brought his whole body around and whipped the cross in the direction of his enemy, the jagged base first. There was no time to aim, so he simply threw it downwind, toward the center of the evil that had been washing over him since he’d first entered the holy ground of the old church.

His legs tripping in the awkward movement, Shadow found himself submerged in the brown water. Pulling himself up, sputtering, he wondered if his opponent was coming up behind him, just as he became aware a massive object was hurtling toward him through the storm.

The steeple!

Shadow tried to fling himself down but it was too late. The rough-shingled structure slammed into him like Dorothy’s spinning farmhouse smashing the evil witch.

Chapter Thirty-One

How can anyone believe in something like that?

Shadow drifted in a dreamy, timeless state. His head was under water but it didn’t seem important. There was something he must do, though. Something important. He couldn’t quite remember what it was.

Lorene! She had been partially inside the steeple. Had she been blown away with it? Even if she hadn’t, she was bound hand and foot, helpless in the maelstrom of a hurricane with a flood rising. The wolfwraith—Frank—he’d been out of the path of the steeple; he’d be on Shadow any moment.

Shadow pushed his body up with unfeeling arms, noting with detachment that the cool mud was soothing to his sore, ravaged hand. When his face came clear, he sucked in air and staggered to his feet, every movement a painful effort. His back, his torn bicep, his hand, his head and his side where the steeple had hit him, where didn’t he hurt?

More importantly, where was his enemy?

Wobbling in the storm’s fury, Shadow looked around. Ten feet away, a body floated, face up. What looked to be the elongated muzzle of a canine poked above the surface. Inches away, the steeple cross rose a foot from the water like the mast and crosspiece of a model sailing ship.

Shadow waded closer. There was a pale face under the water, between the muzzle and the cross. False Cape Frank! Air was escaping from his neck, at the base of the cross, red, frothy foam floating to the surface, but he was dead. Above his face was a wolf’s head—a headdress—worn like a hat with a fur cape attached. The muzzle pointed up into the air.

Its mouth was open in an eternal snarl, but there were no eyes where Shadow had recently seen those cold, yellow eyes of death, just sewn-together slits where they had once been. The thing on Frank’s head appeared to be an old and scruffy wolf’s head with some of the hide attached. The cape billowed around Frank in the choppy waves, as if it possessed a life of its own, but this thing had been dead for decades, perhaps longer. The evil Shadow had been sensing all along, though, was still there, emanating from the moth-eaten hide and skull.

Shadow stared at the thing for a while. Oddly, he felt a strong urge to pick up the old Indian headdress—for that’s what it must be—and put it on his own head, sensing it would somehow strengthen him in his wasted condition, but at what cost? He forced his eyes away.

Downwind, he saw the steeple, on its side in the trees. Apparently, with the door gone, the gale had built up air pressure inside the structure and sucked it clear of the soft, rain-soaked ground. Once it had tipped, the wind had filled it like a sail and propelled it into the air.

He realized Lorene must be in trouble. The water was still getting deeper and she couldn’t rise from her sitting position. He waded toward where she must be, unable to see anything as the wind slashed his eyes with needles of water. Raising his hand, he tried to shield his eyes from the stinging rain, but it did little good. Leaning into the gale, he waded wearily through the water.