Gary Brandner - The Howling III

"I don't know why the men didn't kill me too," Malcolm went on. His voice had grown deeper and had a rasp to it.

His throat must be dry from all the talking, Holly told herself. But his eyebrows… weren't they heavier now than a moment ago? And she did not remember them growing all the way across the bridge of his nose.

"The next thing I remember I was running again. I didn't know if the men were chasing me or not. I just knew I had to get away. I was afraid again, only this time it was even worse than before. It was worse because Jones was dead. He was my friend, and I lost him."

"It's all right to grieve for a friend," Holly said softly. "It hurts to lose someone, but at one time or another it must happen to all of us. There will be other friends."

Malcolm was silent for a minute. Then he spoke again. "I was so tired of running. When the other two men saw me, the ones who brought me here, I didn't try very hard to get away. I knew they were different from the first two — the ones who killed Jones."

"How did you know that, Malcolm?"

"I could tell by the way they smelled. You know you can smell it when somebody wants to kill you, or when they're afraid of you."

Holly nodded. She knew the sweat glands emitted a different chemical under the stress of fear, but few humans were equipped with a sense of smell keen enough to recognize it.

"Excuse me, Malcolm," she said, standing up. "We don't need those curtains drawn any more. Let's catch what we can of the last of the sunlight."

She spread the curtains all the way open, brightening the room with an orange glow from the setting sun. With a reluctance she could not explain, Holly turned to look at the boy in the bed.

He smiled at her. Just a normal, somewhat thin fourteen-year-old boy. His eyes were a warm green. There were no unusual shadows under the cheek bones. Straight nose, well-formed upper lip. Rather fine, arched eyebrows. Nothing strange here at all. As she had thought, it was a trick of the lighting.

"The funny thing is," Malcolm said, "it seems like only a few minutes ago you were going to hypnotize me. But that was morning, and now the sun's going down."

"Sometimes hypnotism plays tricks with time," Holly said. "A few seconds can stretch into hours. Or the other way around. How do you feel otherwise?"

"Fine. Tired, though. I feel like I did all that running all over again."

"You'll get a good night's sleep tonight," she said. "I'll have your dinner sent up right away."

"Thank you."

Holly gave an unnecessary tuck to the blanket on Malcolm's bed. She smiled at him and started out of the room.

"Holly?"

"Yes?"

"About Jones. You said it hurt to lose a friend, and it does. And you said there'd be other friends. I wonder… will you be my friend?"

"I'd like that," Holly said. "I'd like that a lot. See you."

She slipped out of the room into the corridor and stood for a moment with her back against the wall. She swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in her throat. Right now she should be feeling quite pleased with herself. In a remarkably short time she had brought the boy out of an apparent catatonic state and restored at least a portion of his memory. Why, then, did she feel this chill of apprehension? There was more to Malcolm's story. Much more. Holly Lang was not sure she wanted to know it all.

Enough of that kind of thinking. She had work to do. She turned to start down the corridor and gasped as she almost ran into Gavin Ramsay. The tall sheriff caught her to avoid a collision. He held her for a moment with his strong hands on her shoulders, then released her.

"I was just on my way to call you," she said.

"And I was looking for you."

"After you left this morning Malcolm talked almost nonstop. He told me all about your dead man in the woods."

Ramsay nodded. "Jones."

"You know?"

"Your pathologist caught me on the way out of here this morning with my deputy. He told me who the dead man was and how he died."

"Then Malcolm isn't in trouble any more?"

"Not with me, he isn't. But we still don't know who he is. Did you find out?"

"Not really." She hesitated. "I think he's from Drago."

"No kidding."

"His memory begins with a fire that destroyed his town."

"If he is from Drago, he'll be the first survivor to turn up," Ramsay said.

"You understand I'm not sure. I'll want to work with him a lot more."

"No problem. The Drago business is none of my affair, anyway."

"One thing will probably interest you — he remembers the two men who shot Jones."

"I know who they are too, but the boy's testimony will be important."

"Could it wait until tomorrow? He's pretty tired."

"I don't suppose a day will make any difference." Gavin rubbed his jaw, bringing a rasp from the stubble of beard. "You have any plans for tonight?"

Holly turned brisk. "I always have plans. Tonight I'm going to write up my reports, go home, take a long bath, grill myself a steak, and watch an old Bogart movie on television."

"Let me rephrase the question," he said. "Will you have dinner with me?"

"A date? Why, Sheriff, I had no idea

"I hate it when they get cute," he muttered.

Holly laughed. "Dinner sounds like fun. But considering the quality of the restaurants hereabouts, why don't you come to my place? I've got two of those steaks."

"That is an offer I can't refuse. What kind of wine do you like?"

"Something dark red and dry. You pick it out. Is eight o'clock all right?"

"Fine. Where do I show up?"

"I have a little house in Darnay. Seventy-one Garden Street. I'll leave the porch light on."

"I'll find you."

He winked at her and swung off down the corridor. Holly looked after him for a moment, feeling foolishly lightheaded about the date. She shook herself back into a serious mood, and headed for the tiny office where could type up her notes on today's session with Malcolm.

Dr Wayne Pastory stepped quickly back into an alcove when he saw Holly Lang approaching. He had done a good deal of research during the day, and had decided on a course of action. Right now the lady doctor was the last person he wanted to see.

When Holly was safely around a corner in the hallway, Pastory stepped out of the alcove and headed for the stairs. He climbed to the second floor, passed through the glass doors into the administrative wing and stopped at the reception desk before the office of Dr Dennis Qualen. After the obligatory banter with Qualen's matronly receptionist he was allowed to enter.

"Ah, Wayne, you caught me on the way out," said the chief administrator. "I hope this isn't anything that will take along time."

"No, no, just a few words," Pastory said. "About the boy in 108."

Qualen pushed papers around on the polished mahogany desk. "That one. Malcolm Something-or-other his name seems to be. Our sheriff was just in here talking to me about him."

"Oh?" Pastory tensed, hoping his plan had not been derailed.

"Apparently we are not harbouring a juvenile murderer.

According to Ramsay, someone else was responsible for the dead man in our basement."

"But no one has claimed the boy?"

"Unfortunately, no. Nor has anyone come forward with an offer to pay his bill. Certain members of our staff seem to be under the impression that we are a charitable institution."

"I think I know who you mean," Pastory said. "My reason for wanting to see you is to suggest a way to get us off the hook."

"Oh?" Qualen was interested but noncommittal.

"As you know, I operate a modest clinic of my own north of here."

"Ah, yes, I believe you have spoken of it. I forget — where, exactly, is it located?"

"My suggestion," Pastory said, passing quickly over the question, "is that the boy be transferred there. I am quite well equipped to take care of him, and I think the boy will be useful in some important research I'm conducting."