Gary Brandner - The Howling III

"What sort of research?"

"I'm not really prepared to discuss it at this stage. You understand, sir."

Dr Qualen drew a finger along the aristrocratic line of his nose. "What you suggest is not normal procedure."

"I realize that, sir," said Pastory. "But I think in this case it might pay to bend the procedures a bit. For one thing, this will relieve the hospital of additional expense, and I understand the budget is under some scrutiny at Sacramento."

"I don't see how all the necessary arrangements could be made without going through channels."

"These things can be expedited, as we both know. The thing is, time is short. I'd like the boy transferred to my place tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Nothing can possibly be accomplished that quickly."

Pastory produced a manila folder with the flourish of a magician making a rabbit appear. "To speed things along I went ahead and did the necessary paperwork."

"You are in something of a hurry to get on with this, aren't you."

Pastory leaned confidentially forward across the desk. "I'll be frank with you, sir. If my theories about this boy prove out, there will be considerable recognition, acclaim even, that will go beyond the medical community. More than enough recognition for one man."

Qualen stiffened. "That sounds unpleasantly like a bribe, Doctor."

"Nothing of the sort, sir. But it doesn't hurt to remember that quite a few of our friends in high places got where they are by finding a way around the normal procedures."

Qualen glanced over the multicoloured forms. "I'm still not at all sure I can go along with this. It's highly irregular."

"You'll notice," Pastory put in, "that I have entered my own name in every case where there is a question of responsibility. Not that I expect any trouble about a routine transfer, but if there should be, it's on my head."

"I see." Dr Qualen slipped on a pair of reading glasses. "Give me a few minutes to look these over. If, as you say, everything is in order, I see no reason why I should delay the transfer of this patient into your care."

Pastory smiled. "A good decision, sir. I'm sure it's in the best interests of everyone concerned." He leaned back in the chair and waited with a confident smile.

The beast moved silently through the darkening forest. Small creatures of the night skittered from its path or froze into attitudes of self-protection. The beast padded forward in a balloon of silence as the smaller creatures ceased all sound and movement at its approach.

But tonight the smaller animals had nothing to fear from the beast. It was intent on other matters. Every few yards the beast would pause and rise manlike on its hind legs, lifting its muzzle to the sky. It would sniff the air — testing, searching — and then, finding the one scent among many, it would drop again to all fours and move on.

At the crest of the final hill the beast stopped. The coarse fur bristled at the base of its powerful neck. Below lay the sprinkling of lights that were the town of Pinyon. Directly at the bottom of the hill was a large rectangular building with many lights. From the building came a profusion of scents. Some sharp and medicinal, others heavy with death and decay. The scent of humans was powerful. Humans in their sickness. Yet among the confusion of the many odours the beast again picked out the one it sought.

Moving stealthily on great padded paws, the beast crept down the wooded hillside toward the hospital.

Gavin Ramsay leaned close to the mirror over his bathroom sink and gave his face a critical look. Unsatisfied, he buzzed the electric shaver over his chin for the third time. He had a chin cleft that Elise had always said was cute, but which sheltered a tiny ridge of whiskers that were hell to shave off. He tested the area with his fingers and decided it was as smooth as it was ever going to be. He blew out the shaver, splashed on some English Leather, and walked back into his combined living room-bedroom-kitchenette in the Pinyon Inn.

Gavin's was the only room at the Inn with cooking facilities. He seldom lit the stove, and used the half-size refrigerator for little more than keeping beer cold. Most of his meals were eaten downstairs in the coffee shop, or brought home from one of the fast-food places down the road in Darnay. Still, having a kitchen, however inadequate, made the room seem a little more like home.

He and Elise had lived in a spacious California ranch-house in Darnay until the divorce. The house, like the Camaro, and damn near everything else, had gone to Elise. Gavin had been stunned to find how suddenly cold and calculating his loving bride had turned when she decided the marriage wasn't going where she wanted it to. While he had stumbled through the proceedings with a nice-guy lawyer whose heart was back in Iowa, she had latched on to a high-powered firm from Los Angeles with half a dozen names on the letterhead. It was no contest.

But what the hell, it was over now. The last he heard Elise was in New York dating some hotshot political columnist for the Times. That would suit her. Her father too. Gavin had been a great disappointment to both of them.

He pushed open the accordion door on his closet and surveyed the meagre wardrobe therein. Two khaki uniforms of the La Reina County sheriffs department. One blue suit. Two sports coats, grey tweed and camel's hair. Three pairs of slacks: grey, blue, and brown. Two neckties: one with stripes; one with little fleurs-de-lis. Assorted shoes.

These, except for the uniforms, were the clothes he hardly ever wore. His real clothes were in the dresser drawers. Jeans, corduroys, soft cotton shirts, and sweaters.

During the marriage Elise had outfitted him like the rising young politician she hoped he would be. He had two full closets then of suits, jackets, and trousers from the best tailors in southern California. Gone now, all gone. No, Elise had not taken his clothing, but Gavin wasted no time giving most of it away when he moved out. It was one thing from his marriage he definitely did not miss.

For tonight, however, jeans and a sweater simply would not do. Holly Lang was not just another date. His dates had been few since the divorce. Generally, they consisted of a few drinks in a quiet bar, dinner maybe, then off to bed. Neither he nor the women involved had any stake in the relationship beyond an evening's entertainment. That was the way he wanted it. For some reason he felt differently about Holly.

He chose the camel's hair jacket and grey slacks. Briefly he considered wearing a necktie, but decided that was too much, and settled for a soft blue sports shirt.

"You look terrific," he told his image in the mirror. "All ready for the prom."

Downstairs he climbed into the old Dodge wagon, shoving the accumulated debris off the seats. He frowned at the coating of dust and wished he had washed it more recently. He would have to remember to park in the shadows.

He drove the ten miles along the dark highway to Darnay listening to a golden-oldies rock station from Los Angeles. He had no idea what songs were played, nor did he care. The music was company, that was all.

Entering Darnay, Gavin stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of California cabernet sauvignon. He found Holly Lang's address with no trouble. It was a yellow clapboard bungalow with white shutters, set well back from the quiet street. The lawn was neatly mowed. A row of flowers before the house looked like somebody cared about them. As promised, Holly had left the porch light on.

She met him at the door wearing a colourful silk blouse with a soft, dark skirt that followed the smooth curve of her hips. Gavin realized it was the first time he had seen her out of the more severe lady-doctor outfits she wore while working. He decided she looked pretty damn good, and told her so.