A LEISURE BOOK
Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
6 East 39th Street
new York, NY 10016

Copyright © 1987 by Jeffrey Qoddin

All rights reserved. Plo part of this booK may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
electronic   or   mechanical   means,   including
photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without the written
permission of the Publisher, except where permitted
by law.

Printed In the United States of America




February thaw. The light covering of snow that
had fallen at the first of the month was turning to
low white mist in the 50-degree night air. The city
was alive with people suddenly freed from
winter depression, making long-deferred visits,
crowding the bars and clubs. The teens were out
In their big old Thunderbirds and Cutlasses,
cruising the malls and drive-ins, giving the
traffic cops a run for their money—any excuse to
be outdoors in the midst of the thaw.

South and east of the center of town lay the
zoo, a modern, skillfully landscaped enterprise
with outdoor pens scattered over a generous
expanse of hilltop. In the zoo, also, there was
motion. The herbivores—the antelope, deer and
,-* goats—were restless with the scents of the
^ predators, now clear and pungent on the heavy
humid air.

9




Jeffrey Ooddtn

In a roomy cage on the northern slope of the
grounds a tawny mother puma, heavy with cubs,
sniffed the gusty air currents and caught a new
scent, a scent that stiffened the short hair at the
nape of her necK. She snorted and gave a growl
low in her throat, her keen eyes searching the
misty darkness, impressions of fight or flight
oddly mingled in her brain.

Even with her excellent vision, she barely
saw them. so quickly were they moving—two
lean shapes that seemed almost like mist in the
night darkness. She had a glimpse of odd amber
eyes turned incuriously in her direction.

And then they were gone. As the tension In
her long muscles slowly eased, she tried to
puzzle out their scent—so like wolf, and yet
unlike.

The two creatures raced through the
sleeping zoo, past restless animals, themselves
following a faint trail of scent.

And then they were there, at the pen of the
wolves.

A great gray timber wolf stood abruptly and
snarled, hackles rising, but they ignored him. It
was the more slender female wolf, a creature of
three years' growth, that captured their
attention—or rather the interest of the larger of
the visitors, the male of the pair.

The caged female eyed him suspiciously, but
showed no overt hostility. She was in heat, her
senses sharpened, and though the new wolf had
a strange smell . . .

She pushed her cold nose through the bars
of her pen, and she and the strange wolf touched
muzzles, exploring their scents.

10

\

•>>,

i

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Then, suddenly, the visitor was in the pen
with her, with no distortion of the steel bars to
mark his entryway.

For a long time they stood motionless,
staring at one another. Then the two creatures
frolicked, dancing and nipping, eventually
mating, as the second visitor, the female, kept a
lookout. She knew that there was a guard who
would make his rounds soon- The thought did
not worry her, but she was aware of it.

In perhaps half an hour the male flowed once
again through the bars of the cage. The female
gave him a sharp nip on the flank, a bite that
drew blood, and he curled back his lips and
seemed to laugh. The caged male beside them
once again began to snarl.

Then, the visitors were racing for the edge of
the zoo grounds.

Doug O'Malley, the night guard, thought that
it was a very fine night indeed. Though not to the
degree of the animals he guarded, he, too.
caught the suddenly freed scents of the night. Me
was more aware of his senses than most people
and Just a bit proud of It.

O'Malley hated the 1980s, and he hated to be
confined. As a child, he'd wanted to be an African
explorer—for he'd always felt that there was a
touch of the primitive about him, something that
set him apart from the generally bland and petty
civilization he'd had the poor luck to be born
into.




He still wanted to go to some untamed
place—Africa, northern Canada, the Australian
outback. So far, guarding the animals he

11

Jeffrey Ooddtn

respected more than he respected most humans
was as far as he had come. Still, he considered
himself lucky. At least he wasn't slowly dying at a
desk somewhere.

There was a flickering impression of some-
thing in his mind, some sixth sense that made
him suddenly afraid. Then two large dark shapes
flowed out of the mist and raced to either side of
him along the paved path. Me whirled around,
but they had disappeared almost immediately.
Me gave a shout, his hand automatically
reaching for his gun, though virtually there
never should be an occasion to shoot an animal.

Me stood looking after them, puzzled, almost
doubting his senses—so suddenly had they been
there, so suddenly gone. Wolves—it had to have
been the two wolves—but how had they escaped?

Putting aside the question for the moment.
he ran alorig the path to the wolf pen. And there,
to his great surprise, he found the two animals
still in their cage. The mate had sprayed scent,
and the rank smell filled O'Malley's nostrils. Well,
something had upset him. They stared at him
intently, tense and wary.

Must have been coyotes, he thought.
Coyotes were showing up more and more on the
fringes of the city. Me searched the grounds over
the next hour but found no trace of coyote or any
other animal that shouldn't have been there. He
wondered if the incident merited a call and
decided that it didn't. Me would just put it in the
report.

A few weeks later, Linda Klein, the resident
supervisor of animals, found that the bitch wolf
had been mated somehow.

12

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

A single cub was born 64 days later.

The cub was a handsome creature, unusually
large at birth. It also grew unnaturally fast and,
In a year, had achieved the size common to a
mature three-year-old. Linda watched the cub
grow with a touch of awe, this cub that shouldn't
even have been born. It was free of all Illnesses
and apparently quite strong, though it lacked
some of the frolicsomeness usual in wolf pups. It
was also considerably darker in coloration than
its mother or its presumed father.

The most disturbing thing about the cub was
that it attacked its parents immediately if placed
In a security pen with them. The first time this
happened, the older male suffered slashes in its
side. The experiment was not repeated. Even
odder was the lack of attack signs—the
posturing, the raised hackles—common to all
wolves.

The growing cub was only partially tolerant
of Linda—she, who could make a tiger eat out of
her hand. She was actually afraid to enter the
pen with it, after the first few times when it had
simply stood at the rear wall, watching her, as if
ascertaining whether it could take her or not.

Probably the animal should be put down,
but It was such a magnificent specimen.

The uneasy truce continued.

Autumn in gold and muted crimson. Meavy
rains in August and early September had set the
stage for glorious foliage in the fall. Though the
fc- leaves were turning, the air was balmy that early
^October afternoon as Douglas Alien pushed his

15

Jeffrey Ooddin

way through the tall stand ofgoldenrod, heading
toward the old apple orchard that he'd scouted
from the road.

David Denton, of Denton's General Store up
the road toward Lexington, had told Alien about
the orchard and had only raised an eyebrow
when Alien had told him why he wanted to visit
it—moths.

As far as Denton was concerned, moths ate
clothes or got into bins of open grain, and that
was that. But Alien was looking for another kind
of moth—big ones, the kind you see around
floodlights at night. Did they eat clothes or oats?
No? Well then. Denton had grinned at the
craziness of people from across the river and
wished Alien all the moths he could find.

The goldenrod was making Alien sneeze. The
situation was pretty unsubtle for stalking any-
thing. but then, the cocoons he was looking for
would hardly run away. And sneezes might serve
to alert any squirrel hunter tn the vicinity so he
wouldn't get shot.

He reached the edge of the unmown field. Me
wiped the sweat and pollen and small bugs from
his eyes and hair and looked ahead to the
abandoned orchard.

It reminded him of something out of an
Arthur Rackham illustration, the medium sized
trees with their black, black boughs twisted Into
all kinds of odd angles, bristling with water
shoots. As he moved closer he smelled that
familiar vinegar sweet smell of fallen, rotten
fruit. Those apples that stilt clung to the boughs
were mostly misshapen or bird-pecked. He finally
found a perfect round one and bit into it. It was

14

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

slightly tart with a wonderfully sweet aftertaste.
probably some elder variety of the fruit,
unknown to most people these days.

As he scanned the black branches for the
hanging cocoons—polyphemus, promethea, 10
—he wondered how old the orchard was and how
long it had been abandoned. It might be a fine
place for mushrooms next spring, and he made a
mental note to come back and check it out.

Me moved through the trees, discovering a
cocoon or two and trying to avoid stepping on
the fallen apples. Before he knew it, he was at the
edge of the orchard.

Ahead was a forest and a path leading
back into the tall hardwoods—oak, beech,
maple. As he paused, he saw that a few blades of
grass were just springing back into position in
the path. So. someone had been here before him,
and very recently. Or was it a deer? Me knelt and
examined the marks. Mo, too much weight in one
spot for deer, whose hooves displace very little.
Probably just a squirrel hunter. Well, whoever it
was. he'd just leave them to their business.

He was just heading back into the orchard
when he thought he heard a cry.

Faint and distant, it could have been a bird
or a rabbit caught by a fox. Me took one step
toward the orchard, and the cry came again.

There was no mistaking it—a child's voice,
frightened or hurt.

He turned and looked into the tangle of
woods. The sun was low in the sky. and shadows
were deepening among the trees. It would be
dusk soon.




As soon as he realized his selfish mental

15

Jeffrey Goddin

procrastinating he forced himself into the
woods.

It was an old woods, the tree trunks massive
and tall, the colored leaves both eerily lightening
and darkening the place. The path ran at an
angle, but it was fairly clear, and he made good
time.

He wondered what a kid was doing In the
woods this far from any farmhouse. The kid had
perhaps wandered out, spent all day playing and
maybe became lost—probably okay, just scared.

He heard the cry again and froze in his
tracks.

"Help me!"

The words were clear—a little girl's
voice—and there was pain, much pain. But with
the cry came something else. Alien was suddenly
sweating. He was frightened, and he didn't know
why. He should be rushing to help the kid, but
there was something ahead, that he couldn't
even see. something deadly and terrible.

The hell with thati

He began to run along the path. stumbling
over roots, his face scratched by small branches
and thorns. He wished, futilely, that he had
brought a gun—but why would he have?

He burst into a clearing, but the trees grew
so closely overhead that there was little light. It
seemed a natural break in the forest, though the
grass was short, with stretches of smooth gray
stone covered with green mosses. Here and there
were low purple flowers and browning ferns.

But it wasn't the clearing or the flowers that
focused his attention, that sent an empty chill of
pure terror through his nerves.

There were three people in the clearing.

16

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Three naked people.

The man was tall and muscular like an
athlete, perhaps in his early 40s, with very pale
blonde hair and pale brown eyes. The woman was
also tall. perhaps younger, with curly blonde hair
and blue eyes in a round young face. Her body
was superb with full high breasts above a slim
waist and slightly narrow hips tapering to long
athletic legs.

But the third figure puzzled him for a
moment, even as an instinctive horror surged
through his veins.

It was a young girl. perhaps 12 or 15. Her
body was very white, yet very red in places where
it shouldn't have been. Even as he looked, soft
eyes opened briefly into his, and she gave an
incoherent pitiful sound like a strangled kitten.
Her eyes froze in position as her blood ran slowly
across the soft mosses.

The ruin of this child's body was devastating.
The stiff, half-crouched positions of the other
two were as if they'd only just stood up, the red
on their hands and mouths matching the red on
the girl's body,

The human organism cannot know that it is
in shock, and what it does then is simply
instinctual. Alien was shaking as If with chills.
nevertheless he drew the pocket knife from his
vest and opened it. The soft click of the blade
seemed as loud as a gunshot.

The naked man and woman were staring at
him. He felt a sudden paralysis invade his body,
and he somehow knew that they were doing this
to him. Some deep part of him fought It, trying to
aet his legs to run.

One moment they were standing and look-

17

Jeffrey Goddin

ing, then, with motion so fast that it blurred,
they were on him.

Ever so, he managed to get the knife up in
front of him and felt it striking something hard,
like bone.

He felt the terrific blow to his head and dived
into darkness.

The whooping bark of hounds, then voices.
"Hey. over here. Donny, aim that light.. ."
"Oh, my God!"
"Jeesus . . . shit . . ."
"It's her all right."
"Mey, what's that over there?"
"Jeeze, blood all over his face!"
The sound of a revolver being cocked.
"I'll kill the motherfucker."
Sobbing, a man's tortured gasping sobs.
"I'll kill him! Just like he did my baby!"
"Hold him! Goddammit, Len, we gotta see
this bastard gets his legal."

Sound of scuffling. Heavy footsteps.
Alien opened his eyes into the hand-held
floodlights that lit up the clearing in bizarre
cones of white light. It was a nocturnal
battlefield. First, he saw the girl, then legs, feet
and the straining dogs trying to get at him.

He spat. Something—blood?—filled his
mouth. He lifted his hand. His face was sticky
with it.

A broad red face was rushing into his field of
vision, mottled with hatred, eyes glaring.
"I'm gonna kill you, you bastard!"
He was just beginning to piece it all together
as the fist smashed into the side of his head.

18

Peter Fielding watched the tall, thin young man
who now stood moodily looking out of the barred
window. The man stood with his arms hanging
loosely at his sides, a faint tremor now and again
running through his long, sensitive hands.

Fielding was puzzled, and the sensation of
being puzzled did not sit well with him. As a
medically oriented psychotherapist with ten
years' experience he felt he had some
competence in the field. Yet, as he leafed
through the charts on Douglas Alien, he could
agree neither with Dr. Grant's diagnosis nor with
his treatment of this patient.

It was all there in the charts—a homicidal
psychotic with a tendency to manic depression
and violent outbursts, peripheral symptoms of
poor sleep, sloppy dress, anxiety, hostility,
periodic hyperactivity.

21

Jeffrey Goddin

The problem was that these were all possible
CP side effects of the drug he was taking—Spar-
ine, one of the most potent phenothlazines, in
the intravenous dosage of 600-700 units. After
eight months of such massive doses, it would be
a wonder if he wasn't showing such symptoms.

Grant had had to turn Alien over to Fielding a
couple of weeks earlier, due to an international
conference on clinical pharmacology where the
hospital head was chairing several committees.
Fielding had talked with Alien daily and had
observed his pseudo parkinsonian symptoms—
the pacing, the tremors, the lack of expres-
sion—all indicating toxic drug reaction.

Me had been shocked, to say the least. Some-
one of Dr. Grant's knowledge should have
modified dosage or changed drug-of-choice by
now. But he hadn't. And, as the director of the
institute, he'd given Fielding firm instructions
not to change Alien's therapy.

Fielding had paid no attention at all to his
instructions. He had gone so far as to initiate a
reduced dosage and switch to chlorpromazine a
couple of days earlier. If necessary, he could
justify this change by the toxic syndrome that
Alien was so obviously displaying.

Alien turned from the window and sat down
on the low beige couch. He looked at Fielding
through drug-fogged eyes. He had lost weight in
the hospital, while most of them gained, and his
clothes hung loosely on his six-foot frame. His
red hair was an unruly mop from constant
rubbing, and his pale blue eyes gazed with
diminished comprehension into Fielding's. The
man was still overtranquilized as far as Fielding

22

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

was concerned, even after a few days of reduced
dosage. It certainly didn't help therapy or even
simple communication.

On impulse. Fielding got two coffees, came
back and gave one to Alien. It was against the
rules, but then. Fielding had already broken half
a dozen rules. And he had that edge of nervous
tension that usually comes with a good hunch.
The hunch was so strong that a few hours earlier
he'd taken over the duty of injecting the
chlorpromazine from the shift nurse, only to
empty the syringe into the sink. This lack of
medicine and the coffee might give the man just
a little more mental clarity.

Alien took the coffee eagerly. He was more
alert after only a few sips.

"Thanks. It's been a long time."

Fielding nodded, sitting, a part of his mind
recalling the time that Alien had attacked an
orderly and roughed him up pretty good; but
Fielding couldn't think about that now.

"How're you doing today?"

"As always. I wish you people would just stop
giving me those damned drugs."

"They're for your and our protection," said
Fielding, hearing the stale words roll off his
tongue with distaste. The man had been in
here—what? seven months, eight?—with only
that first incident.

Fielding mentally reviewed the man's file for
a moment. Alien had killed and mutilated—
partially eaten, they said—a young girl in an
isolated stretch of state forest. It was a rare act
but not entirely unknown in the annals of
regressive psychosis.

25

Jeffrey Ooddin

What puzzled Fielding was not the man's
continuing refusal to admit the deed—that was
"normal." The sane part of his mind would try aa
hard as it could to reject the idea that he could
have committed such a crime.

No, the puzzling part was that he rigidly
adhered, without amplification, to his story that
he'd found a naked man and woman mutilatlrtg
the girl, that one of them had knocked him out,
and that he'd been found like that by a search
party. The search party had. Fielding recalled,
given Alien quite a beating, he had still had mild
concussive symptoms when they brought him in.

The trial notes had not been illuminating.
Alien had told the jury the same story that he'd
kept telling Fielding—and there had just been
too much evidence against him. He'd also
started screaming once or twice in the court-
room, which had not done much good for his
image. And he'd assaulted a bailiff on being told
the verdict, which had seemed consistent
behavior at the time.

Fielding thought over the rest of Alien's
background. He was a research geologist and
biologist with a passion for insects, particularly
moths. He did contract research for private
firms, usually in response to the need for an
environmental impact statement before develop-
ment. He also did nature writing on the side. He
was single. His real parents were both dead, his
adoptive parents divorced. He had no pets. He
had no criminal record. He did have several
speeding violations. As far as anyone knew, he
had never seen a psychiatrist or any kind of
therapist.

24

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

That was just about all the background they
had, and it would have to do.

Alien's voice broke into Fielding's train of
thought.

"You were here earlier," said Alien. "I
think . .. you did not give me a shot you were
supposed to."

Fielding nodded.

"I wanted to talk with you when your head
was just a little bit clearer than usual." Fielding
sat in a chair by the door, wishing that they'd
stop using the rose-scented air freshener in
these rooms. The sickly sweet smell made even
his mind a little foggy.

"I appreciate that—"

"Now, I'm going to ask you a few questions
that I've asked you before. Only now you might
be able to think a little better about your
answers."

"1 just want out of here." Alien's voice was
sad and despairing, almost childlike.

"1 know that. The reason I'm doing this
is ... well, you don't seem to me to be the kind
of person who could kill somebody. I might be
able to help you, if you didn't do it." Fielding
took a deep breath. He was breaking all the rules
again, but he had this weird intuitive feeling that
he was doing the right thing.

"Have you ever had the desire to attack, to
bite anybody, tn the past?"

"Do . . . yes, hell. I have, in here."

"Why?"

"Because I hate to be closed up. It drives me
crazy."

Fielding smiled inadvertently at the choice

25




Jeffrey Qoddtn

of words. Alien smiled, too.

"When you first came here, you attacked one
of the orderiies. Why was that?"

"1 knew how small these rooms would be. I've
always hated to be closed in a room. Once, when 1
was a kid, somebody shut me in a closet. 1 got so
scared I broke the door down."

"Broke it down?"

"Yes."

That had been another bit of trivia from the
file. Alien was amazingly strong, and this was
another reason why it was unwise to reduce his
tranquilizers.

"Is that why you attacked the man in the
courtroom?"

"Huh? What?"

"Think back. When you were tried and
sentenced to be place In here, you attacked a
man in the courtroom. You bit him and broke his
arm."

"It's so hard to think. .. yes, I kind of
remember. Ood, I was so scared."

Alien's long face was becoming flushed at
the memory. Fielding felt a mild twinge of alarm.
This guy could possibly kill him with his bare
hands.

"Kemember, I'm trying to help you. Try to
remember why you attacked that man."

"Because I thought they were going to put
me in a little cell. I've really got this thing about
closed places."

"Okay. Plow tell me once again about what
happened out In the woods that day."

And Alien told the tale—the hike, looking for
moth cocoons, the cry for help, the two naked

26

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

people and the poor little girl.

Suddenly Alien was crying, his hands over
his face.

"What's wrong?"

"She was so young. How could anybody do a
thing like that?"

And Fielding heard the ring of sincerity to
the words that even a practiced schizophrenic
couldn't have faked. There-was also an edge of
hysteria that might have come from the missed
drug dosage. He stood and walked over to Alien
and put his hand on the man's shoulder. Alien
put his hand over Fielding's. The gesture was so
pathetic that Fielding felt his throat tighten.

"Listen, I'm on your side. You can believe
me. You're feeling weird right now because
you've missed an injection. I'm giving you a
couple of pills." He put them in Alien's hand, and
went into the bathroom to get a glass of water.
He returned and gave the glass to Alien.

"They're valium. They're a lot milder than
what you've been taking, but they will slow down
your reaction coming off of the heavy dosage.
I'm putting you on pills instead of injections. The
nurse will bring them, and we'll trust you to take
them. In the meantime, I'm going to try and
prove that you're sane. Do you understand?"

Alien looked up and nodded. Fielding missed
the slight gleam in the back of his eye.

"Dr. Fielding?"

"Yes?" Fielding was surprised by the tone of
Alien's voice, it sounded more . . . well, normal.

"1 have an odd request to make."

"What is it?"

"When you come back tomorrow, could you

27

Jeffrey Qoddin

bring a photo of Dr. Grant?"

"Hmmmm. Well, there should be one around
somewhere. But why do you want to see a photo
of him?"

"Well, I only saw him once. when I first came
in. I'm . . . curious about him."

Fielding looked at Alien hard. The man
seemed perfectly sincere, and yet he caught the
hint that there was some hidden meaning to this
request.

But then, what harm could it do?

"I'll see if I can dig up a photo, okay?"

"Sure, and thanks."

Fielding pressed Alien's hand again and left
the room.

As he closed the door on Douglas Alien.
Fielding tried to sum up the situation. Grant
would have a fit if he found that Fielding had
changed Alien's dosage, but dammit, he had a
feeling about this one. And the information he'd-
gotten today would substantiate one of his
hunches. The man was claustrophobic with
strong involuntary reactions to confined spaces.
That would have a lot to do with his violent out-
breaks at the trial and on arriving at the
Institute.

But how to prove that Alien didn't kill that
little girl?

And just what was it with Grant, anyway?
Although he had no use for the man personally—
Grant was of a subtly dominant type that
Fielding had always hated—he had the greatest
respect for the man's work. But the initial
diagnosis on Alien had been shaky, and to put EP

28

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

down as symptoms of disturbance was the kind
of error a first year med student wouldn't make.

Fielding stalked the bare white hallways, his
mind whirling. Alien had been his last patient of
the day, so he went to his plant-cluttered office
on the second floor, changed out of his smock
and decided to take off early. It had looked like a
beautiful day when he came to work that
morning, and maybe there was a little of it left
outside.

Me took the stairs—a token stab at t;he
exercise he knew he needed—to the ground
floor. On the way he stopped in to see Mary, who
had recently been hired as receptionist. She was
slender as a model, with strawberry blonde hair
and that open-eyed look that often went with
dumb blondes. But Mary was pre-med and
couldn't be dumb with her background. Fielding
unconsciously held in his tummy as he
approached the desk.

"Mi, Mar, how's it going?",

She smiled into his eyes. Me hoped she liked
well-fleshed males.

"Slow day. I think it's too pretty out for there
to be many visitors. Most people seem to visit
their friends in here when the weather's lousy."
She cast a yearning eye toward the door. "1 Just
wish someone would come and rescue me."

"Okay, I'm easy."

She laughed. "You're serious, but I've got
three more hours to go."




"And then, I pick you up for dinner?" Me said
tt nonchalantly, but his stomach was doing flip-
flops.

"Italian?" she asked eagerly.

29

Jeffrey Goddin

"Of course, my favorite."

"Okay," she said. He almost gasped. "I'll
give you my number. Oive me a call first?"

"Sure."

And he left the hospital floating on air. He
never had thought she'd say yes. Me had almost,
but not quite, forgotten about Douglas Alien.

It was a chill, moonless night, one year and
three months after the wolf's conception, it
paced the cage under the watchful eyes of its
mother and the other male in adjacent cages.

The restlessness had been building lately, as
welt as the assimilation of the ways of the
humans who came to watch it and, more
particularly, of the woman who directly cared for
it.

Already, it half-Knew. Its thinking processes
were far beyond that of a mere wolf. It only
lacked operative data.

The restlessness was building to the
breaking point. The wolf part of it would have
liked to mate with the female wolf in the pen
beside it, but it stifled the inclination. It was time
to see what it could be.

It stared at the bars of the pen. It pushed Its
nose against the bars and felt a strange tremor
somewhere in the center of its body. Good, very
good. To be free. Thought became action, and—

It sprang through the solid bars out into the
night.

Immediately it sensed the multitude of living
creatures around it and their restlessness at
catching its scent.

It enjoyed savoring their fear.

50

t
,

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Its incredible senses quested farther and
picked up the aura of the massed human lives of
the city to the north and west. That would be its
destination.

The concrete path flew by beneath its fleet
paws. Ahead, it saw a guard—the same guard
who, a year before, had nearly been present at its
conception, who had seen the two "wolves" as
they fled from the zoo.

Now, the guard saw a lone wolf running up
the path toward him and had a sudden odd sense
of deja uu.

But this time, the wolf had a different
temperament.

It was four yards from the man when it
sprang.

He knew, then, that this wolf would not flee,
and his hand went for the gun at his side.

The gun was not even out of its holster when
the wolf's teeth ripped through the cartilage of
the man's throat. And, as the hot blood spurted
across its muzzle, the final doors of knowledge
sprang open with a flood of images that stunned
the wolf so completely that, for a moment, it fell
to the ground beside its victim.

It lay there. Ignoring the last spasmodic
twitches of the body beside it, savoring the
bloody taste like a hallucinogen, the sudden
abstract knowledge of what it was. It was as if the
taste of blood had been the key, the catalyst to
its identity.

From this point onward, it would learn fast.

It rolled to its feet and ran to the barred gate
of the zoo grounds, passing through the close
chain link without even slowing.

51

Jeffrey Goddin

Once outside, it moved more slowly across
the broad, landscaped grounds. Ahead were the
places where humans lived. It raced past the
nearest cluster of buildings, pacing, sensing the
humans inside, feeding data to its amazing
brain. It peered into a low window and saw a
young girl, perhaps five years old, wearing a pink
nightgown. She was playing with dolls on her bed
by the pale Illumination of a Mickey Mouse night
light.

It grinned and marked the location in its
mind.

On the next street under the rose light of the
sodium vapors, a man was making his unsteady
way along the edge of the gutter. The creature
loped onto the sidewalk behind him and
suddenly leaped. Some drink-enhanced sixth
sense made the man half-turn, though there had
been no sound audible to human ears, and he
saw briefly the face of legend. His cry was choked
off in his throat as the ivory fangs cut into his
flesh.

The creature tugged the body into a short
cul-de-sac between houses. Then it stood,
exploring the odd alleys of its mind, seeking the
knowledge exposed by its actions. There was a
purpose to this killing beyond the mere taking of
prey.

There was something it had to do. It knew
and yet did not know. It was something like sex.
and yet not. It was physical, what must happen,
but It originated in instinct and a touch of
thought, or what lay behind thought.

It suddenly shivered and gave a small cry, as
its shape began to shift, to snap and strain as if it

32

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

^
i. i

were exerting extreme effort, but it wasn't, con-
sciously. Flesh and bones began elongating into
impossible shapes. It cried out and immediately
stifled the cry, for the pain was passing, the
shape solidifying.

The strong young man with black hair and
pale. pale eyes stretched, yawned, and bent to
take the clothes from the man he had killed. It
only took him a few attempts to figure out how to
wear them. They fit loosely, but they would do.

He looked out into the street. His senses
seemed slightly less sharp, but the added height
seemed an advantage, and perhaps his vision
was more acute. He would get used to it.

The dangerously handsome young man
began to walk toward town, smiling and smiling.
He just couldn't stop smiling, his perfect white
teeth a dull gleam in the darkness.

He moved, cloaked in the night, shrouded in
the protective envelope of knowledge flowing
through his supernormal senses. The acrid
stench of auto exhaust was strong in his nostrils,
the scents of growing green things a clear
underlayer. In his human form, scents were
barely less powerful than In the wolf form.

Occasionally he passed someone else
walking along the dusky street. They stared at
him as they passed, and some began to walk
more quickly. He sensed their fear, mild in some.
stronger in others. Why were they frightened? He
didn't really know. Was it what he was wearing?
Had there been something odd about what the
one he'd killed was wearing? If so, he'd find
another set of clothes.

He began to consciously modify his walk,

55

Jeffrey Goddin

from the half-loping stride to the more human,
measured pace of those he passed. This
deliberate aping of the human amused him. In
fact. everything amused him. He stared at the
lettering on the signs along the street.
Trevillian Way. noted and Hied.

The street finally ended at a busy inter-
section that momentarily confused him. Which
way? His acute senses quested, using the feel for
primary north with which he'd been born. The
humans were clustered to the north. He turned
right on Popular Level Road.

He began to tune his ears to the speed of the
passing cars, having a fine predator's sense for
motion. Those moving bits of metal had humans
in them and were presumably taking the
occupants to their dens.

He was aware of the car slowing down behind
him long before it began to creep up beside
him.

The woman in the white Corvette convertible
took a long look at the tall, shaggy-haired youth.
He stopped, then she stopped.

"Hey, Qood-looking," she called in a deep,
soft voice. "Want a ride?"

He'd learned some words by listening to the
woman who had cared for him at the zoo. "Good"
was one of them. Positive meaning. She seemed
to be applying it to him, and he nodded and
smiled.

"Man," she said, "that hair is wildi Where you
headed?"

He knew from the Inflection that this was a
question, but he didn't trust himself to speak
yet. He extended his sensory faculties toward he

34




BLOOD OP THE WOLF

woman. It all became a little more clear—her
feelings for him, like the feelings he had had for
the female wolf at the zoo. And, he realized, he
was beginning to feel something similar toward
this girl.

He reasoned quickly. She wants me to get in
with her, to mate with her. He reached for the
door handle of the Corvette. His grip was clumsy.

"Here," she laughed, "that one always gets
stuck."

She pushed open the door and he climbed In
beside her.

She had pale blonde hair. a half-unbuttoned
red blouse tucked into a light gray wool skirt. Her
long legs were bare down to sandaled feet. now
she stomped the accelerator and the car hurtled
into the light traffic. Someone blew their horn at
her. She laughed and made an odd gesture,
holding her hand out the window, fist closed, one
finger extended. He mimicked the gesture and
laughed with her.

He began to enjoy the'sense of motion and
the feet of the young warm girl, so rich in scents,
beside him.

"Where you headed?" She had asked this
before. What did it mean? He reasoned. Place. It
must pertain to place. He pointed forward.

"Silent type, huh?"

Yet another question. He recalled the conver-
sations his keeper had had with men at the zoo
and the word she used as an answer.

"Yeah." The word came out almost like a
snarl in two syllables, but she seemed satisfied.
He vocalized It again under his breath, trying to
shape the sound properly.

55

Jeffrey Qoddin

She glanced sideways at him, smiling. She
took a joint from the ashtray, lit it with a lighter,
and took a deep drag. She was inhaling it. It
puzzled him, but he had seen people at the zoo
doing something similar.

She passed the Joint to him. He put it to his
lips and pretended to inhale. The scent was
amazingly strong. He did inhale a little, and it
made him cough. He analyzed it. Something
connoted danger, but it obviously wasn't
harming the girl. He passed it back to her.

"So," she said. settling back in the seat and
letting her short skirt fall further back along her
thighs, "my name's Suzy. What's your name?"

He thought he knew that one. His keeper had
been called Linda. She had called him "the cub."

"Cub."

"Oh, a little cub? That's rich. Cub. Sounds a
little like Doug. I knew a Douglas once. crazy
painter, real nuts, but," she looked at him
and smiled, "aren't we all?"

He had always seen a kind of aura around
people at the zoo. Linda had had a faint green-
gold tinge. People who were upset had had bits of
red. orange, or some times black around them.
The tone of this girl's voice, and the bits of red he
saw in her general golden-green hue. indicated
that she was not quite ... right. Some of the
people at the zoo with similar auras had stared at
him for a long time, odd fragments of thought
coming to him.

Then, it had made him uneasy. But now. it
only excited him further.

This might make her good prey.

She suddenly pushed a cassette into the tape

56

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

player—some hard rocking vocal with a heavy
bass line. He felt his body synchronizing with it,
the bass line tangling with his pulse. He liked the
feeling.

"Ahhh. good stuff! Say, Cubby, what do you
do?"

The question didn't compute, but he felt a
wild elation. He was high on all the new
information coming to his brain.

"Do?" he repeated. It seemed a useful word.

"Do . . . yourjobi"

"Job" he didn't know either- He tried to read
her, but there was no emotional overlay to the
question that he could pick up.

"Your Jo&l Boy am I stoned! What do you
do?"

He laughed for the First time. The sound
came easily.

"Zoo," he said.

"Zoo? You work at the zoo? That's wild! Do
you take care of the animals?"

Another guess.

"Yeah."

He was watching the street signs as she
talked, committing the words as whole images to
memory. Right on Eastern Parkway. Left on
Baxter.

"You know," she was saying, "I get restless
on nights like this. I mean, It's like spring is here.
Makes you want to do something, get a little
loose."




He couldn't quite follow the tone of the
words, but he caught the underlying emotion.

The car was slowing. He saw a sign. Cave Hill
Cemetery. Already, the green smells of the mown

57

Jeffrey Qoddtn

lawns and the flower beds were coming to him.

A high Renaissance tower overlooked the
entrance. Soon they were driving down shadowy
lanes past pools, groves of trees and small
groups of statuary. He caught the pungent scent
of a fountain somewhere nearby. Here and there
were other cars, parked in shadowy places. He
saw that the cars usually contained one male
and one female, and he intuited their purpose.

She pulled up a little lane into a stand of tall
trees and shut off the motor. The silence closed
around them, though the cooling engine gave
odd little metallic clicks and moans.

She was watching him in the dark. With his
nocturnal eyes, he could see her pale face, the
light reflected in her eyes, the faint human aura
around her. He felt the pull of his multiplex
senses. She was like a magnet of flesh.

"You're an odd one," she said. She reached
and took his hand. "Strong hand." she said. She
felt his forearm. "You are strong! Must work out a
lot.

He pulled her to him. Her lips fitted to his so
tightly their teeth clicked. He savored the feeling
of it, his excitement at the female touch, the
scents of her beneath her strong perfume. He
had no trouble figuring out what to do now.

She cried out as he tore away her skirt, but
not in fear. He pulled her to him. the intensity of
their mutual lust dazzling them both.

And, gradually, his other passion emerged.
His lips came to her neck. licking, tasting. He bit
gently, then harder—the first hint of blood.

"Hey..."

But it was her last word.

58

•'^ It was one of those days when it seems the world
5 Is bathed in tenderness. The May sun rose behind
^ a thin layer of gauzy cloud. The soft wind gusted
'-X.  in warm currents full of the smell of early clover
' ".r, over the broad sloping hillside where Di walked,

A lay, rolled, sat and contemplated the muted

s wonders of being young and very much alive on
' ^ such a perfect May day.

^ i'     She was In between moods. At ten years old,

: she still hated school, and the fact that it was a
, r;/ Saturday was tn itself cause for ecstasy. She'd

J brought her bow and arrows with her—her
^ mother said that it was a "militaristic toy" but

then. Mom was just an old hippie. What did she
^   know I

Di had taken up the bow and arrow partly
. iy because her dad had been a competition archer
i %, before marrying an old hippie. T>i had found that




sK."
X                      41

ct ?'-*' .

Jeffrey Goddtn

she loved archery and was already very good,
while not taking tt very seriously. Her mother still
raged when she went out with the bow without
her father, but Di was a very. very careful girl.
She always shot in big open fields where there
was no chance of hitting a person or a window.

Today, however, she had brought nothing to
shoot at. She'd also nearly forgotten to have
breakfast, so dreamy was her mood. Like many a
child alone at home with two adults, she often
talked to herself for company, and now. as she
bounced along, she was whispering "spacey,
spacey. spacey DI." as a kind of litany to the
dandelion she'd plucked for contemplation.

She missed her big sister, who was definitely
adult at 25, but then. Lara had left home about
the time Di was only four years old. If Lara hadn't
come home so often on weekends, Dl wouldn't
have gotten to know her at all.

She considered, with prepubescent pro-
foundlty^ whether Mom and Dad had had her
because they knew the house would be pretty
empty without Lara. Probably, that was it.

So, musing, she found her way through the
thin stretch of trees behind their house, across
the edge of the golf course and over a grassy
hilltop to where a broad fallow field sloped down
over a little green valley.

May, May, May! In spite of the bow, she felt
rather girlish and romantic on this glorious
morning. The sun warmed her skin, and she
inhaled the aroma of grass and clover and
imagined Tom Selleck strolling along beside her.
She liked his little moustache, but what would
they do? Somersaults? Handstands? The details

42

BLOOD OF THE WOLF




of idyllic romance were stil! a bit vague. In spite
of the efforts of her more worldly classmates to
educate her In detail.

She wandered over the hillside and down the
slope, until she was above the large L-shaped
building that stood In a kind of small park below
and in front of her.

It was a big white place, formed of limestone
block in that era of the 1950s when stone was an
economical building material. It was somewhat
between a hospital and a high school In form,
with a smooth white side of three rows of
windows facing the now steeply sloping hillside.

Di plumped down on the grass and examined
the building. She knew what it was, of course. It
was a loony bin, and the people inside were all
loonies.

She sat, watching, and gradually her
attention was drawn to one of the windows on
the third floor, 500 yards away, but almost on a
level with her due to the slope of the hillside.

Why her eyes sought out this particular
window she couldn't have said, but very soon the
curtains were drawn back, and she saw a man
staring out of the window. He seemed to look all
around, and then he saw her.

She stretched out on the hillside, the mild
breeze blowing her hair, watching the man watch
her. Although this was a loony bin. and all the
people inside were nuts, she was curious. The
man was making gestures at her. Well. nothing
so odd about that. Loonies made gestures all the
time in the movies. She made gestures back. She
wished that she could see him more clearly. She
thought she saw him smile.

45

Jeffrey GocSdin

Then he disappeared from the window. She
lay back in the grass, daydreaming. Maybe he
was handsome. That would be romantic—falling
in love with a handsome nut!

Di sighed, gathered up her bow and arrows,
and began the most roundabout way she could
imagine to find her path home.

He had been watching the Vietnamese boat
people all afternoon, crouched behind the
broken windows of an abandoned warehouse.
They were fishing from the shore in the muddy
waters of the broad Ohio and spreading their
catch out on a wooden platform, through which
the blood and juices of the fish dripped down
into collecting pans beneath. From this they
would make dim sum. a kind of pasty soup. This
much he had gathered from the stray thoughts
that had drifted his way.

The tight was fading to blue dusk. the time
when he felt his powers at their strongest. He was
watching one girt, who fished a bit away from the
rest and kept her catch away from the communal
racks.

She seemed a bit of an outcast from the
others. This made him like her in a strange kind
of way.

He thought that she might stay longer than
the others, and he was right. When dusk came,
she lit an old Coleman lantern, adjusted the
flaring wick, and hooded it so that the light was
cast out on the water to attract fish. An hour. two
hours, three passed.

Might came, cloudless and clear, along with
the lights of Indiana across the river, now and

44

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

then the lights of a boat passed, far out in the
middle of the current. Even in this human form,
his senses were amplified, and he thrilled to the
sounds and the myriad pulses of the city around
him. By a thousand minute internal calculations,
he knew it was time to act.

The long shadow extended itself from the
ruined building and felt the cool breeze on his
body through the thin clothing. Scenting the
girl's warm body amidst the river smells of water
and decay, he looked up and down the riverbank.
There were a few people within the mile or two of
his perceptions. He sensed the quiet mood he'd
come to associate with the fishermen, the more
heightened mood of the young. Mo, it was
probably safe, but.. .

Throughout the day, he'd been examining
the minds of the humans in the vicinity, teaching
himself to use his psychic sight—a matter of
images—and to correlate this with human words
when possible. The images would tell him much
of basic needs and drives.

Now he sent his mind out to the girl, a call
primitive, blended of several emotions—a call of
desire.

He sensed the woman's sudden alertness,
her interest.

He made the call again, reaching further for
recesses of emotion that even she was not con-
sciously aware of. Me sensed her reaction, the
Increase in her heart rate, the congestion of
veins and arteries at the center of her body. And
there was a subtle change in her scent.




She stood abruptly, propping her pole on a
stone. She began to walk toward him, her body

45

Jeffrey Qoddin

oddly rigid, her large eyes bright, her mouth
open, breathing deeply.

He played with his sense of time, making it
seem as if she moved incredibly slowly through a
period of minutes or hours.

Stop time.

Leaping from the shadows, he began the
change.

She started to scream, but even then he was
bearing her down to the ground, as the form of
the beast materialized. His teeth met in the
delicate flesh of her throat, and he felt the soft
body go limp beneath him.

He dragged the body further into the
shadows and began to feast.

So engrossed had he been in his kill that he
failed to notice the human until the man was but
a few yards away, peering through a window. He
knew that the puny human eyes could see little
in the dark interior of the front office In the old
factory, but a great rage siezed him—a rage at
himself, at his carelessness.

He allowed himself to shift into human form
but did not put on his clothing. The human form
was still streaked with blood. He had no fear of
this man. There was no smell of weapons about
him, such as the guards at the zoo had carried
and which he had intuited were dangerous. But
there was another smell about the man—yes, the
thing that he and the girl had inhaled.

This scent caused him to become curious, to
want to examine this man more closely before he
tore him to pieces.

Casually, he walked out into the night
through the broken doorway.

46

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

The man leaped back. There was enough
light from the starry sky to see that this young
man was naked, that his body was streaked with
something dark and glistening. The cub had
enough blood on him for even the other's dull
human senses to detect the smell.

The cub was poised, ready to spring and
confident of the kill even in human form.

Suddenly the stranger laughed.

"Hey, man. I'm Sid. Who're you?"

Faster than thought, the young man had his
hand around the stranger's throat and was hold-
ing him at the tips of his toes.

Choking, the other gasped out, "Hey, I like
you. 1 don't wanta bother you. I like youl"

The cub put Sid down, aware of the
impression he must make and that Sid's mind
was different from that of most of the other
humans he'd encountered.

The man had similar traits to his own in his
own human way.

Cautiously and experimentally, the cub
formed words from the vocabulary he'd already
amassed from just listening to the stupid
humans.

"Wan ... to see?"

The words sounded odd to his ears, but
apparently Freddie understood.

"See what?"

The youth read his mind—his suspicion.

"See . .. kill."




Sid looked confused.

"Huh?"

"See . . . bodyl" And the cub smiled, on the
edge of tearing this weak human to pieces,

47

Jeffrey Ooddtn

waiting to see what it would do.

Sid laughed gleefully.

"See a body? Sure, I'd love iti"

And, mentally, Sid was already thinking
about what kind of member this weird kid would
make. He was strong as hell, and they could use
a real weirdo, if his hunch was right.

The cub led Sid into the darkness of the shed
and showed him that his hunch had, indeed,
been very much correct.

Lara stared moodily at the young man on the
couch beside her and absently ran a hand
through her long brown hair. The effect was
soothing. She took a puff from the second roach,
and realized it was too much, the Jamaican on
top of the bourbon. She was entering that time-
stop phase, where you could stare at the clock
for 15 minutes, waiting for the second hand to
come around.

The second floor apartment was light and
airy. The curtains billowed in a pre-storm breeze
that had come up the plain from the lakes—Cum-
berland and Barkley, the jewels of Western
Kentucky.

She looked across the room to the far wall
and the two black chalk drawings by a mental
patient, now being treated by a friend of hers.
Dark, narrow faces with frozen eyes peered back
at her from the drawings. She had felt the power
of them often before. Now, stoned, they seemed
positively menacing.

She tried to concentrate on what the young
man was saying. He, like she, was basically an
outsider in this heavily fundamentalist area with

48

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

24 hour prayer stations on TV, where you could
come and testify to your sins and your salvation.

Jim was taking business courses at a nearby
university. Lara was a social psychologist on
assignment to one of the local agencies. They
both regarded it as merely a stopping place on
the way to better things.

And the trip to Cvansville to see a movie, and
to actually have been able to sit down and have a
drink openly again, had been fun. She hadn't gone
out with anybody for a long time. It had felt like
dating, true, but it was good to get out.

And, he was attractive—tall, blonde, a
member of the college track team, tanned from
outings on the lakes in the family boat.

The grass made him even more attractive.
She knew he wanted to sleep with her—and well,
why not? It had been a very, very long time—or
so it seemed.

If only he'd just shut up for a little whilel

"You've got to have a feel for Japanese
culture to deal with the Japanese. They just don't
think like we do. The males have all these hang-
ups  about  machismo,  and  this  weird
religion ..."

The movie they'd been to had been set In
Chinatown— Year of the Dragon, with sexy Mickey
Rourke, no less. That, she realized with stoned
logic, must be what's set him off on this
simplistic oriental trip.

"I once studied Japanese calligraphy," she
interjected. "Some people think that by studying
the representative arts of a people, you get
closer to what they're all about."

And what had made her say something that

49

Jeffrey Goddin

banal? The grass. It had to be the grass.

"Calligraphy . .. that's a kind of writing,
isn't it?"

"A plus. my dear."

She smiled at him as he lay back against the
corner of the beige couch, his blue shirt half
open, the bourbon and ice cubes clinking in his
glass. She felt the faint stirrings of a pleasant,
low-key lust. She was even crunching her ice
icubes. She'd like to open his shirt the rest of the
way. He seemed to have a hairy chest, and she
liked hairy chests.

If only he'd shut his mouth!

Suddenly, something else came into her
mind. She recognized the feeling before the
thought. She was going to see something on that
inner screen that was sometimes a pleasure, so
often a curse.

A scene began to superimpose itself over her
actual vision. A night scene. A wolf—or was it a
wolf?—was running through a zoo. It was night.
and the zoo was closed.

A man appeared in the wolf's path, and it
attacked him. It killed him, quickly and horribly.

She jumped slightly, not even hearing
Brian's "Is there something wrong?"

The wolf ripped out the man's throat. She
vividly smelted the sharp gush of arterial blood.

The scene shifted. She was watching a man
pacing a small room. He was a good-looking, tall,
red-haired man. He was very thin, nervous and
unhappy. He paced the room as if it were a cell.
And was it?

Then, for an instant, she saw her sister, Di,
looking out of a window into the night. There was

50

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

something under her window. Neither Di, nor
Lara in her vision, could see what was crouching
in the night, outside the simple suburban home.
But Lara knew that it was something awful.

She sat up with a jerk, knocking her drink off
of the arm of the couch at her side. She looked at
Brian, her eyes wide and unfocused.

He slid closer to her.

"Hey, is something wrong? A little of the old
dynamite grass paranoia, maybe?"

He put his arm around her and kissed her.
gently.

"Hey, it's all right. Good dope affects people
funny sometimes."

He kissed her again, a long kiss, his tongue
in her mouth. Already his hand was on her side,
moving up toward her breast.

Her mind was clear as crystal. Here she was,
like some dumb undergrad, getting groped
before being laid by some stupid business-dude-
of-the-future.

She gently pulled back.

"Sorry, I guess I'm more tired than I thought.
It's probably time I got some sleep."

He looked into her eyes and misread her
meaning.

"Sounds good to me. Shall I bring the
bourbon?"

She shook her head.

"I really need to sleep. Alone."

"Then we'll make love first."

The confidence in his voice set her off. She
stood up from the couch.

"Look, I'm serious. It's been a fun evening,
but you've got to go now."

51

Jeffrey Ooddin

He made a clumsy grab for her, but she
picked up the lamp from the side table and
nodded at the door.

He almost tested her, but then, his type
never had any balls. With a few comments on her
pedigree and resemblance to other female
animal forms, he stormed out to his BMW.

She stood there in the middle of the room,
holding the lamp, and suddenly began to laugh-
She laughed so hard she collapsed on the couch.
Here I am, acting like a startled virgini

She shook her head, walked to the door and
locked it, then set the chain. She took the bottle
of McKenna and a glass of fresh ice cubes and
went to the bedroom.

She recalled that brief, psychic video—the
kilting, the man in the narrow room, Di. Recalling
the images made her shiver. Her psychic trips
were sometimes accurate, sometimes not. Which
was this?

Regardless, it was disturbing.
' She really felt wasted. She took a short sip of
the aged bourbon, then turned off the light. She
reached across the bed to the powerful receiver
and switched on a distant Jazz station, turning
the volume very low. Then she sipped the
bourbon until a kind of blankness returned to
her emotions, that "cool blue light," as she liked
to call it.

But, through the night, the images kept
replaying themselves in her dreams. The wolf,
the imprisoned man. Di. Wolf, man, Di. . .

Four men sat playing cards in the broad,
shadowy room of the old storage warehouse. The

52

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

place had a faint smell of mineral oil and lumber
and a touch of the river smell, for the restless
Oho flowed by not too far away. A few scattered
ceiling fluorescents cast a dim illumination in
the huge room, and a lower track fluorescent just
above the table made a brittle pool of white light.

The men were an oddly mixed crew. All were
young, none quite 50, but they obviously came
from different walks of life. One was thin and
small, with thick dark hair and bright dark eyes,
wearing a soiled black T-shirt and jeans.

Another was fat, with short, receding hair
and small piggy eyes. He was clean-shaven and
chain-smoked Camels in a silvery filtered holder.
Beside him sat a massive fellow, darkly tanned,
with the muscles of heavy labor bulging from his
white armless undershirt. The fourth man was
tall and slim, conspiciously neat by contrast with
the others, wearing gray designer slacks over
Bass sandals and an Izod T-shirt.

In the center of the table were a fifth of
bourbon, two heavy clear glass ashtrays, and a
green jade tortoise box piled high with marijuana
joints. Beside the tortoise was an antique pewter
snuffbox filled with white powder, from which
the small thin man and the neatly dressed man
periodically inhaled through soda straws.

A ghetto blaster sitting on an adjacent table
played old Black Sabbath tapes, turned on low.
The blaster wasn't loud enough to cover the
sound of the sliding door, opening in the
shadows to the rear of the room.

The men at the table seemed to take little
notice. The big, tanned man calmly took a .557
magnum revolver from a shoulder holster and




55

Jeffrey Goddtn

half-turned to face the shadows, his eyes
narrowing. He still appeared to be concentrating
on his cards.

"Call,"- he said, in a rasping, high-pitched
voice, oddly unsuited to his bulk.

The sliding door closed with a muffled
"clang."

Two figures walked slowly into the light.

The first was very slender, with a small
goatee and prematurely receding hair worn low
on his neck. The second was tall and wiry, with a
weird mop of black hair and golden eyes, wearing
a shirt that was too small and pants that were
too long for him.

The big man with the .557 turned slowly to
the newcomers.

"Hi, Sid." he said. "Who's your buddy?"

Sid shuffled forward, an odd gleam in his
eyes.

"This here's Cub. He wants to join up with
us."

"Cub?" The man with the magnum grinned.
"Hey, little Cubby, come over and let me have a
look at you."

Cub examined the big man, then let his eyes
travel over each of the others in turn. He was
intrigued. He sensed something about them, as
he had with Sid, that was slightly different from
the normal run of humans. It had to do with
violence, with enjoying it—particularly from the
small dark one he had this feeling. He thought
that he might have good use of these people.

He walked slowly forward until he stood
quite close to the big man. He was aware of Sid
hurrying up beside him.

54

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Listen, Larry," Sid began. "Cub ... I think
he speaks some foreign language or something.
like, he's a Wop, maybe. He just doesn't know
English too well yet. But you gotta hear what he
did-"

"Shut up," said the big man. Cub sensed the
animosity between the two. He also sensed that
the others feared the man called Larry. Cub had a
natural archetype of The Pack, illuminated
slightly by things he'd seen at the zoo. And he
felt his instincts rising to the surface, even as he
struggled to keep a mental monitor on them.

"Little Cubby," said Larry, "speak to us. You
tell us about yourself. I don't buy this bullshit
about not speaking English. I don't buy it at all.
Mow speak!"

Cub smiled, feeling the vectors of the man's
strength.

"Can talk god," said Cub.

"That means he can't talk good," said Sid,
"but listen Larry—"

"I told you to shut up," snarled the big man,
slamming the barrel of the magnum into the side
ofSld's face. Sid dropped to his knees, moaning.

"You hit. . ." began Cub.

The gun swung back.

"Damned right I did. And I'll beat the living
shit outa you if you don't.. ."

The man's attitude was clear. Cub was
certain that the pack archetype held here. He
tried to remember a word he'd heard once or
twice at the zoo.




He remembered.

"Asshole," he said.

Larry snarled. The gun came up. Cub caught

55

Jeffrey Ooddin

he gun hand and slammed it down, his grip
forcing Larry to drop the magnum. His opponent
swung left-handed, hitting Cub on the jaw. The
blow staggered him, but he didn't fall. Cub
snarled, grasped Larry's neck in both hands and
squeezed.

Larry had time for one choking cry before his
neck snapped.

Cub let the body fall to the ground, then
helped Sid to his feet. Me propped Sid up and
smiled. He looked around at the other men,
sitting very, very still. His smile was beautiful,
unsettling. The others felt its power.

Cub picked up the magnum and stuck it in
Sid's belt.

"Mow," he said. "Piew . . . new b . . . boss!"

Sid looked at Cub in amazement. Then he
looked at the others, who sat frozen in their
seats. He smiled too, mind moving very quickly.

"Pfot a bad idea," he said. patting Cub on the
back. "And now let me tell you about this guy ..."

Sergeant Peter Qallen cruised along through
the leafy lanes of Cave Hill Cemetery, idly'
thinking of a cup of coffee, of where he could go
to have some real breakfast to vary the usual
fast food, egg-sausage-ham-mystery-meat-on-a-
bun fare.

It had been a relatively quiet night. He was
on the Drunken Driving patrol, and they didn't
pull too many people away from it for other
investigations. He'd stopped a dozen people,
ticketed six of them and had one hauled down-
town. He'd had two breaking-and-entering duty
calls on Bardstown Road, both of which had been
routine—kids, most likely. A quiet night.

56

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

And now the night was at the stage where the
darkness got slightly luminous before the pale-
ness would begin to seep up from the horizon.
The air was heavy and silent, a premature
summer. A few birds were beginning to call in the
trees.

He'd pulled into the cemetery mainly to
break the routine. Occasionally there was
trouble here, but not at this time of night. He Just
wanted to be off of the street for a little while.

He'd come in the Parkway side and taken the
drive around to the right. Mow he angled around to
make a full circle, passed the neat plots of the
graves themselves, and started down another
leafy alley. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a
gleam of white and pulled up a side drive.

He had an odd hunch, that sixth cop-sense
that sometimes came into play. normally he
would have ignored the car—necking kids
weren't his job. But, this time,'he pulled the big
Ford up the lane beside the small white car.

A Vette, he noticed, one of the hot early 70s
models. The top was down. and a girl with long
blonde hair lay face down, slumped across the
console, shapely tanned back bare as bare could
be against the shiny red upholstery.

He stopped. Passed out, most likely. He
stepped from the car into the slightly cool
morning air.

"Hey." he called softly. He leaned into the
car, admiring the girl's slender back, the hint of
a flattened breast at her side. Would she sit up
suddenly if he yelled? He smiled at the childish
thought.




"Heyl" he called, taking her shoulder. Her
skin was very, very cold. He shined the flash over

57

Jeffrey Ooddtn

her back to her head, which turned half way

toward him as he shook her.

Me saw why the seats were so shiny.
Gagging- he backed away and ran to his car

to call it in.

58

The tall, black-haired young man frowned over
the custom modum that linked him to the
massive mainframe, punching in the codes of his
last set ot instructions. He had been up for 24
hours on a run of coffee and nervous energy and
felt that he'd just about reached his limit. The
room seemed too bright, his pulse was pounding
from the coffee, and It was damned cold. Why did
they have to keep the blasted machines so cold?

But he was almost done; the program was
almost in.

Any of his colleagues who really knew what
Karl Stegern was researching would have said
that he was crazy. It was a project with virtually
no theoretical hope of success.

But Karl had gone from child prodigy to
genius—UCLA in microbiology at 15, Frinceton
In computer science at 18, Harvard and Indiana

61

Jeffrey Ooddtn

University in genetics in his early 20s.

He ostensibly was now completing research
at Indiana University that would lead to a
definite predictive tool for the chromosomal
variations of human inbreeding. This, in itself,
was a monumental task. Karl had all but finished
it when he applied for the national Endowment
grant.

Plow he stood back from the terminal that
connected him to the huge "brain" and watched
a series that seemed to unroll endlessly on the
green-lit screen. It was a series that no sane man
would have attempted to put together—a
matching oT phenotypes of dubious historical
record with chromosomal types, including
family line information which was partly a
matter of historical account, partly a matter of
Salt Lake city Morman records, partly a result of
Karl s own research.

It was mad.

But the program was running.

As he watched the incredibly intricate
patterns flicker over display. Karl mentally listed
the prime, original factors that had led him to his
research:

A. Personal experience from puberty onward.

B. A man named Lewis Verfallen, Ca.
1660-1692.

C. A woman named Adrienne Paduri, born
2/22/57, died 10/21/78.

Factors "A" and "C" he didn't want to think
about at the moment, though he knew that he'd
have to acknowledge them before long.

Factor "B" he could think about.

It had been one luminous fall day in the

62

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

UCLA library, when he'd run across modern
transcripts of testing at the Salem Witch Trials.
most of which had duplicated familiar stuff from
his own childhood readings In the occult. But
he'd come upon a reference in ephemeral
material that he didn't recall from the popular
accounts.

That had been Hew England's darkest
fall—October, 1692, less than a month after
eight "witches" had been hanged by the good
people of the village. The bit of testimony that
caught Stegern's eye had been relative to one
Lewe Vervall, cobbler, who one of the young girl
witnesses had seen "transfforme hisself into a
wolfe by nighte."

That had been all. There had been no
mention of the man In the trials themselves—in-
deed, no mention in the existing census.

The name stood out like a crimson flag to
young Stegern because of the possible link to the
name Werfell. which occured in his own family
tree. Me was just tapping the well of systematic
multlfactor research, and he couldn't resist the
challenge. And there was the memory of a
girl . . .

Karl's family had money, and he was a star
scholar. They had financed the Jaunt to Salem,
Cambridge, and Boston that he'd used to gather
ephemeral material on Salem at the end of the
17th Century.

The result? Two receipts—a bill of lading and
the baptism of a child. Mans Werfell.

The next year, having learned German in the
meantime, Karl extended his search to Germany.
Here, It was much harder. Immigrant records? In

65

Jeffrey Ooddin

1692? You've been smoking what?

But one of the residents of Salem had been
born In Kiel. Could this Vervall, or Werfell, have
also been from that northern coastal city?

In Kiel and neighboring towns Karl had gone
over church records. In a small community 50
kilometers from Kiel, he had found the record of
the birth of one Lewis Verfallen on October 27,
1620. There was record of the birth of a son, but
part of the account was missing—either the man
of Salem, or his son.

The next step?

There hadn't been time.

But Karl thought he had a rough hypothesis.
Verfallen had existed, and had probably changed
his name to Werfell. Why? Flo substantive data.

But the Werfells had descendants in America
with a variety of names.

They were on disc, as, after October 2nd,
1978, were the descendants of several other
lines, including Karl's own.

The program was running.

Me couldn't stop the memories—not now,
when he was so close to some kind of result. His
mind ran back to the girl he'd known that last
year at UCLA. Mo, begin at the real beginning.

He'd just entered puberty—a shade early, at
ten, that night in the sleepy Iowa college town
where his father taught. The ten year-old Karl
spent many nights alone, reading late or setting
up games on his father's computer in the base-
ment of the 1920s two-story house.

As he recalled It. he'd been picking Ills way
through Sartre's nausea and rinding echoes of

64

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

his own youthful alienation in the writings of the
elegant existentialist.

But he was also coming into adolescence,
and his body disturbed him. He'd read about
puberty, of course—even knew. in a theoretical
way, much about human sexuality.

But the actual changes, the release of new
hormones Into his system, disturbed him, the
more so as his ultrasensitive mind was highly
vulnerable to physical changes.

It seemed he could almost feel the hormones
circulating In his system on this hot July night.
He felt as if there were energies surging through
his being of which he had no concept, and that
cried out for action—running, jumping, diving,
anything.

Karl had already, even at ten, had an intro-
duction to yoga, of which his philosophy
instructor father was an adept. Mow he sat on the
bed, assumed the full lotus and tried prana
breathing to loosen his muscles and calm his
mind. First through the rignt nostril. Evenly In,
evenly out. Left, right, left ...

It was no use. The sounds from the swampy
ground and the scent of the river beyond were
maddening as drugs. He suddenly leapt from the
bed and took the direct route through his
window, out into the night.

The night was buzzing around him like a
living creature. The stars were brittle points that
sent fiery beams of energy into his brain, the
rising and falling hum of the cicada weirdly in
control of his pulse.

His orderly mind began to crumble, and he
'began to run. He ran and ran through the night,

65

Jeffrey Ooddin

across fields and swamps, breathing In a
thousand sensory impulses. Suddenly, as if
coming out of a daze, he found himself looKing
at the lights of the first suburb at the edge of
town.

The sight of it brought bacK a hint of sanity.
Behind the walls of those uniform ranch houses,
people would be gathered around the tube,
talking, eating, playing.

Just like normal people.

He hitched a ride In the bacK of a pickup that
was going in the other direction. He jumped out
at his house and slipped through his window un-
noticed. Once in his room, he felt like he'd had a
spell of madness or fever. He collapsed on the
bed in his clothes and was instantly asleep.

Ofher nights the same madness reoccured.
He grew even thinner than before. Mis parents
were worried. And by day he began to study yoga
more seriously. He thought, with adolescent
terror, that he might be going mad. There
seemed to be another person inside him—almost
a beasttike kind of presence. He checked books
on werewolves out from the University library
and books on those poor souls who'd merely
believed themselves werewolves. The books gave
him a kind of oblique answer theoretically.

He found that the feelings cycled but not, as
in tradition, with the full moon. They cycled
rather around the balance between his rational
mind and his emotions. As long as he kept
himself involved with highly analytical tasks, he
kept the feelings at bay. But if he allowed his
senses to move with the rhythm of rock music, if
he allowed his imagination to linger on the

66

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

highly theoretical possibilities of the gently
curved, red-haired girl who was lifeguard at the
local pool, then the feelings came back—some-
times gradually, sometimes all at once, some-
times only in a dream, which became a gruesome
nightmare.

The girl, particularly, was disturbing. One
day he and some friends went to the pool. and
she came and sat with them on the cool concrete
by the water, teasing the younger boys. He
watched her, laughing, giving a gentle shove. He
became filled with the sensual presence of her,
the sweet skin and suntan oil scent of her. His
eyes became tactile, roving her downy, coppery
flesh and the upper curve of her breasts. His eyes
became organs of touch.

She seemed suddenly to become aware of
how intently he was watching her. She lightly
stroked his shoulder, laughing, and he felt a
weird dizziness. He reached to touch her—and
fainted.

Sunstroke, they thought. He was in a daze as
they drove him home. His parents wanted to call
a doctor, but he convinced them that he was all
right. He lazed through the evening, watching TV
and playing with the computer, and went to bed
early.

That night. It came.

He'd been dreaming of the girl at the pool,
only it was dark, and they were alone. And when
she reached to stroke his arm, he grabbed her,
filled with the female scent of her, and bit deeply
into the white/bronze flesh of her shoulder. And
kept biting. And she screamed, and the oversoul
part of him was revulsed and tried to thrust him

67

Jeffrey Ooddin

through the layers of sleep into awareness.

But it was blocked/ as if by some weird
dangerous undersea creature holding a helpless
diver, a creature that was itself struggling to
emerge and become stronger.

The parts of his being clenched, even as he
managed to open his eyes to see the moonlit
room brightening, paling, darkening, flashing
into weird brightness again. Mis body—what was
happening to his body!?

Fain, a weird pleasure-pain, flooded his
nervous system. Me felt his limbs distending, felt
his mouth trying to twist out of shape, to
elongate. Mis teeth were thrusting from his

gums, and his backbone crackling with the effort
to realign.

And somewhere in his rapidly disintegrating
memory he caught the image of the books he'd
read on lycanthropy. His mind split completely.
the remembering, rational part fought for stasis.
The other part, this being that both was and
wasn't Karl Stegern, fought to complete the
change—yet he knew that he had to fight it! Me
had to bring it under control now, or it would
become a part of him he couldn't, or wouldn't,
want to control ever, ever again.

And, like a swimmer grabbing for a distant
rope, he leapt for a yoga concept—not the
benign Hatha yoga he so often practiced, but the
mysterious Kundalini, which he'd studied with
dread and fascination—the yoga of the
magician, of sex and power, of the adepts. It was
the one discipline he knew that could throw the
most fiery emotions into system. And he must
have system—he had to have system 1

68

BLOOD OF TME WOLF

Me was crying, laughing, snarling, a youth
struggling with forces that had mastered a
portion of humanity since its earliest, near
mythical days. But, perhaps because of his
youth, his desperation, he threw the entirely of
his body and soul into the effort.

The body is vertically lined with chakras .. .

... to become fleet, deadly, unstoppable!

The chakras are aligned in the center of the
body. beginning at the base of the spine .. .

. . . which is already growing a tail, to
balance me as I run.

The will may enter the senses through the
chakras . . .

... (o rape, to kill, to feel her sweet salt blood
on my Ups

Begin at the base of the spine.

Me gathered all of his splintered conscious-
ness and projected Into the initial chakra,
holding to the mental image of a hot blue light,
the image focus of that spot at the twitching end
of his backbone.

Me felt a sense of motion, dizziness, nausea,
a terrific heat.

Exist herel Center here!

Suddenly he had it. Mis will held the basal
point—his entirely human will. Me imagined the
blue fire filling it and tinting his thought,
thought and emotion blended with one intent.
He cried out, as the black pull tried to displace
him, a thousand hands tugging at his mind,
trying to jerk him away. Me held to that one
gleaming point like a falling child.

Upward, along the spine.

Me centered his will and forced the blue

69

Jeffrey Goddin

Hame upwards, toward where he knew another
point to be. It was like trying to drive a stake
through some kind of barely yielding, rubbery
substance with all the frustration of wasted
effort. The dark other was focused now, deter-
mined. He screamed inside, and pushed and
pushed.

He found it and felt his will seem to expand.
That sense of light, warming his body, eased the
manifold anguish with the pleasant burning of
an inner fire.

He was drenched in sweat. The upper part of
his body seemed detached in darkness. He tried
to force the energy through his spine but met
renewed resistance—cold, stifling, terrifyingly
impartial.

It could well be impartial. It had existed
forever.

You shall not have me!

His psychic scream drove the blue flame all
the way to his brain.

His body jerked as if attached to a live
current, and he had an intense orgasm. The
cloudy half-images of his room suddenly flared
into a hologrammatic razor-edged tableau in
blue, the blue of a heaven seared by the heart of
immortal flame.

It too much, and he flared into darkness.

He might have died then, from the systemic
backlash of his struggle, but he was young and
stronger than he realized. The next day he had
fever. He was bedridden for two days, but in the
absence of direct stimulus, like the girl at the
pool, the darkness stayed dormant. He was
happy to be alive, and he did a lot of thinking

70

BLOOD OF THE WOLF




about just why he was alive.

That had been the beginning. He'd dared tell
no one. not even his father, but he learned to
predict the coming of that dark part of him and
became confident of his power to control it.
Once, he even allowed a partial transformation
before he took his body back again.

And he wondered, sometimes, how it was
that he was able to control it, while the poor
human werewolves of legend seemed wholly at
the mercy of their affliction.

As a youth, he was vain enough to fancy that
it was his superior mental discipline that enabled
him this control. It wasn't until several years
later that he discovered the truth.

Adrienne Paduri had been'a tragic, crucial
part of that truth.

Karl had been very much frightened of love,
partly because the physical emotions that came
with it were the most direct stumulus to that
dark side of him. After a backseat petting
experience in is last year of nigh school that had
left a pretty girl very much confused and Karl a
nervous wreck, he'd permanently shelved the
matter.

Or so he'd thought, until he met Adrienne
Faduri.

It had been one of those late night sessions
at the vast computer lab at UCLA Qenetics. It was
the hour when all but those specially authorized
had to leave, and he'd looked up from the end of
an inconclusive program and seen her, standing
at a modum barely five yards away.

He seemed to take in the entirety of her in a

71

Jeffrey Goddin

millisecond—her height, almost equal to his, her
pale olive skin on slender arms and legs, her
high-cheekboned face from which two wide eyes
of the palest grey looked into his.

And it was like in a novel as their eyes met—a
tremor shook both simultaneously.

He didn't know how long he stared. She
looked uneasy, and something more, as if an odd
part of her had responded to him. But she stood
her ground and smiled as he approached and
began to talk of the intricacies of multifactor
genetic research that they both loved so much.

Their friendship began with coffee, then
progressed to dinner and movies. They both had
an odd taste for scientists, and they loved the
weird horror movies—The Fog, rfailowe'en, ttight
of the Living Dead, Curse of the Vampire, The fall
of the House of Usher, and the like. They took to
going out regularly to whatever new movie by
John Carpenter or Oeorge Romero happened to
be in town.

But the friendship always ended at the
doorstep of her apartment. Crazily, dreading
what might happen as much as he'd grown to
desire her, he'd take her in his arms in the
parking lot and feel the initial warmth of her, the
touch of her high breasts against his chest, her
incredibly soft lips meeting his, opening and the
tip of her tongue poking out.

And then would come the closing off, the dis-
tance, as if she'd suddenly pulled 1000 miles off.
Once, she even thrust him away and ran up the
steps, slamming the door behind her. She never
invited him into her apartment.

But, each time they saw each other, it would

72

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

. begin again.

She came to haunt his dreams. He'd learned
of her past. The name that some took for
Italian— Faduri— was actually Romanian. Her
father was of an ancient feudal line, a des-
cendant of which had settled in Chicago four
generations before. There had been money and
mystery about the family. Several members of
the line had committed suicide, others taken to
drugs. One had been linked to the Mafia. Another
had become somewhat well-known actor under
another name.

It was a weirdly romantic background, and it
did nothing to lessen his fascination. He did a
computer run of her family tree one night and
was amazed to find that they had a common
ancestor—the same Paduri who was her great-
great-grandfather had had a brother who had
been the father of one of Rarl's great-great-
uncles on his mother's side.

The discovery was uncanny. In all the
random combinations of genetic Joinings it was
an incredible coincidence. The discovery had
filled him with a vague tremor, almost like a
dimension of love. He had to do something, and
the thought that it was the irrational, emotional
side of himself that was pushing him only
spurred him on.

Me looked at his watch — 9:00 on a Satur-
day night. Adrienne never went out with any-
one but him (odd, now that he thought of it)
and she wasn't in the lab. Therefore she would be
at home.

He drove to a liquor store and used a false
I.D. to buy a fifth of Bombay gin and a liter of

75

Jeffrey Qoddfn

tonic. Then he went to her apartment.

As he approached the courtyard of the
university-style apartment complex, he had a
single twinge of panic. What if she simply shut
the door in his face?

Well, it wouldn't be that out of character, but
with the kind of news he had. he had to try. He
parked the old Porche and quickly ran up the
steps to her door.

She answered on the first ring, as if she'd
been expecting him.

He was momentarily stunned.
She was wearing a black silk robe, trimmed
with a dark burgundy and cut low at the neck,
that came midway down her slender thighs. Her
pale high-cheekboned face was free of makeup,
and her lustrous black hair was combed out in
waves around her shoulders.

She smiled an odd, wry smile, nodding at the
bottle in his hand.

"Looks like you're planning to celebrate."
He couldn't read her tone. He suddenly felt
like an adolescent again. "I... I've discovered
something very strange. We've both the same
ancestor."

Her eyes widened. She looked at him along
moment, then she laughed, an odd, haunted
look coming to her eyes.

"So ... somehow that doesn't really surprise
me. Come on in."

He walked behind her down the thickly
carpeted entry corridor, trying not to look at her
long pale legs. The living room was dimly lit, and
she hit a switch.

For a moment he had to stand and take it all
in.

74

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

The usually bland apartment walls had been
painted a light mauve, with red and black
flocked paper rising halfway up the walls. The
furniture was dark—mahogany and rosewood, a
shade massive for the room—and the carved
writing desk looked as if it came from a medieval
castle.  Recalling  Adrienne's  background,
perhaps It did.

The theme extended to the prints and
paintings in ornate, period frames on the walls.
They were of medieval themes—a castle on a
crag by blue moonlight, a danse macabre in a
midnight forest, what looked like a genuine
Fuselli of macabre creatures performing unholy
rites under a full moon.

He was still standing, admiring the weird
artwork, when Adrienne returned with a silver
bucket of ice, in which she'd placed the bottle of
gin, and two glasses of gin and tonic on a silver
platter that had to be 17th Century. He took one
of the glasses which were musuem quality
crystal. It had to be to fit in with the scene.

"You seem a little shocked by my decor," she
said.

He sipped his drink. Strong. He took a long
swallow and felt the gin buffet his nerves.

"You seemed such a rational creature, in
spite of the horror movies. This is alt so ..."

"Decadent." she finished with a wicked grin.
"It is. It's in my blood. But then, you know all
about my blood, don't you?"

He frowned.

"1 know that we're distant relatives, through
your great-great-grandparents, who raised
brothers from whom we're descended. I know
that your relatives had some strange tragedies,
75

Jeffrey Goddin

but of course you told me that part."

"And we're truly related?" She lifted her
glass and drained it, as he watched in amaze-
ment. She was someone he didn't know tonight,
a streak of recklessness lurking somewhere
quite near her surface.

"Truly," she repeated. "Then you have some
of the blood, too." Her gaze was speculative. Me
met those gray eyes, looking into his now with a
cryptic expression.

"But you seem so sane. though I've had a
feeling, when we're together .. . And when you
kiss me, I wonder ..."

"I didn't know you noticed when 1 kissed
you." He immediately regretted the stupid
remark, but she only laughed. He realized that
his drink was empty. She brought the tonic from
the kitchen and made them both seconds. And,
as she moved, his eyes traveled the length of her
pale thighs and caught the rounded tops of her
breasts above the belted robe.

"I've wondered," she began, as if she'd never
moved, "I've wondered if anyone else had a child-
hood like mine."

He frowned. She was looking at him almost
beseechlngly now, her expression shifting from
one mood to another. She looked slightly mad.

"Did you .. ." She couldn't go on and looked
at her drink. Suddenly she opened her eyes wide,
threw open her mouth and bared her teeth In a
manic grin.

"Did you change?" she snarled.

The glass felt from his hand as he stared into
her face, the leering face of a glorious, damned
beast. And he knew! He knew why they were so
closel

76

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

He turned away from her, took the bottle of
gin from the ice bucket and drank a long swig
from the bottle. Unused as he was to drinking,
the liquor seemed to flash straight to his brain.

When he looked back at her, she had stopped
snarling and had that same weird half-smile
again.

"Yes ... Mo ... Yes. You're talking about
changing, aren't you? Into the wolf shape?"

She nodded, her smile Fixed.

"I ... 1 learned to control it."

"Hal I don't believe you. Control it! Control it
like I did . . . the time 1 scared the hell out of a
boy trying to make love. And the time . . . the
time I did kill a man."

She glared at him, shaking. Her voice had
risen to near hysteria. He felt a sudden over-
whelming kinship with her. He took the glass
from her hands and set it on the table, then drew
her into his arms.

She was crying, leaning against his shoulder,
her tears soaking his shirt. He stroked her hair,
murmured soothing things, but grew excited at
the same time at the sheer sensual presence of
her. Her body seemed to be charged, a brittle
current running beneath her soft flesh. Before he
could stop, he had her face in his hands and was
kissing her, feeling her incredible response, her
hands coming to his neck. his shoulders, his
face.

Her robe fell away. and he kissed her high
breasts and the tight dark nipples. He kissed her
throat and felt her twist against him.

Then. suddenly, she was struggling to pull
away. He held her firmly. Her nails raked his face,
drawing blood, and, somehow, this only excited
77




Jeffrey Ooddin

him further.

"You don't understand," she hissed. "I'll kill
you. I've already killed a man. They would have
had me locked up. We can'tl"

But he only drew her more tightly to him.

"You forget," he said, in a strong clear voice
that he didn't know was his, "I'm one, too."

He was terrified. But she was naked, and he
overwhelmed her by sheer physical force. And
his clothes were gone, and they were fighting one
another on the soft couch, wrestling, kissing,
biting, their bodies twisting, inexorably, toward
that first, sudden, thrusting union.

It came—the blending, a vision exploding
into brilliant lights, a red sky with burning black
stars, blood and fire and two bodies pinned to
one another in the midst of transformation
sweeping the minds and flesh of both.

Bodies smooth and naked. Bodies furry and
massively strong. Human bodies once again
furiously thrusting beneath a black moon of
another world. They were beasts with human
minds and they were humans with the minds of
beasts joined at the sex.

And he held her tightly.

Annihilation.

Emptiness.

Slow return of sound. Sense. Heartbeat. The
slow intake of a breath. The sense of taste,

She lay beneath him, crying, a soft living
presence fused to his being. He couldn't think.
He couldn't from a coherent thought. He looked
at his hand. Human. He smiled and laughed
softly.

She was sleeping, pinned beneath him. Or

78

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

unconscious.

He rolled to the side and drew her close
against him, wrapping her in his arms, his face
buried against her skin.

He slept.

When he awoke, she was gone, the gray light
of dawn coming faintly through drawn curtains.

He went through the day in a daze. She didn't
come to the lab, and he botched his programs
time after time.

He called her that night. He went to her
apartment, but she seemed to be out.

In the papers, the next day, he read of how
she'd driven her car into a stone bluff north of
town. From the impact, she'd been driving at well
over a 100 miles an hour.

He had a nervous breakdown. And, as with all
of the most awful experiences of his life, he lived
it alone.

It all had come too quickly—to find her,
someone like himself, someone he perhaps could
have taught to have the kind of control he knew,
someone with whom he could have shared love
and much more.

In one night she'd shattered the controls of
his existence. In three days of living nightmare,
he restored them.

The shape tried to come. It almost got him in
his apathy the First time, but he drew on the
Kundalini and other occult knowledge he'd
accumulated to put it away, back into its lair.

Then he'd had to restructure his psyche, so
newly opened, to eliminate hope and grief and
the possibility of love.

79

Jeffrey Goddin

On the fourth day, ten pounds lighter, he'd
emerged from his apartment into the gray light
of a rainy September morning, knowing he'd
succeeded.

He'd immediately begun the most complex
experiment of his life into variations of human
genetic inbreeding, and particularly into a set of
recessive genes that he knew that he. himself,
possessed.

Mot long after, he'd stumbled onto the
reference to Verfallen in Salem Village.

And it reminded him of Werfell and of his
own new experiment. It reminded him that
Werfell. a cognate of Verfallen, was one of his
own family names. For he was already halfway to
his conclusion that lycanthrophy was genetic,
that the tangled skein of recombinant DMA and
RHA passed the trait along.

But, from the model he'd derived. It took two
carriers to bring out the gene. Paduri had been
on his mother's side.

Even earlier, there had been a Werfell on his
father's side.

It was far-fetched—science combined with a
local superstition—but he had a weird suspicion
that the two were going to dovetail. As with any
hypothesis, it had to be tested.

Karl snapped out of the fog of memory and
grief and speculation, the incredibly complex
program had run, cross-referenced and traced
everything known or hypothesized about the
tines of Paduri and Werfell. He tore off the final
sheet of paper.

There were four names—four names that

80

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

represented  several  centuries  and  three
countries of data.

1. Karl Stegern

2. Adrienne Paduri
5. Richard Avallone
4. Murray Grant

He took a pencil and slowly crossed off the
first two names. Then he patched into a distant
circuit and programmed the vast search of city
directories and census data that might come up
with a location for the three people he sought.




81




4

Df lay on the hllltop under the cloudless blue sky.
She was nervous with anticipation, and the thick
grass prickled her bare legs. She had become
very curious about the man in the window of the
mental institution, and today she had brought a
small pair of binoculars, as well as her bow.

After perhaps half an hour of twitching and
sneezing with the early pollen, she saw a vague
movement at the window she was watching. She
saw his pale, handsome face looking toward the
hillside. She got to her knees and waved, still
watching through the binoculars. He saw her,
seemed to give a start and then waved back.

She studied him through the binoculars. She
was pleasantly surprised. He was good looking
and had a long face with bushy blonde hair, or
maybe it was red. His eyes were pale, and he had
a little mustache like Errol Flynn In Captain Blood.

^. 85




Jeffrey Goddin

Me disappeared from the window, then came
back. He was hanging a piece of sheet out of the
window. She focused the binoculars and saw
there were words on the sheet.

"Shoot an arrow," in block letters.

Boy, he must have good eyes, to see that she
had a bow at this distance. But she didn't quite
get it. An arrow? Then she understood. A
message! She felt in her pockets an found a
scrap of school paper and a bit of pencil.

She wrote: "I'm Di. Who are you? Are you
nuts? You're kinda cute."

Mow, to get it on the arrow. She didn't have
any string. She looked around the hillside until
she found a little tree, carefully peeled off a strip
of green bark, and used it to tie her message to
the shaft of one of her arrows.

She examined her handiwork. Just to be
safe. she peeled off another strip of bark and tied
that around it, too.

Mow, to get it there.

She peered through the binoculars. He was
still watching. She stood up and motioned him
back from the windows, then she raised her bow
and took careful aim.

It was a long shot, but she'd made longer.
She aimed well above the window to allow for the
drop and released the arrow.

At first, she thought she had missed. The
arrow hit high, fell, balanced on the edge of the
window—and suddenly he leaned out and
grabbed it.

She gave an involuntary cry, then looked
quickly around to see if anyone had seen her. He
waved. She waved. He went back inside his room.

86

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

She suddenly realized that it was time to go
home, but she was excited as she went. What
would happen tomorrow? This was getting to be
fun.

Di was back on the hillside the next morning
before the dew had even evaporated.

She had been reading Dracula, and although
there were a few hard words here and there, she
got the gist of it. There was a man in a mental
Institution in Dracula. too, and he was in some
kind of mind contact with the vampire. She
wondered if this guy could be a vampire. Maybe
that was why he was locked up—he'd sucked
some little girl's blood at midnight.

Monsense, Di, nonsense, as her Daddy would
say.

She looked through the binoculars at his
window. He seemed to have wrapped something
around the bars. She looked more closely. It was
a band of something, that went from one side of
the window to the other.

She understood. He'd made a kind of
slingshot out of something to shoot the arrow
back at her.

Mow he was making sideways motions with his
hands—to get her out of the way because he was
going to shoot. She quickly ran 20 yards to where
the hillside tapered into a narrow red earth
depression and hunched down into the gulley.

A few moments later the arrow came sailing
up from his window in a high arc, just barely
Clearing the fence. She ran down the slope, slung
her bow across her back, and quickly climbed
the broad chain link fence. She picked up the




87

Jeffrey Ooddtn

arrow as, from the corner of her eye, she saw
someone coming toward her from the side of the
building.

The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with
short gray hair beneath a blue uniform cap. As Dt
picked up her arrow, he came up beside her.

His eyes were strange—a brittle yellow-
brown. She didn't think that she liked him.

"Just what do you think you're doing here?"
he asked.

"Just playing," she said. giving what she
hoped was a winning smile.

"Just playing. That arrow came over here.
What if there'd been somebody walking along
here?"

"Oh, it was an accident. A bee stung me, and
I... I wasn't aiming here at all."

The man gave a short, unpleasant laugh,
almost like a bark.

"Well, you better be careful. If I find an arrow
in here again, I know who to track down."

"Oh, I will be careful," she said, wondering if
she could outrun this guy if he made a grab for
her.

"Okay," the guys said. "If I help you up,
can you make it back over the fence?"

"Sure," she said. "Sure."

The guard put his hands around her waist as
if to lift her up, but instead, he pulled her to him,

"You're a nice little girl," he said through
whiskey breath, "a very nice ..."

Though she wasn't entirely certain what was
going on, she had a general idea. The arrow was
still in her hand. She gave him a good Jab in the
stomach.

88

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

He yelled and dropped her. and she began to
run around the edge of the fence, away from the
building. He was too stunned to follow for a
minute, and she got a lead of 50 yards. Then she
put the arrow, which she'd been clutching like a
baton, back in her quiver and climbed quickly up
the broad metal links.

"Hey, stop, you little .. ."

Her bow tangled with the top of the fence.
She jerked it, pulling off the string, climbed
down a few handholds and risked the five-foot
drop to the ground. As soon as her feet touched,
she was off at full speed.

She tried to remember whether he had had
a gun. She hoped that he wouldn't dare shoot a
little girl, but she wasn't taking any chances. She
ran up the hill, zigzagging, as she'd read to do in
one of Daddy's spy novels.

After so much running, the way back was a
long one. On the top of the hill she turned to
catch her breath and looked at the loony bin. She
saw the man looking out of his window, waving
at her. She didn't wave, in case the guard might
still be watching her.

She had the feeling that she'd almost been
molested, whatever that was. She'd seen a stupid
film on the topic at school, but this was one she
wouldn't tell her folks about.

And she had the arrow, with the handsome
man's message. Her heart lightened with the
thought as she began the long trek home.

Douglas Alien sat in the middle of his bed,
staring at the square of window, through which
the tantalizing daylight streamed, golden visitor




89

Jeffrey Ooddin

from another world. He shivered with the
memory of the little drama he'd witnessed—the
girl, the security guard, her escape. So
close ... so close.

It was crazy, to hope that she could really
help him. But when you stopped hoping, you
died. And he knew that he'd find a way to kill
himself if he didn't get out of this little narrow
room.

To kill himself—or someone else. For a
moment he recalled the feeling of saber fencing in
college, closing in on an opponent, his mind and
body moving in perfect coordination, deadly and
unstoppable. Dammit, stop thisi

Slashing his way out of the building, leaving
a stream of twitching bodies in his wake ...

Stop iti

It was why he'd quit fencing, though well on
the way to a national championship—that dark
underlayer of personality that the fencing had
brought out. He knew that his subconscious was
rising and desperately cast around the room for
something on which to focus his attention.

On the table beside him lay the picture that
Fielding had given him, the snapshot of Dr.
Grant. Why had he asked for it? He stared at the
photo, which was slightly out of focus—broad
forehead, full lips, receding fair hair. coot, level
eyes. Why did that face seem so familiar? He only
knew that he had to have the photo.

Me was thinking more clearly with the
reduced drug dosage. He still had the shakes, the
nausea, the twitches, the occasional trouble
walking—but his mind was clearing.

It was both good and bad—good, in that he

90




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

could plan, bad, in that his abraded nervous
system was coming up with every kind of horror
he could imagine.

As the drugs had moderated, one of his
oldest fears had come back to him—the
claustrophobia. It's funny how, in the absence of
a fear. we tend to forget that fear, but all fears
are retained somewhere in the human conscious-
ness, as are all pleasures. And this was a fear
that dated from childhood, from his earliest
days.

He remembered the time some boys had
locked him in an old wooden toolshed. nothing
much, really—frail slat board walls and a tin roof,
light coming through the cracks. And it was a
Joke. They would have let him out.

Their laughter haunted his nightmares—the
awful, purely evil laughter of a child tormenting
another living creature. He recalled it vividly,
that imprisonment, the sheer limitation of it, the
feeling that for all time he would have no more
boundaries than those four'smelly walls and that
low tin roof.

He had burst through one of the wooden side
walls, his fists and face scratched and streaming
blood, scaring the hell out of his playmates. He
had never played with them again.

Me had also had a nervous breakdown.

The memory shook him, and it helped a
little, also. He looked at the walls behind him,
and, even as he looked, they seemed to draw
closer. Impersonal, smooth, hospital walls.
Mothing made of natural materials in the lot—all
steel, stone, concrete, plastic. Even the furniture
had rounded edges, so he couldn't hurt himself.




91

Jeffrey Qoddin

Me closed his eyes and sat on the bed, his
knees drawn close to his chest. A muscle began
to twitch in his hand, and he clamped it with his
other hand around his wrist to control it. He tried
to focus his mind on something botanical like
the shape of a leaf, a leaf just gemmed with dew
from the coolness of an early morning on a hill-
side—or the erratic flight of one of the great silk
moths, its ghostly shape drifting through
summer trees.

It worked for a while, then the mental scene
darkened. Things with teeth and claws were
waiting in the shadows beneath the trees and
among the leaves.

The terror came rushing back. He clenched
his teeth until his jaws creaked and a thin trickle
of blood ran from his gums.

It will pass, he told himself, because I'm
going to get out of here. I'm going to get out of
here or die trying.

When Di limped Into the yard of her house,
she found her friend Joey waiting in the drive-
way. leaning on his blue ten-speed.

Joey was 12 and was in the process of
turning into a tall, blonde, basketball-player-of-
the-future kind of kid. He'd already traded his
white T-shirts for buttondowns and was, in
general, at that point of discovering that there
were two distinct sexes in the world.

Di liked Joey, but she was both excited and
put out by her escape from the security guard
and not in the best of moods.

"Hi," he said, crinkling his blue blue eyes.
"You look like you've been running cross-

92




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

country or something."

For some reason the comment irritated her.

"Just never you mind what I've been up to.
What are you doing here?"

He leaned away from the bicycle and thrust
his hands in his khaki shorts.

"Oh, I was wondering if you'd tike to ride out
to the reservoir with me,"
^    "The reservoir? That's miles out."

"I know, but, you know, we talked about
going out there."

There was something in his voice that made
her laugh, and she tugged at his long blonde hair
as she skipped by. He reeked of some adult
cologne.

"Yea, I'd like to, sometime. But right now I'm
bushed out."

She skipped on up to the door.

"See you later," she said, turning on the
doorstep and blowing him a kiss. And she went in
and slammed the door.

He stood there on the sunny doorstep,
staring idiotically at a red gerenium, slightly
dazed. She'd never tugged his hair or blown him
a kiss before. Then his new male attitude took
over.

"Women," he said knowingly, and strolled
with a slight swagger back to his bike, in case
- she might be watching from the window.

Dl almost ran over her mom in the spotless,
beige-on-beige living room.

"And where have you been all day?"

Her mom was a pretty, dark-haired woman.
Though graying into her 50s and showing a few
. lines from years of summer sun. she still had a

95




Jeffrey Qoddtn

youthful figure, and showed it In jean cut-offs
and a leotard.
"That's starting to be my cue," said Di.

"Muh?" Her mom's green eyes were
twinkling. "Been out riding with Joey?"

"Flaw, he just showed up. But I'm too tired for
riding."

Her mother laughed.

"Too tired to eat?"

"Dream on. I could eat a football player."

Her mom eyed her narrowly, realized the
innocence of the remark, and led her into the
kitchen.

After a snack and once she'd safely closed
the door of her room, Di drew the curtains and
unfolded the message.

It said simply: "My name's Doug. I'm in here
by mistake. I'm going to escape tomorrow night.
Please help me. I need a place to hide. Meet me at
the fence."

And the signature—Douglas Alien.

Dl looked at the message, her pulse beat
turning over. She read it over again. It was
incredible. Help him escape? She suddenly
thought of another Errol Flynn movie. He was
escaping by climbing down castle walls, the surf
pounding jagged rocks beneath him. Or was
that an Errol Flynn movie? It should have been, if
It wasn't.

Yes, she knew that Doug couldn't be a bad
guy. He was probably, in fact, some kind of hero
in trouble. Maybe the C.r.A. was after him. Mom
always said the C.I.A. was after everybody.

She felt a sudden tremor of fear. What
if... what if he really were crazy? What if he was

94




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

going to kill her as soon as he escaped? She
recalled the face she'd seen with her binoculars.
Ho, he hadn't looked very happy, but. .. she
could tell he was a good man.

And old hippie Mom had told her she was an
Aries and that Aries were brave. Poor Mom!
nobody went for astrology any more, but still,
there might be some truth to it.

She began to pace the floor, planning how
she could slip out of the house the next night.

Doug was feeling better. He still had the
shakes, and sometimes he couldn't keep his feet
i where he wanted them, but he definitely was
feeling better. Me also had been washing the
valium that Dr. Fielding had given him down the
toilet.

He wondered about the little girl. Di. Pro-
bably Di for Diana. She thought this was all a
- game. And, of course, it was—but a game on
which his very life depended. Because he felt that
If he had to stay in this plate one more day he
really would kill somebody.

He'd written her to come and wait for him
that night by the fence. Yes, it was crazy, but she
might be able to lead him to a place where he
could hide.

She was his only chance.

And he'd been working out. He'd been doing
sit-ups and push-ups and running in place. At
first, the dizziness and cramps had cut his
exercise sessions short, but, gradually, he'd
begun to get some of his strength back.

He would need It all tonight.

When he escaped.

95




Jeffrey Qoddin

Three men were walking down the street at
the edge of the tree-lined suburb, passing in and
out of the glow of occasional streetlights. The
humid night air was heavy with the scent of
wisteria, of sweet plum and cherry blossoms
from ornamental trees in the carefully
landscaped yards.

The lots were vast, being very old holdings.
The men looked through ornate iron fences, back
up curving drives, up hills to the houses them-
selves— fine two and three story structures
dating from the turn of the century, built by the
early mercantile money of Louisville's river
trade.

Two of the men, the thin dark one and the
rather neat, well-dressed man, were visibly tense.
The welt-dressed man sniffed periodically from a
thin silver tube. laughing nervously. The third
man, a lean youth with a wild mop of curly black
hair. merely wore a wide smile that gleamed in
the darkness.

"No use trying to get In one of those," said
Darren, the dapper one. "Bad idea all around.
Security alarms on the gate. There'd be a police
car here before we could even get in."And he
laughed, as if he'd been telling a clever joke.

The thin wiry man turned to Cub.

"Waddya you think?"

Cub shifted the focus of his attention from
the entrancing smells of the night. His thoughts
had been drifting, trying to fill in the many
tactual gaps.

He turned his attention to the two men—his

96




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

smalt thin friend who had such a weird aura and
^Ehe one whose clothes always smelled new and
who gave off much less energy than the small
one. Cub intuited what he should say from Sid's
manner. He had learned to read these men. Their
motives were simple—money, intoxication.
pain—though he hadn't mastered all of the
language involved. He knew why they were all
here, wandering this exclusive neighborhood.

"I think ... go in."

Darren laughed, sniffing from the stiver
tube.

"And set off all the alarms?"

"Alarms?"

Sid made a face, shook his head and
contrived a muted humming sound. Cub arched
an eyebrow, and Darren laughed.

"Alarms," said Sid. He cupped his hands:

"Urrraaowl" This was closer. "Like bells, phone,
sounds." He was getting to enjoy the game of
communicating with Cub,

"Police?" asked Cub.

Sid nodded vigorously.

Cub smiled and shook his head.

"Come."

He led them down the street to the edge of
the block, where the gate joined into a concrete
pillar. It was dark there, but the three men were
still exposed, should a patrol car chance to pass
by. And the Louisville police wouldn't ignore
three adult males in this neighborhood at this
hour.

Cub thought of changing, of just passing
through the fence. But no, that might frighten
.t&em—and it would ruin his clothing. He would




97

Jeffrey Ooddtn

show them that later. He took the Iron bars' of the
fence In his long hands. The lean, chorded
muscles of his forearms leapt Into definition.

The bars bent and spread. One of them
snapped away in Cub's grasp.

"Jesus Christ!"

Sid laughed.

"He's something, our little Cubby."

And the three men passed into the grounds
of the mansion.

They moved silently across the broad,
manicured lawn. All were at home in the
night—the two, Sid and Darren, from the
patterns of their lives, and Cub by his heritage.

The place was like an enclosed park, sloping
gently upwards to the three story, brick-faced
house on a low hilltop, with tall spreading trees
to the rear and a small outbuilding on either
side. A curving drive from the gate at the other
side of the property led to the rear of the house.

Floodlights lit the black asphalt drive to the
left. On the right, the darkness clustered. The
three intruders moved to the right, a medley of
goals and lusts luring them on.

The man and woman, who sat in contem-
porary teak and cotton chairs in the high-
ceilinged living room, seemed too young for the
house. Richard Fowler was playing with the two
stacked VCRs, trying to get one to record the
other. He'd borrowed a copy of Oorky Park from a
friend and wanted to get a good tape of it.

Linda Fowler, nee Richardson, was sipping
bourbon and water and leafing through a pile of
Town and Country magazines.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

There came a sudden abrupt crash at the top
of the stairs. Richard looked up to see Heather's
blonde curls peeking over the top of the
bannister.

"Jeeze." he said. "what did you break now?"

"nothing. Dad," she laughed. "1 was just
riding Pinky, and1..."

"A horse with wheels," muttered Linda. "I
knew no good would come of that gift."

".. . and Pinky ran into the vase on the—"

"The vasel Qreat Qod!" Richard started for
the stairs, his face livid. "That vase cost—"

There came a sudden high-pitched rhythmic
beeping sound, not loud but very noticable.

"And what the hell's that?"

"Something's set off security, obviously,"
said Linda. "Probably Just a dog. I told you the
glassware should be in a case."

Richard turned, frowning.

"DamnI" He looked back up the stairs. "You
better hide," he said to his-daughter. He walked
to the low rosewood table and picked up the
cordless phone that lay there.

"Osbom?"

"Yes sir?" came across the line.

"Something just set off the alarms."

"Yes, I was Just going out to ..."

"... check on it, good. Take a gun. There
have been some break-Ins around here lately."

"Yes sir."

Richard turned back to Linda.

"She actually broke the vase. That was
Seventeenth Centuryl"

Linda took another sip of bourbon. She
•mlled, showing her pretty teeth against the tan.




99

Jeffrey Ooddtn

"Mo. she said Pinky broke the vase."

Later, the Fowlers were sitting on the
terrace, sipping tall glasses of bourbon, water
and mint—"water jullps," as Linda called them.
Heather had been duly scolded (never spank a
child, as Linda had read in numerous approved
contemporary texts). Richard had keyed the VCR
to the set on the terrace and was now watching
Qorky Park as it recorder at the slowest possible
speed for maximum resolution.

"I don't know what we're going to do with
that girl," he said finally.

"We could send her to your mother," said
Linda. "She always has a few ideas." She
stretched her long legs, smiling innocently.

Something hit the veranda with a loud
"ThumpI" and rolled to Linda's feet.

She was not easily disturbed. She glanced
down idly at the object, expecting a cat or one of
their many dogs, who should be firmly kenneled
for the night.

Anything but their caretaker's bloody head.

Linda looked at it for a long moment. Her
glass slipped from her hand and crashed on the
terrace stones. Richard glanced away from the
screen.

"What.. ."

He saw the head and gulped.

"Get Inside/' he said. "Get inside!"

But Linda was already running for the sliding
doors.

Richard had Just made It to his feet when the
first of the three men rushed onto the terrace.
He'd had a little boxing tn college, but he was
scared to death. Ignoring the knife in Darren's

100




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"gfcand, he threw a wild punch, and the wild punch

^isonnected. They fell and grappled. Suddenly he

^heard Linda's voice.

!.l   "Hold it, or you're dead."

'^   He looked up, relief flooding through his
.nerves. She stood in the middle of the sliding
floors, holding the .58 revolver he kept in the

• living room desk.

':.   A second, smaller man had appeared on the
^terrace. He was smiling at Linda. He also had a
.knife. Suddenly the man Richard had been
grappling with rolled aside and made a rush for
:Unda. The .58 roared, and the man staggered.
%•   But there was another man. moving too fast
X^tO even focus on. The gun was knocked from

-jChida's hand. even as Richard's fist connected
'yWith the smaller man who'd rushed him. Richard

backed up and slipped on the caretaker's head.
'^   He was down. There was a weight on his
^i^hest, hands like steel around his neck. Behind
;^»lm, he heard Linda scream. And, distantly, he
^Aeard a young girl's voice.

y-. "MommyI Da! What's going on down there?"




101




Alien was sitting so still, listening so alertly, that
he heard the sound of the orderly's padded shoes
as the man appeared to bring him his dinner.

Alien was ready. He had few belongings with
him in the institution, and what he had was in
storage somewhere, probably in the main office,
he thought. He vaguely remembered that ft was
somewhere on the first floor.

He wouldn't have time for that.

As the door was unlocked, he allowed
himself to sink back on one elbow. He half-
lowered his eyelids.

The big smiling blond man wheeled in the
cart with the covered dishes. The smell of cooked
vegetables made Alien slightly nauseous. He'd
been forcing himself to eat the crap lately, trying
to get back his strength.

The cart came to a halt. The orderly lifted

105

Jeffrey Ooddin

one lid and the sickening aroma of stewed
carrots poured out into the room.

"Well Mr. Alien, how's our—"

Alien came off the couch in one sweeping
motion, putting ail his strength into an uppercut
to the orderly'sjaw.

The big man rocked and crumpled, a trickle
of blood seeping from his bitten lips. Alien
looked at him. Jesus, he'd bitten his tongue
almost through. God, 1 hope I haven't killed himi

But, as Alien knelt beside him, he felt the
man's rapid heartbeat.

Okay. Next move.

He pulled off the orderly's clothing, off-white
trousers and white medical smock, and put them
on. The clothes were ridiculously loose on his
emaciated frame, but the length and the fit
across the shoulders were about right. If only he
had something to hide his face. He searched the
pockets for some kind of cap. nothing.

Well, now or never. He tied up the orderly and
was going to gag him, but his tongue was
bleeding profusely. The knots and fabric didn't
seem tough enough to hold a grown man, but
hell. he'd seen old movies where it had worked.

The man began to move grogglly. Alien
started to hit him again, then thought better of
it. The man's jaw was swelling as if it were
fractured. He'd be out for a while. Alien tugged
the orderly into his narrow closet, then wedged
the door closed with a chair. Then he listened at
the door.

Quiet out there. He peeked into the corridor.
All clear. He wheeled the food cart out Into the
corridor, allowing the door to slam shut behind
him.

106

y.-.;^^.

BLOOD OF THE WOLT

He tried to recall the layout of the floors, as
he blinked against the long, ceiling fluorescents.
When he'd been allowed outside for a while/ last
fall, he had been taken down a central elevator.

His heart was pounding, and it was hard to
think. He didn't see any door that looked like an
elevator.

He wheeled the cart down the corridor.
ducking his head as he saw another orderly
emerge from a room Just ahead—or was it one of
the doctors?

The man was short and stocky, with a fringe
of blond hair and tired dark eyes. He peered at
Alien as they passed. Alien was but a few yards
beyond him when he heard the man call out.

"Hey, I don't remember seeing you around
here."

Alien's eyes focused at the far end of the
corridor. There seemed to be stairs and a railing.

"Heyl You!"

He turned, smiling what he knew could only
be a ^gruesome smile. The shakes were coming
over him again, and he clenched his hands on
the cart to still them.

"Hey, what's your name?"

The man came closer. His eyes didn't look so
tired. They looked alert, dangerous, cautious.

"Fred Arnold." said Alien. "I'm new here. I
was just taking dinner to ... Douglas Alien."

"But Parkins serves dinner on this floor."

Alien met his eyes, and the doctor saw the
desperation there. He took an involuntary step
backwards, opening his mouth to yell for help. In
near panic. Alien hit him in the jaw. He heard
something crack. Jesus, he thought, amazed at
his own strength.

107

Jeffrey Goddin

But the man began to scream, spitting
blood. Trying to pull the punch. Alien hit him
again, a short uppercut to the jaw. The man
slumped to the floor.

But now a tall. bearded man appeared at the
far end of the corridor, beyond the collapsed
form of the orderly. The man yelled and began to
Jog down the corridor.

Alien gave the food cart a shove in the man's
direction, then spun around and broke into a
run.

He felt disoriented. The fluorescents hurt his
eyes. and he seemed to be aware of minute
fllckerings in their long pale tubes—minor
coronas and flares. He stumbled and glanced off
of the smooth walls with their fine spider scrawl
of decorative paint lines. They will catch me
again. They will put me in a straitjacket. They will
drug me again and they will put me In that little,
little, oh-so-narrow room.

He screamed at the top of his lungs, nearer
to true madness than he'd ever been, and bolted
down the corridor. Mis breath was coming hard
as he reached the far stairwell, someone's shout
in his ears. He skipped down the stairs. Second
floor. One more flight. He lost his footing and
tumbled to the bottom of the stairs.

He was at the end of the wing. A set of double
doors to his right led back into the hospital. To
his left was a metal, yes, an exterior door. He
looked through the tiny window and saw night
with the hint of stars. He pushed against the
door, trying to open it. Locked.

They will catch me. Back in that narrow
room. Only that room, nothing else. Ever.

108

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

He screamed, not caring who heard. A swirl
of Images from childhood came Into his mind.
The time he'd hit a playmate. The kid had flown
through the air. Concussed. Out for a week. The
fear of his strength, until, in the army, again. In
flam, he'd had to use it that night on patrol, the
three Vietnamese wno'd attacked him with
karate, which had not been enough, no. not
nearly enough to block him.

He growled like an animal. Be rational,
goddammit! What was the point of the
flashback?

He realized. The door. A part of his mind was
telling him that he could break through the door.
For your life. you must break through this door.

He took the doorknob In both hands and
wrenched. Incredibly, he heard a slight, metallic
groan, a grinding, and the knob moved slightly.
He took a deep breath, planted his feet, and
yanked upward. The knob gave a little more.

He was out of breath, panting, the sweat
pouring down his face.

That little, narrow room, with one window,
through which you could only hope to jump.

A sound of yelling on the floor grew closer.
He Jerked suddenly at the doorknob. Something
snapped, loosened. The knob came away in his
hand, leaving a Jagged opening In the metal
door. He frantically pushed his fingers into the
opening, feeling for the tumblers, tearing his
skin on the edges of torn metal. He pressed,
fumbled and grabbed.

A quiet click, and the door swung open.

He stumbled out into the night, breathing
the scent of grass and real air, like a drug.

109

Jeffrey Ooddtn

It was dark with only a silver moon. He
realized that he as on the side to the left of his
view from the window. If that girl, Di, were
around, she'd be to his right.

His  heart  was  thudding  from  the
unaccustomed exercise. He began to sprint
toward the darker line on the hillside that he
hoped was the fence. He literally ran into it,
skinning his cheek. Wide chain link. He dragged
himself up it, using fingers and the toes of his
soft shoes for what little leverage they could give
him.

He reached the top, eased over, then his
fingers slipped and he tumbled to the ground.

"Doug. that you?"

A slightly husky, little girl's voice came from
his right. He could barely see her. She was
wearing very dark clothes. She came closer, and
he caught a hint of some faint, flowery perfume
and a glimpse of a slender form with long dark
hair.

"We better get out of here." she said. "Come
onl"

Voices came from the hospital, shouting
questions. A high intensity beam was searching
the night outside the wing from which he'd fled.

The girl was already running up the hillside.
He followed as fast as he could, slipping and
falling in the damp grass.

But the grass felt good and real, something
natural again. He knew he'd really kill before he
let them put him Inside there again.

The searchers were making so much noise
they couldn't have heard the muted progress of
two figures up the hillside.

110

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

The ground leveled off. They were at the top
of the hill, and the girl came close again and took
his hand. He was winded. They walked onward.
The hospital passed from view behind them. He
collapsed on the ground, a weird, almost
mindless happiness taking him.

"Welt," said Dl, trying to see him by the pale
light of the sky, "you're almost rescued."

Fielding was working late. Two of the people
under his care had seemed to be having
remissions. Debbte, the country girl who saw
Qod, was talking with her deity almost con-
stantly. and Peter Johnson, the advertising
executive wno'd developed a conscience, had
discovered an outlet to Hell through his
ventilator shaft and was convinced that the Devil
would be up through the shaft to claim him any
day now. The flamboyance of these delusions,
like something out of a movie, disturbed
Fielding. And Douglas Alien disturbed him even
more.

Why had Doug wanted a photo of Grant?
What was on his mind? And why had a pro-
fessional like Grant so thoroughly mishandled
Alien's symptoms?

It simply did not fit together. And it also
connected with something else, a bit of trivia,
that had lodged In Fielding's mind.

Last fall. after a weekend off. Grant had
shown up with the elastoplast on his cheek. He'd
gotten a deep cut, somehow—he'd mentioned an
auto accident. And Fielding recalled seeing
Grant's car, unmarked, shortly after.

But just why should he wonder how his boss

111

Jeffrey Ooddin

had gotten a cut, or when?

Fielding's mind was a Jumble of seemingly
unrelated phenomena, which he suspected.
somehow, were related. He just wasn't sure what
to do about them, if anything.

He suddenly set the files on which he'd been
working aside and pushed bacK his chair. Per-
haps a little walk would clear his mind.

He strolled out into the corridor.

Arnold Simmons, the night custodian, was at
the same moment strolling down the hall in
Fielding's direction. Simmons was a big black
man with a ready smile and an unbreachable
fund of good humor. At the moment he had a
massive, delicious looking sandwich, sprouting
wings of lettuce, in his hand and was munching
as he walked. Fielding, thinking of his waistline,
envied him that sandwich.

"Hey. Sims, cut that monster in two and we
can both have dinner."

"It's all mine." Adding, with a lilt, "You can't
take that away from me."

Fielding laughed.

"How come you're always in such a good
humor?"

"Because I'm so perfect,"  answered
Simmons, smiling. "Perfect in every way."

Fielding nodded and suddenly had an idea.

"Say, could I borrow your keys for about half
an hour?"

"Sure. Why?"

"There's a file missing, and I want to see if
it's in Grant's office."

A frown slipped over Simmons' features.

"Hey, his office is no-man's land. Off-limits."

112

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Just a half hour. And the cat's away."

"Okay." said Simmons, looking around for a
place to set the sandwich. He gave It to Fielding,
who felt mayonnaise immediately begin to drip
down his arm. Simmons deftly detached a key
from his massive ring and traded it for the messy
sandwich.

"And this is very confidential," he said.

"Buy you a drink, or several, at my place,"
said Fielding.

"Deal," said Simmons. "I'll be downstairs
with the air conditioning, counting off those
50 minutes."

A few minutes later, even to a maverick tike
Fielding, it felt slightly odd to be standing in the
big man's office, a place where he was expressly
forbidden to go. He flipped on the lights. Fielding
had always thought that an office was a good
indication of the personality who Inhabited it.
Grant's office got on his nerves.

For one thing. It was spare in the extreme.
The desk had no papers' on it in Grant's
absence—only a small video monitor and
telephone/clock/pen set combination. The
bookshelves were precisely and neatly ordered,
and the filing cabinet had an almost polished
look. The only print on the walls was of a desert
scene of stark curving dunes with a Jagged out-
cropping of rock In the background. The plants
in the windows were all desert cacti, the kind of
plants that require an absolute minimum of care.

The whole place was Just too precise and too
neat for Fielding's temperament.

And now that he was here. Just what was he
supposed to be doing? Spying on his boss?

115

Jeffrey Ooddin

You're a little nuts, he told himself, but you're
following one of your hunches, the kind of
hunches that have paid off so often with patients
In the past.

Me went to the filing cabinet. Locked, of
course. But the cabinet was of the old style that
had a rod running up the side from bottom to
top. Fielding was a avid reader of detective
novels, and he'd read in one that if you tipped
such a cabinet and felt underneath it, you might
just find the rod and be able to move it.

He carefully eased the cabinet out from the
wall, tipped it back. felt the end of a square rod
and fiddled with it. It slid sideways and back.

The top drawer opened slightly.

Incredible!

Fielding quickly opened the top drawer
further. Administrative files. Patient study files.
He didn't expect to find much on the patients,
because most medical and behavioral files were
kept downstairs in the main office.

Second drawer. More patient observation
files and a number of very old files, some which
appeared to be from a different institution.
Certainly nothing on Douglas Alien.

Third drawer. A half-dozen loose-leaf note-
books. He Idly leafed through them and was
surprised to find that they were in a letter cipher
of some sort. Well, that was certainly a way to
ensure privacy.

Fourth drawer. Hmmmi The fourth drawer
was filled with VCR tapes.

fielding checked the titles on the tapes.
Most were patient observation tapes, something
that was in the "gray area" of legitimate use. A

114

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

couple, to his surprise, were Job interview tapes.
He found one with "Peter Fielding" on the box.
Jeezel There'd been a camera on him when he
had interviewed here, and he predated Grant.
That meant that the previous director, a nice
little gray-haired man who resembled Freud,
down to the cigar, had been a tape fiend.

He noticed a tape that seemed to have no
title, wrapped In a loose cellophane bag, and he
had an odd feeling. He took the tape out of the
cabinet, walked to the VCR on the bottom of the
bookshelves and put the tape In. He punched the
rewind, then set it.

Music. De Falla. The lilting castanet-into-
classical rhythm that had always Irritated
Fielding no end. He wished that Ravel had never
heard of Spain. He walked back to stand beside
the desk and watch the monitor.

The camera panned across a number of
drawings—the morbid, big-eyed, dark menacing
shapes that were fairly familiar In paranoid,
schizophrenic art therapy. Some of them were
quite good. So, he had found an art file.

But, suddenly, there was a live scene on
camera—a dining table of polished wood, and on
the wall behind the table hung another of the
big-eyed, menacing prints, neatly framed.

Two sets of hands lay on the table, extended
toward wine glasses. One set was large, tanned,
hairy, with an onyx signet In gold. It was Grant's
ring. Fielding suddenly realized. The other hand
was slender and graceful. The camera panned
back to reveal a teenaged boy, neatly dressed in
dark slacks and white dress shirt, with curly
black hair and a round, snub-nosed face, and

115

Jeffrey Ooddin

beside him, a man wearing a dark suit and a very
realistic wolf mask.

The boy was talking, but instead of dialogue
there was only that lilting, Spanish-influenced
music—and yes, now it was Ravel. The boy lifted
his glass and took a sip. The man lifted his glass
to the wolfs muzzle and appeared to pour the
wine down his throat. The boy laughed
nervously.

And then something odd happened. The
camera came in slightly closer, and the man's
hands seemed to elongate and grow densely
hairy, with long, blunt nails like a dog's or a
wolf's.

The sound of the building alarm made
Fielding jump. Jeeze. somebody's broken out of
here! He quickly shoved the tape in his pocket
and closed the drawers of the filing cabinet. He
took a quick look around to make sure every-
thing in the office was just as he'd found it. Then
he walked out into the hallway to find out what
was going on.

And suddenly he had a terrible intuition that
he knew who had escaped.

Doug stood, looking around the room,
enjoying the young female's taste in decoration.
There was everything from a group ot white
china period dolls In an old bow front walnut
cabinet to a couple of movie posters of Crrol
Flynn In swashbuckeler garb—and one of Tom
Selleck beside a reproduction of some French
Impressionist painting. There was even a skier-
against-lnterlocked-rings poster of the last
Olympics. The girl was definitely a poster
enthusiast.

116

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Di watched him carefully, suddenly a little
unsure Just what she had brought home. He
seemed to be very tall in her little room and
looked quite strange in the borrowed hospital
outfit. He suddenly turned to look at her.
"Where's the bathroom?"
She pointed to a door on the left.
"It's between my room and the guest room."
He quickly rushed into it and shut the door.
She heard him throwing up.

When he came back, he looked even paler.
"I'm a little disoriented," he said. "I still
can't believe I'm out of there."
She laughed.

"Just trust Di on the rescue missions. Want
something to eat?"
"Watcha got?"
"1 could make sandwiches."

"Sounds great."

She went into the big white tiled kitchen and
made ham and cheese and tomato sandwiches
with mayo. She looked for something to drink
and decided on a beer for him and coke for her.
She brought it all back to the bedroom on a tray.

"Better eat, Doug." she said. "You're looking
kinda pale."

He ate ravenously.

"Qod, that's the first real food I've had In a
long. long time."

But, even as he said it, he felt the familiar
twinge of nausea. Di watched him as he went to
the bathroom to throw up again.

"Well," she mused aloud, "1 didn't think I was
that bad of a cook."

When he returned, he sat on the bed, his face
In his hands.

117

Jeffrey Ooddin

"I'm sorry I'm so sick," he said. "It's the
damned medicine they've been giving me. Maybe
if I just napped for a while ..."

"Sure, sure," Di said. She reached behind
him and fluffed up her pillows for him. He leaned
back and closed his eyes.

"You're really very nice," he said. "When this
Is all straightened out. . ."

"Okay." She came and patted his hand.
"Just relax. I'll take care of you."

Di went into the kitchen. The impact of what
she'd done was slowly dawning on her. She'd
helped him to escape. But he'd been a prisoner,
and she'd had to help him.

Still, the police might not see it quite the
same way. They might lock her up.

She paced. It was Just too big for her, this
problem. She suddenly thought of her sister.
Laral She was a social worker or something.
She'd know what to do.

Oddly enough, Lara was pacing her kitchen.
much as Di had been pacing her kitchen, when
the phone rang.

"Hello, big sister?"

"Di, how you doin'?"

"Peachy, I guess."

"You sould a little strange."

"Well, you see, I got this problem."

"What's that?"

"There's a man in my bedroom."

"Huh?" Lara flashed on rape and a thousand
other things.

"No, It's really okay. I invited him, he's ..."
Di wondered if she should tell Lara about the

118

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

mental institution and decided against It.

"But he's real sick. And 1 can't tell Mom and
Dad, because they might..."

"Might what? Qet this all straightened out?"

Mow she had no choice.

". . . because I helped him escape."

"Escape from where?"

"From the loony bin."

"Oh, my godi"

Di rilled her in on a few details, and Lara felt a
sudden, sinking feeling. She recalled that, last
fall, a guy's face had been all over the papers.
And what was his name? The man had been
supposed to have murdered a young gfrl. She
should tell DI to call the police Immediately.

But, as she listened, Lara felt a sudden
tugging at her psychic senses. It shocked her.
Jesus, not now. Right In the middle of...

"DI?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you hold the line a minute, please?
I'll come right back."

"Sure. Okay."

Lara cradled the receiver against her head
and closed her eyes. She saw the man on the bed,
saw his agony. She tried to evaluate him, reach
to him, and she caught an aura of feeling.

Ho, this man was not a murderer. But
why .. .

At the edge of her vision were the tentacles.
the streaks of black that were part of her waking
nightmares.

So. this is somehow a part of it. This she
might do something about.

"Diana.. ."

119

Jeffrey Qoddin

"Boy, I thought you'd gone off somewhere.
This Is gonna be one phone bill."

"Listen Di. are the folKs at home?"

"Mo, they're out at a movie."

"For how long?"

"Probably midnight."

She looked at her watch. It was nine now. The
drive took two, two and a half hours.

"Listen, Di, I'm going to come over right
now."

"Great, but you're 100 miles away!"

"I'll drive. See you in about two hours, okay?
And If the guy gets weird, call the police, no,
don't do that. Just run out of the house. Okay?"
It was absurd advice, but. • •

"Sure sisterkins. Thanks a bunchi"

And they hung up.

Lara had been strolling around the apart-
ment in her underwear. She quickly pulled on
Jeans, a white shirt and a light green sweater.
And why don't I Just call the police? she
wondered. As an afterthought, she sifted
through her dresser and found the little .25
automatic she'd never used and put that in her
bag as well.

She locked up and went outside to the little
Toyota hatchback. She had a full tank of gas.
Terrific.

She drove the backroads until she came to
the Parkway, then set her mental cruise control.
The night seemed alive around her. She was
tense, oddly expectant. She found herself
clenching the wheel, forcing her muscles to
relax. And her mind began to drift to the past.

120

The university had been hard on Lara, but it had
been necessary. She saw that now.

She'd grown up in a small town in Southern
Indiana, one of those quiet little towns where
everybody Is more or less alike—all from the
same Angle-German-Celtic stock, most farmers
or related to farmers, most basically concerned
with family and Just making a living.

She'd been a little different, sure. Any girl
who finds a volume of Sartre in the county library
and reads it at age 16 is a little different, but
she'd played flute in the band, belonged to the
art club, and had had a few friends. She got by.

But the university—that was different.

Suddenly she was among a great variety of
people, many of whom had radically different
backgrounds than her own —high-pressure
urban Eastern, laid-back Deep South, the unique

125

Jeffrey Qoddin

trendy/spacy attitudes of southern California.
And her psychic sense, cautiously developed In
rural life. became an element of defense.

She went out with a few fraternity guys, and
she saw into their minds, saw the preoccupation
with sex and power and money that dominated
their emotions, and was repelled. She saw the
secret desires of her male professors, the man-
hating trend of some of her female ones, and
telt caught in the middle. She came to suspect
just about everyone she met, even the nice ones.

It came to the point that, after a while, she
herself was absolutely obsessed with sex, with
both a horror of it and a longing for it. She had
caught herself shopping compulsively and
having the desire to shoplift. She developed
other minor neuroses. When a tall, black-haired
girl from Boston, another psych major, had tried
to make love with her, she had almost gone
along with It. She become confused and started
to drink and smoke too much and lose sleep. Her
razor sharp senses began to fray around the
edges.

And then she met Monty.

Monty was a tall, lean youth from an old
Savannah family. Me was an art student,
complete with a full head of black hair and
beard. He was from a "decayed" southern family
In Georgia, a southerner through and through. It
took him as long to get out a sentence as it did
her to speak volumes.

But, when she looked into his mind, she saw
nothing but gentleness, a love of color, form,
line, the curvature of foliage, the abstract lines
of concepts—and a preoccupation with sex that
matched her own.

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BLOOD Of THE WOLF

So, quickly, they'd become lovers, and she
walked on clouds all her waking hours, waiting
for the time when she'd see him again, would
smooth his tangled hair, kiss his bearded lips,
have wild and nonsensical symbolic discussions
far into the night. Then. the magic of their hands
and tongues and senses would leap out for one
another.

Until the night she remembered so clearly.
the night she'd never forget.

It was near the end of spring semester, and
the world was full of April scenes and April
moods. She had her window open to the night,
and the cool breeze, moist with a light rain, filled
the room.

She felt complete, more a woman than she'd
ever felt before, waiting for him to come back to
town from a visit to his parents. Somewhere In
the back of her mind was images of marriage,
even of children. Yes, with him it Just might be
possible.

She felt his presence on the road miles away
and felt the life of him, coming closer, already
close, because he was thinking about her.

And then came that sudden nova of aware-
ness, as if he were for a moment in the very
room—then the pain, the awful, soul-wrenching
agony that doubled her over in her chair and
seemed to fill her every cell.

And then. nothing. She knew he was dead.

She did not sleep that night, so she was quite
alert when Monty's sister called her the next
morning and told her of his death in a car
accident.

It had almost been the end for her, too. She
cried for a long, long time. She stopped going to

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Jeffrey Ooddin

classes. She stopped eating. She began to stay In
her room for days.

Thus It was that one of her anthropology pro-
fessors, Darren Trent, found her, when he came
to her apartment a week later.

She had trouble walking, but she made it to
the door. She was surprised to see Trent. He was a
big man, with salt-and-pepper hair, wrinkles
around his eyes, and a light bristly academic
beard. Mis tweeds were a bit faded, but he looked
fresh and friendly, and his hazel eyes twinkled.

"I'm surprised to see you/' she said.

"You shouldn't be. I've heard you calling for
days."

"Calling?"

"In your mind."

And, looking into those kind tan eyes, she
suddenly realized that he, too, was psychic.

it was her last conscious thought before she
passed out.

Trent carried her to her bed. then called the
University Hospital. He rode beside her In the
ambulance, holding her hand. It was a simple
case of malnutrition and nervous exhaustion,
and he visited her every day to make sure that
she was eating.

And, gradually, they came to talk, and of
course they began to talk about psychic things.
It seemed that Trent was not only psychic but
was something of an authority on psychic
phenomena as well.

They talked about her childhood, the way
she had often been able to see into people's
minds, and about dreams—how you often saw
places you'd never been to. He told her of the

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Parapsycho logical Society in Britain, the early
days of table-turning and such, and of the con-
temporary theories of negative and positive ions,
and how the Russians were so active in the field
of psychic research.

She came to look forward to their conver-
sations very much; they were the perfect
therapy. She quickly grew strong again and was
out of the hospital in a few days.

After that. she had a friend in Trent. She
could see into his mind, even more than she let
on, and though there seemed to be places that
were shielded, she saw an amazing kindness
there. He still called her to chat, every week or
two, and once they'd met for dinner in Paducah,
where he was teaching and doing independent
research.

Now, with so much suddenly on her mind,
Lara found herself thinking about Trent and
wondered what he'd make of the errand she was
on.

Maybe, when she'd sorted it all out, she
would tell him about It.

She suddenly came off automatic pilot. She
was near the exit that would take her around
Louisville to the suburb where her parents lived.

And then?

She had a feeling of unreality as she drove
into the little residential street on this soft early
June evening. Though it was late, there were still
a few kids out walking the streets, a trio of long-
haired girls laughing and pushing one another, a
group of boys throwing a basketball through a
netless goal set above a garage, the scene lit by a

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Jeffrey Ooddin

'white floodlight. Some things just never change.

It was oddly liKe coming home, though she
Knew that this time she would not get to ease
into that daughter's role that was so comfort-
able.

no, this time she would have to straighten
things out.

She pulled up in front of her parents' house.
The outside light was on over the front door. As
she pulled into the drive, the door swung open
and Di came rushing out onto the soft new grass.

Lara was barely out of the car when Di was in
her arms, laughing and bubbling over with
energy.

"Lara, Lara, thanks so much for coming. I'm
not sure Just what to do with this guy. Wait till
you see him. He's really handsome.

"Slow down, slow down," said Lara. holding
the slightly sweaty child at arm's length. Di was
pretty in a wild sort of way, she thought, with her
tangled red hair, pert nose and freckles. And she
a tomboy through and through.

Lara took Di's hand and led her up the steps,
that nostalgic feeling coming to her again. The
night smelled so good, and there, to either side
of the door, were the small plots of roses that
had been there for as long as she could
remember.

Following DI inside, she stepped into the
kitchen for a drink of water. Even the kitchen was
the same—the white square tiles, the ghastly
yellow cabinets, a framed picture from an old
herbal on the wall. Di was bouncing from refri-
gerator to table, delighted and relieved to have
her big sister around.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Is he still in your room?"

"Yes. yes, yes. What will I do with him?"

Laralaughed.

"That's what we'll have to decide. Did you tell
him I was coming?"

Di blushed, pushing her hair out of her
eyes.

"Uh, I wasn't sure if 1 should."

"That's okay," said Lara. "It might be just as
well."

They walked on through the house, down the
beige carpeted hallway, and knocked on the door
at the end of the hall.

"Doug, It's us," Dl called.

Mis voice was tense. "Who's us? Who's with
you?"

"It's okay, she's my sister."

There was a long silence, then, "Come In."

Lara walked into the room and immediately
stopped, staring at the man sitting on the bed.

He would be tall, standing, and a bit older
than she, about 50. He was wearing hospital
whites that were obviously not his. His wild red
hair was mussed In pale curls above a slightly
broad forehead, long face and large gray-green
eyes. She puzzled a tittle at the fogged
expression in his eyes, but she did not really
wonder who he was. She'd seen him in her
"visions."

As she watched him, her psychic senses
again began to work. She felt fear. some pain,
nervousness, but she didn't really sense
anything bad, as you would have to In someone
who'd murdered a little girl.

"Hi," she said, holding out her hand, "I'm

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Jeffrey Qoddin

Lara Wilkins, Df's sister. She called me to come
and see If I could help you."

He shook his head. His left eyelid had a
slight, involuntary tic. He held a hand to his face,
and she could see that he was shaking badly.

"I should have known she'd call somebody."

"Don't worry. Are you feeling okay?" She sat
down on the bed beside him.

"Plo, not really. These shakes. And I've been
throwing up."

"Typical phenothiazlne withdrawal."

"Huh?"

"The drugs they've been giving you."

"Then . .. you know about me?"

"Not much," she said, looking him in the
eye. The vague fear in his mind made him hard to
read.

"But I had a hunch. I didn't think little sister
would take to anybody who was really a killer."
She thought of the gun in her purse with a slight
twinge of guilt.

He laughed. Di sat on the other side of him,
and he put an arm around her narrow shoulders.

"Did she tell you how we came to meet?"

"Kind of like Robin Mood sending
messages."

"Except that I was the maiden In distress,
locked up in the tower."

Lara laughed.

"Is there anybody else who might help you?
You've been convicted once, so you'll have to
hide for a while until there's some way to prove
that you're innocent."

Here 1 am, she thought, talking with a con-
victed murderer—someone I've never even met

150

BLOOD OF THE WOLF




before—about proving his innocence.

"Yes, there is somebody. Julie. She was my
girlfriend. She's a marketing analyst. We fought
a lot because I don't think much of business, but
I think she'd help me. I was thinking of calling
her."

Lara closed her eyes, trying to go into his
mind, to get an image of Julie.

"Hey, what are you doing?" he asked
suddenly. He looked more nervous. "It almost
felt like . . ."

So, he's a sensitive tool

"Sorry, I was just trying to get an impression
of Julie. I'm ... a little psychic. That's why I
decided to come on over without the police." She
realized that her words were a bit strong, but
Jesus, it was time to get things on a more
practical footing. Still, she couldn't help the
question.

"Do you have any psychic ability?"

His pate blue eyes met hers with a touch of
curiosity and a touch of friendliness that hadn't
been there before. He's like an animal that's been
caged, she thought. He doesn't really believe
he's free—or can stay free.

"No. At least, I didn't think so. 1 have good
hunches sometimes, but.. ."

"Then you might be psychic, too. But about
Julie . . ."

"Yes, I probably should call her. I think 1
will."

Lara considered.

"Mind if I listen in?"

Doug's face closed, with a touch of
suspicion. She noticed that his shaking seemed

151

Jeffrey Ooddtn

to become worse.

"Weil, I... yes, I do mind. It'll only take a
second. Why don't I call her right now?"

Lara stood, and Di bounced up as well.

"Okay, we'll go and make a snack while you
call/' said Di.

"You Just ate," said Doug, in a more normal
voice.

"Oh, that was hours ago," said Di.

Once in the kitchen, Lara picked up the
phone.

"La—" Lara put her free hand over Di's
mouth. She whispered, "I'm worried about him. I
want to hear Julie's voice."

The phone seemed to ring for minutes. Then,
a click.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Julie? It's Doug."

"Dougt Wow! I didn't know you'd gotten out
of prison, er, the hospital. It's so good to hear
from you."

"Is that why you haven't called or written to
me for months?"

"no, not at all. I was Just... Oh. 1 worried
about you so much. and it was so hard to write."

"Well, it's going to be okay. Listen, Julie, I
need a favor. I got away this evening. I didn't kill
that girl, but I need time to prove It. Could you
help me find a place to stay?"

"Sure, you can stay with me. I'll come and
pick you up."

1 don't like this, thought Lara, listening. I
don't like this at all.

"That would be great. I'm near Louisville
now, but I can get a ride. Why don't I meet you in

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

town, say, on the Belvedere, near the Qalt house,
where we used to go."

"That'll work out fine. Oh Doug, it's so good
to hear from you. Pick you up at eleven thirty?"

"Yes, no, better make it twelve. See ya."

"Love you. See you at twelve."

Lara waited until she heard Doug hang up,
then put down the receiver.

"Well?" asked Di.

"1 don't trust her voice. I don't trust her at
all."

After scrounging around. Di found one of her
Dad's old raincoats and a beat-up flannel shirt In
some stuff they were going to give to the Sal-
vation Army. The shirt was too small, but Doug
put it on anyway and slipped Into the old
raincoat. At least It would be less conspicuous
than the hospital whites.

;,,      Lara and Di tried to catch up on as much as

possible as Doug changed. It seemed they had
i  too much to say to each other. Di liked the look
.   of her sister, tall and slender.'her long dark hair
'\   flowing over her loose green sweater. She
;"   thought her sister looked a little like a female

secret agent.

;      "Woops," said Di suddenly. "It's almost
/   eleven thirty. The folks will be here any minute."

Doug came out of the bedroom, looking
rather like a hippie in the snirt-under-raincoat
combination. The whites were rolled into a
bundle under his arm.

"Time to go," said Lara, feeling suddenly
nervous and uncertain.

She kissed Di good-bye on the doorstep. As
they were turning away. Di run up and gave Doug

153




Jeffrey Ooddtn

a hug. He hugged her back, sudden gratitude
welling up inside him.

"Don't forget who rescued you," she said,
blushing heavily.

"I won't," said Doug, his voice incredibly
choked up.

Doug and Lara walked out to her little blue
Toyota.

"It's really great of you to drive me," said
Doug. "Once I'm with Julie, I'm sure I can get
everything straigthened out."

"1 hope so," said Lara softly. "I really hope
so."

They took 1-65 North for Louisville. It was
smooth driving on the big interstate and they
made good time.

Lara drove in silence. The strangeness of
what was happening was beginning to get to her.
She glanced over at her passenger, apparently
shivering in his seat. though the night was warm.
She turned the heater on low.

"What's your friend's name again?" she
asked, her voice sounding awkward even to her
own ears.

"Julie."

"Why aren't you going to her house to meet
her?"

"Well/ I guess I'm a little self-conscious.
Thought it might be better to see her somewhere
neutral first. We fought and made up a lot. We
were in the middle of fighting and making up
when 1 was arrested."

"So what do you plan to do? Do you think
that you can clear yourself?"

"1 don't know. I just don't know. There's

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BLOOD Of THE WOLF

something weird . . ." He pulled a picture out of
the overcoat pocket. She glanced over at the
photo and saw a handsome man with a high fore-
head and full lips, in his 50s or maybe a youthful
40.

"This guy—he's the head of the funny farm
where they sent me. But I could swear I can
almost remember seeing him . .."

He lapsed into silence. She was a little
puzzled.

"What will I do?" he continued. "I'll have to
get some clothes that fit, hide out and hope the
police can turn up the real killer."

She nodded, though it wasn't really much of
a plan. She glanced over at him again. No, he
really didn't seem like a killer. Her intuition
about him was very strong. Still, she
remembered the little .25 automatic In her
purse.

It was easy to exit from the Interstate into
the middle of the city. They traveled north to
Main, and cut left toward the Belvedere.

They drove down Main Street, past the
Actor's Theatre, home of a regional acting troupe
that was gaining fame far beyond the area.
Ahead was the tall building with the revolving
rooftop restaurant of the Qalt House.

As they neared the Belvedere, Lara found
herself growing more and more nervous. It was a
weird feeling- one she couldn't adequately
explain, but it was a feeling that had to do with
danger and flight.

"Doug..."

"Yes?"

"I have a feeling. Please trust me. We're

155

Jeffrey Oo<S<Sin

going to drive by the Oalt House parking lot,
then come by again. I want you to watch for
police cars."

"Police cars? Why?"

"Just watch," she said.

They drove on past the broad parking area
on the left, the high rise garage behind it. There
were several cars of the four door Chevy variety
that the local police used in the lot or along the
street.

She pulled up at the curb.

"Let's walk a little," she said. She led him up
an alley toward the river. At the end of the alley
was a police car, sitting with lights off. She saw a
sudden red glow as one of the men inside it a
cigarette.

"Did you see the unmarked cars in the
parking lot?" she whispered, as they walked past
the police car in the alley.

"I think so."

"And now there's this one."

"Yes."

"Why do you think they're here?"

"Well, it seems as though they're waiting for
someone."

"And who do you think that could be?"

He stopped and took her arm. The dizziness
was coming over him again. He gripped her arm
a little too tightly, and she impatiently pulled
away.

"What are you driving at?"

"I'm a little bit psychic, as I told you. 1
listened in to your call to Julie."

"You what?"

"Okay. That was uncool. but I wanted to be

156

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

sure. I think your girlfriend called the cops.
Could she have?"

"no wayl We fought a little, sure, but she
wouldn't just turn me in like that."

"Let's make sure. Let's walk to the edge of
the lot. We can see the Belvedere from there. If
she's there alone we'll wait and see who she talks
with."

They walked on into the lot, arm in arm, like
lovers. They passed one of the four door cars.
"Wait here," Lara whispered, as they walked into
the shadows. She went back toward the car,
stopped and peered inside.

"Do something for you?"

"Mo, just curious." She forced herself to
laugh. "You guys keep a good lookout."

"Thanks, Miss. Pretty lady like you. good
thing your boyfriend's around. We're waiting for
(   a pretty rough customer tonight."

It had been a uniformed officer inside,
watching the Belvedere. She walked back to
where Doug was waiting. He abruptly clutched
her arm, and she felt his hand trembling. This
time, she didn't pull away.

"There's Julie."

"Just be cool. Watch her a minute."

A short, pretty blonde woman was standing
^   beside stone steps that led to the river level near
a fountain. He wanted to call to her, but he
didn't. They watched her for 10 or 15 minutes.
She was pacing a short distance, from the
steps to one of the lights, then back again.
She seemed to get impatient. She walked to the
doorway that led to the lower level, where
someone was standing, just out of sight. She

157

Jeffrey Goddin

talked with this someone. The someone had a
hand-held radio. Doug and Lara began to see
other people, men and women, scattered around,
who seemed to have nothing better to do than to
watch Julle.

"It's a definite," said Lara. "Julie called the
cops. They're waiting to capture you."

She looked at him. His expression was not
pleasant.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

Lara and Alien returned to the darkened car
and sat there, watching the small figures moving
in and out of pools of light on the Belvedere.
Through the windows came the sounds of city
night, the rumble of traffic, the horns, the
occasional distant siren.

Lara watched Doug's profile against the
window. He was motionless, just staring. As near
as she could tell, his features held no expression.

"This must be pretty hard for you, huh, to
find out she turned you in?"

"Mo. not really. I guess I really kind of
expected it. The way my romantic life's been ..."
He closed off the topic. "I don't have any
relatives. My parents split up a long time ago.
Haven't seen 'em for years, and we didn't get
along that well anyway. I was adopted. I need to
get to my bank account, but I guess they'll be
watching that."

"Most likely," said Lara. She was trying to
sort out her feelings. She'd immediately gone
with Di's assumption that Doug was innocent.
She still wanted to believe it, and she wanted to
help this man, who she didn't know at all.

"You must have some friend you could call."

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

He shook his head. "Maybe .. . I'll have to
think. I was always kind of a loner—that's why I
went into field biology and entomology. It's
something you can do on your own. You don't
need to rely on anybody. And I enjoyed it."

Lara brooded. There seemed only one thing
to do.

"Why don't you just come home with me for
now? You've just gotten out. You're not in the
best of health. You could rest at my place until
we get things sorted out a little."

He stared at her. She could see his face more
clearly In the dim light now. His pale eyes were
wide.

"You don't even know me," he said. "For ail
you know, 1 could be a murderer, just like they
say. I did get violent, when they locked me up."

"Why?"

"Claustrophobia. I've had it since I was a kid.
Anyway ..."

"Anyway, Di felt that you were okay, and I do,
too. Why don't you stay at my place tonight and
think things over."

"Dammit, I can't. For all I know, you'll get
tired of me and wind up calling the police your-
self."

She felt her temper slipping.

"No, I won't do that," she said evenly. "You
know I won't."                         -

"Hell, 1 just don't know what to do." He
pounded his fist against the dash.       .

"Then don't do anything," she said. "pon't
do anything at all."                      !-

She started the little car and headed Sack
through the center of town to connect with 1-65

159

Jeffrey Goddin

and to begin the long drive back to western
Kentucky.

By the time they got back she felt wrung out.
The big apartment had that odd, unfamiliar air
that goes with the return from a long vacation.
She looked at the round silver deco clock over
the false stone mantelpiece. Three o'clock in the
morning. Terrific.

She now had two choices—to try and get a
few hours sleep, or just try to make it through
until the next day. Neither option seemed that
appealing.

Doug trailed in behind her, closing the door
and sliding the chain in place. The odd intimacy
of having a stranger lock her door struck her
forcibly. The world certainly was out of kilter
these days.

"Do you want some coffee?" Doug was
already on the couch, his long legs propped up
on the end. Me was holding himself tightly, his
arms wrapped around his chest. She walked over
to him. He was shaking, his teeth chattering.

"Jesus, those damned drugs," she thought.
She put a blanket over him and went into the
kitchen to make hot chocolate. When she
returned with a cup for each, she had to help him
sit up. Me spilled a lot of the chocolate, but what
he got down seemed to help. Me lay back against
the cushions and sighed.

"Thanks," he said. "You're really nice."

"It's okay."

The exhaustion was flooding back over her
with the warm drink.

"It's okay."

Me closed his eyes. Me really did have a nice

140

BLOOD OF TME WOLF

face, she thought—high forehead, strong jaw,
that curly red hair and moustache.

Sleepy, Lara, sleepy.

She barely made it to the bedroom.

It was very dark. Me saw the paleness of
starlight streaming through the single window.
Me could see little, but he could feel the narrow
walls of the room, the room in the institution.

Me tried to get up, but found that he couldn't
move any part of his body but his head. Me was
paralyzed or drugged. And he was not alone.

Me twisted his head until his neck muscles
cried out, to his left where he knew someone was
waiting. Tall, strong, the faint gleam of eyes.

Me knew, and didn't know, who it was. Me
only knew that it was coming closer, and that it
was more creature than man. And that he was
trapped. Me tried to shrink away from it, back
into the mattress of the bed, but it was no use. It
had seen him. And It was coming closer. Me
vaguely smelled the male scent of it and another
scent, like old blood. Every'nerve of his body
tensed, but the other was bending, reaching for
him.

Me screamed and woke up. Me heard soft
footsteps padding in the hallway beyond his
room. Where was this room?

"Dougl Doug! Are you okay?"

Memory came flooding back. Me had
escaped. And now, this girl was helping him.

"Yes ... I just had a nightmare, that's all.
Sorry."

Me saw her face in the doorway, pale, above a
short white nightgown.

"Do you want a drink or anything?" Mer voice

141

Jeffrey Ooddin

was sleepy. It awed him to be in this strange bed-
room, talking with this pretty woman in the dark.

"Mo . . . and 1 can get it if I do. Thanks. Oo to
sleep."

After she left, he lay listening to his pulse
slowing and the crickets from beyond the
windows he'd thrown open for air. reassuring
himself that he was not back in that small
hospital room, that the creature he thought he
should know was not coming for him in the
night.

Leon McFherson lay in bed beside his wife,
reading a detective novel by the light of a Tiffany
lamp so plain that no one would know it was
Tiffany. And anyway, it was in the bedroom. It
was enough that Leon and Hilda, now entering
their healthy seventh decade, knew it was there.
McPherson had an eye for quality. That was, of
course, why he'd married Hilda 55 years ago.

He was reading an Agatha Christie novel. He
had a collection of them, mostly first editions. He
never tired of reading her involved plots, of
following the adventures of her intelligent
heroes and heroines.

The only real problem in McPherson's life at
this point was insomnia. It had been an in-
creasing problem all his life. and now, after he'd
abandoned the riverboat trade, it had become a
regular thing. He sipped the aromatic old
bourbon and tried to concentrate on the plot of
the novel, willing himself to sleep.

The house was very silent, yet not silent, as
only an old two story Victorian can be, with a
thousand barely audible clinks and squeaks that

142

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Leon had come to know thoroughly through
years of happy living and insomnia-
He had just come to the place where the
amateur detective, under suspicion of murder,
goes out to answer a call from the old house
being rented by a mysterious personage—when
he heard a sound at the edge of consciousness.

He was immediately fully awake. He glanced
over at Hilda who was sleeping soundly, her
ample rump aimed at the stars. He gave her a
fond pat.

He heard the sound again, a kind of scraping
sound. It wasn't one of the old house's normal
sounds. He mentally imagined the parlor under
the bedroom and was able to pinpoint the
sound—downstairs window to the terrace. He
analyzed the sound. It was almost like a branch
scraping against the glass, but he had carefully
trimmed the forsythia in front of the window. No,
it wasn't a branch.

And the window was a little too high for an
animal to reach.

He came to a decision and sighed. Leon had
never been afraid of anything in his life, but he
resented having to leave his bed to investigate.

He carefully climbed out of bed, knotting his
red velveteen dressing gown around him. Hilda
rolled over, snorted and went back into deeper
sleep. He eased open the top drawer of the
walnut nightstand and took out the Colt .45
automatic that he kept there, oiled and in perfect
working condition. He picked up the lantern
flashlight from the floor and left the room, went
down the hallway to the stairs and softly padded
down to the dark parlor.

145

Jeffrey Ooddin

Turn on the tight? no, he wanted to see what
was there, and shining a light in his face, if It
was a burglar, would scare him more. If nec-
essary. a shot through the window would do
more than that. Windows could be replaced.

Beyond the windows was a bluestone
terrace. He padded to the tall patio frames and
slid back the curtains.

By the dim starlight he saw a child. He went
to the left wall and put on the outdoor lights,
then went back to the window.

He stared at her for a long time, as she stared
back, still feebly scratching at the window. It was
the little girl of the young couple next door,
naked, her body darkly streaked with what
looked like blood. He could see the madness In
her face.

He broke his trance, quickly went outside,
and picked her up. She went limp in his arms. He
carried her in to the couch, his mind going over
the steps he knew he must take—blanket, warm
drink, Hilda. Hilda would be better at this. Then
call the police.

As he began to climb the stairs to wake his
wife, he found that for one of the only times in
his life. his body was shaking.

144

The prospect of tracing three names that could
be dispersed throughout the United States—or
the world, for that matter—would have dis-
couraged most people. But Karl Stegern Knew
perhaps as much about accessing data banks as
anyone in the world.

He began with the easiest—professional
associations—which were open access and easy
to hook into. It took him but part of a morning to
turn up Murray Grant, who had a Doctor of
Medicine with Psychiatry from Boston University
and was the director of a mental institution near
Louisville, Kentucky.

Elated with this early success, Rarl tried the
other two names. He ran them through
university banks, professional banks, associa-
tion files, nothing.

So much for the obvious. Mow for the less

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Jeffrey Ooddin

obvious.

He could access the criminal files through
his connections. Unfortunately, except for the
r.B.I., which would probably be aware of his
access anyway, they were arranged by state. He
programed what he could and set it to run.

Then. on a different system, he called up an
organization which few people knew about—a
semi-secret organization truly frightening in
scope, for which he'd done a consulting job the
previous year. It was an organization which
serviced the insurance companies and their
powerful political lobbies.

He consulted his notebook and punched In
an access code.

"Identify."

This was the crucial moment. The system
would shut down and attempt a tracer If he
botched it. If the tracer were human, it might be
someone with whom he didn't want to deal.

He punched in the name of his contact. The
program ran—scanning names nationwide of
people who held various types of insurance
policies, in descending order from the value of
the policy.

This was an ultrasmooth, efficient operation.
His answer came back in less than 15 minutes.

One of the people he sought had life
insurance: Richard Avallone, 2154 Concourse.
Rnoxville. Tennessee. 319-706-3528

He checked the program, scanning crime
files. Nothing. He shut it down.

He would begin with Avallone.

Karl sat facing the keyboard, the type he'd
faced so many days and nights so far in his life.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

He felt an obscure excitement, and something he
rarely felt anymore—a fear, somehow linked to
that dark part of him which he'd controlled by
studying and by abstaining from sex entirely.

He felt that things were changing, and he
couldn't read their direction. The trip to
Knoxville, of course, could be a wild goose chase.
But, somehow, he didn't think that it would be.

He hadn't know that Rnoxville, Tennessee,
could have a neighborhood like this. His
impressions, on traveling through once in his
childhood, had been of a place with a flashy
central city core. surrounded by areas of decay,
overhung by dense clouds of auto pollution and
light industrial smoke.

But now, as he passed away from a section of
vacant lots, he reached the edge of a very
different kind of neighborhood.

It reminded him of Faulkner, somehow—the
huge American Victorian mansions, set well
back from the esplanade In tall trees through
which gingerbread gables were outlined against
the storm-clouded sky. Here and there he caught
the purple-white of wisteria climbing up trees,
overflowing the occasional stone facade. He
rolled down the window, and the scent of the
wisteria, so sweet and melancholy and so much a
part of the old South, came to him on the humid
air.

He was a stranger here, and felt an odd sense
of being cut off, detached from modern
existence. Even many of the cars were old—the
black battleships of 1940s and 1950s Cadillacs
and Buicks. carefully waxed and polished. It was

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Jeffrey Ooddtn

almost like a period movie set, except that it was
too thorough, too real.

He felt his mind drifting toward the psychic
region he usually tried to rigidly avoid. He
seemed to catch bits of thought from the houses
he passed—disjointed and imagistic—of soirees.
of gentlemen and grande dames, of violence and
eroticism.

And was this the present? Or a past still very
much alive?

Just ahead, he saw a buggy, the black horse
with blinders clip-clopping on shod hooves along
the street and two heads, one with a bonnet, one
with a tall black hat, under the fringed canopy.
He slowed down, felt a sudden rush of adrenalin
panic and forced the images to diappear.

He mentally called up the house number:

2154. He slowed down and, on the stone pillars
of the next gate, saw 2153.

So close. So soon.

By the next set of stone pillars, a pair of
fantastically tall willows flanked the gate. He
turned in, the Porche's twin exhausts echoing
oddly from the short stone wall beside the drive.
Down over stone cobbles, through a short alley
of yews, and at the end of the drive, a broad
circle.

The house was grand even for the era, white
Italianate Victorian, with twin porch pillars and
many bow front windows. There were two
attached wings, steepled gables rising high
above. He pulled up in front of the door, almost
expecting a footman to come to park his car.

He climbed out, his heart thudding oddly, as
If at sea level, in the humid, faintly scented air.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLf

Here, too, was a vague scent of wisteria—or
jasmine?—but no vine was visible.

He stood in front of the house and began to
notice subtle signs of decay—peeling paint on
the columns and cracks in the marble steps. The
door was heavy under a curving leaded glass fan-
light. One of the panes showed a hairline crack.

He looked for a bell but found none. He lifted
the old gargoyle knocker and let it fall. The
sound was hollow, surprisingly loud.

As if she had been waiting, a black maid,
dressed blissfully in some semblance of 20th
century fashion, opened the door. Her wide dark
eyes took him in. She smiled a slightly fearful
smile and shut the door again.

He stood on the marble doorstep, puzzled.
What the hell? Somehow, the odd behavior made
him feel that this was the right house, but what
did the maid's behavior signify?

Suddenly the door opened again to reveal
another woman where the maid had been. He
looked Into her eyes.

Only his peripheral senses were able to take
in the woman. He had vague impressions of
height, of age, of a mass of silvery curls, a high,
broad forehead.

Her eyes were unfaded, of a deep, cerulean
blue tike winter skies. They seemed to pour her
will directly into his own. He couldn't look away.
He felt oddly penetrated, as if she were reading
his thoughts. And perhaps she was.

Abruptly he grew angry, and with his anger,
the spell was broken.

"So," she said, her voice soft and very
southern, "it's you I've been expecting."

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Jeffrey Qoddin

He smiled nervously. Psychic territory. It was
the right house.

"Mrs. Avallone?"

She shook her head.

It was in his mind that she was really much
older than he'd expected. Her beautiful face was
a mass of fine wrinkles.

"But I know the Mrs. Avallone you're looking
for."A note of hardness crept into her voice.
"You're really looking for the father, anyway."

Me nodded, in spite of himself.

"But you won't find him." Her expression
was suddenly bleak. "Well, you are welcome to
come in and chat. We've few visitors these days."

She stood back from the door, and he
entered a drawing room, with that air of age and
distance of a reconstructed period piece—chaise
lounge in faded blue floral chintz, lace curtains
very white in the tall windows, dark Persian rugs,
mahogany sideboard and end tables.

His eyes wandered to the fireplace, which
was of marble, with an unusual enamel inset: a
fox and a bat and a crescent moon, black on
white. She walked ahead of him and sat at one
end of an overstuffed purple sofa, motioning him
to the other end. The maid disappeared and
returned with a silver tea service on a silver
platter.

He sipped the aromatic Darjeeling with
gratitude. It seemed to restore his nerves some-
what. His psychic senses were still jangling.
There was an almost visible aura about this
woman.

She watched him, sipping her tea, a vague
melancholy look to her wide mouth. She must. he

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

reflected, have been a great beauty once.

"She was my daughter," she said finally,
"and he . .." her look darkened, "was my son-in-
law."

He nodded. Suddenly he realized that he
didn't know what he wanted to ask. "Was your
son-in-law a werewoif?" would make fine polite
conversation.

She stil! watched him intently.

"You have something about you that
reminds me of Richard just the slightest little bit.
He was very haunted. Are you haunted, too?"

There was no deceiving this woman, and he
felt that she at least half-knew anyway. He sipped
his tea to give his hands something to do.

"Perhaps I am. It seems that Richard and I
were very distant relatives. Many generations
back. But the line is a thin one. I'd like to know
something about him."

She sighed and went to the marble fireplace,
returning with a small photo.in a gilt frame.

"My daughter," she said, handing it to him.

He took the picture. He knew by now some of
the genetic traits that went with the blood, some-
times. She was very lovely, in a slightly spooky
way—pale, blonde, smiling a secret smile that
showed very even and slightly large teeth. She
had the brows growing closely together and
slightly almond eyes. As he looked at the photo,
it was almost as if he saw her blink.

"She was a dancer in the 1950s, before she
came to be really disturbed. She was in and out
of sanitariums all the time. She'd just withdraw,
or sometimes become violent.

"She met Richard in the last sanitarium.

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Jeffrey Goddin

They had similar problems and similar interests,
though he was an architect. It seemed to be what
both of them needed. They married and lived
here for a while. She had a child.

"But they put the child up for adoption. I
couldn't stop them."

She looked at him very hard.

"It's probably she in whom you'd be inter-
ested now."

"What do you mean?"

She poured more tea. The scent mingled with
the general aura of time misplaced that
surrounded the house and the woman.

"1 don't know why it happened. Perhaps my
husband and 1 ignored the gods too long. The
gods punished my daughter, and I know how
they did it."

"You do?" Mis voice was raspy, in spite of the
tea.

She nodded.

"She tried to tell me, when she was growing
up. Perhaps it was in the family. I had a grand-
father who had a similar problem at times, but he
could control it... as probably you can."

He nodded. It was as if they suddenly under-
stood one another perfectly. He felt a sudden
warmth for this woman and took her hand in his.

"You're very wise, I think," he said.

She laughed, taking her hand away.

"I'm very old and happy to be, but I still cry
for my daughter. I tried to get my grand-
daughter, but the couple who had adopted her
wouldn't let her go. She's grown up now, a
professional with a business degree from Illinois,
I think. 1 expect you'll want to find her. That's all I
know."

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

'What's her name?"

"Lisa Perkins. She took the name of the
family who adopted her."

He sat, sipping tea. Somehow, after the
conversation, it seemed impossible to make
small talk. but she didn't seem to require it.

"Perhaps," she said Finally, "it would be
good if you found her."

"What," he said, "happened to your
daughter and son-in-law?"

"He killed her and then disappeared," she
said.

Outside, the clouds had thickened, and an
odd switch of breeze brought a slight smell of
city pollution, incongruous. In this setting.

As he climbed back into the little Porche, he
was already plotting his trip to Louisville. But an
odd thought crossed his mind.

Why does she still keep his life insurance
policy paid up?

The sweet smell of wisteria was heavy on the
humid night air. Clouds that now thickened and
now thinned raced across the waxing yellow
moon. As Karl walked down the old, old street,
the moon would appear, throwing sudden
shadows from the trees, then would be cloaked,
and the shadows would thicken into darkness.

The area was even stranger by night. It
seemed as old as the moon that looked down on
it. no dogs barked, and no one but Karl walked
the empty streets. Again, he had that feeling of
time lapse. He was going back in time, by leaps
of decades and even more.

He had left his car blocks away, before

155

Jeffrey Ooddin

setting out on foot for the house he'd visited that
afternoon. He had a feeling, partly from his
knowledge of the insurance policy. But how to
confirm it?

At one of the few cross streets, he took to the
backyards. For the most part these were bound
by thick hedges and he had to go around, rather
than through them. And these yards were more
like parks with few landmarks. His sense of
direction become confused.

He felt that he was approaching his
destination. His seventh sense was working now,
and, as he found the old iron gate in the walls,
barely visible in the night, he felt a sudden
tensing. It was almost a fight reaction. He was
coming closer, but closer, to what? Just what did
he expect to find?

He opened the old iron gate, which
surprisingly did not creak, and slipped through
into the yard.

The rear yard was vast. He could see a line of
trees at the deep end of it opposite the house and
overgrown ornamental plantings set at odd
spaces tn the center. To his left, ahead, was a real
gazebo of the old Italian style, once white, and
sttll luminous enough to be defined in the dark-
ness.

He stepped into the yard. The grass was dry
beneath his feet, a sign of coming rain. He
walked slowly behind the bulk of the giant old
house, trying to move from bit to bit of broken
statuary, to give his body some shelter from the
eyes of the house.

But who would be watching the backyard?

He stood by a statuary group on a Greek

156

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

theme, rather like—what was it? Yes, Laocoon,
that was it—the father who for his sins watched
his sons devoured by monsters.

The moon shone through the clouds,
painting the devouring serpents with sliding
shadows. He looked to the house and felt his
eyes drawn upward.

In the top story he saw one window with
wooden shutters. The shutters suddenly opened.

The moonlight and his supernormal vision,
showed him the face that pressed against the
shiny metal bars which protected the window.

It was a once-handsome face, of a man
perhaps in his 50s. with shaggy light-colored
hair and bushy beard and bright, bright eyes.
The hands wrapped around the bars seemed
gnarled and strong. The piercing eyes peered
Into the night. They seemed to see Karl, and the
^ man stiffened and gripped the bars as if he would
tear them from their fixtures.

Even at this distance Karl felt the intensity of
the man's gaze. He shivered, returning that gaze,
and realized that a psychic connection of sorts
was forming between them. He opened to it
slightly and the onrush of Images staggered him.

Blood. A beach strewn with dismembered
bodies. A high mountain wreathed in mist with a
storm sweeping in from the sea. Me, 1, in the city,
walking the empty streets, stalking. A woman,
turning, screaming, her hand to her mouth, as
he,I...

Karl closed off the connection suddenly. He
was shaken, even though he'd half-suspected
what he might find this night. The man kept
staring, trying to send him thoughts, and Karl

157

Jeffrey Qoddin

tried to make himself leave the yard.

But he was fascinated. Here was another like
himself, like Adrienne.

The man began to laugh, loud, abrasive,
maniacal laughter, like fabric being shredded.
He pointed at Karl through the bars and laughed
and laughed and laughed.

And Karl's nerve broke. He raced across the
yard, almost changing to that sublimated wolf
form before he realized what he was doing. In his
sudden confusion he tripped over the base of a
ruined statue and tumbled full length in the
grass, scraping his knee on something hard.

He got up, tested his knee, that laughter still
falling around him like a bombardment, then
began to use his supernormal senses to blend
into the night, to run fleetly across the darkened
yards, avoiding all obstacles.

When he reached his car, he wasn't even
sweating.

It was time to leave Knoxville, to get on with
It. And he had a very good lead, a lead that gave
him an odd thrill to contemplate.

The poor, deadly, pitiful creature locked in
the attic room.

For better or worse, he had finally met
Richard Avallone.

The small bandaged figure of the young girl
seemed almost lost in the hospital bed. Only part
of Heather's face was visible through the mass of
bandages, since one side of her face had been
covered as well. For the plastic surgery, thought
nurse Anna Stahl, taking the little girl's pulse.
Thank God the parents had insurance, though it

158

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

would do them little good.

Anna ran a hand through her curly black hair
and then put her hands on her hips, realizing as
she did so that she was once again adopting one
of her mother's postures. I'll never be rid of her,
she thought, never.

The poor little girl. She was sedated as
heavily as possible, because, usually, when she
woke up, she began to scream.

Murse Stahl looked up suddenly as the door
to the ward opened and a tall, gray-haired man
walked in.

She summed him up in a glance—thin but
strong, eyes bloodshot and ringed (probably
drinks, she thought), shirt dated, suit creased,
shoes scuffed, a bulge under the coat. He must
be a cop, and the type of man who makes a point
of his maleness. She hated him on sight.

"Mo visitors," she snapped. "Out."

The tall man's pale, pale eyes looked at the
short, black-haired nurse, her legs splayed as if
for judo, and passed on to'where the girl lay
smothered in bandages.

"I'm John Mardin, Detective." He fished out a
badge. "I was hoping I might be able to talk with
Heather."

"She's in no shape to talk with anybody.
She's been through hell. We'll notify you when
she can talk."

A flash of hostility crossed Hardin's lean
face. Then he smiled, but it wasn't a warm smile.

"Two people are dead. I know It's been awful
for her, but has she talked at all?"

"I told you .. ." She advanced on him. He
didn't move a muscle, but his voice tightened.

159

Jeffrey Qoddin

"I want to catch these people as soon as
possible. Like yesterday. Can we talk?"

She stared at him a moment, but she hated
him a fraction less for his sincerity.

"Outside."

She called another nurse on the intercom.
"Please come to room 224."

"Why did you do that?" he asked, when the
other nurse arrived and went into the room
where Heather lay.

"Because she mustn't be alone for a
moment. Christ, she was even having convul-
sions."

He nodded. "Can we get some coffee some-
where?"

"Follow me." She was giving an order, and he
held his temper with an effort. Feminist bitch.
They were cropping up everywhere these days.

They went down one floor and along a right-
angled corridor. They passed a mixed
ward—people laying on beds divided by
partitions—which Hardin knew signified poverty
cases. You had to have money to have privacy.
Hardin spent as little time in hospitals as
possible.

They came to the lounge, a long, neat, white
room where half a dozen nurses and doctors were
sitting and chatting. The coffee was surprisingly
good. He and Anna found a couch.

"What's your name?" he asked, sipping the
steaming coffee.

"Anna Stahl," she said curtly. "You wanted
to ask me some questions about Heather?"

He nodded.

"Has she said anything, anything at all, that

160




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

might help us find her parents' killers?"

Anna frowned.

"She had a terrible shock. Most of what she
says is pretty incoherent. She talks about three
men coming into the house. Pio, she talks about
two men and a monster."

"Monster?"

"That's right. She says one of the men was a
monster—covered with hair, with a face like a
wolf."

Hardin shook his head.

"Anything else?"

"She says that the monster's name was
Cub-that's what the others called him. At first,
she thought he was cute, until he killed her
father."

"What about the other men?"

"I haven't really asked her to describe them.
She needs rest."

"Please, think. It could help us a lot."

"Well, I think she said that one of the men had
very nice cloths. The other- one was short and
weird. Christ, she doesn't really understand what
happened to her."

And maybe you don't either, he thought.

"Anything else she said that might help?"

"Mo." She set down her coffee cup and met
his eyes squarely. Her dark eyes held an even
darker emotion.

"Detective, you've got to get those men. I
could kill them myself."

For a split second, he almost liked her.

It was barely noon, and the office reeked of
tobacco smoke. If Hardin himself could smell it,

161

Jeffrey Goddin

maybe it was time to taper off a bit. Age was
something John Hardin never had given much
thought to, until he realized he was closer to 50
than 40. Things like smoking caught up with a
person.

Bullshit. He lit another unfiltered Lucky and
tried to put together what he had on the killings
at the Cunningham house.

The forensics stuff was still coming in. The
three men had left a ton of stuff—mud, bits of
clothing, fingerprints—even blood, for some of it
was coming up a different type than any of the
Cunninghams, It was as if they just didn't
care—stone-crazed killers and thieves.

He thought about what little he'd found out
about Heather. At least he had a description of
two of the men—the short, weird one and the
well-dressed one. And the monster?

Poor kid. Poor, poor kid.

He looked up suddenly as the door to his
office sprang open. His pale eyes narrowed under
gray-black brows as he recognized Simpson, the
new black detective that the department had
hired to fill the Affirmative Action quota, or so
the scuttlebutt ran.

"What the hell do you want?" he snapped.

Simpson met his eyes. They recognized one
another, the smart young black cop and the old
vet who had a strong streak of bigotry in his
makeup.

"Something 1 thought you'd like to see . . .
sir."

The "sir" was just a fraction too tate.

"And just what the hell do you suppose you
have that I'd like to see?"

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Simpson softly laid the photograph down on
Hardin's desk. it was a polaroid shot of a wrist,
and on the wrist was a tattoo—two circles joined
by a short line that cut across the center of both.

Hardin's eyes widened.

"Where did this come from?"

"A guy we found wandering around last
night, coked out of his mind, with a bullet in his
shoulder."

Hardin's mind flashed back, as Simpson knew
it would. A couple of months ago two guys had
kidnapped a girl from school and tortured her to
death. That had been a top priority until a tip had
led them to a shack where the guys lived in the
far west end. The two had been sentimental.
They'd kept pieces of the girl's underwear. A few
loose ends and it was a wrap.

One of the guys had had a tattoo—two
circles joined by a central line.

Unlikely connection, but not too unlikely.

"This guy downstairs?"

"Yeah. We're keeping hinr close, but there's a
high class lawyer tryin' to spring him. He's a rich
kid."

Hardin looked Simpson in the eye. He hated
the man and knew the man felt about the same
way about him. But Hardin couldn't help but say
it.

"Mice work. Fuck the lawyers. Let's get our
asses downstairs and have a talk with this dude."

Hardin had the man brought to the clean
white interrogation room, which had an
observation window on the side, but Hardin knew
there would be nobody there by chance.

The man walked into the room, smiling. He

165

Jeffrey Goddin

was tall and thin with thick dark hair and
wearing about $500 worth of clothing—pre-
faded designer denims, Egon shirt, one of those
casual looking cotton jackets that they wear on
the TV cop shows. But the right sleeve of the
jacket had a narrow dark tear up on the shoulder
—a bullet hole.

The man grinned at Hardin and Simpson and
sat down, crossing his legs.

Hardin walked over to him and stood,
looking down into his face.

Hardin was tall, six foot two, 200 pounds. He
didn't look big, but not an inch of him was soft.
The young man looked up at him and his smile
slid a fraction.

"What can 1 do for you boys," he said, with a
faint northeastern accent.

Hardin kicked his foot off of his knee and
shoved man and chair against the wall.

"Darren, we're going to have a nice little
conversation. I'll ask the questions, and you
answer them."

"1 think my lawyer will answer all your
questions."

Hardin put his hand softly on Darren's
shoulder, near his neck.

"The first question is how did you get that
bullet wound on your shoulder?"

"Some dude tried to mug me, down on West
Broadway."

"Then how come you were found miles to the
east of there?"

"I caught a ride."

Hardin squeezed the man's shoulder
slightly. He squirmed.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"The next question is, how did you get that
tattoo on your wrist?"

The man sobered slightly but then forced a
laugh.

"My girlfriend had one just like it. It's a neat
design. It means . . ." He realized that he might
be talking too much and shut up.

"Where did you get that tattoo?" Hardin
repeated.

"My momma gave it to me. She said it was
sexy."

Simpson barely saw the blow. so fast did
Hardin's hand move. But Darren's head jerked
backward and his neckbones cracked. Simpson
was disgusted, until he remembered that this
guy had helped kill a little girl's parents right in
front of her.

Simpson felt like hitting him, too.

"Mot a good answer." said Hardin softly.
"Where did you get that tattoo?" .

Simpson came over and stood beside Darren,
glancing briefly at Hardin. Da'rren looked up at
him. Simpson smiled down at him.

"Look," said Simpson. "You're in a lot of
trouble. Probably the death penalty at the
moment. You dig?"

"What are you talking about?"

"About two murders and child molestation,
at a place where you left clues all over."

"You've got nothing on me." But Darren was
beginning to sweat. "I demand to see my
lawyer."

"He died," said Simpson. "We've got
everything on you. You're dead, man, but it
might go to life If you help us."




165

Jeffrey Goddin

"This shit doesn't deserve any help/'
snapped Hardin, appreciating, in spite of
himself. Simpson's contrasting approach to
Hardin's method. It was the old nice guy/tough
guy routine, and it just might work.

"I Know he doesn't deserve any help," said
Simpson softly. "He's lower than a rat with the
clap." He looked into Darren's confused eyes as
he said it. "But there's something he knows that
we'd like to know."

"Is this a deal, then?" said Darren, unable to
keep the hopefulness out of his voice.

"Mo way," snarled Hardin. "Let's get out of
here. This bastard's useless."

"Hold on a minute. We can't promise a deal,
but if you give us what we need .. ."

Darren thought a minute.

"Okay, what the hell. This tattoo, see, it's
something some of us in the Sunset Club get,
dig? it's got some kind of magic meaning or
something, according to Sid."

"Cool," said Simpson. "We thought as much.
We found one of those tattoos on somebody who
must have been a buddy of yours. Mow for the big
one. Who was the other guy, the one who killed
the girl's parents?"

"What other guy? What are you talking

about."

Hardin turned and began to walk to the door.

"You're not very smart," said Simpson,
beginning to follow.

"Hey, wait," said Darren. "You mean, last
night. . ."

Simpson turned around.

"Keep talking."

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"What do you want to know?"

"Where do we find him?"

Darren seemed to close up on himself. He
crossed his arms.

"Hey, no way, man. That dude's bad. I mean,
he's a killer! He can even . . ." Suddenly Darren
looked very frightened and confused.

"He can even what?" asked Simpson.

"You wouldn't believe it," said Darren.

"We can be kinda bad ourselves," said
Hardin softly. "Who is he, and where do we find
him?"

"PIo way," said Darren. "No fuckin' wayl"

Hardin looked at Simpson. Simpson knew
what was coming. He didn't like it, but. . .

Hardin suddenly jerked the man up from his
chair, twisting his arm and using the knuckles of
his free hand'to hit a nerve center high up under
the arm. Darren screamed loudly. That would
attract attention, thought Simpson. Better be
fast. He came up close to the hood's face. The
man was sweating, eyes bulgirTg with pain.

"We might be able to help you out just a
little. But where's that dude we asked about?"

"Okay," said Darren in a near scream. "Our
place is back of a place like a warehouse, off West
Market, little back alley. They'll probably be
there tonight. The guy you want's named Cub."
He gave the address. "But don't tell 'em 1 told
you. Please! That guy's a killer!"

But Hardin wasn't through yet. He got a
description of Cub and the other man, Sid, who'd
been along the night before. Then he let the man
back into the chair and called for the warder.

"Well," he said, as he and Simpson were

167

Jeffrey Ooddin

heading for the elevator, "I think we got business
tonight."

Simpson glowered, his mind a whirl of
conflicting emotions. He hated Mardln's
methods, but, knowing what the man, Darren,
had done, or assisted in, he almost wished he'd
punched him a few times himself.

Well, he'd have a chance to go along tonight.

Kod, the fat man, blinked his small, red-
rimmed eyes, sifting through the handful of
watches and expensive jewelry that Sid had
spread out on the table. Me picked up a little
silver box, opened it, saw the white powder and
sniffed it. Then he put the whole box to his nose
and inhaled deeply.

He sneezed and laughed.

"Ahhh! Some haul!"

Sid shook his head.

"There's more." He reached into his shirt
pocket and took out a thick wad of bills. He put
those on the table, too.

Sid lit a joint of fine Thai. One or two puffs
were sufficient to have you watching the second
hand, waiting an hour or two for it to come
around. He gave an odd, sidelong look at Cub,
seated to his left. What Cub had done last night
had left him a little dazed. He thought he knew
what he'd seen . . . but what the hell. It had all
worked out very, very well.

He passed the joint to Cub. Cub ran a hand
through his mop of black hair. He was still fired
from the adventure the night before, the thrill of
the stalk, the attack, the rending of soft flesh. He
wanted to do it again. His mind focused on the

168

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

nervous tremor the sounds of their screams had
given him. He shivered and took the Joint. Might
as well find out why Sid keeps taking this sharp-
smelling smoke into his lungs.

Rod noted Cub's puffing and coughing over
the joint. He still didn't trust this dude, but he
seemed to have proven himself.

"What about Darren?" he asked finally.

"Darren?" Sid's eyes were already glazing.

"Darren. Haven't seen him all day."

"Probably off chasing some skirt."

Kod chortled to himself. "I read a little about
it in the papers. Front page stuff. Called you guys
"monsters." Some party. Count me in next
time."

Sid nodded. He looked off to the side, where
a couple of street toughs were playing cards at
another table.

"Those guys?"

"Mickey and Pete. Seem to be up for about
anything. Petey's got a record. Figured maybe we
ought to fill'em in."

Sid frowned. Untested people could mean
trouble. They might talk, if they got caught.

"We'll see."

The rear door of the warehouse suddenly slid
open.

"That's probably Darren now," said Sid.

An authoritative male voice called out,
"Okay everybody. Hold it right where you are.
Don't move a muscle."

Five pairs of eyes went to the rear, where two
uniformed cops with riot shotguns were slowly
advancing on the group at the table.

"Shit," said Rod. He moved without thinking,

169

Jeffrey Goddtn

his hand going behind his oack to the little .38
Special. Moving with surprising speed for his
bulk. he upended the table on Sid, firing a shot at
the same time.

One of the cops fired his shotgun, the blast
echoing in the warehouse. Rod seemed to Jump
backwards. Me groaned and fell. The other cop
was holding his shoulder, but Kod wasn't going
to move again.

"All right!" More cop voices from the other
end of the warehouse. Sid began to run, though
he wasn't sure just where. The two street kids
just stood, hands in the air.

Cub got slowly to his feet. He was feeling a
little muzzy from the joint. A tremor circulated in
his blood, as he measured the distance to the
two cops advancing from the rear of the building
and the three from the other side.

He went to the three.

"Hold it right there! Stop, or I'll—"

He hit the first cop low, crashing him to his
knees. The cop's shotgun roared harmlessly into
the air. Cub picked him up in one flowing motion
and whirled him into his fellows. Someone
slammed the barrel of a gun into his head, and
he lashed out and felt bone crunch. He snarled,
beginning to transform.

To those watching it was as if the youth's
figure suddenly became misty, oddly shaped,
but the uninjured cop with the shotgun was
taking no chances.

The shot caught Cub in the shoulder in the
midst of transformation, a slug that would have
torn most people's shoulder off. He couldn't
change and started falling with the intense pain.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

He screamed and lashed
quickly subdued him.

out, as the police

"Jeeze, this guy's strong!"

"Just hold him. With a hole like that in his
shoulder, he can't keep it up."

And it was true. Cub's strange conscious-
ness faded into blackness.

171

^^4^:>^-^^^^^-^f~^.. ...... .,„. ,-^k^sh.s

Lisa was scanning the paper as Feldstein talked.
As usual, she seemed to be able to do any
number of things at once, always with total
recall. It had almost ceased to irritate him, that
his brilliant junior partner read the paper while
he talked.

Feldstein examined her while he was talking,
running his fingers through his salt-and-pepper
wavy hair. He, too, had that detached conscious-
ness that speaking in public or negotiating with
hidden meanings develops in a person. Me res-
pected it—to a point.

Lisa was a blonde beauty. She had a long.
lean figure straight out of a Penthouse spread
and full, sensuous lips under a slightly long
nose. Her eyebrows were arched in a way that
would have indicated humor in anyone else. Me
tried to remember when he'd heard her crack a

175

Jeffrey Goddin

joke. And her skin, that ivory skin that never
seemed to tan, he associated with an Italian
strain. At odd times he longed to taste that skin.

But there was something about her, some
purely unknown quality. One wasn't quite sure
one wanted to get mixed up with someone of her
power. And anyway, she was really too good a
partner to put things on that basis.

". . . and Hegemeyer's uneasy about the
merger. Doesn't think that there's enough
growth potential to validate taking on all those
debts."

He awaited her comment, but it didn't come.
She seemed unusually engrossed in the paper
this morning. If it had been anyone else, he
would have thought she was being delibrately
rude, but Lisa was never rude. Coldly efficient,
yes. Rude. never.

"Hey, Lisa, what's going down so hot in the
newsrag?"

She looked up suddenly.

Feldstein felt his smile draining. The
woman's face held an emotion that he'd never
seen there before—a mean, dangerous emotion,
a faint echo of which he'd seen as she closed In
on a fresh M.B.A. in a hotly contested debate. Her
eyes had a distant, imposing look.

She smiled.

"As to the debts, if the full terms of
acquisition are adhered to, one of the major
debtors is a holding company owned by our
client. They should be able to renegotiate
without too much trouble at all."

So, she had been listening, after all.

176

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

After Feldstein had gone home for the day,
Usa turned once again to the brief front page
notice in the paper:

"Early Sunday morning, Douglas Alien, the
man convicted of the Harmony Wood
slaying, escaped from a security ward at
Center Creek hospital. Mr. Alien Is six foot
tall. has red hair and a short mustache. Dr.
Grant, Director of the hospital, warns that
Alien Is extremely dangerous. Anyone
knowing his whereabouts, or who thinks
that they recognize him, should contact the
police or Dr. Grant immediately."
Lisa stared at the accompanying picture.
Alien was a good-looking man, but obviously
spaced out by his capture in the police photo.
She recalled seeing him once before.

Lisa's smile twisted into irony. So Murray had
lost AllenI Murray was getting careless. It might
be that she'd have to track down Alien herself.

It annoyed her, because the urge was on her.
She hadn't had any fun for a long. long time and
felt the need to loosen up, but this was serious.
This might take time. It was serious, because
Alien knew about them, and that made him
dangerous.

She looked at the phone, then dialed Linda at
the reception desk.

"Take all of my calls. I'm going to be gone for
a while."

Tobey Levin was not crazy about his position
as a consulting psychiatrist to the Louisville
Police Force. But he was new in the field and
didn't yet have the kind of following that led to a

177

Jeffrey Goddin

typical psychiatrist's bank account.

Also, he was a Qestalt psychologist. And as
such, he was highly selective in his clientele—his
private clients, anyway. He genuinely believed
that there was a world of forms and symbols that
underlay human life and thought, and that
through understanding and manipulating these
symbols, we could make our mental and
emotional lives much richer. Me wanted clients
who could f-ell him something as well as be
helped, and so his private practice was growing
only slowly.

And the police job was a steady income.

Now, however, as he sat in the cell with the
handcuffed   prisoner,   he   was   seriously
considering dropping this job.

Because he was actually afraid of this young
man with the tousled hair and the brown-black
eyes and the bandaged shoulder.

The young man sat on the edge of his chair
like a half-tame animal, his body tensed as if he
would like to spring at the psychiatrist, though
there was only a silly haif-smile on his lips. This
was one thing that bothered Levin especially, the
youth's mixed disposition was appropriate to a
hard-core psychotic. Even the presence of the
uniformed officer just beyond the door did not
especially reassure him.

Because he both rationally deduced and
emotionally intuited that this young man was a
killer!

"Oet a grip on yourself. Levin," he mentally
chlded. "Oet a grip on yourself." He squared his
shoulders, put on what he thought was a
reassuring smile and looked at the young man.

178

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"What's your name?"

"Cub." The youth smiled, showing his teeth.

Levin made a show of writing down the
name, and the young man watched him as if he
were performing a very intriguing operation.

"What do you do for a living?" Levin asked.

Cub stared at him, a slight frown crossing
his handsome features.

"You mean . . -job?"

"Yes," said Levin. "Your job. What is your
iob?"

"Mammals."

"What?"

"Pfanimals."

"Animals?"

Cub nodded, still smiling like an American
playing an oriental in an old B-movie.

"You're a veterinarian?"

Cub shook his head.

"No vetran."

"What do you do with animals?" Levin was
beginning to realize some underlying order to
Cub's vocabulary. "What. You do. With animals?"

"I am Mammal."

Levin wrote that one down.

"What kind of animal are you?"

"Wolf."

Cub bared his teeth, growling low in his
throat. Levin felt the short hairs rising on the
back of his neck. He almost got up from the
chair, but then Cub laughed.

"Don't worry," he said. "Won't hurt you."

Levin smiled. The growl had been amazingly
authentic.

"i'm glad for that."

179

Jeffrey Goddin

Cub returned his smile in a most friendly
manner.

"Qlad for that," he repeated, as if trying out
the words. It was odd, the way he seemed to be
testing sounds, as if language itself was foreign
to him.

"What happened at the house you and your
friends visited the night before last?" It was a
long sentence, but Levin thought that Cub might
understand.

Cub cocked his head, as if sorting out the
words.

"What happened at the house?" asked Levin.
"With the man and the woman and the little

girl?"

Cub stopped smiling. He shook his head.

"Don't know."

That cinched It. He could recognize a
complex question, even if he couldn't answer it.

"Were you there?"

"What?"

"Were you at the house?"

"Pio."

"Didn't you go to the house with your
friends?"

"Frens?"

"Sid. And Darren?"

"Sid and Darren?" Cub repeated. Tobey was
suddenly convinced that Cub had begun to lie.

"Did you go to the house with them?"

Cub Just stared at him. Levin recalled the
words Cub definitely knew.

"Were you there?"

"Mo."

The weird language play and Cub's sheer

180

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

presence were getting on Levin's nerves. He
stood slowly, carefully. Dammit, he thought, why
am I so cautious around this guy?

Cub laughed, as If reading his thoughts.
Levin looked at him intently, and Cub stared
back. Jeeze, reading his thoughts. Somehow the
Idea was not as weird as it should have been.

Levin motioned the officer Into the room.
Then he gave Cub some color tests. He didn't
know the names of the colors, but bright red
brought the response "blood," and then
"police." Sophisticated dual association.

He tested Cub's reflexes and heart and blood
pressure. The blood pressure was low, radically
low, but the boy looked healthy enough. And the
heart was a little too rapid. Eye reflexes were
almost twice as fast as normaL This kid was
superbly healthy, almost unnaturally so.

Wait a minute, thought Levin. Those eye
reflexes are beyond human ability. Me gave the
test again with the same result. He realized that
the palms of his hands were moist.

Suddenly, he had had enough.

"I'll see you later," he said, as he left the cell.

"Hope so," said Cub clearly, smiling cheer-
fully.

Once in his office. Levin turned the stereo
receiver to the local university classical station
and spent several minutes watering the tropical
plants that he used to block the view of the old
warehouses next door. He made a strong cup of
coffee and smoked one of the unfiltered Camels
he'd been trying to give up.

Damn, that boy had rattled him. He could

181

Jeffrey Ooddin

barely speak English, and he thought he was a
wolf—quite calmly, he thought that he was a
wolf—and he was a prime suspect. Cub reminded
Tobey vaguely of a mental patient or two he'd
seen in the rural Kentucky and Tennessee htll
clinics, except that Cub barely even had an
accent.

And he was still bothered by his own physical
reaction to the boy. It had been almost some-
thing primal, that right-or-flight adrenalin rush.
Perhaps he should do a little analysis on himself.

Still musing, he picked up the phone and
dialed a number from memory. He had one
strong suspicion as to where Cub had come
from. The phone rang once, twice.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Dr. Grant? It's me, Tobey, in
Louisville. I've a really strange one in jail here.
I'm wondering if he might be one of yours."

The room was oddly suggestive of nature. In
a fantastic way. The thickly carpeted layout was
spaced with small platforms and terraces at
various levels, all in muted greens, pale beige
and soft blue. A cat would have loved it/ but there
was no cat. The ceiling was high, with recessed
skylights through which a few early stars were
visible, for the ceiling itself caught little ambient
light. The actual light in the room came from
globes of varying intensity set on tall, flexible
poles, but most were turned out, and the few that
remained on were dimmed very low, leaving the
room mostly in shadow.

In the lowest portion of the floor, reached by
padded steps, was a pool. And the pool was
occupied.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Murray Grant lay back in the cool water, his
mind replaying the details of Alien's escape, as
much as he had been able to reconstruct from
the sketchy accounts of his personnel. Damn
Fielding, and damn him againi He would fire
fielding, of course. That man had always been
too independent. But that would not help him
fetch back Alien.

And now this business of Levin's call. Of
course. Levin would call him. It was all a part of
the weird matrix of events that seemed to be
developing—a matrix that Grant's superhuman
mind analyzed with blinding speed yet was still
stymied.

Cub. It was such a strangely appropriate
name. It had happened, against all odds. He had
no doubt at all that the boy was his son. His son!
It had been an odd chance, an experiment or a
whim. He recalled the weird thrill of it—the night,
the zoo, the cross phyla touching of the female
wolf. But what sort of creature had he created?
Further, how could he make-contact?

Grant lay in the water and brooded. And as
he brooded, he heard a noise, a very faint
padding on the stones of the terrace, behind the
long curtained sliding doors to his rear.

A dog, he thought, ignoring it. Then, he
heard a faint scratching at the glass.

A dog?

His mind suddenly purged of impressions, he
stood up from the pool, not bothering to dry
himself, and sprang softly up the low terraces to
where long curtains hid the sliding doors.
Standing naked, his body seemed immensely
powerful, corded muscles standing out across
his shoulder and calves.

185

Jeffrey Goddtn

With a swift, smooth motion, he slid back the
curtains.

A woman stood there, her face barely visible.

Me pushed the door to the side.

It was Lisa, her teeth bared in a grotesque
parody of a snarl.

He laughed.

"nice, very nice."

She walked past him Into the room, to a low
table beside a padded chair that seemed to blend
organically into the decor, as if it were growing
there.

A bottle of aged bourbon stood on the table.
She suddenly picked it up and, spinning around
on her toes, hurled It at Grant's head with
amazing accuracy.

It would have probably killed the average
human. Grant deftly caught the bottle and set it
down on the floor at his side.

"Mice homecoming." he said wryly, the long
planes of his tanned face twitching with amuse-
ment.

"You fool," she spat. "There are people
thinking about us. I can feel it. Alien is still-at
large. What if he can convince someone that he
saw us? What if he can recognize you?"

"I've never seen him personally at the
Institution." said Grant. "If he saw me, or you, he
might make the connection—if he's sane
enough. But who would ever believe him? A man
who becomes violent if confined?

"Ho." he continued, "we don't have to worry
about Alien. But. I'm afraid we do have another
worry."

"What?" Lisa didn't like the aura of him. He

184

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

had an air of uncertainty, that he didn't wear
well—and that didn't sit well with her at all.

"Dr. Tobey Levin, the psychiatrist who does
consulting for the police department, called me
this morning. They captured a man last night in
a raid on a gang—a man who barely speaks
English—who barely speaks at all. named Cub. A
strange, ultra-strong young man who Just laughs
at them and needs to be t ran quit ized. He talked to
one of the other prisoners, one of the men they
captured, about Cub. The other prisoner was
simply terrified of the man.

"The final bit of information is that Dr. Levin
has been to see the little girl whose parents were
killed. She told him about a dark-haired man who
turned Into a monster."

"And so?" said Lisa. "Get to the point."

"And so, I think he's my son."

"Your son? Come on now." She pondered.
"Oh. from when you fucked the wolf, you mean?"
She laughed. "1 think you're getting dotty."

"I checked with the zoo. The cub—'Cub,' get
It?—that had grown up so quickly escaped from
the zoo a week ago and apparently killed a guard
on the way out."

"It all adds up. doesn't it?" said Lisa. "But
who would have thought that such a hybrid
could form, let alone live? Mo, it's just too weird."

"There's a Greek tradition for it—the
vyrkotaka— those of our blood are occasionally
said to mate with wolves and produce inhuman
offspring."

"But the sheer genetics of It?"

"I have a theory about that. I discovered In
my researches that changing may involve a

185

Jeffrey Goddtn

modification of our electrostatic fields. The
human body is polarized, of course. We—those of
our blood—actually carry something that seems
to be a wolf gene in our sperm and eggs. It exists
simultaneously with our normal genes and only
in the sperm or ova. In the advanced electro-
static state of the wolf form, the wolf sperm
actually precedes the human sperm, which ts
why sex in that form is infertile with humans."

"But not with a wolf."

"Flo, not with a wolf."

"But why?" asked Lisa. "Would a wolf that
was produced be able to change?"

"The same principal of mind modifying
electrostatic polarity. The human material is
present, only in Cub's case what we have is a wolf
who has become human."

Lisa suddenly began to laugh.

"You've made a real werewotf. I was going to
say that it's all too weird, but.. ."

Grant, too. began to laugh. It would, indeed,
have been an Ironic statement.

They sat for a moment, their intense auras
building at the nearness of another of the same
species. It was as if each called the other's
energies.

"Okay." said Lisa. ' I'm going to go by the
jail. If Cub is related to us, I'll sense it."

"And if so?"

"Well, we'll have to kill him."

Grant's amber eyes glared into her sky-
colored ones. She felt the energy building in him,
but she was not afraid. She crossed her long legs
as if flirting. Grant's nearness had already
brought up her sexual scents, and she knew that
he could perceive them.
186

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"The problem with you," said Grant evenly,
"is that underneath your intellect, your instinct,
you're just a biological female of whatever
species. Your hormonal balance changes, and
you mistake It for a thought."

"Much as you with that she-wolf. Was that a
rational act?"

"That, dear lady, was in the nature of an
experiment.'

"And now your experiment's gone out of
control, with a vengeance. We must kni him
before someone realizes just what he is, and that
there may be more like him."

"Mo," snapped Grant. "He's my son. Do you
realize the opportunity we have here? 1 mean,
he's part of me, but he's also a true werewolf. He
can become a man. Think of the things we could
learn from him."

' Think of the things he might do to us. I
doubt that wolves have an advanced sense of
blood ties.

"Anyway," she continued, "he's more of a
monster than even we are. If he's real. What if he
changes In the middle of interrogation? Why
hasn't he changed already?"

"According to Levin, he was badly wounded.
The wound could account for it."

"Then we can't let him heal," said Lisa. "It,
he, would be something none of them could
ignore."

"1 said no." snapped Grant. "And I wish you'd
quit talking about other people as 'them.' "

"Don't be an ass," said Lisa. "They are
'thems' compared to us. And they'd wipe us out
In a minute if they knew about us. Or about Cub.

Lisa sat, pondering. The world was certainly

187

Jeffrey Ooddin

askew these days.

She went to the rosewood bar and mixed
herself a bourbon and water, a sign of confusion
for she had a strong reaction to liquor. She was
ignoring Orant for the moment. She was slightly
startled when the lights dimmed, and a video
image appeared against the far recessed wall.

"What's that?" she asked sullenly.

"Walt and see."

The image did a professional fade to a huge,
period room in an old house of some kind. The
room was dimly lit, the only light seeming to
come from a seven-branched candelabra on a
long polished side table to the rear, and from the
red glowing coals of a banked fire in a broad dark
stone fireplace to the left.

Lisa admired the moodlness of the images.
They had a certain Byzantine charm, but what
was the point?

A soundtrack came on—soft harpischord
music, which she recognized as Telemann.

A young boy appeared In the left corner of
the frame, and the camera shifted to catch him
softly closing a broad oak door behind him. He
was a teenager. In jeans and sneakers and denim
Jacket, with shoulder length blond hair. He
looked behind him, and the camera came In
close on the mask of sheer terror that conjured
his features. His eyes were dilated, his tips slack
and drooling. He quickly padded for the carpeted
stairs, and began to jump up them two at a time.
He turned at the top of the stairs to look back
down, his chest heaving.

The camera angle shifted to overhead.

The lean dark shape leaped from the

188

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

shadows at the top of the stairs, toppling the boy
back down, over and over in a weird embrace,
like a boy playing with his dog. But the dog was
very, very large—too large.

The camera panned in. The wolf was
standing astride the boy, wicked white teeth
flashing down.

Lisa looked away, slightly bored. It was no
fun as a spectator sport. She was also slightly
appalled, but not at the violence or the sadism,
which were part of her nature.

The film went blank. Lisa sat, slumped in her
chair, staring at the empty wall. She glanced over
at Grant, who was leaning back with an amused
smile.

"Murray, you're insane," she said softly.

"Insane?" His voice was innocent. "Why do
you say that?"

"A film is a record. Hell if anybody sees
that. .." She had an awful thought. "Did you
have a camera on when . . . last fall?"

"You were with me. How could I?"

She shook her head. "You have a self-
destructive streak. You want to be caught."

"Nonsense." He stood and walked over to
where she was sitting. "I'm an artist. An artist
must have some kind of record of his accom-
plishments."

He stood before her. She also stood, feeling
the unaccustomed rush of the whiskey to her
head. She faced him, suddenly filled by the
phenomena of him—his broad forehead, deep-
set amber eyes under craggy brows, wavy red-
gray hair, strong jaw. And the body was still
superbly fit—at what age?

189

Jeffrey Ooddin

His kimono fell away/exposing the muscular
chest, his flat stomach with the outlines of
cabled tendons, his superb sex, half erect. She
felt herself respond in spite of her increasing
irritation.

"It's been a while," he said softly, kissing her
deeply.

She returned his kiss, feeding at the focus of
their lips, the intense maleness of him. She felt
the change lurking within her too, strenghtened
by the alcohol and desire. She kissed him
hungrily, running her hands over his broad
shoulders.

"This time," she said. "let's changel"

He shook his head, his hand reaching under
her shirt for her breast. She gasped. The touch of
his palm over her taut nipple was electric.

"Please," she whispered huskily. "Think of
the . .. the feel of it, not to keep control, to let
our shapes come as only we can do with one
another."

"You know I don't like the feeling," he said
finally. "To be human is to be In control. Of mind,
of body—"

"Of the wasteland that serves you for
feelings," she snapped, drawing back suddenly.
The building current that Joined them was
broken.

Grant stared at her with lust—his kind of
lust.

"What's wrong? Don't I ..." He realized that
he was about to show uncertainty and canceled
the emotion. It could be deadly with this one.

"I'm tired," she said evenly, pulling back
into her mind. "I'm tired of being neither one nor

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the other. We've shared our diversions and our
secrets." she suddenly recalled the film, "or so I
thought. But I want to be what I am, to make love
in the other forms, too."

He shook his head.

"That's animallstlc."

"I am part animal. I can't deny it forever."

"Then go kill someone," he said shortly.
"Just be careful."

Her superb body arched like a steel wire. Her
eyes went to pure gray. The intimation of attack
was so strong he backed up a step.

"You. Are telling me. To be careful!"

She suddenly whirled and walked to the
sliding doors of the terrace.

"Lisa..."            (

The door seemed stuck. She slammed it
back. breaking the catch, and disappeared into
the night.

Lisa pushed the Forche at an even 80 up 1-65
to Louisville, the twin exhausts a perfectly
synchronized hum. She liked the feel of the
powerful engine, the vibration of the car, the
even thrumming of the exhaust. It fit into her
rhythms very well indeed.

She kept her eye on the radar detector,
though it might not have gone so well for any
patrolman who had stopped her. Her anger at
Grant, her sexual frustration, had been replaced
by a cool mental calculation. There were things
to be done. First Cub. Then Alien. Murray was
incompetent. She would have to handle it.

She went into a driving trance, automatic
senses watching the road. In a kind of energy

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Jeffrey Ooddin

conserving half-sleep.

Time passed. She was at the edge of
Louisville.

Lisa drove through the west end streets until
she found a parking place near an exclusive Jazz
club, Joe's Falm Room. As she strolled by the
entrance, several black men in deep lavender
satin suits whistled at her. "Hey, my man, there's
the fox I been waitin' for." She waved back. From
inside the club came a rich orchestra sound,
swing Jazz from a few decades back. a rush of
trumpets and tenor riposte of trombones against
a rich sax tapestry.

She paced on up the street, back toward
downtown on a roundabout route. She was
beginning to feel an obscure excitement. She
had grown tired of always following Grant's lead.
It wasn't her style, no, not at all.

And what she was going to do tonight would
not please him.

She began to move through the alleys,
looking for a very dark one. She was close
enough to the jail, now.

The sounds of city traffic—shouts, a siren,
smells of smoke, marijuana, hot engine
oil—came to her delicate senses. In a moment,
these senses would be heightened a hundred-
fold.

She found a place that suited her, five blocks
from the Jail, behind a tall manufacturing
building surrounded by a chain link fence. She
slipped out of the Jeans and sweatshirt, took off
her sandals, and stood, straight and proud in her
nakedness.

Already she thought of the kill had

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

stimulated that latent part of her. She felt the
shift of nerves waiting, pushing at her conscious-
ness. She threw back her head, her thick hair
falling across her shoulders. She swung her hair
back and forth, delighting in the subtle, electric
touch of It, and stood very straight, cupping her
firm round breasts.

A flicker of vision in the dark alley, paleness
becoming darker, shimmered into the form—a
great pale four-legged creature, long muzzle,
gleam of ivory fangs that smiled in the half-
darkness.

Then, abruptly, it was a woman again.

It had been a long time—too long. The feel of
the change was like the best amphetamine, only
much, much better.

She laughed out loud, feeling the power
surging through her veins—and felt eyes on her.

She turned to see a wino, a gray-haired man
In Salvation Army clothes, a bottle in a sack
clutched in one hand. Qod, I'm so careless these'
days! She slowly began to walk toward him.

He stood, stunned at the presence of this
beautiful naked woman In the oil-stinking alley.
She walked up until their faces were but a few
inches away, and his senses were reeling with the
intense female presence of her.

"Hello, handsome," she purred.

He only gaped. She slammed the side of her
hand Into his throat, and he fell like a limp sack.

She allowed the mere edge of the mode to
come over her—something Grant had taught
her—and began to run down the alley, out into
the street.

But she was moving faster than any human

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Jeffrey Ooddin

could move.

"Hey, what the hell . . ."

She flashed by the young couple who were
walking hand In hand, flew around a comer and
down another block.

The young man sitting with head in his
hands, waiting for the ride away from where he'd
Just been released from his first auto theft, felt
something brush past him, caught a pale blur,
almost like a human figure, smelled a sweet
female scent.

He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette,
suddenly nervous.

She was through the door of the police
station. In the information cubicle, a sergeant on
guard, a round-faced stocky man, was sitting in
an ocean of cologne. She paused a moment, just
long enough for him to see her nakedness. She
read his thoughts—the location of Cub, two
floors up.

She whirled for the stairs. Just as his sudden
shout behind her echoed in the narrow hallway.

Upper corridor. Floor warden. She became all
female again and walked up to the tall guard'sit-
ting and smoking, reading a Playboy.

He looked up, mouth falling open, cigarette
dropping to his knees just as she slammed an
uppercut into his Jaw. His face fell against her
thigh, and she held it there a moment, laughing
to herself at the presence of his mustached lips
so close to her sex.

Then she moved to Cub's cell.

She quickly intuited the bars and glass
arrangement with the alarm on the side. She

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

went back to the guard and took his keys, finding
one that fit. Oh hell, a security code was needed,
too. She peered into the celt and the tall young
man with his mop of black hair, staring at her.
There was a white bandage on the side of his
head, one arm in a sling. When he saw her, he
stiffened.

So, Qrant must have been right. He hasn't
escaped because of his wounds. He's genuinely
damaged. But Lisa felt no pity for the young
man, no, no pity at all.

He looked at her, intrigued. And a wisp of
thought, more image than speech, probed Into
her mind.

"And you, you're like me?"

She nodded, mentally veiling her intentions,
sending him images of freedom, just as she went
Into the second form—the wolf that walked on
two legs with the use of hands, and razor sharp
fangs in a Jaw so strong it could bend steel.

She had ripped the door off of its hinges
before the alarm even went off.

Cub stared at her, a twisted mirror of
himself, as he too tried to take the second form.
He sensed her true intention, but he was clumsy,
his mind fogged by the painkillers they'd given
him. He struck her a glancing blow on the
shoulder. Qod, she thought, he really (s strong.
She suddenly lunged, picked him up and
slammed him against the wall.

Shouts from the neighboring cell were
followed by the pounding of running feet in the
corridor, the sharp human scents of fear, anger,
uncertainty.

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Jeffrey Goddin

I'm cutting this very close, and the thought
brought a huge mad laugh.

Cub had already recovered his balance, the
sling gone from hts arm. He bared his teeth and
rushed her, tried to grapple, tried to bite. He
punched her hard in the ribs. and she gasped,
taking a step backward. Her backhand staggered
him and, as he was straightening, she slammed
him against the wall again, shoved his head back
hard and ripped out his throat with her fangs.

His hot metallic blood gushed over her face,
and she gave an ecstatic scream, just as the first
of the police reached the door of the cell.

A thick-bodied man with a gun was coming
up.

She leapt, changing to the second form—full
animal—in midair, striking him In the chest
above his gun, bowling him over. He fired in
reflex, and someone yelled behind her. She
rolled, raced down the hallway toward the two
others, now going for their guns, expressions of
shock and fear drawing their faces Into the
caricatures of Greek drama.

Again she leapt, a diver through air, passing
over their heads to land at the top of the stairs.

"What the hell!"

"Hey, it went that way! The stalrsi"

"What was it?"

"Some animal, for Christ's sake."

"Look, there's Burt. Hey, he's bleeding, and
the cell..."

She caught shreds of the frenzied yells as she
bounded down the stairwell.

The reception area held two men standing
and one woman, looking up the stairs. She

196

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

flowed through them, past the young woman
who wasjust opening the outer door, out Into the
night.

She changed into the near-human form
again, heading for the alley in which she'd
hidden her clothes, and her howling laughter was
a summons to ancient terror In the nocturnal
streets.

197

9

Coming to worK that morning was no fun for
John Mardin. He'd had a hard night with a lady
who seemed just right to assuage the loneliness
of a divorced aging cop—and who'd turned out
to be a lot better at drinking than the rest of it.

As he entered the spare white main office, he
felt an air of tension, the buzz of conversation
that only happens when there's major news. A
couple of people looked at him. and he stared
back through his sinus headache and put them
off. Whatever it was, he would hear about it
sooner or later.

He didn't have long to wait. He'd barely
gotten into his comfortable, dusty office and put
the coffee on when Chief Thorsen came
stomping Into the room. From the Chief's
glowering face. Mardin knew that it could only be
bad news.

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Jeffrey Ooddtn

It Isn't every day that a naked woman with an
attack dog busts into a high security jail, throws
around officers like little kids, kills a prime
murder suspect and escapes scott free.

Such was the story that Chief Thorsen
handed down to Hardin as he sat, sleepy and
hungover, wishing that the coffee would work
just a little faster.

"It's time we tightened up a little around
here," said Thorsen, sitting across from Hardin
and leaning onto the desk. "This city had one of
the best murder rates of any city its size—until
this month. And now this. It will make us the
laughing stock of the press, and it doesn't do a
lot for the citizens' confidence, either."

Thorsen was a bifl, red-haired man with the
rough skin that pale-sktnned people get from
spending every weekend out in a boat fishing.
His deep-set blue eyes were as red-rimmed as
Hard in's.

He's as hungover as 1 am, the son of a bitch,
thought Hardin. They both were already into the
second cup of the black mud.

"Don't see what I can do about it," said
Hardin. "I wasn't even on the job at the time."

Thorsen shook his head. He was one of those
men whose hands make a .45 automatic look
small, and one of those hands now came down
on Hardin's desk with a thunk that lifted the
coffee cups Hardin stared at the hand. Qod, did
his head hurti Why don't we just have a damned
fist fight? He realized that he was having a
histamlne reaction and tried to control his
thoughts.

"Dammit," said Thorsen, "we need some

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

successes around here. Too many murders In
this town lately, and not enough suspects. And
the M.O.s are similar on several of them—the girl
in the stingray. the Vietnamese girl, the Fowler
family .. ."

"What about the guys we picked up in the
raid, besides the one who got killed? Looks like
we can nail a couple for the Fowler deal Just on
circumstantial."

"Shit, no doubt that they did the Fowler deal,
but they couldn't have done all the rest. And they
didn't strip naked and put on tits and run an
attack dog in here last night."

"Hey captain, my job—"

"Your job is to do whatever I damned well tell
you to. I want a full-scale Internal investigation
of last night. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Qood," Thorsen stood up and walked to the
door. He suddenly threw the coffee in the corner,
not making much difference to the dirty state of
that comer.

"I wish the girl had taken the damned coffee
pot, too," he said nonsensically and stomped
out.

Hardin tried to make sense out of that last
comment but gave up. He had never seen
Thorsen so flustered. One thing he did know. He
was going to have to show some results—and
fast.

Fielding sat outside Grant's office in the
small, maple paneled reception area, staring at
the pretty, slender girl named Mikki who was
Grant's private secretary. From time to time

203

'in -'
<^1?-

Jeffrey Qoddin

Mikki looked up and crinkled her wide brown
eyes in a smile, as if to reassure him.

Is my nervousness that obvious? And why
should i be nervous? Yes, why?

The red phone on Mikki's desk buzzed softly.
She picked it up as delicately as If she were
picking up a paint brush. She nodded into the
receiver.

"Dr. Grant would like for you to come in
now," she said.

Fielding smiled, feeling the sweat pooling in
his armpits under the white lab coat and hating
himself for his nervousness.

He opened the door and walked into Grant's
office.

Grant was standing, hands deep in the
pockets of a fawn summer suit, gazing out the
window that overlooked the rear of the Institute
grounds.

"Sit down." he said softly, without turning
around.

Fielding sat in the padded swivel chair in
front of the broad steet-and-glass desk. Grant
turned from the window and sat down in a
similar chair on the other side of the desk.

He looked intently at Fielding, pale amber
eyes  bright  under  his  broad,  slightly
overhanging brow. Fielding found his eyes
traveling to the thin red scar that ran from the
rear of Grant's face, on the left, to his neck. It
was an odd scar—more like a mugging scar. How
had Grant gotten it?

"What do you have to say for yourself?"
Grant's voice was soft, modulated, not friendly.

"Huh? In what regard?"

204

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"You know very well In what regard. One of
our patients has escaped, due to your careless-
ness and your disregard of my orders. Why did
you modify Mr. Alien's therapy?"

"Because he was obviously showing extra-
pyramidal side effects from your drug of choice."
Fielding chose is words carefully. "Mr. Alien
seemed on the verge of some kind of break-
through. He was much more willing to talk the
last few times I saw him, and his memory seemed
to be coming back—but he was too drugged. To
allow therapy to progress, I had to change the
drug."

"To allow therapy to progress, knowing full
well the cleverness of a violent manic-depressive,
you allowed Alien to trick you."

"Walt a rnlnutel" Fielding felt himself
flushing. "He didn't trick me. The man was too
tranquilized to piss straight half the time. I only
did what I thought best."

"And as a result we have the responsibility of
setting a potentially murderous mental patient
loose on the countryside. I hope you'll be able to
justify that to your next employer."

"My next.. . You're firing me? For one
questionable . . ."

Fielding was getting truly mad now, but,
even so, his vague—what?—fear of Grant held
him slightly in check.

"Yes, two weeks, and an extra month's salary
to help with your job hunting. That's alt." Grant
pushed back the chair and walked to the window
with long strides, "now get out," he said over his
shoulder.

And, stifling his anger. Fielding got out.

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Jeffrey Goddtn

Lisa walked along the outside of the fence
that surrounded the institution. It was just dusk,
a blue haze settling slowly over the little valley, a
few lights winking on in the windows of the
Institution. Grant didn't know she was
there—and he might not have appreciated it if he
had known.

She wondered what he'd do when he found
out that she'd killed Cub. He'd be furious- for
certain. And was he capable of trying to kill her?
Possibly. Could he succeed? Do, not unless he
came after her with a gun, and possibly not then.

Something she had never really brought to
the surface was in her mind—the disdain she felt
for Grant. He was not really a strong man—or
beast, for that matter. He was an Intellectual of
the shallowest sort. She wondered how she'd put
up with him at all.

She walked along the fence, senses aroused
as an animal might put back its ears or flare its
notrils. In human form she did not have the level
of acuteness of an animal, but her senses were
still vastly more sensitive and Integrated than
any mere human's. And she had a sense that
most humans did not, or couldn't utilize if they
did.

Something caught her attention at the top of
the fence, and bending her knees, she sprang
Impossibly high, catching the top of the fence in
one hand while detaching the pale bit of cloth
with the other.

She dropped back to the grass and examined
what she held.

206

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

it was a little piece of white cloth from a shirt
or jacket. She held it to her nose—white male,
prime years, edge of fear scent.

She looked along the fence in the failing
light. To the left. the fence ran on until it angled
right to an open, mowed field beyond. To the
right, it curved back toward the front of the
building and the access road. This side had been
floodlit. He wouldn't have gone that way.

A grassy hill rose at a gentle slope behind
her. She stood, staring at the hill, taking in its
"field" as she would a person's. She seemed to
catch a small area of asymmetry, about halfway
up. She climbed the slope to examine it.

The hillside was darkening, the sky still
lighter behind it. She walked to an area where the
grass was slightly beaten down and knelt.

Yes. days old, but she felt the echo of the
presence that had been there. She felt around in
the grass and found a tissue, a slightly stronger
link.

Female. Small... no, very young. The half-
psychic presence still missed the hillside, along
with the faintest hint of anxiety.

Lisa sat absolutely motionless. Her supra-
logical mind sifted the bits of data—the piece of
cloth from the fence, the tissue, the faint pre-
sence on the hillside. And were they linked? Yes.
In some unknown fashion, the little girl and Alien
were linked.

She expanded her consciousness to the ut-
most. and half-saw, half-felt, the faint trail
leading up the hillside.

Under a darkening sky. she followed
It—through the grass, now becoming damp with

207

Jeffrey Ooddtn

dew, along the edge of a, golf course, pale lights
from the clubhouse reflected in a little pond and
on to the edge of a housing complex.

Here the trail grew more difficult, but Lisa was
the huntress, the supreme stalker. Almost on
impressions alone she followed the trail through
backyards, so silently the dogs did not even give
cry. She was in a trance of motion.

Then. she knew she was there. Staring at a
lighted window in the back of a small, two story
contemporary house.

She almost knew the little girl's name.

And the other? Was he still there? She stood,
cloaked in darkness, calculating, motionless as
the night.

Joey had been reading about the British
commandos in World War II—the infiltration
operations behind enemy lines, the close calls,
the narrow escapes. He felt like putting on black
clothes, rubbing some shoe polish on his face,
and going to infiltrate someplace. He wanted to
slip around the German defenses, to leave his
deadly package of high explosives in a crucial
spot, and fight his way to freedom just as the
explosion lit the nocturnal sky.

But, on this prematurely warm night In June,
he thought of something much, much better.

His room was dark. His folks thought he had
gone to bed. Mow, listening, he heard the muted
babble on the TV stop in the living room. That
meant that Dad was going to bed. He heard the
heavy male steps on the stairs, the brief rushing
of the shower, the flush of the toilet.

Qradually the house lapsed into silence.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

And Joey changed into jeans and a black
T-shirt and tennis shoes with soft rubber soles.
He opened his window and slipped out into the
night.

He was excited. One night last week he'd
been playing basketball late at Ed's and, coming
home, had chanced to cut across Di's backyard.

He'd recognized her window and had walked
Into the yard just a little way, then a little further,
until he could peer into the crack of light that
came under her window blinds.

He'd seen a little—not much, just her
smooth bare back and the softness of her hair on
he shoulders—before she turned off the light.

It had been enough. It had sent his stomach
hollow and his senses quivering. Softly, he had
crept back out of the yard.

But tonight he was going back-
He breathed in the scent of cut grass and
flowers and felt himself blending into the night
like some wild creature.

The houses were set very regularly In this old
section, the streets laid out In a square grid with a
small court forming the center of four streets In
the middle. His commando training had not been
wasted. He'd already mentally mapped the
locations of those houses with dogs. and now, as
he crossed streets at the corners, sometimes at
mid-block, he mentally reviewed those houses
that had watchdogs and those that did not.

His nerves tensed for the sudden barking,
the flipping up of shutters, the crack of yellow
light from an opened door, the interrogatory
shout.

But, of course, none of this would happen. He

209

Jeffrey Ooddtn

was too good.

A block away from Di's house, he left the
street and began to move through the backyards
of the houses. He moved commando style,
running bent low across the open spaces,
stopping to reconnoiter when he reached the
deeper shadows by a building or shed.

He knew that the second yard away from Di's
contained a big dog, some kind of hound, but
he'd made up to the dog a couple of times on his
way past the house. Mow, instead of running
across this yard, he called out to the dog.

"Prince! Hey, Prince!" He didn't call loudly,
since he knew that dogs had super hearing.

"Hey, Prince!" The dog appeared, drawing its
softly clanking lead chain, walking stiffly, about
to bark.

"Prince dog. good dog." Joey took a sand-
wich bag out of his pocket and unwrapped one of
the hot dogs he'd brought for Prince. He tossed It
to the dog.

Prince bounded forward and gobbled up the
hot dog. Mow the dog came toward Joey, tail
wagging.

He gave the dog a good petting and another
hot dog. And he moved into the yard next to Di's.

And half-gasped with surprise and pleasure.
A significant bar of light was coming from her
window. The blind was well up. She was still
awake, but no doubt she would soon be getting
undressed.

Pulse pounding, he slipped into the cover of
a line of forsythia, where he could get a better
look.

And, as he did, he saw a sudden motion

210

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

beneath Di's window.

He froze. But it had just been some sort of
big dog that had reared up on the windowsil! and
had seen him and was now trotting toward him.

The dog was hard to see as it got further
from the windows. Joey felt a sudden, odd chill, a
fear that went beyond just meeting a dog in the
dark. It was just a dog. It was just a dog, but he'd
better call to it before it saw him and started
barking.

"Hey. good boy." he called.

It was close now, but at least it wasn't
growling. That was a good sign.

"Boy, hey, boy."

Closer. He saw its eyes—pale, fiery eyes, odd
eyes for a dog.

"Heyl" He forgot to keep his voice down.

The dog that was not a dog sprang. He had
only time for a choked scream before the
ravenous fangs ripped through the tender flesh
over his windpipe and on into the jugular. Even
as he fell the beast was drinking deeply. His body
was still Jerking with reflex.

Di's window suddenly sprang open.

"Hey," she called, "what's going on out
there?"

And the creature that had just killed Joey
hesitated between two possibilities.

Deciding, it blended like a ghost into the
darkness and was soon out of the area, carrying
the boy's body slung loosely over its shoulder.

Lights began to spring on in the neighboring
houses, and the first frightened women took a
tentative step out into the unknown.

211

Jeffrey Qoddtn

He was still sorting out his impressions of
Knoxville—the fine old house, that woman who
had seemed almost like she knew him, her poor
daughter, the tragic son-in-law.

And their daughter.

The smooth miles of i-75, north from
Knoxville, rolled by as Karl went Into a driving
daze. The night was full of stars. He fiddled with
the old car's FM, trying to get something other
than a country station. It seemed that every
blasted station in the area was country.

Finally, he got onto a university classical
station and settled back, listening, Incongrously
to Tchaikovsky's First Symphony, the Winter
Dreams symphony. Winter. Sure. Another world.

The miles flew by. He tried to match his pace
to the other night traffic, to get behind some of
the speeding trucks. He knew that the state cops
would rather pull in a truck than him—more
money in It for the bureaucrats.

He thought of the daughter. Had she
experienced the same strange drives that he and
Adrienne had experienced while growing up?

He had an Image of the little blonde girl (and
how did he know she was blonde?) playing on a
grassy hillside on the edge of deep woods. Of her
stopping, looking into the shadows of the
darkening forest, waiting—for whom or what?
Some distant kindred? A satyr, perhaps? The
expression on her face is not one of fear.

In his driving daze, it seemed no time at all
until he was approaching Louisville. First the far-
flung outskirts and smokestacks of industry.
then jewelled clusters of malls and the dark
suburbs with their networks of streetlights. Then

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

the long shoot on the Waterson tojl-65, directly
into downtown.

He checked into a cheap motet beside the
Interstate near the University of Louisville. Once
inside the surprisingly comfortable room (a
touch of Southern hospitality, he thought) he
searched the phone book for Lisa's place of
business and her home address, if possible. He
was surprised to find both easily; alongside her
name was a St. James Court address.

And just how should he contact her? Should
he call? Should he visit her at work, as would one
of her clients? Should he simply go to her
apartment and introduce himself?

He leaned back on the bed. musing, enjoying
that strange sense of security that being in a
strange, firmly locked room in a new place can
give a person, trying to imagine just what she
would look like.

And, almost immediately, he fell asleep.

The Thoroughbred Bar on Bardstown Road
was a theme place. The walls were decorated with
framed photos and paintings of Kentucky Derby
winners, of the jockeys, of famous horse owners,
and of the palatial homes of some of the horse
farms down by Lexington. The theme was
traditional Kentucky, but the music was upbeat,
trying to attract both the college crowd and a bit
of money, e.g. yuppie professionals.

The two men in the corner booth were hard
to classify. One wore a blue Cardin shirt under an
expensive off-white leisure Jacket, the other a
red-and-black flannel check under black leather.
They were both In their late 20s, good-looking,

213

Jeffrey Goddtn

and. to the casual eye, would have just been two
young guys out on the prowl.

The man in the leisure jacket. Matt Conrad,
picked up his frosty and sipped deeply. It was his
second, and he thought this Just might be a
night for half a dozen, and the T.A.P. drunk
driving squad be damned. After all, he was a cop
and should be able to talk his way out of it.

The other man shifted his greater weight in
his chair and looked up to where a couple of
blonde women in shorts and tight blouses had
walked up to the crescent metal bar.

"Ah, Kentucky," he said, "land of beautiful
horses and fast women."

"I'll drink to that," said Conrad, emptying
his glass and looking around for a waiter. A
slightly precious young man came and took their
order, swished away, and was back almost im-
mediately with the drinks.

"He wants a tip," said Santos, the bigger
man.

"He likes your face," said Conrad, smiling.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching
the girls at the bar. One of the girls had turned to
look at them and nudged her friend, who didn't
turn to look. They were throwing back their long
hair as they talked, as some women will, who
know they're being watched and are pretending
very hard that they don't know it.

"Carlos." said Conrad, still staring Into his
glass, "you remember when we busted that
bunch down by the river?"

Santos laughed. "It's like yesterday, and the
first shooting Incident we were in on this
month."

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Okay," Conrad smiled. "I was just curious.
You remember that tall guy with the wild black
hair?"

"I remember you put a bullet in him."

"Yeah, had to. You know."

"Don't worry about Internal Affairs. We'll
back you up."

Conrad shook his head.

"That's not what I'm worried about. Were you
watching him just before I shot him?"

Carlos frowned, looking at Conrad intently.

"As a matter of fact, I was."

"You recall anything odd about him?"

"Beyond that he was about to kill Hender-
son?"

"Yeah."

Carlos looked away and sipped his beer.

"Such as . . ."

"You're not going to say anything, are you?"
It wasn't really a question.

Santos looked back.

".. . as if, he ... he almost seemed to be
sort of changing a little bit, like .. ."

"Like he had more hair than he should
have—and fangs?" asked Santos.

"Yeah. Only he didn't, after I shot him. It was
like, for just a few seconds . . ."

Santos stared at his friend silently for a
minute, then reached over the table and tapped
Conrad's hand.

"A cop's trained to trust his eyes," said
Santos/ sipping his beer to give his hand
something to do. "When we stop trusting our
eyes, we're In trouble."

" Agreed."

215

"It may be." said Santos, "that I saw some-
thing a little like what you're describing. It may
be that I didn't. Let's say I did see what you saw.
What then?"

Conrad nodded.

"nothing."

"Nothing outside the movies. You can
imagine what Hardin would say, after he fired
us."

"I can imagine it."

"So," said Santos, "! don't think there's
anything wrong with your eyes. And I don't think
we can say we saw anything other than a guy who
had to be put down. Yes?"

Conrad smiled.

"That makes me feel a tittle better."

Santos laughed and punched Conrad's
shoulder, rising from the table. Conrad followed
his gaze to where the two tall blondes were
sitting at the bar.

"And now i got to make somebody else feel a
lot better."

And he took his beer and headed for the bar.

216

Di opened the door and gave a gasp of surprise.
On the doorstep stood a beautiful blonde
woman, wearing a soft pink blouse and a light
gray summer wool skirt. She wore her long
blonde hair loose around her head and had a foxy
triangular face with pale gray eyes that smiled
into Di's.

"Hello," she said, "I'm Lisa. Who're you?"

Di gave a nervous laugh.

"My name's Di. My folks aren't at home right
now."

"Oh well, maybe you can help me. Can I
come in?"

Di hesitated. The lady was lovely and seemed
nice and she was only about Lara's age, but Dt
was rather nervous. She remembered the noise
she'd heard the night before, though, when her
dad had checked, there had been nothing there.

219

Jeffrey Goddin

And her friend Joey had disappeared last
night. Somebody must have kidnapped him.
Everybody was talking about it, and her parents
had given her a fresh lecture on not talking to
strangers, not hitching rides with strangers, not
letting strangers into the house.

But then, a lecture is just a lecture, and this
lady didn't look very dangerous.

"What do you want? Are you a salesman, er,
salesperson, or something?"

Lisa laughed. She had a deep, throaty laugh.

"Mo, not at all. As a matter of fact, I'm a
lawyer."

"A lawyer? Wowl But what.. . are my folks in
trouble?"

"Mo, no, no. nothing like that. I'm trying to
find somebody, a man who escaped from a
mental institution near here."

Di gulped and tried to keep a straight face.

"Why are you looking for him?"

"His sister hired me to find him. She wants to
help him. You know, the police are looking for
him. They think he's dangerous, and they might
shoot him."

Lisa began to let her senses project toward
the girl, gently, so as not to frighten her. Friend. I
am your friend ...

Di nodded automatically. She didn't realize
the hidden psychology of the questions.

"So . . ."

"So, can you help us find him? His name Is
Douglas Alien. His sister is very worried about
him, and so am I."

Di started to speak, then held her tongue.
Lara had said to tell nobody about Doug, and her
sister was smarter than anybody.

220

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Lisa caught the edge of secrecy and reached
into Di's mind, her eyes linking with the young
girl's. The took alone was sufficient to put Di into
trance. She swayed on her feet and Lisa reached
forward to steady her. Di's eyes had become
quite blank.

"You know where Doug Is, don't you?" asked
Lisa softly.

"Yes."

"Where is he? We must help him."

"With my sister Lara."

"Where is your sister?"

"She lives down toward Paducah."

"What's her name?"

"Lara."

"What's her address?"

"I ... can't remember." DI was tensing, her
face flushing under the automatic strain of
trying to break Lisa's spell. Lisa Immediately
projected a soothing emotion.

"You'll call your sister.after I leave, won't
you?"

"Yeah, 1 want to talk to her."

"Good. That wtl be very good, but wait a little
while, until around five. Okay?"

"Okay." Di was tensing up again, the strain
breaking her out in a light sweat. Lisa began to
tell her that she would forget the conversation,
but, just then, she heard a car door slam In the
street behind her. It broke her concentration.

"Wake up," she said automatically.

Lisa half-turned. HellI An older man, who
looked like a teacher, was getting out of an old
Ford four-door, obviously about to come up the
walk. She turned back to Di, who was still looking
foggy. "Wake up," she said again. She released

221

Jeffrey Ooddtn

her light grip on Di's shoulder. The girl
staggered, and her eyes suddenly came Into
focus.

"Er ... I haven't seen him . .." Di felt dizzy.
She must have spaced out or something. She
forced her mind to attention. "But why don't you
leave your phone number or something, in case I
do hear anything about him."

"That's a good idea," said Lisa, looking Di in
the eye. It made her feel odd, that look. It was
kind of like the way an animal looks at you,
speculating from within its own alien world.

She was suddenly glad that she hadn't told
Lisa anything.

Lisa handed her a card. Di stuck it in her
pocket, not noticing that it was someone else's
visiting card. Their hands touched briefly, and it
was almost as If a spark jumped from hand fo
hand.

"Remember, call me If you see him, okay?"

Lisa was annoyed. The older man was
apparently going to the neighbor's house, but he
was standing in the middle of their walk and
looking at Lisa.

"Sure, bye." Di suddenly backed into the
house and shut the door. Through the window
she saw the girl climb Into a silver sports car and
pull away from the curb with a screeching of
tires. She was very glad to see it pull away, but
she couldn't figure out why.

Lara's hand shook as she turned the key in
the lock. Coffee nerves. She'd had several cups
too many to get through that long, trying day.

She liked working with the children. They

222

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

still had energy and a curiosity about life. They
were for the most part just coming to grips with
those childhood problems common to children
everywhere—not liking school, trouble making
friends, vague hostilities toward their folks, the
usual.

But some of the marriage problems shook
her. It could get rough in mining country. She
had talked with one woman, her black eye fresh,
who was having repeated problems with her
husband. Lara had questioned her and found out
she came from a family where Daddy beat
Mommy, and her husband came from a family
where Daddy beat Mommy, and that it was
simply history repeating itself. They had all the
usual frustrations. He had trouble finding a job
and drank too much when he got one. He went
into debt and spent the extra money when she
got a Job. And she, she Just didn't know what to
do.

Lara had trouble dealing, with situations like
that. There was something about such problems
that, try as she might, she just couldn't really
empathize. It was just too much outside her
experience of growing up in a happy home in a
happy suburb of a sleepy southern Indiana town.

Maybe I'm Just not cut out for this, she
thought for the umpteenth time that day. Or
maybe I'm just tired and frazzled and worried
about Doug.

Me was sitting on the couch In those, same
odd fitting clothes that Di had given him. If he
flexes those arms, Lara thought, he's going to
split that old shirt. His hair was swept back, as if
he'd just showered, and he'd trimmed his

225

Jeffrey Qoddin

mustache. He looked up and smiled, and she felt
a little happy rush as she returned his smile. Dl <•
had not lied about his looks.

He had opened ail the windows, front and
rear, and a considerable breeze was blowing
through the room. She felt slightly chilled and
closed the front windows a little.

"Sorry," he said. "I've been shut in so long,
the air is kind of a treat."

"No problem. I'm just a little chilled at the
moment. A hot shower will do me worlds of
good."

The shower did, indeed, feel wonderful,
though as she stood naked, soaping her lean
body, she couldn't help think of the scene from
Psycho where Anthony Ferkins comes into the
bathroom, his shadow on the curtains, and the
knife ...

Yes, it was there, that faintest edge of
mistrust. And why was it that she felt that way?
Perhaps it was his air of self-sufficiency, of not
really needing anyone even with the problems he
had. He was a loner, and yes, we all suspect
loners.

When she'd changed into Jeans and a T-shirt,
Doug was still on the couch, leafing through a
Colonial Homes magazine. He looked up as she
walked in.

"You like old houses?"

"Love 'em," he said. "Someday, I'm going to
own one far out in the sticks."

She laughed.

"Mot too far out, I hope. How are you
feeling?"

"I slept all morning, i borrowed some food
from the kitchen. When I get money—"

224

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Don't worry about it."

"And then I napped again and got cleaned
up. It feels so good to be out of there."

She went to the window. The day was still one
of those half-cloudy, half-sunny affairs she'd
always found mildly irritating.

"I'm hungry. You hungry again yet?"

"Sure."

"I've got some little steaks frozen."

"Sounds great. Want some help?"

"Sure."

She looked at him. How domestic we are. She
shook her head, wishing that she could think
more clearly.

Just then. the phone rang.

She paced across the room and picked up
the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Lara, The whole thing's gotten weird."

Now what could be on Di's mind? Yet Lara
stiffened immediately.

"Slow down, slow down. What whole thing's
gotten weird?"

"There was this woman here today asking
about him."

"About who?"

"About Doug."

"Take It easy," said Lara, automatically
switching to a soothing voice. "Who came to ask
about Doug?"

"A lady lawyer. Boy, was she pretty. She was
tall and blonde and she had gray eyes. She said
that Doug's sister had hired her to help look for
him. She said his sister was real worried and
wanted to hide him and help him and everything.
But, she made me nervous. And . . . my friend

225

Jeffrey Goddin

Joey's disappeared I"

It was too much information to handle all at»
once.

"Joey . . ." She vaguely recalled seeing a
little boy by that name. No, first things first.
"Hold on a minute, Di."

She glanced over to where Doug sat reading,
one leg draped over the end of the couch.

"Doug."

"Ma'am?"

"Do you have a sister?"

"Not that 1 know of." He smiled. "There's
always a chance—"

"Seriously, yes or no?"

He looked at her oddly. She wished she
hadn't spoken like that. She could see the
tension returning to him, the way his back
straightened as he sat.

"No."

She took her hand off of the receiver.

"Hello, Di?"

"Yeah."

"Describe that woman again, in more
detail."

DI gave a more thorough description of her
visitor.

"Well, Doug doesn't have a sister. That
woman might have been from the police or the
mental institution. She was trying to trick you
and find out where Doug is. Did you tell her you'd
seen Doug?"

"No, I didn't tell her anything at all."

"Qood girl. Now listen. If she comes back,
don't answer the door unless the folks are home.
Understand?"

226

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"That's Just what they told me this morning,
because Joey's been kidnapped."

"Yes, and they're right." Lara knew that she
should say something encouraging about the
kidnapping, but, at the moment, she was too
confused.

"Boy. do I miss youl"

"I miss you too, Di. I'll come and see you as
soon as I can. We can go down to the lakes and
take out a boat or something."

"Sounds good."

"Bye, little sister."

"Bye."

She hung up the phone and turned to find
Doug's eyes still on her.
-\      "What's up?"

"There was a woman at Di's, asking if she'd
^ seen you."

f      They looked at one another a long moment.
'',      "But that's crazy. How could anybody have
figured out that 1'd gone there?"

Lara frowned, began to pace, and stopped
herself.

"Could Di have lost anything when she came
to meet you?"

"No. I don't think so. She was careful as a
little commando."

"Well, that's about the only explanation
short of the supernatural."

"The supernatural . .. What did this woman
look like? Did Di say?"

"She said she was tall, well-dressed, a very
pretty blonde with pale eyes. Di said she was kind
of weird."

227

Jeffrey Goddin

"How old?"

"Mid-twenties."                         •

He sat, shaking his head.

"Doesn't ring a bell." Yet there was an
Image, recalled by even such a fairly general
description, that seemed close to his conscious-
ness, if he could only grasp it. Where had he seen
a tall blonde woman in a situation to make a
strong impression?

"1 don't understand."

"I don't either. But If they could trace you to
Di's—whover they are—why not all the way
here?"

"That I don't want to think about."

Dinner was mildly successful. Doug was
indeed fairly useful In the kitchen, though he was
still somewhat shaky from the drug therapy. And
his mood seemed generally bright. They
managed frozen broccoli cooked in a makeshift
hollandaise, baked potato, and the little frozen
steaks that she'd gotten at a local market. She
found a bottle of red wine to go with it.

Throughout dinner Doug talked about his
Interest in the outdoors, in practically every-
thing that flew, crawled or swam on the face
of the earth. He'd been interested in wildlife
from childhood on, and, after an abortive
beginning as an English major in college and a
short-lived temptation to turn a talent for saber
fencing into a career, he'd begun to take biology
courses. He'd wound up with a couple of life
science degrees and had gone to work for the
state doing environmental impact work. He'd
written a couple of monographs on coleoptera
(Beetles, she said, proud of her memory), and
had gotten a research grant or two. Some day he

228

sr-

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

thought he might like to teach, and he definitely
wanted to write.

He did all the talking, but somehow she
didn't really mind. The wine was soothing her
nerves, and she liked to watch his face, now
looking almost boyish, his blue eyes flashing, as
he talked about his outdoor enthusiasms. As for
saber fencing, Di hadn't been all that far off the
mark with her Errol Flynn association.

Whatever he might be, she thought, this guy
Just couldn't be a murderer of little children.

After dinner, they took the bottle of wine to
the living room, and as he drank a tittle more.
Doug began to grow quiet, a little shy, as if he
realized that he'd monopolized the conversation.
Their talk trickled out. Lara went to work on
some case notes, and he went back to the
magazines.

But she had a hard time concentrating on
the notes. Di's conversation kept coming back to
her, and with it an odd paranoia. It had been a
nice domestic evening, but the police are looking
for him, and now this strange blonde woman is
looking for him. And if they could trace him to Di
or even suspect that he might be there . . .

The sheer unlikelihood of them locating Di
suddenly hit her. How on earth could they have
suspected that connection? Whoever the blonde
woman was, she was awfully sharp, sharp
enough to make the connection with Lara,
perhaps. Suddenly she didn't feel at all secure in
her own little apartment.

She walked back into the living room.

"Doug?"

He looked up. His look was odd. All the
buoyancy had gone out of him. There was that

229

Jeffrey Goddin

edge of nervousness, even of paranoia, that he'd
had when she'd first met him. She tried to put a'
calm tone into her voice.

"Doug, this business of the woman visiting
Di. If she suspects that you went to Di's, she
might trace you here."

He nodded. It was paranoid, but they both
had reason to be.

"And regardless, you can't stay cooped up
here forever. You've got to get out sometime.
And somebody might recognize you from a
newspaper photo."

"It could happen. But maybe I should Just
leave and go out on my own now."

"Pio," she shook her head. "Flo, that's not
what I meant. I mean I think we should find a
somewhat safer place for you, someplace with no
connection to me or Di at all."

"Do you know of anyplace like that?"

"Let me think."

And suddenly, as if It should have been
obvious all along, she thought of Professor
Trent. He had a place somewhere way out In the
country near the lakes. He'd always been so
willing to help. It was possible, just possible, that
he might take them In.

There was only one way to find out.

She went to the phone and dialed the
number from memory.

"What are you doing?"

She waved Doug to silence.

There came odd tones of a long-distance
rural hookup. She began counting rings. One.
two, three ...

"Hello?"

250

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Hello. Professor Trent? Darren?"

"Lara! I've just been thinking about you.
What a coincidence."

It always amazed her, how young his voice
sounded. He must be pushing 50. she thought,
but he still had the mellow tenor of a young man
in is late 20s.

"Yes. What have you been thinking?" She put
the unconscious flirtation into her voice that had
for so long been a part of their friendship. Doug
seemed to recognize it and looked at her oddly.

"I've been thinking that you're ... I don't
know, not in trouble, but. . . you're throwing off
a lot of energy, as if you have a weighty problem
to solve."

"And that I have," she said, "that I have.
Have you heard about the man who escaped from
a mental institution near Louisville a few days
ago?"

"I seem to remember seeing something
about it in the papers. Why?"

"He's innocent. It's all very weird, but he's
with me. The police and maybe somebody else
are looking for us. We need a place to hide. Do
you think ... 1 realize it's asking a lot.. ."

"My house is yours. Come whenever you like.
The only thing is I'm having a small professional
gathering here—psychic experiments, mostly.
Your friend will have to keep out of sight until
they leave."

"Mo problem. Can we come tomorrow?"

"Sure and .. . Lara, It will be so very good to
see you."

"It'll be good to see you, too. See you
tomorrow. And, thanks."

251

Jeffrey Goddtn

"Don't mention it. Just glad to help."
And Lara hung up, feeling that she'd Just
made a very good move. If they'd be safe any-
where, they'd be safe with Professor Trent.

Darren Trent leaned back in the elegant
Queen Anne chair, sipping a Fernod and
listening to the strains of a Telemann Concerto.
He was a man who appreciated period things,
fine tastes and fine moods. And he appreciated
synesthesia. Fernod seemed in Keeping with
Telemann, and Telemann seemed in keeping
with Queen Anne.

He thought of Lara, who was now bringing
some kind of escaped madman to his home.
What was the man's name? Alien? Yes. he'd read
of Alien. He'd read of most of the sadistic
murders of the last 100 years and the more
famous cases beyond that. He had had enjoyable
discussions with his friend, Murray Grant, on
occasion about Just such things. If Alien was In
fact some kind of sadistic killer, Trent was
certain that he'd enJoy meeting him.

It was perhaps odd that the idea of having a
killer around did not bother Trent. It did not
bother him because of his supreme confidence in
his powers, his powers both worldly and psychic.
Alien was purely incidental to the fact that finally
he would have Lara under his roof.

Trent had loved Lara from the moment he'd
seen her, a callow sophomore In his
anthropology section. He loved her slender,
vulnerable air—like a Parisian art student, or so
he thought. And the psychic connection they'd
had had been unusually good.

232

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

He felt that somehow he'd been able to
connect with his dream and motivate the actual
course of events.

It was an opportunity he would not pass by.

Lisa was brooding. She sat in her spare, four-
room apartment in the converted studio. She
gazed at the abstract prints in blue, sliver and
grey—serigraphs of forest scenes oddly like
poorly developed photographs. She liked the
prints of natural scenes portrayed in such an
unnatural manner.

Much like my life, she thought—natural
desires given unnatural modes, cycles from
pleasure to pain.

What is my life, she thought, but a series of
such cycles.

She thought of Indianapolis, that blandest of
bland midwestern cities, from which she'd
fled—yes, fled, after her adventures had become
too visible—had fled to sleepy, decadent, river-
town Louisville.

And of course she'd met Grant. And of course
she'd fallen in love with him, in a way. He was like
her, and it was a thrill to find another like her.
They'd been together—what? Three years? Had it
taken her three years to realize that he was an
idiot?

But then, he hadn't quite the perspective she
had. He had awakened his latent powers through
study and had cultivated the shape-change. It
blended with his own vision of Intellectual, as
well as physical, superiority.

But she?

She had been born that way and had

235

Jeffrey Qoddtn

narrowly missed being discovered by her
upwardly mobile and basically apathetic
parents. She had satisfied herself with the
occasional kill—a rabbit, a squirrel and even
once, in her early teens, a deer. And she had
learned early where necking had to stop with the
high school guys.

She had spent nights crying and wishing it
were not so.

She also had spent nights wishing she were
much more dangerous than she was.

She had indeed become that dangerous.

She'd had a reputation in high school—the
girl who'd do anything but. It hadn't been hard to
keep that reputation through college at Illinois
University, but then she'd been out on her own.
She did have those female instincts—to love and
be loved. She'd almost given in to a young
musician at I.U., and as a professional in
Indianapolis, she had given in. Several times.
And she hadn't resisted the complexity of
emotion that came with the act of sex.

She'd found she liked it, this mixing of blood
and lust. It was a thrill that rocked her soul,
made her question and give unholy thanks for
her very existence. Because, of course, they died.
She'd left three bodies in Indianapolis, and the
city had begun to get just a shade too hot.

In Louisville, she'd met Grant. She'd found
him attractive, of course—an adult, virile
male—and of her kind. She still could hardly
believe It.

But she ought to believe It. She'd killed his
child the night before and another helpless child,
who'd gotten in her way.

254

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

And how would Qrant react to that?

He might even be unintetlectual enough to
come to her, and she almost hoped that he
would.

She uncurled from the window seat and
walked to the piano. A small Steinway was a
great thing to have, at times like these. She
played a few chords, a few measures of the
Rhapsodic on a Theme of Paganini. PIo, too
melodic. She changed to the Rhapsodic on a
theme of Corelli. Better.

The music stimulated her. Hell, it was almost
as good as sexl She felt a distant warning bell go
off. The fever was there, waiting, energized by
- the necessary kills she'd so recently had to
make.

But she had work to do. She had to untanale
Grant's other disaster—the escaped man, the one
^   who'd seen them in the forest last fall with the
young girl. But she would soon have an answer
on that one.

HellI She slammed the lid on the piano. Why
must / be the one to straighten out everything?
I      And she knew that Qrant didn't even love her
and probably never had.

But could anyone love her, knowing what she
was? It was a question she brought out to toy
with from time to time, tike an alien artifact, for
she knew that much that she did was in place of
this need.

And yes, It was time for an adventure. A
dangerous glint replaced the momentary
softness in he wide gray eyes, as she stood up
from the piano.

I need release, she thought, letting the

A                   255

Jeffrey Ooddtn

thought grow real as a hunter might load a rifle,
thinking of game.

Peter Fielding's cluttered uptown apartment
was in one of those new condos that was too
expensive and where nothing fit quite right. You
hit your head bending to use the microwave. The
walk-in closets were too shallow to walk into. The
glorious picture window gave you a view of the
condo next door.

He was collapsed in a chair beside a massive
standing shelf of books, mostly psychology texts
and a lot of them from college. And why did he
have them, anyway, if he never referred to them?

He'd just been Jogging. And why the hell did
he jog, anyway? He just ate and drank more after
he jogged. He'd probably put on pounds since he
began to jog.

His discontent with his physical side merged
with his discontent over happenings at the
Institute. Firedl Just like that! Just because he'd
altered Alien's dosage for a very good reason.

Of course. Alien had escaped. And Fielding
had been two floors above him, snooping in his
boss's office at the time.

He might have a lot of time to Jog—a
month's salary in lieu of notice and no reference.
Jeezel He might have a very difficult time finding
another job.

And now he was hungry, and he needed a
drink. He went to the cheap, fake-rosewood bar
that had come with the condo, mixed a strong
whiskey and soda, and went into the kitchen to
make some dip for chips.

The phone rang. It was practically the only

256

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

thing right about this dump—the phone was in
the kitchen. He picked it up, taking a deep sip of
whiskey over the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Dr. Fielding?"

"Yes." The soft male voice sounded
strangely familiar. He should know that voice.

"It's Doug. Douglas Alien."

Fielding almost dropped his drink.

"Dougl Where are you?"

"I don't know if f should tell you that."

"Sure, sure. Are you okay? Damn, why did
you have to break out like that? It probably cost
me my job." Immediately, Fielding regretted his
words.

"I'm sorry," said Alien, "but that place was
driving me crazy." He laughed, ironically. "You
know that. And I didn't kill that little girll"

"Goddammit, I know you didn't kill her,"
snapped Fielding In irritation. "But your
breaking out will Just make everybody all that
more certain that you did do it."

The phone was silent for a moment. Fielding
could hear Doug's heavy breathing.

"Listen, you've got to listen to me. You know
that picture you gave me, the picture of Doctor
Grant?"

"Yes, I remember."

"You know that scar he has on his cheek?"

"Yes."

"I gave him that scar."

"What?"

"I gave It to him. In the woods. Because he
and that woman killed the little girll"

Fielding thought. It sounded like a typical

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Jeffrey Qoddtn

paranoid construct—weaving a fantasy around
someone with whom you were familiar—but
Alien had only seen Grant once—or twice, as he
now believed. Fielding had always disliked and,
yes, perhaps mistrusted Grant. And there was
that video he'd found and kept from Grant's
office.

Back at his apartment he had played it
through, had watched the dining scene turn Into
a surrealistic murder. He had thought it some
kind of warped home movie. He hadn't played it
again, but the death had seemed awfully real,
like one of those abominable snuff films. And it
had been Grant In the film, or someone wearing a
ring identical to his.

"Dr. fielding, I am certain. I barely saw him
when they locked me up. I was so drugged. And
then I forgot. But It's all coming back now. It was
him!"

Against every rational bone in his body,
Fielding believed the man.

"So, any ideas?"

"You must find some proof. You've got to
help me. And Grant... he might kill again/'

"You said there was a woman. What did she
look like?"

"She was tall, blonde, very lovely, but kind of
like an animal. I mean there was something a
little strange about her." Even as he said It, he
thought of Dl. A tall blonde woman had been
looking for him.

And Fielding suddenly remembered the
blonde who'd come to see Grant one day—a
blatantly gorgeous woman but, yes, with some-
thing oddly disturbing about her.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Evil. The woman. The film. It was almost
falling Into place.

"Listen, Doug. I've never trusted Grant. I
think I believe you. And, maybe, it is better if you
just hide for a while. But I'm going to try and
check up on Grant, and I may need to get in
touch with you. Please give me some way to
contact you."

"Just a minute." Fielding heard Doug's
muffled voice, then a female voice. Somebody
was helping him.

"Okay, 1 guess I've got to trust you. It's a
rural route down by Cuttawa, Route 8, Box 57.
The phone is 503-955-5417."

"Who lives there?"

"It's a place we're going to. It's the home of
Professor Trent."

"And you'll be there?"

"For a while, yes. Jesus, I shouldn't have told
you." There was a slight edge of hysteria in
Doug's voice.

"Yes, you should," said Fielding firmly. "I
believe in you, and you could be right about
Grant. Anyway, I'll find out."

"Okay. Thanks." The line went dead.

And Fielding hung up the phone, trying to
put it alt together. The best he could come up
with at the moment was a headache, so he mixed
another drink.

Lara had listened to Doug's call. And Isn't it
funny, she thought, as she found herself pacing
the carpet, that we both need help. We both are
grown adults, and we both have gotten ourselves
into situations where we have to call someone to

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Jeffrey Ooddin

help us.

When he hung up, Doug got up without a
word and walked through the apartment to the
guest bedroom and closed the door. The
abruptness of the move slightly spooked her. It
was as if he had closed her out, and she no longer
had any part in events.

Still, she paced. Twilight was coming on. It
was comparatively early, but they were in this
weird time zone right now. It was later than It
seemed, and she was very tired. She went to her
room, put on her nightgown, and then decided to
check on Doug.

She knocked softly on the door. Pio answer.
She opened the door.

A strong breeze hit her in the face. She felt a
little odd, like just before a psychic experience,
but she knew that none was going to come. .

The little room seemed strange to her. as if
she hadn't seen it before. It was sparse, just the
double bed, an old standing lamp she'd picked
up at a flea market, the soft blue carpet, a chair,
a walnut nightstand an old dark veneered
dresser.

Me sat in the middle of the bed, his shoes off.
His knees were up against his chin, his arms
wrapped around his knees, his hands clenched
so tightly that she could see that his knuckles
were white. His face was bent forward Into his
hands.

"Doug..."

"Go away," he said softly. "Just go away."

"Doug." She sat down on the bed beside him.
He was in as near a foetal position as you can
assume sitting up. She put her hand on his

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

shoulder and felt a nervous tremor there. His
knuckles seemed even more white than before.

She gently touched his hand.

"If you want to talk, let's talk."

"I don't want to talk. I'm just goddamned
tired of everything. This stupid world, the stupid,
stupid people . .."

"Doug, we've all got to live in it."

"Profound," he said.

She felt a flare of tired anger.

"Look, I'm doing all I can. And you've called
your friend. We're going to get you out of this.
And then you can go back to hanging out in the
woods or whatever you want to do. You won't
have to deal with people at all."

He looked up at that. She was shocked to see
a wetness about the corners of his eyes.

"That would suit me just fine."

Her senses jumbled. There was something
both so fragile and so male about him. She put
her hand to his cheek and brushed the corner of
his eye.

Suddenly he bent and kissed her. She held
her breath. It was totally out of place. It was a
good kiss, full and warm. He took her shoulder, a
little roughly, and her nightgown fell open. He
pulled her against his chest, still kissing her, her
lips, her cheeks, her throat.

She felt a sudden waking of response. And a
sudden fear. The strangeness of the situation
was Just too much. She pulled back gently.

He  reached  for her again,  almost
automatically, his hand beneath her naked
breast, then stopped, frozen in place by the
uncertainty in her eyes. He shook his head.

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Jeffrey Qoddin

"Qo to bed," he said, his voice odd. "Just
leave me alone and go to bed."

She took his hand for a moment, nodded,
and walked quickly from the room, beyond the
confusion, thinking only of sleep.

242

During a late midsummer twilight, the air was
going to a cloudy tint of blue in the dose streets
of Butchertown, the old eastern section of Louis-
ville and one of the early discrete communities
that was gradually absorbed as the city first
increased In size and population. It was a hybrid
neighborhood of partly closed storefronts, partly
restored old red brick buildings, and a scattering
of new bars and specialty shops.

On this evening the sidewalk contained both
trendily dressed couples and the neighborhood
folks of working class families. A black-haired
young man working under the hood of a Camaro
chanced to look along the street and raised his
head so suddenly that he hit the hood. His
companion, a long-haired man In his mid-
thirties, laughed and teased.

"Old Donny boy, one 5udwelser and you're

245

Jeffrey Ooddin

over the edge. Guess it's about time we both
joined the A.A."

"Jesus, shut up and dig that ladyl"

A silver Porsche Turbo Carrera convertible
had pulled up at the curb just up the street. Two
long pale legs swung out the door, hiking a dress
up beyond sight. The sleek female legs seemed
luminous in the twilight.

The lady stood. She was wearing a casual
mauve suit, short jacket and flared skirt. She was
tall with legs that, Donny reflected, went all the
way to her navel. And the suit was just properly
rounded up above and opened down to about the
third button of a soft gray blouse.

Donny whistled.

She turned, free-permed hair swinging out
around her head, and Donny's heart slammed
Into his throat.

"Have we died and gone to heaven, or what?"
said Fred softly.

The lady had a face that was not easy to sum
up—a shade long, a shade full-lipped. Her nose
would have been too long If her eyes, under
arching blonde brows, had not been so wide-set.
Those eyes—grey on silver on grey—were not
really friendly. There was something dangerous
there, something that made Donny hard just to
look at her.

Then, she was gone. walking up the street.

"I need a drink," said Donny, an odd
uneasiness creeping into his feeling of lust. Me
glanced at Fred.

"Hey, asshole, gimme a beer."

Fred laughed and dug into the cooler on the
back seat of the 454 for a beer.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"That was one fine .. ." began Fred.
"Christ-all-mighty piece of woman," finished
Donny, wondering what had turned him oddly
silent after that first whistle. It just wasn't like
him to back off like that.

He popped the tab on the beer and took a
deep swig, then gave Fred a punch on the
shoulder that was Just a little bit too hard and
returned to tuning the massive engine.

Fred would have been even more uneasy
could he have read the thoughts of the tall
blonde woman. He couldn't have handled it at
all. She strolled down the street in a dense cloud
of sensory input, beyond normal human senses.

She caught the footsteps of the thief in the
rear of the closed hardware store.

She smelted the rich, brittle scent of a
healing knife wound on the arm of a tall black
man who stared at her as she passed.

She sensed the thoughts of the 40-odd
patrons of the small bar* to which she was
walking, half a block away—curiosity, lust. love,
business, boredom.

She paused under the faded green awning.
on which a blood-red boar sported. Rough-edged
guitar, drums and bass trickled out Into the
street. She enjoyed the abrasion of the sound on
her supersensltlve nerves.

She went Inside and scanned the long glass-
topped bar, sets of tables, empty platform. It had
changed only slightly, this place. Many pairs of
male eyes undressed her as she made her way to
a corner table.

The small bar was smoky and crowded. The

247

Jeffrey Qoddin

last time she'd been there it had been more
Bohemian, and perhaps it still was In Its current
variation. But the drippy political folk music of
1960s leftovers had been replaced by a four
member band with orange crewcuts and bits of
metal attached to their flesh. Their expressions
were as suitably fierce as their lyrics. It took her
a split second to determine that the lead singer
was a girl, wearing a padded jockstrap under her
fishnet tights.

Lisa's lip curled. It was decadent, but of the
shallowest sort. Such a petty era. the 1980s.
These people were almost too insipid to be
victims, these soulless punkers and yuppies.

The music was pounding, a bass-on-drum
rhythm that blended into her blood and her
thoughts. She closed her eyes and slipped into a
fantasy, a long-ago fantasy....

She was standing on a high place, a smooth
marble terrace set in the face of a cliff. Beneath
her, surf pounded against jagged stone. In a sky
buffeted by whirling winds, a fierce sun hung
suspended like a challenge.

She smelted the sharp tang of the ocean, the
mint of wild thyme and olive from the hillside
around her—and another scent, warm male skin.

The man standing beside her was tall with a
mane of dark hair. face bronzed by the sun, his
chest, matted with thick hair, open to the air
under his loose tunic. He stood close beside her.
and, as she held her breath, she felt his firm grip
on her forearm, a hand with strength equal to her
own yet at the same time caressing... .

Something in the present intruded on her
fantasy. The Images Jumbled and broke up. Last
to go was the scent of wild thyme, that

248

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

wonderful, dry, minty smell. She opened her eyes
and felt his eyes on her before she looked at
him—a tall pale young man with a thin black
goatee, wearing Jeans and an army fatigue
jacket. She allowed her mind to probe him as she
met his eyes and received a pleasant shock.

He read like an artist, not the shallow, art
school contemporary type but a real artist. His
mind was In his nerve endings, and these were
very frayed. She allowed herself to see his
field—beautiful deep blues abraded by scarlet
flaws, shading into indigo—before he suddenly
closed himself off.

She gave a little jump, wondering if he could
really be a true psychic, but no, she had simply
frightened him. He had retreated, as any
frightened animal would, and had simply pulled
back.

Lisa felt an odd stirring somewhere deep. It
was almost like love. She glanced back at him at
the same time that he glanced back at her. and
she sensed the effort the action cost him. She
smiled, just the kind of smile he would
appreciate, with the comers of her mouth.

She tilted her head very slightly, allowing her
smile to widen by millimeters, at the same time
as she tried to send him reassurance. Do It. Yes.
Come to me. You'll enjoy It, for. as if she were his
mother or his mentor or the most understanding
lover he'd ever known, she knew how it would
please him to come to her amidst his fear.

Already, she wanted him desperately. The
thought both amused and slightly frightened
her.

And his resistance amused her even more.
Yes, he seemed to be consciously resisting her.

249

Jeffrey Ooddin

He was looking down into his beer. He looked
up, directly into her eyes, then he stood.

He was really very tall, with a wiry thinness
emphasized by the Jeans and faded Jacket. He
picked up his mug and walked over to her. then
stood for a moment, staring at her. A young man
at a table nearby, dressed in a beige con-
temporary summer suit. grinned at his long-
blonde-haired arts-or-government-or-soclal-work
date. A dude like that. he seemed to say, coming
on to a lady like that! The couple seemed poised
to witness Lisa's put-down.

"Sit down." said Lisa, pushing out a chair
with her foot.

The bearded youth sat down.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Stephen," he said, sipping the beer.
"Yours?"

"Lisa."

Lisa examined Stephen. Me was even
younger than she'd thought. 25 or 24? But his
goatee was thick and outlined his Jaw line well.
His eyes were large, a lustrous hazel, deep-set,
with lines of tiredness at their corners. His hands
were long and sensitive, of the sort mistakenly
called "Pianist's hands" but really too slender for
such a task.

"I like your hands," she said, taking one up
In hers.

The man at the adjacent table was staring at
Lisa so raptly that his date was getting Irritated.

"Thanks," said Stephen. "I should make all
kinds of stupid small talk. I suppose."

"no, that's not necessary."

He looked at her more intently. A shiver

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

passed through his body. She tried to read him.
but he was still closed. It Intrigued her.

"Flo," he said, "1 see it isn't."

She traced his wrist, the vein pulsing there.
People were watching them. I should be careful,
she thought. People are watching. They'll
remember me. The hell with theml They're cattle,
and barely that.

"You look like an artist," she said finally.

"Poet, please."

"What kind of things do you write?"

"Things about death. Sex. The two of them.
Disease. The rot of things that man makes. The
rot in the heart of steel, glass, concrete, plastic.
Of steel and glass and plastic hearts."

She felt an odd echo of common sentiment.

"It's true. All man makes decays."

He smiled at that, teeth very white within the
frame of his beard.

"So easy you give in?"

She frowned, confused by this mixed mood.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Look at you," he said, signaling for another
beer. It was a nice gesture, but no one noticed.
She caught the waitress' eye and nodded.

"Look at you," he said again. "Blonde as hell,
dressed to the hilt. People would happily crawl all
over you."

She laughed.

"So romantically put. Can you recite one of
your poems?"

"You're kidding."

She put command Into her voice.

"Do It."

"Okay . ..

251

Jeffrey Ooddin

A clearing In the forest.
They, strong, have betrayed again
the pulse that veins earth and shy.
The small white flowers drink
confused, a blood too fresh."

Lisa sat very still. The words vividly recalled
to mind another scene. She looked into
Stephen's eyes. They were mocking. He took the
second beer and drained It in two long gulps.

"I don't like your poem," she said finally, her
lust returning in force along with a more
dangerous emotion.

"I didn't think you would. Shall we go fuck
now?"

"Yes."

She threw down some bills and walked ahead
of him to the door.

On the way Stephen surprised her by asking
to stop at one of the late night liquor stores, the
kind that passed your booze through a
reinforced glass window. He came back to the
car with a bottle of liebfraumilch, perhaps the
only drinkable wine in the place, and a pint of
151 rum.

She smiled as he climbed back In the car with
the bottles.

"Heed to get your courage up?" she kidded.

She was surprised at his reaction. He looked
at her very seriously and said, "Yes."

"So where do we go?"

"To the cheapest hotel you can find."

She laughed. He suddenly leaned across the
little car and kissed her, a hard, purposeful kiss.
The kiss brought a response. Yes, she was going
to enjoy this.

252

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

The room was indeed of the cheapest kind in
a motel down a side street near the airport. The
carpet was of that green-brown blend that never
shows dirt. The soft blue bedspread was worn
through to the threads in spots, and the chairs
and drapes were of cheap plastic. In the bath-
room. she found soap bearing one of her names.

Stephen sat down on the bed and took a swig
from the rum. She watched him drink as she
slowly took off her suit, the soft gray shirt and
her black underwear. She shook her hair out
around her head and stood naked before him.
She knew that her body was flawless, yet he
seemed hardly to notice. He took a Swiss army
knife from one of his jacket pockets and used the
corkscrew to open the liebfraumilch. He took a
deep swig. to chase the rum, then offered the
bottle to Lisa,

She tipped it back and drank deeply. The
fruity wine tasted good going down. She was
highly sensitive to alcohol, and a warm blush, a
light misting of sweat, broke'out over her body.

"So," he said, that odd air of seriousness
coming out again.

"So?"

He sipped, tipping up the wine, then
following It with a rum chaser.

"I'm mostly Romanian," he said.

She stood, watching him, a fugue of images
in her brain. She wanted to come to him, to take
him. Violently. Quickly. Something held her in
check.

"An interesting heritage?" she returned.

"Very." He drank from the rum. "I've read a
lot about Romania. The past always has more

255

Jeffrey Qoddtn

value than the present. And I have a great-aunt,
whom I met once in Chicago, from an old, old
country family."

She nodded, amused, wondering where this
was leading.

"She told me some of the old tales. And I
read a number of others, like the stories of the
pricolici or the strtgot de lup."

"Pricolict?" The word had an odd resonance.
But Lisa had little interest in folk tales.

"The pricotici, strtgot, sometimes—the
shape-changers. The word signified those who
could  adopt  the  shapes  of dogs  or
wolves—werewolves. If you like."

Lisa was very still. She looked at his long,
melancholy face, the cleanly bearded features,
the odd gleam in his eye. Her mind whirled. The
world Is full of mysteries these days. She finally
laughed.

"Mice words for Intriguing concepts."

He nodded.

"The shape-changers are especially feared
by my people. One can defeat a vampire by
finding Its body. With the shape-changers, you
hardly know. There are only a few signs."

"Yes?"

"They sometimes have hairy palms. They
have very wide pupils and long, almond shaped
eyes. Their eyebrows grow closely together. The
second toe Is longer than the big toe."

She laughed, wiggling her toes. Of course,
her second toes were longer than her big toes. He
was, in fact. looking at her feet.

"I have the toes and the eyes, and I shave my
eyebrows. Does that make me a shape-changer?"

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

she asked softly. He passed her the wine, and she
drank. She was getting quickly intoxicated.
nothing like this had ever happened to
her—standing in the middle of a room, naked, as
a man watched her and talked about folklore.

"Not those signs alone. Other people have
the gene for long second toes. Shape-changers
sometimes can also read minds—or more
precisely, read emotions."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Like you."

He said It with finality. She was instantly on
guard. So he knew. or thought he knew. But he
had no weapon that she could see, other than the
knife, which now lay closed beside him on the
nightstand. And one move toward that knife . ..

"Don't worry," he said softly. "I've studied
mythical creatures. I've often wondered what
their existence would be like If they were
updated, brought to the present. It would be so
much more wonderful than Just being what we
are. It is, isn't it?"

At the odd note of pleading In his voice, she
met his eyes and saw the look of the victim there.
This would be different. This was from a myth, to
be acted out In a tawdry motel room. And she
mustn't disappoint him.

"Yes." she said. "it Is very wonderful."

He sighed, holding her eyes. She walked over
to him. He was looking at her with Incredible
longing, but it wasn't Just a longing of the flesh.
She forced him to stand, undressed him, then
pushed him back on the bed. She took the knife
from the nightstand and handed it to him.

"I think you may imagine what's coming,"

255

Jeffrey Ooddtn

she said. "You can end It now, if you like."

He knew she wasn't offering herself.

"No." he said, pulling her to him, the knife
clattering to the floor. He felt so thin, so hard, so
feverishly hot. "Mo, not that way."

She met his kiss, gripping his neck and
crushing her lips against his. She felt his hands
pinching her hard nipples, sliding on the sweaty
skin of her thighs between her legs. She reached
down and felt the rock-like erection he was
thrusting at her. She rolled onto her back, to take
him, to open to him, to grant his wish.

He slammed into her, gripping her
shoulders, his pelvis battering hers, and she
began to gasp, little screams, pulling him
deeper, and deeper, wrenching the orgasm from
his slender body.

And at that moment, she went Into the
second form.

She had never heard such a cry of joy, agony,
ecstasy, sheer heart-stopping terror as was
wrung from his slender throat as he realized
what was happening.

She savored the feeling for a moment, before
the needs of the second form overtook them
both.

As he drove back to the Institute, Fielding
wondered how many of them knew that he had
been fired. He'd gotten along well with everyone
there, excepting Grant. Firing him would not
have been a popular action.

There was just a chance that Grant hadn't
spread the news around.

He drove quickly through town, passing
through run-down sections that had once been

256

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

affluent but were now broken up into rental
housing. Faces watched him from porches and
street corners, the red flares of cigarettes like
tiny beacons.

Soon he was In to the restored area, being
reoccupied by yuppies working downtown. He
took a left to pick up 1-65 and took it to the
Waterson Expressway, oddly relieved to feel the
press of cars around him. He followed the
Waterson west, found the proper exit, and
stepped up his pace.

He hadn't driven to the Institute at night for
a long, long time. After an hour, he saw Its pale
bulk looming against the dark, dark sky. It
somehow had the air of Dracula s castle.

And I'm going in, he thought. I'm going In to
find the means to slay the monster.

He didn't realize how close the image was to
reality.

Mary was on night duty, and the sight of her
red-haired  wholesomeness  was  somehow
reassuring. He recalled the rather nervous dinner
date they'd had, it seemed ages ago. She gave
him a big smile when she saw him.

"And just what are you doing here at this
hour?"

Did she know? He was visibly nervous. No,
she probably just put It down to vague romantic
possibilities.

"I'm working up some files and need to get
ready for the next staff meeting." He hesitated.
"How late are you working?"

"About another hour."

"That should do It for me, too," he said,
facing her directly so his paunch showed less
prominently. "How about a drink?"

257

Jeffrey Ooddin

"Love It," she said, flashing her blue blue
eyes. He headed for the elevator. It might not be
such a bad night after all.

It seemed incredible to him that he had had a
key to Grant's office made. If Grant had told
anyone of Fielding's dismissal, it would have
been the guards and custodial staff. And. as
much as Sims liked Fielding, Fielding knew that
Sims piayed by the rules.

He reached the third floor, looking quickly
around. Mo one was visible, and the lights were
turned down to the every "fourth-panel level. So
far so good.

He quickly moved down the corridor and
inserted the key in the lock. Miraculously, It
turned. He slipped inside and softly closed the
door behind him.

He padded across the dark room, feeling for
the desk. He felt a faint, almost electric tingle
when he touched it. Boy, am 1 JumpyI He turned
on the desk light. It illuminated a small area to
the rear of the room. He adjusted the blinds to
cover the windows as completely as he could,
then repeated his trick of opening the filing
cabinet from the bottom.

Damn, he thought suddenly. I should have
brought that tape I took home by mistake. Grant
might miss it.

But it was no time for regrets. He examined
the contents of the bottom drawer, heavy with
the brittle smell of tapes. There seemed to be
fewer cassettes than before. He selected one at
random and carried It across the room to the
VCR. fortunately the machine was a lot like his,
and he didn't need much light to operate it. He

258

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

went back to monitor, made sure the volume was
low, and put in the tape.

The first frames were of a woman, bound to a
bed. She was pretty, with short blonde hair,
dressed as if for jogging—brief yellow shorts and
a jersey top that fitted closely to her high
breasts. The top was attention-getting.

She appeared to be dozing, her chest evenly
rising andtFalling. The camera lingered lovingly,
then a strong masculine hand reached into the
video frame and shook the young woman. She
stirred groggily.

"Wake   up,   sleeping   beauty."   The
voice ... was it Grant?

The camera panned back to reveal a man,
naked but for a black loin slip like the Japanese
Sumo wrestlers wear. He was tall and powerful,
his arms and torso rippling lines of clearly
defined muscle. He wore a black cowl hood like
an executioner. There was a sudden brief
refraction of light from the man's ring. Fielding
knew that ring.

The girl was huddled on the bed, apparently
terrified and mumbling unintelligibly.

"Who are you? Where is this? What do you
want?"

"It will all be clear to you in a minute." said
the voice.

And suddenly the man began to change into
something that Fielding just could not believe. It
still walked on two feet. but the shape was more
human than animal. The mask fell away. but
what was beneath was much worse than the
mask.

It grabbed the girl, ripping away her jersey

259

Jeffrey Qoddtn

and pulling aside her hands.

Fielding had to look away, his stomach
knotting, bitter bile rising to his throat.

"Have you seen enough?"

He stood so suddenly that the chair toppled
over, and he hit the knob of the VCK, sending up
the volume of the girl's agonized screams.

A strong tanned hand calmly turned the
volume back down. Fielding looked up into
Grant's liquid brown eyes.

"You're a very naughty man," he said softly,
flipping out the tape and returning it to its black
box. "First you let one of our most dangerous
patients escape, then I find you going through
my private films. What's a person to do?"

Fielding was shaken, both by the tape he'd
seen and by Grant's manner. All the anger Grant
had shown at their last meeting was gone. He
sounded almost amused, which was much worse
than the anger.

"So," said Grant finally. "I suppose you have
a reason for being here?"

Fielding started to say something, tried to
make some explanation for his presence, but he
knew that it was no good. There was something
in Grant's manner that was at once admission
and threat.

"What do you intend to do?"

"I have a feeling," said Grant, "that you
know where Douglas Alien is."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"No, I've no idea where he Is."

"I think otherwise."

Grant swiftly grabbed Fielding by the collar-
bone, lifting him from his chair with one hand.

260

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"You've caused me a lot of trouble. I may be
lenient with you. If you tell me where Alien is."

After that tape I saw? Fielding read the
answer in Grant's face.

Fielding had had a little boxing in high
school. He suddenly twisted in Grant's grasp and
threw a hard right jab at the man's stomach. And
gasped. It was like hitting a board. Grant pivoted
and slammed Fielding's head against the wall,
then, still, holding him by one hand, he used his
left to press a nerve in Fielding's neck.

His former employee passed into darkness.

It was like a fever dream—a blackened,
scorched landscape with gaunt twisted trees and
quasi-human, reddish creatures that chased and
caught other pale pink creatures that looked like
men and women. And he was hiding, because he
was one of those soft pink creatures, and he
thought he knew and didn't want to know what
would happen to him if he was caught.

But they had scented him, there where he
crouched behind the scorched basaltic stone
block, and they were coming for him, and he
turned to see more behind, though he could
hardly make them out but for their burning eyes
and their twisted talons.

Edge of consciousness, images whirling. He
began to come to gradually. He couldn't move.
Something was holding him uprlflht in a chair.
He opened his eyes and focused on one of the
broad elastic bands they used on violent
patients, strapped across his chest. He felt hot.
Why was he so hot? It seemed that he was
sweating, but he did not know whether or not
he was sweating.

261




Jeffrey Qoddtn

The room seemed to be full of mist. It was
rather pretty—no harsh angles, no absolutely
straight lines. His attention was attracted to
what seemed to be a small sun peeking out of the
mist. As he looked at It, It began to move slowly,
rhythmically, back and forth. Me couldn't take
his eyes off of it.

"Just relax," said a voice, "just relax. You're
feeling very very good. Kelax."

He almost recognized the voice. Did. Grant.
He tried to struggle, but he couldn't take his eyes
off of the light. He realized that he was drugged,
but the realization did him little good.

Suddenly he was looking into Grant's amber
eyes. They seemed like suns or moons with a
black core. Amber fires swirled around a core
blacker than midnight.

"I want you to tell me something."

"Yes," said Fielding automatically, outside
of himself.

"Where is Douglas Alien?"

"He's gone to a house near Lake Barclay."

"Whose house is it? Where exactly is it?"

"It's   Professor   Trent's   house.   It's
near ... Ho!" Fielding shouted. "I won't tell
youl"

Qrant gave Fielding another injection, again
brought him up from delirium to thought and
memory. Again those black cores of eyes bored
In to Fielding's.

"Plo ... no ... no ..." Fielding's head lolled
on his chest. Qrant had to lift it by his hair to get
his attention. The man's will was up, and Qrant
became impatient.

Fielding retrieved a scrap of consciousness.
The eyes were gone. He tried to see, then felt a

262

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

forearm tike banded steel across the front of his
neck. a hand snapping his head forward with an
audible crack. The incredible pain broke through
even the fog of the drug.

That was my neck breaking, was his last
thought.

And now what do I do with him? thought
Qrant, regretting his loss of patience.

The answer came quickly. He smiled. He
untied Fielding's body, lifted it effortlessly and
carried it to the door.

Mary sat anxiously at the desk. Fielding had
said he'd be down in an hour, and it was nearly
50 minutes over that. She should leave for the
night. Grant hated any deviation from protocol,
even working longer than arranged.

She heard the elevator coming down, the
sound echoing on the silent first floor. She stood
and closed her purse.

rinallyl

The doors opened, and Murray Grant walked
out.

She gave a start when she saw him. She'd
forgotten he was there. Or had she even seen him
arrive?

He walked over to the desk. The way he kept
his eyes on hers made her slightly nervous.

"Working late, aren't you?"

"I... I'm waiting for Dr. Fielding. He came In
to do some late work."

"You didn't know I'd fired Dr. Fielding?"

"No."

It was in that moment of stress that he
linked eyes with her. She was much easier than
Fielding. A few seconds and she was deeply

263

Jeffrey Ooddin

under. He bent and spoke into her ear.

"Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"First, you didn't know Dr. Fielding had been
fired. Second, you had no date with Dr. fielding.
Third, I came here this afternoon and left at five
o'clock."

He repeated the instructions in different
ways, so that she absorbed them thoroughly.
Then he deliberately lightened the trance to the
point where she would awaken in a few minutes.
As he left, she was still staring into space.

He did not notice Sims, sitting in his car,
trying to get his lighter to work. And Sims merely
noticed his boss climb in his car and drive off.

Karl sat in the darkened car, listening to the
cricket sounds In the old section of Louisville
while watching Lisa's apartment. He had called
Analog Consulting first thing that morning. He
had been told that "Ms. Parkins would not be
available for a few days, and would you care to
leave a message?" No, he would not.

He had gone back to the motel, showered,
and slept until late afternoon. Then he had
driven to St. James Court, guided by the Louis-
ville street map he'd picked up at a filling
station.

The Court was less than a dozen blocks from
the motel, a part of the older center city that had
gone through phases—originally the home of the
wealthy, then. in the 1940s and 1950s,
increasingly abandoned in the flight to the
suburbs. Plow it was apparently being re-
furbished. perhaps repopulated by the yuppies

264

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

who were attracted by the closeness to work and
municipal tax incentives.

The streets were narrow, the houses talhand
close together, vaguely Eastern in the popularity
of brick facings. But some of these homes had
the tall bay windows and arched doorways with
fanlights that showed a definite Southern
influence.

He found her place without any trouble. The

^ building, probably once a single home, was
broken up into floor apartments. There were

\   three separate bells. He checked the initials and

'   pressed the one with L.P. Nothing. So he had
gone back to his car, moved It once to a better
position, and settled down to wait.

It was a soft night. From time to time couples
passed, walking hand in hand, bits of conver-
sation and laughter drifting on the air. One
accompanied girl in particular caught Karl's
attention, a slender, dark-haired creature in a

-!   Burburry who paused under a streetlight
opposite. As Karl watched her, two pairs of eyes

"   suddenly reflected back at him. There was a gray
furry cat face peering out from the collar of her
long coat. Both seemed to be looking at Karl and
smiling, although they couldn't possibly see
him. He smiled back. Suddenly they were gone.
and he wondered if they had ever been there at
all.

Every hour or two after a police car came by.
The second time the patrolman flashed a spot-
light along the side of Karl's car. He leaned back,
pretending sleep. It didn't work. He heard the car
door slam, the steps moving slowly in the street.
The footsteps sounded extremely loud, as if the of-

265

Jeffrey Qoddin

ficer were wearing heel taps. Me realized that he
was hearing with a touch of that heightened aware-
ness that presaged the change, and it startled
him. He immediately put a yogic block on his
thoughts. Just in case.

The steps paused behind his car, then
walked slowly around to the driver's side. Me
heard the rustle of the stiff fabric of the cop's
uniform and a faint, metallic click from his
gun belt.

"You're a long way from California, buddy."
The cop spoke as if he knew that Karl was only
feigning sleep.

Karl pretended to come slowly to conscious-
ness.

"Huh?"

"I said, you're a long way from California.
What're you doing here?"

"1... I'm going to school in Indiana. I came
down here to visit a friend."

"So do a lotta people. Who's your friend?"

"Lisa Parkins. She lives in that apartment
building across the street."

"Which number?"

Shit, he thought, this guy's no slouch!

"Plumber three."

The cop made a note of the name and
number in a little book.

"Let me see your driver's license."

Thank Qod he'd remembered to carry a fake
license and registration. It was bad enough that
he'd had to reveal Lisa's name. Or had he? Mad
he just been caught off guard?

And why? Why am I so worried about
revealing her name?

He passed the fake license to the cop who

266

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

wrote down the name "E. McCloskey" and the
number.

"You don't look like a Mick to me," said the
cop, shining a light in Karl's face.

He decided that it was time to show anger.

"Look, some of us you can't tell, okay? How
how about leaving me alone?"

The cop laughed, in the dim light Karl could
see little of his face but a broad, dimpled chin.

"Touchy little Mick, aren't you? Okay, I'm
going over across the street and check out the
name and number you just gave me. If it's okay,
fine. If not, we maybe talk back at the station."

"Sure." said Karl, trying to keep his voice
Indignant.

The cop left his patrol car in the street,
bubble gum light flashing weird crimson
reflections off of the quiet fronts of the houses,
as he walked across and checked out the name
plates on the first level of the house. Karl
suddenly remembered that the bell only had
initials. But he saw the cop checking the
mailbox, also. Maybe her last name was on that.

The cop walked back to his waiting car and
drove off without a word.

Damn. He'd not wanted to give her name and
number, but it had been the right thing to do.

Yet why did it worry him so much? Just what
harm could it do?

He settled back in the seat.

Another hour. and the same or another cop
came by. Karl checked his watch. Jeeze, almost
midnight! She could have a boyfriend (and why
did that bother him?) Or she could be out
drinking with friends, or ...

Just then there came a low rumble of muted
267




^
Jeffrey Ooddin

exhaust in the narrow street, echoing softly off
the houses. A Forsche turbo pulled In across the
street, and a woman swung out, letting the door
slam behind her.

There was only the dim streetlight, but it was
sufficient. He saw the grace of her motion, a
glimpse of profile framed by disordered pale
hair, the glint of an eye, proud cheekbones, long
narrow nose, full arrogant lips.

Karl caught his breath. He knew it was Lisa.
She gave off an energy that called to him across
the spatial distance of the street—something
primal, electric, sexual and more. She was
charged, wired. He had just enough presence of
mind to wonder if she was always like this.

And then. for an instant, she was looking     ""
directly at him, as if she had picked up on his     ,
silent observation of her. She stood motionless
as a tree, her eyes searching the darkened car.     ;

He slammed on as much of a yogic block as he     k
could, psychically hiding from her.                ?

Then. she was gone, up the stairs and into
the building in an effortless leap.                  "

And he sat. stunned. The yoga was barely     \
enough. He actually wanted to get out of the car    Ł
and follow her. He'd responded to her as he had
to Adrienne.                                    ;

He bit his tongue, started the car, and
quickly pulled away from the curb.

Of one thing, at least, he was certain.

He and she were of the same race,            ^

268

The manager of the Co-Z Motor Lodge was a fat,
balding man, wearing a brown, off-the-rack
polyester suit and clip-on green tie. He came up to
Hardln's navel. He talked constantly as he led the
two detectives up the steel staircase to the
concrete walkway to the second level.

"I tell you, boys, we've had a little trouble, a
drunk or two from time to time. but nothing like
this, nope, nothing ever like this."

"Don't worry," said Hardin. "The owner
usually doesn't have any liability in things like
this/-
The lawyer words seemed to reassure the
sweating fat man. He unlocked the door with a
shaky hand and led the detectives inside.

Hardin swept the room at a glance, but.
somehow, he avoided looking at the body. He
looked at the cheap multi-hued curtains, the

271

Jeffrey Ooddtn

worn brown-that-hides-anything carpet, the
cheap side table with a bottle of 151 rum and an
empty wine bottle on it.

He finally couldn't avoid looking at the bed.

The body and its blood had created a new
color scheme—white on red—the white, white
body and the red, red blood soaking into the
white, white sheet.

The body shocked him. It shocked him.
because It was a sadistic work of art,
systematically mutilated with slashes on face,
chest, abdomen, legs, all symmetrical though
some quite shallow.

And the body was composed—not the way a
body Is laid out, but the way someone ties down
naturally on their back to go to sleep, one arm
half across the chest.

He noted that the fingertips were caked with
blood, even as he also noticed that he, a
hardened veteran who'd seen crimes a lot worse
than this. was beginning to get very nauseous.

It was the perverse art of it.

'And, on the pale wall above the bed, he saw
why the fingertips were caked with blood.

Someone, presumably the corpse, had
written a poem on the wall. The lettering was
quite clear, almost elegant:

She tore out my tongue
that I might speak.
She tore out my eyes
that I might see.
She tore out my lungs
that I might breathe the air
of the myth I love

272

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Far out," said Simpson. standing at
Hardin's side. "Too far out. That dude musta
been coked to the pores."

It was entirely too much for Hardin.
nauseous and dizzy, he found himself walking on
shaky legs for the door, standing on the cheap
balcony that seemed like it might tumble into
the parking lot and taking deep gasping breaths
of the hot polluted air.

Life was getting too weird.

He made his way down the stairway, holding
tightly to the railing, and used the car phone to
call Forensics. And why didn't I call on the phone
upstairs? Because of prints on the phone, you
idiot. Get It back togetheri

When Forensics arrived, he browbeat them
unmercifully to make up for his weakness.
Simpson stood, watching him with a half-smile
on his face that Just made Hardin want to punch
the man out.

Hardin was having trouble thinking. Ideas
were crossing. He tried to be rational, to make
some connections with the other sadistic
murders they'd had on their hands lately.

But all he could think of was the boy on the
bed—a hippie, he would have typed him. Hippies
were degenerate and weak, but the man who had
been slashed like that and still had been able to
write a poem to the murderer (a woman, it had to
be a woman) was not weak. Mo, he had not been
weak at all.

He whirled around and returned to his car.

Damn, summer had come quickly this yearl
Hardin was burning up In the office-issued Ford.
Air conditioning was out. Damned office motor

275

Jeffrey Ooddin

pool and their lazy mechanicsl He was convinced
that half of them were on dope. Or was It just that
he was so radically out of shape? Was that his
real problem?

Hell, he'd been working out twice a week and
he had lost five pounds, though he couldn't for
the life of him figure out where. He used the siren
to move aside the fast-lane traffic on the
Waterson, taking out his frustrations. One semi
wouldn't let him over. Hardin called the guy's
plate number in, ordered the patrolman who
answered to put the goddamned trucker in Jail,
and dodged off at the next southbound exit
ramp.

He drove fast, even though it was not an
emergency situation. He was just going to visit
some headshrinker— no, some boss head-
shrinker. Some psychiatrist jumped from the
roof of a mental institution—that was a
pleasantly sane scenario compared to the scene
in the tawdry motel room that morning. Hardin
could easily have sent someone else out to the
mental institution, but he'd decided to get away
from the office, away from the nervous Chief and
the frustration that had been building up from
these mutilation killings.

He suddenly realized that this was the same
mental Institution that that child kller—what
was his name? Alien?—had escaped from. The
place was having more than its share of the
action lately.

He went into a driving trance, and before he
knew it he was coasting up the long, curving
drive toward the huge pale mass of the institu-
tion.

274




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

He didn't like even visiting a mental
institution. Perhaps it was that fear, engendered
by the movies or TV. of being mistaken for a
patient and locked up by mistake. Or maybe it
was the number of times that his first wife had
told him that he ought to be put in one.

The pretty, somewhat nervous girl at the
desk told him Grant's office number. Hardin
snarled his thanks and headed for the elevator. It
annoyed him that Grant hadn't come down to
meet him in person. He thought that a deal like
this Justified a personal reception.

The elevator was fast. He walked along the
corridor to Grant's office and found a very pretty
receptionist seated in the outer office. He
frowned at the trendy metal-framed limited
edition collector's prints on the walls—abstracts
!n blocks of pastels. The worst, to his mind, was
one of mauve, puce and yellow wave shapes.
Hell, I'd go mad if 1 had to look at that thing very
long, he thought.

The phone on the girl's desk gave a subdued
hum. She picked it up as if it were a crystal glass
and held it to her ear for a moment. She turned
and looked over Hardln's shoulder.

"You can go In now."

He gave the girl his first smile of the day and
entered the office. A tall man stood up from the
desk and advanced to meet him, hand extended.

"Detective Hardin? I'm Murray Grant."

Hardin was surprised by Murray Grant. He'd
expected some squint-eyed intellectual wimp in
tweeds, but this man was something of another
breed. From years of experience, Hardin summed
up a man in terms of his physical strength and

275

Jeffrey Ooddin

stance as well as his general appearance. Qrant
appeared to be around 40. His grooming was
Impeccable—the tan, lightweight cotton sum-
mer suit, regimental brown tie with gold and
onxy clasp, gold and onyx ring on his left hand.

But his handshake was powerful, as only the
handshake of someone who does heavy manual
labor, or works out a lot, can be. And his build
and carriage reminded Hardin of some of the
karate people he'd met.

"Please have a seat," said Grant, motioning
Hardin to a chair and returning to sit behind the
desk. "You wanted to know something about
Doctor Fielding?"

"That's correct. Mr. Fielding's apparently
jumped from the roof of your hospital."

Grant nodded.

"So I heard."

Hardin did not like the way Grant's eyes
bored into his. He seemed totally lacking In that
nervousness that most respectable men feel
when talking with a police officer. It was almost
offensive.

"I was wondering if you could tell us any
more about him?"

"Why?" The question was direct as a bullet.

"Because, during the autopsy, it was found
that Fielding's neck had been broken before he
fell—or was pushed—from the roof."

"You're certain of that?"

"Yes," Hardin lied. The M.E. had suspected
but not been certain. Grant's amber eyes
twinkled, as if he recognized the lie. Hardin
found himself developing an instinctive dislike
for this man.

276

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Well," Grant snapped his fingers, "I really
find It hard to believe that anyone here would
have killed him. Of course, if they did, you
couldn't do anything about it anyway."

"Why?"

"Because they're all insane." Grant smiled.
Damn you, thought Hardin.

"What about the other doctors? Did Fielding
ever quarrel with any of them?"

"Do. Emotional stability is a prerequisite for
working here."

"Yet you had Just fired Fielding."

"Because he used poor judgment in such a
way as to endanger others. He reduced Douglas
Alien's drug dosage to the point where Alien was
able to become violent and escape."

"I see. So you and Fielding quarreled?"

"No, I merely dismissed him."

Hardin sat, creating a deliberate silence
before his next question.

"What time did you leave here that night?"

"Above five."

"And Fielding got here ..."

"I'm not certain. He didn't exactly look me
up. Me wasn't supposed to be here at all."

Hardin stood.

"1-presume you'll be available for question-
ing?"

"Probably," said Grant. "I have some visiting
to do. I'll be in and out."

"Don't stray too far," said Hardin. "We may
need you. There are too many loose ends about
this one."

"Of course," said Grant, also standing. "I'll
help you In any way I can."

277

Jeffrey Qoddtn

"I'm sure you will," said Hardin. "I'm sure
you will."

After Hardin had left. Grant sat for a long
time, staring at the door. He was experiencing a
most unaccustomed build-up of tension, and
soon he'd have to do something about it. t)amn
that cop! It was all he needed, some stupid cop
prowling around, a cop who might find out
something from sheer persistence.

He'd been tempted to just kill the man then
and there.

He felt the energies rippling through his
superb body, the almost pre-change energies
that he had to keep a damper on. He opened the
drawer of his desk and pulled out the evening
edition of the Louisville Courier-Journal and read
again what he'd been reading when Hardin had
interrupted him.

It was a quarter page story abouC. how a
naked woman and an attack dog had burst into
the jail and slain an important murder suspect.

He shook his head, halfway between rage
and bitter amusement. Damn Lisa! He almost
had to admire the sheer effrontery of it. But it
was too dangerous. And Cub. His anger returned
at the thought of what she'd done to him. There
was so much he could have found out from Cub,
so like Grant himself yet so different.

Me feit a twinge of almost human regret and
stifled it, replacing it with a cool burning rage
tinged with frustration. It all dated back to that
encounter In the woods, when Douglas Alien had
stumbled onto them.

That had been as pure a case of Karmic

278

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

chance as you could cite, but It had begun to
unravel the nicely balanced world he'd created
for himself over the past few years.

He felt an odd unease—he, who had felt
himself immune to common human anxieties.
He recalled Alien's face vividly, those pale
hollowed eyes, his fine forehead, his cupid's bow
lips. The face had elements of another face he'd
known, and he recalled the feeling he'd had
around Alien. His suppositions went into the
fantastic, which was not in reality much more
fantastic than the things that had been going
wrong lately.

And Lisa. What should he do about her? She
might have to die. He hated the thought. He'd
loved her In his way, but, like all women, her
biology had overruled her intellect. That could
easily prove fatal. His face twisted at the double
pun.

Alien would definitely have to die, because,
even if what Grant suspected about him were
true, there was no way that Alien could become
an ally.

Grant was suddenly very, very impatient to
see things reach a conclusion.

And he would begin with Alien.

At least the fates had dealt him one hand he
could use.

He took the neatly typed card out of his
pocket and laid it on the desk. It read:

"Dear Dr. Grant,

I'm having a little gathering of
physical psychics over this week-

279

Jeffrey Goddtn

end for some heavy talk and super-
natural demonstration. As the
most learned headshrinker in the
area, I thought you might like to at-
tend.               Darren Trent."

Grant recalled Trent vividly from a party in
Lexington the previous month—a vain, self-
important, though intelligent professor. They'd
talked a couple of times about the psychology of
sadism. It might be amusing to see Trent once
again.

It would definitely be amusing to visit one of
his guests and Grant was desperately beginning
to need some amusement.

Back in his spare, smelly office Hardin set
the coffee pot to boil and tried to do a mental
systems flow on his problems.

He was mildly irritated to have to deal wfth
the Fielding stuff. Even if Hamel said the guy's
neck had been broken before the fall, Hardin was
convinced that it was a suicide.

He was a lot more concerned about the
mutilation killings. As far as he was concerned, if
some of the lowlife wanted to knock each other
off once in a while or some neurotic doctor
knocked himself off, it was no big deal.

But the Cunninghams had been a harmless,
upwardly mobile, yuppie couple. And Stephen
Eurler. the kid they'd found that morning, the
child of a good family, was Just a poor misguided
kid. The girl in the white stingray was pretty
much in the same category. And the Vietnamese
girl? Just another kid.

280

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

And even though the Cunningham killings
seemed solved, there was that nagging similarity
in the mode of killing. And dammit. what the hell
had happened to that Cub right under his eyes?

He had the feeling that the world was going
weird on him, and he didn't like the feeling at ail.
He felt a driving urge to just jump in and get
some things back to normal. As a man of motion,
he wanted to do it as directly as possible.

He wanted to hang somebody.

But none of it was coming together, none of
it at all.

If only there were some connecting links,
besides the manner of death.

He toyed with the VCR tape they'd found In
Fielding's apartment. Might as well see what it
was. He took it downstairs to the lounge and put
it in the VCR.

The music he kind of liked, sort of a Spanish
lilt to it. Then the scene—the kid with the wine
glass, the man in the wolf mask—was weird. He
suspected some. kinky sex coming. He watched
the hands grow gnarled and hairy. Great, weird
stuff.

Wait.

Unlike Fielding, he'd recognized the kid, or
thought he did. He went to the lounge phone and
called downstairs.

"Hey, Simpson, get me the file on the
Donaldson kid. I'm down in the lounge."

"What am I, some kind of goddamned errand
boy? I'm Just going out."

"This is important. Just do it. And bring all
the rest of the stuff from Fielding's apartment.
Please."

281

Jeffrey Goddtn

Where the hell had that "please" come from?

He watched the rest of the tape, the part
Fielding hadn't seen. The camera panned back,
recorded the boy's horrified reaction to the
man's transformation, then the man's animal
rush.

Hardinjust couldn't believe what he saw, but
he knew the difference between a make-believe
killing and a real one. And this one, no matter
how weird, was for real.

Here was Fielding with a tape like this—a
killing that sure as hell was a lot like what had
happened around town lately. Then Fielding
dead. Hardin's mind began to make connections
even before the photo that Simpson brought
confirmed that the boy in the film was In fact-the
Donaldson boy, missing and believed kidnapped
the previous year.

Hardin played the tape for Simpson. They
watched for the appearance of the boy, who how
looked very much like the photos of the Donald-
son boy now spread out across the desk.

"Hey, dig the fancy ring," said Simpson.

"My God!" Hardin froze the frame. Simpson
gave him a funny look.

"You okay?"

"Jeeze, 1 know that ring. I know who it
belongs to."

"You do?"

"1 talked with him today." Hardin ran a hand
over his stubbled face, smiling at the black cop.
Simpson was a little dazed by Hardin's friend-
liness. "And if 1 thought things couldn't get
much weirder around here/ they just did.
Remember that Alien guy, a child killer, escaped
from a mental institution a few days ago?"
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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Yeah . .. say, is it the same place . . ."

". . . that Fielding worked. You got it. And
now we find this tape at Fielding's apartment.
And you spot the ring. And 1 know that ring.
Quess who it belongs to?"

Simpson frowned and looked at Hardin, a
half-smile on his lips.

"You just been to talk to the dude who runs
that place."

Hardin laughed.

"You're not bad. Yep, the director of the
hospital wears a ring just like that."

"So?"

"So we go through this," Hardin Indicated
^  the boxes and garbage bags from Fielding's
apartment, "and look for a link back to the
institution, Murray Grant, the director, this Alien
dude, or to the Donaldson boy."

"You don't ask a lot. Why me?"

" 'Cause you're one of the only shitheads
s  around here with half a brain instead of one
^   quarter, even if you are a ..."

Simpson held up a hand, palm out.

"Mot now, when we're still in love."

He bent to start going through the first box.

It was early evening and three outside calls
and two pots of dreary coffee later that Simpson
held up a small notepad.

"Hey, Hardin, what was that Alien guy's first
name again?"

"Uh . .. Douglas, I think."

Simpson passed the notepad to Hardin. It
was in a haggle marked "by kitchen phone." He
read:

285

•Jeffrey Goddin

Doug: Rt 8 Bx 57 Cuttawa 502-935-5417
Lara: Profess. Trent

And, within a complex doodle of curving lines:

Check Grant's office

Hardin looked up at Simpson. his eyes blood-
shot but shining.

"You've gone good so far. Mow help me get
this all together and it just may be promotion
time."

Mardin wrote it all down, as he and Simpson
hashed out facts and correlations:

1. Positive l.D. on the boy in the grisly snuff
film—the missing Donaldson boy.

2. Ring identical to Murray Grant's ring. and
the hand and physique similar as well.

5. Peter Fielding in possession of the tape.

4. Peter Fielding deceased.

5. Fielding has a note on his pad about
visiting Grant's office.

6. Mote also has a number and address for a
man named Doug.                 *

'7. A man named Douglas Alien is missing.
And Fielding has been fired for modifying Alien's
treatment.

Hardin looked up from his desk, while
Simpson was still examining the list. Their
excitement was a tenuous bond between them.

Hardin reached for the phone,

"I think Dr. Grant is going to come In for
questioning."

He dialed the number of the hospital, and
was switched to Grant's secretary.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Hello?" answered that drawing room voice.
I may seem like only a secretary, but appear-
ances are deceiving.

"Yes, this is Detective Hardin. I wish to speak
with Dr. Grant."

There was a brief hesitation.

"May I tell Dr. Grant what this concerns?"

"Keeping his ass out of jail," snapped
Hardin. "Put him on."

"I'm sorry, but Dr. Grant is out of town."

"Why didn't you tell me that to begin with?
When will he be back?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know."

"What the hell kind of secretary are you?
Where did he go?"

"Uh .,." The voice was losing cool. "He
didn't say."

Hardin slammed down the phone. He turned
to Simpson, who seemed slightly amused. "We're
going to search Grant's office."

"Huh? That'll take a warrant."

"Then we better get on iti"

Hardin and Simpson did a thorough Job on
Grant's office. It was Hardin who found the tapes
in the bottom of the filing cabinet, and he passed
them to Simpson.

"Put a few of these on the VCR to see what
they're about."

Hardin pulled a few books off of a low glass
shelf to see If there were anything behind them.
nothing. He was going through the wastebasket
when he heard Simpson gasp.

"Holy shiti"

Hardin turned, his eyes switching from

285

Jeffrey Goddin

Simpson's startled expression to the monitor.

He recognized the dining room from the
other film. He didn't recognize the boy, but he
thought he knew the tall masked figure. He
watched the action for a minute, his nerves
tightening. Suddenly he punched the tape off.

"That was sick," said Simpson. with feeling.

"All the tapes," said Hardin. "Check 'em all."

Me went back to the filing cabinet, found the
diaries on the bottom and briefly leafed through
a couple. Some were in code, but he found one in
plain English. He stopped to read a few passages.
It was an account of a trip to the woods, much
like a nature story, until it became clear that the
child that Grant had brought along had an
entirely unnatural purpose.

"I just don't believe it," he said softly.
Simpson looked up from the VCR/ face pale.

"What?"

"The guy kept records, like he was doing
experiments, or something."

They proceeded to go through the rest of the
office from end to end. but didn't find anything
else that would qualify as a clue.< or
incriminating evidence.

It would have been convenient If they could
have found a slip of paper with the address to
which Grant had gone, but they did not. Grant
did not leave things like that lying around. They
merely found the tapes, which were much more
than they had bargained for. and the awful
diaries. They watched some of the tapes halfway
through, the last one to the end. Both men were
very pale as they put the last tape back into its
black box.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"I didn't know anybody . . ." Simpson began,
then thinking he might sound stupid, he shut up.

Hardin just shook his head.

"Just owning these things should be enough
to get that guy put away. We're on thin ground.
legally, but. .. bag 'em. Let's get out of here."

There came a sudden knock on the door.

Hardin had his gun in his hand and in an
instant. Simpson was looking at him oddly, but it
was also a sympathetic look. They were both
thinking the same thing. If it was that Grant
bastard, a .557 bullet might not be too good for
him.

"Come in." said Mardin, reholstering his gun.

A smiling face peeked around the comer.
then thrust the door wide. The smile left as the
newcomer saw the expressions on the two
detective faces.

"Who do you think you are?" asked the tall
black man. "This place is off limits."

Hardin pulled his badge from his pocket.

"Detective Mardin, and this is Detective
Simpson. We've a warrant to investigate Murray
Grant, who would be your boss, 1 imagine."

Sims nodded cautiously.

"He is my boss."

"Have a chair." Hardin angled his head
toward the desk, and Sims went and sat down.

"Just a couple of things. Did you see Grant
yesterday?"

"Only last night, when he was leaving."

"And when was that?"

"About ten p.m."

Hardin did a double take.

"Are you sure about that?"

287

Jeffrey Qoddin

"Positive. 1 saw him in the parking lot. I was
sitting out there, taking a little smoke."

"What does that mean?" asked Simpson.

"Just that Grant told me he left around five.
The office manager told me the same thing." He
turned back to Sims.

"You wouldn't pull my leg or anything, would
you? Like, If you had to say this In court?"

Sims shook his head. "I don't want to get the
boss in trouble, but it was at least ten when he
left."

288

Lisa parked on Liberty in front of a strip of old
furniture stores and pawnshops. She wrinkled
her nose as she climbed out of the Forsche.
There was already a summer inversion layer over
the city, and that rancid oil pollution scent was
in the air. She thought, not for the first time,
about finding a place further east or north to
spend the summers.

And, if my life keeps hitting this pace, I may
have to, she mused.

She walked several blocks back toward
downtown and cut south, ignoring the eyes
following her legs along the street and the
occasional whistle. She came to an x-rated
emporium, paid for her ticket at the little booth,
and walked into the musty dark interior.

Her senses almost overloaded — incense,
stale cigarette smoke, sexual smells, mostly

291

Jeffrey Goddtn

male, a hit ofamyt nitrate, various perfumes and
colognes, raw alcohol and old wine. The place
was intensely stimulating. She walked quickly to
a booth situated near the lefthand wall.

The booth was occupied, the scents coming
from it so strongly that it almost made her dizzy.
She slid inside.

A man was already inside, a tall, thin,
balding fellow in Jeans and a black T-shirt.

"Hi hon," he said, smiling around his
cigarette. In front of him on the little screen two
slightly overweight women were coupling in
reverse.

"Got it?" she asked.

"Sure, sure, but it wasn't easy. I had to lay
down some bread to set up the tap. The cost—"

"Mow much?" She didn't particularly dislike
this man, but she had little patience with him.

"Two twenty-five, no. better make it two fifty
for this kinda work." He handed her a piece of
paper and microcassette. She put bills in his
hand, and he quickly counted them.

"Hey," he said. "There's near 500 here."

"That's because you're such a good boy, and
1 might need you again."

"Any time honey. Any time."

Lisa was already halfway to the outside door,
clutching the piece of paper and the cassette
that would tell her where Di's sister lived and
what they'd talked about when Di had called her
that afternoon.

When she arrived home. Lisa played the tape
several times. Her nerves were tensing on and off
In relay. There were two phone calls. The first call

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

was much what she'd expected—information
where Doug was hiding with Di's sister Lara. They
were going to visit a friend named Professor
Trent down by the Lakes. It was a problem, but
not an insoluble one.

Lisa paced to the kitchen. Besides the broad
teak-and-glass kitchen table was a keyboard and
modum that linked up to the office computer
along with a letter quality printer. She called in,
trying to think. The Lakes ... of course, Barkley
and Kentucky Lake-
She punched on for "Geographical" and got
a rough map of the Lakes area. She punched
"Counties," and the ragged lines filled m around
the lake perimeters which were part of four
counties.

She made a note of the counties, then
accessed the Register of Deeds files for each In
turn until she came up with "Trent. Darren.
Fifteen acres. Section 5, Range . .."

She quickly returned to "Geographical" and
overlay the section / range marks on the
appropriate road map. Then she punched in to
print a hard copy.

And now, she held in her hand a map which
would lead her straight to Douglas Alien.

She sighed. So easy. She almost resented the
time It would take to track down and kill Alien,
and now Lara.

She retreated briefly to the memory of
Stephen and the pleasure she'd given him. It had
been something that few in the world today
could understand, the way their needs had
meshed so briefly. Two damned souls, thrown
together by chance to enact the ancient rite.

•!
^

295

Jeffrey Goddin

And was that her fate? To only give pleasure
to those bound to die?

Better that than to share the egotistical
fantasies of some fake intellectual like Qrant.
Grant! Hell, she really should kill him!

And maybe she would, maybe she would.

But for now, she had to find Douglas Alien,
and the tape had led to his location. He was with
Lara, that little girl's sister. Lisa had almost liked
the little girl, Di. She had had a certain style. She
hoped the death of her playmate, whose body
she had hidden, had not been too traumatic for
her.

She laughed at her own thoughs. Me? Feel
sympathy for them? She was as far above them
as leopard to rabbit.

And the sister, Lara. Were she and Alien
lovers? Lovers . . . she felt the pain, then. To be
what she was, and have no one she could really
share It with. She knew, or thought she knew,
that there could be other males like Grant some-
where, but they were probably weak, neurotic or
insane—for who could have her strength?

She was one of a kind, and even as ^he
thought filled her with a bitter loneliness, she
felt the pride of it, the pride of her power, the
prime of her intense femaleness.

Ho, she would never take an easy way out,
whether into a fake intellectuality or the easy
bed of insanity. She was a star, and she was
going to burn her way through this paltry human
world In what time she had.

Her energies had been bounding and
rebounding within her. Soon. very soon, she
would go to this house In the woods and slay
Alien and any others who got in her way.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Afterwards, she could deal with Grant.
"And then, yes. a change. Mew England. Or
Egypt. Or Brazil.

A short nap, and the night would be before
her. Lisa yawned like a great beast, throwing
back her tawny hair. She stripped off her clothes
and paced to the bedroom, stretched full-length
on the double bed and was instantly deeply
asleep.

She had not even bothered to lock the doors.

She had nothing to fear.

The still air began to move with the coming
dusk. The breeze felt good. and Lara propped
open the doors to catch the coolness.

Evening was coming quickly, clouds
building up. Doug sat on the couch, simply
staring at the door or at the play of clouds in the
darkening sky.

She came over to sit beside him.

The change in the weather was like a kind of
reprieve. It gave her something to think about
besides just what she and Doug were going to do.

He seemed better now; he wasn't twitching,
at least. He looked from the door to her and
smiled. His eyes were very green and feline In the
cloudy light. She reflected his smile.

"You look a hundred percent better."

"1 am, thanks to you."

She found herself pleased by his comment.

"What are you thinking?" she asked. He
shrugged.

"About Dr. Fielding. I really hope he can
come up with something."

"Do you really think this man Grant is a
murderer?"

295

Jeffrey Goddin

"I know It. My memory is clear now. I'm
certain it was him. And the scar proves it."

She looked through the doorway. The room
was steadily darkening around them.

"My God, 1 forgot to check the mail today."

"Spacy," he said in that cynical tone of voice,
but he was smiling.

She made no move to go out for the mall.
Now they could smell the faint metallic scent of
the rain, falling out there and coming closer. The
land was opening to it, like a lover. She could
almost feel the veins of the plants, the flowers
and trees swelling with life.

"We should be going/' she said, "before the
rain."

She sat down beside him again. She felt
awkward, as she had to say something.

"You know, last night. . ."

He stared at her, face closing.

"Last night," he said, "you felt sorry for me.
I'm afraid I know your type. A social worker,
jeezel You like to work with losers, because it
makes you feel less messed up. You're probably
always shining a light in some stranger's face,
looking for a reflection of sympathy."

"Damn you!" She jumped off of the couch,
eyes blazing. "Who are you to analyze me? You're
scared to death to deal with real human beings
at all. You just hide out in the woods, with your
animals and things."

She stopped, suddenly realizing that he was
smiling and now able to read his smile. He stood
up from the couch and pulled her roughly to her
feet. She felt a sudden rush of fear. His face was
cool and intent, a look she hadn't seen there
before.

296

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Plo, 1 really kill little girls in the woods," he
said softly.

She bit her tongue. And was this true? She
tried to back a step toward the door, but she
couldn't pull away from his steely grip.

"So, I finally woke you up a little bit."

He dropped his hold on her wrists, took her
face in his hands, and kissed her softly and
deeply.

She slipped into his arms, her face against
his hard chest. She wished that her heart were
not pounding so quickly.

"What is it with you?" she said. "What is it
that makes you hate the human race so much?"

"I'm a bastard for one thing," he said evenly.

"Huh?"

"I never knew my father. My mother was a
professor at Chapel Hill. She never married."

"You say 'was.' She's dead?"

"Let me finish. It was in Fforth Carolina. She
was a lecturer in anthropology—low on the
totem  pole.  She  had  an  affair with
someone—someone she never identified—and
got pregnant and had me. And went insane
shortly afterwards."

"Insane?"

"Insane. Muts. 1 was given up for adoption,
hence the Alien name. When I was old enough,
my adoptive parents told me about my heritage.
I'd had a ghastly childhood anyway. I didn't mix
with the other kids, had no social sense. And
when a couple of them tried to gang up on me,
I... hurt them.

"Anyway, once I found out about my mother,
I went to visit her. She was locked up. Certifiabty
nuts. I had to talk with her through a hole in a

297

Jeffrey Goddin

sheet of plate glass. She kept talking about 'your
father, the wolf.' Weird stuff. Finally, she just
managed to tear up some sheets and hung her-
self from the ceiling light fixture."

Lara was silent. She couldn't really
comprehend what it must have been like. She felt
a deep sympathy for him welling up inside, but
somehow she felt that this wasn't what he
wanted.

What did he want?

He gently stroked her hair. And, for some
reason, she began to cry. Hell, why was she
crying? Why was he comforting her?

"Come on," he said softly. "We'd better get
ready to go."

And she heard, distantly, a low roll of
thunder.

It began to rain soon after they left. The
beginning was dramatic—great sheets of
lightning arching across the sky, rolling boo.ms
of thunder, and then the torrential downpour
that all but ended visibility.

They took a secondary road north to the
Western Kentucky Parkway, one of the most
featureless roads In the United States, mile on
mile of flat land with sections of forests on either
side of the road. Mow, on this humid spring
night, they saw the corpses of raccoons and
possums that had dared to cross the high-speed
thoroughfare, and big pale moths flew out of the
woods to rush against the hurtling lights.

Lara slowed down to around 40. kept the
wipers on high, and found it wasn't that difficult
to keep her place on the road.

She found the turnoff to a local highway and

298

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

had to downshift a couple of times to make the
turn. Occasional lightning still lanced the sky,
but the rain had somewhat diminished. She
began to pick up speed again.

The local road was a shade eerie in the vague
afternoon light—green banks of lush foliage
crowding close to the shiny road surface. She
topped a hill and suddenly slammed on the

brakes.

A large open bed truck of the type used to
carry hay was barely moving down the middle of
the road halfway across both lanes.

She couldn't stop and began to ease to the
right to try and pull around it, but the little car's
rear end broke traction.

She had never lost control of a car before. It
was a sickening feeling, that helpless sideways
slide. The rear end left the road, angled down and
stopped. The truck didn't even slow down to see
what had happened to her.

"Damn," she said. releasing her breath,
"that was close."

Doug put his arms around her and kissed her
lightly on the cheek.

"You did the only thing you could. Mow let's
get us out of here."

She put the car in first and cautiously tipped
the accelerator, nothing. She hit the gas a little
harder, and the rear wheels began to spin. The
car's rear was too far below the edge of the road.

"Oh shit, now I've done It. We're stuck."

Doug sat for a moment, staring through the
windshield at the eerie golden after-rain light.
There was just a fine mist of moisture on the
windshield.

299




Jeffrey Qodcitn

"We can't be stuck here/' he said.

"Muh?"

"If we get stuck here and somebody comes
to pull us out, they might recognize me."

"Well, just what are we supposed to do?"

He frowned.

"Walt here." He began to get out of the car.

"Hey, save your time. The car's too heavy to
push uphill."

He ignored her and half-slid down the grassy
slope.

"When I say 'hit It,' hit the gas, okay?" he
called.

"You're nuts," she said.

"Okay, I'm nuts. Just do it."

She saw his head disappear in the rear-view
mirror as he bent down behind the car. Then she
felt the car shift.

"Watch out," she called. She couldn't believe
it. The car seemed to be leveling.        <

"Hit it," he called.

She pressed the accelerator. The car gave a
lurch forward and stalled. She started it again.

"Try again."

She accelerated, and the car spun, then
crawled up the bank onto the highway.

He climbed in beside her, smiling, his face
and clothes smudged with grass and mud.

"That was pretty impressive," she said,
watching his face. "This car weighs over 1000
pounds. How . . ."

"i lifted weights In college." he said, his face
going serious. "Let's get out of here."

With the dusk the appearance of St. James
300

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Court was shifting, as a mythical creature might
shift its shape. As the light changed from red to
blue, the lines of age brought the tall houses
together beneath their covering of ivy in a mute
cabal against the present. We are of the past,
they seemed to say, and no matter what you may
do to us, how you may treat us at certain times
and in certain seasons, we shall resume our
rightful place.

Karl stood by a tree across from Lisa's apart-
ment, his senses as finely tuned as they could be
without changing. He did not want to think of it,
yet he couldn't help but think of it—the change
that was lurking within him, so very close. And
he knew why.

Lisa had become a compulsion, connected
with that hidden part of himself. The night
before, he had dreamed of her, her image
dancing in and out of all others, ail scenes and
places. He almost felt as if he knew her.

And that day he had done a bit of searching
in the newspaper files. He could tell, the night
before, that she was in a period of heightened
activity, and when he'd encountered the weird
story of a break-in at police headquarters and
the killing of a prisoner there, he was almost
certain of what had happened.

In today's evening paper he'd found the
account of a small boy's body being found in a
field at the edge of town, savaged as if by a wild
dog. Again, it seemed likely.

And there was the story of the young man
found in his cheap motel room, his body carved
like a grotesque work of art, a weird poem to his
killer written on the wall in his blood.

501




Jeffrey Goddin

Some, if not all of this, had to be her work. Me
had gone back through the flies. The first killing
of this nature, a girl in a car in one of the local
parks, did not seem to match the pattern, but
there was definitely a wave of sadistic murders in
the city. He was certain that she was intimately
involved with it.

And somewhere in this, there must be a

"why." Does our breed kill purely for recreation? It
seemed possible. And he was beyond worrying
about the morality of it and the sheer irrationality
of their very existence. But to kill this often, at
the definite risk of attracting attention?

That seemed unlikely.

Mis less formal research had turned up the
fact that Lisa was linked with the head of a
mental institution in the area. If just happened
that the head of this mental institution was
Murray Qrant. whose name Karl had turned
up—Qod, it seemed so long agol—in his genetic
detective work.

The connection between the two all but
clinched the idea that they were of the same
race.

Karl had run some multifactors on the
murders and on the man who had escaped.
Many, many minor similarities.

At first, he had been mildly Jealous of the
connection between Lisa and Grant, and the
total Illogic of his Jealousy had appalled him.

But he was beginning to enter a new process
of self-revelation. Since he'd seen Lisa, he
realized why he had begun his research in the
first place. It had little to do with scientific
curiosity. It had much, much more to do with a
need—a need that was becoming more important

502

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

to him than life itself.

He suddenly stiffened. He sensed that within
the darkened apartment across the narrow
street. Lisa was once again awake. Such was his
sensitivity to her now that he almost sensed her
intention to leave.

And If he could sense her . ..

He quickly blanketed his perceptions and
retreated to his car, which he'd parked around
the corner from her apartment. He climbed
Inside, trying to think of nothing, to merely be a
pair of eyes, watching the apartments across the
street through the dusky glass of the windshield.

He hadn't long to wait. She loped quickly
down the few steps and leapt into the waiting
Porsche. She took off with a muted squeal of
tires, and he snapped to attention, starting his
car with a sudden panic that he might lose her.

As her car's taillights flashed at the corner
and she turned, he pulled off, lights out. It oddly
amused him that they both were driving
Forsches, although his was ten years older than
hers. He wondered if he could keep up with her.
as he gunned the car, trying to keep her in sight.

She kept a near racing pace across town. He
used the long blocks and green lights to close
with her, and once, got close enough to see a
careless pedestrain throw himself to the ground
as she did a racing turn around a corner. They
moved into the southwest side of the city, a
rundown section with kids frolicking in the yards
and people drinking on the shadowed porches.
Heads turned as the silver car flashed by.
Unobtrusive, she wasn't.

He was hard put to keep her in sight and still
make the occasional lights, which she ran with a

505

Jeffrey Qoddin

complete lack of concern. She seemed totally
unafraid of the police.

Could she be that Invulnerable? Somehow,
he didn't thinK so. Me felt that somehow tonight
was of unusual importance to her.

It was to him as well.

He followed her across town to an entrance
ramp onto the Waterson. On the Waterson, she
picked up speed, weaving in and out of traffic
like a Grant Prix pro.

He thought he knew where she was going
and, as her large taillights blinked in the

distance, he knew that his stranoe Intuition had
been correct. She turned off onto 1-65 South. He
followed. By the time he hit the Interstate, her
taillights were but faint dots in the distance.

He cranked the old car to 75. hoping that his
fuzzbuster would give him enough warning
should there be a trooper around. His senses
quested ahead and picked up the fainty -hot
feeling that was her energy flow. He put the car
up to 80, felt himself closing and also very much
aware of how much faster than the rest of the
traffic they were going. He backed off to 75*

He knew that she would quickly pull ahead.
He checked his road map by the dim
dashlight—no significant exits for 50 miles or so.
He would give a while. Just follow, then use his
intuition to find her if she took an exit. He'knew
from the faint impression he still held of her that
he would find her.

He had no idea what he was driving toward.
and he didn't care. The wind was in his face. His
pulse was racing. He was living a dream.

Tonight, he would meet her.
* » •

504

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Ronnie Thompson was getting bored
watching the radar unit mounted on top of the
dash of the unmarked souped-up Ford Mustang
that the police were using to trap speeders. A lot
of people were nervous from the federally funded
drunk driving campaign, and nobody was driving
very fast down this stretch of interstate that he'd
drawn for the evening.

He Idly watched the green numbers, halfway
thinking about the skinny punk chickie he'd met
at The Topsider the night before, the one who
said she was "turned on by uniforms." If she
"turned on" anything like she danced, that was
onehe'd like to put to the test.

Daydreaming, he noticed something moving
fast in his left peripheral—a small silver car.
Automatically he punched "record." as the car
flashed by. 95 m.p.h.I Hot dogi And he thought
he'd seen a woman driving.

He screeched out from the side road where
he'd been hiding, grill lights flashing, displacing
traffic to right and left as he floored the little car
to catch up with the lady racer.

His blood began to circulate. Hot damni It

had been a while since he'd topped 100, but
he'd have to do that and more to catch her.
Thank Ood they'd put V-8s In the intercept cars.
or he'd never have had a chance. The Mustang
wasn't all that big for this kind of racing, anyway.
He hoped that she'd stay on the main roads, or
he might not catch her at all.

He kicked it. 110...115. And out-of-
balance front wheel began to vibrate. He held It
at 115. hoping she'd see his lights. He hit the
siren for good measure.

He began to close on her, and the silver car

505

Jeffrey Ooddin

began to slow down. It slowed very gradually,
then stopped suddenly on its discs, so suddenly
that he nearly overshot It.

Smart ass broad, he thought. He recognized
the car as he climbed out. Turbo-Carrera. She
could have outrun him.

He walked slowly around to the driver's side.
If he'd stopped a man going at that speed, he
might have drawn his .557 at this point. But a
woman?

She hadn't turned off the engine. The car was
idling, twin exhausts booming softly. A slender
white arm lay along the top of the door. It was a
lovely, elegant arm, with a long tapering hand.
He bent and peered Into the window, catching a
whiff of expensive perfume.

"You missed the races," he said In a voice
that wasn't quite as firm as he meant it to be.
"They were last weekend. Turn off the ignition."

The high-cheekboned face with its pale, pale
eyes looked up at him, and her broad mouth
smiled, showing perfect white teeth.

"Why?"

"Because 1 said to," he snapped, reacting
across her to turn it off. As he did so. he was very
much aware of the female softness nearly
touching his arm and exotic perfume. Suddenly
she kissed his cheek, as he leaned across her.
Then she slid across the transmission hump and
got out the far door-

"Hey," he said, "what the hell are you
doing?"

"Come and see." She called softly, walking
across the roadside to the edge of the woods. She
turned and put her hands on her hips, looking at
him and leaning slightly forward, her blonde hair

506

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

flared around her head from the speed of the
drive.

"Come and see," she repeated, in a very soft
voice.

He was getting flustered. Her stance, there in
the half-light, was perfect, alluring without being
overdone. And she was beautiful, one of the most
beautiful women he'd ever seen.

"Stop messing around," he snapped,
inadvertently coming after her. "This is serious.
You were driving nearly 100 miles an hour.
You've got one very serious fine—"

"Serious," she Interrupted. "Come over here,
and we'll see how serious you can be." She had
backed up to the very edge of the trees. Me could
barely see her now, only a willowy outline and the
paleness of her hair. He walked closer. Her
blouse was undone. He couldn't quite believe
how pretty they were. In spite of himself, he
came yet nearer. He forced his dry tongue into
words.

"Look, you're a very attractive, lady, but I've
got a job." He was coming Into the aura of her
now, and he could no more alter his actions than
breathe. He walked to the edge of the trees. She
backed further, her blouse hanging wide, her lips
forming a white smile in the dimness.

"Come on." she said. "just a little further."
And there was all the promise of lips and body in
her voice.

And then, the trees stood tall around him. It
was completely dark, but for the paleness of her
chest just ahead of him. His heart was pounding
against his ribs. He couldn't think. All he could
do was to imagine touching her. And she was

507

Jeffrey Goddtn

slipping out of her clothes. She was totally
naked, he found himself kneeling before her, as
she leaned back against a tree, pressing his lips
to her fragrant skin, her soft belly, her navei. his
,llps moving up to brush her nipples, to take one,
hard and erect, between his teeth.- He began to
grow dizzy with the sheer sensuality of her, dimly
aware of his own mounting excitement and his
need of her.

"I never did like speed cops," she said, in a
tone of voice as clear as ice breaking.

She changed even as she attacked. She did
not waste time. She had wasted enough time.
The impact of her lunge above him to the
ground, and her razor teeth snapped once, twice,
in a fury of impatience.

Then, she was once again in human form,
wiping the blood from her face and neck with his
shirt. She plucked the badge from his shirt, bent
the pin out, and stuck it into his forehead so that
the star stood upright, a little monument. Then
she felt around in the shadows until she had all
of her clothing and Jogged back to the car.

The silver Forsche was almost a famiUir pet,
waiting for the game. She climbed In, ground the
starter, and hit the road with a flurry of gravel.

Behind her on the highway, the small police
car sat, engine Idling, the red lights under the
grill still flashing their strange, syncopated
rhythm, casting weird bloody reflections over
the unpaved roadside.

She didn't see the old Forsche that was just
coming into view on the long dark stretch of the
turnpike as she roared away Into the darkness.

508

Lara hardly knew what to expect from Professor
Trent's house. She was mildly surprised by the
gate facing the secondary road—two tall lime-
stone pillars Joined to a fieldstone wall that led
to the edge of the forest in either direction.

Her little car rumbled up the gravel drive,
overshadowed by tall hardwoods that must date
from the time of the great forests of the area.

The drive led on for about a quarter mile
through an avenue of trees before reaching the
broad clearing in which stood the house.

Her first sight of the house took her breath
away. it seemed a genuine plantation house, a
couple of stories with a broad balustraded porch
in front and on the sides. Well-tended flower beds
blazed with late azaleas in crimson, orange and
lavender.

It looked almost like a display piece, and she
half expected a liveried servant to come and park

511

Jeffrey Goddin

the car.

But no one appeared, and she parked at the
end of the line of vehicles which curved around
the drive, behind a Mercedes that was not the
only affluent vehicle in sight.

"You said your friend Trent Is a professor?"
asked Doug, breaking the silence.

"Yes."

"He certainly seems to live well for one."

What was it, a touch of jealousy in his tone?
She turned to him and impulsively took his hand.

"Listen, I know you're not exactly crazy
about the human race, but Professor Trent is
going out on a limb taking us in. He'll be
harboring a fugitive from justice. Understand?"

"Only too well."

"Oh, damn you!"

He suddenly pulled her to him and kissed
her. She pulled back slightly, but her voice was
soft.

"Let's go inside. I feel exposed out here!"

They walked up the broad stone steps, and
Lara pressed a modern doorbell in a brass
baroque frame. The tall oaken doors swung open
almost immediately.

"Lara!"

She hugged the tall, fair-haired man in the
professorial gray tweed suit as Doug looked
silently on. Trent turned to him and held out a
hand.

"Mr. Alien, I'm Curtin Trent."

"Pleased to meet you." They shook hands,
Alien wincing slightly at the other's grip. The
professor had that bone-crunching handshake
that Alien had always hated. The two men linked

512

BLOOD Of THE WOLF




eyes for a moment. Trent's eyes were
unreadable, and Alien kept his the same. He had
the odd feeling that there was more to the
professor's inviting them there than was
obvious, and he didn't like the feeling.

They walked across thick new blue-and-gold
carpeting in a period design into a luxurious
room. A circular crystal chandelier hung from
the ceiling over a massive mahogany table set
for a dozen places. Beyond, two couches were set
at angles to a broad window with a windowseat.
In the yard beneath the window. Alien could just
glimpse white early roses.

"Where are your other guests?" asked Alien.

"Most are resting, or in the library," said
Trent. "Speaking of which, I should show you to
your rooms. Don't worry about your luggage. I
have an employee, a jack-of-all-trades who is, in
fact, named Jack. He'll get your bags for you."

"That's thoughtful of you," said Lara, "but
I'm not really tired." No, she didn't feel tired, just
fantastically relaxed now that a few decisions
were, at least temporarily, out of her hands.

"I'm tired," said Alien. "I'd really like to lie
down for a while."

Trent smiled, his air and posture exuding
confidence.

"Okay. Lara, why don't you make us a drink."
He nodded at a walnut sideboard with a small
refrigerator  underneath.  "I'll take Doug
upstairs."

The staircase was in proportion to the house,
wide and easy with a curving oak bannister and
green carpeting. The upper corridor led to right
and left of the staircase and was wainscotted in

515

Jeffrey Ooddin

dark wood to half its height, where muted blue
wallpaper in a subdued floral print took over.
Period gas lamps wired for electricity stood from
the walls at regular intervals across from each
room.

"This would be a great house for a seance,"
said Doug.

Trent laughed easily. "I see that Lara told
you a bit about the weekend. What we're having
is a bit more than a seance. There are specialists
in a variety of areas coming to exchange infor-
mation, but yes, a seance or two will be a part of
it."

Trent led Doug down the corridor to a room
midway and opened the old-style lock with a long
brass key.

The room was airy and comfortable, with tall
twin windows curtained in white lace, a maple
desk, wicker chairs and a broad cannonball bed
of the canopy type, though it had no canopy. The
walls were done in pale patterned paper. Trent
showed Doug that one of the closet doors led to a
small built-in bathroom, complete with an old-
fashioned clawfoot tub.

"Very nice," muttered Doug. He turned to
Trent. "You know, it's really very good of you to
take us in. For all you know. I could be a
murderer or insane." Again he met Trent's pale
brown eyes, and again he could read nothing
there but friendliness.

"It's no trouble," said the professor. "Lara
and I are very old friends, and I trust her
judgment. She says you're Innocent, and I
believe her. But it may take some time to prove
that." Trent chuckled shortly. "But that's for

514

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

later. For now. I've a small conference to host.
I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to keep to your
room. We can't have anyone recognizing you by
chance. Jack will see to your meals. After the
conference Is over, you can come out and stretch
a bit. Okay?"

"Sure." said Doug. "And thanks."

Trent gave him a pat on the shoulder and
left., Doug listened, to see if he would lock the
door, then he noticed that Trent had left the key
on the side table. He took the key and locked the
door on the inside, then stretched out on the
woven cotton coverlet of the old bed. He was
soon asleep and dreaming. .. •

The dream was confused, even for him. At
first, he was walking through nocturnal woods.
Me had been looking for something, but now he
was no longer looking. His purpose was
confused, fearful. It was very dark. yet he could
see, as if the trees and vines were outlined faintly
In silver. He placed his feet carefully. It seemed
-that the very leaves were telling him to go back,
but he couldn't go back. And he didn't want to go
forward.

He knew what it was he was not looking for. It
was that clearing, which he'd seen last spring,
and the tall red-haired man (his name, what is
his name? I should know his name) and the
beautiful blonde woman, the huntress. And the
poor little girl, the red and white little girl.

But he didn't find them. He only became
more and more aware of the woods. Snatches of
words came to his sleeping mind. "Indense." And
what did that mean? "Waldganger." He knew
what that one meant. One who walked alone in

515




Jeffrey Goddin

the woods. It was, and was not him, for he was,
and was not, alone.

And suddenly there was a voice in his mind.
His mother's voice. And he stepped from the
darkling woods into her small, white room. She
was on the bed, bundled up in bandages and
restraints so that he couldn't see her at all, but
she was trying to tell him something.

It was very important, what she was trying to
tell him, but he couldn't hear. He Just couldn't
hear.

Men came into the room—big, strong men
who tried to grab him, to take him back to the
institution—but he fought them. He punched
and kicked, and picked one man up and threw
him against the wall.

Then they were gone, and there was an odd
scent in the air, like something burning. And he
had to hear the warning that his mother had for
him. He approached the bed and pulled down the
top of the bundle of bedclothes.

And there was no one Inside, no one at all.

He Jerked to consciousness, opening his eyes
in the half-light of a strange room. For an instant
that sudden paranoid fear claimed him—that he
was back in the institution in that narrow little
room—then, gradually, his pulse began to slow.

He knew where he was, the place of refuge
that Lara had found. His superior senses reached
out and were reassured by the old furniture, the
old wood around windows and doors.

The place had been calm for nearly a
century.

Why. then. did it not feel like a refuge?

316




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"How is he?" asked Lara. sipping the
bourbon and water. She'd made Trent a bourbon
and soda with ice, as she recalled he liked it.

"He'll be fine. Mustn't leave his room for a
few days, of course. After the conference Is over,
we'll get this matter all sorted out."

Lara sighed, stretching out her long legs.
She sipped the drink and examined Professor
Trent's face. He didn't seem to have changed
much since the last time she'd seen him. His
broad forehead still had receding brown hair
streaked with gray, though the bristly beard was
even grayer around his full cheeks. It was, she
decided, a very reassuring face, a strong face.
The drink mellowed her. She liked Trent very
much.

"We've only talked of your friend,"'said
Trent. "How is it with your life?"

She shook her head and gave a nervous
laugh. Why was it that this man always made her
feel like a little girl? It was a good feeling in a
way, but on another level it bothered her.
Perhaps it was because he'd been there when she
needed him, at that difficult time in college. Yes,
that must be it, she decided.

"Oh, 1 don't know. 1 guess I've been getting
discontented with social work the last year or so.
The satisfaction of helping people is still there,
but I guess I may have come to feel that it isn't
my real role in life. I'd like to have some time
away, travel a little, perhaps write a little."

Trent nodded, his smile warm.

"I know the feeling—that there's a potential
there that you're missing. Maybe you should take
some time and write. That's rtfally why I pulled

517

Jeffrey Coddle

away to my retreat here. 1 got private foundation
funding to do the type of research I really wanted

to do."

"Just what is it you're researching now?"
Me hesitated, as if wondering how much to

tell her.

"It's something that the Russians are way
ahead of us on. I'm looking into just how much
the mind—and those senses known as
psychic—can directly influence the material

world."

"You mean, as in raising tables and so

forth?"

He laughed.

"That's a part of It. Telekinesis, the moving
of objects by will or a psychic sense. Is well
documented. But I'm also looking Into the realm
of mentally Influencing our own bodies,"

"Controlling your pulse rate? Yoga and
such?"

He nodded.

"This Is close to what I'm working on. But, if
my theories are correct, we can realty exert a
greater control over our bodies than anyoye—
outside of a few monks In Tibetan monasteries—
really believes."

"What kind of control are you talking

about?"

"Actually healing ourselves of diseases, tor
one thing. Perhaps even altering our physical
appearances."

Lara had always enjoyed this sort of talk. She
got up and made two more drinks. She was
getting a little tipsy, but she enjoyed the feeling.
She had had the need to iooaett-^AM? a long
time.                          ;

318




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"I see the applications, of course," she said.
"A real development of this ability would
make our drug-oriented medical establishment
obsolete. But surely there are only a few people
who could handle something like that? It must
take years of training and superhuman effort."

Trent laughed and shook his head.

"1 think it may be a more general ability than
that. At least, that's what I'm trying to prove."

They were sitting very close on the couch,
and Trent took her hand in his. Odd, she thought,
that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. I
wonder If he can smell it on mine?

Trent was watching her closely, his eyes
seeming to meet hers squarely. She glanced
aside, confused.

"I've felt a bond with you for a long time." he
said. "It's occurred to me that we might try an
experiment. One of the updatings of the old
theory of faith healing or the laying on of hands,
as It's vulgarly known, is that some people are
able, by concentrating their own energies, to
effect a change in the electromagnetic fields of
others. You've read of such?"

She nodded, a strange nervousness creeping
into her body. The nervousness bothered her,
because she couldn't pin down its source. She
should know, she thought. Hell, I'm tired!

"Well, if there's something to this, two
people who were close—as you and I are
physically close—working In tandem, might
have even more success than a single person.

She smiled, still nervous, but beginning to
see what he was getting at.

"You mean, some kind of dual focusing of
energies?"

519

Jeffrey Qoddin

"Exactly. You and I might work together and
try an experiment/ liKe relieving someone of a
headache, to begin with. There'll be a few such
experiments at my little conference. I think that
our rapport would make it work very smoothly.
What do you say?"

Lara began to say that, sure/ she'd be glad to
try something like that, when suddenly her mind
realized the source of her nervousness. Professor
Trent, through his touch on her hand, was
"sending" on a level beyond speech. And what he
was sending had little to do with his words. It
seemed more like pure lust.

"That's a very Interesting idea," she said,
gently disengaging her hand from his and
standing somewhat shakily. "I'll have to .think
about it."

The calmness of her words surprised her. But
if he was disappointed, he gave no sign.

"Of course, of course. You must be tired. Let
me show you to your room."

She followed him to a room in the corridor
opposite the one that contained Doug's room.
She wondered, as she examined the period
furniture. If the professor was deliberately
putting a spatial distance between Doug and her-
self. Qod, she thought, nothing is simple
anymore. Nothing at alii

She thanked him again, and he put his arm
around her and kissed her cheek. She tried not to
stiffen as she clearly felt again his desire for her.
As his footsteps receded down the haHway, she
closed the door on her thoughts.

She paced the room, from the old walnut bed
with its white woven coverlet to the square maple

320

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

dresser. It was a comfortable room, as comfort-
able in Its way as the old secluded house. The
room had the patience of time about It. It had
weathered the storm of Its human Inhabitants
and would do so again. She stretched out on the
bed and tried to relax, but the alcohol seemed to
have stimulated rather than sedated her.

nothing was simple. She was here to ... why
had she come here? To help Doug? To see her old
friend Professor Trent, who she now strongly
suspected was In love with her? Or merely to
escape from herself, the predictable, dull, boring
person she felt she had become?

She had a sudden strong desire to talk with
Doug.

She left the room, padded barefoot down the
carpeted corridor and knocked softly on his
door.

"Doug? It's me, Lara."

She waited, then knocked a little more
firmly.

"Doug?"

His voice was sleepy.

"Yes? Lara? Come on in. Pto, wait, it's
locked."

When he opened the door, it was as if she saw
him for the first time. He stood, bare-chested,
with hastily drawn-on slacks, awakened
suddenly from sleep. Perhaps that was It. In
sleep, he had returned to the person he really
was.

His eyes were clear. She knew she was
staring, but it was mutual. She was slightly
upset, coming to him. He, suddenly awakened,
was seeing her in pristine focus.

521

Jeffrey Ooddin

She stepped into the room, and he pushed
the door closed behind her. Still, they stood. Just
stop thinking, Lara, Just stop thinking.

She closed her eyes, waiting. And he kissed
her, a soft, full kiss. She inhaled his breath,
letting her tongue reach out and touch his. He
put his arms around her, and she folded into his
embrace.

How long they stood, just kissing, hugging,
tasting the full presence of one another and the
suppleness of their bodies. Her body felt strange.
She was both intensely aware of It, and not
aware, as if she were floating on a warm wave.

Then he had picked her up. Her eyes still
closed, she knew that he was carrying her to the
bed. She had lost all sense of the place and the
time. She felt the bed beneath her, heard the
creaking of springs, knew the fraying of reality
as his body moved to rest beside hers. She
opened her eyes and looked into his face His
features were smooth, clear of any common
emotion. She reached for him.

Behind a screen of caresses their clothes
were clumsily cast aside. She felt his smooth firm
muscles and rubbed her face against the course
red hair that densely matted his chest. She
couldn't be close enough. Her hands, her tongue,
her legs were all over him. And then she was
lying on top of him, and she was raising her hips
to take the incredible hardness of him, thrusting
to be filled.

They made love slowly, as if to prolong each
sensation to the greatest possible extent. It
finally became too much for them, and he rolled
her onto her back. took her, deeply and lovingly,

522       /

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

and she cried out again and again as she crushed
her body to his.

She was drifting in and out of sleep with
images of dream. The sense and feel of him now
so close was glorious each time she neared
consciousness. She opened her eyes once. He
sensed it and opened his. His smile was so
young, so perfectly happy. She laughed and
nestled closer, fading back Into dream.

-And in the dream, she lay in bed. He was
near, but she couldn't find him. It was dark. She
: could feel a breeze from the window. And with
the breeze . . .

Something was coming. Something evil and
deadly, whose shape she could not guess, was
coming. Closer, closer. It was as yet distant, but
moving quickly closer.

What was it? A person? A devil? She did not
know. She could not know. But when her half-
sleeping sense reached out, she felt the weight of
It. Something that kills and kills and kills again.

She gave a tittle Jerk. She had almost
touched the awful soulless mind of it. She
realized that she was still wrapped in Doug's
arms. She was cooling and she nestled closer to
•-him.

"Lara . .." His voice, was softer than she had
ever heard it. "Lara ..."

She pushed against his chest.

"Yes, it's me. Oh, I don't know what to say."

"I don't either."

But the act of talking was waking them up
somewhat, bringing them back.

"Do you think ..." she began.

523

Jeffrey Qoddtn

She couldn't finish. It was too new, too
precarious.

"We could think about being together," he
finished.

"Yes."

"Let's think about it," he said. "A lot."

She sighed, it had been said. neither had
pulled away. She felt the possibility of great
happiness.

She lay quietly for a long time, then started
to move.

"I need to get cleaned up for dinner. I don't
want to go, but. .."

"Okay," he said softly. "But tonight. . .
come and see me again?" The uncertainty in his
voice thrilled her.

"Of course, love."

She gently pulled away from his arms and
found her clothes. Before she left she came and
sat on the edge of the bed. He was leaning on one
arm. looking up at her, a half-smile on his lips.

"You're wonderful," she said, leaning
against him, kissing his hair, his face, his arms.

"You too," he said. "You too."

"I'll see you later." She forced herself to go
back to her own room that was suddenly so very,
very lonely.

After a while, he wasn't even watching the
turns. It was almost as if another entity had
taken over his sense of direction. The road grew
narrower and branched. He automatically turned
left. There was a brief flurry of sound as a huge
farm dog ran out and alongside, barking. He
turned right.

524

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

fle was close, very close. He slowed and
turned off Into a field on what was barely a
tractor track. He was homing In on her with that
seventh sense they had in common, and the
signal was very strong.

He saw it in the moonlight, the silvery car,
parked In the level field not far off of the road. He
pulled his in beside it and climbed out, breathing
deeply of the pure country air.

The night was humid, close, a thousand
stars sprinkled across the nocturnal sky. He
breathed the scents of river willows, the grasses.
the faint sulphurous air from the low ground.

She was no longer near the car. She was out
there, somewhere, roaming the night. He walked
around the car and found her clothing, discarded
in a careless pile on the ground. He picked up the
Items of clothing, one by one, and softly stroked
them, held them to his face and caught the scent
of her from the delicate fabrics.

And felt tt coming, the change. And he no
longer had any reason to avoid it. He quickly
shed his clothing, his muscles twitching, nerves
jangling random impulses to his brain.

The change came so quickly that his nerves
snapped like plucked wires. One instant human.
naked, tensed—the next a lithe powerful
creature, almost a wolf. with superhuman
senses, racing full speed, racing the wind against
the moon.

A thousand scents Oiled his nostrils. A myriad
of sounds came and echoed in his mind. With
fantastic speed his hybrid brain programmed the
data, sifted, and reached conclusions.

Even then, he was already tracking her.

325

Jeffrey Qoddin

He ran along the shore of the lake, quartered
downwind, caught her scent, just a filament of
it. but strong, so strong. He put on such a burst
of speed that he almost stumbled but turned it
Into a long graceful leap that carried him over a
low bluff. His eagerness to find her drove him to
the edge of madness.

The base, of course, was human love, but
love in a near psychotic transformation. She was
very near, and he would find her. He would find
her.

The lake was a giant reflecting pool for the
full summer moon. Shoals of tiny breezes formed
a network of silvery rivulets on its subtly shifting
surface.

Lisa broke through the last line of trees to
stand In the radiance of the moonlight. She still
held a vague echo of the death of the police-
man—another   unsatisfying   kill,   out. of
expediency.

Death—was this now her specialty? She
smiled a feral smile. At least she did It well.

She was tired. She knew that she should be
tired, but she must find the house. Too many
random forces. Too many loose ends. She felt her
death waiting at the house and wondered if this,
too, were illusion.

She inhaled deeply of the humid lake air,
clearing her mind.

And held her breath.

A man was standing on the lakeshorc, calmly
watching her, as naked as she.

Her night-wise eyes took him In—tall, dark-
haired, thin but prominently muscled. Young-
526

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

early 20s? He had a smooth, angular Saxon face
with pale deep-set eyes. He looked rather like an
athlete-scholar.

The strangeness of him intrigued and
mystified her. Just as she was about to launch
herself into the darkness to find the house where
her quarry waited, here was a man, stilt staring,
an odd, controlled smile on his face. She thought
that he looked slightly mad.

"Who In the name of seven hells are you?"
she said softly, walking slowly toward him.

"My name is Kart." His voice was soft,
pitched low and musical. "And yours, I believe. Is
Lisa."

She stopped, noting his stance and bearing.
He reminded her somewhat of Grant—the same
physical assurance—or was it something more?

She was suddenly, irrationally nervous. And
as always when nervous, she pressed forward.

"How do you know my name?"

There was menace in the question. She was
still approaching. His smile broadened. He was
looking at her with—what? Lust? God, some
weirdo at the lake? Is that the scenario?

But he knew her name.

"I've been looking for you. It Isn't hard. You
seem to leave a trail of bodies behind you."

She smiled then. Almost had him. A cop? Do,
no cop would stand there naked like that. A
private eye? That was more like It. Some
eccentric Marlowe character,

But still, this feeling of him . ..

Her supersensltive nerves had had enough.
She had to get to the house. She walked up to
him and put all the preternatural force of her

527

Jeffrey Goddtn

body Into a blow to his neck that should have
broken it.

He caught her fist In his hand and drew her
to him. And her senses suddenly leapt for him.
She felt herself responding to his hot body as he
kissed her deeply, his tongue raping her mouth,
her breasts crushed against his chest.

This is insane, she thought, simultaneously
aware of the irony of the thought.

And she began the change Into the third
form.

As did he.

She screamed as a sheer outlet for
supernatural tension, but his change was even
faster. As her ivory talons skldded on his
leathery hide, he had her down, was behind her,
penetrating her with a brutal thrust, willing her
to change again, to return to the human form.

Her senses splintered in the prelude to
ecstasy, suddenly open to the incredible
maleness of him, his intensity, his longing, as he
drove deeper and deeper Into her. And she felt
the depths of her sexuality opening, ready,
questing for him, even as he slammed aside the
effects of her transformation and rolled her onto
her back.

She no longer thought but only breathed this
man. Her once again human hands felt the wiry
muscles of his back, her legs clamped around his
hips, and she threw all of her superhuman will
into driving her body as fiercely into his as she
could.

Consciousness fractured.

The center of her body smouldered, flared.
exploded.

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BLOOD OF THE WOLF

She saw the black sun and the silver land
where darkness is light. She began to spasm
uncontrollably, frothing at the mouth, until he
struck her, put her back on course, diving deeper
and deeper through the rippling orgasms that
now swept through body and soul with
coordinated pulsing waves.

Slowly the waves subsided.

She lay, emptied of all emotion, beneath this
man who—moments, eons. days before—she had
been going to kill.

"Mow you can kill me," she said softly and
meant It.

She looked up at his features in the moon-
light. He looked completely, calmly insane. His
eyes focused into hers, and she realized that he'd
been carried to that same, alien realm. The
thought both terrified and warmed her.

"I know all about you and Grant," he said
finally. He had an odd voice, both tenor and
deep. "That is your past. 1 think I've been looking
for you for a long, long time. You should
understand why."

She gazed into his moonlit eyes. her
emotions surging around her, terrified that
indeed she did understand.

"Your past Just died," he said. "I'm claiming
you."

She felt the last of the waves recede and felt
an incredible relief. Her pulse was still pounding
madly.

"Are you really, really strong?" she asked, in
a voice not hers, feeling impossible tears come
to her eyes.

"I'll have to be—to adopt you."

529

Jeffrey Ooddin f!

Suddenly, he laughed. And she laughed with ^

him. It was, she realized, the first time she'd l|"

genuinely laughed in many years. •|

It was nearly settled between them. H

550

The dinner had been good. This Jack was a man
of all talents. There had been prime rib, savory
smoked ham, a feathery light quiche, a varied
salad, a fine selection of cheeses and skillfully
chosen budget French and Romanian wines. For
dessert the visitors had had their choice of a
homemade apple pie and ice cream or a brilliant
fruit salad.

Lara had met the sedate red-haired woman
in her 50s, whose name she'd already forgotten,
seated to her left. The woman was an astrological
business adviser and was well-paid for It. The
man to Lara s right, tall. thin, balding and
intense, perhaps also In his 50s, had spoken to
no one at all. concentrating on his food.

But he was the exception. Most of the visitors
seemed quite normal and perhaps unusually
friendly for the 1980s. After dinner there was a

555

Jeffrey Qoddin

leisurely drifting to the well-stocked bar.
Tongues had loosened, and the evening was off
to a fine start.

Lara had never been among a group of
psychics before. She'd been briefly worried that
she would get all kinds of random impressions,
but the feeling in the air was rather one of
density, as if there were an extra weight of mol-
ecules—or was it just her imagination? She
shook her head. nerves, just nerves. After
making love with Doug she felt open. It was Si
feeling both beautiful and slightly scary with so
many people around.

The small group was almost festive with
muted laughter, raised voices and the tinkle of
ice in glasses. She looked for Professor Trent and
saw him standing by the mantelpiece, where the
long shiny sword was mounted, talking with a
tall, fit man with receding fair hair. She walked
over to them. Trent saw her and smiled.

"Lara, how are you doing?"

'Tine, Just fine."

"Allow me to introduce you to Dr. Murray
Grant. Dr. Grant Is the director of a mental
hospital near Louisville."

Lara's heart stopped for a moment, and her
mouth went dry. She shook hands fumbllngly
with Dr. Grant and looked into his cool golden
eyes. There was no doubt. It was him. the man
Doug said was really a murderer!

She forced a smile. He was still holding her
hand, and his grip was firm and Immensely
strong, but restrained. It reminded her oddly of
Doug.

"And will your friend be joining us, too?" he
asked.

534

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"My friend? I'm ... I came here alone."

Trent gave Qrant a quick look. Grant smiled
his charming smile.

"I'm sorry. I Just assumed that so charming a
lady would not be unescorted." He turned
slightly away, as if to spare her his gaze.
"Professor Trent and I were just talking about
this sword." He indicated the sword mounted
above the fireplace. "It came with the house.
oddly enough. The story runs that it was one of
the true crusader swords, carried by one of the
proud Templar barons in their battles with the
infidel. I can well believe it."

Lara nodded, tried to make a little conver-
sation, then practically fled across the room to
the small bar. She found a glass and poured in
soda and a double shot of bourbon.

"I see a bottle of gin with my name on It."

She turned quickly at the soft voice. A tall
blonde woman, wearing a silky sea-green
evening dress in conservative cut, came over.
Her smite was half-mischievous, half-concerned.
. ^ "You look as though you'd seen a ghost, my
dear."

Lara laughed.

"Mot at all. I had a rough week, then the drive
here ..."

The lady nodded. "Me, too. 1 have a thousand
dogs to care for. I'm Connie Sefchek."

"Lara Wllkins."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm a mental, or spirit
medium, as they used to call us. I specialize in
telepathy,   usually   with   other   humans,
occasionally with the denizens of the spirit
world. And you?"

"Oh, I'm Just an amateur," said Lara,

555

Jeffrey Qoddin

grateful for the easy conversation. "Professor
Trent and I are old friends. He invited me as more
of an observer."

"And who, pray tell, is that rather tmposhig
man talking with Professor Trent?"

"Dr. Grant. He's the director of a mental
Institution."

"He shields his thoughts. You noticed that?"

"Yes." Go ahead, make small talk. And
remember to tell Doug who's downstairs. "I
wonder why?"

"Perhaps he has something to hide," said
Miss Sefchek. "Yes, 1 think that he may have
something to hide."

Dr. Trent tapped on his glass with a silver
spoon for attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "as you
know I've Invited you here for a weekend of
psychic demonstration and conversation. Most
of us know each other's theories or have read one
another's publshed works.

"Tonight we're going to have three
demonstrations. Bri^lt Donaldson will demon-
strate some possibilities of telekinesis. Dr.
Brandon Lewis will illustrate one of the more
obscure areas, the modification of the human
body by an act of will. And we will also have a
good old-fashioned seance," there was some
laughter and tittering, "though not necessarily
In that order. Afterwards, there may be some
spontaneous demonstrations, depending on how
stimulated we find ourselves."

Jack-of-all-trades came and helped Professor
Trent set up some small tables near the broad
windows. On these tables were placed a variety of

356

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

apparati: a small metallic prop that looked
like a miniature wind vane, with concave metal
cups rotating freely on a pivot at the top; several
small colored balls; a number of tall candles
which Jack lit; and, finally, a miniature train
track complete with toy locomotive and half a
dozen cars.

"Are we going to have a demonstration or
simply play with those?" whispered Connie,
standing at Lara's side.

A short woman with raven black hair and a
broad toothy smile took a seat behind the table.
The others gathered in front of the table in a
rough semicircle.

Dr. Trent stood beside the woman and held
up a hand for silence.

"May I present Brigit Donaldson," he said. In
a slightly formal voice. "As we all know. tele-
kinesis Is the moving of a material object, or
effecting a change in the state of a material
object, through an act of wlU or projection. Ms.
Donaldson, would you care to say a few words
about your method?"

The woman gave a wide smile to all present.
She took from some pocket of her skirt a broad,
polished disc of some brassy metal and laid it on
the table In front of her.

"My method," she began without preamble,
"Involves a kind of self-hypnosis. I concentrate
on this medallion," she held it up for everyone to
see, "until I feel that my energies are at a
superior focus. Then I begin to transfer my
energies to the objects which I wish to move. The
candles," she nodded at the motionless flames,
"are to ensure that no breeze has affected the

557

Jeffrey Goddin

demonstration.

"The actual energies," she smiled even more
broadly, "I don't know the nature of. Some might
talk of them in terms of changing the magnetic
fields of the objects, but how a human being can
do this is still a mystery. 1 only know that I can,
as I will now demonstrate."

There was an expectant silence. Connie
nudged Lara. "It's the train I'm waiting for." she
whispered, and Lara had to stifle a giggle. Most
of those present had seen a similar
demonstration at some time or another, but this
was on a broader scale than most.

Brigit Donaldson began by simply concen-
trating on her disc. An odd mood came over the
room, as if the others were somehow helping her
or wishing her success. It was a positive atmos-
phere, thought Lara. All here share mental
interests.

After perhaps a minute, Brigit transferred
her gaze to the small weather vane arrangement.
After a minute or two, the vane took on a slight
motion, then stopped, much like an auto starting
in fits. Then it moved one complete revolution,
then another. Soon it was moving so quickly that
It seemed a blur. There was a soft murmur of
appreciation from the audience, quickly silenced
by a gesture from Dr. Trent.

Lara looked at Trent. He was totally
enrapt in the experiment, his eyes wide, his
mouth half-open. He looked quite the enthusiast,
but as she watched him, and "received" from
him. unshielded, she realized an aspect of him
that she had never really been aware of—a kind
of shallow pride, purely in self and accomplish-

558

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

ments, that did not really please her. She hoped
that she would not wind up disliking Dr. Trent
after this weekend. After all, he'd been such a
good friend.

She returned  her  attention  to  the
experiment. The colored balls, one by one, had
begun to move In curiously regular paths—el-
lipses—across the polished wooden surface of
the table with the small train and track as the
center of the elliptical paths. This time there was
a genuine gasp from the audience. The motion of
the balls was very controlled with the train as the
center. It was Impressive.

Finally the train began to move, faster and
faster on its little track, and the eye became
confused at the circular motion of the vane
arrangement, the elliptical motions of the balls,
and the circular path of the train. All moved
faster and faster.

The train derailed and scattered the balls.
Brigit sat back in her chair, letting out a long
breath. Then she leaned forward and blew out
the candles. There came muffled applause and
"well-done" from Professor Trent. She nodded,

blushing.

Several people moved forward to talk with
her, and more drinks were made. Trent
gravitated to Lara's side. He was smiling, a light
sweat misting his brow.

"Impressive/ yes?"

"Very. I've never seen such a demonstration.
Just how does she do it?"

"The closest theory we have Is as she said.
The mind exerts a kind of will on the electro-
magnetic polarity of objects, enough to

559

Jeffrey Qoddin

stimulate the body to create a field of its own,
which in turn interacts with the objects. We can't
really document it to our satisfaction, but I think
that, after watching Brigit, one could have Httle
doubt."

Lara nodded. "I'm convinced. What's next?"

"Oh, I think it's time for our seance." Trent
once again tapped his glass,,and Jack appeared
to take apart the broad table, removing the
center section and refitting it into two semi-
circular halves. He brought the candles to the
table and reiit them. People with drinks began to
gravitate to the table, still chatting about the
experiment in telekinesis.

When all were seated, Trent began.

"For this demonstration, I've asked Connie
Sefchek to act as physical medium. This ts, as
you know, one of the more traditional and least
documentable of the psychic areas, but here, as
in others, there are things to be learned."

"Condescending bastard, isn't he?" said the
slender young man seated to Lara's left in a soft,
urban accent. Lara noticed, with some nervous-
ness, that Grant was seated on the other side of
Connie.

"As in the traditional situations, we will dim
the lights, concentrate our wills to help the will
of the medium, and see what develops. This is, as
you might say, a shot In the dark." There was
scattered laughter. "I hope it doesn't get me,"
said the young man. She gave him a disapprov-
ing glance. He smiled. His lean, clean-shaven
face was really rather handsome, but too
confident, she thought, just too confident.

The room lights were on rheostat. Jack

540

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

walked to the far wall and skillfully dimmed the
lights, allowing the watchers time to adjust their
eyes to the darkness. Mow the strongest light in
the room came from the five candles, set in a star
pattern in the center of the table in front of
Connie.

"Everyone link hands," said Trent. And then,
to Connie, "You're on."

Lara felt a slight tensing in the hands she
held. the boy on her left, Connie on her right.
Connie began to speak, but not quite what Lara
had expected.

"We're here to explore." she said softly. "We
are open to the universe, and we are open to
those things elemental and earthbound In this
vicinity. We are not open to one another's
thoughts, since these would block the approach
of other entities.

"Which spirits may be invoked are a mystery,
one of a multitude of mysteries. We call to the
earthbound, the discontented, or those hovering
about to transcend. We call to the elementals,
should they be near. to approach without harm."

There was that in the last phrase that gave
Lara a slight nervous start. Elementals! If one of
those were near, and if she recalled correctly
what they were, she'd as soon be far away
herself.

It was very quiet in the room. The boy on
Lara's left tried to bend over and sip his drink
without spilling it, but she gently tugged him
back. There came gradually that feeling of
density she'd noticed earlier, but with much
greater strength. Most seances were just
gatherings of well- or ill-intentloned people

541

Jeffrey Goddin

trying to get something to talk with them. This
gathering was made up of people with proven
psychic powers, so naturally the mood was
stronger—as was, if the theory could be believed,
the potential for actual contact with the spirit
world.

The roomed seemed to grow darker. It
became noticibly cooler, and the candle flames
dimmed.

Lara noticed that Connie's breathing'had
deepened and become slower and more regular.
She was indeed passing into a trance. The
eerlness of it hit Lara sharply. Here she was,
holding hands with someone doing something
she'd only seen on TV, and that probably merely
staged.

Connie began to sway slightly. Suddenly she
began to speak. The voice, soft and clear, was
still very much like hers, but somehow the
wording and inflection had altered.

"It's time for you to get out of here." she said
very clearly. "Get out while you can. The dark
currents are runnin' strong here. I'm just tryin' to
help. There's one closin' in, and there's one
already there, so you damned well better get out
while you can."

The silence took on a new mood, rather one
of shock. Trent, seated across from Connie.
leaned forward.

"Spirit, what do you mean? Can you tell us
what you mean by the dark currents?"

"The dark currents, the evil currents. They
flow one way—to the grave."

"And what do you mean by one coming and
one already there?"

542

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood, blood, blood!"

Dr. Trent made his voice lower, more
persuasive.

"Spirit, who are you?"

"Ain't no spiriti I'm a local. And you folks
just better get your asses out of there."

"Spirit..."

"I'm warnin' you. One of 'em's tryin' to stop
me,1..."

Suddenly Connie gave a short scream, jerked
back in her chair, her eyes wide. She looked
utterly terrified.

"Lightsl" called Dr. Grant.

Jack came with a glass of water for Connie,
but she brushed it aside, panting, as if trying to
catch her breath.

"Whiskey." she gasped.

When Jack brought the whiskey, she only
stared at it.

"I don't drink whiskey. Oh hell. it was the
spirit."

"Do you remember what you said?" asked
Trent eagerly.

"A little. It wasn't like any spirit communi-
cations I've ever done. I don't think it was a
spirit."

"That's what it said, that it wasn't a spirit,"
said Lara. Connie nodded.

"What do you think it was?" asked Trent.

"It said that it was a local—local resident?
Maybe some powerful psychic person close
by—maybe In this room? Or living nearby, trying
to get through, to get in touch with us for some
reason."

"Would you go back under? asked Trent.

343

Jeffrey Goddtn

Connie eyed him dubiously.

"Okay, but that was unpleasant. Wake me up
if it starts to sound too weird."

"Maybe we should wake you up now," said
the young man on Lara's left.

Lara scowled at him. Me was the epitome of
preppy, in gray wool sweater, red regimental tie
and gray tweed. Connie only laughed.

"You might have something there," she said,
as she returned to the table.

Once again Jack dimmed the lights. Connie
went back under quickly. She began to mutter to
herself almost immediately, but Lara caught
only a few words. "Don't wanta change. Don't
wanta .. ." And what did that mean?

Suddenly, before Trent could ask a question,
Connie snapped to consciousness. She was
staring at Grant, who was smiling a gentle smile
as he held her right hand.

"Youl" she cried, jerking her hand away.
"You're a killer! My QodI"

Grant kept smiling. "I've killed a mouse in
my office once in a while," he said.

"I saw what you killed." she snapped. "My
QodI" She stood, jerking her hand away from
Lara's as well and rushed from the room on
shaky legs.

Lara also stood up, nearly overturning her
chair. What was going on around here? Even the
smart aleck boy on her right seemed at a loss for
words for once.

"These experiences make people very
nervous sometimes," said Trent. "I'll go and see
what I can do for her."

"Allow me," said Grant, rising. "I'll go talk

344

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

wtth her. After all, I've had some experience. I
think she's just wired, still in part of a trance
from the seance. I'll calm her down."

Trent nodded.

"Just be careful that she doesn't think you're
coming after her," he laughed. Someone else
laughed with him. The tension was broken. The
evening was becoming amusing, if not instruct-
ional. Grant rose and left the room as Jack began
to put the table back together.

^

^      Connie Sefcheck stood in the entranceway
f ||  beside the tall oaken hall tree, holding her coat,
H^ resisting her desire to bolt out into the night,
y- half on the point of just retreating to her room.
& Her mind was dazed. The stress of the seance,
f  that weird communication, and then the sudden
,//  image cluster from Grant, had destroyed her
H.   psychic equilibrium.

^      She wanted to think pure night, but
rationality was trying to reassert Itself. She'd
never "read" anyone as a murderer before, and it
was possible that in the stresses of the psychic
mode she'd made an error. If so, she'd apologize.

She half-turned toward the hallway, her coat
on her arm, undecided, and saw Grant walking
slowly down the hallway.

He did not walk as a normal human walked.
Me was too totally balanced, completely poised.
There was something feral about the way he
moved.

Rationality. Say something.
"Hello," she said, meeting his curious
golden eyes.

"Hello, I'm sorry 1 frightened you."

545

Jeffrey Qoddin

And why did he have to make his words
ambiguous? The odd thought came that Grant
was a powerful psychic and had managed to
transmit the murderous images just to play a
joKe on her. The thought was not reassuring. Fto,
let's not take that approach.

"I was a little .. ." She sent out her mind to
touch his, to be reassured.

His mind was blank—cloaked, totally
cloaked. It convinced her more than anything
else.

She suddenly spun around, yanked the door
open, and plunged out into the night. She
vaguely realized that he was following. She ran
for her car, stumbling on the silly heels she'd
worn for the party. Did she have her keys? Sure,
In the coat. The night was warm. Just the faintest
hint of a cool breeze, the air fresh and fragrant.

She tried not to think, to resist the mental
shock that she felt creeping back over her again,
just to move.                           <

A flash of psychic energy formed behind her.
She turned to see.

She had never seen anything like it before,
though she knew Intuitively what It was. She
opened her mouth to scream, but it was too fast.
It was just too, too fast.

Lara tensed and almost lost her grip on her
glass In the midst of her conversation with Dr.
Trent. The stage was almost set for the final
demonstration—a lone chair, the table covered
with a soft damp towel, a bright floor lamp to
either side of the table.

What had happened? Her head was

546

BLOOD OF" THE WOLF

throbbing with a sudden pain, like a cry she
couldn't hear in her mind.

She shook her head. It was rather as if she'd
been struck. She tried to interpret. Pain. Fear.
Darkness. What the hell?

"Lara, are you okay?"

She nodded, smiling at Trent. His bearded
face looked almost fatherly in the irregular
lighting. If only he'd keep his thoughts that
way ...

"Everything's fine ... I ..." She lost the
Impression and sipped from her drink. She saw
Dr. Grant approaching from the door into the
hallway.

Mis hair was slightly rumpled, his eyes a
shade bright. She saw him before she was aware
of his gaze, saw the mud on his shoes and caught
the thrust of his mind.

One clear image came through—Connie
Sefchek, her head bent back to expose her soft
white throat as fangs ripped into it to feel the
blood spurt in rhythmic gushes.

"My Qod," snapped Lara. "My QodI You! It's
true I"

Voices had lowered. She was staring at
Grant, frozen as the prey before the eyes of the
snake. Trent moved to touch her arm, but the
words gushed out of her.

"It's truel You did Itl You kilted her! You
killed Connie!"

Grant walked closer, smiling a warm smile.
His golden eyes twinkled.

"Miss Sefchek? She's very much alive and
taking a drive to cool off, I think."

"Mo," said Lara. her voice stilted. "I can see

347

Jeffrey Goddin

it. You killed her." She turned frantically to
Trent. "Please believe me, 1 saw into his mind. He
killed her."

"The weirdness runs thick," said the young
man, standing at Laras side, "and bourbon
makes It thicker."

"Lara," said Trent patiently, "you're a little
overwrought. You had an exhausting week, as we
know." He winked, their shared joke. "And Miss
Sefchek's emotional exhibition just now acted as
a kind of suggestion for your nerves. Just calm
down, calm down. We've a very interesting
demonstration coming right up."

She glanced back at Grant. He was giving her
the same urbane look, the same half-smile on his
lips. His mind was totally blocked now. She
turned back to Trent. She seemed to be
surrounded by smiles.

But Connie had died. Qrant had killed her,
and she knew It. He was here, and he was
dangerous, and she had to warn Doug.    '

She turned back to Trent.

"Maybe you're right," she said in as rational
a tone of voice as she could muster. "Maybe I am
a little overwrought. I think I'm going to go up
and lie down for a while."

"But you'll miss my demonstration," said
the young man with a touch of hurt in his voice.

"But   perhaps  you'll   do  something
tomorrow?" she said, trying to sound hopeful.

"Perhaps ..." He was still frowning.

"Good." Lara forced herself to smile at
Qrant, shielding her thoughts as he shielded his.
and at Trent, then shakily made her way to the
stairs.

548

. !,

i ''

, i

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Lara stepped into the parlor fofa moment to
calm her nerves before she went to see Doug.
They had to get out of there. Whatever this man
Orant had done, he would be capable of doing
again. The thought of fighting him never even
crossed her mind. There was something about
the man that seemed almost invincible.

She was surprised to see Jack stretched out
on one of the overstuffed purple velvet chairs, a
tall drink with Ice in his hand. He looked up and
crinkled his dark eyes as she entered.

Up close. Jack seemed both older and
stronger than she'd thought. He was about six
feet tall, strongly muscled under his casual
brown jeans and gray cotton sweater. His face
had the lines of weathering—like a sailor or a
farmer gets from days on end In the sun and
wind. He had a nice smile.

"Hiya miss," he said. "Quess it's been kind of
a tryin' night."

She nodded, "You heard .. . when I .. .just
now."

"Yep. Just like the other lady. You all don't
like that fellow Grant too much. Can't say as 1 do
either. He's too slick. But killin' somebody?"

"Have you seen Connie, er. Miss Sefchek?"

"The blonde lady? Mope. Not since she took
off on her drive."

"If she did take off on a drive."

He frowned.

"That was Grant's story, wasn't it?"

"Yes ... would you mind doing me a favor?"

"What did you have In mind?"

"Would you mind going outside and check
and see if Connie's car is here, and Just check

549

Jeffrey Ooddtn

around a little? I'm worried about her."

He looked at her a long minute.

"I'll do that on the condition that you go
upstairs and get some rest. Deal?"

"Sure." She felt very tired, but she was glad
to have this man as an ally. "Deal."

And now to warn Doug.

"You're sure It's him?" Doug asked, as they
sat side by side on the old bed. The room was a
secure space; their shared presence made it so.

"I'm sure. Trent even Introduced him as the
director of the hospital. And I think he's already
killed one person here."

"Huh?"

"Connie Sefchek. She's a psychic. During the
seance she went into trance, and she said she
saw into Grant's mind. He was sitting beside her.
Said he was a murderer. Then she went off some-
where, artd he went off after her. And he came
back and said that she'd gone for a drive.";

Her voice began to shake.

"But then I saw into his mind. I saw her, as he
killed her."

^   Doug put his arm around her, gently stroked
her hair.

"Well, it should be easy enough to prove
whether or not she's gone out for a drive."

"Yes. I asked Trent's handyman, Jack. to
check around outside. He's a good guy."

Doug continued to stroke her hair. It was as
If this was a separate world—the two of them
there, safe—but the other world was coming
closer. Soon, the worlds would touch.

"So what do we do?" he asked.

550

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Do you think that Grant knows you're
here?"

He shook his head.

"I don't see how he could. There's no way to
connect you and me, unless Trent told him."

"Oh, he wouldn't do that." But as she said it,
she had a sudden doubt. Would he? Pio, he was in
love with her. She couldn't tell Doug about that
part of it. Or would that make him do it? It was all
too confusing.

"I think," he said, "that the best thing for us
to do is just to stick tight. I'll stay in my room.
Grant will probably leave with the others—or
maybe before. Trent knows that it's a risk, him
being here. Maybe it'll all work out."

"Maybe. But what about Connie? I saw in his
mind that he killed her."

"Are you sure? Are you certain you weren't
just worried about me and imagined that he'd
done something like that?"

And was she absolutely certain? normally,
she would have said yes, but now .. .

"Oh, I don't know what's what any more. Give
me a hug. I think maybe I'd better just go back
downstairs. It will seem more normal if I do."

"Sounds good."

He put his arms around her and drew her to
him. They shared a long, lingering kiss. It felt so
good to have his arms around her. She liked
everything about him now, his touch, his weird
moods, even the scent of him. And it was Just
beginning. Hold on to that idea, Lara. It's Just
beginning.

She stood up from the bed with a sigh.

"I'll see you later tonight," she said.

351

Jeffrey Ooddin

"Hurry." He smiled, and she kissed his smile,
then went back to the gathering downstairs.

The demonstration was almost ready. Trent
stroked his wiry beard, watching Qrant out of the
comer of his eye. He'd been secretly keeping an
eye on Grant all evening, to see how he would
behave In this environment. Besides being a
parapsychologlst and anthropologist, Trent had
a broad background in psychology. He'd brought
this background to his study of sadistic killers.
And one of the things that had always amused
him about Murray Qrant was that the man had so
many of the traits of one kind of sadistic
killer—the impeccable dress, the fine attention
to detail, the somewhat arrogant attitude, the
"pure science" approach to problems. Of course,
many other people did too. But tonight, two
psychics had singled out Qrant as either being a
murderer or having murderous intentions, and
they were not Just run-of-the-mill psychics,
either. Connie was one of the best in her field.
and Lara had great amateur talents.

And just where was Connie? She was
certainly taking her time getting back.

Me wondered if there were anything to It. He
wondered also if the appearance of Murray Qrant
had not been but another synchronistic stroke of
fate, an event designed to teach him something.
He liked such coincidences and had faith In
them.

Someone was standing at his side. He turned
to see Jack's frowning face. He smelled the
whiskey on him—they'd had a few talks about
that—but Jack didn't seem to be drunk.

352

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"Dr. Trent," he said, almost whispering,
although there was enough conversation In the
room to cover whatever he said. "The Lara girl
asked me to check outside, see what had
'-happened to that blonde lady. I looked around.
Her car was still there. I found some blood on the
drive. Then I did take a good look alt around."

Trent's eyes narrowed.

"Yes?"

"1 found her. She's dead. Her body's way over
behind the big forsythia hedge. Somebody's put
leaves over it to hide it."

Trent nodded, his mind whirling.

"Okay. There might have been something to
what Lara's said after all. I want you to get your
.58 and keep it in your pocket." He paused to
took Jack over, as If appraising him. "Put the gun
m a jacket so It won't show that much. After the
demonstration we'll have a little talk with Dr.
Qrant."

"Should I call the police?"

Trent shook his head.

"There may be some other perfectly good
explanation. Let's find out first. Qot it?"

Jack grinned a lazy grin.

"That Grant dude, I don't like him. He looks
like he might be rough in a fight, too."

"Nobody's rougher than a .58," said Trent,
winking.

"Qotcha." Jack headed for the stairs to get
his gun.

Lara was relieved to focus her mind on the
demonstration about to take place. It was to be
something a little out of the ordinary, of that she

355

Jeffrey Qoddin

was certain. Jack returned, now wearing a loose
blue denim Jacket, and proceeded to set up a
small table with two rather bright standing
lamps on either side. The bare table was of light
wood, and the lights were turned so that their
beams focused on the center of the tabletop.

Since the light rheostat was turned down in
the large room, the table was naturally the
center of attention. Lara was mildly surprised to
see that the smart aleck young man who'd been
sitting beside her at the seance now took his
place at the table and presented her with a broad
smile.

There was a general shifting to the area of
the table. Trent stood to one side at the rear.
Lara looked around for Grant. She saw him,
staring at the young man intently, a glass of red
wine held negligently in his hand, standing at
the far right of the group. Qod, she hoped that
Doug could do something. She was terrified of
Grant. Try not to think about him for now Talk
with Professor Trent. Me might know what to do.
Her mind was confused. She returned her
attention to the young man.

"Ladles and gentlemen," said Trent, "this is
Brandon Lewis. He's come all the way from
Chicago to give us a demonstration of what is
one of the most fascinating, and indeed radical,
aspects of paranormal research."

The young man looked at the crowd and
again smiled his warm smile.

"Dear guests," he said In a modulated voice,
as If he were accustomed to speaking to groups.
"I'm indeed going to show you something radical
tonight. This Is a phenomenon usually cloaked in
the realm of myth.

354

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

"It's known that some people have the
capacity to quickly heal themselves of diseases
fSMi even of simple injuries. Precisely how they
^d0 this has not been known, although in the case
f <rf Injuries an increase of white blood cells in the
^ylclnlty of the wound has been noticed beyond
^fchat which one would normally expect.

' "What I shall show you goes a bit beyond
fiat, though it is related. I think that it will be
lore dramatic if I merely show you what I'm
atking about and discuss it later."

The young man took off his jacket and rolled
Up his sleeve, exposing his bare forearm. He
Iffcxtended his forearm on the table under the
F focus of the lights and closed his eyes, as if in
^concentration.

|    Lara sensed a tangible tensing of those

waiting, but other than that, there was nothing.
.She glanced at Grant, and noticed that Jack had
.stationed himself just to Grant's right, his hand
^ in his pocket. She saw Grant glance at the hired
^ man, that same amused smile on his lips. Jack
looked at Grant with an expression so neutral as
fto be menacing. The rangy handy man did not
[•• like Grant, and Lara sensed that something was
: .Happening or about to happen between them. It
, was not a good feeling.

She looked back at Brandon Lewis.
As yet, nothing. The boy's face was breaking
out in sweat and reddening. As Lara watched, his
: body began to visibly twitch with the intensity of
, his concentration.

She glanced at Grant again, then quickly
back to Lewis, as she heard a low gasp from a
woman standing near the table.

"His hand," she heard someone cry.

555

Jeffrey Goddin

She looKed at Lewis' hand. At first, she
wasn't sure what she was seeing, but as she
watched tt became more definite. The hand was
changing—becoming larger, more muscular. She
thought her eyes were decieving her, but no. it
was true. And the arm itself seemed to be
elongating. It was as if it suddenly grew larger,
longer, stronger, into the arm of a longshore-
man. She gasped, as the nails began to grow
before her eyes.

Someone gave a brief cry, and abruptly Lewis
seemed to lose his concentration and slip
forward on the table, the massive hand and
forearm still extended before him. As she
watched, they began to shrivel and shrink.

She shook her head. She simply did not
believe what she'd seen.

"Hypnotism," she heard someone mutter.
Well, if it was. It was damned effective.

She walked forward, now his hand and
forearm looked normal, except that there were
what appeared to be stretch marks,' rapidly
disappearing on his thickly haired skin.

"Wow." she said, somewhat inanely, and

giggled.

The man who had muttered about
hypnotism went to touch Lewis' hand.

"Flesh is hot." he said. "Perhaps a heat
distortion of some kind."

"Flo," said Lewis impatiently. "It was real,
what you saw. I'll attempt to explain."

The others were quickly grouping around
him. Brigit Donaldson, who'd given the tele-
kinetic demonstration, was laughing and
shaking his hand. The red-haired older woman

356

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

Lara hadn't met was standing shyly by, taking It

• ^U In. The tall thin man tried to argue.

Lara held back and went and made a drink.

Somehow, a feeling of claustrophobic unreality

was growing inside her. She stood at the
"periphery of the room as if she had just arrived
\aBid were some impartial observer who'd
'.witnessed something as oblique as religion and

would merely make notes.

As if she were on acid, the room resolved Into

two impressionistic groups—the group around
'Lewis, and a second group composed of Murray
.Grant, Professor Trent, and Jack. She focused on
rthls group. Trent and Jack were talking soberly
r with Grant, and Grant was laughing and smiling

,'as she had not seen him do before. She let her
^psychic senses extend and felt an immediate
^chill. Murder, it was in all of their minds but in
^different forms. In one mind, it was real and very
|;near.

?    The group began to take on the air of a con-
f frontation, Trent arguing. Grant still smiling,

Jack looking on. Lara held her breath.

Grant suddenly looked across the room

directly at her and smiled his warmest smile.

Though no one could know it, the demonstration

-of a skill so like his own—probably genetically,
, directly related—had driven his fragile nerves to
the breaking point. Lara knew, but she was too
terrified to do anything. Grant nodded at her, as
an actor might do before or after a performance.
As it turned out, it was before.

Grant made a sudden move. and Jack pulled
a gun from his jacket. To Lara, watching, it was
as if Grant moved so fast that his motion became

357

Jeffrey Qoddin

blurred. Jack staggered, the gun ripped from his
hand as it fired. She saw the long rent in Grant's
jacket, then the sudden grip of Grant's left hand
on Jack's neck.

Even in the echoing aftermath of the
explosion, there was an audible snap.

Trent stepped back and half-turned toward
the group around Lewis, who were now staring in
Trent and Grant's direction.

Grant stepped forward, blood oozing from
the bullet wound in his shoulder.

"That was an intriguing demonstration," he
addressed Lewis. "I have an interest in such
demonstrations. As a matter of fact, 1 think that
it's time to make one of my own."

There came a sudden silence. Trent, red-
faced and shaken, addressed the group.

"Grant is a murderer. We must. . ."

But no one was listening to him, no one at
all.

Grant changed.

It was no clumsy, seat-straining perfor-
mance. but a sudden Impossible flush of motion
that defied vision—a twisting and elongation of
bones, a tearing of fabric as his fine suit failed to
hold the new muscular limbs which filled it.

It was over in seconds. And Grant had taken
the third form—man-shaped, covered in Fine
dark fur, a head of nightmare, the brow of a man,
the ivory tanged jaw of a wolf, elongated hands
and feet ending In dagger-like claws.

'The fanged smile of death shone beneath
amber human eyes.

Brigit Donaldson screamed. Lara felt as
though she were drugged, for somehow what

558




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

f^he'd witnessed was not nearly as unexpected as
^ Should have been.

|^   Trent made a grab for Jack's fallen revolver,
MIOW on the floor a few feet away.
H.   The creature hit Trent with terrific impact,
f and, as he staggered, the wolf's head lashed
^forward in a sweep like a sword, and Trent's
Ineck—blood. pesh, bone, bits of cartilege—was
||, fiwept in a crimson and white wave across the
^polished wood of the table.

Screams. The creature in motion. Humans
running like trapped animals, trying to hide
behind nothing, to escape that which could not
be escaped.

(^    Lewis had one arm upflung, an arm that was
"^ revered with a single bite. the hand falling, still
I'tlenching. to the floor, a parody of its previous
performance.

The red-haired woman simply fell in place,
blood spurting from a jugular severed with
surgical precision.

The tall slender man ran for the stairs but
WS pulled from behind with the horrible sound
S-^of ripping fabric, tearing flesh and cracking
^Jbone.

<c    Brigit Donaldson leaped into the window.
^ which partially cracked but held her, until the
•'creature pulled her back, tearing out her still
^ beating heart from behind.

Through it all Lara stood, merely watching,
her mind numbed. Indeed, even her body felt
numb. Suddenly a naked man stood before her,
swathed in blood and bits of white matter, a
terribly strong, handsome man. It was Grant in
the nude. He paced slowly across the floor,

559

Jeffrey Goddin

wiping the blood from his hands and Itps. She
noticed the Jagged wound in the muscles of his
right bicep which the bullet had made.

Incredibly, the scene of carnage behind him,
his urbane manner returned even in his nudity
and his blood-streaked state, but his amber eyes
burned.

"I shouldn't have done that," he said softly.
"There might have been another way, but I've
been very much frustrated lately. And It's your
friend Mr. Alien who has caused me much
trouble. Kindly go upstairs and tell him that I'm
waiting for him. Then 1 shall kill him and kill you,
and all will be as it should be."

She looked at Grant, a mythical being in the
flesh. She couldn't speak. She was beyond fear.
She simply stared. The rank smell of blood and
voided bowels from those murdered filled her
senses. Her body was so wired fhat she actually
yawned. Then she began to shake. She tried to
cry, to scream, but only a small whimper escaped
her lips as she took In the full scene of the
room—the bodies, some still twitching, the
blood, the powerful naked man who was not a
man standing before her.

"I think you want me," said a new voice.
Douglas Alien was descending the stairs.
Lara turned, trying to recognize him. It was
Doug, yet somehow not Doug. He was naked to
the waist, and though still too thin, the corded
muscles on arms and shoulders stood out in
clear definition. There was something about him,
some quality—very like the man who stood
before her, naked, his eyes fixed on the figure
descending the stairs.

360

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

The room was immersed in a pool of silence.
There were not even night sounds from the land
beyond the shattered window. All existence
beyond that room had ceased in the vortex of
latent energy that now surrounded the two men.

Doug approached to within a few feet of
Grant. The two men stared at one another a long
moment, both standing in near identical
postures, their feet slightly spread, bodies loose.
hands half-clenched at their sides. Grant angled
his head slightly.

"Mister Alien ... I should have known. I did
suspect, but it seemed too unlikely. You have
your mother's eyes, her forehead, but you have
enough of my genes to stand well above this
paltry race of humans."

Doug's mind went blank, focused only on
one thought, his mother's face. Could it possibly
be?

"You knew her?"

Grant's smile was almost sad, but It was the
smile of a sad executioner.

"Yes, I knew her. At Chapel Hill. I was
teaching there. She was a lovely, emotional
creature, but weak, as all humans are. In the end,
knowing what I was, all that I was, was too much
for her."

"But she never revealed who you were,"
Doug whispered.

"Mo, she loved me."

"You're my father."

"Yes."

Doug's eyes locked into Grant's, and Grant
recognized the touch of madness there with
some pleasure. To Lara, watching in stunned

561

Jeffrey Ooddtn

silence, the similarity between the two men was
clearly apparent—their stance, their physique,
even the look in their eyes, gray meeting amber.

"So why did you keep me in that place? Why
didn't you ask me about her?"

Grant shrugged.

"Could you have kept our secret—Lisa's and
mine—that you witnessed in the woods that day?
I doubt it. And 1 also doubt that you would have
had such kind feelings for me, knowing how I left
your mother. No, you're almost entirely human.
but for your strength, I would Imagine, and a
psychological oddity or two. In other words,
weak. You couldn't have handled it. That's why
I'm going to kill you now."

Doug looked at the floor, his voice very soft,
though his body was shaking.

"If you can."

But Grant had already launched his body In a
perfect boxing right. Alien barely had time to
react and caught the blow on an angle to his
chest. Still, it staggered him. But now Me was
blocking, a building rage guiding his actions
from pure Instinct. He suddenly lunged and
grabbed Grant around the waist, twisting and
throwing him to the bloodstained floor. Grant
gasped at the impact, and Alien dropped, knees
first, onto his stomach. Grant lashed upwards
with both fists, and Doug's head snapped back
with the impact, blood gushing from his nose
and lips. But he kept his grip on the heavier man,
trying to strangle him or break his neck.

To Lara, watching, it was as if she were
witnessing a scene from myth, the two finely
muscled, sweaty and blood-streaked bodies

562




BLOOD OF THE WOLF

.idesperately straining to crush the life from the
other. She saw the muscles leap into rigid
definition on Doug's forearms and biceps as he
tightened his pressure on Grant's neck.

Grant choked, abruptly jerked his legs to his
chest and lashed out with his feet, throwing
AHen clear. He leapt to his feet, shaking his head,
his wounded shoulder bleeding freely.

"Mister Alien," he said. "this has gone far
enough."

Even as Alien was struggling to stand. Grant
went Into the third form.

Doug gasped at the sight of it, but the
terrible rage was still burning through his veins.
The creature rushed him in a dazzling blur of
Speed, but he threw himself Into a dive over Its
|>ack and came up in front of the old stone fire-
''S ^piace. He ripped the antique long sword from its
'^ place on the mantel and whirled to face his
l^, enemy.

^-S^   Alien held the heavy sword in an angled
iber grip, staring into the golden eyes of the
cast. neither moved. Time slowed to a halt.
aices echoed In Alien's mind—voices of
tunting children, the angry voices of those
rfio'd captured him in the woods that day, the
s^weet mad voice of his mother betrayed by this.
y .   The creature lunged, and as it lunged the
^ttword came down in an arc of silver light.




The impact jarred Alien's body the length of
his spine.

Grant was no longer in the third form. He
stood once again human, an arm's length from
Alien, the ornate hilt and fourteen inches of
blade protruding from just above his sternum,

565

Jeffrey Ooddin

where the crushing downward stroke that had
entered at the shoulder had ended.

He was nearly cut in half.

He gazed into Alien's eyes, a bloody froth on
his lips.

"There must be some poetic justice, some
symmetry to this," he whispered, as he slumped
to the floor. "In my office .. . tapes . .. diaries
... enough to clear you ..."

And he died.

Alien stood back and became once again
aware of Lara. He walked to her and began to
absently stroke her hair, but realized that his
hand was leaving smears of Qrant's blood. He
stopped the motion and did not know what to do
next.

"He said there's evidence to prove you're
Innocent," said Lara. staring at Grant's body.

"Yes."

"You're free now," she said, recognizing the
shock In his eyes, that he needed her/ and letting
that knowledge bring her back to sanity, a sanity
that even the half-dozen bodies in the room
couldn't impair, now, for a while, she would have
to take care of him again.

It would be the happiest task of her life.

She took his hand and led him toward the
stairs, back to their smaller, safer world.

Kari and Lisa lay In the long grass, watching
the paths of the stars reflected in the quiet
waters, their hips and shoulders touching, the
ebb of incredible energies still rippling from skin
to skin. They had been somewhere beyond
sanity, as humans know It, and returned

364

BLOOD OF THE WOLF

unscathed, though not unchanged.

They had been talking, between the
touching. In words and in pictures, from mind to
mind. The imprecision of some of their mental
communication had broken both into manic
laughter. This real laughter, thought Lisa, oh
Qod, and these tears . . .

Their bodies pressed closely together, as If
each were afraid that the other would disappear.

"You'll have to come away with me." said
Karl finally. "I can sense the police are close to
your friend, and you're bound to come into it.
And you may have left traces ..."

She looked at him oddly, jarred into logic.

"You want me to come with you," she said
softly. "And you know what I am? What I've
done?"

"nothing that I haven't done in imagination,
but things have changed now."

She felt It again, that choking feeling.
Crying. I'm actually crying.

"What makes you think that things have
changed? We're still what we are."

He turned on his elbow and cradled her
wildly disordered blonde head in his arm.

"You don't understand. There may be others
of our kind somewhere. But you and I..."

She nodded against his shoulder, biting
softly, reassured by the supernormal strength
she sensed pulsing there in his muscles, his
veins so tike hers.

"1 never really believed it possible. And after
Murray, I knew it was Impossible. And now I'm
afraid to believe."

Slowly, gradually increasing the strength of

565

Jeffrey Goddfn

his hold until he would have crushed any mere
human being, he pulled her to him. She gasped.
her muscles tensing to meet his strength, force
for force, equal for equal, and felt the joy and
sensuality incredibly rising in her again.

And in her mind were his thoughts, and his
thoughts were of love—not arguments, not
abstractions, but pure and direct love like a
current.

And it was what she needed and what she
knew that she would not reject.

What came to pass then, passed in the
human form and went on for a long, long time.

The splintered white gem of the morning star
rose above the lean shapes of two magnificent
beasts racing the milky light of dawn through
the trees that are towers in the ancient temple of
the forest,

Away. Away.

566