his chest heaving. Pastory came over and stared down at him. Styles's body bucked once, twice, then lay still.
Pastory looked quickly toward the entrance to the tent. Assured that no one had heard the short scuffle, he ran to the stage at the far end, mounted it, and pulled aside the curtain.
The hate-filled face that glared up at him from the crouching figure only faintly resembled the boy Malcolm. The muzzle was pushed well forward, the eyes slanted and deep green, the ears pointed and cocked. The black upper lip curled back to show the outsized killing teeth. It growled.
Pastory spread his hands as one does with a strange dog to show he carried no weapon. He advanced slowly.
'It's all right, Malcolm. No one is going to hurt you. You remember me, don't you? I'm your friend. You know that. I'm going to take you back with me to where no one will hurt you again.'
Another growl. The creature drew back slightly. The shoulders and deep chest were covered with coarse hair. The clothing he had been wearing hung in tatters.
Pastory could barely contain his excitement. This was the furthest along in the change he had yet seen the boy. He ached to get Malcolm back to the laboratory. This time there would be no bungling Kruger to mess things up.
'Come along now,' he said, putting just the right note of authority into his voice. 'There is nothing more for you here. Your place is with me.'
The answering growl this time was deeper. The teeth seemed to have grown.
For the first time, Pastory felt a small doubt about his ability to control the boy. He took a step back. 'I'm here to help you, Malcolm. Now stop this foolishness and come along.'
The attack was so swift that Pastory had no time to cry out. From the crouching position on the floor Malcolm sprang at him. The flashing teeth seized him by the throat, the powerful jaws clamped together. Pastory felt the hot splash of blood down the front of himself. He screamed, but all that came from his gaping mouth was a soft bubbling sound. He had a last impression of the hot, snorting breath of the beast on his face, then the life drained out of him.
The beast, with its jaws still clamped on the man's throat, worried him the way a dog does a rabbit. Blood spattered the wooden floor of the stage, the velvet curtain, the canvas of the tent, and the cage. Finally he dropped Pastory's pale and broken body with a thump.
He came through the curtain, and in two long bounds was at the side of the still figure of Bateman Styles. The muzzle poked down close to the showman's livid face and snuffled questioningly. There was no answer from Styles. No movement, no breath, no heartbeat.
The beast whirled from the body of the showman and ran out through the opening in the rear of the tent. Outside he lifted his bloody muzzle to the night sky and he howled.
It was a sound Malcolm had heard many times from others in the night. He howled again — a long, ululating cry of loneliness and rage and despair. From up in the distant hills, faint but unmistakeable, came an answer.
Along the carnival midway people stopped and turned to stare toward the unearthly howling. Small children began to cry. Women pressed closer to their men. The men glanced at one another, each waiting for someone else to make the first move. Then several of the carnival people started toward Bateman Styles's tent.
Malcolm heard them coming. He swung his great beast's head to and fro, searching for a way out. Seeing a path that led off towards the town between the parked trailers and trucks, he ran; ran with ground-devouring strides. If any of the carnival men saw the powerful figure loping across the field, they did not try to give chase.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gradually Malcolm's pace slackened. His breathing grew laboured. He became aware of an ache in his muscles and the slap of his bare feet on the pavement. He slowed to a walk, watching behind to be sure there were no pursuers.
The shadows seemed to deepen. His listened to the tiny chirps and rustlings of the night creatures. The air was cold on his skin where the clothing was torn, and he realized that the transformation had reversed itself. Once again his appearance was that of a normal human.
He gathered the torn remains of his clothing about him and looked around to get his bearings. He saw he was on the state highway that formed the main street of Silverdale. A mile ahead he could see the scattered lights of the town. A couple of hundred yards before him was the neon sign for the motel where Holly Lang was staying. He hurried on.
There were only four cars pulled into the spaces to accomodate the twelve rooms of the motel. Curtains were pulled across the windows in the occupied rooms. In the office Malcolm could see a young oriental woman working on a crossword puzzle.
He crept along the wall to the motel room with Holly's Volkswagen parked before it. Softly he knocked.
When she opened the door Holly's shocked expression reflected the boy's dishevelled appearance.
'Malcolm, what happened to you? Are you all right?'
'Can I come in?'
'Of course.' She stood aside while Malcolm entered the room. She led him to a chair, then snapped off the old movie that was playing on television.
Malcolm sat stiffly in the chair for a moment, breathing hard. Then he started to cry. At first he made an effort to hold back the tears, then gave in to them. All the pent-up sorrows, frustrations, and pains of his young life burst forth in uncontrolled sobs. Holly took a chair across the room and sat quietly, letting him cry it out.
After a while he subsided. He used the tattered sleeve of his shirt to wipe his eyes, and looked shyly over at Holly.
'I've never done that before,' he said.
'Then it was about time you did. Everybody has to let the hurt come out once in a while.'
'It does feel better.'
'Of course it does. People shouldn't hold those things inside.'
The boy's faint smile faded. 'Oh, Holly, it's all over now. I've ruined everything.'
'Why don't you tell me about it.'
The boy spoke haltingly, glancing at Holly's face from time to time for a reaction. Mostly he kept his eyes downcast.
'Dr Pastory came to the tent tonight.'
'How did he…' Holly interrupted, then caughfherself. 'No, never mind. Go on.'
'He… he wanted to take me back. He offered to buy me from Mr Styles. For a minute I thought Bate was going to do it, but he never would have. He told Dr Pastory to get out. Pastory grabbed him and there was a scuffle. Mr Styles choked and fell down. I was behind the curtain and heard the whole thing.'
The boy paused. His gaze drifted off to a corner of the ceiling, as though seeing there again the events of the night. 'I didn't want it to happen to me then, Holly. I didn't want to change. I tried to fight, but I couldn't help it. When Dr Pastory came to get me, I couldn't help myself.'
'There's blood on your shirt,' Holly said. 'Did he hurt you?'
Malcolm shook his head. 'It isn't my blood. It's his. Pastory's.'
'You… attacked him?'
'I killed him, Holly.'
'Oh, Malcolm, are you sure?'
'I killed him, all right. And do you want to know what else?'
'What?' Holly said quietly.
'I liked it. I hated him so much, both for what he did to me and for hurting Mr Styles, that all I wanted was for him to die. And when he did I was happy.'
Holly stretched out a hand and touched him on the shoulder. 'Oh, my poor, poor Malcolm.'
'Then I went to Mr Styles and I saw he was dead. If I could have killed Pastory again right then, I would have. I ran out. People started coming toward the tent. I just kept running until I got here.'
