When the man went back inside and all once again fell into darkness he returned to the alley. His heart was full of sorrow. When he faced the pack—he had failed, she still lived.
But they found a way to move against her also, and now they were ready.
Chapter 5
« ^ »
Carl Ferguson had gone back to his office. His lamp provided the last glimmer of light in the empty workrooms of the museum basement. Beyond his open door the evening shadows spread slowly across the workbenches, turning the half-finished specimens into indistinct, angular shapes.
Under his light Ferguson held the model he had constructed of the paw.
The paw. He turned it in his hands, looking at its supple efficiency for the hundredth time. He placed it on the desk, then picked it up again and ran its claws along his cheek. It would do its job well, this paw. The long toes with their extra joints. The broad, sensitive pads. The needle-sharp claws. Almost… what a human being might have if people had claws. It had the same functional beauty as a hand, a lethal one.
Suddenly he frowned. Wasn’t that a noise? He jumped up and started toward his door—then saw that some moving air was ruffling a box of feathers.
“I’m getting crazy,” he said aloud. His voice had a flat echo in the empty space beyond his office.
Ferguson glanced at his watch. Seven P.M. It was dark, the winter sun had set. He was tired, exhausted from the harrowing meeting downtown and from his own hectic schedule. The new exhibit was going to be a great achievement, one that would be sure to get him tenure at the museum. A beautiful concept— the birds of North America. Not just static cases but a whole room of meticulous reconstructions, soaring, wonderful creatures… he looked at some of them, their great wings spread in the darkness, barely visible, in the process of being feathered quill by careful quill.
But where did this—thing—belong among the creatures of North America? What the hell was it, dammit!
The detectives had babbled about werewolves… superstitious fools. But they certainly had uncovered a problem. Surely the city police could capture one of the things, bring it in, let him evaluate it more thoroughly. Judging from this paw it was on the large side, maybe bigger than a wolf. Possibly a hundred and eighty pounds. Even alone such a creature could be extremely dangerous, highly so in a pack. Unlikely it was a mutant wolf, they were too radically adapted to their traditional prey. Coyotes—too much of a size variance. Whatever had a paw like this had split off from the canine mainstream a long time ago, and had reached a very, very high level of evolution.
Which brought up the question of why there were no bones, no specimens, nothing.
It was uncanny and chilling to think that a whole subspecies of canine carnivore existed without even a hint of it in science.
He jumped again—this time he heard a scraping sound. Now he took it seriously. “Luis,” he said, hoping it was the night man coming down to check on the light, “it’s me, Carl Ferguson.” The scraping continued, insistent, patient… something trying to worry one of the basement windows open.
He looked at the paw. Yes, it could do that.
He turned out his lamp, closed his eyes to hasten their getting used to the dark. He stood up from his desk swaying, his skin crawling.
The scraping stopped, was followed by a slight creak. A puff of icy air made the box of feathers in the hallway rustle again. There was a sliding sound and a thump as something came in the window, then another.
Then there was silence. Carl Ferguson stood with his plaster paw in his hand, his throat and mouth agonizingly dry.
“Somebody’s over there.”
A light flashed in the scientist’s eyes.
“Hello, Doctor,” said a gruff voice. “Sorry we startled you.”
“What the hell—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, don’t go off half-cocked. We’re cops, this is an investigation.”
“What in hell do you mean coming in here like this? You—you scared me! I thought—”
“It was them?” Wilson flipped a bank of switches flooding the basement with a stark neon glow. “I don’t blame you for being afraid, Doctor. This place is spooky.”
Becky Neff pulled the window closed. “The truth is, Doctor, we were looking for you. We figured we’d find you here, that’s why we came.”
“Why didn’t you come in the damn front door? My heart’s still pounding, for God’s sake! I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.”
“Think how we feel, Doctor. We feel that way all the time. At least I do. I don’t know about Detective Wilson.”
Wilson pulled his chin into his chest and said nothing.
“Well, you could have come in the right way. I don’t think that’s asking too much.” He was angry and aggrieved. They had no right to do this to him! Typical cops, completely indifferent to the law. They didn’t even have a right to be here! “I think you should leave.”
“No, Doctor. We came here to talk to you.” She said it sweetly, but the way she and Wilson advanced toward him made him take an involuntary step back. When he did Wilson sighed, long, ragged and sad— and Ferguson saw for an instant how tired the man was, how tired and afraid.
“Come into my office, then. But I fail to see what you’re expecting to get out of me.”
They pulled up chairs in the tiny office. Ferguson noticed that Wilson lingered at the door, Neff sat so that she was looking out. Together they had most of the workroom in view. “Those are easy windows,” Wilson murmured, “very easy windows.”
