'You mark my word, Doc. Come Sunday that damn ass will be spouting off about werewolves and devils and God knows what in his sermon.'
'Nothing we can do about that, Sheriff.'
'We'll see about that.' Lauters strapped on his guns and took off out the door. 'We'll just see.'
'Sheriff-' Perry started to rise, but the pain in his back set him down again, his forehead beaded with sweat. Licking his lips, he opened his lower desk drawer and took out a small black box. In it was a syringe and several small bottles of morphine.
Alone, Perry injected himself.
21
Reverend Claussen sat in the rectory and heard only silence. He was alone today. He was alone and on the desk before him were about a dozen books on folklore and the occult. A portion of his personal collection. He scanned the spines. Man into Beast, De Lycanthropia, Der Werewolf, De transmutations hominum in lupos, Uber die Wehrwolfe und Thieverwandlungen im Mittelalter, Demonolatry. There were others. The one he was most interested in was called, Indians of the Upper Plains: Common Beliefs and Myth-Cycles.
Everything he needed was here.
Everything with which to do battle against the evil that had taken Wolf Creek in its foul jaws. Claussen didn't care if anyone believed him or not about what was happening. He'd tried the doctor first, simply because Perry was an educated man. And that had been a mistake.
Now he would have to hunt down the evil himself.
The door suddenly swung open. Standing there, was a young woman without a stitch of clothes on. 'I feel sinful,' she said.
22
Sheriff 'Big' Bill Lauters stood across the rutted dirt road from the church. Looking around, he fished out his pint of Rye and guzzled down the remainder, tossing the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sheepskin coat and waited to see if anyone was around.
He saw no one.
He had business with the good reverend, the nature of which necessitated that they be alone. It seemed that he'd come at a good time. There was no traffic whatsoever in and around the church. No old ladies from the various church groups. No sinners seeking forgiveness.
A good day for a little discussion.
A good day to straighten out Claussen once and for all.
Lauters saw no one in either direction on the road and quickly crossed the hard packed snow and went into the church. It was silent inside. He peered out the door to see if he was being observed. He was not.
He walked down the aisle between the polished pews. He moved slowly, his footsteps landing without sound. And this was a great accomplishment when you consider that since he'd left Perry's house well over an hour before, he'd been doing nothing but drinking. Lauters had a taste for Rye. In his coffee. With water. Straight out of the bottle. It didn't matter. He only knew that without it, he was miserable. A hopeless wreck. But with it…well, he was a man of means, a lawman who could face down any gunman in the Territories without a hint of fear.
Lauters took his own sweet time approaching the altar.
On the way, in the shadowy stillness, he took note of where the carpet was thinning, which prayer books lacked covers, which pews needed replacing.
Lauters was, his head swimming with alcohol, a confident man. He had a job to do and he would do it.
Claussen wasn't in the church itself, which meant he would be in the rectory. This was the place in which he slept and took his meals, Lauters knew, and also the place in which he plotted out his little games.
'Not anymore,' Lauters said beneath his breath. 'Not anymore.'
The Sheriff had been waiting for this day for a long time. He'd said nothing when Claussen had rolled into town, reeling with self-importance and holiness. He said nothing when Claussen had condemned honest men from his pulpit with sermons of hell-fire and everlasting torment. Lauters even said nothing when the Bible-thumping crazy had turned his own wife against him. He accepted it. But when Claussen had begun criticizing the job he did as sheriff and his lack of progress with the murders…that had been it. And now, this superstitious horseshit about spooks.
Lauters would take no more.
It was time for Claussen to pay for his sins.
Lauters had no intention of letting that goddamn Holy Joe drive Wolf Creek, his town, into panic with these horror stories. No, what was going to happen now was long overdue.
Lauters passed through the vestibule into the rectory.
There was a little sitting room with a fire blazing in the hearth. Lauters warmed his hands for a moment. He looked in the kitchen and Claussen's cramped study. The reverend was nowhere. That left only upstairs.
Lauters moved up the narrow stairwell and froze on the second step.
He could hear sounds.
Moanings.
A thrashing of bed springs.
Either Claussen was in lot of pain or he was being killed or…
Well, Lauters decided, the other alternative was impossible.
Not Reverend Claussen. Pious, self-righteous Claussen.
Lauters moved slowly up the stairs, pausing at the top. He could hear two distinct sets of moans now. Those of Claussen and those of a woman, heated, breathless. Lauters grinned and moved up the short hallway to the first door which was ajar slightly. He stood there a full minute before kicking it in all the way.
When he did, no one noticed him at first.
Claussen was on the bed, quite naked, his wrists tied with leather straps to the bedposts. On top of him, also naked, was Nell Hutson, a young whore from Madame Tillie's parlor house. Her back was wet with sweat, her ample hips pumping with a ferocity that threatened to drive the good reverend straight through the mattress.
'Well, well, well,' Lauters said. 'What do we have here?'
23
Up in the hills, at the Blackfeet camp, Laughing Moonwind peered out through the flaps of her lodge. She was watching the sweat lodge in the distance. Her father, Herbert Crazytail, and the other members of the Skull Society had just stepped out of it. Their faces were set and grim, painted a deathly white with black streaks under the eyes. They were dressed in wolf and bear pelts and nothing more, as was the way of the Society. They were pallid, dead- faced spirit warriors now heaped with skins. One of them wore the hideous mask of some grinning demon fashioned from the huge skull of a grizzly and strips of tight-fitting leather.
One by one, the others put on similar masks.
These were actually fashioned from the stretched and cured heads of wolves, painted up with ritual colors.
Crazytail in the lead, they started off through the forest to the sacred grove on the mountainside where they would begin their rites.
Tonight would be a bad night.
The smell of death was already on the wind.
