give you any more information. Excuse me.'
Ramsay's progress through the crowd slowed to a near standstill as the mass of bodies around him pressed closer. As he was about to be pushed backward, a thick-shouldered man with forearms like Popeye shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the complaints and curses from the reporters.
'Right this way, Sheriff. The car's outside.' The man was vaguely familiar, but Ramsay could not immediately place him. However, this was no time to ask for ID. He fell in behind the man like a running back behind his pulling guard, and together they ploughed a furrow through the gaggle of reporters, out the door, and down the wide walkway to a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle.
Ramsay jumped into the passenger's side and the other man wedged himself behind the wheel. He slammed the little car into gear and they took off, barely missing a camera crew from the Los Angeles ABC affiliate.
By the time the reporters had collected themselves and dashed for their own vehicles, the Beetle had roared around the corner and turned off the road on to an all but invisible wagon track that led out of sight behind a row of eucalyptus trees. There the driver stopped and cut the engine.
When the caravan of media cars had roared past on the highway, Ramsay turned for a better look at his driver. 'Thanks for the rescue,' he said. 'You've got a handy way with crowds.'
'I played a little football years ago at Stanford.'
'Do I know you? Ramsay asked.
'You might have seen me around. Name's Ken Dowd. I own a little shop in Darnay. Heard about what happened at the hospital this morning and thought maybe I could help you out.'
'That so? In what way, Mr Dowd?'
'Call me Ken. Well, I heard how they're saying this killing was like the ones they had over at Drago before the town burned down. Werewolves, you know.'
'I know,' Ramsay said wearily.
'Well, back then I had occasion to help a fellow out. Came up from LA. Had to go into Drago after a woman or something. He came to my shop.'
'What do you call your shop, Ken?'
The broad-shouldered man looked embarrassed. 'The Spirit World. My wife's idea. I told her it sounded like a liquor store, but that's what she wanted, and half the money to set it up was hers. We sell occult books, Ouija boards, powders, potions, charms, chants. You name it.'
'That's interesting, Ken, but I don't see how it's going to help me.'
Dowd reached behind the seat and brought up a cardboard box the size of a double deck of playing cards. He handed it to Ramsay. The box was surprisingly heavy for its size.
'What is it?'
'Take a look.'
Ramsay raised the flap and looked inside. It took a moment for him to recognize the contents.
'Silver bullets?'
'Calibre.38. I figured they ought to fit your police revolver.'
'You're not joking with me, are you, Ken?'
'I am not. And I won't waste a lot of time arguing with you about whether there's such things as ghosts and vampires and werewolves. I have my own beliefs, but I'm not interested in convincing anybody else. I saw the way some of those people died in Drago, and I don't want to see any more. You can take these bullets or not, whatever you want. I happen to think they might save your life, and maybe some others too.'
Ramsay looked closely at the man and decided he was not drunk or crazy or a fool. He hefted the box of bullets and dropped it into a side pocket of his uniform jacket.
'Thanks, Ken. I'll take them.'
Dowd nodded soberly. 'I don't think you'll be sorry, Sheriff.' He fired the Volkswagen engine and drove back to the road.
Chapter Twelve
It was impossible for Malcolm to tell how long he rode inside the van. There were moments when he was almost awake and he could see Dr Pastory sitting close by, watching him. There were heavy curtains across the rear window, and the only illumination came from up front in the cab where the other man was driving. Malcolm did not have the strength to turn and look up there, and he soon lapsed back into unconsciousness.
He had only vague sensations of when the ride ended. First the vibration of the engine stopped; then there were the metallic sounds of doors opening and closing, and the voices of the two men. The chill of outdoor air was on his face briefly, and then it was warm again. He felt the familiar touch of sheets on his body and the slight give of a mattress under him. To his drugged brain that meant he was back in the hospital. Safe. Holly would be here soon. He slept.
When finally his brain cleared and he came fully awake, Malcolm saw at once he was not in the hospital. The bed was similar, and the room had the same kind of medicinal smell, but there was a coldness here. Not in the temperature, for the room was quite warm, but in the atmosphere. Malcolm had no idea where he was; he only knew it was a bad place.
The room was very plain. There was his narrow bed, a four-drawer bureau, a little night stand, and a straight wooden chair. The room had one door and no window. In a corner was a white enamelled sink with a mirrored cabinet above it. On one wall hung a picture of a dog on a hillock overlooking a flock of grazing sheep. The picture showed storm clouds building on the horizon.
Malcolm peeled back the covers and swung his feet out of the bed on to the floor. He was dizzy for a moment and had to shut his eyes. When he opened them he felt a little better. He looked down and saw that he was still wearing the foolish little garment they gave him at the hospital.
He stood up, and carefully walked the few steps to the door. He tried the knob. Locked. Malcolm was not surprised. He prowled around the room touching things; feeling their surfaces.
He ran some water over his hands at the sink and splashed it on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The young face that looked back at him was very sad. Dark half-moons shadowed the eyes.
The bureau was unfinished wood of some kind. Malcolm pulled out the drawers one by one. Three of them were empty, but the top drawer contained clothes. There was underwear, jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, socks, and tennis shoes.
'Well, hello, Malcolm. How are you feeling?'
The voice startled him so that he spun away from the bureau and almost lost his balance. Dr Pastory stood in the doorway. He had opened it without making a sound.
'I see you found the clothes. It's all right, they're for you. I hope they fit. I'm not used to buying clothes for a boy. Young man, I should say.'
Malcolm shrugged.
'I thought you'd be tired of wearing that hospital gown. I don't blame you.'
Pastory was trying hard to make his voice friendly, but it was still oily and cold to Malcolm. The doctor came over and took his arm to guide him back to the bed. His touch was as unpleasant as his voice. He had an antiseptic smell to him. Malcolm sat down on the bed. Pastory took the chair and hitched it over close.
'Now then, how do you feel?' he said again.
'Sick to my stomach,' Malcolm told him.
'Well, that's not unusual. The drug does that sometimes. It's nothing to worry about. We'll get some food into you and you'll feel tiptop again.'
'Where are we?'
'It's a little place of mine where we can get you all well again.'
'I'm not sick.'
'That's a matter of opinion, Malcolm. Definitely a matter of opinion.'
Dr Pastory was looking at him in a strange, piercing way, but then he put on the fake oily smile again.
'Why don't you put on some of your new clothes? Are they what boys are wearing today?'
