Ramsay almost fell down several steps into a semi-sunken room, but caught his balance in time to stumble upright through the door. He took in the scene with a fast, sweeping glance. Against one wall stood a ruined cage. Rising shakily from the floor, clad in a sweater and bikini underpants, was Holly Lang. But dominating the room was a huge wolflike beast that stood upright holding the armless, headless body of a man.
'Holly!'he called.
She looked up at him, dazed and unbelieving for a moment, then scrambled toward him.
The beast, still holding the dismembered body, glared at him with bright green eyes. Ramsay raised the pistol.
At the moment he fired, Holly Lang stumbled into him, throwing off his aim. The soft silver bullet smacked into the far wall. Where an ordinary slug would have bitten out a chunk of concrete, the silver bullet flattened on impact and bounced to the floor.
The beast looked down at the bright blob of metal, then back at Gavin. A flash of understanding passed between them. The beast let the mangled body fall, dropped to all fours, and bounded past Ramsay and out the door before he could bring the revolver back into play.
Ramsay did not try to go after the thing. He stood where he was and wrapped both arms around Holly. He held her close to him until she finally stopped shivering. Then, supporting her with one arm, he picked up her jeans and her boots and led her gently out into the clean air.
Several minutes later they sat together in the front seat of the sheriffs car, still parked before the peaceful- looking house that was Dr Pastory's clinic. As Holly calmed down she told him all that had happened to her since leaving his office early this morning.
'Then that was Malcolm I saw running into the woods,'
he said.
'Yes. We've got to find him, Gavin, and help him.'
'I'm not sure we can.'
'We've got to try. If you won't help me, I'll go after him alone.'
'No, you won't,' Ramsay said quietly. 'We're together in this thing now. Wherever it leads.'
'You know what we're going up against?'
'I know,' he said. 'I saw it in there. But I'm not going to try to convince anybody else. I would suggest that you don't either, unless you want to be locked in a rubber room.'
'No,' she said, 'I don't imagine we could get anybody to believe us. Not anybody who could help.'
'I'm afraid that's it,' he said gently. 'It will have to be you and me, Holly, and that's it.'
She lay her head against his shoulder for a moment, then looked up at him. 'I think I'd like to be kissed now,' she said.
He complied.
Chapter Seventeen
He was alone again.
Alone and running.
Malcolm stumbled blindly through the forest, tears blurring his vision. Only an ancient instinct saved him from repeated collisions with the trees. He ran on tirelessly with no thought of direction or destination. He knew only that he had to get away, far away from the terrible house where the men had done hurtful things to him. He blanked all thoughts from his mind except escape.
And he ran.
Alone and crying through the forest.
The daylight waned and night crept in and Malcolm ran on. The sky was tinted grey with the coming dawn when he finally dropped sobbing to the ground. He had used up his youthful body, and in seconds he fell exhausted into a dreamless sleep.
When he awoke, it was night again. He was hungry. And he was cold. He still wore only the oversized pyjamas provided for him by Dr Pastory. Both top and bottom were ripped by thorns. The legs were soaked through by the dew.
His feet were bare, though remarkably uninjured after his wild run through the forest. Malcolm sat hugging his knees, and shivering. He pushed away the panic that nipped at him and willed himself to relax.
The smell of woodsmoke was in the air. Not the greasy smoke of the raging fire he remembered from the night of terror in Drago. This was small. Almost friendly. A campfire. There was the aroma of boiling coffee. Malcolm rose and tested the air. Where there was a campfire there were people. People meant food and clothing.
Malcolm followed the smell of the campfire, moving without sound through the trees. He heard the lapping of small waves as he approached a mountain lake. At a safe distance he stopped and hid himself among a cluster of fallen fir boughs. From there he silently watched the camp at the lake's edge.
There was a tent and two men. The men sat across the fire from each other and talked with the familiarity of old friends. Their backpacks were leaned neatly against the trunk of a fir. The play of the flickering flames across their faces stirred in Malcolm memories of the drunken hunters who had killed his friend Jones. As the remembered rage returned, a growl built in his throat.
But watching these men, Malcolm sensed that they were not like those others. These were fishermen, not killers. They laughed easily together and talked with rough affection of the wives they had left behind for this weekend excursion. Malcolm's anger subsided; the growl never left his throat.
It grew late and the fire crumbled into glowing coals. The men banked the dying fire carefully and laid out their sleeping bags.
'Funny, isn't it,' said one. 'Here we can stay up as late as we want, and I'm dead tired at nine o'clock.'
'It's the mountain air,' said the other. 'Anyway, we can get an early start in the morning. Get at the fish before they've had their coffee.'
'You going to sleep in the tent?'
'Nah, it's too pretty out here. Nothing in these woods to worry about.'
'Except the Drago werewolves.'
Both men laughed. They crawled into their sleeping bags and soon fell silent.
Malcolm waited patiently until the snoring of the men assured him they were asleep. Then he stole down to their camp, placing his feet with care so there should not be the smallest sound.
His vision at night had always been nearly as sharp as in full daylight, and he quickly found the men's supplies. Their backpacks still leaned against the fir. Malcolm opened the packs carefully and took only the clothing he needed — underwear, a woollen shirt, tough denim pants and warm jacket, heavy socks, and a pair of boots. Then selecting food he could carry easily, he slipped away.
He moved softly until he was far enough from the camp so the men would not be awakened, then he broke into a loping run. After a mile he stopped and rested and examined the things he had taken.
He ate a portion of the food and dressed himself in the men's clothes, carefully burying the torn pyjamas. The clothes were too large for him, but he hitched up the trousers, and rolled up the cuffs of the shirt and jacket. He put on both pairs of thick socks under the boots. Then he moved on again. More slowly this time; he had to think, to plan.
The days passed. Malcolm knew he would have to leave the area. The town of Pinyon, the county of La Reina would never be safe for him again. Yet he had to return one more time. There was something he had to know.
He waited for a cloudy night when the moon and stars were hidden, then crept down from the hill behind the hospital. There were still searchers in the hills, but they were amateur woodsmen and easy to elude. There were no helicopters or organized parties as there had been when the doctor was killed. Several times Malcolm passed within yards of the searchers without being seen.
He found a vantage point from where he could see everyone who entered and left the building. There he waited. In the afternoon of the following day he saw the one he waited for. His friend. Holly Lang.
