Kornwolf (31 page)

“Name it.”

She exhaled. “Well, I'll tell you, then you decide.” She cleared her throat. “Jack Ezekiel Stumpf, right? Social number: 442-09-3002.”

“That's the one,” Owen nodded.

Ezekiel?

“I thought so.” Her tone went as flat as Ohio. “All of his military files have been classified. Top Secret. They've got him in a minefield.”

Owen waited, expecting more. “So?” he asked when it didn't come. “You can't hack into it?”

She scoffed, laughing: “Not without every federal agent in town at my door. And sorry, honey, but you're not worth it.”

He hung up the phone.

Classified.

What the hell did that mean? “Top Secret”? That could be anything: limited only by the widening scope of the hypothetical. Hence, it meant nothing.

He pulled out
Bad Moon
, flipped to the index. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of “The Time of the Killing”: pp. 70–71, 237–241.

Page 70 opened with an entry on “
The Burning of Heretics During The Reformation
.”

Following Luther's split with the Catholic Church, a century of religious, political and cultural persecution ensued. Defined as heretical—and thereby “
silenced, confined and eliminated
”—were, among others, The Adamites, who ran naked in the forests; The Free-Livers, who practiced polygamy; The Weeping Brothers, who held tearful ceremonies; The Bloodthirsty Ones, who indulged in sacrifice; The Devil's Children, who worshipped Lucifer; and The Anabaptists, whose radical stance to “reform the reformers” had been branded seditious.

There they were again. One more Dutchie and Owen would have to start baling fodder …

He continued: “The burnings intensified during
‘The Time of the Killing,'
once defined in older German as ‘The Age of The Werewolves.'”

Owen marked his spot, then turned to page 237—twenty pages beyond the point up to which he had read. There, he found several woodblock prints, circa 1590, eight in total, depicting, in sequence, an upright, shaded creature apparently stalking the fields; the creature pursued by a hunting party; the creature, in human form, at trial; the creature, in human form, condemned—then tortured and, finally, beheaded and burned at the stake, underscoring the entry's title:

“
The Execution of Peter Stubbe
.”

The article opened by noting that, according to George Borer's account,
The Damnable Life and Death of Stubbe Peter
(c.1590), a man by that surname (pronounced Shtoo-bay) was born in the Bedburg / Cephardt area of Germany in 1520. For most of his earlier life, he would verse himself in the arts of necromancy. At trial, he would “
freely confess
” to accepting a belt from The Devil, which, when worn, would transform him into a savage wolf—and no ordinary wolf, in stature, either: the creature was “
strong, enormous and cruel, with eyes that glowed and razor sharp teeth
.” In
this form, he stalked the countryside, killing and mutilating, even devouring travelers. Once the belt had been removed, the monster would quickly revert to the form of Peter Stubbe, who posed, by most accounts, an inconspicuous figure. Though odd in demeanor, he had never been suspected of, much less questioned in connection with murder: not even when several of his victims were known to have angered or insulted him prior to their deaths.

The court records maintained that Stubbe was driven by insatiable cravings for the flesh of young women. In human form, he would “
ravage them in the fields
,” then “
shape-shift into a wolf and kill them
.” He was later judged guilty of incest, having taken his daughter as a concubine daily, and by her bringing forth a child. “
Furthermore
,” according to Borer's chapbook, this “
insatiable and filthy beast, given over to works of evil with greediness, lay even with his own sister. He frequented her company long times according to the wicked dictates of his heart
.”

Stubbe had many women, as lovers and victims both. He was found to have killed and partially devoured eleven women in a single season. Two of them were pregnant and “
tearing the children out of their wombs in most bloody and savage sort, he afterwards ate their hearts, panting and raw
.”

Next he was charged with, and found guilty of, killing three travelers, mutilating two and devouring entirely the third, a woman.

This was followed by Stubbe's murder of his own son, his “
heart's ease
,” whose brains he “
ate right out of the skull
.”

The killings continued for many years.

Then came a day when a wolf was spotted abducting a shepherd boy near the town of Bedburg. A party of men with dogs assembled to track the beast. On approaching a clearing, they heard the cry of a terrified child. Then, as they swore under oath subsequently, a wolf appeared, yet soon, “
the beast shape-shifted into the form of a man
.” The party quietly followed him back to his house, then seized and delivered him, Stubbe, to authorities in nearby Bedburg for questioning.

Peter Stubbe was found guilty by confession of sorcery, werewolfism, cannibalism, rape and incestuous adultery. His daughter and one of his mistresses were tried as accessories. All three were sentenced to death.

On October 31st (!), 1589, with a crowd of in excess of 4,000 persons from all over Europe in attendance, Stubbe was stretched on a rack. The flesh was torn from his body with red-hot clamps. His legs and arms were severed. He was decapitated. His body was burned to ashes. And, later, his head was impaled on a stake for public display in the town of Bedburg. In total, the “monster” had claimed fifteen (other sources contended twenty-seven) victims during a period known as “
The Time of the Killing
.”

Today, as Stoner went on to note, historians theorized that Stubbe, in fact, had been a wealthy, prosperous and, not least important,
Catholic
landowner living between the predominantly protestant villages of Bedburg and Cephardt in a time of great famine. While, according to church records, many townspeople had starved to death during this period, Stubbe was said to have lived in comfort and relative ease, untouched by misfortune. For that, the villagers had grown to resent him. He was rumored to have been in league with The Devil … When, in the century's final decade, a string of murders—mostly of shepherdesses tending their flocks—broke out in the surrounding countryside, deafening cries for revenge had been raised all across the miserable, famine-wrecked province. Even though the fields, at that time, had been crawling with fugitives, bandits and deserters (or korn-wolves) who might have ravaged and murdered the girls, then left their bodies to be torn apart and scattered about by the wolves of the forests—Stubbe was singled out for arrest, interrogation and execution. Many would now consider him a scapegoat, a victim of the prejudice inherent to his age.

The only catch was: the Bedburg / Cephardt murders had
ceased
upon his arrest …

Whatever the story, Peter Stubbe (also known by the surname of
Stumpf!
) was probably the best-known werewolf in history …

Owen looked up.

Visions of terror and execution danced before him.

Peter Stumpf.

Killed on October
31st
, 1589 …

Gradually, Owen's focus returned to the wall, spurred by a faraway clopping of hooves and the grating of steel-rimmed wheels over asphalt, approaching from down the street.

An image of Jack and Rodrigo sharpened. Owen stared at the photo, searching. The Coach had been shot in Vietnam … Jacob Speicher, an Amish youth, was said to have been the Blue Ball Devil … The Anabaptists had formed in Germany and Switzerland during the sixteenth century … The Werewolf of Bedburg was tortured to death, with his daughter and mistress, in 1589 … No mention was made re: the fate of the child begat by Stubbe (Stumpf) and his daughter—nor of the sister with whom he had practiced “carnal, unholy” relations daily …

And, come to think of it, wasn't the “Kornwolf of Possum Turn” from Indiana?

Again, Dr. Diller had been on the money: “
They'll call you a madman. Don't be a fool
.”

Still deaf to the rumble of hoofbeats, Owen zeroed in on Jack's photo …

Nothing about his appearance was off. His expression was clear, rational, lucid. He looked pretty good for a Vietnam vet.

And, again, he had been in Philth Town on Friday.

This was giving Owen a migraine.

The unmistakable grating of horse-drawn carriage wheels ground to a pivot outside. The clatter of riding gear moved up the alleyway, gathering speed as it closed on the parking lot.

Owen remained transfixed on the photo, having just caught a peripheral blip.

Beneath a jubilant Jack and Rodrigo, holding the lightweight belt between them—Rodrigo's olive-complected hand to the right, supporting the central plaque, Jack's enormous hand to the left, clamping that end of the belt with his fingers … His fingers …
Something about … The knuckles: aligned in a perfect row, horizontally. (Backwards?) Something was wrong with the fingers … One of them looked to be out of place … His hand was off balance … The ring finger. That was it … Jack's fourth finger was longer than the others …

Owen's lungs refused to draw breath.

At last, a commotion erupted outside, jolting him back to the here and now. He got up and went out to see what was happening. People were shouting. A crowd, by the sound of it.

What was this?

Fido Jones
again?

He wouldn't have shown up to rub it in …

Blye then?

Doubtful.

Pushers.

Carefully now …

He opened the door to a brick in mid-flight, coming at him. He dodged. It banked off the ring post behind him and fell, tearing into the canvas.

It could have killed him.

He looked back around, incredulous, braced for a follow-up shot.

From the murk of his reverie, several Amish men spilled from three different horse-drawn buggies. They let out a murderous yell at the sight of him.

Owen slammed and locked the door. A window shattered above the free weights. A brick came through. Glass on the floor.

They were pounding the door now, trying to ram it …

Terrified, he ran back into the office. Out the window, he spotted another buggy, positioned in front of the gym.

The phone started ringing. A security alarm went off. Lights on the console flashed.

He ran up the stairs. He crawled out a third-floor window and dropped to the neighbor's roof.

The first of the sirens went up in the distance, approaching. The cops were on their way.

After fifteen minutes, Judge Talmud Percy's alarm re: the freak show sweeping his courtroom had settled to a feeling of muted bewilderment. A district judge for twenty-five years, Percy thought he had seen it all, that every conceivable walk of life—from white-collar bond thieves and errant physicians to math teachers, wife beaters, mobsters and drunks—had appeared before him over time.

But nothing compared to this evening's cast.

First, at six p.m., the bailiffs had brought in a
thing
—a bruised and battered young man by the name of Ephraim Bontrager. Though he'd been stripped, hosed and clothed in prison garb before entering the room, he was still in a visibly frightful state. His skin was a paler shade of blue, with multiple cuts, abrasions and bruises. One of his teeth was chipped in half. And clumps of hair had been torn from his scalp.

Next had come the arrest report—and plenty bizarre, as grisly fiction …

The arresting officers, Cole and Collins, had arrived on the scene (Joseph's Hall) to find one “victim,” Gary Reed, a quarterback for Hempland High, unconscious and bloodied, facedown on the pavement, with a career-ending trauma to his throwing hand, a second “victim,” J. R. Beltzer, crawling across the pavement, “wounded,” and a third, Ford Campbell, in the process of being “beaten” by the “perpetrator,” Ephraim Bontrager. All three
victims had been expressed to the hospital. Still unconscious, Gary Reed had been admitted for emergency work. Beltzer and Campbell were listed as “injured by multiple blows to the head and body.” Their condition was “stable.” The prognosis: “pending.” The perpetrator, Bontrager, described as “possibly rabid” by both responding officers, had been detained at the Stepford City Precinct on charges of attempted murder.

To thicken the plot, the defendant was listed as belonging to the Old Order Amish community. Percy had never tried a member of The Order for assault of a non-Amish person. Of course, many cases involving the Plain Folk had passed through his courtroom over the years. But none like this one—none predicated on a physical confrontation with the “English.”

Stranger still, this young man had been arrested at the juvenile detention center, where, it now came out, he hadn't belonged—as, first, he'd been charged with a traffic crime, not underaged drinking, three weeks earlier, and second, his age was listed as eighteen. He didn't belong in a juvenile program. If anywhere, he belonged in jail …

Exactly how this had bypassed administrative notice was not at all clear—though it may have had something to do with the fact that his record defined him as a registered mute. Maybe the cops hadn't known his age. Maybe he hadn't been able to tell them. More likely, his crime—having challenged a tractor trailer to a head-on game of “chicken”—was, even in light of the glaring absence of subsequent Breathalyzer results, deemed too bizarre to be chalked up to anything
other
than threshold intoxication.

No sooner had Percy reviewed the report, occasionally halting to glance with a cringe at the young man seated before him, below, than a slew of attorneys began to appear, only adding to the overall sense of confusion.