Under a Bear Moon (14 page)

His face turned a deeper shade of crimson. He braced his hands on his thighs and almost straightened before crying out and doubling over again.

“Ha,” Lynda shouted triumphantly, but the single cool corner of her mind told her she should leave before he recovered.

Searching the room for a way out, she spotted a door in the opposite wall. She could tell by the dead bolt that it led outside. Lynda glanced back at the kitchen door. She'd have to squeeze past Richard to get out that way. Deciding she'd much rather get wet, Lynda dashed out the backdoor into the rain.

THIRTY PACES, turn, thirty paces back. Thirty paces, turn, thirty paces back. Thirty paces, turn, thirty paces back.

The man working at the table scowled. “Sit down! You are driving me to distraction.”

“Feeling all right, honey?” a gentle voice called from the bedroom. “You've been awfully restless since we got back from the airport.”

The young man reached the front window, turned and headed back down the hallway.

“For heaven's sake. Are you going to pace all night?” Pushing back his chair, the old man stood and stopped his son with a hand on his arm. “It is the girl, correct?”

The young man shrugged again. Exasperated, the father ran fingers though his grizzled hair. “Have you considered that it may be better this way? That you may have grown too fond of her?”

The son shook off his father's hand. “I'm going out,” he growled, stepping toward the door.

“Wait,” the old man said and reached out to stop him.

“Let him go.”

The woman joined her husband and son in front of the window.

“Don't look at me like that,” she said when the two men turned, astonished expressions on their faces. “A walk will help him settle down. And it's perfectly safe. Look at it out there. Those clouds look like rain any minute. With everyone running for cover, the worst that will happen is he'll get wet.”

The rain started while she spoke. Seeing the occasional drop plummet past the street lights, the young man slipped off his glasses and set them on the mantle. He saw better without correction than through rain-splattered lenses. Grabbing his raincoat, he left the apartment.

Once outside, he discovered he didn't need the coat. Though people walked with heads tucked, umbrellas unfurled, the rain fell softly. Taking a deep breath of moisture laden air, he let the wind push him north.

With no destination in mind, he crossed the busy intersection and walked alone down a dimly lit residential street. He considered turning toward the University when a familiar tingling started between his shoulder blades. Looking up, he watched the cloud cover split. A thin lunar crescent shone between the broken clouds.

“No!”

He ducked into an alley even darker than the street. Hiding behind a dumpster, he quickly stripped off his shoes, coat, and pants. He was working on his shirt when the change overtook him.

The fabric tore, shredded between his sharp and suddenly clumsy fingers.

The rain slid off his thick fur, and he grew warm and dry.

Excitement and exhilaration overwhelmed him.

Strength filled him.

The night opened its secrets to him. The sights and sounds and scents beckoned him onward.

Remembering the clothes only long enough to shove them behind the dumpster, he slipped out of the alley and raised his face to the clouds. The storm had blown up fast over farmland to the south. He could still smell the corn fields, cows, and tractors.

The wind shifted. It brushed the towers downtown, splashed in the lake, and pulled the cloudy veil back over the moon. The city smells blew past him. People, exhaust, overflowing storm sewers, fat rats, and numerous cock-roaches. Over them all, like a distress beacon sweeping the night sky, was one scent, her scent. She was outside, near-by, and terrified. Around and through and mixed in with his awareness of her was the aura of danger. Not one, not a pair, but a pack surrounded her and would soon drag her down.

Forgetting safety and wisdom, he ran to her.

LYNDA TRIPPED in the darkness; the front yard lights didn't reach the back. Slipping on the wet deck, she skidded into a rail. Too mad to wait for her eyes to adapt, she grabbed the rail and felt her way down the steps to the back yard. At the bottom of the stairs, she found a stone walkway. Throwing herself along the rain-slicked path, Lynda didn't stop until she clattered into a collection of garbage cans.

A deep throated growl counterpointed by yelping barks erupted from the neighboring yards, but Lynda barely heard them. She shoved the can nearest her and knocked it over. The rancid smell of garbage rose through the rain. Kicking at the metal container, she sent it clanging away from the others. Elbowing aside the remaining cans, she rushed forward and hit a fence.

Yelling the worst swear word she knew, Lynda slammed her fist against the chain link barrier. The fence rang, and she swore again. Sticking her bruised knuckles in her mouth, Lynda realized she had to calm down. She lifted her face to the gentle rain and let it wash the heat from her temples.

When she could think clearly, Lynda tried to make sense of the collection of reflections and shadows that made up the yard. Near the house, the fence disappeared into shoulder high hedges. A few feet to the right of her, it ended in a gate.

What she needed was a phone. A quick call to her parents, and she'd be out of there. Lynda glanced back at the house. Running into Richard again was too high a price to pay for a phone call. She'd have to try the gate.

Lynda searched her memory for the closest pay phone and remembered the University's security network. Once she got to the street, she could walk to a corner and take the receiver off the hook. Campus cops would arrive within minutes and take her home.

All she had to do was get through the alley.

A breeze rustled through branches above her, shaking heavy drops from the broad, flat leaves. They hit Lynda's head and streaked down her back, soaking her already clammy outfit. She couldn't stay where she was. Quickly buttoning her blouse, Lynda peered through the fence

She didn't see anything. Straining her ears, she heard distant traffic noises and the occasional peal of laughter. Bass reverberations from the party vibrated through the soles of her feet, but the alley was silent.

Lynda licked raindrops from her lips and took a deep breath. Walking down pitch-black alleys in the middle of the night was not one of her favorite pastimes. Still—she thought back to her well-placed kick and smiled grimly—the way she was feeling, she'd stomp anyone who got in her way.

A quick shove proved the gate was latched. Running her hands along its edge like a blind man, Lynda searched for a knob or handle to turn. And found it.

Blowing out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding, Lynda lifted the latch and pulled on the gate. It opened easily. With a last glance at the house, she darted out of the yard and into the alley.

Unable to tell which street was closest, Lynda picked a direction and ran. Focused on getting to the corner, she didn't hear anything but her footsteps until she collided with a damp, leather-covered wall.

She heard a muffled curse, and her heart nearly stopped. Tall shadows surrounded her and pressed so close she couldn't breathe.

She'd barreled into the largest one. Definitely male, probably young, he was tall and lean. In the deceptive light, he looked like a basketball player, all arms and legs. A cloud of sour sweat, fear, and something more frightening rose from him. They all wore dark clothing. No light reflected off their faces, but she could just make out the outline of baseball caps worn backwards on their heads.

“Shit man, now what we do?” one of the shadows asked.

Before she could break away, Lynda felt hands on her shoulders, turning her, felt an arm drape around her shoulder, felt a push down the alley. She tried to turn, but the arm overpowered her.

“Take her with us, ass-hole, what you think?”

Lynda took a breath, meaning to speak, to explain she had no money, that she was expected home, anything to distract him and make him loosen his grip, but at the first sound, she felt something cold on her neck.

“No noise,” he whispered. “We don't need complications.”

He was holding a knife. All Lynda's plans for fighting free vanished. The heat of her anger fled. She shut her mouth and tried to breathe quietly through her nose, but she couldn't control the chills coursing through her body.

They turned at the street, a narrow lane not much wider than the alley. The arm around her shoulder relaxed, and the cold edge moved away from her throat to her side. The others in the group started talking, joking, laughing.

Lynda gazed longingly at the phone on the corner, but the arm forced her onward. Wet, cold, and terrified, she tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. The arm tightened until her shoulder ached and propelled her forward. Cars drove past them. Lynda stared at each one, trying to communicate her peril with a look, but she feared that even if the drivers noticed her among the young men, they would see nothing more suspicious than a group of friends hanging out on Saturday night.

The lane opened onto a busy thoroughfare, 47th Street she guessed. Buses, cars, and pedestrians passed in front of them. After the dark alley and lane, the street lights nearly blinded her.

Lynda's captors pulled her across the four lanes of traffic. Before she thought of a way to attract attention, they turned into another alley. She tried to hang back, but a prick at her side kept her walking.

They passed a line of low, sheet metal buildings that smelled of uncollected refuse and mildew. The arm imprisoning her shoulders pushed her between two of them. Lynda stumbled over a half-filled garbage bag, and some-one hissed a curse. Strong fingers gripped her shoulders and thrust her through a dark opening.

A naked bulb flared to life.

She saw a wide sheet of corrugated metal hung on tracks with a handle at the bottom and realized she was in a garage. Faded rap posters adorned the walls and ceiling. An old mattress, three-legged card table, and assorted vinyl chairs made up the furnishings. The room smelled of motor oil, beer, and sweat. She felt a gust of air and jumped when the someone behind her slammed a door.

Lynda turned and saw the narrow wooden door and a plywood-paned window. And her captors.

They were kids, not much older than she was. Sporting identical jackets emblazoned with an unfamiliar team logo, they looked like members of a high school varsity team. Rain had blackened their shoulders. Water dripped off the backs of their baseball caps and pooled at their feet. Looking at them reminded Lynda how wet she was, and she shivered.

One boy was half a head shorter than the others and younger. His eyes, unnaturally wide in his dark face, gave him an owlish appearance. Two older boys stood beside him. Carrying heavy, canvas bags, they swaggered to the table and set the bags down before turning back to their leader. He leaned against the door jamb, watching them with an indifferent smile.

He seemed older, twenty maybe. His skin was fair for the neighborhood, coffee with two creams. Short, curly hair peeked out from under his baseball cap. He was more muscular than Lynda had realized. She imagined him lifting weights in a prison yard and trembled.

“Look all you want. You ain't going nowhere.”

Lynda's trembling increased. She returned his gaze defiantly, but it was hard to feel brave when she was cold, wet, and alone.

“When the others getting here?” the smallest boy asked. His voice broke into a high squeal that set his two friends laughing.

“When they coming? When they coming?” they parroted in falsetto.

“Shut up.” The leader straightened and made his way toward Lynda.

She watched his approach, fascinated, almost hypnotized. His eyes were large and gray. Dark feathery lashes softened their edges. But something was wrong. The whites were yellow, streaked with red, and his pupils had shrunk to pin pricks. Death lurked in their depths. At the corner of each eye, Lynda saw a tattoo, a stylized tear drop.

He gestured toward the other three. “Open the window.” They jumped, knocking into each other in their haste to obey. With a scream of tortured metal, the window inched up. Lynda sucked in a breath, and he grinned. “Don't get no ideas ‘bout screaming for help. This neighborhood, nobody hears nothing.”

Straining to think over her hammering heart, she reached into her back pocket. If she distracted them, maybe she could get away. “I don't have much money,” Lynda said, terror making her tongue clumsy. “But I have a credit card. Here.” She held out her wallet.

Without shifting his eyes, the leader took the wallet and dropped it on the table. “What a sweet thing like you doing in that alley, anyway? This part of town, don't see many white girls.” His gaze dipped. “'Specially with their shirts half off.”

Lynda gasped and looked down. She'd done a lousy job of fastening her blouse. Buttoned unevenly, it gaped open revealing her bra.

“Not that it matters,” he continued in a friendly tone of voice. “You here now, and we got time to waste. Slo-Go, get her out of those wet clothes.”

“No!” Lynda cried, backing away.

The taller of the three boys grinned and swaggered toward her. She opened her mouth to scream when a sound from outside froze them all. A low growl full of anger and menace, it rose in volume and pitch until it shook the night. The sound seemed to come from the other side of the wooden door. Lynda turned in time to see the door splinter off its hinges.

A brown fury snarled in the wreckage. At first, she couldn't tell what it was. Disconnected features clicked through her mind, massive shoulders, broad skull, short muzzle, exposed fangs, flaming blue eyes.

Blue? Lynda couldn't think of any animal with blue eyes. Some dogs, maybe, but that was no dog. It looked more like a bear.

The bear rushed into the room and stopped between Lynda and the gang members. Without knowing why, Lynda felt safer. Her shivers stopped; her heartbeat slowed. She had to stop herself from running up and throwing her arms around the bear's bristling neck.