Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (25 page)

Mercanto suddenly sat up straighter in his chair. He
remembered the night he found Hightower's body, the sounds in the
woods, and the heavily wooded area where the kid's body was found.

"When he’s in one of those states can he drive
a car?" he asked.

Foster considered for a moment. "That depends on
the severity of the state. It's a matter of degree. Schizophrenics
often have trouble with physical dexterity in the more advanced
stages, but I would have to say, yes, he could. The question is
whether he would want to. It’s all a function of his desire, his
need to withdraw."

"How likely is it that he's someone from the
neighborhood?" asked Sloan.

"
Well, certainly not unlikely."

"Do these periods or states come on gradually or
all at once?"

Mercanto asked.

"Both. They can come of a sudden, but that's
rare. Usually there is an incident that triggers it, followed by a
build-up in the form of abnormal behavior until it reaches full-blown
proportions. As the psychosis progresses it takes less and less time
to reach the full-blown stage."

"
After he kills, is that the end of the stage,
is he normal again?" Mercanto asked.

"
No, not at all. As with the build-up, there
will be a cooling down period, a time when he will try to put things
in perspective again. For instance, after crimes of this type he will
be covered in blood. Literally covered, I mean it will be all over
him. Psychologically he will have to deal with this in the cooling
down period. He probably won’t be so-called normal again for
several hours, maybe even days in a psychosis this severe, and when
he is it will be for shorter and shorter periods of time."

"How can anybody come to terms with something
this horrible? It’s not like regular crimes, even killings,"
Mary Kane asked.

"By that ol' debbil repression," Dr. Foster
told her, allowing a smile. "His conscious mind will totally
reject the incident. Make as if it didn’t happen. In all likelihood
he will be amnesiac about it, or if he does remember it in any
fashion he will treat it as a dream or something that happened to
someone else."

"
Do you think we can take him alive?"
Mercanto asked, not much liking the prospect.

Foster considered his answer. "That depends on
you, but I can assure you he won't want you to. For him death may
seem the only way out of his predicament."
 

CHAPTER 20

NEAR DAWN the voice commanded him to go into the
park. He changed from his tuxedo into a dark blue sweatsuit and went
out. Once in the trees he followed a path that led down to the rocks
at Devil’s Pool.

Out of sight of the house he no longer felt the
presence. If he could just hide, maybe all this would pass. Maybe it
was only a dream, a hallucination, after all. He hadn't really done
those . . . things. It was only his mind playing tricks on him, an
imaginary voice.

He took refuge, squatting in a clump of bushes among
the trees, sure no one could see him. Time moved slowly, he did not
know how long he was there, but just when he was beginning to feel
safe, he heard it again. As clear and strong and real as the night
before.

"There you are, I've been looking for you,"
and the words were his stepfather’s, the same words said when he
found him hiding in the closet, trying to escape from what he knew
was going to happen. Where to hide now? To escape what he knew was
going to happen . . .

He found himself on his feet and running through the
trees, branches whipping across his face, underbrush tripping him. He
kept on until exhausted and had to stop. Above the rasp of his breath
he heard the sound of Wissahickon Creek on his right. That meant he
was headed toward the stables or Lincoln Drive beyond. Find other
people, then he would be safe . . .

But as he stood there he saw the eyes gleaming in the
trees, heard the now too familiar voice say, "If you’re going
to act like a naughty pet you’re going to be treated like one . .
."

He felt his legs collapse under him and fell to the
ground. He tried to get up but could not. Finally he managed to get
to all fours, the dampness of the ground seeping through the knees of
his sweatsuit.

"
The way of the wolf, Loring. Once he also
walked on two legs . . . until he disobeyed. I know because I made
him that way. Now turn and follow me."

Again he tried to stand and could not. He was in his
body and out of it, aware and yet beyond any self-control. He
followed, crawling on all fours, the gleaming eyes always in front of
him, leading. Back they went in the direction he had come. What did
he feel? Humiliation, pain, forced down on his knees like an animal,
like the wolf he had become. He felt shame. Margaret. . . he had so
badly wanted to love her, instead had felt only lust, like an animal
. . .

The rocks and underbrush tore at his knees, making
them raw and bloody. The cold dampness of the ground seemed to fill
him as he crawled. Was this how his life was to end? A beast, face
almost unrecognizable, pulled into distorted features . . . the
punishment was mythological. Strange that he could have such
thoughts, the way he was now . . .

Memories of missed chances, friendships offered and
turned away. Each time he was too afraid they would find out about
him . . . There had been no one until Margaret, and now he had hurt
her, driven her away . . .

A piece of broken glass cut the palm of his hand, he
welcomed the pain. More memories broke in, no longer able to be shut
out . . .

His sister’s wedding. He mined that, too. Because
of his stepfather, but not for the reasons he'd told himself . .
.revulsion, hatred that spread to the whole family, even his sister.
The voice was right. He remembered his fantasies. If he saw his
stepfather, behind those all-seeing eyes leading him, how would he
feel? Would he want it as much as he told himself he hated it . . . ?

Around him dawn was breaking. He saw the eyes staring
at him from a bush, heard the voice say, "Penance begins the
admission and payment for sins. The next step is obedience. Get to
your feet."

Loring saw his body stand, legs and arms trembling
from the strain of his crawl. He turned, looked back into the woods.
He did not know how far he’d come. There were holes in the knees of
his sweatpants, he could feel the stickiness of his blood as it
trickled down his shins.

He followed the commands, moving through the woods
again toward the rocks at Devil’s Pool. He picked his way across
the stream, the water from the small falls chilling his legs.

Yes, the admission of sins . . . memory of the first
time with his stepfather came back. He had protested but his
stepfather threatened, said he would tell that the bad boy had killed
his father, that it was no suicide, he would be taken away and locked
up in jail for the rest of his life. Did he want that? He moved along
the bank of the creek until he came to the parking lot by the bridge.
Now he remembered, could not exorcise it, what he had done when he
found the man in the car. It was crystal clear, no longer could he
hide in the pretense of hallucination. That night, too, he had been
the wolf, prowling the park until he found his prey —

His stomach went into a spasm, emptied itself,
Abaddon’s voice scolded him for it. "You are acting like a
child. You did it because it was your destiny, it has been since your
birth. I’ve explained that. You are my messenger, through your
deeds others will be cleansed and find peace. I have brought you here
for that reason. Now see to it."

Loring looked across the parking lot. Less than fifty
yards away from where he was concealed, an old Ford station wagon was
pulling in at the foot of the steps to the Maison Catherine on the
hill above. In the dawn’s early light he saw a petite woman with
hennaed hair get out and go around to open the tailgate. He
recognized her as the owner of the restaurant, although he didn't
know her name. As he watched her bend forward to gather some bundles
he heard Abaddon’s command to go to her, and knew what was expected
of him.

For a moment he hesitated, but when he tried to
protest he found he could not speak. His voice had been taken from
him. What came out was an absurd growl. Not his — "If you
resist me I will strike you down and leave you to crawl around on all
fours, with no voice. Do you want that?"

Terror convinced him . . . the keeper of the
bottomless pit held infinite power. Who was he to oppose him? They
were linked together. And as he thought it, he began to move toward
the woman.

She did not see him until he was almost on her. She
looked up in surprise at the sound, and in that moment he knew
everything Abaddon said was true. The morning light illuminated her
face, and deep in the dark portion of her left eye he saw it clearly
. . . the number 13 twinkling like a diamond in the unfolding
sunlight.

The mark of the beast.

And he heard Abaddon's voice say, "The new
Jerusalem cannot come until those deceived by the mark of the beast
are cleansed . . ."

Exhilaration filled him. He was part of the master
plan he had begun to perceive in that long-ago Bible class. All his
pain had been for a reason . . . so that the beast and the false
prophet could be cast into the lake of fire, and Satan bound in
chains in the bottomless pit for a thousand years.

The woman knew this, feared it. Before she could
speak he grabbed her and smashed her head into the side of the car.
Her face split open along her eye. He did it to her again, and again,
until she was unconscious. Then he closed the tailgate and picked her
up in his arms, walked across the parking lot and back into the
woods.

At the stream he switched to a fireman's carry and
picked his way across on the rocks. On the other side he found a
small clearing in the bushes, put her down, then looked about as he
regained his breath.

The sky was overcast now, but he had spared her the
gloom of the day. For her everything hereafter would be bright and
shining. His gift to her. The thought made him feel good. More than
"good" as he looked down at the unconscious woman. It was
love such as he had never felt before. He knelt over her, all doubt
and resistance gone. His role of the wolf was right. Through him,
through the momentary pain, the physical would become spiritual. She
would no longer bear the mark of the beast. She would be purified, a
part of the new Jerusalem, as Abaddon said . . .

He ripped her dress open. He had never seen a woman
nude before, except his mother. As he touched her breasts and stomach
he saw his hands. They looked like thorny claws, which seemed
natural, and everywhere he touched, streaks of blood magically
appeared, bright red against the whiteness of her flesh. It was so
beautiful. For once in his life he was not afraid to give, not afraid
to help another —

She stirred, and he saw the look of fright as he bent
forward. He was sad that she had to see him so changed, but he
understood and soon she would too. Soon, in the next world, she would
see many things beyond her understanding now. He sank his teeth into
her throat, feeling the flesh give way. He heard the snap of her
windpipe collapsing, the taste of her a sweetness in his mouth. She
tried to struggle, feebly, as the blood sprayed over them, sealing
their unspoken bargain.
 

CHAPTER 21

SLOAN HAD finished making the assignments and
everyone had filed out of the conference room. Mercanto stayed to
find out why he had been excluded.

Before he could speak, Sloan said, "You’ve
been involved in this case from the start. By now I'd have thought
something would have occurred to you, that you'd at least have some
decent theories, but all you've got is voodoo and some Germantown
Avenue drug dealer."

"What else have you got?" Mercanto
challenged. "I’ve never worked homicide before. Where have you
been?"

Anger flashed in Sloan’s face, and Mercanto saw him
double up his fists. He'd touched a nerve, okay, so be it. "Look,
never mind what you feel about me, we should work together. We’ve
got a case to solve. An important one. What do you want me to do?"

Sloan shook his head. "I brought you back into
this and all you've given me is cockamamie stuff. You're out."

Before Mercanto could say anything, Mary Kane's voice
sounded behind him. "Lieutenant, can I see you for a moment?"

Mercanto turned and stalked out of the room.

Outside he sat in his car trying to cool down. So
nothing had changed, all his work was a waste. His career was still
shot. Sloan wanted to lay the stigma of Ruth Gunther's death on him
no matter what. He pounded the steering wheel. To hell with it, with
Sloan. He would not be left out of this case. Erin . . . somewhere in
what she'd told him was at least the beginning of a handle on this
thing. He had to believe that . . . what the hell else did he have?
He pulled away from the curb and headed for the Braddon.

When he found Erin she was supervising the movement
of some case of artifacts in the main room during the cleanup after
the party.

"Hi," she said, "what brings you out
here again?"