Beneath a Winter Moon (63 page)

Alan knew he had to do it…but he was so young and had barely begun to live. He shook his head as he stepped into the trailer…he could not live knowing he was a monster…a murderer who would eventually kill those that he loved. This had to be done…and he would do it…alone.

After tidying up the trailer, which had remained untouched after the authorities ransacked it, Alan laid out his most personal things…things that he felt his family would want, and then took out a sheet of paper from his printer and wrote a letter in the best hand he could muster. It took him half an hour to get through it and there were moments when he wanted to stop and reconsider what he was about to do—but he steeled himself. He would not allow himself to live as a monster.

He folded the note in half and yelped out loud, cutting his finger on the paper’s edge. Cursing, he sucked on the finger so as not to get blood on the paper…that would be a bit much. He set the note down on the couch on top of the file-box full of personal items, then went to the kitchen for a band-aide. He went through drawers and cabinets and finally found a box on top of the fridge. He opened it and took out a band-aide, keeping his finger curled so the blood would not get on the wrapper…and then he noticed that the cut was no longer there. He stared at the finger, knowing what had happened. Not the slightest trace of the wound remained…no little scar etched in its place—nothing. The cut was gone.
I’m healing even faster
, he thought.
I have to do this—now.

He moaned and headed for the door. It had to be now. On the way out, he turned and took one last glance at all he had ever owned…and his chin trembled at the realization of how little he possessed.

The clock on the dash flashed 11:50a.m as Alan pulled the jeep into the airfield parking lot and hopped out. It was a sunny day. The ground was still covered in snow, but the temperature was above freezing, and the sun was bright in the sky. He tossed the keys onto the seat and shut the door. He pulled his hood down low over his face and saw a couple of maintenance crewmen looking his way. Rather than try to ignore them, he kept his face covered and waived. They seemed hesitant, but finally waived back. Alan thought that it might be a bit much for them to see a dead man walking down the tarmac.

He reached his aircraft and smiled. He ran his hands along a wing and then patted the fuselage. “One more time,” he whispered.

He went through the preliminary checks. As he did so, he saw the maintenance men talking and glancing over at him. One broke away and walked toward the small airport tower.
Time to go
. Alan grabbed the ropes holding the chocks against the wheels and tossed them aside. No need to put them in the aircraft for safekeeping…he wouldn’t need them again. He hopped in to the pilot’s seat and began preflight

By the time he was taxing to the airport’s runway, one of only two, the radio was blasting with calls…from his father, no-less. The old man was blabbing about not being cleared for take-off, no flight-plan being submitted, and generally cursing at whomever was in his son’s plane to get the hell back, because the law was on the way.

Alan turned off the radio. As he settled the Cessna onto the runway, he could not resist unzipping the window on the pilot door and leaning an arm out. He flipped the bird at the tower. Well, not really so much as at the tower as at his father. He knew the no-good sonofabitch would be watching closely through the large set of binoculars he kept at the tower desk.
So long, Dad, you sorry old piece of shit
. Samuel looked through the binoculars in bewilderment...not the least bit of hope or happiness crossed his face. It was his son. His sorry murdering son was not dead after all.

Alan pondered the past day’s events as he piloted the Cessna—how he had woken up in the forest merely a few miles from Hope. He hadn’t known what happened, but recalled images—mere snapshots of what had occurred. Somehow, while transformed, he had broken free and killed many men in the process. He didn’t know why the beast had ran for home…or how far away he had been…just that he woke up a bloody mess outside of Hope.

LeDuc
and his men had been his captors, but they had handed him over to another, even more violent and sadistic group of men and women who seemed to enjoy Alan’s agony. He shuddered at the thought of what they had done to him. Testing his levels of pain of all kinds, observing and timing his ability to heal various types of wounds, most being hideous, such as fire, gunshots, and the exposure to silver.

Alan had been their best test subject, they said. He had the highest IQ and had more strength than any other while transformed…which was why he had been able to escape so easily while being transported that first time. They said he was an unusual and fascinating specimen…and they continuously reminded him that he was no longer human, and no longer subject to human, (or even animal), rights and compassions. Alan had fallen into an unimaginable despair. He had given up, completely. Apparently, however, his alter ego—the beast within—had only grown stronger in his resolve to escape.

As Alan flew the small aircraft out over the lake, he marveled at the beauty. He had been so lucky to grow up here. What a wonderful and beautiful place. He pulled the Cessna to a climb. Soon, when he feared reaching the point of a stall, he nosed the plane down. Back below the sketchy cloud cover, he kept his eyes on his target. Below him, just a dot right now, was a two hundred feet high sheer granite wall. He hoped no climbers were on it this day. When the plane reached the right level for his maneuver, he throttled the engine as hard as he could without taking it into a stall. The rock wall approached, closer and closer, larger and larger.

There was a point, perhaps a few seconds before impact when the beast inside him cried out with more strength than ever...but it was far too late. Alan had defeated his alter-ego’s fight for survival and perhaps...just perhaps...for a
moment, Alan
regretted his decision. But then, that was the reason he had chosen this method.
This way
, he had thought,
I probably won’t be able to back out…and there won’t be anything left of me to survive…semi-immortal werewolf or not
. The only thing that he knew for certain about his death was that his body would need to be utterly destroyed in order to keep from ‘coming back.’ Alan’s split-second of regret transformed into sheer terror as he let go of the controls and shut his eyes.

The fireball that ensued could be seen for miles away. People ice fishing on the lake swore that they could feel a delicate tremble on the icy surface, generated by the concussion off of the granite wall just before they saw and heard the crash.

* * * * *

Thomas sat behind the big table, facing a mountain of books on his left and right. Jack sat beside him, enjoying the smell of the rug on which he lay. The bookstore insisted that Jack be on a leash, (for safety reasons, of course), and Thomas reluctantly complied. For a moment, the horrible events of the mountain came back to him, as though he had never recovered...as though he had just come back home.

Three years earlier, after a short rest at his sister’s home, Thomas had visited Delmar’s father, telling the best lies that he could muster about the death of his son. The elderly man had changed the subject in the middle of Thomas’s words, and Thomas understood Delmar’s frustration with his father.

Visiting Daniel’s family had been a very strange and disturbing experience.

Daniel’s closest friend on the Indian reservation had been a cousin named Strong. Strong seemed to know a lot about Daniel’s death and the circumstances surrounding it. Indeed, Thomas could see that the man had somehow learned the truth. Perhaps not all of it, but enough...and he believed it all.

The story he had conveyed to Thomas about Daniel’s supposed broken oath and his subsequent ostracizing made his skin crawl. The story went a long way toward making Thomas believe in the idea that there are no coincidences.

The bookstore was located in a small town in
Maine
. Thomas was promoting his first book in its third week of release. It was number twenty-one of the bestseller’s list, and holding steadily to number fourteenth overall in retail sales.

His publishing contract netted him one third of the hardcover sales, and then half of whatever the rights to the paperback would sell for. The paperback publication deal was being negotiated right now, probably for a release next year. Thomas was nervous. Though he’d been to several interviews and one other book signing, today was to begin a two-week book signing that would take him all the way across the
US
.

Thomas had even traveled to the
UK
for his research once he’d decided to actually turn his writing into a book…and what he had found had stunned him.

So many of the murders in the
UK
could easily have been attributed to a
being
(a word used quite often in his book) like a werewolf that he had to drop that small portion of his research. He had not intended to use that type of detail in his book, but after seeing so many cases where the cause of death was similar and where DNA and other forensic evidence came back with no match or a match of ‘unknown,’ he had to make note of it.

His sister helped him send out the manuscript when it was finished, and astonishingly, he’d been offered three publishing deals in a matter of months. He hired a true agent then, and after some negotiating, had his first promise for publication.

Some editing was required, some pieces of the book were moved, chapters rearranged, but the book was met with enthusiasm. That enthusiasm paid off on the release date. A month before its release, the numbers of pre-orders online climbed to a number that was higher that Thomas ever imagined he’d see. ‘Monsters, Myths, and Reality’ was selling well, and Thomas actually felt good about it.

He carried a licensed handgun loaded with silver bullets…bullets that had been blessed by a flustered, but generous priest—and hidden on his side he carried Alastair’s dagger. If the public ever found out, he’d likely never sell anything again...which would probably make certain authorities across North America and the
United Kingdom
very happy.

The proverbial ‘they’ had paid a visit to Thomas just after he signed the deal to have his book published.
They
explained to him that if he crossed the line even in the slightest, bad things would happen. Thomas understood that
bad
likely as not meant that Thomas might disappear in the night, never to be seen again…and so he had assured his unwanted guests that the events in those mountains would stay forever buried, never to reveal themselves in the light of day in any way, much less in a book.

One of the men had lead Thomas to believe that his book might actually be good for business. Most often people’s sightings of werewolves would go unreported because the witness didn’t want to appear insane, he had said to Thomas, then shrugged when Thomas explained that those very facts were in his book. “Books like yours help us out. People read those kinds of books and it makes them more likely to go to the local sheriff and give him an accurate enough description so that it sends up a red flag to us…rather than not reporting anything or worse, just reporting it was some
guy
.”

The men had left Thomas unmolested and allowed him to publish his book.

Thomas tried to maintain a smile as the doors opened and people began coming over to his table. Soon there was a small line at the table and Thomas could not fully hide his pride and his embarrassment. Signing his book always gave him the goose bumps, as if he were doing something wrong, or perhaps desecrating the memories of his friends by making a profit off the very subject that led them to their demise. He did his best to quash the uneasiness, and to be pleasant with each and every person. During lunch hour, he read a short excerpt from the book and took questions. The local news even showed up to do a short segment on the new book.