Full Wolf Moon (21 page)
A gloomy little bulb pushed its glow against the dark, barely aided by the reflective metal cap above it. The aisles were aligned before her and Doris ventured to her right, peering between each until she heard tiny scuttles, sounds like nervous whispering. She snapped to ... but it was just a mouse, its needley claws scratching against abandoned papers on a low, dusty table pushed against a wall.
The overhanging light she had switched on suddenly wavered and Doris's eyes darted back to it. There! One aisle past the lamp. A shape between the bookshelves. She fixed on it, her heart pounding as she began slowly toward it until she realized her fear could foil success. So she forced herself to stride firmly and quickly and turned into the aisle...
It was the librarian. Her gray, stubby pigtail swiveled like a counterweight when she turned toward Doris with a start. "Aa! Heavens to Betsy!"
Doris felt like an idiot. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Gracious, you practically jumped at me around the shelves!"
"Yes, I'm sorry. I was...I was reading up on various lore and I...I thought I might find more in the stacks. Is there? More here?"
Mrs. Baker smiled then, willing to forgive the scare, it seemed, since she was needed. "So you turned the light on. I thought I'd forgotten it this morning."
"No, that was me."
"Mm. Well..." Mrs. Baker stepped along in her soft-soled shoes to an aisle near the dusty table. The stacks of this small town library were clearly her territory, rarely visited by the locals, let alone anyone else. She reached up to a second hanging bulb and tugged its string, casting more inadequate light onto the shelves.
She selected two books and looked at Doris. "North American Indian Legends and Folk Tales of Uncle Remus?"
"Fine. Thank you," Doris lied, still feeling like a fool. She took the two books and headed for the doorway, but had a sudden inspiration. "This may sound like a strange change of topic, but do you have anything on psychoses?"
Mrs. Baker didn't so much as blink, producing two thick books from yet another aisle, one written by Freud himself.
Once inside the main room, Doris abandoned the Uncle Remus tales to peruse the others' indexes, turning to anything that even remotely related to murderers who thought they were werewolves. What she found was precisely that; remotely related.A few pages on the delusions of becoming a wolf, a cat, a hawk. The Indian legends were hardly more than synopses on selected tribes and their lore; far less illuminating than the book with the shape-shifting chapter. She tossed the volumes next to her previous pile and walked out, discouraged.
/ / / /
The test results from Pierce's residence had arrived at Tulenar while Doris was at the library. There had been three fingerprints clear enough to verify that the bloody smears had not been made by Captain Pierce or Arthur Satsugai. The blood type matched neither of them. The speculation was that Pierce had struggled with and managed to wound his assailant, but apparently not seriously enough to thwart the attacker.
The press, of course, pounced on this latest catastrophe, but never once hinted at the Japanese insurgent theory, though they were well aware of it by now. The unsubstantiated rumor of an enemy agent murdering not only internees, but also military officers would guarantee a public panic. In such tenuous times, no one in the media was willing to be responsible for that.
Even so, the headlines were still sensational:
THIRD TULENAR JAP MURDERED
LAKESIDE ASSEMBLY C.O. DISAPPEARS! ARMY FEARS FOUL PLAY
WAS ARMY CAPTAIN ON VERGE OF DISCOVERING TULENAR KILLER
STRAIN CRACKS THE IRON LADY OF TULENAR
That one was Doris's personal favorite.
/ / / /
Arthur Satsugai's body had already been autopsied. Now he was buried quickly. Having made no arrangements in life, he was laid to rest in the camp cemetery, with minimal ceremony. Shackley feared a funeral would be used as an excuse to riot, so he forbade attendance by anyone other than immediate family. That meant, of course, that no one attended, other than the presiding minister, the gravediggers and an authorized witness. Arthur's son and former wife, far away on the east coast, couldn't make it in time. And his brother was cut off, living with the enemy.
Doris came at night, because what would it have looked like for the Center Administrator to be Arthur's sole visitor, the sole violator of Shackley's edict? She stood before the grave, its freshly turned soil dark in the dusty cemetery. The moon's fullness was waning, but its glow was still brilliant and she felt raw and exposed beneath it. The headstone was the only one in the picket-fenced area set aside for any future dead, the WRA thinking of every contingency during the relocation. Lots of elderly Nationals behind the barbed wire, after all.
It was a simple stone, clean and neat. And Arthur's. Arthur! Doris fought against the tears. She refused to sink to her knees. She shut her eyes tightly, but this made her woozy, so she opened them and lost against the warm, salty spill. She blinked rapidly, desperate to regain control, but the tears came, blurring the figure that was approaching her from the other side of the headstone.
"I'm sure he died well, Mrs. Tebbe, if he was as strong in spirit as I've heard."
She would have swiped at the teltale tracks had the sight of David Alma Curar not shocked her so. She was speechless only a moment. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"I told you not to set foot in this camp again."
He stared into the lopsided face of the moon. "I've been here every First Night of every month. Just ... never at the right place. This is a big camp. With so much fear, there are too many options."
"Options..."
"For the beast, Mrs. Tebbe."
"Don't you start with that again..."
"You say that as if you still don't believe. But I saw you at the library."
Like a child caught lying, Doris began to stammer, but Alma Curar interrupted with, "I know where he is."
"Who?"
"Maxwell Pierce."
Doris fell silent.
"Don't you want to find him? Everyone else does. But only you have been putting together the right clues."
Her first thought was that they were in on this together, that somehow, he and Pierce were allies. But, no. Why would Alma Curar be tempting her with the captain's whereabouts? Dear God...was she the next victim? Had she been right after all, that night Alma Curar had confronted her at her porch steps? Was he trying to lure her from the camp now? No. This wasn't fitting the pattern.
"I'm asking you to come with me," the healer said. "It doesn't matter if you believe what's inside him or not. I know of only two people that might put a stop to all this. You're one of them. Please. Come."
"How can I be sure...?" Doris didn't know how to finish the sentence.
"If I could give you assurances, I would, Mrs. Tebbe. But you don't know me well enough to accept them. What I can tell you is that this is not a killing night. For now, the danger has lessened."
Doris shook her head, took one step backward. "This is some sort of wild goose chase."
Alma Curar lost his calm. "If you would've been paying attention, you'd have realized I've been begging you to come for weeks. Who do you think left those newspapers at your door?"
"So that was you..."
"Who did you think? Captain Pierce? He's a strong man, but if he's so strong he could deliberately give you those, he wouldn't need our help. But he does."
Help? Doris didn't want to help Pierce. She wanted to kill him. She shouldn't tell Alma Curar that, though. He seemed to be some sort of protector for Pierce, only God knew why. Maybe he was the sort who felt sorry for lunatics, no matter how bloodthirsty. A self-appointed advocate.
But she wanted Maxwell Pierce dead. To kill, she'd have to find him.
"All right. I'll come."
/ / / /
Under the moon, Alma Curar's shack was a square, gray wooden skull. In the foothills, where mostly pines grew, this property was obviously no farm and never had been. Doris's breath plumed before her as she stepped from her sedan. The healer had already gotten out of his battered green truck and was walking toward her, the finely crafted silver glinting at his wrists and throat. He spoke as if Doris's thoughts were clearly on her face.
"I do farm, Mrs. Tebbe, back home. Just not here. I made arrangements with one of the people who supply Mr. Aholt's grocery."
Doris looked at Alma Curar's dented, rusty truck, took in once again the seedy little clapboard shack. "I guess your low overhead makes that a feasible arrangement."
It had been a sham. As Doris stood in the midst of this place, she understood that Alma Curar had never come to sell produce to the internees. She said suddenly, bluntly, "What the hell have you been up to?"
"I've been hunting, Mrs. Tebbe. But I'm not much of a hunter. I was foolish enough to think I could do this alone. My foolishness has caused too much suffering."
"So where's Pierce?"
"Are you prepared?"
Doris watched him a moment. "Just bring him."
"No, you'll have to come inside."
"Oh no. Uh-uh."
Alma Curar simply turned from Doris, saying as he walked away, "If I were going to kill you, Mrs. Tebbe, we're already remote enough for me to do it right here. It'd be less messy outside, anyway."
He mounted the single step of the shack, the door creaking as he opened it and he peered in as if to assure a safe entrance. Then he hurried in, leaving the door open. It was up to Doris to follow.
She heard a groan, some thumps, a sort of thrashing. Low murmurs of assurances. Doris approached and looked through the door. There was no light in the shack except what the moon offered, but Doris could see the two men in the far corner; one curled on the floor, the other squatting nearby. The latter was Alma Curar, who said over his shoulder, "Mrs. Tebbe, there's a lantern hanging to the right of the door. Light it, please."
Doris found the lantern on a crude wall peg and a box of matches on a stool beneath it. She struck a match, held it to the lantern and the flame slowly bloomed, its dim glow at last reaching Alma Curar and Pierce. The captain was stripped to his shorts, contorted, rigid, balled against the warped floorboards.
"Oh my God."
"Would you bring the lamp here, please."
Doris moved cautiously, more from shock than fear, but found the wooden crate serving as a bedside table and set the lantern down.
"No, on the wall peg there. He may knock it off the crate."
Doris allowed herself to leave the sight of Pierce's contortions only long enough to locate the nearby peg and hang the lantern. His eyes swiveled to look at her, but she couldn't tell if he really saw her. Something was wrong with his mouth; it was swollen or possibly stuffed with something.
Then a great, wrenching sound came from him, awful, liquid, as if his soul were rupturing. His limbs flung out, his left hand catching Alma Curar across an ear, his right shoulder hitting the little cot's metal leg hard, collapsing it on its hinge. Alma Curar was knocked onto his haunches. Doris fell onto Pierce, trying to restrain him, but the healer said quickly, "No, don't hold him, just move the cot, move the cot."
Alma Curar struggled back up to kneel beside Pierce's head. He pulled the pillow off the cot as Doris dragged the little bed away, scarring the floorboards, but clearing Pierce as his back arced and his legs kicked once, wildly. He became rigid again.
By the time Doris was at Alma Curar's side, he had the pillow was positioned beneath Pierce's head. The only movement now was the captain's eyes, rolling side to side frantically, as if his spirit were searching for escape from the body.
It seemed to find an avenue. Pierce went limp, his eyes rolled upward, the eyelids fluttered closed. The boxer shorts became wet and transparent at his groin, and the acrid smell of urine filled Doris's nose. She turned away.
"Mrs. Tebbe..."
Reluctantly, Doris faced Alma Curar, still kneeling beside the captain.
"I could use your help getting him into a dry change."
Pierce's body was as loose as a corpse, but together, Doris and the healer managed to get the fouled shorts off and fresh ones on. Panting a little from the effort, Doris looked down at the unconscious captain as Alma Curar examined him any serious injury. Satisfied there was none, he stood.
"I'd hoped to get back before the seizures began again," he said.
"Should we... get him on the cot, or something?"
Alma Curar shook his head. "No. This will go on the rest of the night. I wish I could have risked leaving him last night and come to you. But the seizures are much worse on Second Night than Third. The periods of rest only last a few minutes." The healer fell silent a moment, both he and Doris gazing down at Pierce's deep, even breaths. "He should be all right for now."
Alma Curar took the lantern from the wall peg and Doris followed him to the part of the shack that served as dining room and kitchen. She could see the embers glowing in the potbellied stove. A cast iron crock sat beside it with some stew congealing inside. A plank table with four stools stood in the middle of the rough, wooden floor.
Alma Curar went to the corner that held a small icebox and a homemade storage chest, lifting an old percolator and a tin of coffee out of the chest. He stoked the stove with a fresh supply of wood then went outside a moment. Doris heard the churn of a water pump.
Alma Curar had coffee heating minutes later. He set the lantern between them on the table, its yellow glow barely reaching to where Pierce still lay unconscious. Doris blinked, coming out of the sense of stun that had descended on her, and watched Alma Curar rub his sore ear.
The overhanging light she had switched on suddenly wavered and Doris's eyes darted back to it. There! One aisle past the lamp. A shape between the bookshelves. She fixed on it, her heart pounding as she began slowly toward it until she realized her fear could foil success. So she forced herself to stride firmly and quickly and turned into the aisle...
It was the librarian. Her gray, stubby pigtail swiveled like a counterweight when she turned toward Doris with a start. "Aa! Heavens to Betsy!"
Doris felt like an idiot. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Gracious, you practically jumped at me around the shelves!"
"Yes, I'm sorry. I was...I was reading up on various lore and I...I thought I might find more in the stacks. Is there? More here?"
Mrs. Baker smiled then, willing to forgive the scare, it seemed, since she was needed. "So you turned the light on. I thought I'd forgotten it this morning."
"No, that was me."
"Mm. Well..." Mrs. Baker stepped along in her soft-soled shoes to an aisle near the dusty table. The stacks of this small town library were clearly her territory, rarely visited by the locals, let alone anyone else. She reached up to a second hanging bulb and tugged its string, casting more inadequate light onto the shelves.
She selected two books and looked at Doris. "North American Indian Legends and Folk Tales of Uncle Remus?"
"Fine. Thank you," Doris lied, still feeling like a fool. She took the two books and headed for the doorway, but had a sudden inspiration. "This may sound like a strange change of topic, but do you have anything on psychoses?"
Mrs. Baker didn't so much as blink, producing two thick books from yet another aisle, one written by Freud himself.
Once inside the main room, Doris abandoned the Uncle Remus tales to peruse the others' indexes, turning to anything that even remotely related to murderers who thought they were werewolves. What she found was precisely that; remotely related.A few pages on the delusions of becoming a wolf, a cat, a hawk. The Indian legends were hardly more than synopses on selected tribes and their lore; far less illuminating than the book with the shape-shifting chapter. She tossed the volumes next to her previous pile and walked out, discouraged.
/ / / /
The test results from Pierce's residence had arrived at Tulenar while Doris was at the library. There had been three fingerprints clear enough to verify that the bloody smears had not been made by Captain Pierce or Arthur Satsugai. The blood type matched neither of them. The speculation was that Pierce had struggled with and managed to wound his assailant, but apparently not seriously enough to thwart the attacker.
The press, of course, pounced on this latest catastrophe, but never once hinted at the Japanese insurgent theory, though they were well aware of it by now. The unsubstantiated rumor of an enemy agent murdering not only internees, but also military officers would guarantee a public panic. In such tenuous times, no one in the media was willing to be responsible for that.
Even so, the headlines were still sensational:
THIRD TULENAR JAP MURDERED
LAKESIDE ASSEMBLY C.O. DISAPPEARS! ARMY FEARS FOUL PLAY
WAS ARMY CAPTAIN ON VERGE OF DISCOVERING TULENAR KILLER
STRAIN CRACKS THE IRON LADY OF TULENAR
That one was Doris's personal favorite.
/ / / /
Arthur Satsugai's body had already been autopsied. Now he was buried quickly. Having made no arrangements in life, he was laid to rest in the camp cemetery, with minimal ceremony. Shackley feared a funeral would be used as an excuse to riot, so he forbade attendance by anyone other than immediate family. That meant, of course, that no one attended, other than the presiding minister, the gravediggers and an authorized witness. Arthur's son and former wife, far away on the east coast, couldn't make it in time. And his brother was cut off, living with the enemy.
Doris came at night, because what would it have looked like for the Center Administrator to be Arthur's sole visitor, the sole violator of Shackley's edict? She stood before the grave, its freshly turned soil dark in the dusty cemetery. The moon's fullness was waning, but its glow was still brilliant and she felt raw and exposed beneath it. The headstone was the only one in the picket-fenced area set aside for any future dead, the WRA thinking of every contingency during the relocation. Lots of elderly Nationals behind the barbed wire, after all.
It was a simple stone, clean and neat. And Arthur's. Arthur! Doris fought against the tears. She refused to sink to her knees. She shut her eyes tightly, but this made her woozy, so she opened them and lost against the warm, salty spill. She blinked rapidly, desperate to regain control, but the tears came, blurring the figure that was approaching her from the other side of the headstone.
"I'm sure he died well, Mrs. Tebbe, if he was as strong in spirit as I've heard."
She would have swiped at the teltale tracks had the sight of David Alma Curar not shocked her so. She was speechless only a moment. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"I told you not to set foot in this camp again."
He stared into the lopsided face of the moon. "I've been here every First Night of every month. Just ... never at the right place. This is a big camp. With so much fear, there are too many options."
"Options..."
"For the beast, Mrs. Tebbe."
"Don't you start with that again..."
"You say that as if you still don't believe. But I saw you at the library."
Like a child caught lying, Doris began to stammer, but Alma Curar interrupted with, "I know where he is."
"Who?"
"Maxwell Pierce."
Doris fell silent.
"Don't you want to find him? Everyone else does. But only you have been putting together the right clues."
Her first thought was that they were in on this together, that somehow, he and Pierce were allies. But, no. Why would Alma Curar be tempting her with the captain's whereabouts? Dear God...was she the next victim? Had she been right after all, that night Alma Curar had confronted her at her porch steps? Was he trying to lure her from the camp now? No. This wasn't fitting the pattern.
"I'm asking you to come with me," the healer said. "It doesn't matter if you believe what's inside him or not. I know of only two people that might put a stop to all this. You're one of them. Please. Come."
"How can I be sure...?" Doris didn't know how to finish the sentence.
"If I could give you assurances, I would, Mrs. Tebbe. But you don't know me well enough to accept them. What I can tell you is that this is not a killing night. For now, the danger has lessened."
Doris shook her head, took one step backward. "This is some sort of wild goose chase."
Alma Curar lost his calm. "If you would've been paying attention, you'd have realized I've been begging you to come for weeks. Who do you think left those newspapers at your door?"
"So that was you..."
"Who did you think? Captain Pierce? He's a strong man, but if he's so strong he could deliberately give you those, he wouldn't need our help. But he does."
Help? Doris didn't want to help Pierce. She wanted to kill him. She shouldn't tell Alma Curar that, though. He seemed to be some sort of protector for Pierce, only God knew why. Maybe he was the sort who felt sorry for lunatics, no matter how bloodthirsty. A self-appointed advocate.
But she wanted Maxwell Pierce dead. To kill, she'd have to find him.
"All right. I'll come."
/ / / /
Under the moon, Alma Curar's shack was a square, gray wooden skull. In the foothills, where mostly pines grew, this property was obviously no farm and never had been. Doris's breath plumed before her as she stepped from her sedan. The healer had already gotten out of his battered green truck and was walking toward her, the finely crafted silver glinting at his wrists and throat. He spoke as if Doris's thoughts were clearly on her face.
"I do farm, Mrs. Tebbe, back home. Just not here. I made arrangements with one of the people who supply Mr. Aholt's grocery."
Doris looked at Alma Curar's dented, rusty truck, took in once again the seedy little clapboard shack. "I guess your low overhead makes that a feasible arrangement."
It had been a sham. As Doris stood in the midst of this place, she understood that Alma Curar had never come to sell produce to the internees. She said suddenly, bluntly, "What the hell have you been up to?"
"I've been hunting, Mrs. Tebbe. But I'm not much of a hunter. I was foolish enough to think I could do this alone. My foolishness has caused too much suffering."
"So where's Pierce?"
"Are you prepared?"
Doris watched him a moment. "Just bring him."
"No, you'll have to come inside."
"Oh no. Uh-uh."
Alma Curar simply turned from Doris, saying as he walked away, "If I were going to kill you, Mrs. Tebbe, we're already remote enough for me to do it right here. It'd be less messy outside, anyway."
He mounted the single step of the shack, the door creaking as he opened it and he peered in as if to assure a safe entrance. Then he hurried in, leaving the door open. It was up to Doris to follow.
She heard a groan, some thumps, a sort of thrashing. Low murmurs of assurances. Doris approached and looked through the door. There was no light in the shack except what the moon offered, but Doris could see the two men in the far corner; one curled on the floor, the other squatting nearby. The latter was Alma Curar, who said over his shoulder, "Mrs. Tebbe, there's a lantern hanging to the right of the door. Light it, please."
Doris found the lantern on a crude wall peg and a box of matches on a stool beneath it. She struck a match, held it to the lantern and the flame slowly bloomed, its dim glow at last reaching Alma Curar and Pierce. The captain was stripped to his shorts, contorted, rigid, balled against the warped floorboards.
"Oh my God."
"Would you bring the lamp here, please."
Doris moved cautiously, more from shock than fear, but found the wooden crate serving as a bedside table and set the lantern down.
"No, on the wall peg there. He may knock it off the crate."
Doris allowed herself to leave the sight of Pierce's contortions only long enough to locate the nearby peg and hang the lantern. His eyes swiveled to look at her, but she couldn't tell if he really saw her. Something was wrong with his mouth; it was swollen or possibly stuffed with something.
Then a great, wrenching sound came from him, awful, liquid, as if his soul were rupturing. His limbs flung out, his left hand catching Alma Curar across an ear, his right shoulder hitting the little cot's metal leg hard, collapsing it on its hinge. Alma Curar was knocked onto his haunches. Doris fell onto Pierce, trying to restrain him, but the healer said quickly, "No, don't hold him, just move the cot, move the cot."
Alma Curar struggled back up to kneel beside Pierce's head. He pulled the pillow off the cot as Doris dragged the little bed away, scarring the floorboards, but clearing Pierce as his back arced and his legs kicked once, wildly. He became rigid again.
By the time Doris was at Alma Curar's side, he had the pillow was positioned beneath Pierce's head. The only movement now was the captain's eyes, rolling side to side frantically, as if his spirit were searching for escape from the body.
It seemed to find an avenue. Pierce went limp, his eyes rolled upward, the eyelids fluttered closed. The boxer shorts became wet and transparent at his groin, and the acrid smell of urine filled Doris's nose. She turned away.
"Mrs. Tebbe..."
Reluctantly, Doris faced Alma Curar, still kneeling beside the captain.
"I could use your help getting him into a dry change."
Pierce's body was as loose as a corpse, but together, Doris and the healer managed to get the fouled shorts off and fresh ones on. Panting a little from the effort, Doris looked down at the unconscious captain as Alma Curar examined him any serious injury. Satisfied there was none, he stood.
"I'd hoped to get back before the seizures began again," he said.
"Should we... get him on the cot, or something?"
Alma Curar shook his head. "No. This will go on the rest of the night. I wish I could have risked leaving him last night and come to you. But the seizures are much worse on Second Night than Third. The periods of rest only last a few minutes." The healer fell silent a moment, both he and Doris gazing down at Pierce's deep, even breaths. "He should be all right for now."
Alma Curar took the lantern from the wall peg and Doris followed him to the part of the shack that served as dining room and kitchen. She could see the embers glowing in the potbellied stove. A cast iron crock sat beside it with some stew congealing inside. A plank table with four stools stood in the middle of the rough, wooden floor.
Alma Curar went to the corner that held a small icebox and a homemade storage chest, lifting an old percolator and a tin of coffee out of the chest. He stoked the stove with a fresh supply of wood then went outside a moment. Doris heard the churn of a water pump.
Alma Curar had coffee heating minutes later. He set the lantern between them on the table, its yellow glow barely reaching to where Pierce still lay unconscious. Doris blinked, coming out of the sense of stun that had descended on her, and watched Alma Curar rub his sore ear.
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