Secret of the Wolf (37 page)

come here and caused trouble?”

"Johanna," Bolkonsky said softly, "I agree with you. I know as well as you do the

misconceptions held about the insane. But I have been listening to the gossip. Quentin

Forster and one of your other patients caused a minor disturbance here several days

ago. A matter of fisticuffs with local children.”

Of course. Johanna hadn't forgotten. She'd known all along how that one incident could

feed the fire of any prejudices the local folk already harbored
.

"Oscar wouldn't hurt anyone," she said. "He was the one attacked. He merely defended

himself.”

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"But he is certainly big enough to do damage if he wished, according to what I've heard.

It's much easier for the ignorant to place the blame on outsiders than look among

themselves for a culprit. And then there is Quentin—”

Quentin. The crux of the business. Quentin, who'd been missing all day. Who'd been

worried for May. Who might have learned of May's father, and her acute misgivings

about him
.

"When did this attack occur?" she asked
.

"Last night, well after midnight. A few drunks from the saloon claimed to have observed

someone running away from the hotel, but no one clearly saw him, except a maid who

was able to describe his general height and build.”

Johanna didn't ask for the description. She felt cold all the way to her bones
.

Why? Why should she jump to the same conclusions held by these unenlightened

townsfolk? Quentin had exhibited occasional lapses into a darker state, a side of himself

that hinted of undispelled pain and anger. He claimed, under hypnosis, to be a

lycanthrope. He'd suffered periods of amnesia related to his drinking. He'd even

admitted to concern for his own occasionally erratic behavior
.

But he was not dangerously insane. He'd never acted overtly violent in any way—not

with her, or the others. Surely reading of Johanna's suspicions about Ingram wouldn't

be enough to send him tearing into town to attack a stranger
.

But if that possibility were as ludicrous as it seemed, why was she trembling?

"What is it, Johanna?”

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She shook herself from her bleak thoughts and met Bolkonsky's gaze. "If feelings

against my patients are running so high, I must return to the Haven.”

"Johanna—are any of your patients unaccounted for?”

"No." The lie came far too easily, but she felt free of guilt for the transgression. "I must

be getting back.”

"Why did you come to town, Johanna?" he asked, too insistently. "We still have the

situation with May to resolve. You understand that in light of what has happened, Mr.

Ingram is most anxious to leave Silverado Springs as soon as he is able to.”

"We agreed upon a week at least, Dr. Bolkonsky.”

"Did we?" His upper lip twitched. "I can make no guarantees, Dr. Schell.”

His renewed formality came as a warning. She nodded and turned to collect Daisy. The

pointed stares of the townsfolk made unpleasant sense, now. She could only pray that

the residents of Silverado Springs were mistaken in their conjectures
.

Once home again, she gave Daisy into a curious Oscar's care and began another circuit

of the Haven's grounds, on foot, starting with the vineyard and ending at the orchard
.

That was where she found him
.

The half-conscious man slumped against a young apple tree was not the one she'd

known for the past two weeks. He bore more resemblance to the stranger she'd rescued

on the lane to the Haven, clothes dirty and abraded, face unshaven, hair matted and

tangled. He raised his head from his chest to look at her through bloodshot eyes
.

"Johanna," he croaked
.

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He had been drinking. She smelled it on him, but she would have known even without

the stench. It was amazing that he could be in such poor condition after only a single

day of imbibing
.

Unless his state had to do with other, less benign activities
.

"Quentin," she said, shaping each word distinctly. "Where have you been?”

He tried to get up and fell back, head rolling against the tree trunk. "At

the saloon." He

coughed out a laugh. "Can't you tell?”

"Is that all?”

"I

don't remember.”

Such a simple, terrible phrase. "Tell me what you do remember.”

On the second try his efforts to stand were more successful. He propped himself

against the tree, swaying
.

"I went into town," he mumbled
.

"Did you go through the papers in my office?”

"I wanted to find out about May.”

"And you did.”

He took a step toward her and paused to catch his balance. "I found out about her

father.”

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Lecturing him on the impropriety of viewing private documents was the furthest thing

from Johanna's mind. "And you went into town to do what, Quentin?”

"To

see him.”

"Did you see him?”

"I think—" He clutched at his head. "Don't. Please.”

He wasn't talking to her, she was certain of it. "What did you do when you saw him,

Quentin?”

With uncharacteristic awkwardness he spun on his foot and staggered back to the tree,

hugging it with both arms. "I went and got drunk.”

"Something happened in town last night, Quentin, while you were gone.”

His profile was stark and pale, cheek pressed to rough bark. "God.”

Johanna came to a decision. She couldn't leave him like this, or allow both of them to

remain unaware of what he'd done and unprepared for the consequences. Patient or

not, she must continue to treat him to the best of her ability until this crisis was past
.

"I would like to hypnotize you, Quentin—now. Can you walk with me to my office?”

He pushed away and started for the house, not waiting for her. She caught up and took

a firm grip on his arm. May saw them first, and came running. Her face fell when she got

a good look at Quentin
.

"Quentin isn't feeling well," Johanna said, guiding him past the girl. "He needs to rest.”

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"Yes," May whispered. Oscar joined her, but neither made a move to follow them into

the house
.

Quentin fell back onto the chaise as if the short walk from the orchard had exhausted

him. She made a more thorough inspection of his body for wounds or evidence of

struggle, but found none. If he had been the one to attack Ingram, the other man hadn't

left a mark on him when he'd defended himself
.

If Quentin had attacked. If

His half-dazed state made him even more susceptible to hypnosis than usual, and he

went into a deep trance the moment she finished her induction
.

"I would like you to do the best you can to answer my questions, Quentin. Reach into

your memory, with no fear of what you may find.”

His closed lids fluttered, but he made no answer
.

"Let us start from the beginning. You went into town.”

"Yes." His voice was flat, unemotional
.

"To see May's father.”

"Yes.”

"Why?”

"I was worried about May. I read in your notes that he might have hurt her before she

came here.”

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Johanna damned her own meticulous nature that demanded the recording of each

thought and observation related to every patient within her care, no matter how based

upon conjecture or guesswork. She doubly damned her carelessness in not locking

those notes away
.

"Did you think that May was in danger from her father?" she asked
.

"I had to find out.”

"And did you?”

Silence. She must approach the subject more cautiously
.

"How did you find him?”

"You said where he was. I went to the hotel and found his rooms.”

"When was this, Quentin?”

"After midnight.”

That jibed with what Irene had said. "Was he there?”

Quentin's jaw tightened. "Yes.”

"What did you observe when you found him?”

"He was

with a young girl.”

Johanna became aware that her hands were fastened upon the arms of her chair. She

stretched her fingers one by one
.

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"What was he doing, Quentin?”

"Forcing his attentions upon her.”

She shut down her own feelings. "In what way?”

No answer
.

"What did you feel, when you saw this?”

No answer
.

"Why was it so important to you to protect May, Quentin?”

He turned his head sharply on the chaise's pillow, but still said nothing
.

Obviously the ordinary method of questioning wasn't going to work, and she didn't have

the leisure to experiment over days or weeks. Time for an entirely new, and potentially

dangerous, tack
.

"Quentin," she said slowly, "you once told me that you could change into a wolf.”

He seemed to stop breathing
.

"I'd like to see you do that now. Change for me, Quentin.”

She had no idea what would happen, or even if he'd try to obey. She waited, knowing

what she might have unleashed but prepared to face whatever might come
.

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Quentin opened his eyes. He looked across the ceiling, rose on his elbows, and lowered

his gaze to hers
.

"You called, Doctor Schell?" he said, smiling around bared teeth. "I've been waiting for

you.”

Oh, yes, he had changed. It was in the slight thickening of his features: the cruelty in

them, the harshness, the narrow satisfaction in his eyes. They had lost every trace of

warmth, their color like nothing so much as that of dried blood
.

Complete antipathy. Utter loathing. Pure hate
.

She knew this Quentin. She had encountered him before without even realizing it
.

"Cat got your tongue?" he mocked. He swung his legs over the chaise. "I like you better

this way, Johanna. Speechless.”

"Quentin?”

"He's gone. You wanted him to change, didn't you?" He stood up, looming over her with

curled fingers. "Well, he's changed. Now I'm here.”

The moment had come. Fenris tested the feel of his body, slipping into it as easily as if

he put on a coat. He'd worn it not so long ago, and had almost tasted Johanna's lips.

He'd nearly gained control last night, and that evening when Johanna had so wantonly

displayed herself. But Quentin had held on, pushing him back each time

Now he was in command. Never had he felt so liberated: in full daylight, his mind clear,

and in the presence of one who could see him for what he was. No drunken haze

inherited from Quentin's weakness. No waiting until the precise combination of emotion

and drink and circumstance gave him the strength to escape
.

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The unwitting, luscious, naive Johanna Schell had let him out of his cage
.

He looked her up and down, giving free rein to his lust. Quentin's lust as well, if that

milksop would ever admit it. But Quentin was far away, helpless, as he was helpless

during so much of their bitterly shared existence
.

Quentin wouldn't be alive if not for him. But Quentin was afraid of living
.

He wasn't
.

"Surprised to see me?" he asked, walking slowly toward Johanna. "You shouldn't be.

We've met before.”

She held her ground, bracing one hand against the back of her chair. "Who are you?”

At least she wasn't so stupid as to believe he wasn't real. Not that her mind mattered to

him in the slightest. Her body was what he wanted. He stripped her to nakedness with a

thought, and in another had her panting beneath him, begging for mercy. Turning

thought to action would take but a few minutes more
.

"Who are you?" she repeated, more firmly. Her jaw was set, her gaze steady in an

excellent approximation of courage. He laughed
.

"Fenris," he said. He reached out and casually snapped off the uppermost button of her

collar with a flick of a finger
.

"Fenris," she echoed. "The monster Wolf, offspring of Loki and enemy of the gods, who

remains chained in Asgard until Ragnarok.”

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