The Ultimate Werewolf (30 page)

"We will need the assistance of several strong men," I told him, "and it would be a great help if they are stupid. If we cannot free your son through death, then we must strike at the root, no matter how painful."

It was a grim sight, watching all the young men in the Baron's household fearlessly risk dismemberment, infection and worse, as they overpowered their wolfish subject and bound him with chains. It also helped that Lonnie had exhausted himself attempting to escape.

In all the years of my trade, I'd never faced more of a challenge. Bracing myself, I laid on with scissor and comb. No amount of snarling or of staring eyes made my hand tremble. The customer deserves nothing but the best, especially when it's involuntarily. Using the razor was more difficult than the scissors, but by the time all his body hair lay a foot thick around my ankles, and my arms were numb, I felt a sense of accomplishment. But the most dangerous task remained.

He must have sensed what was next. His howling might have deterred a lesser barber from moving on to necessary surgery, but my implements were sharp and purpose clear. First, the teeth had to go—at least the nasty ones. They were more of a threat than the talons. (The incisors and cuspids remain in my possession to this day—a souvenir, one might say, sort of fangs for the memories.) Extracting the fangs was a bloody business, and it put Lonnie into such a state of shock that I encountered no resistance when it was time to give him his "manicure."

When I was finished, there was a smattering of applause. Turning around, I saw that the entire household had gathered to witness the shearing of the locks. Foremost among the assemblage was Evelyn, who was embracing an unfamiliar young man. I didn't need to ask the Baron to know that here was
another
foreigner, and probably an American to boot. This village was suffering from an identity crisis beyond anything encompassed by mere monsters.

"Well done," said the Baron.

"Simply darling," said Evelyn.

"Rrrrrrrrrrr," was Lonnie's comment in his sleep.

The young men patted me on the back. The English butler raised an approving eyebrow. A French chambermaid whom I'd somehow missed before licked her lips provocatively.

"Inform the villagers that their days of woe are over," I announced. "These stout fellows can take the glad tidings to their homes."

"Sorry governor," replied one of the lads, "but Baron Tahlbot brought us over with him." The cockney accent shouldn't have taken me by surprise. Not really. But this meant I hadn't seen a single villager! I was certain, if only because of my previous visit, that the village had villagers in it.

As if reading my thoughts, the Baron whispered, "Easy on, Alfred. There are sufficient villagers to bring the population back up to par, if they haven't been wasting all this time behind closed doors. But the decrease in numbers will play havoc come harvest time."

I neglected to inquire what crops could possibly grow in the desolation I had witnessed. We carried the young Tahlbot upstairs. No one awaited the rising of the sun with more eager anticipation than your immodest narrator. To tell the truth, I had not the slightest idea what the next transformation would bring.

Curiosity was stronger than exhaustion. Despite a sleepless and strenuous night, I felt invigorated when, looking through a window, I saw the fog beginning to dissipate in the first light of day. Now there would be at least some answers.

Would Lonnie's natural teeth be restored, or gaps remain in his smile, putting one in mind of a village idiot? And would the small ivory substances in my hand revert to normal teeth or remain fangs? And would his natural head of hair grow back, or would he still be bald? And just how big a tip could I expect?

Then it was morning. Lonnie's face began to change. Gradually he regained all his natural features. This was good news for him
now;
but did this mean the missing features would be as easily restored when next the full moon shone? There was enough mystery here to justify a full report to the A.M.A. (Austrian Monster Association).

Only the next full moon could answer the final questions. Concerning which, I hesitated to bring up to my host the issue of his peculiar lunar problems. There is only one night of the true full moon every month, although it looks to the naked eye as if there are three consecutive nights of the full moon. That the curse of this transplanted British family could have altered all the laws of nature in this place did not occur to me at the time.

I didn't wait around to find out. After assuring the good Baron that there was nothing else I could do, I received my payment and returned to my travels. The news of Lonnie's salvation must have been transmitted by some supernatural means, for now the village square was full of singing and dancing survivors. It struck me that these people did not behave as if anything unusual or tragic had befallen them.

The story might have ended there had it not been for my damnable curiosity. I fully expected to hear news from the village eventually, but I failed to reckon on the degree of isolation involved. By late Fall, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to return before the weather made travel inconvenient.

The night I arrived, all that could be seen of the moon was a thin crescent in the sky. But as the village came into view, my vision blurred. After rubbing my eyes and putting my spectacles back on, I beheld the impossible: all 2,160 miles of lunar diameter were plainly visible as I stared at the round, silver orb. I had returned to Kaninsburg.

At least the increased luminescence made it easier to traverse the mountain path leading back to the village . . . where the werewolf was waiting for me. It was Lonnie, all right. There was hair all over his body, but it wasn't his. I recognized horse hairs, dyed all sorts of colors, and stuck at random about his body. He had fangs, too. The moonlight glinted off a full set of steel dentures. In addition, he had claws. Tied to each finger was a minature dagger in place of his talons.

With a low growl, he came for me; but a barber should always be prepared. I beat him to death with a striped pole I had used to keep my footing when negotiating the mountain pass. There was a silver knob on top.

"This is ridiculous!" I cried to the night sky. "Will I never be rid of this monster?"

"Never," came a man's voice. I turned to see an old gypsy woman emerging from the fog—there was, of course, lots of fog—but beneath the bangles and brightly colored rags, I recognized the face of a man. "You don't know me," he continued, "but the name's Basil Davies." Good God, it sounded like another transplanted Englishman. "I was the village barber before Tahlbot banished me."

I felt another deduction coming on and said: "You've been behind this all along."

"Yes, after old Tahlbot bored everyone with his stories of your splendid barbering, nobody wanted me any longer. Even the damned peasants preferred waiting for you to visit, or tried their hands at home barbering—
no matter how horrid the results
—or just let their hair grow rather than give me any business. I used black magic to try and get my business back on its legs, but nothing did any good. How I hated them. How I hated
you!"

"So you found a way to transform Lonnie into a monster," I concluded helpfully. "Well, he's destroyed now and I'll turn you over to the Baron."

He was having none of it: "You fool! I'll only escape through some ludicrous oversight on his part. And you have not destroyed poor Lonnie. He always comes back! The village of Kaninsburg is under the Universal Curse, a potent spell that guarantees monsters who return forever!"

His certainty unnerved me. "That cannot be. Nothing is forever. There must be some way to defeat you."

"You'll spend the rest of your life trying. The villagers reproduce themselves, and the Baron keeps importing Americans and Englishmen. You see, he is compelled to keep the village populated. It's part of the curse! Just as Lonnie never leaves anyone wounded and about to become a werewolf in his own right. As you may have gathered, Lonnie is one of a kind."

Laughing manically, the transvestite barber/dentist/surgeon (demonstrating a villainous lack of concern for the propriety due our profession) hurried off into the ever thickening fog. And I returned the way I had come. It was evident that if the Universal Curse was to be defeated, it would require research before any ill-considered action.

That was five years ago. In the ensuing period, I learned everything I could about the curse. There was no simple remedy. One promising method was to introduce other monsters into the werewolf's prowling grounds. It was no easy matter, imprisoning ghouls and zombies and then shipping them off to Kaninsburg. Vampires were simply too difficult a proposition or I would have employed them as well (at reasonable rates, of course).

Yet, the next time I ventured there it was to find the wolfish son of Baron Tahlbot as firmly in place as a landmark. Truly he seemed to be immortal. The Baron had lost all faith in me by then. His American niece had even left him, along with her new boyfriend, to go live with another uncle in England—some kind of scientist, I understand, who does a lot of research with electrical equipment.

It seemed that my bag of tricks was empty, insofar as dealing with this stubborn spawn of hell. But I had one last idea—and this is the one that saved the village, the Baron, and, incidentally, my reputation.

To prevail against the gravity of the lycanthrope, I turned to comedy. There was a small abbey only a few leagues distant from Kaninsburg. In this quiet and secluded place, I found men of God who were willing to risk everything to help me. The abbot who headed the monastery persuaded one of his monks to accompany us—a short, chubby little fellow who seemed afraid of his own shadow, but who proved invaluable against the forces of darkness.

m never forget packing a large cloth sack with the weapons that would defeat the Ultimate Werewolf. We filled our bag with banana peels and cream pies. Nor will I forget two simple words that filled my soul with confidence; and made me believe that the Universal Curse did have an
ending ...
as all things must end.

When we were leaving the monastery, the little fellow called out for us to wait:
"Hey, Abbot!"

Robert J. Randisi

▼▼▼

FRANK GREY and Lisa Bain were partners. They had been radio car partners for three years now, and she was the best partner he'd ever had. He, in turn, was the first partner she had ever had.

Lisa Bain was twenty-five, tall and slender. Her colleagues called her skinny, but she preferred to think of herself as slender, even "rangy." She kept her hair cut short, because she never knew what to do with it. The same was true for makeup. She wore very little, because she wasn't very adept at applying it.

Lisa had spent her first year up at One Place Plaza, working in Communications. Police Plaza was Police Headquarters, which stood in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was an unhappy year for Lisa, working first at Nine-One-One, and then as a dispatcher. After a year she was finally granted a transfer to the Six-Seven Precinct, where she was partnered with Frank Grey. After just one month in a car with Frank she knew that he was the perfect partner for her.

▼▼▼

Frank Grey was a nine-year veteran of the New York City Police Department, and he had spent five years right here at the Six-Seven Precinct. In the five years he had spent at the Six Seven, he had probably seen fifteen hundred cops come and go, as well as three Commanding Officers. He'd had four different partners: three men and Lisa Bain.

Grey—thirty-four, a hulking giant of a man at six-four and two forty —had never been a supporter of women as cops, but Lisa Bain had changed his mind within a month of teaming with her. She had proven herself extremely capable, and he felt no shame in admitting that she was the best partner he ever had.

▼▼▼

Frank Grey reached into his locker, took out his gunbelt and strapped it on. He took his service revolver out of the holster, checked the loads, and then returned it. He made sure his handcuffs and extra bullets were in place, then took his nightstick from the locker and slid it into place on the belt. He bounced the belt up and down a few times on his hips, to make sure it was riding properly. Satisfied that it was, he completed the process of readying himself for duty by taking out his hat and putting it on.

The officer in the locker next to his was a young rookie, and he had a nervous look on his face as he dressed for duty.

"It's gonna be a full moon tonight,
¹
' the young officer said.

"Yeah," Frank said.

"Is it as crazy as they say?" the rookie asked. "I mean, night when there's a full moon? In the academy, they told us that there are people who go crazy when there's a full moon."

"First midnight tour?" Frank asked.

"Yeah," the rookie said. He's been assigned to the 67th Precinct for the past month, but this was his first late tour. Frank remembered his first late tour—what was it? Nine years ago? Yeah, nine years and four commands ago. He'd been in the 67th Precinct for five years, the longest he'd ever stayed in one house. This was also the one he felt the most at home in.

"Just treat it like any other tour, kid," Frank said, shutting his locker. "Be ready for anything."

▼▼▼

Lisa Bain closed her locker and looked out the window. Full moon, she thought, biting her lip. Right now it was totally hidden behind the clouds, but some time during the night it was sure to break through.

She was the only woman working this midnight shift, so she was alone in the small, makeshift locker room. For the slightly less than three years she had been assigned to the Six-Seven she—and the other two female police officers who were now assigned to the Six-Seven— had been changing in a converted broom closet on the second floor, while the men changed in the precinct locker room in the basement. They'd been promising the women a locker room of their own for the past year.

She left the room and went downstairs for roll call.

▼▼▼

Frank saw Lisa coming out of the elevator. He remembered when she was first assigned as his partner, three years ago. He never thought she'd be able to hack it, but she had fooled him. After just a month together he knew that he was going to be spoiled for any other partner.

She had four years on the job. At the moment she was one of three female officers assigned to the Precinct. She wasn't the prettiest, or the smartest, but she was the best cop. Hell, she was better than most of the men, too.

She was tall, about five ten, and she looked skinny, but Frank knew how strong she was. She had wide shoulders that made her small breasts look even smaller. Her hair was cut short, and seemed to be naturally silver. Not grey, but silver. At twenty-five, she was too young to be called grey.

Frank Grey was a big, hulking man with thick black hair, not only on his head but all over his body. He had developed body hair at a young age, and had been teased mercilessly in high school gym class until one day, when he tore into his tormenters, big fists flailing. He laid out a good half dozen of them, and they never bothered him again. Of course, he took ribbing in the locker room from his police colleagues, but he was no longer as sensitive about it as he was in high school.

He weighed in at close to two hundred and forty pounds and was usually left in the dust by Lisa whenever they were involved in a foot chase. In close quarters, however, Frank's strength usually gave him the upper hand against almost any opponent.

The late tour crew assembled in the roll call room. Frank and Lisa exchanged a glance, but while the other partners were slapping each other on the back and comparing how their days were spent, they did not have to say a word. They knew each other that well.

This was also the best crew Frank had ever worked with. They had all been steady late tour for about six months, with the odd rookie or replacement tossed in from time to time. For the most part, they were all used to working with each other, and depending on each other.

The roll call sergeant read them whatever special orders had come down, and then sent them out to do their jobs.

"Hey," he called out as they started to disassemble. They looked at him and he said, "I don't have to remind anyone that there's supposed to be a full moon tonight, do I?"

No, their silence said, he didn't. They all knew that a full moon meant they were probably in for an "interesting" tour.

More interesting for some than others.

Jerry Tarkenton studied his "gang."

He had known Pauly DePino for thirteen years. They had met in kindergarten class when they were both five, and even then Jerry had been able to get Pauly to do anything he wanted him to. Although the same age, the five-four Pauly had an unabashed hero worship for the six-one Jerry. Pauly—who thought that he and Jerry were "friends"— enjoyed watching the way Jerry controlled the other two members of their gang.

Jerry was the one who had nicknamed Douglas Jenks "Pudge," because Jenks was five eight and weighed over two hundred pounds, most of it around his middle. Pudge usually had some Milky Ways or Her- shey Bars in his pockets.

The fourth member of this dubious group was unaffectionately known as "Stupid." Again, it was Jerry who had nicknamed the brutish, six-foot-six Willie Carson "Stupid." He and Pauly had met Carson in junior high school where, at twelve, Carson was already six feet tall. Carson's face was fixed in a perpetual frown as he struggled to understand what was going on in the world around him. It was for this reason that Jerry had dubbed him "Stupid." and Carson was actually proud of the name.

Jerry Tarkenton had chosen his "gang" well and carefully. He made sure that they were dumb enough and dependent enough upon him that he could control them. He often felt like an animal trainer, and they were his subjects.

He naturally felt that he was not only the smartest of the four, but the smartest person he knew. For all of the vacancies that showed in the eyes of Pudge, Pauly and Stupid, the look in Jerry Tarkenton's eyes could only be described as . . . crafty.

"What's in this warehouse, Jerry?" Pauly asked.

"That's what we're gonna find out, Pauly," Jerry said. "It's a big place, real busy all day long. I know there's lot of machinery inside, but it's too busy for something funny not to be goin' on."

"Funny?" Stupid asked. "What's funny?"

"Crooked, Stupid," Pauly said. "He means crooked." Pauly looked at Jerry and eagerly said, "Right, Jerry?"

"Yeah, right, Pauly," Jerry said. "All I know is, there's got to be lots of money in there, or something
worth
a lot of money."

"What about cops, Jerry?" Pudge asked.

"What about 'em?" Jerry asked, with a sneer. "I ain't afraid of cops, are you?"

"No," Pudge said, dubiously, while Pauly and Stupid shook their heads, as well.

Jerry Tarkenton, at just eighteen years of age, had a career criminal's disdain for cops. He felt they were all beneath him in intelligence, and that he could handle any situation that involved the cops.

"What about a gun?" Pudge asked. "What if we come up against a cop with a gun?"

A feral grin crossed Jerry's face as he said, "I'll have Big Stupe here feed it to the fucker, first the bullets, and then the gun! Right, Stupid?"

Stupid's eyes remained vacant as he said, "Sure, Jerry, anything you say." His eyes did not reflect even the intelligence of a dog.

Pudge took out a chocolate bar and started to unwrap it.

"Not in here, Pudge," Jerry said. "My Ma don't want no eatin' in my room."

Frank and Lisa rode Sector Henry, in what was generally considered the armpit of the precinct. Day or night it was a bad scene, but at night it somehow became the darkest corner of the precinct.

Frank drove while Lisa looked up at the sky. The moon may have been full, but right now it was totally hidden by a bank of black clouds.

"Six-seven Henry, 'kay."

Lisa picked up the radio handset. Frank was the Operator, and she was the Recorder. It was up to her to answer the dispatcher. She checked her watch and saw that it was 0230 hours—two-thirty in the morning.

"Henry, 'kay."

"Six-seven Henry, report of a ten thirty-four, Burglary in progress, forty-two sixty, Avenue D. Witness states he saw four males entering a closed warehouse at that location. Unknown whether they are armed or not'

"This is Henry," Lisa said. "Ten-four."

"Probably kids," Frank said. "That place has holes all over it."

Lisa nodded, then looked up at the sky. Still no sign of the moon.

Frank turned left on Avenue D. and drove the five needed blocks to get them to the forty-two hundred block. He stopped the car down the block from 4260 and doused the lights.

"Front or back?" he asked her as they got out of the car.

"Back."

They each had a foot-long, metal-cased flashlight in their hands. As well as lighting the way, it could be used as an effective nightstick.

Frank looked up at the sky, where the moon was still in hiding, and said, "Be careful."

"You, too."

Frank moved down the block towards the front of the warehouse. This block was unusual, because it held the commercial warehouse and some residences. It had probably been some insomniac resident who had called it in.

He approached the front door with his flashlight extinguished. Although the full moon had not broken through the cloud cover yet, there were enough street lamps for him to see. Also, he didn't want the glare of his flashlight to tip off the perps that he was there.

He reached for the door handle and saw that the metal door had

been forced, probably with a lire iron. He opened the door as far as was necessary to enter, drew his gun, and, with one last look at the sky, went inside.

Now he wouldn't know whether the moon broke through or not. He'd have to find out the hard way.