The Wolfman (28 page)

“No!” Lawrence cried. He backed away, pointing at Sir John. “Inspector . . . my father’s a monster!”

Aberline drew closer, a rifle ready in one hand, and Sir John turned to him, a look of brokenhearted pity on his face. He gestured to Lawrence, and the inspector nodded as if all of this confirmed a discussion they had already had. Aberline raised his free hand to signal his men and immediately a half dozen burly officers closed on Lawrence, blocking all exits, crowding him, seizing him by the arms.

“Don’t let him go,” Lawrence begged. “Aberline, take me if you must, but for the love of God take him, too!”

Sir John’s shoulders slumped and he looked old and defeated. “It is as you said.”

Aberline looked wretched and he put a comforting hand on Sir John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sir John. Truly I am.”

“Thank you,” Sir John said brokenly.

Aberline turned away from him and nodded to his men.

“Bring him.”

As the men began dragging Lawrence up the slope, Sir John stepped close and whispered, “Be strong, my son. Be strong.”

Only Lawrence could see the humor behind this performance of grief, and he knew that his father—the true monster—would be free. Lawrence lunged at him, trying to grab his father’s throat. He shrugged off two of the men and as they fell they collided with the others and suddenly Lawrence was free. He dove at his father, accepting his own death if this madness could all be stopped here and now.

Aberline stepped in and swung his rifle butt in a vicious jab that cracked against the back of Lawrence’s head. Lawrence’s fingers brushed his father’s throat and then he was falling into a dark well.

L
awrence had no awareness of being forced into a straightjacket, or of being chained to an iron seat in the back of an armored coach. He did not remember the ride to London, did not feel the rough hands of the white-jacketed orderlies who dragged him from the coach, stripped him and hosed him, dressed him in hospital clothes and then placed him in a restraining chair. All he knew was darkness and pain and dreams whose nature were so intensely awful that he fled deeper into his own unconscious to escape them.

But awareness did return. Slowly and at its own pace, and when Lawrence opened his eyes he knew where he was. And why.

Lambeth Asylum.

And here, more real even than the memories of last night, stood Dr. Hoenneger. The same man, the same madhouse from that terrible night after his mother’s suicide. For a hopeful moment Lawrence thought that this was just another dream, but Hoenneger’s face was older, thinner, with deeper lines cut through the pallid flesh. This was real, and this was now, and Lawrence’s heart plummeted in his chest.

Hoenneger moved to stand directly in front of Lawrence and an orderly joined him. The orderly was huge, cadaverous, with dark eyes sunk deep into shadowy
pits and an ugly smile filled with yellow teeth. Just behind them was a pool of water set into the stone floor.

“I
am
sorry to see you back with us, Lawrence,” said Hoenneger gravely but without conviction. “Since you were here last, we have made enormous strides in the treatment of delusions such as yours.”

The doctor’s smile was anything but comforting. It was a prideful, boasting leer. “Ripler? . . .” he said, gesturing to the orderly.

Ripler reached for a big wooden lever and suddenly Lawrence understood what was happening. His chair was bolted to a thick plank mounted on a greased fulcrum and as Ripler pulled on the lever the board abruptly lowered Lawrence’s chair so that he went face-forward into the icy pool of black water.

The water was so shockingly cold that it tore a scream out of Lawrence. Air burst from his nose and mouth, frigid water numbed his face and eyes. They could not be doing this . . . they could not leave him here to drown. His mind refused to accept it but as the seconds crawled past and the last bits of air in his chest began to burn his lungs, the lever moved again and he rose sputtering and choking back into the air. His seat landed with a bone-jarring thud and Ripler leaned close and exhaled foul breath in his face.

“Bracing,” Ripler said, “ain’t it, guv’ner?”

“Why are . . . you . . . doing . . .”

But before Lawrence could gasp out a question Ripler gave the lever another pull. The second impact with the water was far, far worse. It surged up his nose and drove icy needles into every inch of his face and throat. When the chair was pulled back Lawrence felt like he would rather die than go into that hellish water again.

Hoenneger’s face bent toward him.

“We’ve made so many fascinating and promising advances in our science, Lawrence. You’ll be amazed.”

He raised his hand to show Lawrence the huge hypodermic needle he held. Lawrence’s arms were strapped to the chair. He could not move, could not escape as the needle pierced his flesh and Hoenneger depressed the plunger. The drugs burst like fire in his veins and within seconds Lawrence could feel the substance of reality crack and peel away in layers. Even before his eyes drifted shut he saw the faces of Hoenneger and Ripler change into monstrous distortions of grinning ghouls who bent toward him to consume him with needle-sharp teeth. The drugs filled every part of his consciousness and tore him from sense and order. . . .

. . . L
AWRENCE OPENED HIS
eyes and he stood alone in a long hallway that stretched away into the shadows. He turned and saw the same stretch into dark infinity. Closed doors lined each side of the corridor. The carpet beneath his feet was the color of fresh blood, the sconces on the walls flickering with candles that burned with cold fire.

“Father!” he called, but his voice was an impotent whisper; he could barely hear it himself. “Gwen? . . .” he said, and this time his voice was insanely loud and echoes punched the walls and sent shockwaves back that staggered him.

He heard a sound behind him and turned to see a door open twenty feet from where he stood. The door swung wide by itself and Lawrence took a step toward it, but suddenly a child burst from the room and raced away from him into the shadows.

“Boy!” Lawrence called, but the child ran full tilt
away from him. He started walking after the boy, then began to trot and finally he, too, was running as hard as he could.

The boy abruptly turned and ran into the one of the rooms, and as Lawrence approached he saw that the room was the entrance to a dank cell. The floor was covered with straw and filth, the walls black with mildew, and the barred window looked out onto the gray pollution of the Thames. Without knowing how, he understood that this was his own cell, that this was where he had been brought by his father and Inspector Aberline. It was the same cell he had lived in for two years as a boy.

The child he had chased was here, naked, shivering, huddling in the corner between the bed and the wall.

“Boy . . . who are you?” Lawrence said, taking a tentative step into the room. “Why are you here?”

The boy shifted so that only one eye peered up at him from under a tangle of unwashed black hair. The child picked up something from under the bed and slowly raised it to show Lawrence. It was a skull. No, more than that it was the prop skull used in the London production of
Hamlet
. Lawrence’s next words died on his tongue because now he recognized that eye.

It was his own eye . . . and this child was
him
, the tortured boy who had been sent to this hell hole all those years ago.

“My God,” Lawrence whispered. He knelt down and reached a hand toward the child. “Don’t be afraid.”

He placed his hand on the child’s thin shoulder and pulled gently. “Let me help you . . . I won’t hurt you.”

The child turned then. Not slow and tentative, but with unnatural speed and with a face that was not that of Lawrence the boy. This was the snarling, feral face of an animal. Yellow eyes flashed and it snarled with
pernicious delight as it lunged at Lawrence, wicked teeth snapping . . .

. . . R
IPLER WORKED THE
lever again and Lawrence plunged back into the frigid water. The pain and shock were the same, but Lawrence could not tell if this moment was real or if it was part of the never-ending dream. . . .

. . . L
AWRENCE TURNED OVER
in his sleep.

And then was aware that he
was
sleeping. The ghouls and phantasms were gone, the child was gone. The cell was dark except for a thin spill of moonlight through the barred window.

There was a metallic click and Lawrence peered through the gloom to see the door handle turn and the door swing quietly open. Lawrence shied back, expecting Ripler and Dr. Hoenneger . . . but against all sanity it was someone who could not be here. Slender, dressed in gossamer, moving with delicate steps she entered his prison.

“Gwen? . . .”

It
was
her. She smiled at him with a gentleness and compassion that he had not expected to ever see again. Only his mother had ever looked at him with such love, but that had been so completely different than this. The moonlight made her gown translucent and Lawrence could see every beautiful curve of her. The breeze stirred her garments and he could see the graceful line of her hip as it flowed down to become her thigh. Her breasts bobbed as she moved, the dark nipples tenting the thin fabric.

“Thank God it’s you,” he said as he sat up. “I just had the most horrible dream.”

She rushed to him, bending to place a finger against his lips. “Shhh . . . don’t worry, Lawrence.” She kissed his forehead and bent to his ear. “You’re safe now. . . .”

Gwen showered him with a hundred quick kisses that were like the softest, most soothing rain on his face. Her hands caressed his face and throat and then her clever fingers were at the buttons of his shirt.

Lawrence pulled her to him and their lips met in a kiss of such intense erotic heat that his entire body felt as if it was suddenly released from some ancient bondage.

“I need you,” he whispered. He slipped the gossamer from her shoulders and it fell away to reveal the alabaster perfection of her skin. Lawrence kissed the side of her throat and she moaned and moved against him, tearing at his shirt and trousers. Within seconds they were skin to skin, bathed in moonlight, their mouths hot and hungry, their bodies moving together in that perfect and timeless rhythm of true love and pure passion. When he entered her she arched her back and cried out, her breasts crushed against his chest. She locked her legs around him and pulled him deeper, her moans and cries filling the room.