The Wolfman (37 page)

Aberline leaned his head out into the rain, where a squad of heavily armed officers of the elite Special Police waited. “Now!”

The waiting officers surged into the house. Dozens and dozens of them, and everyone armed with a rifle, a fire axe or a heavy truncheon. Gwen tried to scream a warning. This was not an arrest . . . this was a hunt, and from the pitiless looks in the eyes of the men who barreled past her into the house, she knew that taking Lawrence alive was not their goal.

T
HE SPECIAL POLICE
were the elite of Scotland Yard. To a man they were ex-military, hardened and seasoned by wars in every part of the globe, tough and resourceful. A squad of them would be enough to quell a riot. But the mass of them who thundered into the apothecary through the front and back doors and pounded up the steps was enough to stop
anything.

Aberline passed Gwen Conliffe to his sergeant and, drawing his heavy pistol, he re-entered the shop and climbed the stairs at the head of the charge. The images from last night were burned into his brain and his hatred for the vicious monster was matched only by the terror that gripped him.

At the top of the stairs his men fanned out to kick
open doors and toss furniture aside. Aberline himself headed down the hall toward the rearmost room where the door was closed. Six men with rifles followed in close order. If that door opened then anyone or anything who stepped out would be blasted to rags.

When they were at the end of the hall, Aberline licked his lips, slipped his finger inside the trigger guard, and reached for the door handle. The six rifle barrels leveled out over his shoulders in the narrow confines of the hall.

As soon as the lock clicked open Aberline kicked the door in and they rushed the room. The room appeared to be empty, but almost at once Aberline saw a pair of legs standing motionless in the gray shadows behind the lower edge of a full-sized mirror. The feet did not look like human feet.

Sweat popped out on Aberline’s forehead and his mouth went dry. He ticked his chin toward it and the other officers sighted their weapons on it. The inspector held a finger to his lips as he aimed his pistol at the center of the mirror and thumbed back the hammer. The click sounded unnaturally loud in the still room.

“Talbot!” he growled. “Raise your arms and step out where I can see you.”

Talbot’s feet did not move.

“Talbot . . . you have my word that you’ll be treated humanely.”

Nothing. Not so much as a twitch.

Very well, damn you,
thought Aberline. With the six rifles fanned out on either side of him, he carefully approached the mirror and then with a sweep of his hand grabbed it and sent it hurtling onto its side. Wood and glass splintered.

Behind the mirror stood a full-size statue of the woodland god, Pan. Half man, half goat. All bronze.

Lawrence Talbot was gone.

Behind him the Special Officers let out a collective sigh. All of them had wanted to bag Talbot, but none of them had wanted to face the creature. Detective Adams pushed his way through the throng and looked from the statue to Aberline, who stood looking out of the windows at the endless rows of empty rooftops.

“There’s some bad luck for you,” Adams said.

Without turning, Aberline murmured, “It’s bad luck for everyone.”

L
awrence snuck back into the house in the gray bleakness before dawn. As he went silently to the top of the stairs, he heard muffled conversation downstairs. Men’s voices. Aberline was smart and careful. That was fine. Lawrence knew that he could be smart and careful, too.

He wrapped his feet with towels and so did not make a sound as he prowled the upper floors for supplies. He found a small satchel with a shoulder strap and, in a bedroom on the third floor he surprised himself by finding a wardrobe filled with men’s clothes. It was all too big for Gwen’s father and when Lawrence checked them he found a tie with BT embroidered on it. BT . . . Benjamin Talbot. Ben must have used this room when visiting the city. Touching his brother’s clothes gave him equally sharp pangs of grief and guilt. He could still remember the taste of Gwen’s kisses, and the curve of her breast.

He closed his eyes for a moment, etching the memory into his soul. If he died then he would at least have had one perfect moment, and when he died he would recall that beauty so that it was the last thing he saw before darkness consumed him.

Then he opened his eyes and set to work, changing
his clothes and packing essentials for his escape from London.

A
N HOUR LATER
he was on the streets walking briskly away from Essington Lane. With the dawn the newsboys took to their calling and began hawking the day’s headlines. He was still the running story.

Lawrence had a muffler wrapped around his mouth and nose and a top hat pulled low so that only his eyes showed. He lingered near a newsagent’s stall just long enough to see that his photograph was still on the front page above the fold.

The newsboy shouted the headline: “Monster still on the loose! Two weeks until the next full moon! Talbot missing!”

Over and over again.

Lawrence fled from the sound of it.

“P
UT THEM OVER
here,” Gwen said to the clerk from the bookshop, and the young man tottered over to the indicated table and set down his burden. It was the fifth load of books he had delivered to this address, and each of them on the strangest subjects. Medical reference books of all kinds. Books on disorders of the mind. Books on Gypsy magic. Books on mythology and legend. And every text on the legends of werewolves and the mystery of lycanthropy that his employer could find.

He lingered for his tip and knuckled his forehead when she handed him some coins, then, as he turned to leave, he paused and asked, “Pardon my insolence, ma’am, but are you selling charms?”

Gwen looked puzzled. “Charms?”

“For the monster.” The boy nodded to the apothecary shelves. “Is there some kind of potion or something you’re making to ward off monsters? If so, my mum would like to—”

“No,” said Gwen with a faint smile. “Nothing like that.”

The clerk glanced at the stack of arcane books.

“Just indulging in a curiosity,” Gwen said.

The clerk bobbed his head and left, but once he was outside he threw another long look at the apothecary. “ ‘Indulging in a curiosity,’ ” he muttered. “Bloody mad as a hatter.”

L
AWRENCE HAD ALWAYS
needed to shave twice a day, so thick was his beard, and now he was glad of it. Within three days his jaw was covered with a beard so dark that most men would have required a week to grow it; by the end of the second week the beard was a wild tangle. Even so, he drew some cautious glances from passersby, so he seldom made eye contact and kept to the shadows as much as he could. He had found money in Mister Conliffe’s bedroom and booked a room in Lime house, a squalid part of town where no one ever poked their noses into anyone else’s business. If anyone gave him a moment’s thought they probably guessed him to be a toff drawn to the whores and opium dens of the neighborhood.

He could not yet risk taking a train to Blackmoor. The stations would be closely watched. All he could do was wait for the hysteria and heat to die down, but every new day brought more screaming headlines and
constant patrols by the police. Time ground on and each night Lawrence looked up at the sky to see the moon roll through its phases.

One evening, with the moon three-quarters full over the smog of London, he found a small church with a crooked steeple and he slipped inside. It was dark and empty and Lawrence hunkered down in a corner pew, but once he was there the faces of the saints and the bloody image of the crucified Christ were like cudgels that beat him down. He buried his face in his hands, unable to meet the eyes of the icons.

He heard a rustle and saw a small man sliding onto the other end of the pew. Lawrence raised his head and saw a kindly old face above a Roman collar.

“Hello, my son,” said the minister. “What brings you here?”

Lawrence did not know how to answer that. He saw no hint of recognition on the minister’s face. That, at least, was a blessing.

“I need to pray,” Lawrence said.

“May I join you? As the Lord says, when two or more are gathered in My name . . .” He waited for a response; when he did not get one the minister cocked his head to one side and gave Lawrence an appraising look. “So . . . what are we praying for? Peace? Help? Forgiveness?”

Lawrence shook his head.

“Strength,” he said wretchedly.