It was three days before Karyn finally began to relax. At the dinner table her father told a small joke, and Karyn found to her surprise that she was honestly laughing. It was the first time she had laughed naturally in weeks. She realized then just how tightly wound she had been. At last she was sure that coming home had been the right thing. That night she learned she was wrong.
It was the howling. At first, only half-awake, Karyn thought it was the dream again. She sat up in bed and stared at the window - a charcoal-gray square in the blackness of the room. She waited, praying that it had been only the dream. Then she heard it again. The deep-throated, tortured howl of the werewolf. It had no direction, but seemed to come from everywhere. And it was near. They had found her once more.
The werewolf howled no more that night, but Karyn lay tensely awake. By dawn she was exhausted, her nerves frayed.
At breakfast her mother studied her from across the table. Karyn was sharply aware of her pallor and the shadows around her eyes.
"Didn't you sleep well last night?" Mrs. Oliver asked.
"Not really," Karyn said. "A touch of indigestion, I think. I shouldn't have gone back for seconds on your roast."
She got no answering smile from her mother. Mrs. Oliver continued to study her daughter's face.
"I thought that dog might have kept you awake," she said.
"Dog?"
"Somebody must have left him locked out or something. He made quite a racket about two o'clock." Then, casually, "Didn't you hear it?"
Oh, I heard it all right, Karyn thought. Only it wasn't any dog. There was no point, though, in getting into that discussion with her mother. She said, "No, I didn't hear anything."
It was clear that Mrs. Oliver was not fully satisfied, but she did not push it. They closed the topic with a couple of remarks about how people should take better care of their pets.
The breakfast was link sausage and moist scrambled eggs. Ordinarily Karyn would have loved it, but this morning she had little appetite. She ate as much as she could, knowing her mother was watching, but finally had to push the plate away. She was spared answering further questions by the ringing of the doorbell.
Mrs. Oliver excused herself to answer it. Karyn followed her out to the living room and was introduced to a neighbor, Mrs. Gipson, a chunky woman whose face was flushed with excitement.
After briefly acknowledging Karyn, the neighbor turned back to Mrs. Oliver. "Did you hear about the awful thing that happened last night? Over at the Stovalls'?"
"No."
"Somebody killed Zora Stovall's horse!"
"I don't believe it! That beautiful palomino?"
"That's not the worst of it. You should see the way it was done. The poor thing's throat and belly was torn right out. There's two policemen over there now. They say they've never seen anything like it. They say it must be some crazy sadist like the one who was cutting up cows out in the valley a few years back."
Mrs. Oliver glanced worriedly at Karyn.
"Have they any idea who did it?" Karyn asked.
"Not really. They say they've got some leads, but the police always say that. It's a terrible mess. They won't let anybody go out near the corral. Poor Zora is all broken up. She loved that horse."
Karyn had heard enough. She left her mother and Mrs. Gipson looking after her, and went up to her room to begin packing. As she had feared, the wolves of Drago had found her again. There was no doubt in her mind who was responsible for the slaughter of the horse. Now she had to run again.
Abruptly, Karyn's icy calm fell to pieces. She sat down heavily on the bed and began to cry. She could not go on running like this every time Marcia Lura and Roy caught up with her. There was no way she could escape them. They seemed to have no trouble finding her, and could probably take her any time they chose.
Karyn got up and looked at herself in the mirror. She dried her eyes and blew her nose lustily into a Kleenex. Stop this, girl, she told herself. It's time to stand and fight. She felt a little better then, but still knew she could not go up against them alone. And it was futile to try to enlist anyone to help her who did not know the horror. In all the world there was just one man who knew, and might help her now. He had once before. Chris Halloran.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
In the morning Karyn rummaged through her things and found an old address book with Chris Halloran's phone number. At the time, he was living at a singles' complex in Marina Del Ray called the Surf King. She called the three-year-old number from a phone in her parents' kitchen while Mr. and Mrs. Oliver were in another part of the house.
After a series of clicks a recorded female voice came over the wire: The number you have called is out of service. Please check your directory to be sure you have the correct number, then dial again.
Karyn followed the recorded instructions and again reached the disembodied voice. She banged down the receiver in frustration. She should have expected it, of course. In Southern California, where businesses, buildings, and people come and go overnight, it was a lot to expect that a telephone number would get the same party after three years.
There was still the possibility that Chris lived at the same place, but had changed his telephone to an unlisted number. It was, Karyn decided, worth checking out. She could not give up now. She borrowed the car keys from her father and left the house. It was shortly before noon.
The Buick seemed like an excess of automobile to Karyn after the little Datsun she had driven in Seattle, but it rode smoothly, and the power equipment made it easy to handle. She drove down the San Diego Freeway past Culver City to the Marina turnoff.
The Surf King Apartments consisted of four interconnected buildings in cream-colored masonry with harmonizing pastel balconies. Karyn parked in an area marked Visitors, and entered the complex through a palm-flanked gateway. She crossed the red adobe central court and passed the Olympic-sized swimming pool where an assortment of young men and women presented their bodies to the sun. They eyed her speculatively from behind their Foster Grants as she walked by. Karyn ignored them and followed a series of arrows past the sauna and the Jacuzzi to the manager's apartment.
She touched the buzzer, and the door was swept open by a muscular young man with a full black beard, wearing a t-shirt printed with the Coors logo.
"Hi," he said, "I'm Ron."
"Hello - " Karyn began.
"You're really in luck," he said. "I have a vacancy opening up the first of the week. You'll love it. It's a bachelorette, balcony, built-ins, dishwasher, wet-bar, sofa makes into a queen-sized bed. Want to take a look?"
"No thanks," Karyn told him. "I'm not looking for an apartment."
Ron's smile dimmed.
"I'm looking for someone who lives here. At least he used to. His name is Chris Halloran."
The manager frowned. "Halloran? It doesn't sound familiar, but I've got two hundred units here with people moving in and out all the time. I'll check the list of tenants."
He sat down at a desk and pulled out several sheets of paper with names typed on them. Many were crossed off and inked over. Ron traced a finger down the columns of names.
"Nope, sorry. No Halloran."
"He must have moved," Karyn said. "I know he was living here three years ago."
"A lot of people come and go in three years," the manager said. "I've only been here four months myself."
"Could you look it up for me?" Karyn said. "You must have the records."
"We have 'em, but they're all locked up out in the back."
Karyn switched on one of her best smiles. "I'd really appreciate it if you could check for me. It's awfully important."