A Werewolf Among Us Part 3

The big man evidenced no dissatisfaction with St. Cyr's prying. "Quite wealthy," he said. "Though I'm not as wealthy as Jubal, by even a fraction." He smiled the wolfs smile again and said, "That still makes me suspect, doesn't it? Perhaps even more than before."

"Are you mentioned in Jubal's will?"

"Yes," Hirschel said, still smiling. "I receive the least of all those included-unless, of course, I'm the only survivor."

St. Cyr looked at the wolf. For a moment he felt that its gla.s.s eyes had shifted their dead gaze, stared directly at him. He blinked, and the eyes were where they should be, fixed on the air, cold, dry.

"I guess that will be all for tonight," he said, standing.

Hirschel did not rise to see him to the door, but the panel slid open as he took a few steps toward it.

At the door St. Cyr turned and looked at the wolf, looked at Hirschel, said, "The wolfs head there..."

"What of it?"

"It's one of those now extinct?"

"Yes."

"And is that how the du-aga-klava du-aga-klava is supposed to appear in its animal shape?" is supposed to appear in its animal shape?"

Hirschel turned in his chair and examined the long-snouted, wickedly-toothed beast. "Pretty much that way, I suppose, though a deal larger and far more ugly."

St. Cyr cleared his throat and said, "Why did Climicon label the wolf for extinction?"

"It was a predator, a very dangerous animal," Hirschel said "It was not at all the sort of thing you'd want running loose in the woods on a rich man's paradise."

"Then why let the boars live?"

Hirschel clearly had not considered that conflict before. He looked surprised, turned to examine the wolf again, frowned. "You've got a good point there, for a boar can be twice as deadly and mean-tempered as any wolf."

"No ideas?"

Hirschel shook his head; his black hair bounced, fell back into place. "You'll have to ask Climicon about that, but they surely had their reasons."

"I'll find out in the morning," St. Cyr said.

"Let me know what you learn."

"I will. Good night."

St. Cyr stepped out of the room, oriented himself by the paintings on the walls and walked the length of the long corridor to his own suite.

In his bedroom, stretched out full length on the enormous waterbed, he said, "I've still got nothing concrete to go on, no base to build the case from."

A few things.

"Nothing."

Bits and pieces.

"Like Hirschel's curious resemblance to the wolf when he smiles?"

Immaterial.

FOUR: An Ugly Incident

"Visitor, Mr. St. Cyr," the house computer said.

The cyberdetective sat up, swung to the edge of the shifting bed and stood. "Who is it?"

"Mr. Dane Alderban," the house told him.

"Just a minute."

"Holding, sir."

St, Cyr took off his suit jacket and draped it over a chair, put the largest of his unopened suitcases on the bed, opened it, quickly dumped out the contents, ran his fingers along the cloth lining and watched it curl back from the concealed pocket in the bottom. He removed a handgun and a chamois shoulder holster, amused as he always was that this one requirement of his profession had changed little in a thousand years. He buckled the holster on, put the gun in the smooth sleeve of it, slipped into his coat again.

"Still holding, sir."

"On my way right now," St. Cyr said, wondering what Dane Alderban had to say on the sly, away from the rest of the family. He stepped out of the bedroom, pulled the door shut, crossed the sitting room as he called for Dane's admittance.

The door slid up, and the young man entered the room fast, stopped beyond St. Cyr, and looked quickly around as if he expected to find someone else there.

"You'll have to excuse the delay," St. Cyr said. "I was dressing for bed when you called."

Dane raised a long-fingered hand and impatiently waved away the suggestion of an apology. He sat down in the largest easy chair in the room, by the patio doors, barely able to contain the nervous energy that normally kept him on his feet, pacing, moving. He said, "I've come here to make a suggestion that could put an early end to this whole affair-if you'll have the good grace to listen to me and to think about what I have to say."

St. Cyr went to the bar, folded it open, looked at the contents and said, "A drink?"

"No, thank you."

St. Cyr poured Scotch, put the bottle back, popped two cubes into the gla.s.s and to h.e.l.l with bruising the liquor, sat down in the chair that faced Dane's from the other end of the closed patio doors, putting a long swath of darkness on one side of them. "My job is to listen to people, consider what they tell me-and put a swift end to the case."

Dane sat on the edge of the chair, his elbows on his knees, his head bent down, looking up at St. Cyr over the ridge of his brow, just as he had done in the drawing room earlier. It almost seemed that he affected the position to conceal most of the expression on his face.

He said, "St. Cyr, I am thoroughly convinced that the native legends are the only answer to the murders."

"The du-aga-klava du-aga-klava, a werewolf among us?"

"Yes."

St. Cyr did not reply.

"That thing you wear, the other half of you..."

"The bio-computer?"

"Yes. It rejects the notion of werewolves, doesn't it, discards the consideration right off?"

St. Cyr took a sip of Scotch, found it smooth and hot, a good brand. "It doesn't, strictly speaking, discard any probability. It a.s.signs degrees of possibility to every theory that comes up, that's all."

"To werewolves-a very low degree of possibility."

"Most likely."

Dane drew even more to the edge of his chair, increased the odd angle from which he carried on the conversation. "So low a degree, in fact, that it doesn't give serious consideration to the idea at all."

"It doesn't reason in absolutes," St. Cyr corrected, "neither negative nor positive absolutes."

Suddenly the young man sighed and slid back in the easy chair, as if someone had tapped his skull and released the energy in one puff. He said, "At least, give me a chance to show you a few things. Come with me tomorrow when I go up into the mountains."

"What will we find there?" St. Cyr asked.

"Gypsies," Dane said.

"Native Darmanians?"

"Yes. But there is one old woman, especially, who may be able to convince even your bio-computer. Her name is Norya, and she knows all there is to know about these mountains."

"To convince both halves of me, of the symbiote, she'll have to have facts, not tales, evidence and not superst.i.tion."

"She has all of that, facts and and tales, evidence tales, evidence and and superst.i.tion." He slid forward on the chair again, his charge of energy having apparently built up to full strength. "Will you come along with me?" superst.i.tion." He slid forward on the chair again, his charge of energy having apparently built up to full strength. "Will you come along with me?"

St. Cyr was about to reply when the bio-computer insinuated a command, unvoiced, into the conversation: Go easy on the liquor; you need to think clearly; you may have to react suddenly Go easy on the liquor; you need to think clearly; you may have to react suddenly. He looked at the gla.s.s in his hand and saw that he had finished all but half an ounce of Scotch in the last couple of minutes, though he had not realized that he was even sipping at it.

"Will you?" Dane asked again.

"What time?"

"After lunch; meet me in the garage on the first level."

"Fine," St. Cyr said.

'You won't regret giving me your time."

Dane got to his feet as if something had sneaked up behind him and gouged him in the ribs; he laced his fingers and stretched his arms, cracking his large knuckles.

St. Cyr stood too, trying to think if there were something he should ask the boy, some new angle of questioning warranted by the circ.u.mstances, and his train of thought was derailed by a curious, abrupt bark that seemed to come from the direction of the patio. They both turned and looked, but saw nothing out of place.

Then the noise came again, longer this time, long enough to identify. It was a woman's scream.

"Betty!" Dane said.

"Where's her room?"

"Fourth level."

"Let's go."

The door opened at their approach, though not fast enough, forcing them to crouch and scuttle under it. They burst into the hallway and ran to the nearest elevator, found that it was in use, turned to a lift farther along the corridor and leaped inside of that. Dane punched a b.u.t.ton on the control panel. The doors clapped shut, and the elevator dropped forty feet in one sickening lurch, grooved into horizontal rails and carried them sideways for a moment before opening its doors again on the main corridor of the fourth level. They stepped into the hall, listened, heard nothing.

That struck St. Cyr as being the worst thing they could have heard-anything but silence.

"This way," Dane said.

He led St. Cyr to a side corridor where they came upon Hirschel, who was pounding at a concealed door and calling Betty's name.

"What happened?" the cyberdetective asked.

The hunter shook his head. "I was going into my room upstairs when I heard her scream; knew immediately who it was. I just got here a moment ago."

"Is there any way to open the door?" St. Cyr asked.

Dane said, "We have private voice-coded locks. But Teddy can get in if he has to."

"Call him, then."

"No need, sir," Teddy said close behind them. He had drifted down the corridor without making a sound. "If you'll stand back, I'll get you in." When they followed his instructions, he slid to a point just under the recessed slot that marked the entrance, and he emitted a high, keening tone that was almost beyond the range of human hearing. The door slid open at this unsyllabled command.

At the far end of the corridor Jubal Alderban appeared, dressed in pajamas and a robe, his head bent forward and his shoulders hunched nearly to his ears, not running and yet not taking his time, either. He seemed afraid to react-as if, running, he would generate the reason he had to run, and if walking, he would somehow anger the Fates by taking their portents too casually. Alicia followed him, plainly tired, resigned.

"Keep them out of her room," St. Cyr told Hirschel.

He and Dane went into the suite, where only a table lamp burned near a writing desk, leaving most of the room in deep shadow.

"Betty?" Dane called.

She did not reply.

"The patio," St. Cyr told him, indicating the open gla.s.s doors.

Dane started forward.

"Wait!" St. Cyr dipped into his chamois holster and drew his pistol. "You stay well behind me."

"My sister sister has just-" has just-"

"Stay behind me," St. Cyr said, his voice loud but brittle, no tone to debate. "I'm not one of the family, not marked like the rest of you seem to be."

Reluctantly, Dane obeyed, falling into step behind the detective as St. Cyr crossed the room and stepped through the double gla.s.s doors. As he placed one foot on the patio, the detective turned and shoved him backwards into Betty's room, almost knocking him down.