"There is much I know. Remember, I told you I have gypsy blood. I know it was no man who killed Roberto and Blanca."
"Who, then?"
"Not who, senora, what. These killings carry the mark of lobombre. The werewolf."
22
IN THE PART OF Mazatlan away from the sparkling beaches and bright new streets was a section of the city called La Ratonera, the rathole. It was a neighborhood where the sightseeing buses never came, and only a foolhardy tourist ventured. The streets were cracked and pitted, the buildings crusted with the filth of decades. Doors were always closed, windows covered. The air was heavy with the smell of human feces and human despair.
From La Ratonera came the used-up prostitutes, the burned-out thieves, the hopeless drunkards and the dying dopers. At night they moved like shadows along the broken streets, in the light of day they shut themselves inside.
Here, in a musty room behind a nameless cantina, Roy Beatty lay face down on the thin mattress of a rusted iron bed. The wallpaper of the room had long ago peeled away to the brown-stained plaster. Vermin scuttled through piles of debris in the corner.
Marcia Lura stood with her arms folded, looking down at Roy. She was oblivious to the squalor around her. The grace of her body and her fierce beauty made her seem an alien being in this lowly place. The green fires in her eyes snapped with suppressed rage.
"You failed again," she said. Her voice was low and vibrant like a taut cello string. "Three times now you have set out to kill, and three times you have blundered. First there was the boy in Seattle. Simple enough, but instead of him, you killed a useless old woman. Then in Los Angeles you had a chance at your Karyn, but you let her get away. And now you have missed her again. After last night she will be more on her guard than ever, and it will be still more difficult for us."
Roy groaned softly where he lay, but did not turn his head to look at her.
"You know that I have to rely on you," Marcia went on. "I would give anything if it were possible for me to make the kill. You know that. And you know why I cannot. I have put all my faith in you, Roy, and you have failed me. Not once, but three times."
"Enough!"
Marcia started, shocked by the unexpected strength in Roy's voice. He sat up in the bed and faced her.
"I don't want to hear any more about failure," he said. "Two young people died last night. Two people who had done you no harm. Nor me. And yet I killed them. With the woman in Seattle, that makes three. Three innocent people I have killed for you."
Marcia's eyes met his, and she slowly recovered her poise. It was Roy who looked away first.
"You killed them for me, did you?" Her voice was dangerously soft. "Just for me. Look at me, Roy. Tell me you did not enjoy the killing. Tell me you did not exult in the power of your muscles as you ripped the throat from the old woman who foolishly stood in your way. Tell me that as you savaged the naked bodies of the couple on the bed that you did not feel a sexual thrill of your own. Can you tell me this?"
Roy's gaze returned to her, but when he spoke much of the power was gone from his voice. "No, I can't deny those things. Because of what I am, the killing excites me. I need it. But because what I used to be, it disgusts me."
Marcia walked to the bed. She sat next to Roy on the threadbare mattress and eased his head down onto her large, firm breasts.
"I know the pain you feel, my Roy," she said. "I understand. As the time passes, the pain will grow less. One day all memories of the man you were — that weak, shallow, ignorant man — will fade to shadows. You will glory in what you are. The strength of the wolf will be your joy, and you will know only joy. Then you and I will truly be together. That is what you want, isn't it, my Roy?"
"Yes." His words were muffled against the silk of her blouse. "That's what I want."
Gently Marcia opened the buttons down the front of her blouse, freeing her breasts. They glowed pale and smooth in the faint light that filtered into the room. Roy took her nipple into his mouth. She stroked the shaggy blond hair at the back of his head and spoke in a low, caressing tone.
"Our mission here will soon be ended. Time is short for us now because the woman has an ally. Her lover, your one-time friend. We must separate them. Together they are dangerous because they know what they are fighting. They know our strength, and will not be taken by surprise."
She was silent for a moment and pressed Roy's head tight against her. "And worse, they know our weakness."
Roy brushed his lips over the upper curve of her breast and kissed the ivory-smooth throat. He pulled back from her and reached out to touch the silver streak in her hair.
"My poor Marcia," he murmured. "They hurt you so."
The blazing green eyes stared into the past.
"Never will I forget the pain of that silver bullet. There is no pain to compare."
"I promise they will pay for that," Roy said. "I won't fail you again."
Marcia stroked his broad back. Her fingers caressed the smooth, powerful muscles. "I know you won't," she said. "But it will be difficult. They will seek help against us."
"How can we stop them?"
"There are many gypsies in Mazatlan, people who have come down from the mountains. People who remember the old laws. We will spread the word among them. We cannot allow the woman and her lover to arm themselves against us as they did before. We must strike first."
"Will the gypsies help us?"
"We don't need their help. All we will ask of the gypsies is that they give no help to our enemies. They will not deny us that. They will not act against lobombre."
Roy's body tensed, but he began to relax as Marcia used her fingers on him, then her mouth. In a little while there was no more rebellion in him.
23
IN THE MORNING AFTER the bloody business in Cabana 12, the sun had barely cleared the mountains behind the Palacio del Mar, but the grounds and the lobby were alive with people. There were members of the Mazatlan police force along with people from the State of Sinaloa and the Mexican government. The sightseers had not started to arrive yet, since the morning papers were not out with the news.
At a table in the dining room, Karyn sat over sweet rolls and coffee with Chris Halloran and a worried-looking Luis Zarate. They looked around furtively, like conspirators, and talked in low, guarded voices.
"I understand you said last night you could help us," Chris said.
Luis' eyes darted around the room. "I did not say that exactly."
"Well, what exactly did you say?"
"What I was going to say is that I know somebody who maybe can help you."
"Damn it, man, get on with it. Do we have to drag every word out of you?"
Karyn laid a hand on Chris's arm. "Please, Chris, let Luis tell us in his own way."
"Gracias, senora," said the taxi driver. "The one I know, the one who may help you, lives in the mountains back of the city of Mazatlan. She is a gypsy. Very old. Her name is Philina."
"What the hell good is an old gypsy lady going to do us?" Chris demanded. "We're talking about werewolves, not tea leaves. I thought you understood that."
Liu's pushed his chair back from the table. With as much dignity as he could summon, he started to rise. "If the senor is not interested, I will take no more of your time."
"Please, Luis, sit down," Karyn said. "We want very much to hear what you have to say." She frowned at Chris.
"I'm sorry, Luis," he said. "I'm just upset. We don't want any more people to die. And we need all the help we can get, from anyone who will give it. I truly appreciate your offer."
Luis eased back into the chair. "Muy bien. Philina is, like I told you, a very old gypsy. She is full-blooded gypsy, not just little part like me." He blinked a smile on and off, then continued. "Philina sees things in your hand. She knows things that are going to happen. If there is anyone who can help you fight lobombre, it is Philina the gypsy."