There were changes, too, in the office of the La Reina County Sheriff. Milo Fernandez finished up his training tour and returned to school to study police science. His next assignment would be at some larger jurisdiction than La Reina County, but it could hardly be as exciting. Milo left with regret, and with good wishes from all.
Roy Nevins, having had a taste of real excitement for the first time since his early days in Oakland, had second thoughts about retiring. The law would allow him to stay an additional five years. He sold the idea to his wife by pointing out that the pension would be bigger. The real reason was that Roy Nevins, past fifty, had found a pride in his profession. He had started watching his diet and running and had lost so much weight that he had to buy a whole new set of uniforms. It was money he was glad to spend.
Gavin Ramsay watched the departure of one deputy and the transformation of the other with, respectively, regret and pride. The investigation of the local killings had largely been taken over by other agencies as the search for the killer widened, and it was the old routine again in the sheriff's office. Given Roy's new dedication to the job, one deputy was enough to handle the workload.
The sheriff found himself for the first time in months with spare time. Fortunately, he had a place to spend it - with Dr. Holly Lang. It was natural that they should be together because of the terrible secret they shared. As they had promised each other, neither had spoken of the nature of the beast that destroyed the brutish Kruger in Pastory's clinic.
There were people around who would be only too ready to embrace the idea of werewolves in their midst. But they were the same people who believed in little men from outer space and went to flying saucer conventions. Their support could only hinder the very personal search of the sheriff and the doctor.
They did make one attempt. On a morning about a month after their return, Gavin had said, "I know one man who would believe us."
"I thought we agreed that kooks were out," Holly said. "This guy is no kook. He knows about these things, and he might be able to help us."
"Then by all means, let's give him a try."
They went together to Ken Dowd's shop, The Spirit World, in Darnay. Ramsay was disappointed to see the shades drawn and a CLOSED sign taped to the glass on the inside of the door. He and Holly went into the neighboring leather goods store to inquire about the owner.
"Ken Dowd?" the young clerk repeated. "He closed up about three weeks ago. He made a bundle during the werewolf boom, then locked the store and split. Wish I could have had a piece of his business at the time."
"Do you know where he went?" Ramsay asked.
"Back east somewhere is all I know. Cape Cod or something like that. Him and his wife. Told me he was going into the antique business. Something that couldn't possibly scare anybody, he said. Maybe he hasn't checked the price of antiques."
"You have no address for him?"
"No. You might try the real estate company that's selling the store for him."
Ramsay thanked the young man and he and Holly left the shop.
Back out on the street, he turned to her with a shrug. "I don't think it's worth chasing him to Cape Cod. You got any suggestions?"
"Afraid not. But we've got to keep looking, Gavin. I'd feel we were abandoning Malcolm if we gave up."
"Hey, nobody said anything about giving up. I thought Ken Dowd might help us from the, well, occult end. We missed him, but we can sure as hell keep looking. I told you we were in this together, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did. All the way, you said."
"And all the way I meant. Let's go."
Ramsay received hundreds of pictures from police agencies all over the country. Pictures of boys - delinquents, runaways, pickups, strays. He and Holly spent hours going over them. Many resembled Malcolm in one small way or another, but Malcolm himself was not among them.
One evening at Holly's little house, after a session with a new batch of photos from the police chief of Seattle, Ramsay shoved the pile of glossy prints aside irritably.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I'm sick and tired of looking at pictures of young boys," he said.
Holly laid a hand on his knee. "I know it's boring, but it's one thing we can do."
"Well, I'm beginning to feel like a damned pedophile."
"Are you going to sulk now?"
"Sulk, hell. It's been half a year."
"You said - "
"I know, I know, and I'm not backing out on you. I understand how important Malcolm is to you, and I'm willing to make every reasonable effort to find him. But do you realize how much time we're spending looking for a boy who could be anywhere in the Western Hemisphere by now? Or dead?"
"Malcolm is alive," Holly said stubbornly. "I know he is. I can feel it."
"Okay, so he's alive. He's becoming an obsession with you. We can't even go to the movies without Malcolm sitting there between us."
Holly's cheeks showed pink spots of anger. She took her hand away from Gavin's knee. "Oh, is that so? I don't remember a lot of complaining from you last night about the bed being too crowded."
"Last night was fine," Gavin admitted. "But those times are getting to be mighty rare. We started out with what I thought was a pretty good sex life. Lately it's Malcolm this and Malcolm that, and we're lucky to have an uninterrupted twenty minutes for fooling around."
Holly stood up abruptly from the couch. Gavin scrambled to his feet to face her.
She said, "If you want out, Sheriff, you've got it. Thank you very much for sticking it out this long. I'll handle it myself from here on. Goodnight."
"If that's the way you want it, goodnight!" he said, and stomped out the door.
Ramsay had stomped all the way down the walk to his car and had his hand on the door handle when he stopped. Asshole, he told himself. He squared his shoulders, turned, and walked back up the path to Holly's little house. As he reached for the bell the door opened in his face.
"They always come back," she said.
"You're too smart for your own good, lady. Want to look at the pictures some more?"
"Not tonight," she said.
"Want to go to bed?"
"Try me."
He gently closed the door behind them.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The weeks passed.
And the months.
Malcolm wandered up and down the long, diverse state of California. He had been in and out of cities, towns, villages; crossed mountains and desert. Several times he had ventured near the state line. He had looked across into Oregon, Nevada, and Arizona, but he had not crossed the line. Although he was a young man without roots, he still felt that it was in California that he would find what was waiting for him. It had all begun for him in this state, and he sensed that this was where it would end.
Once, during the winter when he was seeking warmth where he could find it, Malcolm did travel a short distance into Mexico. He had looked hard at the verdant hills below Tijuana and felt the presence there of others like himself. Yet they were not his own people, the survivors of Drago. He had no doubt now that there were survivors. Many times he had heard the howling in the night - calling him. Though his body yearned to answer their call, he fought against it. He was not ready.
Despite the vagabond life, Malcolm's body filled out over the year. He grew stronger. His shoulders broadened out and his shoulders expanded. Such work as he was able to find helped harden him. His muscles were supple, his hands rough and callused. Although he took a boyish pride in his more manly appearance, there were new problems.