Gavin Ramsay frowned at the half-tone photo in the tabloid. He said, "Are you sure this is Malcolm?"
"Of course it is. Don't you see it?"
"Frankly, no. They do some wild things with makeup these days."
"Damn it, Gavin, you're just being obstinate. You know it's Malcolm."
"Well, there's a chance."
"So let's go. We'll find that carnival and get him out of there."
"Right now? Just like that?"
"Why not?"
"For one thing, we don't know how old this photo is or where this" - he scanned Louis Zeno's story - "Samson Supershow is playing. It doesn't sound like a very big outfit."
"You can find out, can't you? You're a cop."
"I suppose I can," Ramsay admitted, "which brings me to my second point. I have a job here, and the taxpayers would probably not approve of me rushing off to do some private business on their time."
"I can go," Holly said. "You don't have to come along."
"Uh-huh. I remember the last time you rushed off to handle things on your own. As I remember, you were in kind of a fix when I got there."
"This is different," she said. "I won't have a Wayne Pastory to contend with. Chances are these carnival people don't know what they've got. All I'll do is go to the carnival, find Malcolm, and bring him back."
"Assuming that this is Malcolm," Ramsay said. "What if he doesn't want to come back?"
Holly was flustered for a moment. It was a possibility she had not considered.
"In that case I'll... I'll let him decide for himself. The least I can do is tell him he's not in any trouble over what happened at Pastory's."
"I don't want you to get in any trouble either." She softened her tone. "I promise, Sheriff, if there is the least hint of any rough stuff I'll come running back for reinforcements. Okay?"
He could not hold the stern expression, and relaxed into a smile. "Okay, Doctor. Let me see if I can locate this Samson Supershow for you."
He made a call to the sheriff's office in Los Angeles County. A deputy he knew there said he would check with the theatrical booking agencies. Half an hour later the L.A. deputy called back with the information.
"He says Samson is booked this week in some place called Silverdale over in Inyo County," Gavin told Holly. "If you want to wait a couple of days, maybe I can arrange to go with you."
"Thanks, Gavin, but I don't want to let any more time go by. It's been over a year since we last saw Malcolm at the clinic."
"Then what difference would a couple more days make?"
"I just don't want to wait, that's all."
"You will call to let me know what's happening."
"That's a promise. I'll call as soon as I know anything." She came around the desk and gave him a warm, affectionate kiss. "Thanks, Gavin."
"Don't mention it."
She skipped out of the office to her waiting Volkswagen. Ramsay sat watching her, a worried frown on his face.
It had not been a good year for Dr. Wayne Pastory. After the unpleasantness at the clinic and his dismissal from La Reina County Hospital, he had been unable to get a practice started anywhere else. His reputation in the medical community, never the best, had fallen to a new low.
He was living in Stockton, eking out a living providing uppers and downers to minor league ballplayers. As he pondered his reduced circumstances, Pastory nourished an ever-building rage. His chance for a real breakthrough - a study on an advanced case of genuine lycanthropy - had literally been stolen from him. Those people had had no right to break into his clinic and make it possible for Malcolm to escape. Yet it was he, not they, who suffered the ostracism. The injustice of it ate away at his mind like a steady drip of acid. Someday... someday he would make them all pay. When he saw the picture and story of the "Animal Boy" in the supermarket tabloid, Pastory could have cried out for joy. It was Malcolm. Malcolm as Pastory had seen him when he applied the electrical charges, only further along in the transformation. What must be happening to him now in the hands of some unschooled carnival showman?
It was an easy matter to learn where the carnival was playing. Wayne Pastory locked up the small apartment that was serving also as his office and headed for the town of Silverdale.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
An authentic carnival, even a rinky-dink outfit like the Samson Supershow, was a new experience for Holly Lang. She had grown up a city girl, and the closest she had come to the carnivals of small towns were theme parks like Disneyland and Magic Mountain. Those had been exciting at the time, but there was always a sense of antiseptic unreality. People dressed in oversized animal costumes. Here in the carnival the sights and smells were real. The people were real. And always just beneath the surface of cotton candy and jangly music there was a sense of danger. Things could happen in a carnival that would never be allowed at Disneyland.
These thoughts danced in and out of Holly's mind as she made her way along the sawdust midway. The carnival was an experience she would like to take the time to savor one day, but tonight her entire attention was given to finding Malcolm.
She had no trouble locating the tent. It was the largest on the grounds, and the crowd outside it was bigger than any of the others. Jungle sounds blared from a loudspeaker that Bateman Styles had recently added.
As Holly approached, the entrance flap was pulled back and a crowd of people spilled out. Apparently the show had just ended. From their expressions, it appeared the audience had enjoyed themselves.
Holly frowned up at the huge paintings flanking the entrance. She listened to the comments of a couple who were just coming out.
"I wonder how they do it," the woman said. "Search me," the man answered. "I was watching him like a hawk the whole time and I didn't see anything funny."
"You don't think it could be real?"
"Are you kidding? People don't turn into animals except in the movies."
"Yes, but in the movies they can use camera tricks. This wasn't any picture."
"Well, it looked real. I'll say that."
"I know. I thought for a minute he was coming right through the bars."
"It's all part of the act."
"Well, I hope so."
The couple drifted off toward the food tent. Holly waited until the last of the crowd had come out, then she started toward the entrance.
She pulled aside the tent flap and was met by a fat man with a red nose. He wore a bright checkered vest and straw hat.
"Sorry, Miss, the show has just ended. There will be another in one hour. You may buy your ticket now, if you wish, and be guaranteed of getting in."
"Are you Mr. Styles?" Holly asked.
The man's expression turned guarded. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"We've never met. I read the story about you in the National Expo."
"Ah, yes, that piece of drivel. Since that was published I don't even allow a camera into the tent. I would ban writers, too, if there was a way to tell them from other layabouts. How may I be of service to you?"
"I, er, think I know your... Animal Boy."
"Grolo? I hardly think that's likely, Miss..."
"Dr. Lang."
"Doctor," Styles amended. "What makes you think you are acquainted with my protege?"
"In the first place, his name is Malcolm."
"I'm afraid you've made a mistake, Doctor. I don't know any Malcolm."
"Holly!" The joyful cry came from the rear of the tent. "I thought I recognized your voice."
Holly and Bateman Styles turned: Malcolm jumped down from the stage and ran toward them, smiling broadly.
"You know this lady?" said Styles.
"It's all right, Bate," the boy said. "She's a friend of mine."