The attack was so swift that Pastory had no time to cry out. From the crouching position on the floor Malcolm sprang at him. The flashing teeth seized him by the throat; the powerful jaws clamped together. Pastory felt the hot splash of blood down the front of himself. He screamed, but all that came from his gaping mouth was a soft bubbling sound. He had a last impression of the hot, snorting breath of the beast on his face, then the life drained out of him.
The beast, with its jaws still clamped on the man's throat, carried him the way a dog does a rabbit. Blood splattered the wooden floor of the stage, the velvet curtain, the canvas of the tent, the cage. Finally he dropped Pastory's pale and broken body with a thump.
He came through the curtain and in two long bounds was at the side of the still figure of Bateman Styles. The muzzle poked down close to the showman's livid face and snuffled questioningly. There was no answer from Styles. No movement, no breath, no heartbeat.
The beast whirled from the body of the showman and ran out through the opening in the rear of the tent. Outside he lifted his bloody muzzle to the night sky and he howled.
It was a sound Malcolm had heard many times from others in the night. He howled again - a long, ululating cry of loneliness and rage and despair. From up in the distant hills, faint but unmistakable, came an answer.
Along the carnival midway people stopped and turned to stare toward the unearthly howling. Small children began to cry. Women pressed closer to their men. The men glanced at one another, each waiting for someone else to make the first move. Then several of the carnival people started toward Bateman Styles' tent.
Malcolm heard them coming. He swung his great beast's head to and fro, searching for a way out. Seeing a path that led off toward the town between the parked trailers and trucks, he ran. Ran with ground-devouring strides. If any of the carnival men saw the powerful figure loping across the field they did not try to give chase.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Gradually Malcolm's pace slackened. His breathing grew labored. He became aware of an ache in his muscles and the slap of his bare feet on the pavement. He slowed to a walk, watching behind to be sure there were no pursuers.
The shadows seemed to deepen. He listened to the tiny chirps and rustlings of the night creatures. The air was cold on his skin where the clothing was torn, and he realized that the transformation had reversed itself. Once again his appearance was that of a normal human.
He gathered the torn remains of his clothing about him and looked around to get his bearings. He saw he was on the state highway that formed the main street of Silverdale. A mile ahead he could see the scattered lights of the town. A couple of hundred yards before him was the neon sign for the motel where Holly Lang was staying. He hurried on.
There were only four cars pulled into the spaces to accommodate the twelve rooms of the motel. Curtains were pulled across the windows in the occupied rooms. In the office Malcolm could see a young Oriental woman working on a crossword puzzle.
He crept along the wall to the motel room with Holly's Volkswagen parked before it. Softly he knocked.
When Holly opened the door her shocked expression reflected the boy's disheveled appearance.
"Malcolm, what happened to you? Are you all right?"
"Can I come in?"
"Of course." She stood aside while Malcolm entered the room. She led him to a chair, then snapped off the old movie that was playing on television.
Malcolm sat stiffly in the chair for a moment, breathing hard. Then he started to cry. At first he made an effort to hold back the tears, then gave in to them. All the pent-up sorrows, frustrations, and pains of his young life burst forth in uncontrolled sobs. Holly took a chair across the room and sat quietly, letting him cry it out.
After a while he subsided. He used the tattered sleeve of his shirt to wipe his eyes, and looked shyly over at Holly.
"I've never done that before," he said.
"Then it was about time you did. Everybody has to let the hurt come out once in a while."
"It does feel better."
"Of course it does. People shouldn't hold those things inside."
The boy's faint smile faded. "Oh, Holly, it's all over now. I've ruined everything."
"Why don't you tell me about it."
The boy spoke haltingly, glancing at Holly's face from time to time for a reaction. Mostly he kept his eyes downcast.
"Dr. Pastory came to the tent tonight."
"How did he..." Holly interrupted, then caught herself. "No, never mind. Go on."
"He... he wanted to take me back. He offered to buy me from Mr. Styles. For a minute I thought Bate was going to do it, but he never would have. He told Dr. Pastory to get out. Pastory grabbed him and there was a scuffle. Mr. Styles choked and fell down. I was behind the curtain and heard the whole thing."
The boy paused. His gaze drifted off to a corner of the ceiling, as though seeing there again the events of the night.
"I didn't want it to happen to me then, Holly. I didn't want to change. I tried to fight, but I couldn't help it. When Dr. Pastory came to get me, I couldn't help myself."
"There's blood on your shirt," Holly said. "Did he hurt you?"
Malcolm shook his head. "It isn't my blood. It's his. Pastory's."
"You... attacked him?"
"I killed him, Holly."
"Oh, Malcolm, are you sure?"
"I killed him, all right. And do you want to know what else?"
"What?" Holly said quietly.
"I liked it. I hated him so much, both for what he did to me and for hurting Mr. Styles, that all I wanted was for him to die. And when he did I was happy."
Holly stretched out a hand and touched him on the shoulders. "Oh, my poor, poor Malcolm."
"Then I went to Mr. Styles and I saw he was dead. If I could have killed Pastory again right then, I would have. I ran out. People started coming toward the tent. I just kept running until I got here."
"I'm glad you came to me," Holly said.
"I shouldn't have. They'll be looking for me soon. I'll just get you in trouble, too."
"You mustn't think that way, Malcolm. What happened was not your fault. Wayne Pastory was an evil man. Whatever happened to him I'm sure he provoked."
"But I killed him, Holly. I turned into an animal and I killed him. If they catch me, they'll lock me up."
"Not if I can do something about it," she said. "Come with me, Malcolm. Now, tonight. We'll go where there is help for you."
"Why should anyone want to help me?" he said.
"You are not to blame for what happened. You have to remember that. What you have is like a sickness. And sickness can be cured."
"But this is... I'm... different," the boy said.
"Yes, Malcolm. And it is because you're different that you can't be held responsible."
"It could happen again," he said.
"We must see that it doesn't. You were put under unbearable stress tonight. The man you most hated attacked and killed a good friend. A lot of so-called normal people would have lost control, too."
Malcolm was silent for a long minute. Then he said, "What can we do, Holly?"
"The first thing is to get out of here. I can pack in ten minutes, then we'll start back to Pinyon. There are people there we can trust."
Malcolm looked at his torn, blood-spattered clothes. "I can't go like this."
"I doesn't matter, Malcolm," Holly said. "No one but me will see you."
"I don't want to," he said, trying to cover himself. Holly sighed. He was, after all, an adolescent boy with the normal adolescent's dread of being embarrassed.
She said, "I might have something you can wrap yourself in, at least until we get to Pinyon."
"I have some things in the trailer," Malcolm said. "Mr. Styles' trailer. I can go and get them."