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Sacrificial Wolf
By Kay Kelly
Rating: T | Status: WIP | Genre:
Drama | Series: Sequel to Bitter End,
Prequel to Thorns Along the Way.
Summary: Original Series. Quentin and Jamison Collins try, in their
different ways, to resolve a new werewolf crisis in the 1950s. Note:
This is the completed portion of a work in progress.
Chapter 1
"Signor Corelli! I know you're there. Let me in!"
Quentin Collins woke with a start. Opened his eyes, and closed them
quickly as light lanced into them.
Oh, God.
His head was throbbing, and the pounding on the door didn't help. He
could feel every blow.
He drew a deep, shuddering breath, gave the bedclothes a kick--and
almost kicked a sleeping woman out of bed. Her only response was a
grunt.
The pounding continued. Quentin forced his eyes open again, and
struggled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
He tried to think.
He was in a residential hotel in...Monte Carlo. "Corelli," his
alias, was a professional gambler. The woman, now snoring loudly, called
herself Desiree.
God, he hoped the man at the door wasn't her husband.
"Please, Signor! I have to talk to you!"
"Awright, I'm comin'. Keep it down!"
Oh, that was bright. He'd replied in English, following the other man's
lead, but he'd forgotten Corelli should speak it with an Italian accent.
His speech was so slurred that it probably didn't matter.
He lurched to his feet. And felt so bad that his first stop had to be
the mirror.
He relaxed slightly when he saw nothing amiss. The man peering back at
him was still a tousle-haired 27-year-old, in peak condition despite his
hangover. Wearing pajama bottoms that met the requirements of decency,
but left his well-muscled arms and torso exposed.
Maybe the husband would be so daunted that he wouldn't notice he could
barely stand up.
"Come on, hurry!" Lower: "It's Gavin."
"Gavin?" Quentin stumbled to the door. Flung it open--and
heaved a sigh of relief.
Whatever crisis had brought him here, Gavin appeared to be all right. A
bearded man in his forties, using two canes for balance while he
adjusted to an artificial leg.
"Ah, grandson." Quentin eyed him reproachfully. "The
boundless energy of youth. Don't you know it's cruel to wake your poor
old Grandpa at this ungodly--what time is it, anyway?"
"Past noon." Gavin elbowed his way into the suite and glanced
into the bedroom. "For Christ's sake, are you always this careless?
I was afraid you were dead in here. I haven't risked getting drunk in
years. Or picking up women, either."
"I'm careful about birth control. Usually." He swayed
slightly. "Come to think of it, there wasn't any sex last night. I
took a shower, and by the time I got back, she'd passed out."
"Serves you right, you old reprobate." Gavin didn't sound as
if he was joking.
Quentin eased himself into a chair. "Hey, I don't do this often.
I'm still--I don't like to say 'celebrating' a death, even Petofi's. But
I feel safer than I have in a half-century. Can you imagine living for
fifty-eight years with the fear, every time you go to sleep, that you'll
wake up in another body?"
"Fifty-eight years? I guess that was pretty grim." Gavin's
frown relaxed into something that was almost, but not quite, a smile.
Quentin closed his eyes and began taking deep, regular breaths, willing
himself to sober up in a hurry.
Something was wrong, or Gavin wouldn't have tracked him down. Only a few
weeks ago they'd agreed not to stay in touch, beyond one elaborately
planned contact every six months. Checking in, so if something happened
to either of them, the other would learn about it soon enough to have a
chance of avenging him. He still had enemies, and Gavin might have
inherited some of Petofi's...
He smelled coffee. Gavin had obviously found the kitchen.
An hour later Desiree was gone, and the men were settled on the balcony
with a pot of the strongest coffee Quentin had ever tasted.
He drained his fifth cup, leaned back, and let himself enjoy the sea
breeze and the hot afternoon sun that beat down on his face and chest.
Safe.
Free.
At least by comparison with the years that had gone before.
And he knew it was all about to crumble, as soon as he began asking
questions.
He sat up straight and looked steadily at his grandson. "Okay. I
know there's a serious problem, or you wouldn't be here. Tell me what it
is."
Gavin twisted his hands in his lap. He stared out at the Mediterranean,
refusing to meet Quentin's eyes. "I...I shouldn't have come."
"Now look! I'm sorry if my lifestyle offends you. I'm no saint,
never have been. But I do care about you--"
"It's not your lifestyle." Gavin's voice cracked. "It's
just that...I acted like a baby, running to the first person I could
think of to scream 'Help!' But you can't help. No one can.
"I shouldn't be burdening you with this. Now I'm here, I suppose
I'll have to tell you. And all that will accomplish is to make you
feel--" He choked. "Not as bad as I do. No one can share the
torment I'm going through!"
He lowered his head, staring at the clenched hands in his lap. At last
he said, "Six years a werewolf, and I never wanted to die. Now
I want to. And I can't." His shoulders heaved as he began to sob.
Quentin's blood ran cold. He moved his chair closer to Gavin's and put
an arm around him. Nightmarish possibilities raced through his mind.
No! Don't let your imagination run away with you. Get at the truth.
"Tell me what's happened," he said, keeping his voice calm.
"Don't assume I can't do anything. I may surprise you.
"But even if this is a situation no one can change, it helps to
have someone to talk to, to offer moral support. Believe me, I
know."
How well he remembered his long, fruitless search for the one friend he
had dared to trust. Barnabas Collins, who had apparently vanished from
the face of the earth after he eloped with Kitty Soames.
"All right." Gavin took a deep breath. "To begin with, I
did call Dad, like you suggested."
Quentin's chest tightened. Jamison. "Is he all right? How
did he take it?" I don't want to know I don't want to know I
don't want to know...
"Very--very well, actually. He--he was shocked when I explained
the--the physical change in me.
"But when he understood, he was overjoyed. For me and for you. He
couldn't stop crying.
"He adores you, Quentin. He was so thankful you're alive and
well!"
Quentin gave a bemused shake of his head. "He has to know I'm
responsible for the werewolf curse. I brought this horror on him, and on
you. But...go on."
"Dr. Hoffman--Dad's best friend, Julian Hoffman--had told him the
same thing you told me. That my 'death' wouldn't cause the curse to pass
to my younger brother. There hadn't been a full moon, that night I
talked to Dad, but he wasn't worried. He was so happy..."
Quentin stiffened. "Are you saying he shouldn't have been happy? My
God--did something happen to your brother?"
"Yes! I--I was uneasy. I c-called again after the full moon.
"Quentin, my brother Roger became a werewolf!"
"Damn!" Quentin exploded out of his chair. "I can't
understand this. I've done a lot of research over the years. I've never
heard of a curse passing to a younger brother."
"Julian Hoffman said the same thing. Could it have happened because
some...dark power...knew I wasn't really dead, I'd cheated the
curse?"
"I find that hard to believe." Quentin frowned. "Wait a
minute. I assume you don't have any children that you know of?"
"No. And almost certainly none that I don't know of. Dad warned me
when I was fourteen. I'm not a virgin, but I've been very careful."
"That's it," Quentin breathed. "It must be. I've
investigated cases of men who supposedly left no children--I'm sure this
Dr. Hoffman did, too. But so many men have 'accidents.' That has to be
it, Gavin! We thought we knew what would happen, but we didn't, because
all those other men had illegitimate sons."
"Makes sense. But this wouldn't have happened to Roger if I'd lived
my life responsibly, like Dad! Hadn't run off to Europe, killed more
people, forced those French villagers to try to destroy me..."
Gavin's voice rose as he became more agitated. "I'm the only member
of the family who refused help! Julian wanted to protect me, like he
does Dad. But I was furious with both of them--with Dad for bringing
children into the world, and Julian for encouraging him. And now, when I
think what my foolish pride has caused..." He covered his eyes, and
a shudder ran through his sturdy body.
Quentin sat down, putting a comforting arm around him again.
"There's no point in torturing yourself. We all bear some of the
blame for what happened. But remember, you were also indirectly
responsible for putting an end to Count Petofi--"
"I don't give a damn about Petofi!"
Quentin cursed himself. Of course not. Why should he?
"All right...no, of course you don't." He tried another
approach. "Gavin, I know what happened to your brother is tragic.
But Dr. Hoffman is taking care of him, isn't he? He can have a long,
full life, like your father."
Only a moment passed before Gavin looked at him and said,
"Yes." But there was something about that moment's
hesitation...and the look on his face, suddenly guarded, secretive...
Quentin's blood turned to ice again.
He grabbed Gavin, yanked him around in the chair and forced him to look
him squarely in the eyes. "Tell me what else has happened!"
"N-nothing else."
"You're lying." Quentin's heart was pounding. "Gavin--was
your brother killed that first night?"
"No."
"I know there's something you haven't told me. Oh, God. Did--did
the shock kill Jamison?"
"No, Quentin!" Gavin grasped the hands clutching his collar.
"Let go. Dad's all right, at least for now.
"I...had decided not to tell you the rest of it. The worst part.
But if you insist, I will."
"I insist."
"All right. Roger wasn't locked in a cell that first night. And
Julian was so sure he wouldn't be affected that he hadn't warned him,
hadn't prepared him at all. Maybe that would have made a difference, I
don't know. Julian saw him transform into the werewolf, but he couldn't
restrain him--"
"Did he attack Julian?"
"No. Julian was wearing a protective medallion, because he expected
to be near Dad later that night.
"The wolf ran into the woods. He mauled two people and frightened
several others that night, but no one was killed or badly injured. And
everyone who saw him had been drinking, so the police didn't take the
reports seriously.
"Julian went searching for Roger next morning. He found him in the
alley behind the Blue Whale, still unconscious. Somehow, he got him in
the car--thank God--and out of town before he came to.
"Quentin, when Roger came to, he...he began...screaming and raving.
And he...never stopped. The experience had...had...caused his mind to
snap!"
Quentin gave a strangled gasp. "You mean...he's...he's
still--?"
Gavin nodded bitterly. "Yes. There hasn't been any significant
improvement. He's quiet at times, but not coherent. Constantly
terrified.
"And of course, he'll have to go through the horror that caused it
again and again, every month, for the rest of his life.
"Julian has told Dad that in light of that, we should...reconcile
ourselves to the likelihood...that Roger is hopelessly insane."
Quentin sat transfixed. From far away he heard his own voice say,
"Oh God, noooooooo..."
He felt a need to scream, but no further sound came.
Insane insane insane insane insane...
He saw her eyes again, Jenny's mad accusing eyes, in the
instant before she plunged a knife into his chest...
"Are you all right, Quentin?" Gavin was looking into his face
anxiously, rubbing his hands. "You're cold as ice! I didn't expect
you to take it this hard. You don't even know Roger."
"I...I'm all right." He tried to concentrate on the here and
now. "It's true I've never met Roger, but he is my grandson. I
certainly know you and Jamison."
He was still speaking breathlessly, his heart pounding.
There was no point in telling Gavin that the specter of insanity had
haunted him for most of his life. Ever since that terrifying experience
with Jenny--the wife he had failed in so many ways--he had feared the
gods would one day exact retribution for his sins by destroying his
mind.
Perhaps this was worse.
He needed air. He stood up and gripped the balcony railing, clutching it
until the metal dug into his palms and the pain helped clear his head.
Gavin was saying, "Julian said Roger wasn't weaker than the rest of
us, or anything like that. He'd read of this happening before, in rare
cases. No one knows for sure, but it's thought that with some
individuals, the human mind doesn't kick out completely when the
werewolf takes over. The human is aware of what's happening but can't
control it, and that drives him mad."
"Yes," Quentin said abstractedly, "I've heard that
theory, too."
"I'm sorry I upset you by telling you. You can see there's nothing
anyone can do to help."
He started to nod in agreement.
And then he froze, unable to move or breathe, as he recalled the words
of an ancient sorcerer he'd met in the Himalayas.
No, no...
An unworthy but very human part of him recoiled, wished desperately that
he hadn't remembered. But there it was. A possible solution. And if
there ever could be a crisis serious enough to warrant the action that
old man had described, this was it.
Icy terror clawed at the pit of his stomach.
Do the right thing, damn you! It's your own fault this grandson,
Roger, is a stranger.
Think of Jamison, only of Jamison. Seventy years old now. Think what
this latest shock must be doing to him.
For once in your life, try to be worthy of the son you fathered.
"Gavin," he asked, "did I understand you to say Dr.
Hoffman only considers the case hopeless because Roger will have to
endure the transformation every month?"
"Y-yes. If it could, magically, be all over--no more werewolf
curse--a psychiatrist with Julian's credentials could probably cure him.
But that's not going to happen."
"Don't be so sure." He weighed his words carefully. "It
may be possible to remove the curse from Roger--only from Roger--if I
can find my portrait."
He turned to look at Gavin. Saw, as he expected, complete bewilderment.
"I don't see any connection. What can you do with your portrait
that will help Roger?"
"It's not what I can do with it, exactly." Mustn't get into
a discussion about what I'm planning. "Over the years I've made
a point of seeking out psychically gifted artists, trying to find
another one with the same talent as Charles Tate. Tate's still alive,
but he and I were bitter enemies, so there's no way he'd help another
member of the Collins family.
"I never did find an artist with the same talent. But in Italy, I
found one who came close. Giuseppe Battaglia. If he drew a picture of a
vase, let's say, and then hurled the real vase across the room, the vase
in the picture would shatter, not the real one. Problem was, he could
only influence inanimate objects.
"But he told me that if he could study my portrait, he could
almost certainly duplicate what Tate had done."
"Ah...I see." Gavin frowned. "But if you haven't found
the portrait in all these years of searching, how do you expect to find
it now?"
"You don't understand. I haven't been searching! I was afraid an
active search would attract Petofi's attention, do more harm than good.
Now he's gone.
"Besides, it probably will be easier to find now than it would have
been forty or even twenty years ago. Better records are kept of
transactions in the art world, communications are better. I'm more
sophisticated and knowledgeable." He managed a grin. "Last but
not least, I have more money!"
Gavin smiled weakly. "Do you have any idea who has it?"
Quentin nodded. "A couple ideas. Starting points, at least.
"To begin with, I've always believed Tate stole it from Collinwood.
Not long afterward, there was a fire in his studio. But obviously, the
portrait wasn't destroyed.
"One possibility is that it was stolen by a looter. If so, anyone
who looked at it during a full moon would have realized he had something
very unusual. It probably would have wound up being sold to a collector
of occult curiosities. The present owner may have no idea whose portrait
it is.
"The other strong possibility is that Tate himself retrieved it
after the fire. He would have preserved it, not for my sake, but for use
as insurance in any future dealings with Petofi.
"I've often asked myself...if I were Tate, what would I have done
with it? I wouldn't have kept it with me--too risky. I think I would
have painted another commissioned portrait over it. Portraits tend to
stay in the subject's family for generations, if only because most of
them have very little resale value. So Tate would have known exactly
where it was.
"If I pretend to have a passion for Tates and offer to buy any and
all of them, for way more than they're worth...and use my own contacts
in the occult world to check out the occult curiosities angle...I can't
be sure I'll find it, but there's a good chance."
Gavin's eyes had lit up. "Quentin, I have another idea. Do you know
whether a Tate portrait of Garth Blackwood is keeping this body
in existence? I realize it wouldn't be the same, there never would have
been a werewolf curse transferred to it. But if that portrait proved
easier to find, it might help Battaglia--"
Quentin shook his head. "Good idea, but no--I feel sure there isn't
one." And a good thing, too. If Gavin produced his portrait, how
would I explain why we couldn't go to Battaglia with it? "Tate
probably did use a portrait--or, more likely, a hasty drawing--to
conjure up Garth Blackwood. But Blackwood turned on him and Petofi, and
they must have tried desperately to get rid of him. I'm sure the first
thing they would have done was destroy the drawing. Why that didn't
destroy him, I don't know."
"It was just a thought." Gavin clasped Quentin's hand.
"Whether or not this idea pans out, thank you, Quentin! I
didn't think I'd ever know hope again."
"We're family, Gavin. We're in this together."
"That's right. And I want to help you search for the
portrait."
"Great!"
The handshake wasn't enough. Quentin pulled his grandson into a quick
embrace.
Then he turned back to the railing--hiding the tears that welled in his
eyes. Blinking hard, he took a final, "casual" look at his
surroundings before going inside.
His life had changed irreversibly in the last half hour, and he felt a
vague surprise that nothing else had changed. The Mediterranean still
lay shimmering at his feet. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, and sounds
of splashing and innocent laughter drifted up from the beach fronting
the hotel.
I've been meaning to buy a sailboat for years. Why didn't I ever get
that sailboat?
Lovers on the beach...Barnabas must be dead by now. I wish I'd been able
to establish, for my own satisfaction, that he had a happy life with
Kitty.
He would have been amused at how easily I misled Gavin, without telling
a single lie.
Just neglected to mention that Giuseppe Battaglia has been dead for over
forty years.
"All right," he said briskly. "Let's go in and start
making phone calls."
Chapter 2
When Quentin woke that day, after noon in Monaco, it was
only 7:30 in Collinsport. But Jamison Collins had already been up for an
hour.
Jamison woke in his homey, cheerfully decorated room at Windcliff--as he
had, one or two mornings a month, for nigh on half a century. For a
moment he dared to hope it was one of those mornings, and the
nightmare about Roger had been just that, a nightmare.
But then he sat up--and had to face reality. He felt tired, but not
exhausted, not weak or sick. And ironically, the sun streaming through
the window was itself proof the "nightmare" was real. On those
mornings Julian wanted him to sleep late, and the blinds were closed. He
had been in full command of his faculties when he'd gone to bed last
night--or rather, at 2:30 this morning--and he'd left the blinds open
deliberately, to use the sun as an alarm clock.
Not that there's any real hurry, he thought dejectedly as he
trudged to the bathroom. Roger would still be heavily sedated, to assure
him at least a few hours' rest. There was precious little Jamison could
do for his son at any time, but less than nothing at daybreak. Julian
had probably been right in urging him to quit spending his nights on a
cot in Roger's room.
And in any case, if he wanted Julian to accede to his plan for Friday,
he'd have to be a model of reasonableness about everything else.
A hot shower had its usual restorative effect, and he took time to use
shampoo and do a thorough job of washing his still-thick, longish hair.
On a warm day, as this promised to be, he could let it dry of its own
accord. In features and coloring Jamison bore a stronger resemblance to
his uncle Edward and son Roger than to Quentin and Gavin. But his height
was one legacy of his father, and he liked to think the thickness of his
barely-graying hair was another.
As he toweled himself off--feeling better, physically, than he usually
did when he occupied these rooms--he smiled at the thought of the
activity on the other side of the wall. It would be, he knew, just as it
was on those days.
Julian always had a staffer posted in the hall, listening through the
wall for the sound of his shower. They'd wait a few minutes--he'd never
figured out how long it normally took him to shave and dress, but Julian
had it timed to the second. At precisely the right moment there would be
a tap on the door, and someone would appear with a newspaper and a
nutritious breakfast.
At this hour, it wouldn't be Julian. At least he hoped it wouldn't. The
man had to rest sometime.
Julian was in his mid-seventies, and the strain of these past weeks had
visibly aged him. It was only yesterday that Jamison had realized the
once-auburn hair was now completely white.
I've been spoiled, Jamison thought ruefully.
Thanks to Julian, the werewolf curse had been little more than an
inconvenience to him all these years. He'd arrive at Windcliff in
mid-afternoon, and by nightfall he'd be dozing on a mattress on the
floor of his padded cell. The pain and convulsions, when they came, were
severe--no getting around that, and they took more out of him as he grew
older. But they would have been much worse without the drugs and muscle
relaxants Julian gave him.
He never had to see blood, never had to see the stray animals Julian
provided to be the werewolf's victims. He simply blacked out in his cell
and woke in a comfortable bed, clean, dressed in his own pajamas.
True, he also woke sore, ill, and bone-weary. In recent months it had
taken him a disturbingly long time to recover. But he never had to fear
for his or his loved ones' safety, or deal with the ugly realities of
the curse.
It had, of course, taken a toll on his personal life. A wife he should
have divorced, in love only with his wealth and position, had been able
to blackmail him into continuing the marriage. She'd died in a fall down
the stairs during one of their quarrels, in full view of the three
children. He hadn't pushed her, but he hadn't reached out to grab her
and try to save her, either, and the children knew it.
He'd never been sure whether the gulf between him and them owed more to
that, or to the "business trips" that had made him miss so
many special occasions. He'd eventually told Gavin the truth about those
absences. But he knew Elizabeth and Roger had realized he never
"traveled" beyond Windcliff...and shared the widely-held,
completely baseless notion that he and Julian were lovers.
Julian had arguably suffered more than he. Drawn to his case by
intellectual interest and hope of "curing" a werewolf, the
young doctor who treated and protected him while he attended Harvard had
become his closest friend. It was Julian who saw the blood, saw the
animals--alive and dead--and had the grisly task of disposing of the
carcasses.
His wife had left him years ago, taking their five-year-old daughter
with her. And although Julian denied it, Jamison had always believed she
had either taken the sexual rumors seriously, or learned the real truth
about her husband's friend and been unable to cope with it.
Sighing, Jamison tucked his shirt into his slacks. He buttoned a last
button...and a knock came at the door.
It was Julian.
Jamison didn't mean to mention his plan for Friday till later in the
week. But he'd resolved to be "reasonable," so he let himself
be persuaded to eat a hearty breakfast. Julian had brought his own
breakfast as well, and they ate in companionable near-silence, sharing
the morning paper.
At last Jamison wiped his mouth with a napkin and said what was really
on his mind. "Did you look in on Roger on your way here?"
"Yes." Julian nodded vigorously, then hurried to swallow his
mouthful of toast. "He had a peaceful night, Jim. Like I told you,
there's no need for you to be there all night."
Jamison knew the doctor was refraining from adding what he really
thought: that given Roger's condition, there was nothing his father
could do at any hour that a nurse couldn't do as well or better.
Instead, he continued, "The sedative was starting to wear off. He
should be awake by the time you get there."
"Thanks." Jamison hesitated momentarily. "You are still
trying new drugs, aren't you?"
Julian looked startled. "Of course! Jim, just because I gave you my
honest prognosis--which wasn't favorable--don't imagine I've given up! I
haven't, and I never will.
"I'm trying something new almost every day, but I still haven't
found a drug that has any therapeutic effect. I can ease his suffering
by sedating him into a stupor, but not for more than a few hours at a
time. If I overuse sedatives, his system will become resistant and they
won't be effective when he needs them most."
"Like...Friday."
"Yes. Like Friday."
Jamison entered Roger's room at 8:30. A bleary-eyed male nurse looked up
at him.
"Good morning, Mr. Collins," the man said quietly, moving away
from the bed.
"Morning." Jamison spoke politely, but saw only his son.
Roger was dressed in pajamas, free of any restraints, lying loosely
curled on his right side in a large, comfortable bed. His slender body
vibrated like a tuning fork. His eyes were open, sweat glistened on his
face, and he was whimpering.
Jamison eased himself into the bedside chair, unsure what to do.
Sometimes Roger responded to a voice, sometimes only to touch. And
regardless of the gentleness of the approach, the response might be
anything from slight relaxation to screaming or panicky violence.
But he was clearly suffering now.
"Good morning, son," Jamison said softly.
Roger tensed. He made no attempt at eye contact, but the whimpering
subsided. As if he was unable to reach out, to communicate...but was
listening, waiting.
Jamison crooned soothingly, started to stroke the fine, sandy hair.
And Roger went into a frenzy.
He began to scream, a high-pitched keening wail that sounded like
nothing human. Curling into a tight fetal position, he rolled
frantically back and forth on the bed.
Jamison felt nothing...beyond wonder at his own steadiness as he helped
the nurse subdue him.
They held him tightly, both of them, till he became exhausted. Then he
collapsed limply in his father's arms, panting like an animal. Jamison
held him, rocked him, and he slept briefly. Later he lay quietly,
staring at the ceiling, while Jamison gave him a sponge bath.
At lunchtime they got him into a sitting position, and the nurse on duty
held him, gently but firmly pinning his arms, while Jamison spoon-fed
him. It was an hour-long struggle, but he consumed a reasonable amount
of food and kept it down.
Then he began crying piteously--evidently tired. They tried to make him
comfortable, darkening the room to let him sleep. But five minutes later
he was sitting up with his arms clasped around his knees, rocking
himself violently, gibbering.
During the afternoon another drug was tried and found ineffective. The
injection caused Roger considerable pain, and he wept for more than an
hour.
Once he looked directly at Jamison and said, "Dad," as he'd
done on two previous occasions. But that was all: one word, spoken
without inflection or emotion. No more and no less meaningful than if
he'd looked at a spoon and said, "Spoon."
Jamison gave his son another sponge bath, and fed him his dinner. This
was less successful than lunch. Roger jerked his head away repeatedly,
spitting out more food than he swallowed. Finally, after eating
relatively little, he vomited.
"Probably that drug in his system," said the nurse.
Jamison insisted on cleaning up the mess.
Later, with Roger dozing fitfully and the nurse on break, he allowed
himself to weep.
He had become very attached to this son in recent years, with Gavin gone
and Elizabeth becoming more and more eccentric. The need to cope with
Elizabeth had forged a bond, for the first time, between him and Roger.
Roger had been away at college when whatever-it-was went wrong in his
sister's marriage. So he was just as ignorant of the facts as Jamison,
who'd been on one of his "business trips"...
Stop lying to yourself!
You know what happened, and why.
You ruined your daughter's life, like you do every life you touch.
Elizabeth murdered her husband that weekend. Murdered him because she'd
just found out about his embezzling.
Embezzling you'd been aware of for years.
Embezzling you tolerated...because you were afraid she'd put him up to
it.
Jamison had washed all traces of Roger's vomit from his hands and
clothes, but he still felt dirty.
He had a late dinner with Julian in the doctor's converted farmhouse a
mile from Windcliff. Both men were good cooks, and they prepared the
meal together.
Jamison felt a twinge of regret that his friend, a Jew, no longer kept
ingredients in stock for kosher cooking. That would have been a welcome
change.
He usually enjoyed these dinners. But tonight he couldn't shake that
sense of regret.
It went beyond kosher food.
It went beyond his grief over Roger.
It was partly the house. The silent, soulless house.
A perfect place to raise children, wasted.
And in the back of his mind, a wish, a dream of something that might
have been, a person who might have brought light and laughter into this
house and made it a home...
Ridiculous. His own foolish imaginings, nothing more, a lifetime ago.
They prepared to return to Windcliff at 10:00. Julian went out the
kitchen door first, with a casual reminder to Jamison that it would lock
automatically.
Jamison paused in the doorway. "God, it's gotten cold out! Wish I'd
brought a sweater."
Julian was halfway to the garage, but he stopped and turned around.
"Me too. Why don't you borrow one of mine, and pick one up for me
while you're at it? There are plenty of them in my bedroom closet. First
room on your right at the top of the stairs."
Jamison said, "Sure! Thanks," and went back into the house
while Julian continued toward the garage.
He climbed the stairs easily, but not without a grimace as he realized
that only a few years ago, he would have taken them two at a time.
Stairs like these...not these stairs. Come to think of it, he'd
never been upstairs in Julian's house in his life.
He turned into the bedroom, switched on the light.
And he saw it.
He stood stock still, not believing his eyes.
In a place of honor on the dresser, the only photo in the room...
He tried to deny the evidence of his senses. To tell himself it was
Julian's ex-wife, or a young picture of his mother.
But it wasn't.
It was a face Jamison knew. "Attractive" rather than
beautiful, but an honest, straightforward face, alight with integrity,
framed by a mane of hair as thick and unruly as his own.
Nora.
Julian appeared at his elbow, breathing hard. "I--I sent you up
here before I remembered--what you'd see."
Jamison sat down on the bed, shaken. "You've...kept a picture of my
sister Nora on your dresser all these years?"
Nora, who'd left home at twenty after a row with her father and
stepmother, leaving another aching void in Jamison's life to match the
one left by Quentin.
Julian nodded. "Obviously. I put it away while I was married to
Miriam, of course. I did care for Miriam." He said it
defensively, like a man trying to convince himself.
"You were in love with my sister," Jamison said slowly.
"So it wasn't my imagination! All these years I've thought
it was..." His voice trailed off. "But then...I didn't imagine
her love for you, either! The day I introduced you, I thought I saw it.
Immediate attraction, on both sides. I was so thrilled..."
He looked up at Julian, suddenly feeling like a hurt, betrayed child
who'd learned that a gift his parents denied him had been very much
within their reach.
To his horror, Julian gave a harsh, bitter laugh--that ended in a
half-sob.
"Yes, we were in love," he acknowledged when he'd caught his
breath. "I never wanted you to know what happened. You were away,
doing graduate work in a place where you were safe, with friends to
protect you...for a little while.
"Use your head, Jim. Can you imagine Edward Collins letting his
daughter marry a Jew?"
Jamison gasped. In his innocent delight at the idea of Julian and Nora
together, he'd never thought of Edward's probable reaction.
"No. But..."
He mulled it over, convinced himself he was thinking rationally before
he went on.
"But I also can't imagine Nora letting him dictate to her. What
could he do? Disown her? Disinherit her? The money he was managing
belonged to his wife. And everyone must have known I'd provide for Nora,
once I inherited from Judith.
"Besides, when she ran off, she proved she didn't care about an
inheritance. She threw it away. I couldn't share with her because I
couldn't find her.
"I can't believe Nora wouldn't have defied Edward to marry you.
Even if it meant subsisting on bread and water for the rest of her
life!"
"Oh, she would have. Beyond a doubt. And that's why she was so hurt
when--" Julian's voice broke.
A full minute passed before he got the words out.
"When...Edward was able to...buy me off."
"Buy you off?"
Jamison felt his world slipping out from under him.
Is any of this real?
Am I as insane as Roger?
Julian sank down on the bed beside him and put a gentle hand on his
shoulder. "I wish I didn't have to tell you. But once you saw that
picture, I knew there was no turning back. You're confused now, but if I
don't explain, you'll figure it out later.
"Don't you remember, Jim? Edward and his wife Anne were the
philanthropists who financed the building of Windcliff. Edward
threatened to withdraw funding if I didn't give up his daughter!
"I knew I couldn't get the money anywhere else. All you had at the
time was income from a trust fund. Your aunt Judith was wealthier than
Edward's wife, but you know what a tightwad she was. Lavished money on
Charity and her no-account husband Shaw, but no one else could hope to
see a penny while Judith lived."
"And you needed the hospital...here...to protect me,"
Jamison whispered. "I was determined to live at Collinwood, much as
I hated it, in the hope Quentin would one day come back."
Julian said dryly, "I didn't understand your reason at the
time."
"And I...understood so little about you, when I thought I knew you
so well..." Jamison shook his head. "Couldn't you have told
Edward my secret? And Nora?"
"No." Julian sighed. "I was sure your condition was
inherited. You always referred to it as a curse, which ruled out the
possibility you'd simply been bitten by another werewolf. And you were
only twenty-one when we met, a thoroughly decent person. I couldn't
believe you yourself had made an enemy capable of putting a werewolf
curse on you.
"But Edward, your supposed father, wasn't a werewolf! That
suggested he wasn't your real father. Which was all the more
embarrassing because the family resemblance proved you were a Collins.
"A few hours' digging in the records revealed there had been a
werewolf in Collinsport in 1897. And your uncle Carl, old enough to have
been your father, had died mysteriously that same year..."
"So you put two and two together and came up with five."
"Yes. But whether that line of reasoning was correct was less
important than my belief Edward would reach the same conclusion. I was
afraid that if he did, he'd refuse to protect you."
Reluctantly, Jamison nodded. "I think you were right. He might have
identified my father correctly, but that wouldn't change the bottom
line. What about Nora?"
Julian winced. "I trusted her completely, of course. And she
idolized her big brother. The only reason I didn't confide in her was
because of the issue of your paternity.
"Remember, I didn't know the real reason you were so bent on
staying at Collinwood. I assumed your upbringing had made you
passionately devoted to the Collins heritage. And I made the further
mistake of judging your sister by you.
"I believed that if I told Nora about the curse, she'd draw the
same conclusions I had. Knowing her mother had been...a faithless
wife...would have cast doubt on her paternity, too. And Nora
didn't resemble any of the family!
"I think now that wouldn't have bothered her in the least. But at
the time, I imagined I was in danger of stripping her of an identity
that might be the most important thing in her life."
"I...see the problem." Jamison swallowed hard, blinking back
tears. "So you just let her think you could be bought off?"
"I had no alternative. She knew there was no real need for a mental
hospital here, knew I could easily find a position somewhere else. So
she saw no justification for what I was doing. Condemned me as bitterly
as she did her father.
"She was angry and disillusioned, and she turned her back on
Collinsport forever."
"You've never stopped loving her." It was a statement, not a
question.
"No. There are...some people...who can love...only once."
Jamison stared numbly at the picture. "Do you have any idea what
became of her?"
"Interesting." Julian gave him a quizzical look. "Even
after what I just told you, you don't express fear she may have
committed suicide."
"No. Because I know my sister. She was strong, a survivor. The kind
of person I want to be. She had too much self-respect to take her
own life because she was disillusioned with someone else. If I know
anything, I know that!"
"You're right." Julian smiled, his eyes shining with pride.
"Quite by chance, I saw her picture and an article about her in a
London paper two years ago. Not an obituary--she's still alive, or at
least she was then.
"She went to England, changed her name to Honor Jamison. I had
known she was considering that change in her first name, because 'Nora'
had been chosen to rhyme with 'Laura.'
"She became, of all things, a noted travel photographer." He
paused, then added softly, "She never married."
Jamison sighed. Then, on a sudden hunch, he asked, "Why did Miriam
leave you?"
"I think you can guess."
"I think so too. She heard a rumor that you'd had a romance with a
Gentile girl, and broken her heart by letting her wealthy bigot father
buy you off. Miriam confronted you, and when you didn't deny it, she
walked out."
"That's about it."
"But why didn't you tell her the truth? Surely she would have
understood--"
"Two reasons. First, Miriam was liberal and enlightened about many
things, but not the occult. She wouldn't have cooperated in protecting a
werewolf. And remember, back then you weren't willing to tell
anyone--even me--how the curse had originated.
"Second, I was in a no-win situation. Miriam wasn't happy with the
thought that I'd trifled with another woman. But if I'd been forced to
admit Nora was the great love of my life, she couldn't have accepted
that, either. I would have lost her in any case, so I chose not to hurt
her by letting her know she was...second best."
Jamison nodded bleakly. "Julian...one more question. Obviously, you
don't have to answer.
"But...were you and my sister lovers? In the sexual sense?" He
hoped desperately that they'd at least had that.
Quietly, "Yes."
"I'm glad."
Later he would wonder if Julian, knowing the answer he hoped for, had
lied.
Jamison didn't try to apologize for the grief he had caused.
No words would have been adequate.
But as they drove back to Windcliff, the small voice in his head gave
him no peace.
Ruined...ruined...like every life you touch...
To Be Continued...
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