Laws of Nature -2 (6 page)

Once upon a time, Bill Cantwell had played football for the New England Patriots. Whenever Jack thought about that, he marveled at the man's control of his physical appearance. Prowlers had to concentrate in order to look human, and it was nothing short of miraculous that Bill had been able to play a game as brutal as professional football and never reveal his true form.

They knew him as a former professional football player, a bartender, a friend. Yet it was clear that he was very old, perhaps centuries old. Before he had played for the Patriots, he must have been many other things. Logic indicated that Bill Cantwell was not even his real name, though that was something else no one wanted to ask him.

It rained all of Thursday morning. It was nearly noon when Jack pulled his battered old Jeep into the narrow alley behind Bridget's. Molly was upstairs, double-checking what she had packed and putting a call in to her mother. Mrs. Hatcher was an alcoholic and worse, and lived in a shabby apartment in a run-down section of Dorchester. Molly called her rarely and went to see her even less. It was not that she didn't love her mother, Jack knew, but that the woman did not care if Molly called or not, could barely seem to remember she had a daughter. Contact became too painful for Molly.

The only other vehicle parked behind the pub that day was Bill's enormous Oldsmobile. Bill bent over the open trunk of the Olds, hair matted to his head by the rain, which dripped in a steady flow from his beard.

Courtney stood just outside the open kitchen door of the pub with a huge black umbrella over her head. The umbrella and the grim expression on her face caused her to resemble a woman standing vigil at a graveside. Jack dumped his bags into the Jeep and walked back to her, ducking his head under the umbrella so that they were only inches from each other.

"Hey," he said, voice low, his words meant just for her. "It isn't a funeral."

Courtney blinked, her mouth dropping open in shock. "That was in really bad taste," she chided him. "I know it isn't a funeral, little brother. I'm just worried about you. About both of you."

The wind swept the heavy rain down at an angle; the buildings provided none of the protection they might have if it had been just a light shower. It was not. It was a storm, the sky low and dark, roiling like an ocean, pregnant with the promise of more rain. With her umbrella cocked at an angle to keep her as dry as possible and leaning on her cane, Courtney looked small and frail to her brother. For a long moment, he hesitated.

"I don't wanna go," he said at last.

She looked stricken. "Then don't go. Let somebody else fight them." Courtney's eyes, usually filled with such life, had none of their familiar sparkle. "We've done our share against these animals, Jack. Nobody's gonna think less of you if you and Molly just stay home. And I . . . if I lose you, little brother . . . you're all I have."

Her voice was so plaintive that Jack almost could not respond. Finally he smiled softly and stepped forward to hold his sister.

"Court, you've got it wrong," he said. "I don't want to go 'cause I don't want to leave you here. Me and Molly, we'll be all right. We find something, or even suspect something, you and Bill will get a call. We'll figure out what to do from there. I'm just . . . I don't want to leave you with the pub to run, and the possibility that . . . there might be more where Tanzer came from."

Mouth set in a firm line, Courtney nodded once. "I'll be fine. Not that you're not a full partner these days, Jack, but you weren't much help back when you were nine. I can handle it. As for the . . . as for
them,
I'll be careful. And I've got Bill."

Jack narrowed his eyes. Courtney noticed, and seemed pained by his expression.

"You don't trust him?" she whispered.

He barely heard her above the rain. "It isn't that. I mean, he's still Bill. We'd probably be dead without him. I guess I just . . . I don't know if I can ever put aside knowing that he's one of them."

Courtney bristled. "He
isn't
one of them. Same species, that's all. But so are you and Hitler and Jeffrey Dahmer. Doesn't make
you
one of
them."

Jack took a long breath. He glanced at Bill, who was down the alley, still fussing with something in his trunk, and wondered how good his hearing was. Then he turned back to Courtney and nodded.

"We've been through this. I know you're right. He's the closest thing to an uncle or whatever I've ever had. The closest thing to family we've had since Mom died. But it's hard not to hold something back, y'know? I mean, they're a whole
race
of Hitlers and Dahmers, and the decent ones are the exception. But I know you'll be safe with him. He cares about you."

There was a bit of extra weight to Jack's last words, an emphasis that Courtney caught immediately. She smiled and rolled her eyes.

"Bill is staying here while you're gone, but he's sleeping in
your
room, Jack."

"You're a big girl," Jack replied nonchalantly. "You run your life the way you want to. None of my business. All I ask is that you stay alive."

Courtney grew suddenly serious again. Her gaze caught his, and they locked eyes. "Same here," she said.

A moment later Molly appeared inside the open door with a canvas suitcase that had once belonged to Jack and Courtney's mother. There was a melancholy air about her that would have been impossible for Jack to miss. Courtney apparently noticed it as well, for neither of the Dwyer siblings asked Molly how her conversation with her mother had gone.

"All set?" Jack asked.

"Yeah. Let's go. The weather shows no sign of letting up, so we should just get on the road and take our time."

As the three of them turned toward the vehicles again, they saw Bill slide a large black chest - like an old sea trunk - into the back of Jack's Jeep. It had a thick padlock on the front. Though it was heavy enough to make the back of the Jeep sag a bit after he lowered it, Bill moved the trunk effortlessly. His strength was incredible, and it reminded Jack just how badly outmatched he and Molly would be if they ran up against any Prowlers unprepared.

Bill strode toward them, seemingly unaware of the rain sluicing off his head. "When you're parked, I want you to throw some blankets over that trunk so it will draw a little less attention," he told Jack. "But the things in that trunk are only a precaution. If you see any Prowlers up there, I want you to call me and we'll figure out the next move then. Check in with us regularly."

Jack's eyes widened. "Yeah, of course. But if you're playing cavalry, why do we need weapons now?"

All traces of a smile disappeared from Bill's features. "Just in case, Jack. I'm not taking any chances. There's a goddamn arsenal in that trunk, and that should tell you how seriously I'm taking this. You know how I feel about weapons. I know you feel the same." He glanced at each of them in turn, lingering a moment on Courtney's face before looking at Jack and Molly again. "None of these are traceable, unless you leave prints on them. Don't get caught with them. Don't shoot at anyone human unless it's to save your own life. Hell, don't ever shoot at
anything
you don't intend to kill."

"Bill," Courtney said hesitantly, "I don't know if - "

"We have to have them," Molly interrupted. Her face was pale, but her voice was clear and strong. "We've got to be prepared."

Bill nodded and handed Jack a small key that would open the padlock on the trunk. When Jack took it, Bill clasped his hand tightly and pulled him close.

"Be careful. Don't take any chances. Call for me and I'll come," Bill said, his voice a low rasp.

In the huge man's powerful embrace, Jack found reserves of strength he would sorely need if he and Molly found what they were looking for.

"You'll protect her, if anything happens?" Jack asked.

"With my life," Bill promised.

A sudden rush of guilt filled Jack for the doubts he'd had. Bill might be a different species, but he was part of their life and family. These people were just about all that mattered to Jack.

"Let's get on the road," he said as he turned away from Bill.

Molly carried her suitcase to the back of the Jeep. Jack took it from her, put it on top of the trunk, and closed up the back.

"Wait, I'll get a couple of blankets," Courtney said quickly.

Jack and Molly climbed into the Jeep, he slipped the key into the ignition, and the engine roared to life. Anxious, Jack stared at the rain pelting the windshield.

Molly reached over suddenly to take his hand and his fingers twined with hers as he turned to face her.

"It'll be all right," she said, an uncommon tenderness in her voice. "If nothing else, it'll be an adventure."

With a laugh, Jack shook his head. "Let's
hope
it's nothing else."

Pine Hill provided an idyllic backdrop for the town of Buckton. Almost anywhere else in New England, it would have been striped with ski slopes and chairlifts, but this part of Vermont had far less tourism than some other areas. The name of the "hill" was misleading, however. It was not quite a mountain, but certainly far more than a hill, and there were far more than pines along its span.

Though there were numerous small streets off it, Pine Hill Road, in addition to being the main street of Buckton, was mainly a throughway to other areas of the state. Very few Buckton residents chose to make their homes in the deep forest of the hill. Given the realities of snow removal, garbage collection, and postal service, what little new home construction there was in Buckton tended to be in the areas already populated.

As such, only hikers, hunters, and amorous or adventursome teens made their way into the densest parts of Pine Hill. Among those, only a small percentage stumbled upon Bartleby Road, a densely overgrown dirt path that had once accommodated wagons and carts laden with building materials. For, once upon a time, there had been an enormous estate built atop Pine Hill, more than a mile from the nearest road.

Before there was a Buckton, there had been the old Bartleby place. And yet only the eldest members of the community were certain it had existed. Others knew of it only as a legend, a whispered story to frighten young children, a house full of bogeymen, perhaps. The ghost of a house, most thought, if it had ever existed at all.

But it had.

Now only the ruins of the Bartleby place remained, tumbled fireplaces and fire-blasted brick, charred lumber under nearly a century's worth of detritus. The estate had burned to the ground in 1904. The only human beings who had seen it in the past few decades had literally stumbled across it. Almost all had continued on, thinking nothing at all of it.

Almost all.

A few had poked around, even tried to camp there. Hikers, mostly, and mostly from out of town. Some of those had never made it home.

It was a sacred place to the Pack, for it was where Bartleby himself had been slain those many years ago. The Prowlers who had lived upon that land had been driven off, not to return for decades. Once they had returned, however, and created of Buckton a sanctuary where all Prowlers were welcome so long as they followed the rules, the ruins became their meeting place, the chapel within which they worshipped all that was wild.

If the Prowlers could be said to have a religion, that was it. The wild and the wilderness. And the blood of prey.

It was late afternoon that Thursday, nearly one hundred years after Bartleby's murder, that the Alpha bounded along paths human eyes would have missed, up the Pine Hill toward the ruins. Rain pelted from the sky and slicked back his fur. He barely noticed the storm, however. His blood raged with a fury that had been all too common in recent days, and yet this latest development had upset him more than anything else.

A steady, ululating snarl emerged from his throat as his claws tore at the ground, and he burst from the last stand of trees beside the remains of Bartleby's sanctum.

The others were already there. At times - particularly when, as now, they met during the day - some of them would choose to appear in their human forms. In the rain, especially, they might have opted to wear coats or hold umbrellas to protect them from the elements. Such things disgusted the Alpha. The elements were part of the Wild. The Prowlers were part of it as well.

Among the ruins, nine members of the Pack awaited his arrival, mostly elders. The rest were in the town, going about the business of their human lives in a community filled with people who had no idea that monsters lived amongst them. Other pack members were still far from home, wandering across the world, though they would return someday.

When the Alpha reached the ruins, he paused, then advanced slowly, head high, establishing his primacy within the Pack. The others approached cautiously, lowered their snouts in greeting. Even those in human form cast their gazes at the ground. He waited until all such proprieties had been dispensed with before he spoke a single word.

It rumbled from his chest like rolling thunder.

"Desmond."

The young Prowler, who had challenged him three years earlier for Alpha and lost, raised his head with a start and a barely audible whimper. Then Desmond slunk back a step from the circle they had made among the ruins of their history.

"You have much to answer for," the Alpha went on.

Defiantly, the other Prowler bared his teeth. "I did what I thought was right. If you had not written the book - "

With a roar, the Alpha rose up to his full height and slashed Desmond across the snout, tearing bloody gashes in his fur. The cur cried out in pain and clasped long talons to his face.

"What you did!" the Alpha growled. "Oh, what you did, you little bastard. That book is our legacy, our history, to be passed down to those who come after us, so that no one shall ever forget Bartleby and the principles upon which this sanctuary was founded."

Desmond sneered, blood dripping from his wounds. "That book is an abomination. You claim to despise human things, but you write this . . . this
bible
for the Pack, just like a human. Oral history has - "

"Silence!" the Alpha growled, and Desmond obeyed instantly. "Oral history is little better than mythology, particularly with the packs scattered and so many nomads drifting in the world. When they come to find sanctuary here, they need to understand what they have found."