A werewolf Among Us by Dean Koontz

Author:Dean Koontz [Koontz, Dean]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-07-12T17:30:32+00:00

on all sides of him

He looked up from the glass blood that was really sound, and he saw that the wolf was gone. He looked behind, but he did not see it in that direction either. Of course, as rapidly as the grass was growing, and considering all the violence with which the thorned vines had attacked St. Cyr, the garden might very well have swallowed the beast.

When he turned front again he saw Hirschel running toward him, carrying what appeared to be a rifle. So it was Hirschel, after all. It was that simple. Somehow, Hirschel had obtained a trained wolf that he was using to do his dirty work—straight out of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Any self-respecting detective should have been familiar with the ruse. Of course, in that story there had been no shattered sound lying around like broken glass, and there had not been trees growing right up through the top of the sky

He had a lot more to contend with here than Holmes ever had.

Hirschel stopped and bent over him.

“Very neat,” St. Cyr said.

Then he passed out.

NINE: Bloodhounds

When he sat straight up in bed, chased awake by the stalker on the broken road, Tina was there to quiet him. She pushed gently against his chest until he lay down again, then sat on the edge of the water mattress.

“How do you feel?”

He licked his lips and found them salty. The inside of his mouth was dry and tasted like dust. “A drink?” he asked.

She got him water, watched him drink, asked if he wanted more, took the glass back into the bathroom when he said he was done. He watched her go, well enough to be fascinated by the movement of her tight round behind.

When she returned, he said, “Where’s Hirschel?”

“In the garden, with Inspector Rainy. They’ve been scouring the area where it happened.”

“Is he under arrest?”

She looked surprised. “Whatever for?”

“Wasn’t he the one who tried to kill me—he and his trained wolf?”

She started to smile, stopped, said, “If it hadn’t been for Uncle Hirschel, you might be dead. He heard you screaming for help, and when he thought he might not reach you in time, he fired his rifle in hopes he would scare off whatever was after you.”

”What was he doing there with a rifle in the first place?” He didn’t want to sound quarrelsome, but he did. His head ached so badly that he almost reached up to see if it was all there.

“He was on his way across the gardens. He intended to go down into the valley to hunt for deer, some of the small fast ones that he’s never been lucky with so far.”

“He saw the wolf?”

“He says not. It was gone when he reached you.”

St. Cyr raised his right hand and reached for the wounded left shoulder; he encountered a thick mass of bandages. He did not have any pain in his shoulder. All the pain was in his head, smack in the center of his forehead.

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