He crawled to his knees and looked up at the figure standing just above him on the slope.
“What . . . ,” he began, but how does one phrase the kind of question that was nailed to the walls of his heart? “What have I . . . I . . . ?”
Sir John Talbot stepped toward him and Lawrence stared up in horror at his father’s blue eyes and white beard. Sir John’s mouth wore the tiniest of smiles but his eyes were as cold as death.
“You have done terrible things, my boy,” Sir John whispered. “Terrible things.”
With a cry Lawrence staggered to his feet and recoiled from his father. He understood that smile and that coldness. The truth had hammered a fracture line in his soul. Lawrence turned to flee but there was Inspector Aberline not ten feet away. He wheeled and saw an entire posse of armed men, all of them big, all of them staring at him with equal measures of hostility and horror.
“No!” Lawrence shouted and bolted for a gap in the line of men, but the men shifted to block his way. He spun and tried to make a dash for the tree line but men on horses trotted toward him. Lawrence saw villagers from Blackmoor scattered among them, their faces taut with grief and devoid of all pity. Every man was armed with a gun or club.
In desperation Lawrence turned back to Sir John, who had not moved from where he stood on the slope.
“How does it feel?” asked his father in a voice too quiet for anyone but Lawrence to hear.
“No!” Lawrence cried. He backed away, pointing at Sir John. “Inspector . . . my father’s a monster!”
Aberline drew closer, a rifle ready in one hand, and Sir John turned to him, a look of brokenhearted pity on his face. He gestured to Lawrence, and the inspector nodded as if all of this confirmed a discussion they had already had. Aberline raised his free hand to signal his men and immediately a half dozen burly officers closed on Lawrence, blocking all exits, crowding him, seizing him by the arms.
“Don’t let him go,” Lawrence begged. “Aberline, take me if you must, but for the love of God take him, too!”
Sir John’s shoulders slumped and he looked old and defeated. “It is as you said.”
Aberline looked wretched and he put a comforting hand on Sir John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sir John. Truly I am.”
“Thank you,” Sir John said brokenly.
Aberline turned away from him and nodded to his men.
“Bring him.”
As the men began dragging Lawrence up the slope, Sir John stepped close and whispered, “Be strong, my son. Be strong.”
Only Lawrence could see the humor behind this performance of grief, and he knew that his father—the true monster—would be free. Lawrence lunged at him, trying to grab his father’s throat. He shrugged off two of the men and as they fell they collided with the others and suddenly Lawrence was free. He dove at his father, accepting his own death if this madness could all be stopped here and now.
Aberline stepped in and swung his rifle butt in a vicious jab that cracked against the back of Lawrence’s head. Lawrence’s fingers brushed his father’s throat and then he was falling into a dark well.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lawrence had no awareness of being forced into a straightjacket, or of being chained to an iron seat in the back of an armored coach. He did not remember the ride to London, did not feel the rough hands of the white-jacketed orderlies who dragged him from the coach, stripped him and hosed him, dressed him in hospital clothes and then placed him in a restraining chair. All he knew was darkness and pain and dreams whose nature were so intensely awful that he fled deeper into his own unconscious to escape them.
But awareness did return. Slowly and at its own pace, and when Lawrence opened his eyes he knew where he was. And why.
Lambeth Asylum.
And here, more real even than the memories of last night, stood Dr. Hoenneger. The same man, the same madhouse from that terrible night after his mother’s suicide. For a hopeful moment Lawrence thought that this was just another dream, but Hoenneger’s face was older, thinner, with deeper lines cut through the pallid flesh. This was real, and this was now, and Lawrence’s heart plummeted in his chest.
Hoenneger moved to stand directly in front of Lawrence and an orderly joined him. The orderly was huge, cadaverous, with dark eyes sunk deep into shadowy pits and an ugly smile filled with yellow teeth. Just behind them was a pool of water set into the stone floor.
“I am sorry to see you back with us, Lawrence,” said Hoenneger gravely but without conviction. “Since you were here last, we have made enormous strides in the treatment of delusions such as yours.”
The doctor’s smile was anything but comforting. It was a prideful, boasting leer. “Ripler? . . .” he said, gesturing to the orderly.
Ripler reached for a big wooden lever and suddenly Lawrence understood what was happening. His chair was bolted to a thick plank mounted on a greased fulcrum and as Ripler pulled on the lever the board abruptly lowered Lawrence’s chair so that he went face-forward into the icy pool of black water.
The water was so shockingly cold that it tore a scream out of Lawrence. Air burst from his nose and mouth, frigid water numbed his face and eyes. They could not be doing this . . . they could not leave him here to drown. His mind refused to accept it but as the seconds crawled past and the last bits of air in his chest began to burn his lungs, the lever moved again and he rose sputtering and choking back into the air. His seat landed with a bone-jarring thud and Ripler leaned close and exhaled foul breath in his face.
“Bracing,” Ripler said, “ain’t it, guv’ner?”
“Why are . . . you . . . doing . . .”
But before Lawrence could gasp out a question Ripler gave the lever another pull. The second impact with the water was far, far worse. It surged up his nose and drove icy needles into every inch of his face and throat. When the chair was pulled back Lawrence felt like he would rather die than go into that hellish water again.
Hoenneger’s face bent toward him.
“We’ve made so many fascinating and promising advances in our science, Lawrence. You’ll be amazed.”
He raised his hand to show Lawrence the huge hypodermic needle he held. Lawrence’s arms were strapped to the chair. He could not move, could not escape as the needle pierced his flesh and Hoenneger depressed the plunger. The drugs burst like fire in his veins and within seconds Lawrence could feel the substance of reality crack and peel away in layers. Even before his eyes drifted shut he saw the faces of Hoenneger and Ripler change into monstrous distortions of grinning ghouls who bent toward him to consume him with needle-sharp teeth. The drugs filled every part of his consciousness and tore him from sense and order. . . .
. . . LAWRENCE OPENED HIS eyes and he stood alone in a long hallway that stretched away into the shadows. He turned and saw the same stretch into dark infinity. Closed doors lined each side of the corridor. The carpet beneath his feet was the color of fresh blood, the sconces on the walls flickering with candles that burned with cold fire.
“Father!” he called, but his voice was an impotent whisper; he could barely hear it himself. “Gwen? . . .” he said, and this time his voice was insanely loud and echoes punched the walls and sent shockwaves back that staggered him.
He heard a sound behind him and turned to see a door open twenty feet from where he stood. The door swung wide by itself and Lawrence took a step toward it, but suddenly a child burst from the room and raced away from him into the shadows.
“Boy!” Lawrence called, but the child ran full tilt away from him. He started walking after the boy, then began to trot and finally he, too, was running as hard as he could.
The boy abruptly turned and ran into the one of the rooms, and as Lawrence approached he saw that the room was the entrance to a dank cell. The floor was covered with straw and filth, the walls black with mildew, and the barred window looked out onto the gray pollution of the Thames. Without knowing how, he understood that this was his own cell, that this was where he had been brought
by his father and Inspector Aberline. It was the same cell he had lived in for two years as a boy.
The child he had chased was here, naked, shivering, huddling in the corner between the bed and the wall.
“Boy . . . who are you?” Lawrence said, taking a tentative step into the room. “Why are you here?”
The boy shifted so that only one eye peered up at him from under a tangle of unwashed black hair. The child picked up something from under the bed and slowly raised it to show Lawrence. It was a skull. No, more than that it was the prop skull used in the London production of Hamlet. Lawrence’s next words died on his tongue because now he recognized that eye.
It was his own eye . . . and this child was him, the tortured boy who had been sent to this hell hole all those years ago.
“My God,” Lawrence whispered. He knelt down and reached a hand toward the child. “Don’t be afraid.”
He placed his hand on the child’s thin shoulder and pulled gently. “Let me help you . . . I won’t hurt you.”
The child turned then. Not slow and tentative, but with unnatural speed and with a face that was not that of Lawrence the boy. This was the snarling, feral face of an animal. Yellow eyes flashed and it snarled with pernicious delight as it lunged at Lawrence, wicked teeth snapping . . .
. . . RIPLER WORKED THE lever again and Lawrence plunged back into the frigid water. The pain and shock were the same, but Lawrence could not tell if this moment was real or if it was part of the never-ending dream. . . .
. . . LAWRENCE TURNED OVER in his sleep.
And then was aware that he was sleeping. The ghouls and phantasms were gone, the child was gone. The cell was dark except for a thin spill of moonlight through the barred window.
There was a metallic click and Lawrence peered through the gloom to see the door handle turn and the door swing quietly open. Lawrence shied back, expecting Ripler and Dr. Hoenneger . . . but against all sanity it was someone who could not be here. Slender, dressed in gossamer, moving with delicate steps she entered his prison.
“Gwen? . . .”
It was her. She smiled at him with a gentleness and compassion that he had not expected to ever see again. Only his mother had ever looked at him with such love, but that had been so completely different than this. The moonlight made her gown translucent and Lawrence could see every beautiful curve of her. The breeze stirred her garments and he could see the graceful line of her hip as it flowed down to become her thigh. Her breasts bobbed as she moved, the dark nipples tenting the thin fabric.
“Thank God it’s you,” he said as he sat up. “I just had the most horrible dream.”
She rushed to him, bending to place a finger against his lips. “Shhh . . . don’t worry, Lawrence.” She kissed his forehead and bent to his ear. “You’re safe now. . . .”
Gwen showered him with a hundred quick kisses that were like the softest, most soothing rain on his face. Her hands caressed his face and throat and then her clever fingers were at the buttons of his shirt.
Lawrence pulled her to him and their lips met in a kiss of such intense erotic heat that his entire body felt as if it was suddenly released from some ancient bondage.
“I need you,” he whispered. He slipped the gossamer from her shoulders and it fell away to reveal the alabaster perfection of her skin. Lawrence kissed the side of her throat and she moaned and moved against him, tearing at his shirt and trousers. Within seconds they were skin to skin, bathed in moonlight, their mouths hot and hungry, their bodies moving together in that perfect and timeless rhythm of true love and pure passion. When he entered her she arched her back and cried out, her breasts crushed against his chest. She locked her legs around him and pulled him deeper, her moans and cries filling the room.
“I love you,” he said.
“I—” she began, but her words became another gasp of need.
Urgency sang in their nerves and with every heartbeat the cadence of their bodies built and built; Lawrence’s breath rasped in and out of his lungs and Gwen’s cries became sharper and louder with each thrust.
“Lawrence,” she shrieked. “God . . . Lawrence . . .”
The intensity mounted and mounted as they soared toward that sweet precipice.
“Lawrence!” Her voice was sharper now, louder in his ear.
The bed banged against the wall, the springs squealing under their weight.
“Lawrence!”
Her tone changed and he lifted a hand to her face, to brush a strand of hair from her eyes . . . and the whole world changed to madness. His fingers were long and gnarled, coated with dark bristling hair, and at the end of each finger was a claw that tapered to a deadly point. And every claw was drenched with hot blood.
Lawrence arched off of her and stared in raw horror at Gwen’s body. Every inch of her sacred flesh, from thighs to throat, was torn open. Blood welled from a hundred jagged gashes and her screams were now those of terrible agony. Gwen stared at him with hopeless eyes, her fingers scrabbled at him as if trying to make this reality into a fantasy, but with each beat of her heart blood spurted from her chest and mouth and . . .
. . . LAWRENCE WOKE IN rage and torment, screaming Gwen’s name, cursing God Himself. He was crammed into a corner of his cell and he scrambled to get his feet under him so he could make a dash for the door, but he only made it two steps before something grabbed him by the throat and dragged him back. He grabbed at his throat and found the unyielding solidity of a cold iron collar clamped around his neck and a heavy length of chain leading from it to a massive ring set into the gray stone wall. He was chained like a dog.
And he was awake.
Somehow he knew that this was the real world, that everything else had been phantoms in his brain created by the drugs and the water torture. This . . . the chain, the hard stone under his bare feet . . . this was real.
Lawrence sank to his knees and beat the floor with his fist, cursing this place, cursing Heaven, cursing his own life. He bent his head until his skin was pressed against the moldy floor.
He remained there for a long time, sobbing, feeling totally lost and alone.
But he wasn’t alone.
Someone was on his cot. It wasn’t the feral boy. It wasn’t Gwen.
Sir John sat there, one leg folded casually over the other, a coffee cup cradled between his palms, smiling the coldest smile Lawrence had ever seen.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“Father,” Lawrence pleaded, “why?”
“I contracted the disease in India,” said Sir John quietly. “In the Hindu Kush. Singh and I had heard tales of a remote valley where no white man had ever set foot and where the game was as astonishing as the natural beauty of the place. After wasting many months on dead ends and expensive guides, we finally found our Shangri-La.”
Lawrence shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”
His father put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Just listen, Lawrence. This is your real heritage.” Sir John sipped his coffee and set the cup aside. “We bartered our way into the good graces of the native hunters. The valley was everything the tales spoke of. The game was exceptional, the country fantastic beyond words. And the locals . . . well there is no greater, more primal bond among men than that formed by hunting together. We swapped stories. Customs. Beliefs. Among theirs was the strange belief in a rite which would grant the devotee enormous powers. Powers of hunting, and of the sexual kind.”
Sir John’s eyes twinkled with a mischief that made Lawrence want to gag.
“No animal or woman could resist whoever partook of his black magic. None of the natives could boast having undergone the rite, as they viewed it the prospect would be too . . . fearsome.”
“ ‘Rite’?” Lawrence echoed in a hollow voice.
Sir John laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course I didn’t believe a word of it, but nevertheless I was intrigued. So, the natives directed me to a cave high up in the mountains where, according to legend, lived a stra
nge creature. After a great many days of climbing, searching, finally, I came upon it. I found it . . . the cave. And the strange creature that lived there.”
Lawrence straightened. Even with the lingering effects of the drugs he now had every ounce of his being focused on his father.
“It was a boy.” Sir John laughed and shook his head. “It was a wild, feral boy who attacked me.”
“He . . . bit you?” Lawrence asked in a whisper.
“Oh yes. I was bitten. By him. I returned to my hunting companions thinking I had been made the butt of a joke.” He cocked his head as if looking at the memory. His cold smile never wavered. “I soon learned otherwise.”
Lawrence stared at him with a growing horror that was far bigger and more terrible than the story his father was telling. The revulsion and heartbreak threatened to tear open his chest.
“My mother . . .” he breathed.
Sir John waited.
“She didn’t kill herself . . . did she?”
Sir John Talbot’s smile grew colder still. “No,” he said. “I suppose I did.”
Lawrence screamed . . .
. . . AND HE WAS back there, back in the rain on that dreadful night, back by the reflecting pool with the bleak walls of Talbot Hall looming above him. The clouds above were thinning, the rain slowing to a gentle fall like tears, and above it all the moon emerged like a predatory creature, watchful and hungry.
Lawrence Talbot stood twenty feet from the pool, dressed as he was in the Asylum. He knew that this was a dream, but somehow he had become a part of it, just as he knew that what he was seeing now was what truly happened all those years ago. He was a witness to his own memory, to something he had never been able to fully remember since the event blasted him into shock and madness.