A werewolf among us

the patio railing, not daring to lean against the bars for fear of smearing some trace of the killer, St.
Cyr looked down on the well-kept lawn, at the lumps of shrubbery, the well-groomed trees and the hedge-bordered flagstone walkways. It was all so manicured, so still and perfect in outline, that it might have been made of wax, a stage setting. He looked beyond the boundaries of the estate, at the rangier valley floor where all manner of scrub grew, beyond that at the foothills and the mountains in the distance, the peaks from which that afternoon's dark thunderhead clouds had come. So far as he could see in the dim light of the two tiny moons, nothing moved in that adumbrative landscape.
    He knelt beside the corpse and peered into the wide, glassy eyes that stared at the patio ceiling. Her fixed stare reminded him of the trophies on Hirschel's wall, and from there it was an easy second step to visualize Betty's head ranked among the others, posed between the snarling, wild-eyed boar heads…
    Suddenly, thanks to the bio-computer, St. Cyr recalled that the suite had been in darkness when he and Dane had first entered—still was, for that matter. Taking his gun out of the holster again, he stepped off the patio into the sitting room again, called up the overhead lights, which reacted to vocal stimuli. In two minutes he had been in every closet in all three rooms and bath, and he had not encountered anyone.
    He put his gun away once more.
    He had known it would not be that easy.
    Dane appeared in the doorway, still holding himself together, much to St. Cyr's surprise. "I called the police."
    "How long until they'll be here?"
    "Always been fast—other times. No more than twenty minutes by helicopter."
    "Tina?"
    "She's in the corridor, with everyone else."
    "Keep her company."
    Dane went away, and no one else tried to enter. Alicia Alderban was sobbing loudly, and Jubal seemed to be trying to console her. Both of them sounded distant, faint. If Betty had been killed indoors, rather than on the open patio, the noise would never have carried far enough to alert anyone. The sound-proofing truly was excellent.
    St. Cyr pulled a chair up next to the open glass doors and sat down to wait for the authorities. He did not join the family because he wanted time to think, to sort out these recent developments and decide what they meant
    One thing: Dane must be innocent, for he was with St. Cyr when Betty was killed. Forget him as a suspect, then.
    Do not completely forget him
, the bio-computer qualified.
    And why not? He could not possibly have torn the girl's throat out; he could not have been two places at once.
    He could be an accomplice. If two persons are involved, it could have been Dane's responsibility to see that you were occupied during the murder
—
and
to be certain that you quickly identified the screamer. Without him, you would not have reached her room as quickly, for you do not know the way without a map. He may have been assigned to lead you to the scene.
    To what purpose?
    The bio-computer shell, still tapped into his spine, its gossamer fingers still splayed throughout his flesh, offered no further postulation.
    St. Cyr thought, forming the segments of the thought rigidly as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else: Dane would not have any reason to lead me to Betty's room if he were mixed up in the murders.
    Perhaps. Perhaps not. This is merely a point that should be given careful consideration.
    The more he thought about it, the more St. Cyr found that he had to agree. It was something to consider, all right. From the beginning he had doubted the sincerity of Dane's belief in werewolves, for he knew that the Alderban boy—like the entire family—was well-educated. Too well-educated to hold such silly superstitions easily. It had occurred to him that Dane was feigning these beliefs, acting out some role that, somehow, would protect him against accusation. Perhaps he felt that, playing the superstitious fool, his true reaction to anything that happened or anything that was asked him would be misinterpreted, and that his genuine intentions would therefore be obscured. This notion, atop the possibilities the bio-computer had just suggested, made it impossible for him to remove Dane from the list of suspects.
    In the distance, the night was broken by the clatter of helicopter rotors turning at high speed.
    St. Cyr rose and stepped onto the patio. Far down the valley but drawing swiftly closer,