A werewolf among us

them.
    "Terminated."
    "Thank you." He hung up.
    He carried the papers to the easy chair by the opaqued patio doors, palmed the glass panels into transparency again, and sat down to read. The first sheet dealt with the wild boar: Climicon's study of its ferocity and the determination, after exhaustive research, that the species should be maintained, though in smaller herds than was natural for them. The boar, it turned out, was a coward as well, toothed and clawed to little purpose when it came to a confrontation with anything much larger than itself; it preferred to run away from men rather than fight them. The wolf, however, was something else altogether, a real gladiator. It not only seemed fanatically compelled to attack creatures larger than itself, men included, but it also transmitted a deadly bacterial infection. The Climicon report was either purposefully vague on this point or was based on insufficient evidence. It did little more than list the symptoms and the mortality rate among the victims of the disease. Symptoms: loss of weight; high fever; destruction of red blood cells by some unknown agent and
a corresponding need for iron; an aversion to sunlight that, in the beginning, is neurotic but which soon becomes physical, as the victim is nearly totally blinded in all but the most dimly lighted rooms. Patients suffered extremely intense nightmares, too, the report said. And periods of insanity when they growled and groveled on the floor like animals, exhibiting an unnatural strength when provoked. One in three died during the second week of illness; two in three survived, after prolonged hospitalization, without injury. The last known case of the sickness had been reported eleven years ago. The report also listed a large number of laboratory studies of the disease, naming doctors and lab assistants.
St. Cyr found nothing interesting in this and put the papers down.
    Considering the symptoms of the disease
—
especially the aversion to light, the growling and groveling, the unnatural strength, the nightmares
—
it is easy to see how the legend of the
du-aga-klava,
wolf-in-man's-skin, was born
.
    Unless it's more than a simple disease.
    Illogical.
    St. Cyr picked the sheets up and read through them again. He could not find any mention of a cure for the disease or even whether the bacteria had been isolated and identified. He rather thought Climicon had not had any luck. If they had, the data would be there.
    Many diseases are still incurable. The lack of this data does not have any bearing on the case at hand.
    Perhaps not. Not unless there is more to Dane Alderban's notion than would at first seem likely.
    Illogical.
    St. Cyr sat in the chair by the door, in the gentle morning light, thinking about the report from Climicon, the murder of Betty Alderban, his conversation with Tina, Hirschel's resemblance to a wolf
(Immaterial)
—
not
thinking about the nightmare or the paranoid seizure of the night before. Soon it was time to join Dane in the garage for the trip into the mountains where they were to see Norya, the gypsy woman.
    Unnecessary diversion.
    He got up and went downstairs anyway.
     

SEVEN:
The Gypsy Camp
     
    The vehicle that Dane chose for the ride to the gypsy camp looked formidable enough to last through any natural catastrophe and still manage to forge ahead: a heavy-duty Rover with triple-axle, six-wheel drive; double-thick body sheeting; running boards; a reinforced roof; heavy, tempered plexiglass windscreen in two liquid-separated layers; an auxiliary fuel cell; and a spare, shielded pair of headlights. The family rarely used the car, Dane explained, except when one of them wanted to go into the mountains where the roads were in a particularly primitive condition. Now and again, Tina drove into the mountains to paint a landscape; Dane drove up the slopes to meet his Darmanian friends; and Hirschel, when he visited during the cooler months, liked to ride up to the ice plateaus, where he played little games of chance with snow-hidden crevasses.
    At first, the trail was pleasant enough, a narrow gravel track that led into the foothills behind the mansion. Here the pines were scarce, but slowly thickened as they gained altitude, and came to stand near the roadway as if they were waiting for the Rover to pass. When the way angled to the left or right, and they momentarily paralleled the valley instead of climbing out of it, St. Cyr turned and enjoyed the panoramic view, saw sections of the