TALBOTT ON THE TRAIL: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take III

III. THE PURSUIT AND THE CAPTURE.

Except for the flies and beetles trying to crawl up his nose and the dripping brush which had soaked him through every layer of his military-surplus fatigues, Sly Talbott was in his element as he made his way up Hickory Hill in the mist. He moved with surprising stealth, keeping his beady close-set eyes on the large woman who seemed to glide up the path twenty yards to his left, muttering guttural syllables to herself in some strange tongue. His face streaked with daubs of black and green greasepaint, Talbott stayed downwind and slithered through the woods like a reptile stalking its prey.

Tailing Gladys Weingarten from her elegant townhouse in the Millionaires' Village section of Excelsior City had been easy enough. Her hot-pink Cadillac had seemed to waddle through the traffic like a hippopotamus through a flock of ducks. The surprise came when Talbott saw the Cadillac pull into a rundown shed behind a rust-streaked trailer in the old hobo jungle on the edge of town, where freight trains rumbled through every few hours from all points of the compass. Parked in his nondescript Chevy Vega under a scrubby tree about fifty yards away, he watched Gladys Weingarten emerge from a side door in the shed and enter the trailer. Ten minutes later, a large woman stepped out of the trailer, wearing a shapeless muumuu and a spotted linen apron, her straw-gray hair braided into a single long tentacle which crept down her back, knotted with dry-looking sprigs of vegetable matter. She carried a covered wicker basket.

The woman had glanced about quickly, then started up a path which led from the hobo jungle up the side of Hickory Hill. Talbott followed.

Talbott was not a bad stalker, but sometimes he got a little careless. Since the woman was talking, or chanting, or whatever she was doing, so loud she sounded like a steam engine with leaky gaskets, he threw caution more to the wind than was his custom.

Suddenly, the woman stopped muttering and froze in her tracks. A split second later Talbott stepped on a bone-dry dry stick, which snapped through the silence like a rifle shot. He cursed under his breath and went rigid, standing directly in the woman's line of sight. She seemed to be staring straight at him. Her eyes grew bigger and blacker with every passing microsecond, until they gaped before him through the fog like new-dug tombs. He didn't twitch a muscle.

He breathed a bit easier when the woman looked away, as if she hadn't spotted him after all. She took a few more steps up the trail, still seeming to glide as if on silent wheels, and Talbott prepared to follow.

After that, things happened so quickly that Talbott's recollection was hazy when he made his report to MacDougall two days later:

"I thought sure she heard me, and there I stood with my face hangin' out, but she just turns away an' starts back up the hill again. She moved pretty quick and quiet for a fat old broad. But then she just disappeared in the fog, like, so I rushed forward before I lost track of her, and damned if, next thing I know, I'm not hangin' upside down with a rope around my legs, ten foot off the ground. And here's this big ugly ape of a guy -- you remember that gorilla from the bar who kept givin' us the finger the other night? Looked just like him -- with a big machete in his hand, wavin' it at me. Well, he cuts me down an' stuffs me in a big gunnysack an' throws me over his shoulder an' hauls me off to God knows where....

"Mr. Mac, I'm gonna have to charge ya extra for this job. I was so scared I peed myself."

"Never ye mind that." MacDougall tilted back in his desk chair and regarded his henchman through narrowed eyes. "Ye'll get paid, just as ye always do. What happened next?"

"There I am. This guy dumps me out on the stone floor of some cabin up in a hollow, maybe on top of Hickory Hill, but who the hell knows? He grabs me and ties me to a chair. And there's this woman I was followin', stirrin' this big pot of stew or something over the fire. She's cacklin' away as if this is all just about the funniest thing that's happened all year. She stops every coupla minutes to look in a big book on the table -- looked like one of them big dictionaries they keep in the library and nobody ever reads 'em -- and then tosses stuff from a basket into the big kettle over the fire."

MacDougall scribbled a note on the pad before him. "A big book, eh? Did ye get a look at it?"

"Hold on, Mr. Mac. I'm comin' to that."

"Oh, aye. Sorry tae rush ye. I know ye think ye're a master storyteller, and I know ye think ye're bein' paid by the word. Tell it your way, then."

"I'm awful dry, Mr. Mac. Ya still got that bottle behind them books?" He pointed to MacDougall's leather-bound set of the Green County Circuit Court Reports.

"Ah, ye're a bloody extortionist, ye are." MacDougall pulled out the 1963 and 1964 volumes and extracted a bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey and two glasses. He poured out two fingers in each glass and replaced the bottle and the books with an air of finality which said this would be the full extent of Sly Talbott's whistle-wetting on this particular occasion.

Talbott sipped delicately and smacked his lips. "That's lovely, Mr. Mac. Thanks. Just about washes out the taste of that stuff they poured down my throat up there on the mountain."

"Eh? They made ye drink something?"

"Yeah. The gorilla guy, he grabs me by the throat and pries my mouth open and tilts my head back. Man, I'm gettin' awful tired of that guy grabbin' me."

"Damn it, man! Enough editorializin'! Just tell the blasted story."

"Right. Well, the gorilla guy won't be botherin' us any more, anyway. So, the gorilla guy holds my mouth open and the hag ladles out a big spoonful of this stew she's been cookin' in the big pot and pours it down my throat like she's stuffin' a Christmas goose. I never tasted nothin' like it, an' I hope I never do again. Dead cat, worm guts an' poison ivy boiled up in sewer water -- somethin' like that."

"I'd be interested tae know how ye recognized the ingredients."

"Oh, I'm just guessin', Mr. Mac. . The stuff tasted like my ex-wife's cookin', only it wasn't burned, and she wasn't naggin' me while she poured it down my gullet. I felt the stuff churnin' around inside me for a few minutes. Then I passed out." OH, DEAR. WHAT NEXT?

UP HOME: STEDMAN 1903-1909

I've just finished reviewing galley proofs and making final edits to the novel which prompted the creation of this blog. The book should be out within the next two weeks. It's been a long haul getting to this point, but I have a hunch the real work hasn't even begun yet. If you're interested, the links are posted to your right. So, go ahead; I dare you. Make me a bestseller!

TALBOTT ON THE TRAIL: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take II.

II. A HIGH-LEVEL CONFERENCE.

Picking his way like a cat through wet grass, Clem MacDougall led his colleagues to a corner table, as far as he could get from the bar, beneath a giant stuffed moose head. As a bartender and tavernkeeper, Fox Huntzberger espoused discretion and confidentiality above all values, but in truth his gifts for eavesdropping and gossip were legend in and about Excelsior City. Huntz brought a fresh round of drinks, including a beer milkshake for Sly Talbott. MacDougall picked up the tab and added a generous tip.

"Now, Foxy," he said, "ye'll see we're no disturbed, won't ye? We have some delicate...ah...business tae discuss."

MacDougall, Doyle and Talbott followed Huntzberger's eyes to where Gorilla The Bouncer sat, guarding the door at the opposite end of the room. Huntz nodded in his direction and Gorilla responded by displaying the middle finger of his left hand. "There it is, gentlemen," Huntzberger said with a wink at MacDougall. "Your ironclad pledge of privacy from my personal chief of security."

MacDougall rapped the table for attention. "All right, lads, let's get cracking. Three heads are better than one, for sure and certain. Me own brain's just aboot burnt tae a cinder. Soppy, ye were startin' tae say something aboot intuition before we got caught up in the ceremony of Brother Talbott's arrival."

"Right. You were saying something about your grandmother -- how she seemed to know things she couldn't prove. Second sight. That's what you Scotties call it, eh?"

"Aye. Grannie Gordon had the second sight, my folks said. Most o' the time she was right on the mark. She could tell your fortune for the year simply by watchin' the light of the risin' sun strike the standin' stones of Callanish on Midsummer's Day."

"Just so, Mac. Intuition. Imagination is more important than knowledge, Einstein said. Drink up your drink, you old windbag, and tell us about this woman with the body of a whale and a voice like a steam calliope."

Sly Talbott darted a glance at Gorilla The Bouncer, who gestured once again his ironclad pledge of privacy. Talbott drained his beer milkshake and wiped his mouth on the tablecloth. "Will one of you guys tell me what the hell you're talkin' about?"

Three rounds of drinks later, Clem MacDougall again rapped the table. Huntzberger was busily stacking chairs on tables and generally hovering about, waiting for MacDougall & Co. to leave so he could close up for the night. Gorilla The Bouncer sprawled, yawned and scratched his masculine region delicately.

"Very well, gents," MacDougall said. "We have a plan. Let's get to it, then."

More

TALBOTT ON THE TRAIL: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take I

I. AT THE FOX & HOUNDS

"Ye know, Auld Sopster, I'm nae the chap tae cry over spilt milk ..." Despite the protest, Clem MacDougall sounded as if he were indeed ready to start weeping.

"... but I've never had sic a time of it in a courtroom. It was as if a witch had put a curse on me, I tell ye."

He and Soppy Doyle sat in their usual places at the polished black marble bar of the Fox & Hounds Tavern. MacDougall took a heroic pull from his pint of MacEwan's Export Ale, and chased it down with a double jigger of Tobermory. The traditional medicine was working, but slowly, slowly . . .

"Ah, Mac, whisky on beer, nothing to fear, eh?" Soppy Doyle's bugged-out blue eyes twinkled as he dug vigorously in his left ear with a swizzle stick, pulling out enough wax to make a year's supply of altar candles for the Cathedral of Saint Brendan the Navigator in Excelsior City . "So Dame Justice finally kicked you out of bed, did she?"

"I'm no seein' the humor in it, Laddie."

"Not yet, you're not. All things in good time. Life goes on."

MacDougall signaled the bartender for another round: whisky and beer, whisky and beer. Tobermory and MacEwan's; Old Bushmill's and Harp. The liquor was beginning to dull the edge of his pain.

"Back in the Auld Countrie, when anyone had a bad run o' luck, me auld grannie Gordon (on me mither's side, ye ken) wad blame it on witches an' warlocks."

"Where my folks came from, it was banshees and fairies and wee people."

"That last session wi' the judge was the worst of it. Tak' a woman wi' bloody hell in her soul, dress her up in a black robe and set her doon on a bench in a courtroom, and ye might as well open the main gate tae Pandemonium. I'm sure the only reason I'm still wearin' me jupe an' me breeks is that damned woman didn't think tae tak' 'em off me."

"A woman in a black robe, Mac? ? Sounds like a witch right out of a black-arts textbook to me. That's what you need, old boy: a black-arts textbook." Soppy Doyle scratched up a blizzard of dandruff and blew his nose into his cocktail napkin. "Now, look here: maybe we should probe your intuition a bit . . ."

There came a thump and a commotion in the darkness at the back of the barroom. MacDougall turned on his stool and saw Gorilla The Bouncer emerge from the shadows, hauling an angry Sly Talbott by the scruff of his neck. Gorilla marched Talbott up to the bartender, who was also the owner, Fox N. Huntzberger.

"This goofball was tryin' to get in here again. He's high as a kite, just like before. I threw his ass outta here last week for runnin' a crooked three-card monte. In the ladies' lounge, for God's sake." The bouncer released his hold on Talbott's collar and Talbott crumpled to the floor like a stringless marionette.

"Well, throw his ass out again." Huntzberger spoke as if he was dismissing a pesky tradesman as he continued polishing a tray of beer mugs.

"Hold on, there, Foxy." MacDougall turned a bleary eye on the proceedings and took another pull at his pint. "This Talbott chap happens tae be a trusted...ah...business associate o' mine. I asked him tae meet me here, tae discuss some...ah...business. In private, if ye please."

Huntzberger nodded and waved off Gorilla The Bouncer. "All right, Mac. But I'm holding you responsible if anything happens."

Sly Talbott looked like a weasel whose business was teaching young weasels adult weasel behavior. His beady little eyes avoided all other eyes, but scanned the landscape like missile radars seeking targets; his long, greasy black hair was combed straight back over a deformed, parsnip-shaped skull. His nose was like a hatchet, and a long upper lip covered yellow rodent teeth. He pulled himself up from the floor, using an empty bar stool for a crutch.

"Here I am, Mr. MacDougall," he whined. "Just like ya said, Mr. MacDougall. Got some dirty tricks for me, have ya, Mr. MacDougall? I'm yer man, Mr. MacDougall. Ya know that, don't ya, Mr. MacDougall?" He rubbed his hands together and half-bowed obsequiously from the waist.

"Wheesht, man. I told ye it was confidential, blast ye. Now hush up an' follow Dr. Doyle an' me. Ye do know Dr. Elwood Doyle, don't ye?" MacDougall gestured by way of introduction. "Dr. Doyle, Mr. Talbott; Mr. Talbott, Dr. Doyle."

"Oh, yeah. Dr. Doyle, the perfesser from the U. Yeah, I know Dr. Doyle, all right. One of yer old girlfriends hired me to tail ya for a coupla weeks back a couple years. But ya shook me off. She fired me." more to come

Technical Difficulties

Dear Readers... Our home computer has been experiencing ominous symptoms for the past week or so. As soon as we emerge from the Valley of The Shadow of Death, the foolishness will resume. Editor.

FAIR IS FOUL; FOUL IS FAIR: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take IV

IV. AND NOW THE HURLYBURLY'S DONE.... By the time the hearing had ended, Clem MacDougall’s checkbook was empty and so was his bank account. Marty Goniff had persuaded the court that Doctor Weingarten’s alimony obligation should terminate at once. Somehow he’d found out about a little three-million-dollar inheritance from Gladys’s Uncle Drosselmeyer which Clem MacDougall thought he’d hidden so well even God and the Internal Revenue Service (which is, after all, God’s agency on earth) couldn’t find it. “Mr. MacDougall,” Judge Virago had roared in her dreaded Voice of Thunder before dismissing the litigants, “I find it inexcusable that you and your client have failed to inform this court of the recent changes in your client’s economic position.” She paused to make certain the court stenographer had noted every word. “Accordingly, I am ruling in favor of Doctor Weingarten on his motion.” The gavel fell with the finality of a coffin lid. “And, Mr. MacDougall, I am fining you another one hundred dollars. My law clerk is reporting this matter to the Ethics Committee of the State Bar Association. This court is extremely disappointed in you. That is all, gentlemen. This court is adjourned.” Marty Goniff smirked like a chimpanzee as he ushered his client from the courtroom.

***

Gladys Weingarten’s mouth was not the only oversized thing about her. As Gladys Garfinkel, she’d captained the women’s 1955 state-champion water polo team at Excelsior State University. Alumni from the classes of ‘54, ‘55 and ‘56 still cherished the legend of Gladdy Garf, The Mad Water Buffalo. Only swift action by the referees and first-aid teams had prevented her from drowning her opponents on three separate occasions. “You’re fired, MacDougall, you schmuck!” Gladdy Garf Weingarten seemed to expand like a blowfish as she settled into the rhythm of her anger while they walked from the courtroom. “Please, Mrs. Weingarten . . .” Clem MacDougall put his finger to his lips. “This is a courtroom . . .” “Shut up! Shut up, you worthless Scotch schlemiel! You’re fired, I say! Fired! You’re fired, you’re not getting paid, and I’m suing your worthless ass. How do you like that? You schmuck. You unbelievable schmuck.” She had begun to cry, and torrents of tears had reduced her makeup to something that looked like scrambled bread mold. She snorted and snuffled in a way that reminded Clem MacDougall of a Baldwin steam locomotive pulling fifty loaded hopper cars up a grade in the Excelsior Mountain coal fields. A uniformed sheriff’s deputy tapped Clem MacDougall on the shoulder. “Excuse me, counselor. Judge Virago wants to see you in chambers. Right now, counselor. Something about contempt of court for failure to restrain your client from making unseemly outbursts and offending the dignity of the court. She said to bring your checkbook, counselor.” Clem MacDougall pulled out his checkbook and opened it. No more checks. No more money. He turned back to Gladys Weingarten, but all he saw was the back of her floor-length mink coat as she disappeared around the corner. But he noticed something. . . Wait a moment. That’s her, right enough. Naebody else wad wear a coat like that, but that long white braid doon her back. . . And all those weeds tangled up in it. . . Gladys Weingarten’s hair isnae white. It’s red. Red right out of a bottle, it is . . . . “Uncanny,” Clem MacDougall muttered to himself as he turned to walk the long walk to Judge Virago’s chambers. “Most uncanny. Looked like a witch from behind. A witch in a floor-length mink coat? Uncanny it is. Just a bad dream, eh?” As he studied the huge polished wood doors and the brass plate engraved

HON. PRUNELLA JANE VIRAGO President Judge Green County Circuit Court Family Division

Clem MacDougall thought of the gateway to Dante’s Inferno . . . or at least Jurassic Park. He spoke to the deputy who was accompanying him. “D’ye suppose the guid Judge accepts Master Card?” The deputy shrugged. And to himself: “And now the hurlyburly’s done. Now the battle’s lost and won.”

AND SO MacDOUGALL RETIRES TO LICK HIS WOUNDS AND BILL SOME CLIENTS.

Fair is Foul; Foul is Fair: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take III

III. IT ONLY GETS WORSE. The Honorable Prunella Jane Virago, President Judge of the Family Court Division of the Green County Circuit Court, ran her courtroom strictly according to the rules – her rules. Judge Virago seemed to take pleasure in changing her rules on an almost weekly and always arbitrary basis, posting densely-worded change orders in an obscure, poorly-lit corner of the bulletin board in the corridor outside the courtroom. Lawyers who practiced in her courtroom were advised to bring their checkbooks; failure to follow Judge Virago’s rules to the letter brought stiff personal fines for contempt of court. Long before Clem MacDougall had undertaken representation of Gladys Weingarten, Judge Virago had let it be known she was fed to the teeth with the battling Weingartens (“Whine-Gardens,” she called them) and their ever-changing cadre of sniveling, wheedling lawyers. Clem MacDougall’s brand-new BMW sport utility vehicle had chosen this particular morning to refuse to start. His brand-new Lexus SUV ran out of gas and sputtered to a stop in the middle of rush hour on the Excelsior City Freeway. His cell phone battery was dead. When he finally reached a pay phone, it ate his last quarter but declined to deliver a dial tone. Which is to say, Clem MacDougall was late for court – by a good forty-five minutes, according to the big clock on the rear wall of the courtroom. Gladys Weingarten, her head an explosion of red-orange hair under a leopard-skin pillbox hat, sat at the plaintiff’s counsel table and glared at him from under bruised-looking purple-shadowed eyelids. She wore heavy gold necklaces and a shiny mauve dress with a low-cut neckline that showed more wrinkled, mottled cleavage than the gaping maw of Hades. At the defense table, Marty Goniff and his client looked as if they’d just placed first and second, respectively, in the pie-eating contest at the Green County Fair. Clem MacDougall stumbled over a wrinkle in the carpet as he scrambled up the aisle and took his seat. For a full minute by the courtroom clock, Judge Virago ignored him. She looked casually through some papers on the bench, then whispered something to her law clerk, who bustled out a side door with a nervous glance over her shoulder at Clem MacDougall. Marty Goniff stood. “Your Honor, it appears Mr. MacDougall has finally decided to join us. Since my client has taken time away from his duties at the hospital, may I request we begin the hearing?” He bowed in Clem MacDougall’s direction. Uriah Heep, Esquire. “I can explain, your Honor.” Clem MacDougall stood quickly, knocking most of his file to the floor. Papers cascaded from folders and three hours of preparation rapidly dissolved into a chaos of disorganized nonsense. The judge peered over her glasses. “One hundred dollars, Mr. MacDougall. You know my rule about punctuality. And one hundred dollars to Mr. Goniff for wasting his valuable time.” Clem MacDougall retrieved his file and dumped a pile of papers on the table. A phrase from A Flame of Wrath for Squinting Patrick repeated in his mind, but now it had something of the sound of a pig being slaughtered. Fair is foul and foul is fair. Nae blood on me blade yet. COULD IT GET STILL WORSE?

FAIR IS FOUL; FOUL IS FAIR: A Clem MacDougall Adenture, Take II

II. SOMETHING SOUNDETH AMISS... But today something was wrong. The pipes sounded...well, like bagpipes, all right..., but somehow duff, as the pipers say: the blend was off, something was out of balance. The music seemed to be losing in its struggle with Clem MacDougall’s mounting distaste for the task he was preparing to undertake. Damn me, but these pipes are soundin’ as if some witch has put a curse on ‘em, he thought. He recalled the witches’ lines from the opening scene of Macbeth: Fair is foul and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. He finished playing the tune; with a heavy heart he replaced the instrument in its case and shut the lid. Would there be blood on his blade this day? Or would his own blood stain the edge of the tide? Fair’s foul and foul’s fair.... MAIR TAE COME.

Fair is Foul; Foul is Fair: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take I

I. PROLOGUE. It had just gone eight-thirty Thursday morning. Clem MacDougall was preparing himself, as was his custom, to go to court. The case was Weingarten v. Weingarten, which had been churning demons of dread in the recesses of his mind ever since his less-than-pleasant interview with Gladys Weingarten the Friday before. Opposing him was Doctor Weingarten’s lawyer, Marty Goniff, known at the Green County Bar as “The Prince of Darkness.” Marty Goniff’s skill in wielding his briefcase full of unintelligible papers and other dirty tricks (the “Briefcase of Darkness”) sometimes left even the great trickster Clem MacDougall feeling like a raw beginner. Marty Goniff was an acknowledged virtuoso in the business of helping people use the so-called legal system to beat the living excrement out of each other. Clem MacDougall wasn’t sure whom he feared and despised the most – Marty Goniff, Doctor Weingarten, or the fair Gladys, the elephant-voiced battleaxe he himself had the honor to represent. The music of the pipes usually brought comfort and grounding – and a consuming fire – to the soul of Clem MacDougall. He played a set of century-old full silver mounted MacDougall pipes, handed down directly from his great-grandfather, Hamish MacDougall. In the time of Queen Victoria, Greatgaffer MacDougall had fashioned Highland bagpipes in the Old Country that were as treasured today as a Stradivari to a fiddler. Inclining a fond ear to the subtle blending of drones and chanter, Clem MacDougall had parley with old folks of old affairs. In the ecstasy of the moment, he stood by the cairn of kings, knew the color of Fingal’s hair and saw the moon-glint on the hook of the Druids. Then his damned bass drone quit. With an oath, he pulled the offending pipe out of its stock, flicked the reed tongue with his thumb, and stuck the whole works down his throat and blew on it, gagging himself in the process. “Blasted black sticks o’ the Deil,” he muttered. He winced as he pulled a hair off his head and threaded it under the tongue of the reluctant reed. Now, when he blew on it, it sounded like a bull walrus in rutting season. After several more minutes of cursing under his breath and fiddling with bits of wax and hemp, he placed the drone, now chastised and compliant, back into its stock and soon he was lost again in the spell of his music. Clem MacDougall caressed the chanter with knowing fingers; the harsh yet curiously sweet voice of the Scottish Highlands and Western Isles drifted over the manicured fairways and greens of the Excelsior Mews Condominiums and Golf Club outside Excelsior City. As he paused and began to play the third variation of A Flame of Wrath for Squinting Patrick (Lasan Padruig Caogach), Clem MacDougall closed his eyes and waited to feel the good old molten fire in his belly and bowels. In all his years, the music of the piob mhor had never once failed to deliver its promise: there would be a foe’s blood on his blade this day. And so Clem MacDougall prepared to go to court, just as his ancestors back into the mists of time had prepared to go into mortal combat. MORE TO COME.

Lycanthropus: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take VI

VI. THE CAPTURE. Twenty minutes later, a white van with Excelsior City insignia pulled alongside the lime-green Chevy Vega in the parking lot. The door of the Vega still hung open. MacDougall and his guests watched as two men and two women in bright orange coveralls emerged from the vehicle, carrying ropes and nets. One of the men carried a muzzle and one of the women carried what looked like a rifle. They surrounded the rhododendron bush on three sides and advanced slowly toward what sounded like a rabid mastiff in the midst of an asthma attack. As they came closer, the sounds of distress grew louder and more insistent. The woman carrying the rifle raised it to her shoulder, sighted carefully and squeezed the trigger. Phut! A tranquilizer dart flew from the gun on a flat trajectory toward an unseen target in the bushes. The snuffling and snorting and yelping subsided. Thirty seconds later, silence reigned once again throughout the grounds of the Excelsior Mews Condominiums.

***

Despite the agony of descending stairs in his delicate condition, Clem MacDougall went down to see what all the commotion had been about. Doyle and Kuznetsov joined him. “In all my twenty years of working with animals,” said the woman with the tranquilizer gun, who appeared to be in charge of the animal-rescue team, “I’ve never seen anything like this.” She shone a beam from her flashlight on the beast, now lying safely sedated in a steel cage. “I don’t know what that thing is. It’s not a canine; it’s not an ape. Kind of like a baboon with that snout and those teeth, but too big and way too ugly. Look at the tongue on that thing! It looks like a giant toadstool. I’m surprised it doesn’t gag the poor creature.” The creature drooled. “What will ye be doing wi’ the puir beastie?” MacDougall stared at the thing with a glimmer of recognition. “It almost looks a bit like one o’ me ... ah ... business associates.” “We’ll keep it in the holding kennel overnight. In the morning, we’ll call the zoology department at the University. I’m sure they’ll want a look.” The two men from the animal shelter picked up the cage, taking care to keep their hands and fingers outside the bars, and slid it into the back of the van. “Looks like somethin’ out of a Grade B science fiction flick,” one of them muttered. As the leader walked toward the van, she slammed the door on the lime-green Vega, which bounced back open. After the van had pulled away, MacDougall, Doyle and Kuznetsov bid each other a good night, shook hands and went their separate ways. On his way toward his car in the parking lot, Doyle called back over his shoulder: “Hey, Mac. Isn’t this Talbott’s car?” He slammed the door and it latched. It was locked. The keys were inside. WHAT NEXT? WHO KNOWS?

Lycanthropus: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take V

V. THE CREATURE IN THE SHRUBBERY. Access to the residents’ parking areas at Excelsior Mews Condominiums was supposedly tightly controlled, but the guard on duty after sunset that evening owed Sly Talbott a favor. Besides, he knew Talbott and MacDougall conducted a lot of their most successful business after dark. He recognized the beat-up lime-green Chevy Vega when it cruised unchallenged past his brightly-lit check point. “Hey, man,” he hollered at the open driver’s side window. “You got another dent in that piece o’ junk. Nice neighbors you got, man.” The guard did a double-take when he noticed how heavy the driver’s beard was, and how long his face – it looked almost like a snout. And did he see a reddish glow in the eyes? Nah. Long day. He shook his head and went back to his racing form. The lime-green Vega rolled to a stop in a space marked “Reserved” just below the balcony of Clem MacDougall’s apartment. The door opened slowly and a form on four legs darted into the rhododendron. The door hung open, but there was no dome light.

***

The waning moon had lost two more days’ worth of influence over the creature now hiding in the rhododendron below Clem MacDougall’s balcony. Despite the moon’s weakening pull, however, the creature watched it as it sailed over the treetops and lit the night sky with silver. Feeling the tug of forces beyond its ken, the creature lifted its head and howled. But what came out sounded more like a cry of human frustration than the howl of a wolf on the hunt. The creature snuffled and growled and yelped and uttered what sounded like guttural recitations of ordinary human profanity.

***

Gennady Kuznetsov had stepped outside onto Clem MacDougall’s balcony, the better to admire the moonlight and the sweetness of the night. At the sounds from below, he cocked his head like an attentive poodle and listened. Quietly, he turned and gestured at MacDougall and Doyle to join him. “What is it, Gennady?” MacDougall made tiny mincing steps as he joined Kuznetsov on the balcony, wincing each time gauze or fabric chafed against the raw skin of his buttocks. “Quiet! Please.” Kuznetsov spoke in a whisper and put a finger to his lips. “Listen. I heard something. Just listen.” Doyle wandered out, carrying a ham sandwich and a half-liter mug of Watney’s ale. He opened his mouth to speak, but again Kuznetsov gestured for silence. “Just listen,” he whispered. The three men stood in silence on the balcony, listening to the night and watching the three-quarter moon drift higher and higher in the sky. Then the hairs on the backs of their necks bristled as they heard it, seeming to come from directly below them: AROOOOOOOGLE! ARROOOOOOOOOGLE!! “Why, saints preserve us,” Doyle said. “That sounds like a bitch in heat calling your name, Mac. You didn’t tell me you had a lady friend down there in the bushes – you old dog, you.” He chuckled, took a swallow of ale and burped. Kuznetsov turned pale. "Oborotyen'," he whispered, crossing himself. “Another blasted cur on the premises,” MacDougall said. “I can handle this.” ARRROOOOOOGLE!! MACDOOOOOOOOOOGLE!!! MacDougall went to the telephone and dialed the Excelsior City Humane Society’s Twenty-Four Hour Emergency Hot Line. He spoke briefly into the receiver, then hung up and poured himself a stiff Tobermory and a frozen Stolichnaya for Kuznetsov (Doyle, he knew, could attend to his own refreshments). He joined the other two on the patio and handed Kuznetsov the glass of vodka. “I am technically on duty, Mister MacDougall,” Kuznetsov said. He smiled and accepted the drink with a stiff-waisted imperial bow. “But I am most grateful for a small taste of the Dutch courage. ‘Zdrovie.” He tossed off a gulp, shuddered and sighed happily. MacDougall passed around cigars and the three sat in wicker chairs and smoked and listened to the weird serenade from the rhododendron bush. STAY TUNED FOR THE EXCITING CONCLUSION!

Lycanthropus: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take IV

IV. A PRAYER FOR CLEM MacDOUGALL. Inspector Gennady Sidorovich Kuznetsov of the Excelsior City Police Bureau sat at Clem MacDougall’s kitchen table, dressed in starched white cotton shirtsleeves and an Italian designer tie. His double-breasted Armani blazer was folded neatly over an unused chair. He made notes in tidy Cyrillic script in a small black pocket notebook, as Clem MacDougall related the strange happenings at the Fox & Hounds two days earlier. The great man himself sat on a goose-down pillow, wearing a loosely-belted dressing gown under which medicated gauze pads covered his blistered rump. On the floor beside his chair sat a No. 2 galvanized tub two-thirds full of tepid water – a precaution against possible re-ignition. Soppy Doyle listened while he busied himself with a thorough review, inspection and sampling of the contents of Clem MacDougall’s liquor cabinet and refrigerator. “Zo, Meester MacDougall,” Kuznetsov said. “Is getting more complicated every day, your life, yes?” “Knock off the phony accent, Gennady,” MacDougall growled. “You can talk like an American, okay? Your English is as good as anyone’s – save perhaps mine.” “Ah. I see. I am to talk American, as you say. But you will continue to talk like silly music-hall Harry Lauder Scotsman Jock?” “Let’s get to it, then. Stop me if I start to sound silly. I feel silly, right enough. Second-degree burns all over the south end of me anatomy, and no explanation.” “Claudia Aikens remains under suspicion, but we have no substantial evidence yet. And we certainly haven’t been able to link her to the mystery of your fiery...ah...your fiery...ah...south end, as you say. It appears there are persons – and forces – in the world, or outside it, perhaps, who wish you ill. I am getting the sense there is much here that does not meet the eye.” “Aye. True enough. Isn’t that where you come in, Inspector? With all the black arts at your command?” “Ah, Mister MacDougall. Not black arts. Police work is all applied science, but with a touch of good judgment, instinct and, frankly, luck. The latter has not been with us much, since the strange incidents with the threatening postcards and your office files. What we need – what you need – is a bit of luck.” Kuznetsov walked to the French doors leading to the east-facing balcony and glanced out into the clear night sky. It was four hours past sunset and a golden gibbous moon was visible rising through the trees bordering the fourteenth fairway. “Waning moon. My people back in Russia used to sing hymns and make prayers at moonrise,” Kuznetsov said. “Prayers for luck and good fortune. And for deliverance from Vampyr, the vampire, and Oborotyen’, the werewolf as you English call it. Perhaps it is time for you to make some prayers, Mister MacDougall.” “Rubbish. Superstitious balderdash. I’m a cafeterian. I help meself.” “Then I will make a prayer on your behalf, my arrogant Scottish friend: By the light of this waning moon, I invoke all the powers of enlightenment and reason in aid of our quest for knowledge and understanding, that our friend Mister MacDougall may be delivered from his distress. Amin.” “Amen,” echoed Soppy Doyle, through a mouthful of Clem MacDougall’s best smoked Atlantic salmon. He washed it down with a slug of Clem MacDougall’s reserve chardonnay. “Amen.” IT AIN'T OVER YET.

Lycanthropus: A Clem MacDougall Aventure, Take III

III. LIAR, LIAR.... “Damn that bloody blackguard Talbott!” Clem MacDougall said to Soppy Doyle as he signaled for another round of drinks at the Fox & Hounds. “I told the blighter tae meet us here two hours ago. Where d’ye suppose he’s got to this time? I’ll wager it’s somewhere near the inside of a whisky bottle, eh?” Doyle plunked a ten-dollar bill on the bar. Fox Huntzberger set down cocktail napkins and a fresh Martini for Doyle and a snifter of Laphroaig for MacDougall. He scooped up the sawbuck like a lizard snagging a moth on the wing. Then he hovered nearby, his ears almost flapping as he eavesdropped. “Old Slyboots wasn’t looking too chipper last time I saw him,” Doyle said. “Stopped in here for a couple of seconds the other night, but buzzed off before a drop of the devil’s drink could pass his ruby lips, so he did. Looked like he was about to toss his cookies, lose his lunch, blow his beets....” “All right, all right. I get your drift, ye blowhard. He must hae come in here just after he left me office. He was lookin’ a wee bit green aboot the gills, now that ye mention it. He was puttin’ a fair serious dent in me emergency spirit supply. I had tae cut him off.” “Well, Mac, I’d guess he came down with something and he’s sleeping it off. What was he telling you about some old hag making him drink something up there on Hickory Hill?” "Och, aye... That was a tale, right enough ... “Oh, bloody piggin’ hell! Jumpin’ Jaysus bleedin’ Kee-rist!” Doyle flinched as MacDougall launched himself from his barstool with a string of oaths and a shriek of pain. The stool fell with a crash and Gorilla The Bouncer yawned and glanced over from his seat by the bar entrance. MacDougall sprinted to the men’s room and vanished through the door. For just a moment, in the dusky light, Doyle thought he saw smoke billowing from the seat of MacDougall’s trousers. From the men’s room he heard hissing and cries of agony subsiding into sighs of relief. Fifteen seconds later, Doyle stood in the men’s room doorway. There sat MacDougall in an open stall, his bottom completely submerged in the hopper. Steam filled the room -- and a barbecue-pit smell of singed skin and hair. There was also a whiff of brimstone. “What the hell, Mac?” Doyle stayed in the doorway, keeping his distance. “It looked like your pants were on fire. What the hell?” MacDougall glanced up and saw Huntzberger and Gorilla The Bouncer peering over Doyle’s shoulder. He gave a rueful grimace. “What the bloody hell, indeed. I was sittin’ there peacefully drinkin’ me drink an' makin' polite conversation, an’ suddenly it feels like me arse is on fire. What the bloody hell, indeed. What kind o’ den of iniquity are ye runnin’ here, Huntz?” “Well, come on, Mac. Stand up and let’s have a look at you.” Doyle pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and shut the door in the faces of Huntzberger and Gorilla. STILL MORE TO COME.