The Wild
                                    By Whitley Strieber
                                           Part One
                                           City Life
Life along the vertebrae of the earth,
brown and slow, concentrates in the cracks,
boiling down to harder forms,
skin to stone, finger to claw.
- Robert Duke, "Silent Transformation" (1987)

                                          Chapter One
Cindy and Robert Duke were in the fifteenth year of a good marriage when something unusual
happened.

They had a twelve-year-old boy named Kevin Thomas for his paternal grandfather; they had an
apartment in New York City; Bob had sold stock, brokered insurance, sold bonds, was now a computer
consultant. He had never been much good at making money, but until now he had managed.

Argument was past, anger was past, the sweated skin of Cindy's girlhood was past, and they were really
learning one another, growing close in ways so deep that they spent a lot of time infected with secret
laughter.

Cindy was heavier than she had been when they used to traverse Manhattan on roller skates, two
cheerful Village types, a young poet and his wife. The need for money had ended those days; Bob was a
poet now at night only.

Recently Cindy had made a private decision that she would allow herself to widen out a little, to find in
the long curves of a bigger body a comfort she had suspected but never dared try.

Bob liked scallops and steak, he liked game and on occasion hunted grouse in the Catskills, where they
were members of a hunt club. Cindy cooked the game intricately, her recipes running to Italy and garlic,
and much invented, all good, the birds properly brown, the skin crisp and salty, the flesh tender and
sweet, and her quail were delicious in steaming piles. They both liked to dig into homemade ice cream
with the ice-cream paddle in the middle of the night. Young Kevin had read all of Jack London and Mark
Twain. Recently he had turned—or been driven—to Kafka.

Kevin smelled often of oil paint and his art teacher fluttered when speaking about him. Cindy disliked the
man, but the school administration loved him. She was tortured with thoughts of kidnapping or more
subtle predation, the caress, the boy gladdened by the attention and then the hands against his naked
skin, and the parted cracks, the cries, the awful memories for her little son.

She was a heavy sleeper, and did not know how difficult it was for her husband at night. He would read,
he would lie looking at her, he would make a deer's soft whistle when the shadows from the street
trembled on the bedroom ceiling. Drawing down the sheets, he would see her golden body, and touch
the down on her thigh, and listen to her weighty breathing. He loved her, he understood that, to
distraction and to the exclusion of all others. Once he knew her, other women had come to seem
ciphers.

Now he sat beside her on a bench at the Central Park Zoo while Kevin sketched a tapir. Bob detested
zoos; Cindy and Kevin loved them. When he was much younger, Bob had spent time in the wilderness.
He had camped and hiked and canoed. The wilderness haunted him. Wolves haunted him. Freedom
haunted him.

It was an October Saturday, the third of the month. Cindy held a copy of the Times in her hands, twisting
it until the ink was smeared. Bob ate the last of Kevin's Cracker Jacks.

"Look at that," she said.

"What?"

"That wolf is watching us."

She was right: it was staring past the children, the men and women, the candy-apple stand, the popcorn
vendor, the whole free crowd. From its prison, it was staring not at them, but at him. The wolf was
staring straight into the eyes of Bob Duke.

All of his life Bob had been fascinated by wolves. He enjoyed being near them so much that he had tried
to track them. Often, he dreamed about them. In his childhood he had fantasized that he was a magic
wolf, and could run through the night sky.

He was unsettled by the feeling this poor, imprisoned wolf communicated to him. As he stared back he
tore into the Cracker Jacks box. "Why doesn't it look at somebody else?"

"You're the only poet."

He shot an angry glance at her. He could not help his infirmity. All of his life he had been a poet,
unpublished, ignored, but nevertheless on the perfectly valid path of a poet. He hated his own love of
poetry. Give him instead a good spreadsheet and some numbers to crunch. He was a bitter man.

There was only one way to describe the look in the eyes of the wolf: horrible.

In this regard it was brother to all the creatures here. Bob could feel the unfocused moaning of the place,
the yearning toward a thousand different instinctual freedoms: to run, to hunt, to hide or fly. Love of trees,
of animals, of the whole intricate, savage reality of the wild had always sustained Bob.

As a boy in Texas he had watched the night sky, the racing moon, and dreamed his dreams of the wild.

There was one dream he would never forget. Even though it had happened when he was eleven, it was
still vivid in his memory.

In this dream he had been a wolf. He had been awakened in the thick night by an amazing, intoxicating
odor. His eyes had snapped open and his whole body had been quivering. The moon had shone down
like the eye of some wild god. Waves of fierce pleasure had surged through him, deranging his senses,
overwhelming his childish fear of the dark.

He had leaped out of bed, unlatched the screen window with fumbling, desperate fingers, and rushed off
into the night. He remembered scuttling across the porch roof beneath his window, then leaping into the
moon-silver air. He'd landed as gracefully as an animal on all fours.

Then there were dew-damp leaves slapping his face, and the pulsing, rushing of a beautifully muscled
body, his heart breaking with obscure passions of overwhelming power, odors of the night filling his
brain, intoxicating him—and then, for the first and only time, he was alive.

It was like leaping and crawling at the same time. The world was transformed by a great magic, the moon
spreading its glow everywhere, and he was happy, all the cares of a dull childhood gone, and he was
suddenly free in the night and he threw back his head and shook his body and he howled out the piercing
joy that filled him blood and bone and soul.

Then he was awake. True, his pajamas were covered with grass stains and there was a dried leaf in his
hair. True also, it was seven o'clock in the morning and he had a math quiz to look forward to.

He had gone off to school, smell of paste, math exercise book, the classroom shades drawn against the
glory of the morning sun. But forever after, he had wondered if perhaps, for a little while in the dead of
the night, he had been a wolf.

It was truly an intoxicating thought, a delicious thought. Man into wolf. Running. Howling. Leaping on the
quaking innocent.

But he had never really escaped that classroom he entered on the morning after his magic, and now the
caged wolf's eyes mocked him for it. And he thought, You, are you a man who became a wolf, locked in
there now?

It was hideous to think that he might be looking at someone who had a name and a past, who had tasted
the freedom of the wild only to be locked up like this, a sort of double prisoner.

"Let's get Kevin and go. It's lunchtime."

"We've only been here ten minutes."

The wolf's eyes bored into him. He imagined long, thin claws extending out from the center of those eyes
and into the center of his brain, and forming there a molten spot. "The animal's angry," he said.

"I don't blame him. He's in a zoo."

"I hate this place."

"It's only a perfectly ordinary zoo. Anyway, Kevin's in the middle of something exciting. Look at him."

Bob envied and loved his son's ability to draw and paint. But for a child of twelve, why such furies? He
made Francis Bacon look cheerful. His son would climb into his lap and they would read together, and
Bob would wonder what tormented the boy, who read Kafka's "Hunger Artist" in a solemn, priestly
voice, perhaps even in the voice Kafka had heard while he was writing it. Another jumbo jet would roar
over the house, and to the west the sky would mutter, another restless night.

Bob was trapped between the staring wolf and his son's obvious excitement. When he moved, he was
captured by his wife's cool hand, which squeezed his own. "Relax. It's a sunny day."

"The cages get to me."

"It's only a zoo!"

"Oh, come on, Cindy, can't you feel the anger? What about that wolf? You can feel his anger."

"Maybe I'm not sensitive enough for it to matter. After all, I'm not a poet."
How he hated that word. He suspected that it had been invented for the specific purpose of being
applied to those whom it would trap. Cindy read his poetry, and now also Kevin. "It's good, Dad. It's
real."

Cindy might add: "Couldn't it be a bit less sad? What about the beauties of the world?"

"At Auschwitz Dr. Mengele used to issue what he called 'standing orders.' He and his henchmen would
stand on the chests of prisoners until they died."

"That isn't the answer I expected, at least I'll say that for it. What if they lay there looking at the sky,
looking past the men destroying them? The sky is made for joy."

"Romantic nonsense."

"It's what I would have done."

"Fatuous. The agony was too great."

"Damn you, Bob, your ego's always in the way. That's the reason your poems don't get published, you're
too proud of them, and it shows."

He threw his head back and stared into the sky. He imagined the feet on his chest, the boots slowly
collapsing his ribs, the click of the man's lighter mesmerizing him, the glow of his cigarette against the
pearl-blue evening of Auschwitz.

He stared up into the belly of a passing airliner, whose roar mingled with voices and the smack of eating
mouths, and the cries of the animals.

Inevitably, he looked back at the wolf.

It had never stopped watching him. He decided that there is no such thing as a human being who is not
terrified of the wild. His wife's body touched him. Her hand still lay in his. Their love was so profound
that there was nothing to be said about it. Anything could transpire between them, any anger, any hate,
any outrage, and it would not matter to this love, which was like blood, like breath, more a part of the
body than of the mind. Sometimes he knelt before her at night, and she drew him down into her cavern.
Once she had said, "You cannot survive without me. I have become myth for you."

The ecstasy of love is what transmits human feelings. Without it children cannot be truly human. If Adam
and Eve had not fallen in love after their first child, humanity would have ended with them, for Abel like
his brother would have been a beast.

"Don't keep tilting your head back like that. You look like you're having a seizure of some kind."

"I want to look at the sky."

"The pigeons are aiming for your mouth."

"You hope. But the statistics are on my side."

"Come on, sit like an adult. I don't want people to think I'm married to an overgrown child."

"You are."

"You're going to hurt your neck."
"Pain is good for me. Pain means something."

Cindy muttered a reply. What was it? Fatuous? He hadn't heard, but he didn't care, either, because he
saw clouds. Another jet passed, and beneath the clouds it was so small. He imagined the people and the
books up there, the copies of Time and Newsweek in the laps of the travelers, and their unimaginable
dreams. He visualized the stewardesses stowing the empty food trays, the pilots reading off vectors,
pulling and pushing levers, wheels, buttons, and the fire in the engines, the white fire of JP-6 waiting there
to fulfill its dream, the dream of all jet fuel, which is to bum its creators.

He would have to go down to Atlanta bright and early Monday morning, a guest of Apple Computer, to
attend a two-day session about the Macintosh Office. Wonderful, crazy, impossible computer, the Mac.
All the people from Apple would be smiling, everything calm and rich in the Westin Hotel, and at night, in
their dark rooms, they would all be lying awake worrying about their jobs.

He did not want to fly to Atlanta. He did not want to attend the conference with the despairing computer
salesmen. He did not want to lie in an oversize bed in the Westin, wishing he was home in Cindy's arms,
listening to A Sea Symphony while the stars passed and the pacing in the apartment upstairs went on and
on.

I'm a selfish man, he said in his mind. A brat.

He sat up straight, surprised.

What was happening to him?

If only there was some way to tell her how he was suffering, surely she would have compassion —she
would fill with compassion—and let them go out into the streets, go to a movie, to a restaurant, home,
anywhere but this damned zoo.

The wolf was still staring at him. Its ears were pricked forward, adding to the impression of almost
supernatural concentration.

Wolf, or man-wolf?

It blinked its eyes as the sun emerged. The animal within Bob reacted: he felt a slow, intimate movement
beneath his flesh. He recalled his wolf dream with the kind of insight that brings sudden and intense
clarity. Raising a boy, loving a wife, writing poetry, selling, advising, flying, eating, waiting, he had driven
himself insane. A wolf in the belly was not the fantasy of a sane man. Should he go into analysis?
Expensive, and also the only psychiatrist he knew was Monica Goldman, who was Cindy's dearest friend
and the only woman he had ever desired to distraction, but for Cindy herself.

At the Esopus Hunt Club one night Monica and Steve had come in, she flushed with pride at the
pheasants she had taken, her gun on her arm, her birds at her waist, dangling and beautiful, her color
high, her eyes sparkling. He had kissed her cheek, there had been wine and Steve's bobbing bald head in
the light of the kerosene lantern, the group of them with the enormous old club build-ing to themselves but
for the Brickmans from California, the deaf, smiling, ancient Brickmans, and he had thought of Monica in
the night. Over the course of the evening he had contrived a plan that would enable him to accomplish his
object without shame, or so he imagined. He had rehearsed the words, the gestures, the casual laughter if
his suggestion failed. "It's cold. Why don't we bunk up together, all four of us?"

A short silence. Steve's pate reddened. Monica crossed her legs, put her chin in her hand. He could
practically hear the phrases of her profession wallowing about in her mind: penile insecurity, death wish,
sublimation.
They all burst out laughing, so loudly that the Brickmans, who were sitting in armchairs reading Reader's
Digest Condensed Books, nodded and smiled, and Mr. Brickman went "ha-ha, a good hunt!"

It was a night of false groping. For the longest time only Steve was potent. He and Cindy had coupled
together with Monica sitting in a chair and Bob curled up under the covers at the bottom of the bed,
praying to God it would end, but it was endless, on and on, booming through the night as if an artillery
battery had opened up on his position.

At three o'clock in the morning Bob had waked up, his body quaking with lust, and made furious love to
Monica.

Only at the end did he discover that the shadowy, grappling woman beneath him was Cindy. Monica and
Steve had gone back to their own room hours before.

Should he now sit across a desk from Monica and say, "I had a hallucination that there was a wolf in my
stomach?" Well, she wouldn't charge him too much. "A professional visit," she would say, "of course."

The wind blew, and Cindy's heavy thigh rested against him, and his son went on drawing the tapir. The
crowd passed, a baby bobbing in a stroller, a couple with linked hands, a pale man who watched Cindy,
his face in an agony of longing. Cindy's eyes followed him. She carried a terrible electric stunner in her
purse. She would not hesitate to use it.

Something made Bob get up, made him stand full height. "Get me a Pepsi," Cindy said.

His mouth might as well have been sewed closed, for he could not even begin to answer. He found
himself moving toward the wolf, threading through the crowd, or so he thought until he collided with a girl
in shorts and a tie-dyed T-shirt, and smashed her orange drink against her naked midriff.

Her voice chopped at him, a wave smashing on rocks. Seeing that she could not make him hear her, she
stamped her foot and stalked off. The wolf had watched Bob until he reached the cage. Then it began to
pace back and forth, its dewlaps wet, its eyes glancing from side to side, its tongue lolling. He watched
the tongue, the black lips, the yellow, weak teeth, the eyes. The animal's tail was down, and when it
passed close to him, it growled.

Was that entirely an animal sound?

He realized that it was literally frantic to escape, that its problem, very simply, was boredom. It was
made for the woods, this creature, it belonged in secret and limitless spaces. But where were they? The
woods that weren't being logged out were dying of acid rain. It belonged nowhere, this North American
timber wolf. The animal was part of the past. Its last place was a cage in the middle of a zoo in the middle
of a city totally beyond its understanding.

What did it understand? It understood how to snatch trout from streams, how to eat voles and gophers,
how to bring down deer and moose. Did it also understand how to turn a key?

There was something about this creature, though, that Bob knew with crystal certainty could not be
destroyed.

"It's beautiful," Cindy said. She had come beside him. He felt what Monica would call "inadequate."

"I wish I was some kind of an activist. I'd like to come in here and free all of these animals."

"Kill them, you mean?"
"Free them."

"To release them into the city is the same thing as killing them. Even in the wild, most of these animals
would die."

The wolf remembers, though, the long shadows of evening and the darting movements of the muskrat.
"You're so controlled. I think you're overcontrolled. What if they made it, all of them, even the sloth and
the anteater."

"The anteater's cage is empty. I guess it's dead."

"What about giraffes? What if I found them all an apartment? They could live in comfort then, no crowds,
no cages."

"Who'd pay the rent?"

"A secret zoo. Admission fifty dollars. Worth it to see a hippo cooking breakfast and a full-grown moose
grazing the shag rug in the bedroom."

"I want to be together later. When Celeste takes Kevin and Joseph to the movies."

"I thought he and Joey were fighting."

"No. Now Dashiel and Kim are fighting. The rest of the class has suspended hostilities, pending the
outcome."

The wolf turned and stood directly before Bob, lowering its head as if it wished it could ram itself into his
belly. It growled—not a little, throaty sound, but a big noise.

It was magnificent, it had the whole wild in it.

Down the row of cages the baboon sat, its mouth lolling opened, its head resting against the bars, its eyes
in Africa. The wolf paced and barked, and Bob knew that it was begging for freedom.

No, begging for forgiveness. "It's just their fate," Cindy said, trying to be kind to him, "they ended up
here."

Bob thought. What if it isn't that way at all? The man-wolf knows. . . . "I'm no good today," he said
aloud. "I didn't sleep. I don't want to go to Atlanta."

She was hugging her shoulders, watching the wolf. "It is us it's reacting to. There's no doubt about it."

"I'm scared. Maybe it's telling me not to fly. It's a portent."

She shook her head as if trying to dislodge a gnat from her ear. "No, it—" The wolf threw itself against
the bars, growling and yapping, dragging its teeth on the iron with a clacking sound. Cindy stepped back.
Bob's impulse was to throw his arms around the wolf, to kiss it, to caress it. He had kissed his dog Moe
when he was a boy, had put his arms around Moe, and he remembered Moe's smell, that musty
dogginess, the fetor of his breath. Moe had been ground to wreckage beneath the wheels of the school
bus. The bus had let Bob off. As it pulled out, there had been a crunch, a thud, a canine scream, and the
bus had rumbled away with Moe's tail fluttering out from under the fender. Bob had been left with his
dog, its jaw torn back, gabbling against the street, making noises like wet paper being dropped from a
height. Moe was a pulsating shambles, save for one rear leg, which was running furiously. There was
nobody around, it was a block to home, and Moe was dying. Bob had screamed while Moe popped and
spluttered.

Bob ran through the lush neighborhood, which had become a moonscape of empty houses and houses
that would not answer the door. He had gotten home to find his own house also empty. He had called his
father at the office. "Moe can't live, Bobby," his father had said. "You take my shotgun down and help
him out of his misery."

Then there was a twelve-year-old boy, his eyes soaked with tears, rushing down the hot, empty street
with a big old Remington held at port arms, who aimed the gun at the flapping puddle on the street, and
shot, sending up a great splash of blood from the body of his beloved. The boy then turned the shotgun
on himself, only to find that his toe could not—by an act of the goodness of God— reach the trigger. He
looked down the smoking barrel into his deepest, truest wish. At last, dragging the gun, he made his way
home.

The agony of that experience reasserted itself. Was the wolf rabid, sick, would it be taken up to the
pound and gassed, ending its life in the ultimate prison, a chamber so small it would have to be stuffed in,
with the gas hissing from the jet in the back? "Cindy, I am leaving this zoo. If you and Kevin want to stay,
you can."

She knew him too well to abandon him. "Let's go to a coffee shop and get some lunch," she said.

Their son was not unwilling to leave. Bob usually did not dare to look at his drawings, and yet these were
the very opposite of violent. He had rendered a portrait not of the tapir but of the wolf, a full face, eerie
with knowing. "It practically posed. It was staring at you, Dad. Do you think it knows you love wolves?"

"I don't know."

Kevin took his father's and mother's hands, and they went out into the streets of the strange old city. "I
wish we were in the country," Kevin said.

"Not when your dad has to travel on Sunday night. It makes things too hectic for him."

He thought of their rented house up in Ulster County, of Mount Tucker jutting up behind it, and the loons
calling on the lake and the doves, and the occasional scream when something captured something on the
mountainside.

Once he had watched a fox eating a small rabbit. The fox had torn out its bowels and was lapping at
them while the rabbit shrieked. Or, another time, he had seen a rat taken by a red hawk. The rat knew
what it was to be torn to pieces while being lifted into the happy sky.

Sometimes, warm in bed in his apartment, his wife sleeping beside him, his son in the next room, he
thought he was close to a secret of incredible importance, the secret of why life was so involved with
suffering, the secret the north wind said when it roared through the snowy pines, the secret of the fire in
the plains, burning because it had to bum, the dog dying because it had tried to bite a rolling wheel, or the
secret the great timber wolf had dreamed as it succumbed to the zoo hunter's numbing dart. But then
something would happen, his own body would go urgent or something, and thoughts of secrets would
come to an end.

"Would you like a hamburger, Kevin?"

"Fine, Mom."

Bob didn't want hamburgers. He wanted to take his family to the Plaza, and dine in the Palm Court on
finger sandwiches, followed by enormous slices of cake and strong, black coffee. He wanted to do this
while listening to a Vivaldi concerto played by the Palm Court String Quartet. And perhaps to start with,
a champagne cocktail. Furthermore he wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon in a movie, any movie
as long as it was gaudy and loud, and he also wanted to float out of himself across the sky of the city, to
float above the towers, off farther and farther, until the last sound from below whimpered out, and he
could see stars in the middle of the day.

He would let go the mystic chain, and fall then. But he would not end up back on Fifth Avenue, not at all.
He would not fall back into the world but out of it. He would fall past the moon, past Neptune, past
Arcturus and the Milky Way, fall past stars and galaxies with names like NC-2376, and past those
without names, past them all, until he thudded softly against the purple velvet side of the universe.

Then what would he do? Dig through? Maybe that was not such a good idea. Perhaps there was another
universe on the other side, maybe worse than this one, a universe where no truth is real, where the child's
ball on the grass is a killing boulder, or all of fate is concealed in the toe of a shoe.

Maybe that's what the quasars that stand sentinel at the end of the universe are all about—they are the
spots where people like Socrates and Christ dug through; they are windows into bright and terrible
wisdom. They are warnings.

Sometimes Bob agreed with the quantum theorists, that the world was a knack of chosen possibilities,
nothing more substantial than that. Man's true model was not Macbeth, not Othello, not even Gregor
Samsa, but rather Puck the fairy, magical and insubstantial and so dangerous.

"Bob—watch out! Honest to God, I never saw anybody so willing to walk in front of buses. What do
you think the bus drivers are—gods? One of these days one of them'll be blinking and he won't see you
in time to put on his brakes."

"Let's not go to a coffee shop. Let's go to the Palm Court."

"I'm wearing sandals, Bob."

"Champagne cocktails. Dancing to the music of Vivaldi."

"We can't afford it. The American Express bill remains unpaid."

"Let's have some fun for once."

She never let him down about things like this, The Palm Court it was, and Kevin got a Roy Rogers, she
got white wine, and Bob finally settled on a Vodka Sunrise. He assembled a banquet for himself,
managing to find goose with fresh snow peas, but no broiled wolf, frog legs, though, but no dog.

The music was gentle, persistently civilized, and Bob managed to sustain the illusions you need to enjoy
food. You cannot think of the way hogs knock against the walls of the slaughterhouses, or of the
chickens scrabbling down chutes lined with knives. As he ate he thought he could feel the world turning,
exposing each part of itself to the sun, so that the light could sustain it. The engine of life labors so hard,
but why? Nothing survives, yet everything tries. Worms on the end of fishing lines struggle through hells
beyond imagination, slowly drowning, impaled, while monsters loom at them. Fish in creels take hours
and hours to die, and you make them live a little longer so that they'll be good and fresh at the end of the
day, a cheerful sight frying in the skillet.

What eats us? We can't understand it any more than the chicken can understand Frank Perdue. There is
something out there.

"Coffee, sir?"
"I'd like to see the dessert cart."

Cindy luxuriated. Kevin's eyes lit up when the glorious tray was brought over, its perfections of sugar and
flour and cream enough to make any boy feel suddenly quite cheerful.

When they came out of the Palm Court, it was nearly three o'clock. The sky had changed. Long, dark
clouds rushed down from the north.

Cindy called Celeste. They would not go home, they would go to a movie and take Kevin with them.

The Ambassadors, a Merchant-Ivory picture based on the James novel, was playing at the Plaza
Theater. In the dark of that theater, Bob felt delicious, immense relief. He closed his eyes and listened to
the music, and made the words part of the music, and imagined that he was Henry James, and had
succeeded in his creative life.

That night Cindy asked him to come to bed naked, and she caressed him expertly, her fingers very slow.
Even after all these years, the intimacy of her touch still made him shudder with embarrassed delight. He
had not had many lovers before her, just one, as a matter of fact, with whom he had slept four times
when he lived in London. There was another who had shared a single bed with him for a year, but
without making love. It was the Catholic boyhood that had ruined his fun. When he made love, he still
sometimes smelled the smoke of Father O'Reilly's cigar drifting through the confessional screen.

When he slept, draped across her, his chest half on her lap, while she read propped up against the head
of the bed, he dreamed of a wide, empty walk. There were pizza crusts and popcorn boxes blowing, and
on both sides of the walk there were cages, most of them alive with movement. A gibbon brachiated
endlessly back and forth across a thirty-foot span, leopards paced, deer snorted, a weasel moved
sinuously about, chimpanzees stared into the dark. The wolf watched him.

If you listened when the wind blew through its hair, you could hear the rustling of the whole forest. It
came soundlessly out of its cage, drifting between the bars like fog. Bob didn't have to wait for
instructions, he was familiar enough with the logic of dreams to start running at once.

Inwardly he was calm. He knew that this was a dream. He was not running through Central Park being
chased by a breeze that had become a wolf. He was in bed.

The trees swept past him, their great trunks dimly lit by the antique pathside lamps. As he ran he found
that he was moving along just above the surface of the path, almost as if he was about to fly like the wolf
of his childhood dream.

There was nothing behind him now, nothing but the long expanse of the Literary Walk, so elegant at
night, as if waiting for the return of the civilization that had created it. It was a windy night and the trees
sighed and tossed their heads. No voice sounded, no radio blared. The park was empty.

The fear had left the dream, to be replaced by a sense of wonder. He had never been in the park in the
middle of the night. Being here now filled him with sweet unease. Anybody he met would be dangerous,
and yet it was also dark and he could hide. He could be the wraith in the shadows, the one who stalked
the midnight lovers, the predator. He could be the one they all feared, the one who kept the park empty
at this hour.

He slowed down. The wolf was gone. The dream became a stroll between dark pillars of trees. One part
of him was searching for symbols; he sought the sense of his dream. Its landscape seemed connected to
some obscure inner resurrection.
The wolf burst upon him, its paws outstretched, its teeth bared, its eyes dark beneath the hood of its
brows. He fell back, hands out, kicking, pushing, and was swept along as if in water. He tumbled
between the trunks of two trees. Then he gathered himself up, feeling the wolf right at his heels.
Somewhere in his mind the voice of Walter Cronkite explained that wolves are shy and do not generally
harm human beings. But the voice did not connect with the empirical reality. He tried to run but now he
could not. He blew instead as a detached leaf blows, soaring past the crowns of the trees, high into the
sky. Around the park the buildings glimmered, a wall of gleaming fortresses. Below and behind him the
wolf rose amid flashes, as if its claws sparked against the air.

The higher he flew, the harder it got to continue. Finally he felt himself begin to fall. He did not fall
fast—in fact he could control it enough to avoid trees. The wolf, though, had not lost control of itself at
all. Its whole attention was fixed on Bob, who lusted to reach the ground where he could run again. But
he fell as softly as a bit of thread on the whipping air. Growing increasingly desperate, he kicked like a
swimmer. He felt the breath of the wolf on his back, heard its urgent little cries as it closed the distance
between them.

Then his feet touched the ground. He was in the Sheep Meadow, running as fast as he could. A woman
was running beside him, Cindy, calling to him in a shrill voice. He could not quite hear her, but he had the
impression that if he could, her words would help.

The wolf snapped. A flash of white shot through Bob's brain and he tripped, falling head over heels in the
rich grass. Then the wolf was upon him. Its claws melted his flesh with a puff of blue smoke and a hiss.

Then the jaws opened, and began to work the flesh off his bones. He became a mass of conscious
agony. He could see the red, pulsating walls of the wolf's esophagus, could feel the sizzling acid of its
stomach. He commenced a grim kneading suffocation. Then he began to dissolve. He became softer and
softer until he seeped through the walls of the wolf's organs and began to race through its body, his blood
screaming in its hot, quiet blood. He was the living victim of the night, sacrificed to the life of another.

Then he was seeing through the wolf's eyes, hearing the great rustling, banging, honking, shouting, roaring
city all around, and smelling waves of odors that were like bridges of leaves and memories, the smell of
dark, sick gardens, and most of all the smell of people and metal bars.

He was moving through the night in the body of the wolf when Cindy came into the center of his dream,
her face streaked with tears, her hands on his wolf head, her voice begging, and this time the words made
sense.

"Oh, God, honey, please wake up!"

By degrees, he obeyed the words. His wolf body fell away, smells turned back into sights, then the whole
park seemed to melt. The trees flowed down like great candles, the grass shriveled into a pale Canon
sheet, the cliffs of buildings became a cliff of pillows. Cynthia sat with his head cradled in her lap. He
could smell sweat, his and hers. The bedroom light shone softly in his eyes.

"Cindy?"

"Thank God! Honey, it's all right. It's me. You're all right."

He grunted; his throat was so sore he could barely talk. "I'm sorry," was all he managed to say. There
was terror in her eyes. He reached up, caressed her face, feeling her warm, tear-wet cheek.

"I couldn't wake you up!"
"I'm sorry. Truly, Cindy. I wanted to wake up, believe me I did."

He got up and on wobbly legs went into the bathroom. When he drank he felt a thirst like fire and drank
more. Again and again he drank. Finally, gasping, he leaned over the sink and splashed his face with
more water. He coughed. Cindy came in and put her arm around him.

The thing was, he could still feel himself inside the wolf. Somewhere in the night they were running
together. Maybe they would always be together, running like this, running for the end of the universe.

Cindy turned him around and enfolded him in her arms. He kissed her, and her response was hungry at
first. Then she sighed. She caressed him, a sad, almost apologetic gesture. "It's three o'clock in the
morning," she said. "Let's try and get some sleep."

                                            Chapter Two
Some years before, Robert and Cindy Duke had tried to vacation on an island in the Carribbean. It was
a beautiful island, its interior lush with waterfalls and orchids, its beaches chalk white, its -lagoons as clear
as air and swarming with colorful fish.

The only difficulty with this island was and is that the best beach is located at the end of the airport's one
runway. The Dukes had just gotten to the island that morning, and having no time to discover its smaller
hidden beaches—the pockets of sand secreted along its rocky harbors and lagoons—they were at this
beach.

Bob watched an airliner bank over the ocean, then aim for the airport. Fortunately the planes today were
landing from the west, so all the beach had to endure was a roar and a blast of sweet, warm fumes when
one came to the end of the runway and turned around. Otherwise they would be thundering overhead at
an altitude of fifty feet.

Dropping, the airliner disappeared below the edge of the dunes. A few moments passed. Bob. heard a
much louder roar than he had on previous landings. Then there was a dull thud and a cracking sound.
Then silence, but for the bouncing of an enormous wheel, which bounded down the dunes, across the
beach and splashed into the sea. People sat or stood, all turning toward the dunes, all freezing when they
saw the nose of the airplane sitting there like a sculpture, not two hundred feet away. Bob was locked in
a kind of silence. Two men in blue uniforms clambered out of the top of the plane and Jumped down,
disappearing among the dunes.

Bob began to run. When he reached the top of the dunes, he found himself overlooking a scene of
astonishing destruction. A huge jetliner lay in at least four pieces, festooned with wires and smoking
tubes. Jet fuel poured out of half a dozen places, making foaming pools in the sand beneath the shattered
plane. A man and a woman jumped off one of the sections of the plane and, arm in arm, began making
their way back toward the airport. The pilots climbed up into another section, the main section, and
started shouting into the jumble of detached seats and people.

There was a soft rush of sound as the jet fuel under one section ignited. Bob could see the people inside
struggling frantically,, then they were obscured by thick, black smoke. The two pilots had begun
dropping people out of the main section. Bob ran over and began leading them away from the plane.
There were terrible screams coming from the burning part of the plane. A burning woman leaped out of
the smoke and began to dance, her arms flailing as she slapped at herself with her flaming purse.

Then the main section of the plane caught. The fire was for the moment confined to the rear. People kept
jumping out of the front. The pilots and a stewardess could be heard inside, shrieking at them to hurry
up.

Fire burst into the cabin from a thousand different directions, swirling in a vortex. One of the pilots rushed
forward, leaped down, and ran away, his face black, his hair smoking. The other one could be seen in
the fire, throwing seats, pushing people toward the gaping hole at the front.

Bob sat in his seat in the plane to Atlanta, reliving as he always did that afternoon on the Island of
Escape. The Island of Dreams. Pina colada, limbo, snorkel. The Island of Coral Bedrooms.

"Will you be having dinner with us, sir?"

He nodded.

"Steak or chicken?"

Always the same two meals.

"I'll have the duck a l'orange and a half bottle of Chablis. Maybe the saffron souffle for dessert."

"That sounds like the chicken."

"It's the chicken."

The flight attendant made a note on her little list and went away. This year he had earned over a hundred
thousand miles on Delta. Soon he'd be able to cash his mileage in for a free trip somewhere. Maybe the
Caribbees, maybe hell.

For once he wasn't lugging along boxes and boxes of seminar materials. Instead it was simply a matter of
coming, listening, and going home again. The Apple Computer people were the ones with the boxes of
junk.

He tried to let his mind drift. Last night's nightmare was still close to the surface, though, and when he
drifted, he at once smelled its fearful scents: wolf breath, wet grass, and his own blood. The dream wasn't
really over, that was the trouble. Cindy shouldn't have waked him up, as terrifying as it must have been to
see him toward the end howling and snapping. She should have let the dream resolve. Now it persisted in
him, lingering at the edge of memory, jumping for a split second into his vision.

To quell it he forced his attention to the face of his watch. Nine P.M. She would just be turning off
Masterpiece Theatre and probably fixing herself a cup of herb tea. Kevin would be asleep, the cats at
the foot of his bed. When Cindy lay down they would come to her, their habit being to share the society
of sleep between the two beds in the household. He wished that she was sitting in the seat beside him,
Kevin in the window seat.

If the plane was going to crash, though, better he be alone.

When Kevin had been a baby. Bob had taken great pains to preserve his own life. He did not want to
leave such a vulnerable little creature. When there was someone in the world whose eyes literally shone
when they regarded you, how could you bear to die? Kevin had needed a male image, had adored Bob
in a way he had not known was possible, had so relished his every attention. But now Kevin was twelve,
and he could grow up without a father, if necessary. Or Cindy could remarry. Bob could be replaced.

While these morbid thoughts passed through his mind, the stewardess dropped his meal on his tray. He
nibbled at the chicken breast, ate the parsley, ate the half of a cherry tomato that was on the salad. He
drank the club soda and ate a bite of the dense brownie. He had brought Max Brod's book about
Kafka. If he was going to keep up with his son, he was going to have to gain some sort of insight into
Kafka. What were the parables about? And the "Penal Colony"—or, for God's sake, the
Metamorphosis? This morning, while Bob was looking through the Amusement Section of the Times for
notices about ballroom dancing, Kevin had suddenly asked, "Where's Away From Here? Is it away from
here, or away from where Kafka was when he wrote the parable?" He had seen the mirth in his son's
eyes, and decided that he had to learn more about Kafka.

He just stared at the pages, though. Half of his mind was waiting for the plane to fall out of the sky,
waiting for the dreadful roar that would announce the explosion of a terrorist bomb, or the thuttering
oscillations that would precede the separation of a wing.

Why should I read about Kafka? I'm living in Kafka. I'm a Hunger Artist on trial in the Penal Colony.
There isn't any escape. Even death is no escape, not if there is reincarnation. Oh, God, what if I come
back in Bangladesh or as a Shiite fanatic, or a Chinese peasant? What's going on, how does it all work,
why do I keep thinking I've lost my keys when I haven't?

I'm in the middle of the woods and I suddenly realize that I can't get out. The wolf is no help, the wolf is
only chasing me deeper.

A cold hand covers mine. A face, rusty around the edges, skin as tight as that of a mummy, hair too
blond, voice older than the polished nails, the pearl-hard face-lift. "Jesus will comfort you," says the
mask.

Bob realized that he had been crying, his tears raining down on the chicken and Max Brod.

"Jesus—"

"Pray with me. It'll help."

"I don't go to church." He thought: O'Reilly. Cigar. Communion. Then: Altar Society, mother picking up
the lilies at Anne Warner's house. Benediction, Mass, the Last Sacraments.

"It doesn't matter whether you believe or not. Jesus doesn't mind."

Where was Father O'Reilly now? The Oblate Seminary, perhaps, teaching the dwindling few seminarians
their truth and calling: "Don't drink after midnight or before five o'clock in the mom-ing. Beware of female
converts, they are all after your tail. Remember that most questions cannot be answered. Remember that
most sins cannot be understood. Nuns expect terrible penances. That is what their lives are about. The
church is dying, this is the key truth of our time. Trust in God. Judging from the amount of notice He takes
of us, He isn't too concerned. Follow His example, He has perfect knowledge."

All things grow old. The girls of spring get face-lifts. Bob wondered how much skin the lady beside him
had lost over the years, how much experience she had hidden in her waxed looks. Where was the skin?
Incinerated, or lying in a bottle of formaldehyde in some plastic surgeon's private museum? What would
he have there— removed scars pinned to cards like butterflies, septums, big lips, bits of eye sockets and
breasts? And, floating in formaldehyde, the discarded cheeks, jowls, and chins of his best customers?

"Pray with me. You might find it helpful."

Her intrusion made him feel mean. "Play?"

"No, pray!"

"You said play."
"Well, hardly that. Play—I mean, oh dear, pray with me."

"Freudian slip. I don't remember any prayers except the Hail Mary."

"I don't believe in Freud. He knew nothing of Jesus. What is the Hail Mary? I don't know that prayer."

"Moslem."

"Oh."

She began leafing through the Airline Gift Guide. If you fill out the card—say, order a friend some golf
shoes with retractable cleats—and the plane crashes and they find the card, do they mail it for you and
take the charge out of your estate? Is there an airline policy covering this matter?

Until the island Bob had always assumed that people were just pulverized in jet crashes. But they had all
been alive, broken arms and legs no doubt in the twisted jumble of seats, but alive. Twelve got out.

He imagined being twisted practically in two, the seat on top of him, his face against the floor, and the
floor getting hotter and hotter and he cannot get free.

"Please fasten your seat belts, ladies and gentlemen. Captain Gamer has begun our final approach into
Atlanta's Hartsfield International Airport."

The flight attendant hurried along collecting the last of the meal trays and plastic cups. The landing was
completely normal. Bob moved past the smiling crew members and out into Hartsfield's silly vastness
without any difficulties. Maybe he only imagined that his life was running out. Perhaps this was an illusion,
there to mask the far more horrible reality that he was going to live a long, long, long time.

My problem is, I'm in a panic state. I'm panicked about death. Over death. Death and going broke. At
the moment I have no accounts receivable. I've got to drum up some new business. Dying and going
broke are similar, except death is less embarrassing. He hurried along a moving sidewalk. But what do I
do? How do I drum up business if I'm not sure what it is I do?

Maybe the Apple people would have some i-deas. Maybe he ought to start advocating the Macintosh
Office after all. A point of difference. "Spend your money with me. I advocate the Macintosh Office."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." The man beside him had responded to his thoughts, not because he could read minds but
because he had obviously spoken out loud. All right, so you pass age forty and you start talking to
yourself.

Nose, ears, and penis all continue to grow, even as your overall body mass starts to decline. Short-term
memory is going. And now you mutter.

Silently, over the past year, Bob had begun to engage in the battle of the nose hair. You couldn't very
well just leave it to grow longer and longer, curly and gray, like smoke flowing out your nostrils. You had
to cut it. Bob used nail clippers, and the process made him sneeze. The more he cut it, the stiffer the hair
became. Maybe he was one of those unlucky men whose beards grew inside their noses.

He would have drunk, but he had swallowed so many gallons of alcohol in his youth that he was almost
unable to stimulate himself. He didn't smoke, drink, or chew gum.

He was nostalgic for the time in London he had been given some brownies laced with hash by a lush
daughter of the nobility—possibly the only lush noble daughter—and had wound up writing a
seventy-page epic poem about the death of Nebuchadnezzar.

This part of any trip was the worst, the cab ride from the airport to the hotel. You were alone and you
were angry and you were bored. Stone bored watching the passing exit signs, the cars, a Camaro driven
by a blonde so enormous she might be a depilated man. Maybe she was. What would that be like? A
violation, thrilling ... or depressing, a sexless struggle with someone too strong to escape.

The dull, steamy thoughts of the traveler. Already 10:35. Get checked in, for God's sake, you can't call
Cindy after eleven. That's the rule, that way you don't inconvenience anybody. Too bad he couldn't
afford a portable phone.

The cab hurtled around a corner and he finally accepted the feeling that the world was ending, or rather,
he was ending. "It felt like I died and the whole world died with me," a man had once said upon
awakening from a particularly severe auto accident.

"May I take your bag, sir?"

God, I wish you would! "No, that's all right."

Check in: the people ahead have no reservations. Then they have a credit card on the Bank of Pakistan.
They speak little English. Bob would carry them on his back to their room if it would hurry things up. The
lobby smells faintly of cigarette smoke and food. Liquor. Steak. Later, he'll come down to the bar with all
the other lonely men and sit staring around, looking for the Woman Who Is Not There.

He's being processed now. Credit card. Guest of Apple. Oh, that'll be the fourth floor. She says it like it's
the bomb shelter. Go right up, you're already checked in, Mr. Drake.

Duke.

Okay.

Fourth floor: a woman of twenty in a tan suit with the Apple logo on her pocket comes forward. "May I
take your bag, Mr. Drake?"

"Duke. No thanks."

"Let's see, you're in 403. Lucky you, you'll have a view down Peachtree Street."

Oh, how wonderful! What luck!

The room is very nicely packaged. Little soaps and creams and things, and a shoeshine rag that doesn't
quite work, the bed turned down with a mint on the pillow. A bowl of apples and a lot of literature. A
Macintosh on the desk to play with. Very posh. Apple wants to win.

Brochure: Apple and Your Corporate Clients. Oh, God, I haven't got any corporate clients. I've got to
make some calls, but I hate to make calls. "Hello, may I speak to the president of the company? Hello,
my name is Robert Drake—I mean Duke—I'd like to send you some information about—hello, yes, this
is Robert Hack, I'd like to send you—this is who—oh, no, I need to speak to your podiatrist—or
president. Well, good-bye." That's called a line of gab.

Look at you, strutting around in the dreary room, proud and scared, an ego on a stick, signifying nothing.
The girl left abruptly with a reminder that he was due for breakfast at 8:30 in the Dorset Room. Dorset
Room. Breakfast. Okay, Mr. Drake will be there. Why not Mr. Mallard, it's similar but more interesting.
Midlife crisis cliche. But I had my midlife crisis when I was thirty-eight. Working for Merril Witch,
flacking bonds, all of a sudden you get up from your desk and go stomping off like a golem. You reach
the elevator. You leave the building. A day passes, your boss Luke Skywalker finally calls. "Hi, Bill," he
says.

"It's Bob."

"Yeah, that's right. You okay, Bob?"

"Am I?"

"Well, I'll tell you, Bill, I thought you were sick or something, looking at your numbers. Real sick! You
can't get the business. Sure, you rush around with goddamn cups of coffee in your hand, but that's it. For
you, that's the whole job. I've been watching you, Bill—"

"Bob."

"Rob, Bob, Bill, goddamn Irving! Your severance check is in the toilet!"

A factual story: A very hot man was once hired by a small but very hot brokerage firm but did not do the
volume expected of him. The trouble was, he had gone there on a five-year contract with a five-year
salary in addition to commissions. This was a man who could not work unless he was desperate. Mr.
Float, they called him at Wrexler, where he had originally been employed. Soon the boss of the very hot
brokerage firm wanted to get rid of Mr. Float. But how, with a five-year contract? One morning Mr.
Float walked in to find that his entire office had been moved into the men's room.

He remained in that office, reading comic books, for the full five years.

Some say that is where the expression "taking a floater," got its start.

Hanging up his spare suit, Bob thought: Now, why in hell did I tell myself that story? Why don't I go
down to the bar and tell some broad that hilarious story? This very night I may fondle strange breasts.

That thought led to a frantic check of the watch. Eleven-two. No. Grab the phone, click, dial, click
click. Ring. Clunk. "Hello."

"Honey—sorry I'm late."

Laughter. "I was reading. I knew you'd be late. I was hoping you'd call."

Am I a self-absorbed by-product of a dying culture? "I'm glad you're still up. How was Masterpiece?"

"I slept through it. Kevin watched it, though. He says it's very well acted. Apparently some of the period
detail is wrong, though. Something about the men's collar styles."

"I miss you."

"You know what I want to do to you."

"Oh, God, Cindy, I wish you could."

"Have a good night's sleep, darling."

"The dream—"
"What dream?"

"God, don't you remember? Last night I dreamed I got eaten by a wolf? It's still in my mind, I can't get
rid of it. It's terrifying, Cindy. I wish to hell I'd canceled out on this."

"You might make some good contacts. Now, I want you to take a nice, warm shower and settle down
with a good book. What did you take with you?"

"Max Brod on Kafka."

"Dear God. That's Kevin's influence. Let him deal with Kafka, you need to have some fun when you
read. A good historical, Michener or John Jakes. Something that'll take your mind away from itself.
Kafka's not for you, you're too old and overwrought to stand it."

"He stood it. He had to, he was in himself and couldn't get out."

"Didn't he cut off his ear?"

"That was Van Gogh, the painter."

"Yes, well, his skies are Kafka's words. They all ended badly, those men. You can't get on that road. It'll
kill you, there are secrets down there we shouldn't know. I'm telling you, Bob, you've got to stick to the
real. Throw yourself heart and soul into the conference. Learn, make friends, really work at it. Bob, you
might lose your way, honey, a lot of people like you do."

He yearned toward her voice, wished he could flow through the phone and into her body, could swarm
into every cell of her, the wet, the jittering electric places, and possess her and be possessed by her, to
be her ghost, her aura.

"I'll do like you say, I'll go down to the news-stand and get some light reading."

"An author you like. Don't pick up someone who annoys you. Someone somewhat literate."

That's me baby, someone somewhat literate. I'm a man who happened wrong. I should be a writer, for
God's sake, but I hear it's an awful profession. They're always going broke. It's a brutal, exploitative
field. Oh, God, I've missed my life.

"Good-bye, Cindy, I love you."

Click. We're off. He hangs up the phone thinking that she is an awesomely decent woman. She's a priest,
a shaman, Dante. Some people are here to lead the others through life, to succor and to guide. Does she
not, in her blond and voluptuous ease, even in her perfection, the calm creator of Kevin and beneficent
sustainer of me, does she not deserve my loyalty?

Somewhere in this hotel, right now, there is a woman who will sleep with me. Oh, yes, not Cindy but one
of her allies. I will have to go home and go to confession in our pink bedroom, and my penance will be
more serious than "say the Our Father three times my son, and keep your hands out from under the
covers."

He heard distant howling, as if of a wolf.

It was feeling, it was sensation, his body quaking, bending over, hands clutching the center of his gut,
eyes screwed closed, and he was aware of another Atlanta, a ghost Atlanta, when it was all forest, and
the things of the earth swept and swished, trotted and crawled here. On the hill where the Westin now
stood—which had been completely removed for the hotel, a million-year-old hill—a wolf had howled, a
bigger, heavier creature than today's wolves, and his howl had carried up and down the river, and high,
high into the night, where it had echoed against the fat rising moon. The howl still lived, domiciled in the
hotel's bones.

When Bob was a boy in Texas, he used to imagine that if he ran fast enough, was secret enough, clever
enough, he could step off the edge of Texas and onto the full moon. On the moon lived the ghosts often
million Indians, and he also belonged there. The Comanches and the Tejas, the Apaches and the Kiowa,
the Blackfeet and the Iroquois, the Pueblo and the Mixtec, all would greet him and call him brother, and
he would go down the river of heaven in a bark canoe.

Reality: The sun of his youth came up like a big hubcap and Texas kept right on happening. San Antonio
grew, row upon row of houses marching out into land so ancient and untouched that fossils lay on the
surface, land so delicate that any footfall was permanent. And the power lines marched and the drive-in
banks, and the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company, and the kids, and the cars, and the law offices.

Bob had gotten himself into a very bad mental state by the time he arrived in the bar. It didn't matter
much, there wasn't a woman in the place except for the waitress, who was spreading the vodka tonics
and white wines in full armor, visor down. What can you do? Ishtar opens her legs and all the corn of
Babylon flowers. When she closes them, the man who was involved gets his head cut off.

"Stoly on the rocks."

"You thought you were getting somewhere but you're not. Am I right?" A guy had edged in beside him, a
used-car shill in a bleak checked suit. "Whatever you want, you end up with something else. Is that right
or is it right? A guy like you, like me, we get tied up, we can't get away. Well, you have to go for the
gold. I always tell people who come to me for advice, buddy, I tell them, go for the gold. You think you
have a home but you haven't got a home. You have a mortgage. This is not a home, excuse me, a home
would be your own. The four walls belong to the bank, the paper is what belongs to you. We have to get
these things straight. The trouble with you, with me, is we cannot get these things straight. We own
nothing, have everything. It's all an illusion, complete and total. Am I right? I'm asking you, I'm serious,
am I right? Here's a guy, asks you am I right, and you can't get a word in, this guy's not a genius, he's not
a guru, he's not even a salesman, he's a compulsive talker in a goddamn bar. Look, you want a decent
home for your wife and kids, that's why you're here in this bar. That's why we're all here. We're knights
on the journey to the grail, every one of us, even the old fart over there with the stogie, that old
pushbelly's Sir Goddamn Lancelot, am I right? Look at this place. Not a skirt in sight. Even the
gigged-out old rejects leave places like this alone. Where are the hookers? They are in the places of
youth. Not even hookers want us, we are reject johns. Hookers won't bother with a bunch of weepy
fifty-dollar tricks. Nowadays even the ugly whores and the sex changes make big bread, you know how
they do it? How the hell do they do it, why can't we get them into the Salesman bars anymore? It's S&M
ruined us. There was an old war-horse used to come in here to drink and turn a few. Now she's got a
posh suite up in the Bonaventure and she's bought herself some whips and a pair of leather gloves. There
are guys'll pay a fortune even to them plug uglies to go after them with a whip. Am I right? I miss that
damn old rotten whore. They're all the goddamn Blessed Virgin Mary, that's our problem. Blaspheme,
blaspheme, etcetera. Excuse me, ma'am—could you bring me another couple of double bourbons?"

The waitress huffed off. Bob, who wanted desperately to get away from this man, but who was also
curious about him, had to get rid of a bothersome question. "Is this a pitch for some kind of
self-improvement seminar?"

"You ask that?"
"I don't want any more pitches for Jesus. I get Jesus pitches every time I get on a plane."

"That isn't a real question. Who am I, what do I want, those are real questions. You think you have a life
but you don't. You do not have ownership, you have debt."

"My car is paid for."

"Wha—well, good goddamn, aren't we wonderful! Oh, may I touch the hem of the garment— well, let
me look at you! Your car is paid for! Good goddamn. Well, hell. Isn't that wonderful. I'm so proud of my
friend! Here's a guy can fuck the best part of your whole goddamn carefully rehearsed speech! We
better be careful, this guy here with the plastic nerdpack in his shirt pocket might be president someday.
He drives a car that is his own. Now, looky here, Mr. Smartass. You think your car is paid for, but
you're wrong. You don't have the fucking holy grail just yet, Sir Gawain, my brother. Your kids'
educations, are they paid for? Is your house paid for? And what about your business, your goddamn
swimming pool, your time-share, your TV, your VCR, your home computer? Your car is paid for—what
a lie. Unless everything is paid for, nothing is paid for. Your debt is just arranged differently. Look, what
I'm leading up to is, you need something that is your own, and that nobody can take away from you. You
need a stake in the earth. You need land. Land, man! I know a lot about land. Specifically, I know about
the sweetest little piece of eastern Canada ever was. The very sweetest."

Bob thought, Oh, lord, a real-estate salesman.

The pitch drummed on. He was like a penitent before the altar of the hustle. Kneeling at a bulging vest,
not reading the contract, the haze of fine print, take the pen, hit it right here, thank you, you have just
bought another American dream.

—But it's not paid for either.

Slam, bam, thank you, ma'am. Phrase that became current in Dodge City during the cattle drives, to
describe encounters between prostitutes and teenage cowboys who had not seen a woman in years.
What is a man like who comes in after two years on the range eating sowbelly and beans, working seven
days a week twenty hours a day? Put him in the middle of the biggest, richest city he has ever seen, with
three hundred dollars in his pocket, and also give him a gun. That's the American dream, although few of
those young men lived to tell about it:

No, they bought real estate with their three hundred dollars and then went out to see their land. Slam,
bam, thank you, ma'am. Goin' to Canada to see mah swamp.

Bob signed the contract "Ronald Woodrow Wilson Reagan."

"My God, you have a long name—like a Negro."

"I am a Negro."

"But you look—ah, hell!"

"Sorry."

"I can't sell this stuff to you on time. You've got to pay cash."

"Don't have it."

The real-estate hustler got up and went to the far end of the bar. Bob, for his part, left ten dollars on the
table and slunk out.
He wished, how he wished, that there would come a knock at his door and that tall, beautiful blonde
from the Camaro would be standing there, but no knock came. The air-conditioning hissed. He threw off
his clothes, ate the mint on his pillow, and then brushed his teeth. He climbed into the bed.

The claws of sleep grabbed him, and he was dragged screaming down the nightmare escalator that never
quite gets to the grail.

                                           Chapter Three
You lie on a bed in a hotel room. You are naked, you are rigid. Nobody cares, nobody will help you.
Therefore you go to sleep.

The effect was as sudden and devastating as mainlining gasoline. His breath came in shattering barks, his
hands fluttered, his legs kicked, his whole bones twisted in the elastic prison of his muscles. Air swooped
in his lungs. Then his nose bloomed with odors, the plastic stench of the drapes, fungus from the
air-conditioner filter, the body-ridden bed. This room seemed no longer slick and clean, but rather a
dark, thick den swarming with the leftover flakes of a thousand lonely men.

His hands worked at the air. His fingers seemed dull and stubbed, and he felt streaming out behind him a
hot dagger of nerves. He tried to touch his face—awful thick nails came up. He groaned, which was a
coarse inarticulation. He was full of aches and newness. A leg trampled air, and when he attempted
rising, he fluttered and fell in the bed, unable to make himself work right.

His legs skittered in the sheets. Oddly, his hands wanted to work with them. What was he trying to do,
crawl?

In his extremity he cried aloud, a sound as high as the air brakes on a truck.

Jesus, was this a stroke?

Get it together!

He scrabbled, he flopped—what the hell was happening!

He was out of control here. With every muscle, with every ounce of his strength he strove to quiet his
heaving body.

This was grotesque!

He struggled at least for order, for power over the wild, twisting gyrations.

But his struggles didn't help. As if powered by another soul, his body leaped up, jumping farther than he
had ever jumped before, soaring all the way from the bed to the window. He hit the ceiling and fell,
grabbing at the curtains, which collapsed around him.

He crouched in their folds. Burning in his mind was an image he had seen as he leaped, a great beast in
the mirror, its front paws outstretched, its tail soaring behind it. Experimentally, he tried to feel for the tail.
No luck, his arms didn't go back that far anymore. All right. He tried a little hip action. Behind him he
heard the thud, thud of something hitting the floor. He felt the weight of it, and the air tickling its fur.

Do not move. This could only be one of two things: complete psychosis or a really bizarre stroke.

What if he was one of those stroke victims who just sit and stare, saying nothing, locked forever in deep
universes of fantasy? Or he might be the kind of psychotic who is so unruly he must be abandoned to the
violent ward. He is the one so out of it that his care packages from home will always be stolen by the
orderlies.

It was damn sad. He started to cry again, but stifled himself when he heard the whines. How could he
even talk to Cindy? How could he discuss Kafka with his son, or play chess and Stratego with him, given
the apparent presence of paws? Could he even think anymore? This room smelled like cigars, cigarettes,
pipe tobacco, perfume, and human sweat.

He raised his head. Something was slipping through the brush nearby.

His immediate reaction was immense relief. If there was brush nearby, this must be a dream after all,
because there was no brush in hotel bedrooms.

All right, then let it roll. A man was coming through the brush. Bob cocked his ears, heard the man
breathing, heard him muttering, smelled alcohol on his breath. He did not smell the steel of a gun, only
leather and cloth and sodden skin. The man was singing to himself as he put up plastic markers in the
sodden ground. Clouds of mosquitoes swarmed around him, and from time to time he groaned and made
a swipe with his arm. He was the real-estate salesman from the bar, and this was the land he was selling.
The plastic markers went flying as he made a lunge at the mosquitoes. He took out a can of insect
repellent and sprayed the bugs. "All right, you bastards, live with yourselves!"

I am not in eastern Canada and I don't have the ability to smell the vodka and the tonic separately on a
man's breath. No, I am alone in a hotel room. I am not in the woods with this repellent old salesman. I do
not have long teeth, Granny, I do not have big eyes. This isn't stroke or psychosis, it is one mega-dream.

I am in the Westin Hotel in Atlanta, Georgia, Room 403. I have a view down Peachtree Street which I
cannot see because no matter how my dream makes them look, the curtains are in fact closed.

He heard the air conditioner hissing, felt the air brushing his fur. A sound in the hall made him snort.

From the doorway there came a knock. Another. Then the door made a clicking sound. A woman
hurried into the room, elderly, in a gray uniform with a white apron. "Turndown service. Sir?" A grunt.
The lights went full on. "Wha—the curtains!"

In the mirror that covered the wall behind the dresser Bob saw a large dog or wolf standing on the bed
staring at the mirror. Startled, he cried aloud. The animal reared back, its barking filling the room, its
hackles raised, its teeth bared.

"Oh, no! No pets allowed!" The maid threw all of her mints in the air and jumped back, falling over her
cart full of sheets and towels and little bottles of body shampoo.

Bob's difficulty was that he could not find himself in the mirror. Did nightmares have reflections? This had
to end soon. Dream or not, he could still see the mints on the floor.

Since he was not a wolf, what had she seen and run off to report? Had he exposed himself to her?
Would the vice squad soon be here, ready to take him in, scare him good, and send him home to a
furious wife? "Really, Bob, if you want to try it with strangers, why not just call an escort service?" Then
the diminished relationship. Fifteen years of loyalty lost to a bad dream.

The maid had left her cart overturned in the hall. Bob, moving awkwardly, trying to keep all four limbs
coordinated, went out and sniffed one of the slowly turning wheels. There was a click behind him. He
didn't need to look. Of course the unseen hand of nightmare had closed the door.

He sniffed the handle, smelling a strong odor of the maid's hand, mixed of sour skin smell, cigarettes,
mints, and body shampoo. He shrank back, thinking that he really couldn't handle sniffing a doorknob. It
was part of the perfection of the illusion that he had just automatically done that instead of trying to open
the door.

He thought: Probably I only feel like this. What I actually look like is a naked man sniffing a doorknob
and I've got to stifle this peculiar behavior!

I'll be calm, straightforward. I was going for the shower and took a wrong turn. Honest mistake. No big
deal. Just please God don't let me start barking again!

The worst thing about this experience was that it didn't have the logic of dream or hallucination at all, it
had the logic of life. He wished to God for Cindy.

When he heard the elevator bell ring and the doors roll open, a powerful and unexpected instinct asserted
itself. He cowered back down the hall, seeking some darkness. Excited voices came toward him. "I
swear it's the biggest dog I ever seen." What was this? Was the maid part of the dream, after all, or was
he shifting the sense of her words into his own delusional system?

"How he git it into de hotel, dat what I got to know."

"Ask the guest. He must have smuggled it in."

They came around the corner and stopped dead. "Aw, God. It got out." Bob looked up at them. A wave
of sensation made him shudder, almost as if there were tiny creatures running on his skin. He felt
frightened and dismal. He certainly seemed to be naked on all fours in the hallway of a hotel.

"Its creepin' along, look out."

"We gotta get the police, I ain't gonna touch nothin' that big." Hearing this, Bob cracked. Terror whipped
him. He screamed and ran for the fire stairs. "Holy shit, it done got some speed on it!" Bob raced down
the corridor, his claws catching on the rug.

"We can't let that thing out in the hotel, they'll fire us both!"

"Come on, woman, help me! We can head it off."

The yellow lights glaring down, the beige elevator doors, the confusing twists and turns of the halls, Bob
might be in a maze of some kind, the lights too bright, the ceilings too high, the smells all wrong.

He saw writing on a door: EXIT. He threw himself against the bar until the door gave way into the fire
stairs.

"That thing's got a mind of its own, it just opened that door."

Down, up, which way to go? Bob heard himself whimpering. He made a solemn vow: When I get home,
if I ever do, I will call Monica and make an appointment. I will do this no matter how good I feel at the
time. Frantically, he sought reasons for his predicament. Was it the salesman in the bar? Some kind of
drug in his drink to make him a more pliant buyer? When he was selling, he had often wished for drugs of
some kind. Just a nice little powder in the damn fool's steak sauce, and he becomes silly enough to buy
the damn bonds. "Go out among the people, young man, and rape them." Fatherly advice from Charlie
Decker, his boss in the bond office. Charles Decker: killed himself with a fingernail file.

Quite arbitrarily he started up instead of down. It was not long, though, before he heard voices behind
him. "How high is it?" "Go up to fifteen. You're gonna head it off." "Come on, where's that elevator when
you need it?"

Bob was having trouble working his body. If he thought about it, his back legs and his front legs stopped
working together and he went to scrabbling. Trying to make his mind a blank, he moved up the stairs. His
mind went back to Sister Eustacia, the music teacher at Sacred Heart. Sister Eustacia: playing the piano
is a matter of mind over matter. Let your mind float free in the music, and your fingers will find their own
way.

Mind, let go. Body, run. Door after door, smell of concrete dust and hot electric connections. Running,
reduced to raw reality, no more thought, just the urge to escape, to get away from the embarrassment.
The road to Cairo, The Road to Rio. Bob Hope, 1956, Ozzie and Harriet, The Dinah Shore Show.
The Honeymooners, Leave It To Beaver. Ernie Kovaks, a station wagon going boom boom down into
the ditch, Ernie Kovaks. 1956, remembering the dark side of the war. Yes, we went and found out what
was behind the curtain, didn't we? The word "Hiroshima" even sounds like a soft explosion.

The last time you ran like this was in 1956. You were twelve years old. You and Roxanne de LaPlane
rolled naked down the hill behind her house, and found yourselves at her father's feet. You rose up and
you certainly did run, a naked kid in the evening.

Ahead, a door! God save me, it's the roof. They are still behind me, they have come forty floors. That
security guard is made of strong stuff. Bob had to hang out his tongue, otherwise his mouth felt like
somebody had stuffed a hot pillow in it. When he panted it got cold, spreading relief through his body.

He stood at the door jerking, twisting, pounding his tail against the floor. He tried to change back,
straining and grunting. He hopped and yapped, hating the absurd sound of his voice. Poof, bang,
abracadabra, hocus-pocus. Hoc et corpus, Father O'Reilly, Jesus. Mary Catherine Baker and Salvatore
Allessio each completed ten thousand Hail Marys during Lent in the year 1957. Lent, sacrifice, passion
of Christ: oh, Mother of God, intercede for me.

His prayers were idiotic yaps.

They brought, however, a curious relief. Someone heard the noises and came to the other side of the
door. With a loud click a waiter in a red jacket opened it. Bob, aware only that this was the end of the
line, knowing that the security guard was no more than a couple of floors below, rushed through.

Sights, sounds, and an overpowering mass of odors assailed him. His eyes could not understand, his nose
could not sort out the chaos before him. He barked once loudly, and the face of every diner in the
Starlight Restaurant turned toward him.

Damn that bark, without it he might have been able to slink past unnoticed. He was aware of his own
nakedness, and sought to cover himself with his hands. The moment he did this, he toppled forward.
When he recovered himself, he was confronting three waiters, one of them with a large silver tray in his
hand which he used as a shield. A few of the diners had jumped from their seats. "It's a wolf," one of
them shouted.

"How in hell—"

"Don't let it out onto the floor," a maitre d' hissed. "You'll cause a riot."

The waiters skittered around. Bob's eyes went to the long corridor. At the far end he could see a glass
door. Behind it would be the sky lobby. His own room seemed a million light-years away.

Oh, Cindy.
Remembering Sister Eustacia's instructions, Bob tried to concentrate his mind on the glass door and let
his body do its own work. He shot forward with the power of four legs instead of two, moving faster
than he ever had before. There was a blinding red flash and a shock of pain to his head. With a great
shattering the doors became a rubble of glass pebbles. Bob rolled over and over across the sky lobby.
As he rolled he moved through a jumble of smells, the glass, the sweat of his pursuers, his own fur and
flying slobber.

Then he was on his feet. "Oh, God," he said. He staggered, his arms working like arms instead of
forelegs. He was high off the ground and his nose was suddenly numb. The riot of odors had
disappeared. He jabbed the elevator button with a normal finger. When it opened, three women in
beehive hairdos and tight dresses burst into shrieks of hysterical laughter.

The nightmare of being a wolf had left him stranded on the fortieth floor, naked.

He dashed past the women into the closing elevator, hammered "four," and pressed himself against the
back wall as the doors made a thumping sound.

The waiters, the maitre d', the security guard, and about six male patrons were blasting down the
corridor. Bob banged his fist against the "close door" button, but the elevator was at the top floor, and
cycling on its own time. They reached the glass rubble and slowed down, picking their way to avoid
getting their shoes cut open.

Not realizing that Bob was inside, the security guards ran right past the open elevator, heading for the fire
stairs at the far end of this lobby. "It musta gone to the roof."

"It can't open doors, surely."

"I saw it open a door. That thing is smart."

Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of
thy womb, Jesus Christ.

"Hey, wha—lookit him—wait!"

The doors slid closed just as a man in a maroon polyester sports jacket and a string tie lunged toward
them.

"There's a guy in there stark staring naked!"

"Dis a good hotel!"

Vroom, down he went, down to the fourth floor. Blessed be, don't make a stop on the way. No such
luck, a stop is made.

Bob turned his back on the young man and woman in tan Apple Computer sports jackets, who entered
the elevator. "Uh-oh," the woman said.

"Please, I was taking a shower," Bob replied, his face to the wall. "I was looking for my hair conditioner
and next thing I knew I was in the hall. I couldn't make anybody hear me, so I tried to go for the security
guards."

The couple remained silent. The doors opened on the fourth floor and Bob backed out, careful to avoid
showing them his face. After the doors closed he heard a burst of laughter, the woman tinkling merrily,
the man going haw-haw.
He raced around the comer and down the hall. Either the door would open or it wouldn't. He saw the
overturned cart at the end of the hall, moved forward. He was praying as he walked, a breathy "Jesus,
help me" at each step.

Somebody must have intervened, because he found his door unlocked. Given hands, it was blissfully easy
to open. He rushed inside, grabbed clothes frantically, a pair of pants, his house shoes, a knit shirt.
Dressed, dressed again, oh blessing divine. His mind twisted and turned. Go down to the bar. Forget the
whole thing.

No. Foolish man. Your room will be full of cops when you return. A better idea: He went outside,
heaped all of the maid's things on her cart and rolled it to the opposite end of the hall. There he
overturned the cart and spread everything out at another door. Then he dashed back to his own room
and replaced the curtains. If only he could have gotten into 422 and pulled the curtains down as well.

A shout came from outside. Very good. "Aw, damn—" Footsteps going in the opposite direction. Bob
exited his room, stepping confidently toward the elevator bank as two security guards and a whole
squadron of cops began hammering on the door to 422.

He remained in the nearly empty bar long enough to knock back two neat Stolys. Then, heavy with
sleep, he returned to his room. Down the hall another computer consultant was talking frantically. He
didn't have a dog, he had been asleep, he was from Houston, Texas, he was very quiet, yes, he had a
driver's license, oh, Officer, there's no need to go down to the station.

Behind his own door, safe at last, Bob felt a giggly sort of relief. He took off his clothes and went into the
bathroom. The mentally ill were often given Jacuzzis to calm them down, so Bob filled the tub and turned
on the nozzles. Then he got two little bottles of Courvoisier from the room's fridge. He knocked one
back almost immediately. When the tub was ready, he sank into it, floating the other bottle so it would
get nice and warm. He watched it dance in the bubbles and he sang softly to himself, "You clever devil,
you got away, got awaaay...." He sipped from the second bottle, sipped the good fire. Like a man after
battle he was suddenly seized with a need for sex, for the blood and passion of the life he had almost lost.
He wanted sex, but he also wanted food. Maybe he would find an escort service. He would get to that.
But first he decided to call room service and order a BLT and a bottle of beer. Dixie, if they had it; if not,
a nice, cold Molson. Above the hissing of the tub and the foam of these pleasant thoughts, there intruded
the frantic bleating of the poor sucker who had been sucked up by the security guards. His explanations
must not have sufficed; they were on their way to the police station. Booking, indecent exposure,
breaking down a door, bringing in a giant dog. Sent back to his wife in disgrace, there to be thoroughly
punished. God help him, God grant that he deserves it for other sins.

He ordered his midnight snack over the phone in the bathroom, and was in the hotel's terrycloth robe
watching Midnight Blue when it arrived, the cart being pushed by a fetching woman of perhaps forty,
neat in her red dress and white blouse, as cheerfully efficient as a stewardess. As she swept the silver
dome off his sandwich she glanced at the TV. He saw color come into her cheeks.

Now, Bob, by God, this is a definite chance. This is what you've been wanting, a stranger. She's no kid,
but then neither am I. I need a woman who's had a little experience. She lingered, waiting for him to sign
the chit. "Want to share it with me?" he asked.

She looked down at the chit he had handed her. "How?"

"I mean the sandwich."

"I don't want a sandwich."
What an asinine attempt. He should be ashamed of himself. She was between him and the door, turning
to leave. "Wait," he said. He was trying to think but his mind was blank. He leaped across the bed and
threw himself to his knees at her feet. She jumped back, her face registering surprise and annoyance.

"Ma'am, you must know the extraordinary effect your beauty has had upon me. Seeing you this moment,
I must confess that I was stunned by the intensity of my own reaction. You look angry, but consider
rather that you should be flattered. I'm a decent enough man. My interest is in itself a compliment. I give
you my body, my soul, for an hour's love or a lifetime."

"I—uh—ah—" She had no words, no reply. He fancied that she realized any reply would be fatal. Thus
encouraged, he seized her hand and kissed it, the first flesh not of Cindy he had kissed in passion almost
since he could remember.

She drew her hand away, but slowly, like she was removing a luscious glove. "I can't just disappear into
a room, I'll lose my job." His heart started thundering. She was saying yes. This was yes.

"When do you get off?"

"At three. It's an hour from now."

He kissed her hand again, then her red sleeve. He rose and swept her up in his arms. "At three. I'll be
waiting for you."

She slipped out, he ate every scrap of his sandwich and drank his beer.

The next thing he knew his phone was ringing. "Hi, this is Amanda from Apple. Just calling to make sure
you'll be at the breakfast." What time was it now? Seven-thirty. He ached from a night spent half in
dreams, half in hard, physical longing.

"I'll be there," he said. He put down the phone. The world was so disappointing. It took more than the
real passion of a decent man to entice a woman. Just not very good-looking, that was Bob. His approach
had been stupid. Sexual competents didn't go down on their knees and blubber. No macho. A wimp, to
use an expression only wimps use nowadays.

He shaved, lathering his face with Trac II Shaving Cream and then using the Bic shaver the hotel had
thoughtfully provided. He rubbed some Brylcreem into his hair, brushed his teeth, and dressed in a J.
Press suit. None of this polyester junk for him. He liked to look Manhattan.

As he was leaving the room he saw a note at his feet. It had been slipped in under the door. "Sorry, a big
ruckus in the hotel. No way I can get back after my shift without being noticed, security everywhere.
Love ya, crazy guy, Alison."

For an instant he was delighted with the note, then he threw it down with an in-sucked cry. "A big ruckus
in the hotel": reality. The engines of the impossible, still churning. He looked at the note again, then at the
door. He was going to have to go out there and pretend ignorance of whatever it was he had done.

He couldn't hide, that would create suspicion. The thing to do was to attend the breakfast, maybe hit a
seminar or demo session, then plead a business emergency and depart on the next plane. Do it smoothly,
correctly. Do it well.

Still, he hesitated. There was always the possibility that the disturbance she referred to had nothing to do
with him.

But of course it did. Last night he had assumed the structure of another kind of creature, perhaps a dog
or wolf, and had gotten himself tangled up in a flickering, dangerous adventure in the halls. It remained in
his memory, a thick storm of odors and sounds, odd, gray visions, confusion, people shouting, and then a
queasy, naked escape back to his room. He remembered his eerie other body as a storm of rich
sensations: the tickling joy of paws upon carpet and concrete stair, the movement of air through fur, the
sounds and above all the smells of the restaurant, almost as palpable as the food itself. He caught himself
sucking breath through distended nostrils, and thought of breakfast eggs, of coffee, of buttered toast, of
the shifting, magical steam rising from a plate of food.

He left the room and strode down the hall. "Hi, Mr. Drake," said a young woman in an Apple blazer. "I'm
Jane Poole, I'm your coordinator for the conference. Breakfast's just starting in Ballroom C on the
mezzanine."

"I'm as hungry as a wolf."

Going down, in the elevator he was joined by two other conferees, named, according to their tags, "Hi,
my name is Winston Jeal, Jealco Systems," and "Hi, my name is Harry Thomas, CompuTex." Bob's own
name was "Hi, I'm Bob Drake, Drake Business Consultants." What had happened to Bob Duke? he
wondered. Been canceled, apparently, at least as far as Apple was concerned.

Winston Jeal looked haggard. The Kaywoodie in his mouth was the only thing holding his face together.
Without it he would collapse into twitches and snickering anger. Bob knew just exactly who he was. This
was the remains of the man from 422, who had spent his night in a police station fielding accusations that
must have sounded rather bizarre. "You brought a wolf into the hotel! You ran naked through the halls!"

"'Morning," Bob said.

"Hiya," Harry Thomas replied. "Hope you're hungry. I've been to these Apple dos before, and they really
lay a table."

Jeal said nothing, only stared at the elevator doors, his pipe jutting from his mouth. There was a copy of
Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow in his jacket pocket. His glasses, in desperate need of cleaning,
were held together by a couple of Band-Aids. The doors opened. There was also a conference of
independent real-estate agents in the hotel, and they had gathered into boisterous, boasting knots in front
of the elevator banks, preparing to go to their own breakfast in Ballroom A. "If those bastards try to sell
you some damn land, sell them back with a damn computer," Jeal said. His voice was hollow and deep,
resonant with bitter meaning.

Once in Ballroom C, he went down the row of steam tables loading his plate with eggs, bacon, and
sausage, with the darkest toast in the pile, with slices of honeydew melon and tiny pastries, finally with a
small croissant from a last pile at the end of the table. A sudden roar arose from the real-estate salesmen
two ballrooms away. They were there to be set afire with greed by some blazing expert, to be whipped
and massaged until they were virtual psychopaths of sales. The hunger upon them, they would rage out
into the land, to sell its still-empty meadows, its forests, to people who might haul in trailers or put up
A-frames, and drain their septic tanks into its arteries and veins.

Bob once saw stalking the night woods near his hunt club a ghost Indian whose face was so pocked with
anger that it had festered. Black puss fell in globs from the rotted cheeks, and the eyes were bloodshot
with rage. The Indian had walked right off into the sky, and Bob had heard a sound like a stone door
closing.

He sat down now across from Jeal and tucked into a forkful of wobbly scrambled eggs. They filled his
head, his lungs, his esophagus with fluffy flavor. Through his mind there flowed images of chickens,
clouds of chickens, laying eggs to Eine Kleine Nachtmusick, ta ta ta bloof, dum dum dee. Bloof. And
the clerks at their computers, hen number 11893, laying rate 4, weight 2.2 kg, cluck cluck went the disk
drive, and the sausage and the bacon, and the howling pigs in the slaughterhouse, the sows and the hogs,
the shoats going down the chute, the screams of terror in processing, the automatic clubber smashing ten
thousand skulls a day.

They evolved without hands, the pigs, but bearing meat that looks, tastes, and smells just like human.
Poor pigs, condemned to be at once reviled and loved by man. Sometimes, eating bacon, you almost
remember something. Then you don't, you can't.

"What?"

Bob looked up. It was Jeal; he had taken his pipe out of his mouth and spoken, raising his coffee to his
lips.

"Excuse me?"

"You said something about a pig."

Bob smiled. "I was thinking about—I used to—I mean, my father once took me to a slaughterhouse." He
barked out a laugh. "Sorry."

"You just blurt out gobbledygook about pigs because you're eating bacon? This industry needs more
people like you." Bitter, enraged, his words sharp, his voice thick with anger.

"What's the matter?"

"I spent the night as a guest of the goddamn Atlanta police. And I never figured out why. Some crazy
story about me letting a dog loose in the hotel. I don't have a dog. My sister has a Lhasa apso, and I had
a bulldog named Jane when I was growing up. They say this dog that was allegedly in my room wrecked
the goddamn restaurant. What is this, a police state?"

"They had the Wayne Williams thing here, remember. Child murderer. The Atlanta cops are pathological
about anything strange."

"A guy sitting in a hotel room in his goddamn underpants watching Arsenio Hall is strange? Now I've
heard it all." He attacked a poached egg, slicing through it so that the yolk ran and the white collapsed.
He cut furiously for a time, until the egg was pale yellow pulp. Then he knocked back a glass of prune
juice like it was a shot of Old Crow. "There isn't a goddamn thing you can do. All of a sudden the door
flies open and here comes a maid and about six security guards and a dozen cops. 'He put the curtains
back,' the maid screams. The damn cops grabbed me. I was so startled I almost swallowed my pipe. As
it was I blew the fire through the bowl and set one of the cop's hair alight. He was using this inflammable
Georgia Peach goo they've got down here, and it took them a while to get it out. So off I went, booked
for assault by a furious five-hundred-pound policeman with a wet towel wrapped around his head."
Leaning close to his plate, he shoveled in the rest of the pulped egg.

"You were actually booked?"

Jeal regarded him with suspicious interest. "If I'm talking to a reporter right now, I want to say something
real simple. You print a word about this, and I will kill you." He started on his toast, tearing at it with a
jerk of his head. Bob realized that the man wasn't exaggerating. He wondered if Jeal had killed before.
Vietnam, maybe. Bob had gone the professional student route to escape the war. Jeal did not seem the
type to escape anything.

"Are you in any trouble?"
"Apple sorted it out. That coordinator honey was down at the precinct house the whole time. I don't
think it amounts to much. It's just the goddamn abuse that gets me. I mean, a man is sitting in a hotel
room minding his own business, and bang. Can you imagine what Apple thinks of me? How is this going
to look once Miss Coordinator files her report? Beware of the kook from Houston. That's all they'll
remember. I'm trying to feed a family just like every guy here. This is not going to help me. Hell, let's talk
about something else. What we all want to talk about. You got pictures?"

Bob experienced the familiar delight, the ritual of showing his own fascinating pictures of Kevin, then
politely observing his companion's boring ones of his own kids. You pretended interest in the other guy's
pictures and he pretended interest in yours. That way you both got to say the names of your children and
your wife.

As Jeal opened his wallet his photos slid into his coffee. His pipe jutting from his mouth, his teeth gritting
with anger, he retrieved them, laid them on a napkin. "Damn! That one's the only one I have of my first
wife, Ellen. She died in childbirth, it was just utterly fantastic. So sudden. Right in the middle of transition,
her heart stopped. Bam. What remains of Ellen is this picture and Hillary. This is Hillary, damn, it's
soaked worse than Ellen. She's twelve. This is Franklin, my son. I married his mother in '78. She gave me
this boy."

Bob held out his pictures of Cindy and Kevin.

"He's our only one. My wife had toxemia and it's a risk for us to have more."

"Don't take any risks. It's damn foolish. You have a beautiful child, a beautiful wife. You are content."

God, if only this poor, beset man knew what it was to be really beset. Last night I roamed the halls. Last
night I was another kind of being.

I, Robert Duke, roamed the halls.

                                       Chapter Four
The family sat to its dinner, Cynthia and Bob
and Kevin. They sat in the light of a Monday
evening, with music chosen by Kevin. He had
  picked some Chopin Nocturnes he claimed
  that Kafka had loved. In his wallet he now
   kept a small photo of Kafka at the Prater
Amusement Park in Vienna, sitting in a fake
airplane with a straw hat on his head. Instead
   of throwing his arms around his father's
 waist when he returned from the journey to
Atlanta, Kevin had showed him this picture.
  Kevin was a large, slightly overweight boy,
    whose skin seemed unnaturally smooth
 because it was filled with fat. He was loving,
dutiful, and unforgiving of falsity. He needed
   love, attention, money. His dream was to
  write, to paint perhaps, or to own his own
 airline. Sometimes Bob thought his son was
  going mad; others that he had been born
             mad. He loved his son.
They ate boiled cabbage, beef stew with pearl
onions and green peppers, small new potatoes,
   and salad. They all drank an inexpensive
  Pinot Noir from Astor Wine and Liquors, a
    large store around the comer from their
   apartment building. Cindy had her usual
single glass, exhaling through her mouth each
time she took a swallow. Kevin had a quarter
 of a glass, which he drank off at once. Later
 he would creep out to the kitchen and knock
  back four or five shots of Stolichnaya neat,
    but not until long after his parents were
  asleep. Then he would watch Midnight Blue
       and count the number of times the
 escort-service ads were repeated. His interest
was strictly clinical. Kevin's sex life hadn't yet
   started in earnest. There had been Ricky
Riles, of course, and Ginny Starer, and Bobby
  and Sally Harper, and that group at Tim's
  slumber party—those, but no others. Such
questions as hetero- and homosexuality never
     concerned him. He had grown up in a
   neighborhood that was at least a quarter
    homosexual. His parents had preached
 toleration, often expelling long, sententious
 speeches on the matter. Toleration of what?
 To Kevin homosexuality was no odder than
          air, and no more interesting.
What was interesting to him, and more than a
 little disturbing, was his father's condition.
Kevin loved his dad with a great passion. In
  response Bob had poured himself into the
relationship, had lavished his heart and soul
                   on his son.
 Kevin ate his cabbage, chewing without real
 interest, watching his father, trying to draw
   him into conversation. "I got a neat book
 about Kafka, Dad. Want to hear about it?"
                   "Kafka?"
"It's a photo album. Kafka, Pictures of a Life.
  That's where I got the one in my wallet."
   Bob stared at his son in a way that made
 Kevin extremely uncomfortable. He did not
want the foundations of his life disturbed—it
   was a dim-cult enough life without this
happening. But there was something in Dad's
expression that Kevin did not like at all. The
 boy lapsed into silence and concentrated on
his food. In his mind's eye he saw his father's
burning gaze changing to a smile that got too
  bright, and stayed too bright. Then where
                would Dad go?
 Cindy felt the luxury of herself, her ampling
flesh, the warmth of her legs in her dress, the
possible pleasures of the coming night. Would
 Bob notice her, or had the marriage slipped
 beyond that? Love, no matter how rich and
 wet, has dry, crinkled borders—and beyond
was the sky through which lovers fell forever.
It had taken fifteen years of a good marriage
  for Cindy to become confident of her own
beauty. As a girl she had thought of herself as
   too large. Loving her was a big job, there
being acres of pale flesh to kiss, and a mouth
  she imagined able to swallow the heads of
   most boys. She had wanted for lovers, too
  proud to call the boys, waiting in her room,
 her imagination soaring in the steamy nights,
  when the breeze seemed to penetrate every
    crack in her body with warm, touching
fingers. The trees tossed and there were words
              of magic in the air.
 A siren rose in the street, fading quickly into
  the blaring of a radio and hard laughter. A
  window opened, a woman shouted at a boy
 gluing the flier advertising a rock club to the
wall of a building. Cynthia turned away from
the table, drawn by whatever more was in the
     world. "The wine's made me flush."
   Bob wondered if now was the moment to
 relate his experiences. "I think I'd like to see
  Monica," he said instead. "Have a chat."
   Kevin was toying with his food, his wife
 leaning back in her chair, shaking her long
brown hair. Beyond the window the night was
       growing into a density of a yellow
sodium-vapor light. The Columbia Hotel sign
    came on, and began to cast its shaking
  reflection against the ceiling of the dining
 room. The music poured out of the stereo.
 "I have a story to tell," Bob finally managed
to say. He drank the dregs of his wine, poured
   himself another glass. Kevin went for the
   bottle. "No. You've had yours." The boy
     stopped. He ate a morsel of cabbage.
 "Was there any trouble, honey? Is that why
         you came home early?"
     "I came home early because I had a
  disturbing dream that perhaps was not a
   dream. Not entirely. There were certain
indications afterward that the dream, at least
           in some way, was real."
They were naturally eager to hear more. But
 he found he could not bring himself to tell
 more. The trouble was his son; the family
 always shared everything but this was too
much. He could not share this with his boy.
         To Kevin he was golden;
 his ego would not allow him to compromise
                that image.
 "Dad, come on. That's got to be one of the
 classic lead-ins. You can't just say that and
                  then stop."
     He traded looks with Cynthia. She
  understood perfectly. "I don't think Dad
     actually remembers the dream."
"I thought I did but now I don't. It's just, as I
said, there was some sort of a disturbance in
 the hotel that happened to coincide with the
 dream. I do remember I left the room in my
  dream. And there had been a disturbance.
 Maybe I actually did leave the room. That's
              why I came home."
            "Was anybody hurt?"
    "No, son, not as far as I know." He
 remembered Jeal and the police. "People
 were inconvenienced, and a glass door was
         broken. That's about all."
  "Wow, Dad." The boy smiled but it was
obvious that he was scared. Bob was ashamed
                 of himself.
  "Eat," Cindy muttered, addressing them
          both. "I worked hard."
  Bob loved cabbage; he ate eagerly. "It's a
delicious dinner, hon." There came to him an
impression which before the dream had been
fuzzy, but which was now quite clear. His life
  seemed a series of paper cutouts, his own
   body merely a jointed thing, able to move
only on command of some mystery that could
 neither be controlled nor ignored. When the
 music stopped, it was replaced by the sounds
  of eating, the clink of knives and forks, the
    working of jaws. Three ordinary people
   consumed an ordinary dinner deep in the
  flaring night of Manhattan, while the neon
glared on the ceiling and the traffic crept past
  below, long lines of honking cars jamming
                    Broadway.
  The clock that had been in Cindy's family
since before the Civil War chimed eight times.
        "Any more homework, son?"
"No, Mama. I want a tub bath tonight. I want
to sit in the tub and read the Metamorphosis."

"As long as you're in bed by nine, this can be
      free time. What did you have for
                homework?"
 "Do a book report on The Penal Colony. Do
some algebra problems. Write a poem about a
  subject of my choosing. The usual sort of
                  thing."
  "You're lucky you're in St. Anselm's. You
 could be at public school where you have to
     carry a knife in order to survive."
  "Obviously I wouldn't survive, Dad. As you
well know." Bob did not say it, but he thought
 bitterly that nobody survives. Nobody. There
is a story of some strange tiles from a floor in
   Spain in which the faces of the dead have
emerged, terrible, glazed horrors, apparently
  hellbound. And in Lake Ontario there is an
   island that looks from the air like George
 Bernard Shaw, and most of the views in the
  Catskills look like the profiles of Dutchmen
  and Indians, and there is a plateau on Mars
 that looks like an Egyptian, and then there's
 the man in the moon, that most haunting of
    natural faces. Maybe we get trapped in
        matter, some of us, condemned to
contemplate the starry world forever, staring
at sky or cloud, motionless. We discover, then,
     the simple truth that meditation—real
meditation—is a stupefying bore. If you must
 do it forever, even contemplating the cosmos
   must get frightfully dull. God's probably
  bored silly. Look at God's sense of fun—see
  the fish, the birds. How can something with
 the glee to create them stand playing such a
                 passive role?
  Then again, maybe God is not passive, but
coy. Shy. A coquette, or cocotte. A wallflower.
        A hermit. A zombie. A ghoul.
 Life is movement; finally it is nothing more
than random movement, any movement, the
twitch of a hand in the dark, the hiss of legs
              beneath a sheet.
Kevin pushed back his chair and bounded off
to his bath, with his boat and his book. "He's
 so beautiful," Bob said as the boy ran down
  the long hallway to the bathroom. "Don't
forget to come tell us good night," he called.
  Perhaps there was no answer, or it might
have been absorbed by the walls. Bob began
helping Cindy clear the table. "Kevin hardly
                 ate, Bob."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."
The boy's psyche was an eggshell. When Bob
  felt wrong, he involuntarily hunched his
                  shoulders.
"Don't do that, I'm not attacking you. If you
want to see Monica, see Monica. If you want
           to leave me, leave me."
  The words settled as wet smoke in the air.
 Bob was wary now. He often worried that a
    day would come when Cindy became
exhausted with him. His self-absorption was
  that of an artist, but he had not the glory.
There was no reward for the waitressing Bob
Duke demanded. Only her kindness sustained
her; for her any reward had to be internal to
 herself. Bob did not see what she got out of
    the relationship, which worried him.
    "Cindy, please, I didn't mean to imply
 anything like that. I need you. It's just that I
also need professional help. I'm under a lot of
                    stress."
       "We're running out of money."
     "I know that, don't hit me with it."
"How dare you say that? I'm not hitting you.
   I'm just telling you so you'll know."
 Despite all the terror he had felt last night,
the sense that the universe had ripped and he
had been the one who fell through, there was
   also a sense of wonder. Once Kevin had
    commented that seeing even the most
 dreadful of supernatural manifestations, a
 disfigured ghost or a vampire, would make
   him happy because of everything else it
implied about the persistence of the soul. Bob
  had not used the word "supernatural" in
reference to his experience before, but it now
          occurred to him to do so.
 He wished that he could impress Cindy with
  the seriousness of the situation. To do that,
   maybe he should express the wonder. For,
despite everything, there was wonder. Even if
 it was all a complex, subtle dream, woven of
lies and illusions, it was remarkable, ranking
as a psychological phenomenon. And if there
     was any truth to it at all, any truth—
                 Good God.
How would she take the blank suggestion that
   he believed he had, for a period of about
   fifteen minutes last night, actually been
another creature? He knew very well how she
 would take it: she would react in anger. And
 her outrage would have entire justice, for he
had no right to place such a burden upon her.
  Cindy was not good at earning money. She
was too bright for the jobs she could get. She
   annoyed people. As a brilliant, untrained
woman she was a sort of economic defective.
 She had been fired from a dozen secretarial
jobs; she had been fired even from a position
   as a school librarian which paid only five
 thousand dollars a year and was practically
unfillable. In work situations she tended to be
   huffy and rebellious. And yet, as business
    manager of their personal firm she was
  superb. Her decisions were always correct.
She could handle money. The trouble was, he
  did not bring in any money. She spent her
   time playing credit cards off against one
         another and working the float.
 "Cindy, please forgive me." He opened his
       arms and she came to him.
  "I can't live with all this Sturm und Drang,
 Bob. You're such an overdramatizer. I don't
even want to know what happened in Atlanta,
as long as you didn't do anything that's going
  to cause the police to come after you. I just
want to accept you, and I'm doing my best. If
you are having a problem, I'll do what I know
  how to do. I'll hold you, I'll listen to what I
 can bear to hear, I'll comfort you if that is in
                 my power."
She was afraid, and that made him pity her.
  It did not stop him, though. "I've had an
experience that will remain with me until the
 end of my days." He caught himself in the
 posturing, the destructive silliness, of that
  statement. So did she—he heard her soft
                    moan.
 People call it midlife crisis, male menopause,
   whatever. They laugh, they simplify, then
 when it happens to you and you're in trouble
  and afraid, what do you do? Where are the
resources? He had shamed himself before her.
   "I think it was just a very bad dream," he
  said carefully. "It's nothing I can't handle.
But please be straight with me. Do you have a
 problem with my seeing Monica about it?"
  She touched her cheeks, her long fingers
  graceful against the gentle weight of her
  jowls. What a strange journey it was, the
             lasting marriage.
 She remained silent for some moments. He
raised his eyebrows: she owed him an answer
to his question. She took a deep breath. "We
 aren't children. Monica is my friend, and I
think I might even have suggested you see her.
Now, when I think of her hearing my intimate
  details with you, I wonder if the friendship
can take it. I don't have many friends, Bob. If
         I lose Monica, I'll be lonely."
 "I understand. I can get Monica to refer me
              to somebody."
   Cindy nodded. "On the other hand, she
 knows us both. She will be more help to you
 than a stranger. And she's very skilled; I've
  heard that from a lot of people. No, Bob, I
think she's best for you. I think you should go
                    to her."
             "Your friendship?"
  "We're old, old friends. I met Monica in
 grade school. We've shared so much—you
and Scotty, that crazy night." She laughed a
  little. "We'll share this too. Who knows,
maybe it'll have the opposite effect. It could
               make us closer."
   "She'll separate the personal from the
               professional."
  Cindy put a period to the conversation by
 announcing that the news had started. They
  told about a terrible series of murders in
Calaveras County, California. Pictures of the
 concrete blockhouse where the crimes were
 committed were shown. Bob felt fascinated
    loathing at the sight of the thing. He
     wondered what had gone on inside.
 Later he went into Kevin's room and talked
   to him about Kafka. Then he read the
Metamorphosis and grew slightly sick. People
assumed that the story of a man turning into
   an insect was metaphorical, but what if
Kafka had taken it from life? What if it was a
              real experience?
 Of course it wasn't real. How could he even
think that, and so debase the literature of the
                    piece?
 Later he drank three Stolys and listened to
Steve Reich's Desert Music. He ate some cold
shrimp that were in the fridge and wished he
  was at Pascal Manoule's in New Orleans.
Barbecued shrimp and a Dixie beer. God love
    it, perhaps the best meal in America.
     This night passed without dreams.
When he woke up, there was thin, gray light
 coming in the window. He went through the
  ceremonies of the morning, the shave, the
brushing of the hair, the dressing in the gray
 suit, the kissing of the schoolbound boy, the
 march out into the sun-drenched traffic, the
subway, the jammed crowds of Thirty-fourth
 Street, the elevator, the office of Duke Data
 Consultants on the sixth floor of the Empire
 State Building. At the moment he could not
    afford a secretary, and his outer office
   contained nothing but a desk, an archaic
             Mac, and a telephone.
  He took in the mail, which consisted of the
  usual pound or so of computer magazines,
    trade journals, and bills. There were no
letters of inquiry, and none of his outstanding
  accounts had sent checks. The bills he piled
              up to take to Cindy.
  He had not yet sat down when the phone
  began ringing. "This is Joe Tragliano, I
                 want—"
    Bob put down the phone in horror.
 Tragliano? Somebody from the landlord's
 office—but which landlord, home or this
                place?
  He didn't want to call Cindy about it. The
  mere fact that landlords were beginning to
 phone would terrify her. Why didn't things
ever come out right? The world is not made to
  come out right, the world is made to burn.
   And yet flowers, spring, glistening lakes,
       snowflakes, laughing children.
   And yet—the phone ringing again. Bob
jerked back and forth. God, God, it could be a
          client. Or—he answered.
 "Tragliano. Look, we got a hot check here.
We can't deposit it again, you gotta send us a
    new check. You understand that?"
                   "Yes."
"Okay, there's gonna be an eviction notice in
  your mailbox tomorrow. It's no big deal,
 don't get worried, just get the money to us,
                  okay?"
 "Okay." Oh, God. The apartment, sixteen
hundred and fifty dollars a month. It hadn't
seemed like much a year ago but now, God.
  There was a pink envelope on the floor he
 hadn't seen before. Pushed under the outer
door while he was on the phone. He opened it.
  A pink copy of his April office rent bill, a
yellow copy of the May bill, a blue copy of the
  June bill, a white copy of the current bill.
  They had been waiting for him to come in.
   Eyes had watched his entrance, feet had
 moved. Was somebody now hanging back in
 the hall, waiting to buttonhole him when he
                  came out?
Please somebody—if there is a God—help me,
         help me get out of this mess.
 He would go down to the coffee shop in the
  basement and coffee himself and read the
 latest issue of MacWorld. Maybe there'd be
 some useful tidbit in the computer-industry
 gossip columns, something he could make a
   few cold calls about. "Hi, Willard, I just
  heard a rumor that Compaq's coming out
          with an AT clone that's—"
 What? Who cares. His "clients" didn't need
 him, they subscribed to computer magazines,
 too. Soon he heard the coffee bell in the hall.
   Never mind the shop in the basement. He
   shouldn't risk leaving his office, anyway.
 What if they changed the locks on him? But
they were nice people here. He was nearly half
a year behind and they hadn't even given him
  an eviction notice. Just these bills, and the
     feeling that he was being watched.
  He went out and bought a cup of hot tea.
When he returned to his desk, he noticed that
there were tears streaming down his face. He
 worried that he was in imminent danger of
 becoming the first person to commit suicide
by jumping out of a lower floor of the Empire
 State Building. He called Monica. She took
      the call personally, bless her soul.
                   "Bob?"
He had planned a big speech, but the sound of
  her voice washed it all out of his mind. "I
need a little help." He hated the shaking tone,
  the whine behind it. "Monica, give me an
      appointment as soon as you can."
           "Where are you, Bob?"
   His throat was constricting. The dreadful
  memories, the sheer terror of what he had
   experienced in Atlanta now flooded in on
him. "My office." His voice was a whisper. He
 jammed his teeth together to capture the sob
     that was about to follow the words.
"If you can get here by ten-thirty, I'll give you
half an hour. We can meet again after five."
  The even tone was like a handclasp right
 through the phone. As soon as he hung up,
    the phone rang again. This time it was
American Express. "Mr. Duke, we must have
 a fifteen-hundred-dollar payment at one of
our offices by the close of business today, or
             we'll be forced—"
 He put the phone down, a fussy, frightened
gesture. Fear made him feel so careful that he
  thought he must look prissy. Did pilots in
  crashing planes become fascinated by bug
  splotches on the windshield as the ground
                 rushed up?
 He tried to swallow his tea and leave, but the
tea seared his throat and he gagged, spitting it
     all over the pile of bills and computer
 magazines. Oh, so what? His lips, his tongue
     burning, he stalked out into the silent
                     hallway.
    He no longer cared if the Empire State
   Building was watching him. Better to be
 outside than in here with all these miserable
   creditors and the spilled tea. Who knew,
  maybe something good would happen. He
   might find a dime on the sidewalk, for
     example, or be run over by a bus.
As he moved through the streets of the city he
  experienced a radical change of mood. His
     spirits lifted. Hard, white sunlight was
flooding the world. He went up Fifth Avenue
 past the corpse of Altman's and still-moving
  Lord and Taylor's. The people who passed
  him were shining with what he told himself
    was the light of the soul. For a moment,
    reveling in the secret understanding that
 there was something beautiful here, he loved
   the faded plastic sushi in the window of a
  Japanese restaurant, the roaring buses, the
   sweating Con Ed workers at the corner of
Fortieth and Fifth, the new Republic National
   Bank building, the library with its bright
           lions and its grand facade.
 He was in essence a family man, he decided,
and trudged on to the Olympic Tower, where
  Monica's office overlooked all of mid and
lower Manhattan. The waiting room was full
 of teak and zebrawood furniture, rich dark
 paneling, and floor-to-ceiling windows. An
elderly, beautifully dressed woman sat behind
   the reception desk and a man of perhaps
   thirty in one of the chairs. Far below, St.
Patrick's Cathedral spread like a stone beast.
"You can go right in, Mr. Duke," the woman
at the desk said. Monica was so successful, so
                    rich;
  Look at all this. Somehow it enabled him to
 regain his composure. "Look at all this," he
   said as he went in. "It's a long way from a
    psychiatric residency at Bellevue." Bob
    remembered her as she had been then, a
laughing girl so blond she might have been an
                      angel.
 He sat down gratefully in the heavy chair she
indicated with a gesture. She came beside him
       and sat in a higher, stiffer chair.
  "Go ahead," she said, touching his hand.
 "I was in Atlanta at a conference. Business. I
 went to sleep—no, it begins before. It started
  on Saturday. We were at the zoo. The wolf
  stared at me. Later I had a strange dream,
that the wolf had eaten me, and I sort of filled
 its body. I animated it, like. That must have
  been Saturday night. Sunday I went to the
  conference, and I had another dream. Far
                   worse."
          "During the conference?"
"Well, at night. I was in my room. It was like I
 didn't even fall asleep, when suddenly I was
   not a human being anymore. I was this
                animal again."
          "The wolf from the zoo?"
 "An animal. Whatever animal. Probably a
 wolf, maybe a dog. I dreamed I went out of
  the room and got chased by a guard and
    ended up, for God's sake, in the hotel
  restaurant. I crashed through a door and
  made it back to my room. I became myself
again in the elevator and I had to stand there
with my face to the wall because I was totally
    naked. I have never felt so naked." He
dropped to silence. That had not been as hard
as he had thought it would be. The next part,
   though, he wondered if he could utter.
 "Yes?" She touched his hand again. She had
done that ever since he had known her. Surely
  she understood how provocative it was. He
wished for perhaps the hundred-thousandth
time that he had made her that night in the
                 Catskills.
"Monica, I think some part of this dream was
     real. The next morning I got up and
   everybody at the conference was talking
 about how this giant dog had gotten into the
restaurant and broken down the glass doors,
       and escaped into an elevator."
  She did not do what he had thought she
   would, which was to cry out in amazed
 disbelief. "So you integrated this into your
        previous night's dreaming."
"Integrated—Monica, you don't understand.
   It was my dream. My dream was true. I
  became something else, something wild. I
  remember how it was to be that creature.
            Exactly how it was."
                   "Yes?"
Could he talk about it? It was almost as if the
part of him which contained those memories
    had not the best grasp of the English
language. Or was that true? Maybe he could
  do as she asked, maybe he had language
 enough. He had planned to talk about what
he did, and how it was all real, not a dream,
 but some baroque effect of a deteriorating
mind—the emergence of the wild. But how it
         felt—well, how had it felt?
  "I was lying on my bed in the room. I was
                  naked."
        "Lying how, on your back?"
       "On my back. I was aroused."
                "Meaning?"
 "I had desire. Intense desire and there was
nobody there. I don't fool around on Cindy,
but right then I wanted to. I was in a state of
   intense excitement, and I was alone."
   "Did you do anything at all about it?"
 "I rarely do that—you're referring to—"
     "Bob, try to relax. If you can't talk
    comfortably with me, I can certainly
       recommend somebody else."
"No, Monica, I love you—" How in the world
had he come to say that? This wasn't going to
     come out right. "You to help me."
 "Bob, I'm a mother figure for you, as much
  as you may think you desire me sexually."
"I never had much of a relationship with my
mother. When I got in her lap, she used to say
 I was too bony and put me out. Or she'd say
she didn't like to be touched when it was hot,
 her skin was clammy. It was always hot, and
her skin was always clammy. When I say that,
  I feel a hideous, upsetting sexual stirring. I
 remember when I used to get punished, my
     sister would watch. It was horrible."
         "How were you punished?"
  "The old-fashioned way. I was spanked.
 Viciously, at times. It happened constantly,
  but I only remember one or two specific
                  occasions."
    "Do you think that this is where your
           masochism started?"
               "Masochism?"
                "You tell me."
"I want to tell you about my experience. What
  brought me in here. I have to, it's terribly
important. I think that I may be the victim of
a rare psychophysical effect. My mind and my
body are working together in some mysterious
  manner— oh, God, Monica, I've got to get
    this through to you: I was that animal. I
 turned into something that everybody else in
   the hotel, the maid who first saw me, the
 security guards, the people in the restaurant,
  they all thought it was a big dog or a wolf.
  And Monica, I felt like a wolf. I did not feel
             like a human being."
        "Did you want to eat them?"
"No no no, that's totally off the point. You're
  not understanding me. My whole frame of
  reference changed. Sense of smell, hearing.
For God's sake, I could hear people breathing
 at the far end of a long hall. I could smell all
the components of their sweat, their perfume
   as seven or eight different odors, even the
  difference between the smell of their hands
and the smell of their faces. And I saw it all in
 vague, muted colors. The point is, what I did
 in the dream is what people in the hotel saw
this big animal do. And I dreamed I was that
                    animal."
    "Bob, I want you to listen to me for a
moment. Our half hour is up and I'm going to
run late with all my patients until lunchtime.
   I'm going to write you a prescription for
  something that will calm you down. You'll
  feel much better. I want you to take it and
have a good lunch and then do something you
 enjoy. Go to a movie. Afterward come back
   here. I'm finished at five-thirty and I can
 spend a couple of hours with you. Does that
           sound like a good plan?"
  He nodded and she wrote something on a
  prescription form. He didn't read it and
didn't intend to. He was so grateful that she
 had instructions for him to follow that he
 would have followed them into a fire, had
that been demanded of him. On the way out
    of the office he had quite a surprise.
   "Mr. Duke, that's a hundred and fifty
 dollars," the receptionist said with a smile.
               "Excuse me?"
"Your bill. We prefer payment by visit. The
 fee is three hundred dollars an hour. The
doctor said you should pay for this visit now,
    and be sure and bring another check
                  tonight."
      For a moment Bob felt anger, then
disappointment. Then it occurred to him that
she was doing the professionally correct thing.
  The relationship was being established for
  what it was, being separated by the check
  from the friendship. As he wrote he felt a
     little sick, thinking of the astounding
 dwindling of the money. Another hot check.
 How would she take it, when she discovered
             that he was a deadbeat?
  It hit him that he could spend the next few
 hours productively by writing an ad for the
 Consultants Market of the Tuesday Science
   Section of the Times. That made sense. He
      could run it for a month and maybe
  something would happen that would spare
     him the hopelessness of letters and the
 indignity of calls. Or he could go over to the
 library and look through the Standard Rate
   and Data Catalog of Mailing Lists. A new
  SRDC was out; maybe this month's edition
   would show some relevant mailing lists he
hadn't tried. Or better, he could get some lists
  of people in computer-intensive industries
 like accounting, and send them letters. Lists
   of known computer users weren't worth a
damn. Consultants had a bad rep with those
people. Too many fast-buck operators in the
 business who turned out to know less than
               their clients.
  After all, it wasn't entirely hopeless. He did
have a few miserable assets. Last week he had
        found some useful changes to the
WordPerfect word processing program in an
obscure freeware database. Those were worth
    money. They sped up the program and
  removed many of its minor annoyances. He
could look like a hero to companies that used
WordPerfect as their word processor. Surely
   he could find someone, somewhere willing
  and able to pay him a few thousand dollars
      for increasing the efficiency of their
 secretarial pool by twenty percent. Surely he
 could. For the love of God, Monica got three
hundred dollars an hour. He was more poorly
  paid than a private detective in a Raymond
 Chandler novel. He was lucky if he was paid
                       at all.
As he walked he read the prescription. Elavin.
What would it do? He had no idea, but it was
  an immense relief to consider using it. He
  would place himself in Monica's capable
 hands. Let her make the decisions. Let her
reorder his life. Give up every dignity to her:
take the pills she prescribed, let her alter his
                     brain.
He went down to the Duane Reade Drugstore
  on Madison and Forty-first and filled the
    prescription. Like a skulking thief he
  continued on the avenue, half expecting to
 find his office rekeyed when he came back.
And what about the apartment? Would they
 start eviction? How long did it take? Could
they keep their furniture, and would there be
               anyplace to go?
 Back in his office he took the dose, two pills,
with a cup of water from the men's room. His
water cooler had run out last month and they
 had not showed up to replenish it, not with
   their bill unpaid for six months. It was
autumn. His last good month had been April.
The disturbing thought occurred to him that
  the Elavin might trigger the reaction. He
 looked down at his hands, took them to his
  face, and inhaled the familiar smell of his
 own skin. There hadn't been any sensation
 when the change took place in Atlanta. He
had been assuming that it was instantaneous.
  Was that true? Maybe he had been lying
  there for some time, oozing and twisting.
     There really wasn't any way to tell.
Therefore he would have no warning if it was
     going to happen again. They said that a
strange disquiet often preceded a stroke. And
  there was a moment of melancholy, he had
  heard, prior to a grand mal seizure. There
 was nothing now, just the silence of an office,
   the faint hissing of the air-conditioning, a
 man sitting at a desk waiting. It was possible
 to believe that he was alone in this office and
in the world. He could look down six stories to
the street and see the cars, the passing people,
    the rich human activity of Thirty-fourth
 Street and Fifth Avenue. He could enjoy the
faint art deco quality of his office, and dream
     of sunny days long ago, the late forties
  perhaps, some magic time when New York
                    was right.
Then again, he had the habit of walking up to
the Strand Bookstore and looking through the
 collections of Weegee's searing photographs
of tragedies of city life, most of them taken in
the forties. Maybe New York was never right.
 Something deep within, a sort of turning of
   his gut, made him sit up rigid. His heart
 started pounding. "I won't run, I'll just stay
 in here until it passes." Footsteps came and
 went beyond the door; female laughter went
  by. Something tickled his cheek, a tear. He
brushed it away. Should he call Monica? Was
    that allowed? Maybe Cindy, but Cindy
couldn't handle this, she had said as much. He
    sucked a breath through his teeth. The
 chum-ing in his guts grew more intense. He
    imagined some great hand within him,
              remixing his body.
 "No." He took a deep, slow breath, shut his
eyes. At once he realized that he wasn't really
 alone here. There was a presence staring at
 him much as the wolf at the zoo had stared,
  glaring into his heart. It was formless, you
couldn't make out a face or even eyes, and it
   was full of furtive eagerness, like a thief.
                "Who are you?"
Outside, the bell tinkled for afternoon coffee.
Doors opened and shut, voices filled the hall.
What of them, the people in the other offices?
They never seemed to have such moments as
                   this;
they were not like him. But they were. In his
  heart he knew that he was a more or less
     ordinary man, living the common
                desperation.
His breath left him with a whoosh, and when
 he gasped back his air, it was through a nose
able to tell the difference between the smell of
 his own sharp and frightened sweat and the
succulent damp of the secretaries in the hall.
 He had to feel his face. He had to know. His
 hands were trembling so much that he could
barely control them. It was a struggle to raise
them. They were clutching human hands, not
paws, the fingers a blur of jitters, like the legs
   of a scorpion running in a ring of fire.
They touched a human face. He heard a loud
 sound, identified it as a sob. His own sob. He
     sat there shaking, weeping. An almost
overwhelming sense of tragedy possessed him.
He wanted to feel his boy's arms around him,
  to hear Cindy's comforting, familiar voice.
He remembered his mother when he was very
  little, her powdered mask of a face looming
down into his world of toy cars and tunnels in
the sandpile, the way she smelled, the way she
looked, the dark eyes in the pallor, the bright,
 unlikely smile and those fingers on his cheek,
            too freezing cold to be real.
Then he would be alone, as he was now alone.
  Monica's advice returned to mind: see a
                  movie.
     He went out into the bright, rushing
afternoon, haggard, his eyes full of memories,
  his hands stuffed in the pockets of his suit.
    Nobody noticed him, nobody cared, for
nobody in the world but he himself knew the
truth, that a wolf was awakening in his belly.
                  Chapter Five
    Bob had trouble keeping his feet on the
 sidewalk. He was slipping and sliding along,
 the victim of frustrating air currents. It was
  as if he was coming unmade in himself, his
body not changing shape but losing all shape.
  His mind was fine, but his body was falling
  off some kind of edge. "Monica, it really is
   physical, that's what you just would not
believe." The pills were making it worse. They
  provided the lubrication: if he didn't walk
like a man of glass, his hands might drop off,
 his knees go rolling up under the shishkebab
 stand on the comer, his head topple into the
 goo of wet cigarette butts that floated in the
                    gutter.
 Easy does it, fella, this is serious. You are out
     in the middle of the street. But was he
  walking, flying, or being blown like a leaf?
   And where was he going? A bus leaped at
  him, its driver leering down, chewing gum
furiously. Someone had him by the hand, was
drawing him farther and farther —no, he was
  still in front of the bus, it was his arm that
   was getting longer and longer. He stared
  down the immense stretch of his sleeve into
  the real world. There was a man out there,
         holding hands with him. Dance?
    "Can't you cross a goddamn street?"
   Bob ran around in the garden, gathering
flowers, and each flower was a word of a part
    of a word. "Oh," snapdragon. "I'm,"
   daffodil. "Sorry," Easter lily. "I," Queen
  Anne's lace. "Slipped," Mountain laurel.
  "Holy Christ, leggo my hand. Goddamn
pansy." The man shook Bob off and hustled
 away. "Geek," he cried over his shoulder.
  Bob was struck dumb with wonder to find
  himself at the corner of Fifth Avenue and
Sixtieth Street. The zoo stood just across the
street, a damnation of cages. He saw it not as
   a place but as a state of being. It was as
  ideological an institution as mankind has
    produced, a place of total and perfect
 injustice, where innocents were confined in
   hell for the amusement of the curious.
  Oh, getting sentimental about the animals
 again, Bob? What about people, what about
 Auschwitz, Rudi Mengele standing on Sonja
Teitelbaum's chest? Did that happen because
Sonja went to too many movies, or smoked on
 the street? And why is the wolf here? He ate
 living flesh, and so is no more innocent than
                  his captors:
Here we have it: To survive is to be guilty. To
die is to be more guilty still. That's the point
 of Kafka's Trial, isn't it: guilt is the central
quanta of life. The trial is itself the sentence.
    The accusation proves the guilt of the
  accused, okay? And the wolf? Well, he was
tried in the court of the tranquilizer dart, and
 in that court the sentence is always the same:
    life behind bars, thank you very much.
Once upon a time Bob had known a man who
   had suffered from a tic so extreme that it
 made him look as if his face was a wobbling
  gelatin sculpture. He was a bond salesman
  and his life depended on the impression he
   made on people. He had a pipe, which he
 would grasp in his teeth, surround with his
lips, and struggle to hold. He never lit it. The
      pipe was his anchor. And the guy in
 Atlanta—Jeal—had used his the same way.
 The pipe—Bob needed its equivalent on this
terrible pilgrimage to the lair of the wolf. He
needed something totally ordinary that would
 contain his urge to flutter, to run, to skitter
          along under the benches.
"Popcorn," he gasped, the prospector dying
  in the desert, calling to his last mirage.
                 "A dollar."
He took the bag of warm popcorn, gratitude
  humming in him. The world made nice
 things. He could remember the six-to-sixty
  matinee at the Broadway Theater in San
  Antonio—oh, to just once hear the faint
  cataract of fresh popcorn being expelled
during the love scene, and you could go out to
   the lobby and for a dime actually buy a
red-and-white-striped box of that wonderful
                    smell.
  There is no six-to-sixty matinee anymore,
because there are no children. Childhood was
  invented by Lewis Carroll as the private
amusement of a master of paradox. Carroll's
    brilliant artifice was destroyed by the
              twentieth century.
 But there is still popcorn, and walking along
 the rows of cages to the cage of the God, Bob
  looked just like any other lost man ambling
   through the forest that never ends. "Hey,
tapir, I know somebody who might like to free
you. And you, kinkajou, let's set you up in my
   secret zoo." He elaborated on that theme.
  Manhattan is a place of secret clubs, even a
   secret coffee shop on Lexington Avenue, a
   place where they serve perfectly ordinary
    coffee and danish and make a decent egg
  cream, all ordinary and nice, except it is a
  secret, and because it is a secret, is fought
   over by the endless stream of the newly
famous who make the city at once so sad and
                 so hilarious.
 The popcorn was good. Overhead the trees,
swept by afternoon wind, hissed with a voice
too subtle to be understood, too important to
 be ignored. Bob looked up and almost wept
   with the grandeur he beheld, the leaves
  dancing, the clouds sailing past angels on
            their indifferent ways.
In his preoccupied state it took him some little
time to understand that the zoo had gone into
  pandemonium, more or less coincident with
 his arrival. He realized it only when a condor
  began beating its wings against its bars and
 huffing as he passed. He noticed that keepers
   were running back and forth, one a young
 woman in tears, sobbing words of comfort to
a cage full of bellowing, eye-bulging monkeys.
The tiger dragged its' flab around, rippling as
    it waddled. Its eyes stared into Punjab.
   The ring-tailed cats were screaming and
hissing, slashing at the air, which was itself in
turmoil, the wind whipping women's dresses,
grabbing a baby carriage and sailing it off, its
 au pair frantic and far behind, shrieking in
    Swedish. A tiny hand waved from the
                  carriage.
The mountain goats were leaping toward the
  top of their enclosure, the gorillas were
 roaring, the gibbon was laughing, its teeth
                   bared.
    Still the wind came on, sharp and cold,
   sudden black hands of cloud chasing the
   fluffy angels, stinging flecks of rain and
squadrons of leaves sweeping down the paths,
    catching in Bob's popcorn, swarming,
 swirling, and the clanging of the little Indian
      elephant as she tortured her bars.
Just then three keepers rushed past carrying
  between them a huge slack snake with an
oblong bulge in its middle. "For God's sake
she swallowed a purse," one of them wailed.
 "Maggie swallowed a damn lizard purse!"
 Behind them came a well-dressed woman of
   perhaps fifty, her black face tragic, her
makeup running. "I never seen no snake that
big strike," she said to Bob. "They think she's
  gonna die because of my purse!" The last
word came out as a crackling moan. Then the
woman hurried on, presumably to claim her
belongings after the vet operated on Maggie.
     Bob let his popcorn fall away. He was
 drawing close to the cage of the wolf. There
  was only one word to describe his feelings,
  and that was awe, for he had seen the eyes.
  The wolf alone was not screaming, it alone
  was not gnawing or beating or pushing its
bars. Bob was overcome by emotion. He could
not look into the face of the great forest beast,
  but rather looked down. He felt its gaze, as
 implacable as diamond, a radiant fire. Now
   the God reveals itself, he thought. It has
    hidden long enough in the folds of the
                    animal.
  He went to his knees, crouching, and felt
 himself raise his right hand, press it closer
 and closer to the jaws of the cage, spread it
 wide, and slip it through. The wolf sniffed
                Bob's fingers.
  It snarled. Then it took his hand roughly,
shaking its head from side to side. Bob could
almost see as if through the tips of his fingers
    the crusted old teeth, the cracked and
 yellowing tongue. The wolf shook him once
and let him go, then raised his own paw. Bob
 looked up. The animal's ears were back, his
  eyes gleaming like taxidermist's glass. Bob
     sensed within himself a great animal
           awakening and flexing.
He knew with a clear and sickening certainty
that he was going to change. Right here, right
now, he was going to become body with body,
    this wolf. His insides bubbled. He was
melting, being reformed by powerful, hidden
     hands. His mind struggled with the
  matter—he was out in public now, people
 were bound to see. His clothes would be lost,
   he would be naked. And what about his
  wallet? There came a great spasm and his
back went as straight as a rail. Frantically, he
     put his hand over his wallet pocket.
Then there were strong hands. "Hey, buddy,
you okay?" He was lifted and he saw a flash
 of brass and blue. A cop was bending over
  him, lifting his head in a big palm. "You
                    okay?"
                   "I—I—"
 "Have you taken anything? Do you need a
            stomach pump?"
Would that get it out—he thought not. He lay
with his head on the cop's knee, gazing up the
 powerful lines of the cage bars behind him,
 and high above he could see the nose of the
 wolf poking through, and one fang. Ever so
 carefully, the wolf was gnawing at his cage.
The rest of the zoo was growing quieter. "I'll
be all right," Bob said through a thickness of
 tongue he had never felt before. A shudder
                 racked him.
   A policewoman bent over him, her face
pinched. "Don't let him swallow his tongue."
"Mary, what the hell's the matter with him? I
  can feel his bones, he's shaped funny."
 "Sim, it's a fit. The guy is a cripple and an
epileptic." Her face softened. She was a mere
    child, probably not much past twenty.
"Grand mal seizure," she said. "We've got to
   keep him from swallowing his tongue."
 He could not speak, especially not when she
stuffed a pocket comb redolent of her styling
            mousse in his mouth.
         "It's not drunk or drugs?"
  "Nah. Don't haul him in on a substances
      charge. We'll look like jerks."
  "Thanks, Mary. I don't want an arrest. I
     don't want to lose lunch break."
 Their hands holding him, the sweat of their
 presence, the faint scent of deodorant and
cologne and gunmetal had brought Bob back
 to the world of fingers and eyes that see in
color. It hurt a little: some sort of magic was
        leaving him, and that was sad.
 The comb was bothering him, held firmly in
his mouth by Officer Mary. He began to work
 it with his tongue, which only made her hold
    it more firmly at first. "Wiiff—pibb—"
Finally she removed it. She smiled. "Welcome
  back. See, we're gonna be fine, aren't we?"
 He tried to sit up, but the cops restrained
 him. "Just a minute. Catch your breath."
                 "I'm okay."
                "You sure?"
He hoped that his expression wouldn't betray
          him. "Yeah," he said.
 The male cop suddenly ran his hands along
Bob's chest. He was frowning. "You're—you
                 were—"
                 "I'm okay."
               "You sure are!"
  They didn't prevent Bob from getting up
   when he tried again. The male cop was
     staring hard at him as he stood.
           "Thank you, Officers."
The cop stood with him, looked him up and
             down. "Jesus!"
Bob could only turn and hurry away. Behind
 him he could feel the raging presence in the
cage, the very wild itself straining at the toils
               of rusted steel.
 Behind him, he heard the cops talking. "He
was all bent up, Mary." There was an edge of
          panic in the man's voice.
             "It was the seizure."
 "I felt twisted bones! I felt them straighten
                    out!"
 Bob kept moving. He hardly glanced to the
  left and right, ignoring the remains of the
pandemonium, the gorilla curled into a giant
ball of fur and clutching hands, the monkeys
piled in the back of their cage, still and silent,
      the condor staring, its beak agape.
The cop's voice rose in the distance, high, full
of scream. "That man was crippled, I felt his
           body. I felt his bones'"
 An energy had definitely departed. Even the
   wind had ceased to blow. The light in the
   streets had lost all magic. Buses and taxis
  went screaming madly down Fifth Avenue,
 people dashed back and forth, lovers walked
   hand in hand, women in furs gazed at the
 windows of Bergdorf Goodman, limousines
  lurked before the Plaza. A bag man leaned
 against the wall that separated Central Park
from Fifty-ninth Street. He was totally inert.
 Bob felt as he had when he was a teenager,
  after some immense act of sex, drained,
 emptied of all spark, of all friction, a dreg.
 The policeman's attentions had interrupted
the process. But the cop had felt his bones. He
  had been in the process of actually turning
       into something physically else!
 By the time he entered Monica's office, he
was wondering why he had ever bothered to
 call her. No psychiatrist could help a man
              who was melting.
  She was cheerful, still dapper in her blue
   double-breasted suit, her eyes wide and
  bright, so innocent that they stopped the
    heart, so knowing that they made him
humble. "Well," she said in a confident tone,
       "how are we this afternoon?"
   He could only lie into her broadside of
    supportive signals. "I feel better."
"Elavin is a good drug. There's nothing like it
  when somebody's feeling a little panic."
Panic. Yes, that was a good word. But it was
 not bad panic. Grand panic. Exotic panic.
               Magical panic.
 "At first I thought the pills had made it
worse. I got into a really horrendous state."
                 "How so?"
   He related his story, ending it with the
         kindness of the two cops.
 "The zoo animals we can discount. If there
really was a disturbance, it was coincidental.
 It might even have been what induced your
                   attack."
  "I was having trouble before I got to the
                   zoo."
 "No doubt you were. But we can't trust our
    own perceptual memory, can we?"
   "Monica, I can only repeat that it was a
physical thing. One of the cops that helped me
out at the zoo thought I was crippled. He was
 practically screaming when I walked away,
because he obviously didn't understand how a
  person that twisted could just get up and
                  stroll off."
       "Well, this is your perception."
              "I had a seizure."
"I grant that—but only that. A seizure I can
  deal with, hallucinations I can deal with,
 panic I can help you with. But we have to
   have a basic understanding that these
perceptions of yours are not real. Otherwise,
               Bob—well—"
              "I'm psychotic."
"That would be one diagnosis." Her voice was
 soft and even, but the sharpness in her eyes
                betrayed her.
  "You think I'm going around the bend."
          "I think I can help you."
  "Then it's Cindy. You're worrying about
                   her."
"Of course. She is my dear friend. I've known
 her for more than twenty years. And I know
how much she loves you. She treasures you."
      "Why would anybody do that?"
"I am not in the profession of analyzing love.
            I'd be a fool to try."
 "Implying that you cannot imagine why she
  loves me. Well, neither can I. I'm a lot of
        trouble and not much good."
"You've made her happy." There was an edge
            in Monica's voice.
 "Am I leaving my marriage behind? Is that
          what this is all about?"
           "What do you think?"
"I don't know! That's why I asked. You're the
    expensive psychiatrist. You tell me."
"I'm not a Miss Lonelyhearts. My profession
      is to guide you toward insight."
He remembered the wolf sucking at his hand.
He could feel the tongue, the teeth, could see
 those glaring, empty eyes. They looked like
glass because the soul behind them had been
burned away. That wolf was already dead. It
wasn't responsible for what was happening, it
           was just a mechanism.
There was an impression of somebody so huge
   that they contained the whole earth. He
 thought of the Catholic image of the Blessed
Virgin Mary standing astride the world, and
was for a moment deeply comforted. "Officer
                   Mary."
               "Excuse me?"
          "Did I say something?"
"Something. I couldn't hear you. What were
         you thinking about?"
There was no way to say it, because the image
was so strange and private. His mother must
have held him newborn thus, a magical being
cradling an infant who trailed in his soul the
                whole world.
  "We underestimate ourselves, Monica.
 Human beings don't know what they are."
  "I've often thought that." A smile almost
     captured her face, but it got away.
   There was something startling here—this
woman was not at all wise. She wasn't even a
 good questioner. Her mind wandered about.
She occasionally repeated something you said,
  agreed, tried to make you expand. But she
      was not concentrating. For all her
 well-groomed beauty, the perfect blue of her
 eyeshadow, the colorful humidity of her lips,
 her heartbreaking almond eyes, her radiant
 blond hair—for all of that—she was just not
                    here.
 Bob was here, totally. Maybe that was his
problem. He had come awake to a life which
is normally meant for a sort of sleep. A soul
might be like this in heaven, but when it was
   born, it would forget everything it had
 learned in the airy libraries of the angels.
 "What are you really, truly thinking about
            right now, Monica?"
             "Why do you ask?"
 "Monica, please. Forget the session. Forget
the questions. What are you thinking about?"
    "What should I be thinking about?"
 He noticed that there was nothing near the
patient that could be thrown, no ashtrays, no
fat little statuettes of Buddha like in the rest
                  of the office.
 "I could get a computer that would ask me
        these parroting questions."
         "Would that satisfy you?"
   A tingling iron was thrust directly into his
groin by an unseen hand. His penis sprang up.
  Sweat flowed from his every pore. Her skin
    was alight, pale and smooth, her fingers
tapering, her breast a milky stillness. The fire
 in him almost cracked him open. He thought
 for a moment that he would split in two and
  his organs would fall out, a stoke of blazing
                      coals.
She laughed a little, leaning forward, her chin
 on one of those long, soft hands he wished to
       God would touch him. "Bob?"
 "I'm remembering the Catskills." It wasn't
    true, it was more than that. He wasn't
 remembering anything and it wasn't her in
particular. His desire went flying right out the
window, and in an instant included everybody
 in the world, good, big, little, bad, old, new,
   every sweat and softness, hair in the sun,
             sweet skin in the dark.
 Singing came from the reception room.
Monica turned her head sharply. "Katie, are
            you still there?"
  "I'm leaving now, Monica. Is that okay?"
     "Sure, Kate." She got up, a glory of
   whispering movement. In a low voice she
spoke to her assistant. "You don't need to stay
  for this one. He's a little overwrought, but
  he's harmless. I've known him for years."
  The kiss they traded, made to look casual,
   seemed to Bob like two molten cymbals
  crashing, a thing of fury hidden behind a
 thousand curtains, and on each curtain was
 another deceiving word. It was not casual. It
  meant that their hidden souls were in deep
 and abiding love. They should share their
 bodies, their very blood. That they did not
know this, or ignored it, made them sinners.
She closed the door firmly and came around
her big desk. She stood before Bob, her arms
folded. "That night haunts you, doesn't it?"
               "I want you."
"We could put all that to rest, you know. I'm
speaking as a friend. You don't want me, you
  want your image of me. If I satisfied your
  curiosity, maybe we could get on with the
                  analysis."
 Her words shuddered, and Bob saw that she
   was shaking. Behind the folded arms, her
  hands were clenched fists. He felt sorry for
her, because he had discovered her secret. She
   had tried so hard to hide her failure. The
  reality was before him, though. She had no
 idea what she was doing: her profession was
  exactly what it seemed—a superficial fraud
           clinging to a deeper truth.
 There came to him an insight. His path had
 diverted from common reality and entered
 uncommon reality. He might be off in this
fog, lost here at least for a time, but it was a
                   grand fog.
 Within it there were fearsome discoveries to
  be made, but also he was closer to the old
immortalities. Saints and the innocent of God
had been here, the geniuses of the surreal like
     Francis of Assisi and friend Kafka.
He had to break the tension between himself
    and Monica. His passion would not be
   satisfied by some hurried roll on her rug,
 indeed not by any physical thing. It was too
   deeply of the body to be appeased by the
decorative rituals that have grown up around
  the act of procreation. Maybe giving her a
 child would wet his fires a little, but he did
 not want his fires wetted. He had to see this
                   through.
    A new experience had claimed him.
 She, though, still assumed him to be part of
  the old reality. Her eyes were wet, her lips
   parted. Her fingers took his cheeks and
 guided his mouth to her mouth. He turned
    away and her kiss came to his cheek.
                   "Bob?"
           "Monica, this is not—"
 "Hush. Don't say it." She dropped her eyes,
her head, knelt, then crouched before him like
an Egyptian at the feet of Pharaoh. He heard
  constricted sobs. But the constriction began
   failing, the sobs growing louder. She had
 come to her own darkness, here in this lovely
room, with the late sun bathing the cathedral
  below the windows. She was seeing full how
close she was to the mysteries that her ancient
 sisters in magic had celebrated with potions
   and flying ointment and broomsticks. So
 close, and yet denied. Her science, in seeking
    to penetrate the heart, locked the heart.
He felt sure that she had just at this moment
discovered her own fraud. As softly, as gently
    as he could, Bob rose. He stepped over
Monica's crouching form. He left this soul to
         the privacy of its discovery.
  There was no point in trying any longer to
  escape. Not Monica, not her pills, nothing
could help him. If there was a guide, he would
  find it in the black letters of the past, the
 Mabinogion, the Little Flowers of St. Francis,
               the Metamorphosis.
    Bob Duke had come to the center of the
  forest. There was no sound, not even wind.
The path was not marked by moon or stars or
  prior passage. All around him the eyes, the
 fangs, the claws of another world—the wild
    and true world— gathered themselves.
     As evening settled over New York St.
Patrick's Cathedral raised its bells. He started
 off through their glassine clamor and at the
  same time through this silent forest in his
           soul. Now he was alone.
                   Chapter Six
The encounter left Bob desperate for Tylenol,
 and he was glad when he was finally riding
  the old elevator up to his own apartment.
Lupe drove it, one-eyed, silent Lupe who had
been here since this building was called "The
 Montague House" and dressed its doormen
 and elevator operators in tan uniforms with
gold braid. Now there was only Lupe, and he
  rarely wore his shaggy formals. They were
   reserved for Christmas, or if there was a
  wedding party in the building, or a wake.
 Lupe never talked. He had stopped talking,
 the old-timers said, back when the Dodgers
    had left Brooklyn. Mrs. Trask in 14C
 remembered Lupe's last words: "Too sad."
Lupe's last words, Mrs. Trask . . . the life and
     history of the building. Mrs. Trask also
remembered when your maid piled your dirty
    sheets on the dumbwaiter and sent them
down to the laundry, which was staffed by six
Chinese. "At Christmas we gave twenty-eight
   tip envelopes, a dollar each. Our rent was
  forty-one dollars a month. Let me tell you,
young man, this place was class with a capital
                       K."
   Lupe pulled back the rattling brass cage.
"Thanks, Lupe." Bob heard, and disliked, the
superior drone in his own voice. "I need about
 twelve Tylenols," he said as he went through
   the door into his dark, silent apartment.
                   "Hello?"
   There was a scrabbling sound from the
                 bedroom.
      He went down the hall. "Cindy?"
She was sitting cross-legged on the bed in the
   dark, smoking. He was stunned. To his
 knowledge, she had never smoked. "What's
                the matter?"
"We have thirty days to go in this apartment.
   Jennie called from the bank, we're eight
    hundred dollars overdrawn. I spent all
 afternoon at the welfare office trying to get
 food stamps, and we can't get them because
  we've already made too much money this
 year. So I bought a pack of Salems and I've
been sitting here ever since smoking them and
   get me some money or leave me alone!"
 He stepped back as if a snake had lashed its
  head in his direction. Her breath hissed
            between her teeth.
 She was hurting, and he loved her, but he
could not comfort her. The source could not
melt the pain. Still, there must be something
                    to say.
                  "We—"
                 "No, Bob."
He held out his arms. She looked at him, and
for a moment she seemed to be gazing at him
  through the bars of a cage. Gazing in. Her
         beauty flowed in the dark.
 "Don't come any closer, Bob, unless you've
              got money."
    "I went to Monica. She made me take
                 pills—"
  "We need money more than we need you
sane! Why didn't you rob a bank and then go
              to Monica?"
         "They rape you in prison."
 "Forty-year-old men with Jell-0 around the
        middle? I hardly think so."
  "I've forgotten how to make money. Why
              don't you work?"
"Doing what? Taking in wash? Pumping gas?
      Scrubbing floors for our friends? I'm
  equipped for nothing. A drone. A victim of
the culture." She laughed silently, mirthlessly,
 her cigarette bobbing like a little red lantern.
  "I've been paying for being a woman all my
life, and now I'm really going to pay, I guess."
  The bobbing stopped. "That's what being a
   woman's all about. You're born, therefore
                   you pay."
  What did she mean? Was she referring to
  pregnancy? They had used the Lamaze
 Method for Kevin, working as a team, two
shouting, screaming people in the University
 Hospital birthing ward, and afterward she
        said it hadn't been so bad.
 She stubbed her cigarette out on the bottom
of her sandal and aimed the butt at the trash
can. "Bob, I've loved you so much. More than
 I ever thought I'd love anybody. You have a
decency about you, honey, that's just so sweet.
 You're the only thoroughly good person I've
ever met. You wouldn't hurt anything. I don't
   think you've ever even killed a fly." She
 sobbed. "Is that why you're such a failure?
          Why we're always broke?"
  "Actually, I think I might have something
   with the Macintosh Office concept. I'm
planning on hitting my old client list, making
              some cold calls—"
 "Shh! Honey, don't belabor the absurd. Just
leave it alone. We have no money. This is who
   we are. We are the We Have No Moneys.
  'Hello, this is Mrs. We Have No Money. I'd
       like to get a credit line, please.'"
   "We have MasterCard. Gold American
                 Express—"
            "Used up, used up."
            "Maybe the bank—"
"They don't have time to assist the indigent."
 "Something will turn up." He smiled at her,
   giving it his biggest, his brightest. Maybe
 somebody would take the apartment, maybe
  they wouldn't even be able to get food, but
this love they had was bigger than a roof over
              your head or a meal.
Or, actually, maybe that was taking it a little
  too far. The love was big. But food and
            shelter were also big.
 "I was poor as a kid and poor when we first
married. The rest of the time I've worked the
 float. Just for one month, for one week, I'd
   like to have enough money. Get it. Get it
now!" She grappled with another cigarette, lit
  it, and smoked with amateur fury. White
         streams roared out her nose.
 He took all he had out of his wallet and laid
 the three one-dollar bills on the bed before
                     her,
 "Wonderful. Kevin and I can go out and
share a Coke and a burger at the Greek's."
The numbers on that didn't quite work, but
Bob thought it better not to mention it. They
could get a grilled cheese sandwich in lieu of
the hamburger and still have enough change
  for dessert from the Muscular Dystrophy
 gum machine beside the cashier's counter.
Bob's body seemed to churn and boil, as if he
was turning under his skin to the consistency
              of a milkshake.
He was changing right here in the bedroom!
He had to get out of here. "Isn't that music?"
  he asked, desperate to conceal his inner
                  turmoil.
She sighed. It must be obvious to her that his
 voice was not right, and she probably knew
      why. "Kevin's got a friend over."
"I think I'll go say hello." He took a long step
  back. He quivered, goo in a sack of skin.
                   "Bob?"
                   "Yes?"
  "Is that a dance you're doing or what?"
               "The music—"
       "You don't do the frug to the 'Blue
Danube.'" Backing away from Cindy was an
 evasion, of course. He should go to her, and
  let her spend her rage on him and then ask
 her for the blessings of the night, but he had
    not the courage. Over the years of their
marriage she had remade herself in an image
  he preferred, but now that he couldn't pay
her way anymore she was back to her old self,
the real Cindy—a stranger he had from time
    to time glimpsed in moments of rage or
passion. There were jets of rebellion flaring.
And yet—and this was the most awful part—
 the strangeness of her anger was what was
making her attractive. Her rage was a fierce
               aphrodisiac.
All the rules were changed; reality had come
 unstuck, danger and the unexpected now
                   reigned.
His bones shifted, scuttling beneath his skin.
Step-by-step he backed down the hall. Cindy
 snorted, a derisive, cutting noise. The light
  streaming from under Kevin's door was
              yellow and rich.
He had to hide, to get away, to save his family
         from this absurd horror—
His bones were oozing in his skin, his muscles
 bubbling as if they were carbonated glue.
   He stumbled, fell against Kevin's door,
          lurched into the room.
    The whole place was done up in blue
  construction paper. From Kevin's record
 player there blared the "Blue Danube." He
 was waltzing around and around with a girl
                 in his arms.
       "Dad!" They stopped waltzing.
The girl held out a soft, child-fat hand, smiled
 around a bucking reef of teeth. "Pleased to
                  meetcha."
 To take the hand Bob had to concentrate all
   of his attention on his own arm, force it
forward, scream in his head for his fingers to
  open. Then he had to draw his hand back,
 which was like pulling against a cold river.
  The arm wanted to go straight out before
him, the hand to crunch and twist itself into a
                  new form.
This must not be allowed to happen, not here,
not now. But he wanted to, his body wanted to,
 it had wanted to all day, to just burst its old
   skin and become the new, magic self that
            belonged to the wild.
 Both children looked at him, the little girl's
    face flickering fear, Kevin's a mix of
          amusement and concern,
     "Dad, have you got a sore throat?"
                 "Rrr—no!"
     "Then why do you keep growling?"
         "Your dad is really weird."
   He finally managed to lurch out, caught
  himself leaning forward toward all fours,
   scuttled into the living room, and hit the
     phone. He fluttered through Cindy's
 directory, a pretty cream-colored book with
 roses pressed in the Lucite cover that Kevin
  had made last summer at camp. Here was
Monica's home number. Thank God, what a
    convenience when your wife and your
psychiatrist are such good friends, no need to
gabble to some gum cracker at an answering
 service. Ring. Please. Ring. Oh, please. Ring.
     "Monica, thank God you're home."
               "Who is this?"
             "Bob; I need help."
              "Are you hurt?"
    "No, Monica, I'm changing. I swear."
  "You sound like you've got a mouthful of
          Brillo or something."
 "I swear, my whole body—Monica, it isn't a
  psychological problem, it's real. I've got to
                 have help."
       "Can you come to my office?"
  "Please, I don't think I can get out of the
                apartment."
              "Is Cindy there?"
  "They're both here. And a little friend of
                Kevin's."
"Give me ten minutes, Bob." She hung up. He
 slumped over the phone, breathing deeply,
    trying for control, clutching his chest,
    huddling in on himself. Evening light
 gathered to waltz time from Kevin's room.
 Bob crept into the darkest corner he could
             find, the coat closet.
     His body gave itself to its rebirth. He
 wrenched and quivered, saw waves passing
     through his muscles, felt the grinding
    reorganization of his bones. His organs
 seemed to have become detached from their
moorings. They swooped on cold comet tracks
   down new paths inside him, freezing and
  burning at the same time, while he gasped
       and gargled, trying not to scream.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods" gave way to
 the "Acceleration Waltz," and the pop of a
 bottle of fizzy apple juice. Bob stared at the
faint light coming under the door of the coat
closet. He darted his ears toward the rustling
  sound of movement—Cindy was coming
   down the hall. Now she was in the living
                 room. "Bob?"
He pressed back against the wall. The smell of
overcoats filled his nose: his own coat smelled
 of moldy money. Perhaps that ten dollars he
  had lost had worked its way down into the
    lining. There was a faint aroma of Paco
 Rabanne coming from Cindy's coat. Either
 she had taken to using it or had walked arm
        in arm with a man who did.
  Didn't Monica's husband use it? That, or
 Aramis. Bob did not care for fragrances on
his own body. His ears followed Cindy as she
  came to the center of the room. The light
increased. She had turned on the lamp over
            by the TV. "Bob?"
The downstairs buzzer sounded, blasting the
 silence in the closet, making Bob chortle out
an involuntary growl of surprise. Cindy came
   across the room, lifted the receiver of the
               intercom. "Yes?"
               "Cyn, it's me."
          "Oh, Monica, come in."
 A few moments later they embraced with
swishes and a ripple of ginger kissing. "Why
              did you come?"
        "He phoned. Where is he?"
           "I think he went out."
 Light burst into his eyes. There stood Cindy
holding Monica's airy mink. She dropped the
           coat. "Bob, my God."
 Monica appeared, a dark mask before the
light. She squatted down, reached in and took
 his face in warm, firm hands. She drew him
  out into the blinking light. The waltz music
had stopped. Briefly his eyes met his son's, the
  boy standing at the far end of the room. "Is
      this for real?" his playmate asked.
"Kafka," Kevin said, "the Metamorphosis."
    "Look at his teeth." Cindy's voice was
 analytical, the tone of someone so fascinated
 that for a moment they have forgotten to be
  upset. Then she fully realized what she was
seeing, signified by the fact that her skin went
                  corpse gray.
  He tried to raise his arm, to touch what he
 sensed as a numb disfigurement of his lower
  face. His right arm shot out before him. It
   was short, the sleeve of his shirt drooping
around it. The fist at the end of it was so tight
 it felt like it had been strapped to itself with
    cord. His palm was hot, his finger joints
                  oozing red pain.
   "It's a hysterical reaction," Monica said
crisply. "Get him down on the floor. Get his
clothes off. We've got to massage those limbs
       before he loses his circulation."
 "What do you mean, a hysterical reaction?
 Look at him, he's—oh, Bob, oh, my baby!"
  "The body can do wonders. You wouldn't
     believe what some patients look like.
   Especially from the East. Indians. You'd
 swear they'd half turned into monkeys, the
way they contort themselves. It's nothing that
modem psychiatry can't handle, of that much
     I can assure you. A few months on a
Thorazine drip, a course of electroshock, and
               he'll seem fine."
  "Months! Monica, we have no money. He
 can't go into the hospital, he has to work."
"I'm sorry. This is a classic case of avoidance.
 He can't handle his problems, can't face his
  responsibilities. It's a fortress mentality."
 "Mother, his teeth are actually growing."
 He heard all of this with absolute clarity as
Monica and Cynthia undressed him. Through
eyes that had gone to vague colors and shades
 of gray he watched his son and the little girl
standing hand in hand at his feet. "Don't cry,
            Kevin, I'm gonna—"
 Kevin clapped his hands over his ears. "He
             sounds like a dog!"
 "Rub, Cindy." Their fingers raced along his
arms and legs, raced and kneaded. Within his
limbs there was a continuous churning, and it
  was getting worse. He delivered himself to
their efforts but it was no good, not really. He
  was slipping, sliding through their fingers.
 His wife's hands were soft and cool and dry,
       Monica's damp and warm. Their
    manipulations were beautiful agony.
 It faded like rain fades, and the rubbing of
skin against skin was replaced by the whisper
               of fingers in fur.
 "Oh, God, Monica, what's the matter with
                him!"
 Monica lifted her hands as if she was being
 burned. A rictus twisted her face, her teeth
gleaming behind tight lips, her eyes beaded to
  amber chips. Then a great force seemed to
descend upon her and she controlled her face.
Her lips were a line of wire. Young Kevin had
moved away. His girlfriend was huddling in a
ball beside the TV. Kevin's tape had recycled
and the "Blue Danube" now filled the room.
A passing fire truck wailed. Bob, lying on his
back, slowly windmilling arms and legs that
 no longer worked right, heard a voice from
 the street call out, "Artie, don't forget. . ."
 Then again, "They'll kill you if you do. . ."
Somebody laughed. High in a window a pale
              star shone down.
   Bob wished he could fly out into the wild
  emptiness between here and that star. His
 heart almost burst with longing and he cried
  aloud. A sound drowned the waltz, making
 Kevin cover his ears and stare with stricken
 eyes, making Cindy beat her fists against his
chest, making Monica gather him in her arms
  and press her warm, soft cheek against the
  cold wall of teeth that half formed his new
                      face.
The sound he made felt in his chest like flying,
  it was so high and rich and full. He would
  have thought such a voice would reach the
stars, but when his breath ran out, the world
 was still exactly the same. Or, not quite. The
  little girl had gone to her knees facing the
 wall, and was loudly praying the Confetior.
   "Bob," Monica whispered, "Bob, it's all
 right. I know you're still in there. I must tell
     you that I don't know exactly what's
   happening here but there must be some
    rational, perfectly sensible reason that
explains this. I want you to know that you are
  not alone. I am with you. I will help you."
            "Dad, can you talk?"
He wanted to talk. Very badly. He wanted to
    tell them to go, to leave him alone.
 The world and the dark beckoned to him, the
long paths and shadowy leaves, the barking of
      the pack, the high wind at night.
"Bob, please, if you can talk, say something."
Of course he could talk. "Lorr." No, not quite
  right. "Bwaorr." It was an awful moment.
 "Urraoo." The walls seemed to come closer.
    He heard his own frightened panting.
Kevin burst into open tears. Monica's drone
started again, and Cindy's sobs were in waltz
 time, unconsciously keyed to the sway of the
 "Blue Danube." In the comer the Confetior
  had given way to the Apostles' Creed. This
     little girl was a full-scale Catholic.
  Bob wanted to comfort his son, to take his
 wife in his arms. He was sad, now. His initial
  fear was evaporating. Beneath the sadness
 there was something new, an interest in the
dark beyond the window. He knew that there
    was nothing out there but Washington
 Square Park, New York University's private
drugstore, jammed with dealers and students.
 He could hear the trees, though, speaking in
 soft night voices, and the glittering rattle of
                    crickets.
   Clumsily, he got to his feet. There was a
  general outcry in the room. Even Monica
  shouted. "What's he wearing?" shrieked
          Kevin's poor playmate.
"Get her out of here," Cindy said. "Take her
      home, Kevin. Your dad is sick."
  "He's metamorphosed. Kafka's story isn't
fiction anymore. In 1990 it's a medical text."
"How can you be so supercilious! Look, Jodie,
he's wearing a wolf rug we bought last year in
 Alaska. He's having a nervous breakdown,
       that's all, do you understand?"
                    "No."
  "What do you mean no—oh, God, Monica,
can't you see what this will do? This kid'll tell
her parents. Before we know it, everybody at
 St. Anselm's will know. What will happen to
              our reputation?"
 Bob tried once again to talk. "Mwee, mwee.
     Eooo." It was horrible. His mind was
 swarming with thoughts, with explanations,
answers, above all with the reassuring notion
  that it had worn off that night in the hotel,
          and it would wear off again.
Then he heard the wind again. He wanted to
        go out and run the night.
  His nose came to life. This was nothing like
  the hotel. He was so startled by the change
 that he reared back, growling involuntarily,
causing a renewed outburst of woe from those
     around him. Smells in hundreds and
  thousands and millions burst alive. He was
instantly overwhelmed. The floor, the remains
 of his clothes, Monica's sweat, Cindy's soap,
  Cindy's sweat, her intimate odors, Kevin's
  child-sourness and Jodie's child-sweetness,
the hot electronics of Kevin's record player in
    the next room—a smell like a Formica
  counter-top with a hot pot on it—and the
   outdoor odors, the leaves, the bark of the
    trees, the squirrels sleeping among the
 branches, the brown odor of the crickets on
 the leaves, the chlorine-sourness of cocaine
 and the smoky, pungent aroma of the drug
  dealers, a complex of sweat and cigarettes,
and the smells of marijuana and tobacco, of
the concrete in the sidewalks and the rubber
 on the tires of passing cars, of gasoline and
    nitric acid from exhausts, the smell of
 garbage and hot food, garlic, beef, broccoli,
and the faint, distinct odor of their bedroom,
 powder and the oils of human bodies, and a
  musky whiff of the spermicide Cindy used
             with her diaphragm.
He jerked his head back, gobbling out twisted
  cries, his brain overwhelmed by the sudden
 plunge from the universe of seeing to that of
   smelling. The warm room, the lights, the
    furniture, the people, were in an instant
ripped from their moorings in sighted life and
  plunged into a madhouse of radiant odors.
The world, as he saw it, was mostly gray. Red
he could see, and green, and shades of brown.
Would the blue sky be gone forever, and what
of the beautiful smooth whiteness of Cindy's
  breast? He experienced as deep a pang of
yearning as he had ever known. He bowed his
  head and covered his eyes with his hands.
The moment he tried to do so he fell painfully
 on his chin. "He's trying to use his hands,"
Cindy cried. "Look at him, oh, look at him!"
"Cindy, we have to stitch ourselves together.
 Remember this. It's very, very important.
 This is not a miracle! No, not a miracle. No.
    Somewhere, there is some quite, quite
rational, clear, and understandable scientific
                explanation—"
   "Oh, shut up, Monica. You're repeating
  yourself because it is a miracle and you're
          scared. You're terrified."
 "I admit I'm uneasy. This is a very unusual
   case and it's appropriate for me to feel
                   uneasy."
  "Oh, yeah, I'd agree with that. Uneasy."
 Bob was catching and then losing the thread
   of words. He was so disoriented by his
changed senses that he couldn't pay attention,
no matter how hard he tried. It was as if his
          mind was going blind.
 The room, he realized, stank. The odor was
salty and like cold, wet hair. It was cloying, as
  if made of oils, and lingered in his nose. A
shiver coursed through his body. He felt cool
 air against the skin on the back of his neck.
  "Look at him now. His hair's standing on
                  end."
      "Is he mad? What's happening?"
                   "Bob—"
  He could not speak to them, could not tell
 them that their own fear was infecting him,
    that he was helpless before the odor of
   emotions that they couldn't smell. Every
  nuance of feeling created a change in odor
that shafted at once to the depths of his soul.
 He had no way to defend himself from this
   assault, and could only suffer it, the raw
   march of feeling among those he loved.
"May I go?" A tiny little voice coming from
   Jodie. She was knotting her hands.
 Cindy knelt to her level. "Honey, of course
   you can go. Monica will take you home,
 there's no need to call your parents to come
get you. Just as long as you understand that
 this is all..." Her voice whispered away, and
was replaced by a keening as of stressed wire.
  Bob longed to embrace her: He knew the
       sound of Cindy in abject sorrow.
 Monica took the girl by the hand and left,
 promising to come back as soon as she had
            delivered the child.
 "All a game!" Cindy shrieked as they left.
  Not fifteen minutes had passed before the
      phone rang. Cindy snatched it up.
 "Hello—oh, hello Mrs. O'Neill. Yes, I'm glad
  she had a good time. Bob? Oh, he's a little
indisposed, you can't talk to him. You want to
 do what? Oh, sure. I guess—well, of course."
She hung up. "How nice. How goddamn nice!
The woman's going to bring us a covered-dish
  supper. She acts like we had a death in the
                   family."
 Bob wanted to say just four precious words:
"It wore off before." But he could not speak
and despised the sound of his own efforts too
much to try again. He sat on his haunches and
         stared helplessly at his wife.
  Not long after, Monica returned. She and
 Cindy and Kevin sat together on the couch.
  None of them spoke. Bob sank deeper and
   deeper into despair. The emotion he was
feeling now was loneliness. He was not a wolf,
 but rather a profoundly deformed man. He
  was the victim of some odd psychophysical
          disorder, that must be it.
    And yet, in him there was something
 triumphant and free. He remembered the
 wolf in the Central Park Zoo. What of that
 wolf, what was it doing right now? Was it
    sleeping, dreaming only of the wild?
His own childhood dream of becoming a wolf
had obviously been a true experience. He had
swept through the backyards as a wolf. There
 were grass stains on his pajamas. There were
    those memories, so perfect, of a wolf's
            movements and ways.
Shape-shifting... it was said that witches could
turn themselves into owls and rats and hares.
 And the Indians—didn't they have legends
                 about it, too?
Was that poor old wolf still in its cage, or had
it died and the two of them somehow come to
           inhabit this same flesh?
 It had looked at him, looked into him—yes,
      actually entered him with its eyes.
That was the secret, the wolf had done it, had
    entered him with its eyes. And it had
happened before, yes, it had, back at the San
   Antonio Zoo in the summer of 1957, he
remembered it vividly now. There had been a
 wolf there, a sleepy, dejected old Texas red
 wolf and it had looked at him and then . . .
         Then had come his dream.
 "Could I watch M*A*S*H?" Kevin asked.
 "No! No TV." His wife's voice was so lovely,
 full of melodies he had never heard before.
He went to her and stood before her, looking
into the creamy miracle of her face, the blue,
       wide eyes, the dramatic, perfectly
   proportioned nose, the lips that seemed
  always to conceal, as their deepest secret,
                   laughter.
 By degrees she raised her hands. "If I touch
             him, will it help?"
           "I can't answer that."
   Kevin, sobbing softly to himself, leaned
against his mother's shoulder. Cindy seemed
 to Bob small and weak and vulnerable. For
fifteen years he had been taking this woman
                 in his arms.
Now all he could do was to nuzzle her with his
       big jaw, trying to avoid letting the
tongue—which felt like a mouthful of belting
 leather—get in the way. As he got closer her
    scent became stronger. It was nostalgic,
     familiar in ways he had never before
                  understood.
 Oh, Cindy, fifteen years. I knew you as a girl
   and I knew you as a woman. I'd been so
 looking forward to gentle old age together.
Pressing his nose up against her neck, into the
place under her ear he had kissed a thousand
              times, he inhaled.
  The odor stunned him. To call it an odor,
   even, was to diminish it terribly. Voices,
  songs, high summer days, blue sky in the
Catskills, the warm of winter fires, snatches
of love talk, the hot and the wet of bed night,
the first halting glances and the settled looks
of the marriage, her body big with Kevin, so
much more. He realized that every good thing
    that time takes from us lingers in our
 odors—and we have lost the sense of smell.
Her hand came up, shaking, and she pressed
       her palm against his cheek.
    To truly find her love, he had become a
prisoner from her. He lay against the touch of
 her hand, and heard the final establishment
  of the night outside, the course of the stars
   against the restless sky. A leaf tapped the
   window, dropping silently past the light.
                   Part Two
          The Journey To The West
 A man without anything, alone on the road
             long after midnight,
      is told by the choking street light
            morning will not come.
 He jams his hands in his pockets, walks on.
—Robert Duke, "In the Matter of the Night,"
                 (1983)
                 Chapter Seven
   Robert Duke had a new body to learn.
Breathing through the long snout, and seeing
  around it, were difficult. He had lost the
power of speech and what he now saw as the
great privilege of hands. He was fallen from
 the human state, there was no other way to
                  look at it.
 His wife and son stared at him, stricken but
   also fascinated. Monica sat in the blue
  upholstered chair, watching him through
quizzical eyes. "I need to do a little research,"
 she said. "I'd better get up to the library at
                 the hospital."
 "At eight o'clock at night?" How Cindy's
 voice pierced! He was standing at her feet.
When their eyes met, she reacted as if struck a
          blow, and looked away.
   "The library's open till midnight. It's a
            teaching hospital."
Why did she need a library? Didn't she realize
she could use his computer to access Medline?
 She could do whatever research she needed
            from the next room.
   "I wish you didn't have to leave. I'm so
                  scared."
 "Don't be scared, Mama." The bright edge
  was gone from Kevin's voice. His own fear
rose to a stench like acid wax when he looked
at Bob. "He'll change back any minute now."
  Bob's impulse was to comfort his boy. He
turned his head, only to see him shrink away
    from eye contact. It hurt Bob, and he
  humiliated himself by quite involuntarily
       making a high keening noise.
   Cindy clapped her hands over her ears.
    "Don't do that, please!" She looked at
Monica. "He can only make animal sounds."
 Another wave of fear poured from her body,
that strange tart-musty odor that made Bob's
heart beat harder and the hair at the back of
                his neck thrill.
 Monica came down to his level, pressing her
face into his. "Can you understand?" she said
                in a loud voice.
   He was having trouble dealing with the
cascade of odors that were now pouring from
their bodies. Their emotions seemed to run in
  waves, bursting forth for a few moments,
 then subsiding, then coming out again. And
each time they came forth they were stronger.
Their fear was rising, and soon it would break
 them. Inside himself Bob was in turmoil. He
felt so odd that he could barely walk. It was a
 tremendous effort to coordinate four legs, to
      see through these shape-sharpened,
  color-dulled eyes, to sort out the smells and
sounds that shoved and swarmed at him from
                    all sides.
 What's more, the presence of the night was
oppressing him. The walls of the room seemed
  almost alive, like malevolent flesh keeping
    him from the freedom of the woods.
 He moaned again, he couldn't help it. Cindy
 clapped her hands over her ears. "Bob, are
               you in pain?"
 "Bob—" Monica took his face in her hands.
"We have to communicate with you. We have
to have some means of knowing how you feel
and what you want. Now, please, try to listen
    to me. Tap the floor if you hear me."
  Tap the floor. Was that all that was left to
                   him?
 "He tapped! Dad, Dad, tap once if you're in
        pain, twice if you're okay."
   What could he do? He was not in pain.
Anguish is not pain. Desperation is not pain.
             He tapped twice.
             "He's not in pain!"
 A barrage of questions followed. Bob heard
  the fluttering of wings outside the window.
 When he cocked his ears, he could also hear
  the alien breathing of a large bird. He was
astonished to know that there were owls in the
   city. He could imagine the bird skimming
   over the buildings, searching out the dark
    places for mice. From the rapidity of its
 breath, its busy fluttering of feathers, it was
working hard, and full of excitement. Then it
   flew on, after a faint scuttling sound that
       came from the edge of the cornice.
     There was a secret world out there.
"Don't even think about it," Cindy yelled. She
put her arms around his neck. "It's a six-story
        drop, don't you remember?"
"Close the windows. There's not much he can
              do but jump."
He tapped once, sharply. "Once is no," Kevin
                   said.
"Yes, yes, we will close the windows. Bob, this
is all going to be over soon. You'll get back to
normal. You'll be all right. Monica's going to
 do some research and find out what's wrong
  with you and she's going to fix it, isn't that
                right, Monica?"
               "That's right."
Didn't they realize what had happened here?
A great reordering in the world had caused
  this. The petty ministrations of a doctor
    weren't going to undo something so
                  enormous.
But if he didn't change back, what would he
 do? He couldn't spend the rest of his life in
this apartment. Not the least reason was that
they were due to be evicted. What was Cindy
 going to do? She was desperate for money.
         Now how would she get it?
 The wind whispered, the wind called. It was
seductive, it was insistent. And now the wind
rattled the windowpanes a little bit, tapping
  for him to come. He saw himself running
across the top of the wind, escaping from the
      maze of prisons that was this city.
He might have wished for wings, but thought
         perhaps he'd better not.
 He watched Monica and Cindy frantically
  locking the windows. He climbed up and
dragged his paws against the glass. "Down,"
     Cindy commanded. "Down, Bob!"
 How dare she talk to him like he was a dog.
He wanted to tell her, to scream it out: I am a
 human being in here. I am a human being!
    All that escaped, though, was a very
              unpleasant snarl.
He had bared his teeth at her, he had raised
his hackles. Terrified, she was backing away.
"Now, now, Bob. Nice Bob." Oh, good Lord,
                 how stupid.
Kevin came up to him. "Dad, I know you can
understand everything. Look, they don't want
    you near the windows, okay? So let's
compromise. Let's say you stay away from the
  windows and I'll get Mom to leave them
                  open."
       Bob tapped twice on the floor.
"Hear that, Mom? He does understand. Is it a
                 deal?"
  "You won't go near the windows, Bob."
Again he tapped. He was a little bit in control
                  at least.
Then Monica went to Cindy and whispered in
    her ear, a whisper that Bob could hear
 clearly. "Don't open the windows. He could
                 be suicidal."
  "How can we be sure? He's always been
 fascinated by wolves. Maybe he's having a
good time. At least he doesn't have to get out
            and earn a living."
"Look, Monica, how would you feel if this—
  this—fantastic catastrophe happened to
                  you?"
They both regarded Bob, Monica with a weak
smile, Cindy sadly. "I want to turn on the air
  conditioners," she said. "It's too close in
                   here."
 Lacking voice, lacking hands, all Bob could
      do was watch as she defied him.
   A moment later the downstairs buzzer
  sounded. Monica picked up the handset,
 spoke for a moment, then let somebody in.
She turned a shocked face to the others. "It's
Jodie O'Neill and her mother. They've got the
           covered-dish supper."
Cindy rushed to the door. "I don't believe it.
We can't—" The doorbell rang. "Monica!"
"What can we do—tell them to leave it on the
                stoop?"
 "Say anything, say he's got AIDS. No, don't
   say that. All hell will break loose at the
                   school."
 "Cindy, as far as this woman is concerned,
Bob's been taken to the hospital. You have a
  big dog, that's all. It's simple enough."
         Monica opened the door.
 The O'Neills were all there, the mother and
 father, the daughter, the teenage son. They
came right in, bearing sweating Tupperware
    dishes. "Hi, Cyn," Betty O'Neill said.
 "Is that him?" the son asked. So much for
Monica's subterfuge. Jodie had obviously told
her family everything. And why not, she had
    witnessed the whole transformation.
   "Now, this is truly amazing," said Mr.
   O'Neill, a flat-faced man with a pencil
  moustache. "He looks every inch a wolf."
"That's no wolf," Cindy shouted. "That's our
                   dog."
                "Jodie said—"
"She was confused. The dog bit Bob. He went
   to St. Vincent's to get a shot and some
                  stitches."
"I hate to be nosy, but if a dog's biting its own
   master, shouldn't it be destroyed?" Mrs.
     O'Neill's words were almost snide.
 "Oh, God, no!" Cindy put her hands to her
              cheeks. "No."
 "At least take it to a vet," Mrs. O'Neill put
                       in.
Bob saw Monica blink. She said nothing, but
he didn't care for the look that had come into
                   her eyes.
  "We brought baked beans and ham, pea
   soup, and broccoli with hollandaise."
  "Oh, that's very kind," Cindy said. "You
           needn't have done it."
   "No trouble. It's left over from a wake a
couple of weeks ago. The only work we had to
    do was to turn on the microwave." She
laughed. "We have a huge family, and a lot of
  them are old. I keep this sort of thing ready
                 all the time."
 Bob hardly heard her stupid nattering. His
skin felt hot, he began to hear and smell with
    even greater clarity than was now his
 exquisite norm. His whole body tingled, his
  muscles became like compressed steel. His
 breath got long and low, and came through
his throat in growls he could not control. He
   was furious. That nattering woman, the
  gaping children, the superior sneer in the
 father's face—he wanted to hit somebody.
How dare they put ideas of vets into Monica's
   head! He was damned if he was going to
  submit to an examination by some animal
                    doctor.
He was a human being. In here, yes, but still a
human being, with the rights and lordship of
 a human being. They would not treat him
 worse than any degenerate junkie, and put
him in a cage for observation, and shoot him
with a tranquilizer dart, and examine him on
   some dirty table covered with dog hair.
"I think it would be a good idea to take him to
 the vet," Monica said. "We could get a full
   X-ray series. Find out what's going on."
 Mr. O'Neill was sampling some of his wife's
 baked beans. "A Bud'd sure go good with
                   this."
  A Bud! The bastard, that's my last Bud in
            that damn fridge!
 "Sure." Cindy spoke casually. Who cared
anyway, Bob wouldn't be drinking any more
              beer, right?
 He snarled when he heard the pschtt of the
     can. "Damn! That dog's skittish."
"It's not a dog," Jodie said. "It's their dad."
 "Jodie, I don't want you to say that. It's too
               embarrassing."
                "Well, it is."
Mrs. O'Neill looked at Cindy helplessly while
       the father swilled Bob's beer.
The clock struck nine. "Mystery's on Channel
        Thirteen," Kevin sang out.
  "We don't watch that highbrow dreck,"
              O'Neill said.
   Bob growled again, harder and not by
accident. He wanted to watch Mystery, to sit
 on the couch between his wife and his son,
with his damned Bud in his hand, and enjoy
            every minute of it.
"What do you do, Mr. O'Neill?" Cindy asked
    smoothly. "Are you in trucking or
 something?" Atta girl, atta girl, needle the
                 moron!
"No, I teach philosophy, actually, at NYU."
   Which philosophers did he teach? Bob
   wondered. Howard Cosell? Madonna?
Cindy gave up nothing. She simply shrugged.
"Bob's an entrepreneur," she said smoothly.
"He teaches big companies how to use small
               computers."
Wonderful woman! O'Neill squirmed. "I've
always wanted to have my own business," he
     said, a whine entering his voice.
  Bob decided to get rid of the O'Neills. He
trotted over to the dining-room table, where
  O'Neill sat, beer in one hand, fork in the
other, tasting the beans right out of the pot.
  But when he tried to unleash a barrage of
  barking, all he could manage were silent
                    gasps.
Was barking something canines learned, like
 walking on their hind legs? Surely it was
               instinctive.
  He thought with horror: I don't have any
 canine instincts. I'm not a canine. I have no
              idea how to bark.
  "Do you brush your dog's teeth?" O'Neill
             asked cheerfully.
                 "Why, no."
"Why does his breath smell of Crest, then?"
"Uh—maybe—he likes it! Yes, he eats it every
chance he gets. Kevin! You must have left the
       top off the toothpaste again."
"No, Dad brushed his teeth right before—"
 Kevin silenced himself, thank God, but the
    O'Neills all looked sharply at Bob.
 "Their dad turned into a wolf," Jodie said
            again. "That's him."
    "Oh, be quiet. Sometimes I think my
daughter's a little addled," Mrs. O'Neill said.
  "Merely intelligent and imaginative," the
   father said. "Unlike Spider here. Right,
                  Spider?"
 "Right, Dad. I'm fit only for basketball and
              then the grave."
 If Bob couldn't bark—what other routines
     could dogs pull? Oh, yes, he vividly
  remembered a damnable Irish setter back
 when he was a kid. He knew exactly what to
                     do.
Sitting down on his haunches, he prepared to
 wait. He stared up at O'Neill. Soon the man
 would get up out of the chair, and then Bob
  would do his deed. O'Neill was wearing a
    white cotton sweater and a nice pair of
   worsted pants. So much the better. Bob
waited. When O'Neill met his eyes, he wagged
                   his tail.
       "Dog's a paraplegic, or what?"
     "What do you mean? He's perfectly
                  healthy."
   "I've never seen an animal that bad at
 wagging its tail. He shakes his rear and just
     sort of hopes the tail will wiggle."
 Cindy put her hand on his head. "I think he
does very well, and he has a magnificent tail."
 Bob heard the sadness in her voice, and his
   heart was made very full. She was a real
  fighter, was this Cynthia he had married.
  There came a great shuffling and creaking
  from O'Neill. "Well, we'd better get going.
    Don't want to miss the ten o'clock news.
    Channel Five's got the best sports." He
laughed. "Also, I've got some papers to grade,
if the cat didn't piss on them again." Another
   laugh, chair pushed back, man standing.
Bob leaped up on him, planting his forepaws
   on his chest and dragging them down,
shredding the sweater and tearing the pants
            in about four places.
  "Oh, Bob, no!" Cindy came, grabbed him
   around the neck just as he was rising for
another pass. "Bob, what in the world are you
                  doing?"
 O'Neill lashed out, kicking Bob hard in the
 chest. The blow hurt and Bob involuntarily
     bit at the foot that tormented him.
  With all her strength Cindy pulled back.
"That dog is crazy," O'Neill snarled. "Look at
 my clothes—and look at this shoe. Oh, shit,
       I'm bleeding. Broke the skin."
   "It's their dad. You made him mad. He
               doesn't like you."
 "Shut her up, Betty! Look at what it did to
                my foot!"
     "I'll get a Band-Aid, Mr. O'Neill."
 "Band-Aid, the hell. Now I'm going over to
St. Vincent's. I've got to get a stitch." He tried
 to walk, hobbled, nearly fell. "Two or three
  stitches right in the ball of my foot. Betty,
               where's the car?"
   "This side of the street, halfway up the
                   block."
"At least it's not over on goddamn Mercer."
He glared at Cindy. "I think you'd better look
       over your liability policy, girl."
   Cindy went gray with rage. She detested
             sexual diminutives.
"Oh, now, John, you won't be doing anything
like that. Come on, children, let's help Daddy
      get over to the emergency room."
 Bob saw Cindy's hands on the baked beans.
The O'Neills began to leave. Bob cringed. He
knew exactly what was about to happen. The
 O'Neills went into the foyer, began waiting
   for the elevator. At that moment Cindy
snapped. "You can take your damned baked
beans and shove them you know where, boy!"
With that she poured them over O'Neill. They
 were followed by the soup and the broccoli
   and then the door was slammed on the
       howling, food-covered O'Neills.
   "You're harboring a rabid dog, you've
assaulted me," O'Neill roared. "There will be
 revenge, girlie, there will be sweet revenge."
   Then, in a lower tone: "Stop eating that
             broccoli, you fool."
               "Sorry, Dad."
The elevator took the O'Neills away. "Well, I
guess I can write Jodie off as a friend," Kevin
 commented absently. He turned up Mystery,
which he had been watching with the volume
                   off.
"Oh, hell, now I've got the whole damn foyer
                to clean up."
Monica put her arm around Cindy. "I've got
    some nice Melozine in my purse."
"Tranquilizers give me anxiety attacks. I keep
    waiting for the other shoe to drop."
The two women cleaned up the mess, assisted
by Kevin. Bob could easily have helped them
 by eating the beans off the floor, but he was
damned if he was going to act like an animal.
  He went over, lay down on the couch, and
watched Mystery with his muzzle on his paws.
Monica came and sat beside him. "I want to
  talk to you alone for a moment, Bob. I'm
assuming that you can understand what I'm
  saying. Your actions tonight make it clear
that your mind is unchanged. You're as odd
 as ever. First, I have some sort of an idea of
 what you have done. It's called hypnagogic
     transformation. You, of course, have
   accomplished a miraculous hypnagogic
transformation. Among American Indians it
 is called shape-shifting and at best involves a
       certain amount of straightforward
 contortion. What you have done staggers the
scientific mind. I always knew that you were a
  repressed, undeveloped genius of some sort.
That you would choose to express your genius
    in this particular direction is naturally a
   surprise. But I must say something to you.
Now listen to me. You are causing your family
  great suffering by what you have done. You
  must shift back. You must leave this utterly
fantastic contortion and return to the human
     form. You can do it, you're in complete
 control of the situation. You and I know this,
 even though you yourself may not be willing
to admit it. Bob, I beg of you, for the sake of a
    marvelous woman and a lovely little boy,
    return to them. Accept reality. You are a
failure in life. A complete failure. But you are
   also a wonderful, surprisingly charismatic
 man. Your wife loves you to distraction. And
  that little boy—he adores his father. Please,
           for them, come back to us."
  Outside the wind blew, sending a rattle of
leaves against the window. Autumn was here.
Time for the running of the deer, time for the
  gathering of nuts and the making of nests.
  The wind was wild, the wind was rich, the
 wind went where it went. Bob could see the
  high stars changing in their courses, could
hear a rat scuttling along the roof across the
 street, could hear pigeons fluttering in their
sleep. The owl that had been here earlier was
   now gone, but bats squeaked in the sky,
dashing about after the last flies of summer.
 He could not tell Monica how mistaken she
  was. His present form was as real and as
  immutable as his former one had been.
 Whatever had affected him had come and
 gone its merry way, leaving him as he now
                    was.
         "Am I reaching you, Bob?"
                  He tapped.
     "Wait until you see what this absurd
   avoidance response is going to do to your
family. You've sent a wonderful woman and a
 beautiful child to hell. So be it. I'm off to the
 hospital, where I intend to spend the rest of
 the night doing research. If I can find a way
to force you out of this maneuver of yours, I'll
  do it. But I doubt that there's going to be a
          thing in the literature."
As she left, Bob disconsolately watched Lord
Peter Wimsey dance through the intricacies
   of some mystery he couldn't identify.
         "I'm going to bed, Mom."
"Good night, son. Maybe things will be better
                tomorrow."
 "Tomorrow is another day, eh. That might
    not be entirely correct. Kafka—"
 "Shut up about Kafka! I'm sick of hearing
             about Kafka."
     "We're living the Metamorphosis."
      "I don't care if we're living the
  Niebelungenlied, no more Kafka. At the
moment I find it almost invincibly depressing.
 Now go to bed, I want to be alone with the
         remains of your father."
With a murmured "okay, Mom," he left the
room. Soon the "Blue Danube" was drifting
              out his door.
   "Turn it off! I never want to hear that
 again!" She sobbed, then rushed after him.
 "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. Please forgive your
   mother. It's been a pretty dismal day."
  Bob could not cry. In fact, great emotion
 made him droop, loll his tongue, and stare.
   He watched as they prepared for bed.
        "Can I stay with you, Mom?"
                   "Sure."
  They climbed in bed together. They were
beginning to respond to him just exactly as if
 he were a real dog. In a word, he was being
                  ignored.
Cindy lay still, her mouth slightly open, Kevin
           in the crook of her arm.
  Then the doorbell started. It was insistent,
         buzzing again and again.
  Bob could do nothing but wait and watch.
    Cindy opened her eyes, gave a grunt of
   confusion, then turned over. The buzzer
started up once more. She sat up in bed. "My
 God." With a hustle of covers she arose and
 went to the intercom. "Who? The police! Of
        course." She buzzed them in.
Bob paced, panting, which reduced his body
heat—cold air across the tongue, a good, new
                  sensation.
  Then they were there, a whole foyer full of
  them, men smelling of cigarettes and oiled
 steel, of leather and sweat, tough men. "We
         got a dog complaint, ma'am."
              "That bastard."
"He had twelve stitches. He lost a nerve in his
  foot. It'll be months before he walks. The
     dog's gotta go in for observation."
    "No! That's completely impossible."
"Ma'am, the ASPCA truck is downstairs. It'll
 just be a week, he'll be treated well. You can
          visit him. It's no big deal."
         "They're afraid of rabies?"
               "Yes, ma'am."
"Doesn't the rabies test involve dissecting the
           head of the animal?"
Bob shrank back into the coat closet, staring
                 wildly.
"Ma'am, it's a matter of observation first. It
        won't come to no tests."
              "But if it does?"
   "Well, the test terminates the life of the
   animal. But if he might have rabies—"
  "He doesn't have it! The worst he has is a
        slight case of the sniffles!"
"Well, it's put him in a kind of a bad mood."
"You can't take him. I'll have my vet look at
                  him."
"No, ma'am. There's been a complaint filed.
        We have to take the dog."
"Where's your warrant? You can't even come
       in here without a warrant!"
 "I hate these pet schticks. We don't need a
warrant, ma'am. I'm going to tell the ASPCA
guys to come up." He spoke into a handheld
  radio. The other cops fanned out into the
  living room, their bulky bodies filling it,
 casting black shadows from the single light
  that was on, the lamp that hung over the
                dining table.
 Bob was so horrified that he couldn't move.
He stood watching Cindy lose her battle with
 the police. She literally wrung her hands as
she talked, and then three more men came in,
  dressed in khaki overalls, carrying a large
             cage between them.
 "Come on, boy," one of them said, opening
    his face at Bob in a most insincere
         approximation of a grin.
  The smells, though, told him a great deal.
When the man spoke to him, an odor of tooth
 decay and old bacon grease came across the
air. Bob took a step forward and it blossomed
    with acid, a stench like boiling wax and
        onions. The man was afraid of
       him—terrified. And full of hate.
  Bob could not go with these people. They
    would kill him, he knew it certainly.
 "What the fuck," the man burst out. "This
  ain't a dog!" His voice was high, his odor
  grainy with fear. "You got a fuckin' wolf
                    here."
 One of the other men in khaki spoke up.
"Why didn't you say this was a wolf, lady?"
                  "I—I—"
 "People think these things are pets. They're
 crazy. This is a dangerous animal, my men
            aren't going near it."
  Two of the policemen had their hands on
               their pistols.
"Go back to the truck," the flushed man said
 to one of the others. "Get the dart gun."
Cindy gave a little cry. A flash of panic made
Bob growl. It was short and sharp, almost a
                     bark.
The head cop took off his cap. "Lady, why are
 you keeping a wolf? Don't you know this is
                 illegal?"
      "He's a—he's just a big husky."
   "Back out," the chief ASPCA man said,
   "these things can cut you to ribbons in a
second. Where the fuck's Louie with that dart
 gun?" He grabbed one of the radios. "Louie,
     for God's sake, its hackles are up!"
  The police had their pistols out now, all of
them. Behind the clutch of blue and khaki the
  elevator door opened. Bob bolted, racing
     down the hall toward the bedroom.
  "I'm calling my lawyer," Cindy shouted.
  Who? Bob wondered. Stanford Shadbold,
      whom they hadn't paid in a year?
  "Okay, guys, break out the net. Block the
corridor. I'm going in." As Cindy started her
  frantic phone calling Bob raced back and
forth from bathroom to closet. The smells of
  fear and rage coming from the men drove
him to panic, that and the knowledge of what
   was coming. From the bed there came a
 groan, then young Kevin was sitting up. He
stared, stupefied, as a man in khaki, wearing
   a fencing mask and heavy quilting on his
 chest, arms and legs, advanced. In his hands
was a neat plastic gun. Bob tried to rush past
   him at the last moment, his heart full of
   hopelessness, his body still determined to
                    escape.
  There was an awful, burning pain in his
breast. He heard himself screaming, a doggy
                   wail.
                 "Dad, Dad!"
"Shut up, kid. Okay, guys, he's going down."
The fire spread, an agony that turned him to
 wood. It hurt but he could neither move nor
cry out. He lay on his side, stiff, while his wife
  yammered at answering services and the
  ASPCA team gathered him up in a stout
               nylon net.
  They took Bob's burning, paralyzed body
  down the hall. His eyes had blurred but he
could still smell the horrible odors of the men,
   the faint smells of other animals on the
   netting, the rancid butter of Cindy and
                 Kevin's terror.
   Shrieks followed him down the hall, their
razor agony penetrating even the tranquilizer.
 He could not even struggle to help Cindy, he
  could do nothing but listen to her at the far
 edge of panic, making a sound beyond grief.
   "What about the Bill of Rights?" Kevin
 screamed, running along behind his father,
  wearing nothing but a pair of underpants.
  "What about due process? You can't just
wrap my dad up in a net! You can't do it, this
               is America."
  One of the policemen enclosed Kevin in a
  hug. "Gonna be okay, son. You wait and
                    see."
 "Don't you do that! Don't you grab my boy
                  like that!"
   Then Bob was in the elevator. The door
rattled closed. Cindy's bellowing and Kevin's
         rising, frantic voice receded.
The world receded. There remained only the
burning pain at the center of his chest, where
  the needle had been embedded. There was
  that, there was the blur of lights as the net
was carried through the lobby. Then the back
  of the truck, thick with the scent of animal
 despair, a urinous, rotted stench. One of the
men played a harmonica, some Spanish tune.
  Bob drifted helplessly away, and the world
      went silent, and odorless, and black.
                  Chapter Eight
 Total oblivion only lasted a few minutes. He
  was still in the back of the truck when he
 became aware that they were fitting a wire
and leather muzzle over his head. Vaguely he
  could feel them doing it, could hear them
   grunt when the truck lurched. His body
seethed as if it was filled with insects. Try as
        he might, he could not move.
He understood, though, that he was in a cage
in the back of the truck, and another cage had
          been fitted over his head.
          "Man, this sucker is big."
 "Just once I'd like to get it on a leash and go
  down Hundred and Thirty-Fifth. Nobody
              bother me then."
     "Big boys bother you, little man?"
   "Fuck you. Man, look at those eyes, just
                starin'."
               "Starin' at you."
            "We gonna gas 'im?"
 "Dunno. Cage 'im tonight, in the morning,
         Tony know what to do."
"Look out, man, he might be comin' 'round.
        Give 'im another dart."
  "No, man, what can he do? He's in the
 muzzle. Let him wake up. I want to see that
            sucker on his feet."
        "Tear your throat right out."
           "Yeah, man. Beautiful."
              "You sick, man."
 By the time they got to the pound Bob could
lift his head enough to see. He could also scent
  things with great acuity, but the smells were
    meaningless to him—a jumble of startling
 new sensations. He could identify some of the
 odors: the stale fetor of sick breath, of tooth
 decay and smoker's mouth, the odor of other
animals in the truck, the smell of the steel and
   the plastic and the gasoline. But there were
    other scents, far more subtle, that seemed
elusively beautiful. He was in contact with the
    world in a new way, but he had no time to
   appreciate it, for the truck stopped and he
      was carried down a corridor into hell.
 The sound hit him in flashes. He imagined
   that he was at the exploding muzzle of a
 machine gun. Then he saw walls of cages all
 filled with roaring dogs. Their barks were
wild and furious, their eyes terrible. Close up,
  on direct terms with it, he could scarcely
  imagine the intensity of this passion. The
   dogs' voices were blasting with fear and
                 savage hate.
  They knew he was no wolf, they knew it at
once. Quailing in their cages as he was carried
 past, screaming, their lips frothy, their eyes
beyond the border of sanity, they leaped and
clawed, trying to get away from the monster
   that was being deposited among them.
 "Don' like the wolf," one of the men said.
"He a mean sucker. They knows it. He kill ten
            of 'em all at once."
        "You wanna see 'im fight?"
 "Shit, he'd never make it tonight. Tomorra
               night, though."
         "You on tomorra night?"
                  "Yeah."
 "I got fifty bucks says he'll go down against
  the three shepherds that're up for gassin'
                   Friday."
 "You got fifty bucks sayin' that wolf ain't
     gonna stand against three mangy,
 broke-down street mutts? I got fifty bucks
          sayin' you is wrong."
There were slapped hands, then the two men
   walked out, oblivious to the noise of the
 crazed dogs. Bob lay on the filthy floor of a
large cage, surrounded by other large cages.
 To his left and right large dogs shrank away
     from him. Across the aisle a terrier
  yammered, glaring at him out of scared,
               dripping pop eyes.
    Despite all the noise, the barking and the
whining, Bob was overtaken by sleep. It came
  quite suddenly, a black sheath. Abruptly he
     was dreaming. It was May 1961: Junior
 Cotillion Night at the Country Club. He was
      taking Melissa Costers, driving Dad's
    enormous new Thunderbird. There was a
 scent of oleander blossom in the air. He gave
  Melissa a corsage of gardenias, and the two
   smells mingled. On the way to the cotillion
   they listened to Fats Domino on the radio,
singing "Blueberry Hill." Bob fell in love with
  the softly smiling Melissa. He even liked the
   way she looked in her braces. At a light he
asked very solemnly if he could give her a kiss.
     Their lips touched dryly, then a waiting
hunger captured them both and the kiss grew
     more intimate and humid. Their braces
 clattered together but neither of them cared.
The light changed to green, a car honked and
   finally came alongside. The driver asked if
                 they needed help.
  It was then that Bob discovered that their
braces had become locked together. Receiving
 no answer to his question, the other driver
           huffed and went away.
   Bob woke up, sweating out the hideous
 waiting for rescuer, the frantic bending and
 twisting of the braces, the amused stares of
   the police, the flashbulbs of the Express
                photographer.
 He awoke snapping at his muzzle, and knew
   to his despair why he had been dreaming
about braces. The iron bound him, the leather
straps tasted of the saline gnaw of a thousand
   other canines. He got to his feet, glanced
around for a water fountain. Then he realized
that he had a hangover from the tranquilizer
   dart. He was sick in a comer of the cage.
  Thirsty, and he smelled water. All he could
see, though, was an encrusted dish attached to
a feeder tube that automatically refilled when
   the dish was empty. There was something
  floating in the water, possibly the previous
occupant's spittle. The dish was slick with the
   licking of thousands of tongues. Bob was
revolted, and crept to the far side of the cage.
 Presently a small man came hurrying along,
 pushing a cart stacked with bowls. He thrust
  one into each cage through a spring-loaded
  door. The dogs commenced eating at once,
gobbling down the appalling mess with gusto.
  They were a dull group of creatures, these
  dogs. They were tired and broken, most of
 them, standing in these cages awaiting their
  turn in the gas chamber, which was a little
 black hutch at the far end of the room. Bob
  tried to remember how long animals were
 kept here before being destroyed. Five days,
                   wasn't it?
  Surely Cindy would manage something.
But time passed, and he remained in his cage.
The light coming in the high, barred windows
changed, grew thin. Bob yearned toward that
  light. His initial despair had given over to
fury. Most of all he was furious at science for
    giving him no hint at all that this could
happen. He had grown up in the illusion that
   there is something fundamentally stable
 about the universe. But that was a lie. It was
   only stable for those who believed it to be
  stable. If you did not so believe, you risked
personal catastrophe. How many others had
  ended up like him, stuck in the bodies of
 creatures that had interested, inspired, or
              obsessed them?
He walked over and stared at the drying glop
in the bowl. It was so damn stupid. He had to
get out of this mess. The thing was, he hadn't
 felt any control over his transformation. So
 how could he hope to change himself back?
 He searched his mind, trying to understand
 how this had happened to him. All of his life
  he had been fascinated by wolves. He had
      tried to observe them in the wild in
    Minnesota, but had gotten only a few
    glimpses. They were the devil to track.
Hunters flushed them into clearings and shot
them from helicopters. Bob had used years of
 tracking skills, gained from the Boy Scouts,
 from books, from professional guides. Still,
          the wolves had eluded him.
   All but one. This was a she-wolf, young,
weighing no more than eighty pounds. He had
been crawling down a brush-choked ridge to
  a little stream when he had encountered a
 thatch of gray-brown fur. He had felt ahead
 and discovered the animal. She had been so
   frightened by his approach that she had
  become like a thing of rubber. There had
been a brief moment between them. Her eyes
   had met his. He had thought himself the
 possessor of a great secret, to stare into the
  enigmatic, panic-clouded eyes of this alien
  creature, to see her as she was in her own
  world, a place intended to be hidden from
                 human eyes.
  Had that done it—had something of her
 somehow stuck to him all these years, some
            strange seed . . .?
But this was a matter of the flesh, of the real,
immutable body, of blood and bone and skin.
There had been some kind of dance of atoms,
for they had reordered themselves. Wouldn't
 there have been a discharge of energy as the
molecules of his old body broke their borders
 and sought new ones? And why had he first
          melted, then re-formed?
It was all completely impossible. And yet here
he was in this cage with a bowl of dog food to
   eat. Not a very high quality brand, either,
judging from the fatty bits and the chunks of
what looked like organ meat suspended in the
   dissolved cereals. He sniffed at it. Most
unappetizing. He wanted eggs, bacon, orange
 juice, and coffee. He wanted toast, dammit,
 butter, a bit of strawberry jelly. He wanted
 the Times and maybe another cup of coffee.
He wanted all of these things at the Elephant
and Castle restaurant on Prince Street, with
   Cindy sitting across from him with her
          croissant and cappuccino.
           He wanted them now!
When the echo died away, he realized that he
had somehow learned to bark. He had rattled
 away like the worst of them, yammering at
            the top of his lungs.
   What a foul degeneration. He was now a
   coarse beast, he couldn't say a word, he
  couldn't turn a key, he had no clothes and
   had only garbage to eat. There was a gas
 chamber right out in the middle of the room
and they were soon going to put him in it, and
   this terrible mystery was going to die. A
   human being who had gone through the
  mirror was going to come to a choking end,
       pitiful, terrified, claustrophobic.
   All around him dogs licked bowls, paced,
  slept, barked, whined, defecated, urinated.
 The air was a fog of canine odors. When the
   door to the front of the building opened,
  expectant noses twitched, eyes followed the
     coming of the men with the big plastic
garbage bags. They opened a cage and took a
 scrabbling animal down to the gas chamber.
 In a moment it was locked inside. The others
paced and panted, then a buzzer rang and the
 inert form was pulled out and stuffed into a
   bag. Another dog, this one screaming and
  running, was processed. Then another, and
      another and another. The cages were
                  disinfected.
Didn't these people realize that the dogs knew
 what was being done here? They all knew it
was a charnel house. But they could not make
   the leap of consciousness to see that they
  themselves would be victims in a few days.
 They could not see this. When the men went
 away with their bags of cadavers, the other
 dogs settled down to an afternoon of licking
  themselves, pacing, barking, and sleeping.
Bob was alone. He could not befriend one of
     these creatures, for they had not his
 intelligence. He could not tap out signals or
       share noble thoughts in this filth.
During the day new dogs were brought to fill
  the cages of the old, most of them scruffy,
terrible creatures, things of the streets. One
was so emaciated that all it did was lie on its
side. When a keeper offered it food, it gently
  licked the man's hand and closed its eyes.
  Whenever a new beast was brought in, the
 other dogs barked. For Bob there could not
be any real rest or even contemplation—much
   less sleep— with the cacophony. He kept
 wanting to believe that it was mindless, but
    the more he listened, the more he heard
             something new in it.
He heard a song, built on a very definite, very
unhuman esthetic, but certainly a song. When
dogs barked they expressed excitement or fear
   or rage, but they also expressed a beauty,
 something in its way as subtle as the luster of
  an aria. An aria, or was it a prayer? There
 was joy in it, even from these trapped beasts,
    and when one of them went to the gas
 chamber and the others barked, it seemed to
   Bob that the unseen world shifted and
          fluttered in sympathy.
  "It isn't eating. It hasn't touched a thing
           through three feedings."
 "Shit, I got fifty bucks on it. I hope it ain't
                     sick."
 "The pool's seventeen hundred dollars, you
aren't the only one who doesn't want it to be
sick. I've got some money on it myself. It's an
exceptional wolf. Must weigh in at a hundred
  and sixty pounds, maybe a little better."
"It jus' look at you. You think it wants to eat
                     us?"
"Don't take the muzzle off before the fight. If
 that's what's keeping it from its food, it can
            wait a little longer."
 "That lady been by. We say we ship it up to
                 Queens."
   "I've got a buyer already. Movie guy."
      "That lady done los' her a wolf!"
 The man in khaki and the one in the soiled
 white coat left. Bob followed them with his
  eyes, hungering for their freedom, their
        voices, their beautiful hands.
The implications of their conversation were so
unfortunate that it was a few minutes before
Bob fully realized what had been said. Then it
hit him a solar blow: he ran back and forth in
   the squeeze; he panted and snapped at his
 muzzle; he butted his head against the cage,
  finally stared in fury and frustration at the
 rusty padlock. Given the muzzle, he couldn't
 even chew it—not that he'd have a prayer of
               chewing it through.
They were stealing him, if they didn't kill him
first. Made to fight to the death, then sold to
   some movie producer for God knew how
 much money —it was outrageous, criminal.
  He raised his head and found that he could
 howl, and it felt good to howl out the misery
 of his situation. God, though, was as silent as
 ever He had been when Bob used to pray the
   Our Father and the Hail Mary. He hadn't
 been really Catholic since he was twelve, but
 now the nobility of the old prayers returned
  to his mind. He saw his religion as a grand
and rather pitiful human attempt to somehow
  speak back to the mute wonder of creation.
   He had prayed just now, with his howl.
   The dogs had fallen silent. Many of them
   were staring at him, and in their faces he
  could see reproach. He knew why: he had
interrupted the song of the barks with a noise
 that did not fit. One little Shih Tzu in a tiny
cage yapped. Then a terrier, then a mutt, and
   another mutt, and a burned mutt and a
 starved mutt, and two shepherds, and some
 other nameless breeds, and then like a night
  full of crickets they were going at it again,
              deep in their esthetic.
 It came to him with great force that he was
the only creature here who was not already in
 heaven. Nothing could happen to these dogs
 that really mattered to them. They were all
 lovers, they had all seen God many times in
     the human form, and theirs was the
       celebration of the heavenbound.
 He yapped, but it was wrong, a sullen little
  note in these symphonics. He brought the
habit of concept, of memory and forethought
 with him from the human world. That was
 why he was so much less than the dogs, why
 his voice lacked timbre and resonance. He
 had the past to savor, the future to fear, the
  present to endure. The dogs had only their
   barking. They strove to make it fine and
 exciting and fun. It was prayer, yes, but also
  entertainment: they were singing a song of
                dog-affirming.
This was not an unhappy place. Dogs suffered
      terribly here, yes, but the suffering only
reached so deep. The gay tails, the flags on the
jumping bodies of the condemned, attested to
     the persistence of life and the triumph of
     dogdom in a way that nothing in human
    experience could, save perhaps the singing
   that came from the gas chambers of World
 War II, when briefly man had experimented
  with treating himself as he did the animals.
He longed to ask these dogs: "How does it feel
to love a master, to live with and see and smell
 a God?" And how does it feel to be deprived
of this love? Each dog was a detailed, complex
       tragedy. Lost, given away, abandoned,
       forgotten. They knew what it was to be
 discarded by someone they adored. Why then
    were they not lovelorn, and what was this
  strange humor in the barking? Did they see
  themselves as absurd? Were they capable of
 sensing the ridiculousness of being a dog?
When once a woman came looking for a dog
 to take home, the whole place filled with a
    smell as if of hope, and dog after dog
shambled to the edge of its bars, dancing and
           panting its friendliness.
"That one you can't have," the vet said to the
 woman, a girl of perhaps twenty, with clear,
 hard eyes and the heart-stopping skin of the
                just-formed.
              "Is he a husky?"
               "He's a wolf."
             "You're kidding!"
   "No, ma'am, that's a full-blooded male
     timber wolf in the prime of life."
          "What's he doing here?"
"Bit a guy's foot off. Cops confiscated him as
               an illegal pet."
   "I don't want any problems like that!"
"No, ma'am. Now, let me show you this little
 husky over here. Name's Rindy. Got him in
              two days ago."
          "Hello, Rindy. Rindy?"
A wave of ambrosial odor poured from the
dog at the sound of its name. It wagged its
tail, it shot gladness and welcome from its
                    eyes.
The whole pound awaited the decision of the
     human goddess, who turned with a
  murmured instruction to call her when a
female husky came in. When he saw she was
 leaving, Rindy circled his tail, climbed his
      cage, panted, yapped, licked at the
withdrawing hand. This was blood-love, this
 feeling the dogs had for humankind. They
 were not capable of hating people, only of
                fearing them.
 The pound was silent for a time after the
young woman left. Then the barking started
       again, a rhythmic mystery.
                 Chapter Nine
  Cindy felt like she was tumbling down a
 screaming well when she saw poor, netted
Bob disappear into the elevator in the hands
  of a bunch of near thugs. Blotches of fur
        stuck through gaps in the net.
 It was more than she could bear. A curious
 silence enveloped her. Little Kevin hopped
around like a frenzied dwarf, trying to break
through to her. She watched him, heard him
 calling her name. Or was that all a dream?
Eventually he gave up, lay down on the couch,
and slept a miserable sleep. Cindy stared at a
              comer of the rug.
A long time later the door buzzer rang. It was
now nearly three o'clock in the morning. The
   buzzer rang and rang. Cindy heard it as a
voice calling from the top of the well. It didn't
 seem very important. Then she heard Kevin,
  saw his stricken face. "Monica is here," he
                     said.
   Monica, Monica, the ocean whispered.
  Monica, the ocean said. Monica, Monica.
    Monica soon appeared beside Kevin.
  Something tickled Cindy's face. Monica's
  hands were holding Cindy's cheeks. It felt
                   nice.
  A blow followed, sharp and colored red. It
  exploded the numbness. "Kevin," Monica
     said, "that sort of thing is unwise!"
                "It worked."
           Her son had struck her.
         "Can you feel your body?"
It was as if she was enclosed in a cotton wool.
                  "Sort of."
   "Hysteria. Under the circumstances, an
          appropriate reaction."
 Kevin's voice cracked. "She was like a wax
   statue, just sitting there. I couldn't get
  through to her! Monica, I was scared."
 Cindy realized she had frightened her dear
man-boy. She had to pull herself together, she
 was a mother. He lay against her chest, and
she stroked his trembling body. "It's going to
       be all right, Kevin. You'll see."
He drew back from her. "Please don't act like
 I'm eight, Mother. I'm twelve, remember. I
know what's going on." He looked at Monica.
"They took him away. He bit Jodie's dad. The
 police saw he was a wolf—" Kevin stopped,
 became the little boy again. His body shook
   and he stifled his cracked sobs into his
mother's breast. It was all she could do not to
                cry with him.
 "The police?" Monica's eyes implored for
 more. Cindy told how they had taken him.
 Still listening, Monica bustled across to the
   kitchen and ground some coffee. In the
  middle of it she stopped. "Get a lawyer."
  Cindy did not like to hear tremor in that
       voice. Monica had to be strength.
     "I thought of that. What do I do? Call
 Stanford and tell him he's got to get Bob out
  of the pound?" Saying it, she was suddenly
   convulsed with a fit of laughter. Monica
  watched her, appraisal in her eyes. When it
ended, she went back to preparing the coffee.
    Kevin became furious. "Don't you dare
   laugh! This is the worst thing that's ever
     happened to anybody just about. It's
  horrible." His hands had become fists, his
               face pasty gray.
 "I'm sorry. Monica's right, I'm in a state of
                hysteria."
  The pot whistled and Monica poured the
                  coffee.
    Sipping from her mug, feeling a little
   stronger, Cindy began to wonder what
  Monica had found at the library. She was
  unsure about asking, though. She did not
     want to hear a hopeless prognosis.
"It is a disease, isn't it?" Kevin did not share
               Cindy's hesitancy.
       "Kevin, I don't know for sure."
Cindy felt cold within. "Is there anything, any
                information?"
  "Cindy, I'm afraid it's a genuine medical
                 miracle."
"A miracle? Gee, thanks, God, thank you so
 much! How about more miracles? Turn me
into a frog, Kevin into a sheep! Miracles are
           supposed to be good!"
 "The whole event defies physics, biology, all
             understanding."
  "No, ma'am," Kevin said. "Not quantum
physics, not if you assume subjective reality.
Or if the Many Worlds theory is an accurate
  reflection of the actual situation, then you
 could even argue that this was inevitable, in
one or another universe. Given many worlds,
 everything that might happen will happen,
   and each possibility will create its own
                 universe."
 Cindy looked at her son, hurting with pride
and love. "What actual material did you find,
           Monica? Anything?"
Monica might have understood Kevin better,
  because she ignored Cindy's question and
  flared up at him. "What the devil are you
getting at? You're saying that princes do turn
                 into frogs?"
 "I'm saying that they could. It might be that
    we've only recently—say, in the past ten
     thousand years or so—gained enough
 imaginative stability to prevent our dreams
     from coming true. One of the greatest
   achievements of civilization might well be
that it has contained the mind and shorn it of
  its ability to project into physical reality."
 Monica rocked back on her heels, her eyes
wide at Kevin's unexpected brilliance. "All I
  found was folklore, Grimms' fairy tales,
  Apuleius's account of the wolfman, and
 medieval superstition. Nothing modem. A
         couple of movie scripts."
He began noisily sucking the dregs of a box of
Hawaiian Punch through the little straw that
                came with it.
     "No scraping bottom," Cindy said
              automatically.
 "If what you say is true, why don't we have
          more recent incidents?"
He looked at Monica over his box. "Who's to
   say we don't? The thing is, once people
change, they're gone. Maybe there are a lot of
  them, changed into what they loathed or
 loved— whatever fascinated them enough.
   The people that do it might be genetic
         throwbacks or something."
"They never come back?" Monica winced at
her slip even as she asked the cruel question.
  Kevin and Cindy clung to one another.
 "There are no stories," Kevin said quietly.
 Monica had to remind herself that this was
 not speculative. She had seen Robert Duke
 change. She had seen the slow alteration of
  the body, had massaged him with her own
hands as his skin became soft and dry and fur
emerged in clumps and sprays. She had to ask
  herself the fantastic question, were there
         others out there like Bob?
 It was a fearful thing even to be in the room
-where it had happened. The event challenged
her most fundamental assumptions about the
 nature of thought and the boundaries of the
  mind. What is a concept, or a fantasy? Are
 there universes filled with the tatters of our
  fantasies and nightmares, places where we
        become the shape in the dark?
"You came back to tell us you hadn't found a
                 thing!"
"A lot of people wouldn't have come back at
   all, not after what I saw. I know what
      happened here. But I am back."
     "Without any idea of how to help."
The bitterness in Cindy's voice gave Monica a
  brief rattle of anger. She made sure it had
 subsided, though, before she spoke again. "I
   cannot offer a cure—not a magic bullet.
What I can offer, and I am willing to try this,
           is theraputic support—"
  "Monica, you can't expect him to sit down
and have a session with you? Surely, you must
                see the joke."
  "I'm willing to try. Maybe we can get him
          back to the real world."
   "He's in the real world. An uncommon
version of it. Isn't that the gist of what you're
                saying, Kevin?"
               "Yes, Mother."
 "Well, then maybe I can help him get back
       into a common version of it."
Tomorrow morning Cindy intended to march
  up to that pound and extract him by sheer
   force of argument. Kevin's analysis had
  helped her immensely, in the sense that it
sounded sensible enough to enable her to rest.
 In what he said there was a thread, however
         thin, to the understandable.
 It was a matter of fighting idea with idea. If
 she could conceive of a successful outcome,
          she could move toward it.
    "Why don't we call Stanford in the
morning," Kevin said, "and tell him that it's
 a pet they've taken and we want it back?
     Don't tell him the whole truth."
Monica stroked Cindy's cheek. "Your color's
coming back. I like to see that. Do you think
  you'd like a little something to help you
                    sleep?"
            "No. Absolutely not."
  "But you will sleep. It's three-thirty, and
   there's nothing more to be done until
                 morning."
A weariness was there, waiting to receive her.
Cindy went back into her own dark bedroom.
  Was this how widows confronted the first
night, looking across the sea of perfect sheets?
 No, not perfect. There were wrinkles in the
  middle where she had sat waiting for him
           earlier, sat like a spider.
 She had lashed out at him, struck him. But
they had no money. She had to do it, to inject
  him into the real world, to make him earn
                 something.
 How stupid, how arrogant. Now what would
 she do? Abandon his office and everything in
it, for starters. She dropped onto the bed fully
   clothed. What about money? What about
breakfast? And would Stanford work without
    payment? Didn't they owe him, too?
             So many questions.
        "Mom, can I stay with you?"
 "Sure. There's room—" She had been about
to add "on Dad's side," but the words did not
                   come.
She lay in the dark, the huddled form of their
 child beside her, the talisman. Monica came
   in and silently held her hand for a time.
    She plunged into black, empty sleep.
  The ringing of the telephone woke her. At
first she thought it was the alarm clock, time
 to get Kevin off to school. The rhythm of it
  was what made her come to full attention.
Then Kevin was standing with the receiver in
        his hand, holding it out to her.
                  "Hello?"
It was a moment, listening to the snide young
voice on the other end of the line, before she
    understood that she was talking to a
  newspaper reporter. "We understood that
 you are the owner of a wolf that attacked a
Mr. John O'Neill. Would you care to make a
                comment?"
 Her mind cast wildly for something to say.
  From somewhere she recalled the ritual
        formula. "No comment."
 "I'll be writing that you harbored this wild
           animal, is that correct?"
  "No." Now that she fully understood the
 implications of this call she was grim with
  fear. What would happen to Bob now?
"Look, Mrs. Duke, you can save that stuff for
              the movies."
  "Please leave me alone. Don't hurt us."
      "I'm just trying to get a story."
              "Don't hurt us!"
 "Your wolf hurt a man pretty badly. Don't
you think that entitles the public to know, at
  least how long you've had the wolf? And
             what's its name?"
    "We found it on the street," she said
        miserably. "A week ago."
        "Is that all? What street?"
              "Fifth Avenue."
 "You're kidding, a wolf just walking down
     Fifth? How did you capture it?"
"We fed it a ham-and-cheese croissant. It was
starving." A lump of coldest ice had settled in
 her gut. This was only going to lead to more
 trouble. "We didn't know it was a wolf until
      the police came. We had no idea."
Without so much as a good-bye, the reporter
 hung up. Why not, he had what he wanted.
To him other human beings must be no more
      important that dumb animals.
   It was too early to call Stanford, so she
contented herself with making a breakfast of
oatmeal, orange juice, and tea. Kevin came in
   and ate. Monica, who had stayed on the
 couch, stretched and rose, and drank some
 coffee. In a dull voice Cindy told her about
                 the reporter.
            "That's all we need."
"God, what'll it lead to? Poor Bob's going to
        become a cause celebre."
 "We've got to get him out before the story
  breaks. Have you called your lawyer?"
Cindy glanced at the kitchen clock. She tried
his number, although she didn't have much
 hope at 8:40 in the morning. He surprised
    her, though, by both being there and
          answering his own phone.
 "Cynthia. How long has it been? A year at
                 least."
"At least that, Stanford. Stanford, we have a
                  problem."
            He remained silent.
 "We've had our pet wolf confiscated by the
                  city."
 The sound that came over the line was like
  that a man might make on discovering a
   spider has gotten into his trousers at a
   funeral: a politely constricted whinny.
   "It's in the pound. We want it back."
      "A wolf-dog? A breed of dog?"
           "No, an actual wolf."
      "It's an illegal pet? No permit?"
"We didn't know we needed one. We found it
            on a street comer."
          "You found it, or Bob?"
                   "Bob."
"Ah, now this begins to make some sense. Bob
 brought home a wolf and it has been taken
   away. You want me to have the animal
  released to your recognizance. But not, I
            presume, to Bob's."
    "Bob is my husband. To both of us."
 "Cynthia, do yourself a favor and keep Bob
 well in the background. Don't let him talk to
the police or go to the pound. If anybody asks
        why, tell them he's indisposed."
    Bob had been Stanford's client for many
    years. He had been in the middle of some
    unusual capers, such as the matter of the
automatic theater seats that folded up around
their victims, and that of the blue bread made
  from seaweed. He had also helped Bob with
the FBI when he had tried to set up a series of
 computer conferences in Bulgaria. It had not
  occurred to him that the computers he had
 shipped out ahead of his own departure were
    proscribed, and that the Bulgarians had
   agreed to his project simply in order to get
      them. He wound up losing thirty-one
  thousand dollar's worth of equipment and
 narrowly escaping criminal charges. "Don't
tell them he's eccentric," Stanford said. "Tell
       them to call me. I'll explain Bob."
          "Bob won't be involved."
 "Good. I'll have to look up the ordinance on
dangerous pets to see if it's changed, but back
 a few years ago I had a client who had some
trouble about importing a jaguar. As I recall,
 it was a pretty straightforward matter. The
  city wouldn't allow it in. New York takes a
 dim view of dangerous pets. Too crowded."
That sounded bad. She strove to keep the wild
rising panic out of her voice. "Could they ship
    the wolf to another city and let us take
           possession of it there?"
 "Well, we'll see. I'll give the law a look and
           telephone you back."
                  "When?"
 "Oh, soon. Why?" Suspicion was creeping
 into his voice. He knew perfectly well that
        there was more to the story.
    "We're afraid they'll hurt him. He's a
     wonderful creature. We all love him
                 terribly."
"People and their pets. I have my cats. If they
were impounded, I'd be beside myself. I'll get
             to it right away."
Monica had made some instant oatmeal. They
 ate in silence, drank orange juice and more
                    coffee.
   It was agreed that Kevin would not go to
  school during the family emergency. Cindy
ate because she knew she needed strength. She
               was not hungry.
 The telephone rang again. "Is this the home
             of the wolf lady?"
  "No." She hung up. "Another reporter."
   It rang yet again. "My name is Rebecca
 Fontinworth. I represent the Animal Rights
 League, and I'd like to ask you if you realize
               just how evil—"
Cindy hung up again. "Stanford, please hurry
                   up!"
His was the next call, and it broke her heart.
 "As long as the wolf hasn't hurt anybody, I
           don't see a problem."
       "And if it has hurt somebody?"
   "Big problem. They'll want to test it for
rabies. They'll keep it in quarantine, probably
donate it to a zoo. And you'll get a fine, not to
mention the inevitable lawsuit. Cynthia?" She
could not speak. "Hello? Tell me this isn't the
             situation. Cynthia?"
               "He bit a man."
                   "Badly?"
  "In the foot. Plus the papers are calling."
 A sigh. "All right, then we have a problem. I
am going to do what I can. You cannot expect
 me to get the wolf returned to you. The best
  we can hope for is a nice berth in the zoo. I
     will try to prevent the animal's being
                   destroyed."
 It was hideous. She threw the phone as if the
   instrument had gotten hot. The man was
talking about Bob, about Bob's life! She could
 hardly breathe, couldn't do more than make
 an awful sound—"eh, eh, eh"—as her blood
   thundered and her breath came in raw
                 stutters.
    Monica took up the phone. "I'm their
              psychiatrist."
           "You live with them?"
  "When I must. And right now I must. I'm
     camped out in the living room."
 "The one I'm most worried about is Bob.
Don't let him get involved in this. God knows
             what will happen."
"Maybe God knows and maybe God doesn't.
 Try to get the wolf out. As their psychiatric
 adviser, I'm telling you that this is the best
                   course."
         "I can't possibly get it out."
 "Try. Do anything. It is important to their
sanity, to their very survival." She put down
                  the phone.
"Thank you, Monica. But it's hopeless. I know
  it's hopeless. He's going to die this insane,
stupid, impossible death. Oh, how stupid, how
                    stupid!"
  "Mama, we're going to get him out. If we
 have to spring him, we're going to do it. We
           can't let Dad just die!"
 She thought of last Saturday at the zoo. Was
    that when it had all started, when that
strange wolf had been staring at Bob? He had
 wanted to leave there, as if he already sensed
 that something was wrong. And what of the
    wolf, what had it known? Maybe that
  wolf—maybe it was somebody, too, and it
 knew the signs, had seen them in Bob. "The
  world isn't what we thought," she blurted.
         "It's completely different!"
  "Well, I have to agree now." But Monica
  looked personally insulted. "Science is a
           limited view of things."
"Every view is limited. The occult is limited."
  Kevin spoke up. "The occult isn't a limited
view. It doesn't reject phenomena like science.
     The trouble with the occult is that it
misinterprets everything. Demons, ghosts—"
Monica slammed her hand against the table.
"How do we know! At least one thing is true
   for the three of us. We have had the veils
lifted from our eyes, and that is not bad. We
 know for certain that things are not as they
   seem. We know that this world is full of
dangerous and mysterious powers. That gives
  us an advantage. And I'll tell you another
  advantage we have. We know that Bob is
inside that creature. He understands English
and he has the mind of a human being. If we
  can get to him, we might be able to spring
                    him."
"We're no SWAT team. How do we get into
      the place? What do we do?"
            "We're both pretty."
   Cindy was thunderstruck. "We use—"
        "Sex, of course. We seduce."
          "You saw those goons?"
       "They'll seduce, believe me."
Kevin, who was as prudish as his father, had
  gone still. He was clutching his spoon, his
knuckles streaked red. Cindy reached toward
  him. For all his brilliance, her son was the
 most vulnerable human being she had ever
   known—next to Bob. At least Kevin had
inherited his mother's temper, and could use
it. Bob had no temper, little anger, no guile.
 Sometimes, though, he could see beyond the
                mountains.
                  Chapter Ten
   The dog slop became interesting to bob at
about noon. He could well imagine what must
be in it—possibly even the remains of animals
  that had been gassed. His impression of the
  Animal Control Foundation was not a bad
  one. Obviously there were employee abuses
      here, but the basic situation wasn't
 intolerable. Too bad young Kevin had never
wanted a dog. Had there been dog food in the
 house, Bob might have been able to identify
this by brand—if, indeed, it was a brand and
      not something made here. Nutrition
   concerned him. He would have known the
  cereal, ash and waste content, and the food
                     value.
 He sniffed it, and was surprised to discover
that his nose could tell him a great deal about
   what was before him. There was a thick,
   oozing odor that seemed to congeal in his
 muzzle: perhaps that was fat. Another odor,
  slightly gray, almost like wet cement—that
   was ash. There was some cereal, not much.
 Then a faint but piercing scent that made his
stomach tighten with need. This was the meat,
  the real food. Then there was bone, and the
  dense smell of organs. What had they done,
    dropped dead animals into a hopper and
   ground them up, then thickened the whole
   mess with ashes? Was that all there was to
            making cheap dog food?
 He returned to the question of the source of
 the meat. Certainly it wasn't steak. Dog was
    probably a good guess. Or maybe bulls,
roosters. What if unscrupulous zoos sold their
  cadavers to dog-food manufacturers? This
      could be anything. Gorilla. Python.
   The smell of the meat went deep into his
brain, into lusty new centers. This new, inner
 self must be the instinct of the wolf he had
     become. He turned to it, and found
   confidence mixed with churning fury, a
questing, probing mind that was designed to
compare and make sense of millions of odors.
If he quieted his chattering human thoughts,
 he was at once connected to this spirit. His
 nose made sense for him then, and the few
odors he could verbally identify expanded by
 a thousandfold into a nonverbal catalog of
               great richness.
 That wasn't good enough, though. He was a
  man, and verbal. To use the powers of this
new body, he had to break the boundary that
 existed between its instincts and his familiar
 mind. He could not abandon his human self
 to the wolf. And yet there were things in the
smells—living, twisting things—that were not
 connected to human words at all. Call them
    memories, call them longings, they shot
    through his body like the very words of
                   creation.
His wolf sense knew there was food value in
the slop. But the man Robert Duke was not
              about to taste it.
At one o'clock his gut knotted. In the distance
 he heard Paul Simon singing "Graceland,"
  and they hauled four more dogs down the
  hall. The slop, drying and lined with flies,
               said, "I am life."
 Two o'clock. The keepers muttered. A man
 came, smelling of coffee dregs, sauerkraut
   and hot dogs, and took pictures of him
     through the bars. When the keepers
 retreated, the man pulled a monopod out of
    his camera case and tried to prod Bob.
"C'mon, you sucker, get mad." He laughed, a
cruel, nervous man with a nose like a knife, a
 man with eyes glazed by what Bob saw was a
habit of sadness. "Heyah! C'mon, sucker, give
me a snarl!" He lit a Bic and thrust it at Bob,
                flame full on.
With a blubbery flap of tongue and lips, Bob
               blew it out.
                "Holy moly."
   The man then met his eyes. A terrified,
  screaming mutt was slammed into a cage.
  Barking erupted, the flip-flop rhythm of
                doghood.
  The man looked away. "What the fuck are
you?" he said in a hoarse voice. He started to
    raise his camera, then dropped it and
  grabbed the monopod. "You bastard!" He
jabbed it at Bob, who pressed himself against
 the far bars. He jabbed again, and Bob felt
 the monopod against his skin. Again, and it
     seared a rib. The man was sweating,
 grimacing. "Fight, baby! C'mon, you aren't
 gonna fucking eat me! Fight, you bastard!"
Then the camera, click click click. Bob tried to
create an expression of utter peace, deep, soft,
 calm. With a curse the man ran off. Soon he
 was back, one of the keepers in tow. "Look,
get behind the cage. Get the damn thing's tail
and give it a pull. I gotta have it growling. I'll
  get page one if this sucker looks dangerous
                    enough."
      "I ain't doin' that. It ain't right."
         "Ten bucks says different."
  "Ten bucks, man, I can't buy shit with ten
                 bucks."
            "A double saw, then."
"Double, you got yourself a man." The keeper
 headed around to the back of the cages. Bob
stood in the middle of his space, his tail curled
way up under his legs. "C'mon, c'mon— Jeez,
     how you know I'se after your tail?"
"It's weird. You shoulda seen it a minute ago,
it blew out my lighter. Sorta slobbered it out.
                  I dunno."
Fingers came in and closed around Bob's tail.
 He felt stabs of agony right up his spine and
                  he cried out.
 Almost at once the pain stopped. "Christ!"
 The keeper was out from behind the cage.
 "You hear that? You hear what it sounded
                   like?"
                "What of it?"
"I been around dogs for fifteen years. Wolves,
I seen a dozen wolves. We get 'em in here once
   in a while. They jus' big, quiet dogs. They
     don' make no sound like that." He was
   staring at Bob. "We oughta gas that thing
     right now. I don' know what that is."
       "I still didn't get my picture."
"You can keep your fuckin' picture! I don't
want your money. Thas' a voodoo in there."
 "Oh, Christ, do you believe in that stuff?"
 "I'm from Brooklyn, turkey. But there ain't
  no wolf that screams like a man. Ain't no
                   wolf."
The keeper retreated, his footsteps echoing on
the damp concrete floor. The newspaperman
 took a final picture. "Thanks a lot, Voodoo
   Wolf," he said. With a last jab from his
           monopod he also left.
Silence brought boredom, the curse of all the
creatures here. Boredom intensified hunger.
  Bob imagined a nice array of sushi: tekka
 maki, taro, ikura, sparked by a pyramid of
  green Japanese horseradish, freshened by
 delightful slivers of fresh ginger, the whole
deliciousness washed down by a rich Sapporo
 beer. Then he would have yokan, sweet red
bean paste, as dessert. Not this flyblown bowl
     of garbage that so tempted the wolf.
 Left alone, he had plenty of time to consider
        the significance of a newspaper
photographer. Maybe there would be a public
 outcry against his imprisonment. But no, on
 reflection he suspected it would go the other
way. Man fears the wolf, that is in the nature
 of things. Newspaper people would have one
   objective: excite that fear in order to sell
                     papers.
   Water dripped, a dog whined, four more
 animals were gassed together, their frantic,
   muffled barking sending thrills of fear
through the little colony. More strangers were
brought in, to fill the cages of the dead. Doors
   clanged, slop was poured, a vet forced
  something down the throat of a dog with
 diarrhea. Another dog vomited worms and
  was gassed at once, and his cage swabbed
      down by a tired-looking keeper.
    Pigeons, sitting on the sills of the high
windows, gobbled and cooed. Bob looked up,
as millions of men and others have looked up
  from cages and jails, and longed after the
wings, and saw a thread of sky. He could have
  wept but he had no tears. Then he leaned
        swiftly down and ate his slop.
   His cage was thrown open, and before he
  could so much as growl, a net came and he
  was being carried down the hall. The black
  gas box stood before him, open, its wooden
interior scored by a legion of digging dogs. He
 could see where they had chewed frantically
   on blocks and joints, and he could see the
     grille at the back where the gas came
                    through.
He screamed, it was his only hope, apparently
 all he had left from humanity. Their faces
  went wide with surprise, but they kept at
  their work. He wallowed in the net as they
stuffed him down into the box. Then the door
   closed. It was tight. His legs were twisted
  under him, his muzzle jammed against the
   wood. The oldest and worst of all terrors
burst up within him. Monster though he had
 become, he wanted to live. A windy night, a
    bucking deer, blood beneath the moon;
starlight in Manhattan, dancing at 3:00 A.M.
 Slow love, the jumping of cubs in the spring,
 watching Kevin sleep the sleep of an angel.
A valve creaked, the gas hissed. He smelled its
choking must, a powerful, ugly note of ether
     in it that marched him off to sleep.
  An angel stood before him in a seersucker
suit, his white wings glancing sunlight. He was
  laughing, and waving a red lantern. When
their eyes met, the library of the universe was
      opened to Bob, and he received rich,
  sustaining knowledge: he, too, was known,
  Robert Duke, and his fate was understood,
               and he was loved.
 Then he was strapped to a table and there
was another strap so tight around his jaw that
 his muzzle whistled when he breathed. His
side was partly shaved, he could feel the cool
air. And his head was thundering. They had
   only half killed him, had stunned him.
  "Weight's a hundred and sixty-one pounds.
That makes him one of the largest wolves ever
  found. He has a most unusual voice, and he
  has green eyes, another unusual feature. His
coat is richly colored, displaying seven distinct
shades, browns, grays, tans, white, and black.
        The overall effect is to give him an
extraordinary glow. His teeth are healthy, and
   his skeleton is massive. Until we have done
  detailed X rays or dissected him, we cannot
   determine the laryngeal features that give
him his voice. Our present theory is that he is
    a highly unusual breed of wolf, perhaps
      Russian or Chinese in origin, possibly
 imported to serve a ritual purpose within the
 voodoo community. When he wakes up fully,
  we will display him in the rear courtyard, at
       which time you may take pictures."
Bob watched a stuffy man with the bald head
fold his papers and clear his throat. Then the
  net floated down and he was carried away
again. As two of the keepers were putting him
in his cage he heard a number whispered in
           awe: "fifteen grand."
        "You kiddin.' In the pool?"
  "Sure enough. This a voodoo wolf. They
gonna be a doc to bleed 'im. They gonna be a
mama-san. He gonna eat them shepherds up.
   I glad I ain't got my money on 'em."
  "It a bad scene, man, you gonna get some
    demon outta that thing. I dun hear it
screamin' in the gas, it's some kinda banshee
or somethin.' Gonna let Roy hold my marker
                for the pool."
"What make you think Roy so brave, if you
   not? Who gonna run the fight, the
            mama-san?"
"They gonna ring the whole courtyard with
   the Fierce Water of Johnny Blood."
              "Then it safe."
"I ain't so sure. Them voodoos always get all
 mix up. You never know what's gonna go
down, they start playin' with the demons."
"Where your faith my man, Papajesu gonna
             protect you."
        "Papajesu, shit. I ain't goin'."
Later Bob was brought to the courtyard. For
a time the air was brilliant with flashbulbs. In
 the green, glowing haze they left in his eyes,
 he saw a single pale face and his whole body
ached with longing. He stared straight at her,
   he devoured her with his eyes, he tried to
  coordinate his tail enough to wag it. Cindy
    shone in his glance. She stood familiarly
beside the vet who had examined him, seemed
 to speak to him easily, and even touched his
  arm from time to time with the tips of her
                     fingers.
 That gave Bob hope. If he understood what
 she was attempting, it was a good idea. She
might be. able to accomplish it. When he was
returned to his cage, he found there a bowl of
 chopped steak. He gobbled it; this body did
 not easily bear hunger. Cindy had somehow
been responsible for this food, he was sure of
                      it.
  As night slipped in the high windows, he
became less sure. Finally there was a stirring
among the dogs. His heart raced. He expected
            to see her with keys.
 Instead there came a strange procession. He
  had always heard that there was voodoo in
     New York City, but this man was more
    elaborately dressed than the cardinal on
 Easter Sunday morning. He wore long white
  robes embroidered with a collar of dancing
 skeletons. There was a red cross on his back
and a black pentacle on his breast. He wore a
top hat and carried a cane. Over the robe was
  the tattered tailcoat of an ancient morning
  suit. His fingers were all ringed with skulls
  and such, and his feet were shod in doeskin
  shoes. He smelled of oil of cloves and dried
blood, molasses, and thick, decayed breath. A
   drum beat in his shadowy entourage, and
many of the dogs barked with fear. Straining
on leads, their collars worked with daisies and
 spray-painted purple carnations, came four
   powerful young German shepherds. They
 were snarling and eager. Bob had seen them
 before, waiting in the front cages where the
      keepers took prospective owners and
claimants. You could get a mutt here free, but
  one of these animals would cost. They were
 fine and brushed, and the keepers exercised
                   them daily.
As they passed Bob they set off a poundwide
        round of nervous barking.
  He listened to the rhythm of drums and the
 bleating of a trumpet, and saw flames flicker
   up from time to time in the dark outside.
  There were chants. The old priest pranced
    past the door, his top hat shining in the
torchlight, a cigar clenched between his teeth.
 Bob kept watching the corridor, hoping that
     Cindy would come through it, having
    somehow struck whatever deal she was
making with the vet. But she didn't come, and
the ritual that had formed around the betting
               pool grew louder.
   Incense, cigar smoke, the sharp scent of
hashish all wafted in, borne on a heavier layer
  of oils: rose, clove, pepper. The worshipers
 danced past, their faces alight in the torches,
 saying words he could not understand in the
  pidgin of the islands. When they put their
  hands on him, he let forth the scream that
  had terrified them before. If it frightened
 them now, they gave no sign. He was carried
 out into the courtyard and left there with the
four shepherds, who had been worried during
        the ritual to a pitch of rage.
 He could smell their anger and their hurt.
 These dogs had loved man. Human enmity
  made them feel bad about themselves.
 Their thick, angry odor gave over to the hot
pitch of breath when they barked at him. To
   be with him in unbarred surroundings
terrified them. He was more afraid, though,
and he clawed desperately at the door, trying
   to somehow get away. At all of the high
windows there were faces peering down, and
     over the back wall they also peered.
Bob didn't know what to do. He couldn't talk
 to these dogs, he had no arm to parry with
 when they attacked. All he could hope to do
would be to bite back. But he'd never bitten.
        He didn't know how to bite.
 The dogs hammered out their barks, their
    ears back. In Bob the wolf stirred.
  They rushed him, all four of them at once,
  their bodies slamming into him one after
 another. The first came in under his throat,
the second right beside it. They knocked him
off his feet. The other two buried themselves
in his soft belly. He felt an awful pain, kicked,
 squirmed, and was surprised to notice within
  himself a confident undulation. He rose and
his jaw went off like a spring mechanism; one
 of the dogs was on three legs, screaming dog
  screams, and the crowd went wild. Then the
   fury of the shepherds was renewed. Their
 barking was like the clatter of applause. This
    time when they rushed him, Bob trotted
   away. Now they changed their tactics and
     began to chase. In a moment they were
    running around the courtyard. Bob was
  astonished at himself. He could run like the
     wind. In fact he ran so fast he was soon
 behind the slowest dog, the one with the hurt
  leg. Then he leaped on that dog and felt his
   muzzle probing for its throat. He thought
    about it, thought about aiming his teeth,
 finding the right place in the fur—and in an
     instant was at the bottom of a heap of
           snarling, snapping killers.
Again he got to his feet, but this time he could
 feel his own blood leaking from a hole in his
neck. He needed a doctor; what if the wound
was close to his jugular? Still just the one dog
was wounded. He noticed, though, that their
  chests were heaving. He was barely tired.
A voice said from the dark wall: "He can run,
      man, but he slow in the clinch."
                "He strong."
   The dogs were wary now, keeping their
    distance, very intelligently using their
superior maneuverability to worry him. Every
    few moments there would be another
excruciating pinch and another wound. If this
kept up, they would slowly tear him to pieces.
  When they came close, he would try to bite
       them, but he inevitably missed.
    It was not long before their circle had
 tightened. They were crouching low, their
heads against the ground, their hindquarters
    in the air, tails flying. He had a dozen
wounds. Between them they shared perhaps
  four, only one of them serious enough to
        reduce the victim's efficiency.
He shook his head to get the blur of blood out
 of his right eye. His muzzle reeked with his
 own blood when he inhaled, and he seemed
  almost to be floating. The battle went far
                     away.
 Instantly they leaped at him, biting wildly.
They were going to eat him alive, to tear him
apart. He screamed in agony as teeth dug into
                    him.
  Wolf: the gleam of the careful tooth, the
  mind calm in the mayhem, calculating a
 death blow and then the snick of the jaw, a
 shocking flash as the tooth passes through
   flesh and a dog howls its last, its bowels
  splashing from the hole Bob had made.
Wolf: leaping on the back of a squirming dog,
 gobbling at his bones, gnashing down on the
 gristle, feeling tooth slide against backbone,
tasting the soft sweetness of the spinal bundle.
                Another one dead.
Then the wolf stopped, scented the air, tossed
    his head to clean his ears of the wild
screaming, the thundering drum, to clear his
 eyes of the flicker of the torches. Two dogs
remained, one dragging a leg and constantly
shaking its head, the other shrinking against
                  the far wall.
 He had a vision, and he knew that he could
make the vision true. Quickly he trotted to the
near side of the courtyard. Between here and
the back wall there was a twenty-yard run. He
  tossed his head and catapulted forward, a
  bullet of glowing fur. His legs carried him,
    took him upward, soaring, flying in the
   screams of the crowd and one scream in
         particular: "Bob, Bob, Bob!"
  Cindy was in the courtyard. The vet was
behind her, his face flushed. Beyond her was
 Monica, angular in the light cast from the
building. He glimpsed Kevin, too, his beloved
                     son!
Bob's claws reached the top edge of the wall.
   He pushed, the timing perfect, and cast
   himself up onto the scree of glass shards
 embedded in the concrete. Below him there
was an alley, and in that alley a panic-stricken
   crowd was falling wildly over itself in its
urgency to get away. A shot exploded, a blue,
  blinding flash, a rush of hot air, a stink of
              powder and hot oil.
   Bob learned forever the smell of a gun.
Then they were gone, all of them, the doctor,
the mama-san, the worshipers at the altar of
                the game.
"Bob, Bob, come down. You can come home
 now, honey. We'll take good care of you."
 It was hopeless. There would be no peace at
    home, not with the press blitz that was
probably breaking on the eleven o'clock news
 just about now. Atavisms would be brought
  up in the marginal people; there would be
   men with high-powered rifles, poisoners,
    trappers, and of course O'Neill and his
                   lawyers.
But there would be Cindy and Kevin, and the
chance to be a little bit human in the privacy
               of their home.
               "Bob, please."
  He hesitated, drawn by the night and the
freedom, and by the soft, familiar scent of his
  wife. The moon paced the clouds, the wolf
 paced the high wall. "I'll get the dart gun,"
   the vet said softly. Hearing that, the wolf
                      won.
  Bob leaped off into the wild, free night.
                 Chapter Eleven
 When he disappeared over the wall, Cindy
braced for another shot. Instead there came
  the high-pitched screams of the voodoo
worshipers still in the alley, who cared not at
   all to have their wolf-god join them.
 Rage broke in Cindy like a bloody foam of
 waves. She ran her fingers in her hair and
shrieked. "Shut up," Monica bellowed. "Pull
            yourself together."
         "He's going to get killed!"
        "Ma'am, we'll get him back."
 "You were using him, you were treating my
   husband worse than I'd treat an animal.
You're vicious, inhuman monsters! I swear, if
he dies I will come back and I will kill you one
                   by one!"
The vet's mouth had dropped open. The word
 "husband" formed and died silently on his
   lips. Then a glance askance at Monica.
     Cindy roared on. "I know what you're
  thinking, you bastard. You're thinking I'm
crazy. You're hoping I am. But I am not crazy
 and I have a superb lawyer, and you and the
  city and the ASPCA are going to suffer for
this! Your career is over, buddy, dead and in
       the dirt. And as for this bunch of
 cigar-chomping weirdos—look at them, you
ought to be ashamed, for Chrissake—you talk
about cruelty to animals, my God, you oughta
              be closed down!"
Cindy's words flashed into a silence. Even the
dogs quieted down. The voodoo practitioners
 who had been in the windows were creeping
away. As for the vet, he had gone to attention.
   "Yes, ma'am," he said in a voice he had
probably learned during military days, "there
 have been irregularities. They'll be corrected
              at once, ma'am!"
 Cindy laughed, harsh and derisive. "I don't
care about your irregularities." Now her voice
  rose to a cutting quaver. "I want my Bob
      back, and I want him back alive!"
  "Bob? Is that the wolf's name, ma'am?"
  "Yes, of course it's his name. Bob Duke."
"He responds to the name Bob Duke?" The
vet's face was now impassive, very carefully
so. He definitely scented craziness, perhaps
even amusing craziness, but this lady was so
  mad he couldn't risk the smallest sign of
mirth. She was going to be complaining loud
and clear, and the voodoo ritual was going to
 be very difficult to explain to the board of
                  directors.
  For the first time Cindy saw the reporters,
  who had flowed out into the courtyard and
were now trying to scale the wall. Realizing it
 was hopeless, one astute camera team came
  thundering back through the pound itself,
 camcorders swinging. "Fan out," shrieked a
tiny man in a Hawaiian shirt, his face purple,
    the veins in his temples pulsing like fire
                      hoses.
   "Who are these people?" Cindy asked.
The vet brightened. He was looking forward
 to being on TV. WCBS and Channel 5 had
  already interviewed him. "The media—"
             "You're kidding!"
 "No, this is big news. I'm sure I can get them
  interested in talking to you, too. They don't
just want expert opinion. Human interest has
                  a place, too."
  Monica grabbed Cindy's arm. "Let's get
                 out."
 As they left the building police cars started
 roaring up, their sirens wailing, their lights
     jumping red against the dun girders
 supporting the elevated part of FDR Drive.
   Radios spattered codes, uniformed men
jumped from the cars and sprinted off down
  the street. A van disgorged a SWAT team
   decked in full body armor and carrying
12-gauge riot guns. "They'll kill him," Cindy
                   moaned.
"Come on, Cyn, let's find a cab. We've got to
get out of here. We need the media like a hole
                 in the head."
   Outside of the vicinity of the pound, the
 streets were gray and lonely. "What will he
                    eat?"
"He'll find what he can. Bob's a resourceful
                  man."
"Oh, he is not! He's about as resourceful as—
       as—" She stopped, considered. "A
 three-year-old would be more resourceful!"
   Her poor husband, he couldn't camp out,
 couldn't even hike without getting hopelessly
lost. Even around the house he was a disaster.
       "Last week he glued himself to the
  dishwasher with Krazy Glue trying to fix a
knob. When I found him, he'd been there for
 two hours. The phone was within easy reach
 the whole time. He knew where I was, but it
   never occurred to him to call me. Do you
think the man who did that can survive alone
on the streets with no money, with no clothes,
  with no hands, with no way even to talk to
                   people?"
"He'll hunt, he has the capacities of a wolf."
"Bob Duke will hunt. I've been hunting with
  him, so have you. He'll starve and he'll get
     wet and cold and confused and make
mistakes. Meanwhile every man, woman, and
 child with so much as an air rifle is going to
be hunting him!" She stared up and down the
 street. "Bob," she called, "Bob!" A camera
      crew began running toward them.
  "Uh-oh, we're recognized," Monica said.
          "Let's get a move on."
Just then the vet burst out of the pound, his
white coat flying. "Live at Five, Live at Five,
      they want us all on Live at Five!"
   A cab rolled around the corner. Monica
  waved at it even though it was occupied. "I
  am doctor," she hollered, "matter of life or
 death." The driver gunned the motor, a New
Yorker's seasoned instinct to get away, but he
lost the light and a line of cars coming off the
  FDR Drive prevented him from running it.
  As Monica and Cindy crowded in with the
surprised passenger the driver hit his steering
       wheel with the heel of his hand.
"Sorry," Monica said to the passenger, "gotta
 take a little detour. This woman is having a
  heart attack." The driver turned around.
         "Listen, bitch, I gotta fare."
   "This woman is dying. Now step on it."
   "I don't give a damn who's dying." He
  produced a baseball bat. "You get out of
                    here."
 "The hell we will. You don't do exactly as I
     say, I'll haul you up on charges."
  "Taxi commission, taxi commission, I've
heard that shit a thousand times. Lady, you
get out of this cab or I'll beat your goddamn
brains from here to Scarsdale, now move!"
It was obvious to Cindy that Monica couldn't
handle this. She took over. "We're not talking
   commission, gorp-face, we're talking five
 years in jail for uncooperative manslaughter.
  Five years, and you will serve that time! We
  will not stop, Mr. Czlywczi, until you are in
 jail and the key is thrown the hell away. You
see those cops over there? If you don't help us,
   I am going to scream, and when I scream,
those cops are coming over here, and they will
            see your baseball bat—"
He threw it out the window. It clanged on the
street and rolled into the gutter. "Step on it,"
                  Cindy said.
"I get out," blurted the passenger, a stunned
 Japanese businessman. He leaped from the
        cab just as the light changed.
"Kill the meter," Cindy commanded. "We'll
 make it worth your while. Monica, give the
man ten bucks. Take us to Mercer and West
                  Fourth."
The driver became happy now that he had the
ten. "God knows what'll happen to that Jap."
  He laughed. "From here he'll have to swim
  down to the UN Plaza if he doesn't want to
                  walk."
 For a time they rode in silence. The driver
 was studying Cindy through the rearview
mirror, his eyes twinkling. "Look, no offense,
but I want to know something. Do you ladies
always pull this routine? I mean, every time
        you want a cab? Or what?"
"Every time we want a cab," Cindy growled.
  "Jesus, I been hackin' twenty years and I
 never seen shit like that. I mean, you gotta
           admire shit like that!"
                "Step on it."
 As the cab pulled up to her building Cindy
 saw a crowd lurking around the entrance,
their silhouettes dark against the glow from
                   within.
 As they exited the cab a klieg burst on, and
  Cindy found herself confronting a bright
impenetrable wall. A familiar TV face came
 into view. A microphone was thrust at her.
"Dr. Wilcox at the ASPCA says Bob is one of
the largest wolves on record, and the largest
 ever held in captivity. Can you tell us where
              you got this wolf?"
    Cindy heard him, but she was totally
unprepared to answer. Her mouth was so dry
 it tasted like a cedar closet. She learned, in
 that moment, the true meaning of the term
   "tongue-tied." What could she say? The
 camera eye gleamed, moths fluttered in the
 hissing lights. Sweat beaded up through the
              reporter's makeup.
"Cut a minute, Jake. Look, Mrs. Duke, we're
going to find out one way or another. We're
       going to find out everything."
"My God, help me," a male voice screamed
off in the dark. Instinctively, Cindy whirled.
Flashbulbs popped, somebody scuttled off.
"Don't worry about that," the reporter said,
 "it's just the Post going for a reaction shot.
       You and Bob are their front page
                  tomorrow."
Cindy rocked back on her heels. Front page!
  All it meant to her was Bob's body, full of
bullet holes, being held up by a proud SWAT
 team. "How long have you had the wolf?"
"A day," she finally managed to answer. "We
 found him on the street. He was hungry and
 alone and he needed help. He's such a gentle
                 creature—
   "You found him on the street? Where?"
    What had she said before? Was it Fifth
  Avenue? She couldn't remember. She'd be
 vague. "Uptown. On a comer. He's so gentle
and sweet, so tame. I'm just terrified that—"
Her chest ached, her throat all but closed. She
 looked at the camera, and for an instant she
  was looking into a million faces. They were
  not hard faces, they were faces of ordinary
people, watching her blankly. Right now they
    were impassive, but at a word from the
   reporter they were all going to turn into
cavemen. "Please don't hurt him. Don't hurt
  my Bob." She could not go on. Before that
savage crowd she felt so weak, so helpless, all
 of her bravado collapsed and she buried her
   face in her hands and gave way to tears.
"This is Cynthia Duke, ladies and gentlemen,
the distraught owner of the giant savage wolf
that is now roaming the streets of New York.
   Again, police have urged that people stay
 indoors, that any and all suspicious-looking
 stray dogs be reported at once. Remember,
  this animal is fast moving, intelligent, and
savage. It has already seriously injured one of
  the Dukes' neighbors. You could be next.
        John Lye, Newswatch Five."
Monica dragged Cindy through the hectoring
crowd. Cameras were flashing, microphones
were being jammed into their faces, questions
were being shouted. The sheer energy of it all
 dulled Cindy, so when Lupe silently handed
  her an envelope in the elevator, she took it
        without even much curiosity.
She was still holding it when she put her key
 in the front door. No sooner had she done
  that than the door flew open and Kevin
    leaped into her arms. "It was on the
newsbreak, Mama. They're saying we had a
   dangerous wolf and it's on the loose."
  She groaned, hugging him to her. There
 might have been things she could say to her
 son that would comfort him, but she could
not think of them. It helped her to hold him,
and she trusted that it helped him to be held.
 They went arm in arm into the living room,
  Monica following behind. The television
 glared at Cindy, a sheer gray eye. "Turn it
               on," she said.
"Don't you think perhaps you'd better not?"
 "Turn it on, Monica, it's nearly eleven. We
      don't want to miss the news."
"Cyn, I'll tape it and you can look at it in the
                   morning."
    Cindy went over and turned it on. She sat
 down and crossed her legs, staring blindly at
  the last few minutes of Thirtysomething. The
envelope lay on her lap. She looked down. The
  return address was Weisel and Dobson. The
   landlords. She opened it. Legal papers. She
 read with quickening interest. "We regret to
 inform you that under paragraphs 14 and 23
    of your lease we are compelled to initiate
   summary eviction proceedings against you.
  We were willing to negotiate with you about
   the matter of nonpayment of rent, but this
    harboring of a dangerous animal in total
 disregard of the safety of your neighbors has
 led us to respond to the dozens of complaints
     we have received, and ask you to leave."
  "God, they're prompt. Monica, I'm being
               thrown out."
 "Give me that." She snatched it away from
Kevin, who had grabbed it from his mother.
He was white, his eyes following the paper as
  if it was a cobra ready to spit. Kevin had
  never known a home other than this. The
room where he had grown up was filled with
    his things, his books, his art, his stamp
 collection, his coin collection, his computer,
his very secret collection of girlie magazines.
       "I wish Dad would come home."
"This is outrageous. They can't do this. Why
       haven't you paid your rent?"
       "We're dead broke, Monica."
"You're kidding. I thought Bob was doing so
                   well."
"He hasn't made a dime in months. I thought
    you knew that. I assumed you did."
 "He never mentioned financial problems."
     "Well, he sure as hell had them."
  Monica regarded Cindy and Kevin with
 tenderness. "I don't have any big answers,
Cyn, but at least I can help you with money."
            "I don't like to ask."
 "No, that isn't your way. Bob married you
 because he was attracted to your strength."
"I'm too damn strong! I drive people away. I
 scare men to death." She did not add what
she thought, that she only scared the strong
       ones. The weak came to stay.
 "Don't worry about that now. I'm going to
 write you a check, Cindy. How much money
           do you actually have?"
  "What's in my wallet. Eight dollars, plus
   three Bob gave me yesterday. That's
      somewhere in the bedroom."
  "I have twelve dollars in my box," Kevin
                    said.
"But what assets? What can you draw on?"
"Nothing, unless you consider the furniture."
             "You're kidding."
Don't get defensive, Cindy cautioned herself.
 She's your good friend. "We don't have a
                  thing."
"I can lend you five thousand dollars, Cyn. I
          wish it could be more."
"I haven't seen that much money in months."
 Just then the news started. Cindy turned up
  the sound, and they all watched the story of
      the wolf unfold. It was the lead item,
  preceding the president's operation and the
  crash of a commuter plane on Long Island.
   There were terrible, lurid pictures of Bob
   glaring into the camera, his face lighted to
look menacing. To see him made Cindy groan
 aloud. What was it like to be that? What was
    the poor man thinking, what hell was he
                 going through?
     They talked about the "enormous, very
 dangerous animal." An "expert" named Dr.
      Bert Choate from the Fish and Game
Commission appeared and warned the public
       that while wolves were normally not
particularly dangerous to man, in an unusual
situation like this, "anything can happen." He
     leaned into the camera. "This animal is
  frightened and alone. It feels cornered. The
     first chance it gets, it will lash out. And
 believe me, I've seen what a wild animal can
  do. Its teeth are a razor-sharp weapon. And
   it's so skilled at using them, it can catch a
    floating hair out of the air and split it."
  Then came Cindy. The camera made her
coarse and heavy of face, her skin glue white,
 her eyes dark, sunken holes. She looked like
an inmate in a fluorescent nightmare. "How
  did they do that? John Lye looks great."
 "It's the lighting. They're trying to portray
           you as evil and callous."
 She was seen in her initial anger. When she
 said Bob was gentle, Lye smiled ironically.
Rather than show her weeping, they cut to a
shot of Bob standing on the examining table,
glaring at the camera with what Cindy knew
         was almost total confusion.
"The wolf lady says she found the animal on a
 street comer right here in Manhattan. Who
  knows where she actually got it? Given its
  tremendous size, experts at the Zoological
  Society theorize that it may be a wild wolf
           from the Soviet Union."
Then they went on to other stories. Cindy was
amazed. She had come across looking like an
 ogre, vicious, hateful, uncaring. She wanted
to throw something through the TV. If she'd
  been able to get her hands on Rivera, she
     would have turned him inside out.
Monica handed her the check. "Thanks," she
  said. She knew it would be gone tomorrow
 noon. Four thousand rent, five hundred to
her loudest creditors, five hundred for food to
 keep her and Kevin for the next few weeks.
 Rent or no rent, she'd probably get evicted
                   anyway.
 After the news Monica went home, pleading
  exhaustion. Soon Kevin nodded off on the
    couch. She tried to smooth his fists, to
somehow make the terror leave his exhausted
body. She kissed him. Now came the time she
had really been dreading. The apartment was
   empty and there was no one to help her.
 Her mind went to thoughts of Bob, out there
   alone, disfigured, confused, chased. "God
  make him come home." Her voice filled the
    room with brief, helpless sound. Seeing
 herself in the mirror, a slumped shadow, she
felt very small. She had been yelling at people,
   making demands, cursing, for hours and
     hours—in fact, ever since Bob had his
       problem. What good had it done?
She went into her bedroom and threw herself
 down on their bed. Her mind kept running
images of him hurrying along streets, him hit
 by a car, him shot. She saw that big, furry
  head, those eyes, and she thought she was
 going to be sick to her stomach. "Where is
          he? Bob, where are you!"
   She turned over on her back, stared at the
  ceiling. Obviously she had been too hard on
     him, making demands that he couldn't
  possibly meet. Bob was a poet. His business
ability was nil; he couldn't even remember to
 put bus fare in his pocket when he went out.
   Anybody could sell him anything. When he
was a broker he was always getting stuck with
 the customers the other brokers didn't want
 to bother with, the idiots, the dead-beats, the
 complainers. He would be ceaselessly patient
 with them, and was always ready to overlook
their faults. Naturally he didn't make a penny
  brokering. But he spent anyway. Bob didn't
  understand the concept of credit. He looked
  upon loans as presents from banks grateful
  for his custom. Checks were simply a means
   to an end, usually a means to getting rid of
    creditors for a few more days—until the
 checks bounced and it was time to write new
                      ones.
She turned on the light. There was a copy of
  Travel and Leisure at her bedside, and a
     library book she had been enjoying
enormously, Doris Grumbach's The Ladies.
 She stretched. "Oh, Bob." She did not miss
  him physically, although they were often
                  intimate.
 Love was more central to their relationship
  than sex. She seduced Bob whenever the
  mood struck her. It was always easy. She
            wanted to do it now.
 What a good talker he was. His wit was dry,
  sardonic, and he had brought a wonderful
deadpan humor from Texas. His lies could be
  completely convincing, and if you believed
 them, you were in peril of the surreal. Once
     he had made a brilliant case for eggs
 separating back out of brownies if they were
cooked too fast, and had gone so far as to slip
an egg into a pan of brownies she was baking.
  She had found it, perfectly poached, in the
middle of the pan and had told the story in all
seriousness for years. People were polite. They
 generally didn't comment, thinking that she
           was perhaps a little odd.
 She laughed aloud, remembering how many
times she'd told that story. Monica had finally
    stopped her and made her think. "It's
scientifically impossible, Cyn. The physics just
         aren't there. It can't happen."
  "But it did happen. I saw the egg—oh, my
            God, Bob, you creep!"
     Her heart raced when she heard gentle
tapping at the bedroom window. "Bob!" But
    no, it was not him, miraculously having
  climbed the six stories of sheer wall. A thin
 rain had started, and she watched it blowing
  in clouds around the streetlight. It was very
    late, and no cars passed. A man hurried
 along, the collar of his raincoat pulled up, a
hat down over his eyes. The night sky glowed
  pink, flaring from the city lights. When she
opened the window she felt a cold clamminess
in the air. Autum was definitely here, with its
                long, gray rains.
  If he had any sense at all, he would come
                   home.
Suddenly she thought again of being evicted.
 Even if she paid, they might get her on the
animal angle. Then where would Bob go? He
would have no way of finding her and Kevin.
  They might never see each other again.
 "Bob," she whispered, her word making a
      faint haze on the window glass.
  Then she saw him. He was trotting right up
   the sidewalk, his tail between his legs. He
 stopped, stared at the building, then hurried
  on. The fool! Didn't he recognize the place?
   She threw open the window. "Bob! Bob!"
     There was no time to waste. With what
     seemed the slowness of nightmare she
dragged on a pair of jeans, tore her nightshirt
from her body, and pulled on a sweater. Still
 in her slippers, she ran across the apartment
  and out the door. There was no time to wait
  for the elevator. Lupe was off duty and she
couldn't run it well. She'd spend five minutes
    just getting it to stop close enough to the
    lobby floor to enable the doors to open.
She rushed into the green, echoing fire stairs
with their perpetual faint tang of incinerator
smoke and took the steps three at a time. The
lobby was unattended at this hour, the front
door inaccessible from outside without a key.
 As she raced through it she hit her pocket,
  confirming the presence of the keychain.
        Good girl, you did that right.
 The street was as quiet and empty as a closet
in an abandoned house. She looked up, down,
  past the row of trees, beyond the swirling
     mist. The dank cold sank through her
    sweater. "Bob," she shouted. Her voice
echoed against the blank face of the high rise
   across the street, which responded with a
           faltering echo of her cry.
 Then she saw movement among the parked
cars at the far end of the block. She took off,
   running for all she was worth, her arms
flailing, her feet slapping the wet pavement.
 There was a thickening of shadow under a
BMW parked at the curb. She leaned down.
   When she did she jostled the car, and its
  antitheft siren promptly began to warble.
                   "Damn!"
The shadow under the car darted out into the
street. It slid across the pavement and halted.
    The creature stood on the far sidewalk
looking over its shoulder. Cindy held out her
 hands. "Honey, it's me." She could see him
 twitch his nose, and had the awful thought
that even his mind might have been dissolved
into the animal form. Maybe he was just and
only a wolf now, here in obedience to an urge
          he no longer understood.
 She went between the two cars, ignoring the
  outraged shouts coming from windows on
 both sides of the street. If people didn't like
car sirens, they could damn well get earplugs.
  Manhattan is the world car-siren capital.
  Moving slowly, her hands open before her,
   she progressed toward the wary animal,
 which backed off as she came closer. "Bob,
                    Bob ..."
It was a matted creature, wet and bedraggled,
       just like Bob would be. "Bob?"
  She was almost close enough to touch him
   now. He put his ears back. His eyes were
     teared pools, swimming with fear.
 For an instant her hand came into contact
 with his head. He crouched, drawing back,
baring his teeth. Then, with a flash of his tail,
         he turned and dashed off.
She started to run after him, but the rain was
getting harder and she was freezing cold, and
     she knew she could not catch him.
For a time she stood watching the dark. Then
the siren wound down and the street returned
 to its quiet. Had it been Bob, or just another
   stray? Unable even to hazard a guess, she
 turned and went home. She slept the worried
                sleep of the lost.
                 Chapter Twelve
 Bob had leaped across the scattering crowd
 into the alley. There came an animal shriek
when his fall broke against the back of one of
the spectators, the one with the gun. The man
never got the second shot he'd been trying for.
 Instead he threw his gun aside, bellowing in
  agony. Dark red trenches appeared in his
back where Bob had accidentally dragged his
          claws. The man crumpled.
Bob ran the other way, soon coming to a fence
  at the end of the alley, cinder blocks topped
by three feet of Cyclone. He raised himself up.
   Beyond were gardens, a pretty decorative
     landscape surrounding the lobby of an
 expensive apartment building. He climbed to
the top of the fence, carefully putting one paw
above the other, forcing himself to remember
to control his body. Along the ground it could
 go like a glider, but it was not structured for
                   acrobatics.
Behind him there was a loud cry of alarm. He
  saw two uniformed men sprinting toward
 him, heard their quick breathing, heard the
 clink and rustle as they withdrew their guns
             from their holsters.
Then they stopped. They were bracing to fire.
  One paw up, then another, then the first
  again. He reached the top of the fence.
 A click resounded in the silence. Bob knew
   that it was the hammer of a pistol being
cocked. Then another click, and another. Bob
scrabbled at the far side of the fence, seeking
purchase. A shot thundered, then more shots.
 Hot wind passed him. One of them brought
   searing heat to his thigh. With all of his
    strength he launched himself into the
darkness. He fell hard into a flower bed. The
cops behind him reached the wall and started
  scaling it. "We got 'im now," one of them
said. "That garden's not open to the street."
  Hearing that, Bob almost despaired. His
   impulse was to lie down, to curl his tail in
  against his body and close his eyes. Then he
 saw a glass door that led into the lobby. Bob
 ran to it—the damned thing pushed out, not
 in. A thud followed by the whoosh of breath
and a curse indicated that one of the cops was
already over the wall. Bob worked at the door
   with the claws of his right paw—claws, he
 noticed, that had a lot of blood on them. He
 had hurt that poor man in the alley terribly.
      "Holy shit, that thing is smart!"
Bob got the door open enough to slip through.
 He dashed across the slick marble floor, his
 claws ringing, then silent when he reached a
     huge Kerman rug. "Good heavens," a
    doorman in dark blue livery cried. "Oh
Lord." He grabbed a telephone as Bob rushed
    out into the street. He trotted down the
curved driveway, then broke into a run again,
 dashing toward First Avenue. He knew that
 Carl Shurz Park wasn't far away, but it was
    too small to hide him. His objective was
 Central Park. He could crawl down into the
   brushy part of the Ramble and hide, and
 nurse this throbbing thigh. He hoped that it
wasn't just adrenaline driving him, and that
      there was only a graze wound.
  Ahead of him another police car sped into
  view. It screeched to a halt at the corner of
   First. The doors flew open and five cops
    leaped out for all the world like clowns
   coming from a circus car. Deadly clowns,
though. He could see the somber gleam of the
          streetlights on their pistols.
 He was not a man of action. It took him time
 to figure out how to deal with situations like
   this. He kept trying to talk. Explanations
   clogged his mind. "Excuse me, I've had a
   slight accident. . . Pardon me, but I'm not
nearly as dangerous as I look. . . Ah, the police
  at last! Could you return me to my home?"
    To a listener, though, his most civilized,
reasonable words sounded like chilling snarls.
   A repertoire of barks, growls, whines, and
  howls was totally inadequate to the delicate
   clarifications his predicament demanded.
   And that last human vestige, the scream,
   didn't help a bit. It drove the ignorant to
   blind panic, and made even decent people
                      vicious.
The wolf, the traditional monster, was on the
 loose. To live through this. Bob was going to
     have to concentrate completely on the
situation at hand. He could not wonder at the
evil miracle that had afflicted him. Right now
  he had to put a line of cars between himself
and those police pistols. The cops would blow
   his heart out if they could, and mount his
   head on the wall of their precinct house.
 Behind him an entire SWAT team appeared
in the street, all running like maniacs, waving
    shotguns, tear-gas grenades and pistols.
Regular cops were closing off the intersection
  ahead. He'd have to rush somebody, and he
  chose the street cops. On them he smelled at
 least a little fear. The members of the SWAT
  team had an unpromisingly solid odor: sour
   beer, gunpowder, steel. They weren't even
                      nervous.
  For all his soul was worth, he ran. The air
 roared around him, his ears swept back, his
dewlaps parted, and wind rushed coldly past
  his tongue. It was exhilarating, it was like
flying— right into the barrels of five pistols.
Just then, though, there was an intervention:
 a stocky man burst out of a building ahead.
   He was carrying an aged 30-30 rifle and
wearing a blue bathrobe. His slippers plopped
as he ran, his glasses danced on his face. "He's
 mine," he screamed, "he's goddamn mine!"
 Bob passed right between the churning legs
  and the man went up into the air, his gun
describing the arc of a windmill. The man hit
  with a soft, painful crunch. Then the rifle
  struck the ground and went off, its report
 cracking the air, the bullet ricocheting off a
wall. "Goddammit, move your fat ass," one of
                the cops yelled.
 It was like flying, or being a ghost, and Bob
knew where all the flying dreams come from,
 those escapes of the night when we leap the
  houses and the fields: they come from the
       past, when we could truly run.
           "Move! Move! Move!"
 The cops were in trouble, their guns glaring
   straight into Bob's face, unable to shoot
    because of the civilian still floundering
 around behind him. He rushed the cops and
 this time his bark worked. It worked fine: it
 was a thunderous, primitive bark. As a wolf
      he was neither clumsy nor timid.
 Their faces folded and twisted, they turned
  away as if from something loathsome, they
    began to scramble back into their car.
Whining, one of them worked a back window,
slammed the door, pounded the lock with the
               heel of his hand.
  Bob jumped upon the sloping shoulders of
    another of them and launched himself
straight up like a rocket. Below him the man
slammed into the ground. Bob soared up and
   up, glimpsing into second-story windows
before he came crashing down onto the top of
           the car, denting it deeply.
 Another jump took him to the street behind
  the police car. He ran full speed down the
  middle of First Avenue. Traffic was heavy
   and slow, and he found he could keep up
easily. This body could run, could lope, could
   leap. He could not dislike it anymore, not
 after the past few minutes. He'd never been
much of a physical specimen, not before now.
This was quite wonderful! He had gotten past
     those cops beautifully. He was excited,
 elated—and then coughing, shocked by how
    strong the fumes of the cars smelled.
    At Ninetieth Street he made a turn and
     trotted up the dark sidewalk. He was
breathing harder, but despite his wound there
  was still plenty of run in him. He lolled his
  tongue and breathed across it fast, moving
the air and spreading delightful little tendrils
  of coolness through his entire body. This is
  panting, he thought. This is how it feels to
                      pant.
 Had he been able to laugh, he would have
 laughed with the wonder of this new body
and the exhilaration of his escape. All he did
 was toss his head and pull back his rather
  immobile lips. He did not make a sound.
A car slowed. Pale faces peered from behind
rising windows. Excitement sparkled in their
eyes, but when he met them they glazed with
 fear. The car sped off, its occupants silent,
  haunted. No doubt they would stop at the
    nearest phone to call in their sighting.
His excitement was fading. The thought of the
  whole mechanism of the city hunting him
   down was depressing in the extreme. He
 moved on, now slinking through fine mist.
 Stray dogs always seemed to huddle close to
  the buildings, and as he walked he felt the
 same vulnerability that they must. A moving
shadow startled him and he dove down under
the stoop of a grand old brownstone. Beyond
the kitchen window he saw a woman in a silk
   dress and a Kenneth hairstyle talking to a
  maid who carried a tray of canapes. From
 farther up in the house there came a spill of
 laughing talk. How Bob would have liked to
     be in there among them, drinking and
   snacking, ready to sit down to a beautiful
  dinner. Smells assaulted him. They were as
 powerful as actual blows, these explosions of
roasting duck and braising celery, of smooth,
  thick goose liver and saline, marine caviar.
  Also, he smelled wine, and the comfortable
   odors of bourbon and gin and whiskey, of
                     vodka.
 He leaned against the iron basement door,
moaning to himself, dreaming of a nice little
 glass of Stoly, frosty cold from the freezer,
freezing the throat and warming the heart.
  Then he would take a caviar canape like
 Communion, and when it was time for the
  duck, he would get a breast piquant with
sauce, covered with dark, crackling skin, and
he would wash it down with glass after glass
           of Chateau Latour '69.
There was a garbage can off in a dark comer
 of the understairs. It had a sticky, old-food
 odor. He went over, sniffed more carefully.
     There was bread in there among the
 rancidities, the old butter, the greasy gravy,
 the wet cigarette butts. He nosed the top of
the can. Stuck tight. He pushed again. Angry
 frustration made him whine. This was just
   hell, this whole thing, and being without
hands was a special hell! He stared at the can.
  Just like a hungry dog, he was drooling.
 He made a loud sound and was astonished at
 himself. The whine had built into a yap. If he
expected to survive much longer, he was going
 to have to get into control of his own noises.
 His stomach tormented him with muscular
  heaves. Was it eating itself? He trembled.
    Was this how dogs felt when they were
  hungry? If so, food was an awful lot more
  important to them than it was to humans.
 Dogs weren't slaves to men at all; they were
slaves to regular meals. There was really only
one choice: he was going to have to knock the
 garbage can over and hope the lid flew off.
   He shouldered it, which had an effect far
greater than he had intended. The can seemed
 to leap from the floor. It smashed against the
  door with a ringing crash and a fountain of
     garbage flowed out. Another thing Bob
needed to do was get used to his own strength.
   He had to find the measure of himself, but
    not now, not when he was standing amid
   coffee grounds, butts, rotten fruit, bread
  soaked in vinegar, soy sauce, and sour milk,
           and a bag of Almost Home
peanut-butter-chip cookies that had somehow
  gotten covered with what smelled like liquid
          Wisk. Was this to be dinner?
   Then he noticed the cold cuts. There were
slices of Hungarian salami with little spots of
   white mold on them: these he gobbled up,
  chewing slowly, letting the rich saltiness fill
 his muzzle, closing his eyes with delight. The
presence of the food in his mouth banished all
 reserve. Now he gobbled wet bread, tore into
   the cookies and damn the Wisk, ate some
   mushy grapes and a piece of fiercely hard
     Parmesan slopped in peach yogurt.
It was while he was breaking up the Parmesan
  with his powerful jaws that he noticed that
the lights had come on and the door was open.
The elegant woman stood there. "Oh, Mary, a
 goddamn dog has broken into the garbage."
 She stamped her foot. "Tell Jake to get down
   here and get it cleaned up. Honestly, I'm
   going to have to get a lock for that can."
Bob was backing away when he heard quick
 footsteps in the street behind him. He had
 lingered too long on this block. He should
  have run like a maniac the moment that
 carload of people recognized him. But the
food ... he was so hungry he wasn't thinking
                   straight.
The woman waved her hands at him, shouted
   "shoo, shoo!" A man in blue workclothes
came hurrying out of the house. "Jake, I want
  this cleaned up, and I want poison put out
                from now on."
              "Yes, ma'am."
   "This neighborhood is overrun. I don't
       know— what in the world?"
   Two cops were running up the street. The
homeowner shrank back into her kitchen. The
  cops stopped when they saw Bob, who was
 still at tempting a retreat to the sidewalk. He
    was trapped between the police and the
  woman. He did not like the feeling of being
 trapped, did not like it at all. A surge of raw
           terror coursed through him.
He turned away from the cops—into the sight
   of the iron understair door being pulled
  closed. Without even thinking about it, he
 dashed through that door into the hallway.
 The elegant woman cursed, Jake blurted an
automatic "Sorry, ma'am!" and the two cops
               came rushing in.
  "It's the wolf," one of them yelled. "Take
                    cover!"
  You would have thought he was a neutron
bomb with four legs and a tail. A glance back
revealed the woman, her eyes popping out of
her head, Jake cowering behind her, and the
 two cops, their own faces carnival masks of
                   horror.
If only he could talk! "This is all so silly," he
  would say. "I'm about the least offensive
person you could meet. Ten-year-old muggers
             practice on me."
At the top of the stairs was a butler's pantry.
He went through, hoping that he would find a
   hallway, but instead he walked into the
middle of the party. "I didn't know you had a
           dog," a woman shrilled.
        "I don't," the hostess bleated.
  The guns began to follow Bob as he leaped
 around the room, upended the coffee table,
 turned over a couch, caused an explosion of
         ashes out of the fireplace.
   Then he saw the street beyond the front
 window, silent and free. There was no time
even to consider. He ran for that window, his
  feet scrabbling maddeningly on the highly
    polished floor. Then he leaped, his tail
 whirling, his paws grabbing air, and sailed
out through a cascade of leaded glass. Behind
 him alarms started clanging. Shapes darted
 back and forth behind the broken window.
 Bob left it all behind, running as fast as he
 possibly could. For once the police made a
slight error; the backup teams came roaring
  around the corner from Madison. Had they
been smart, they would have gone down Fifth,
 knowing that they would head him off on his
               way to the park.
He might be able to run like the wind, but his
   thigh hurt when he did it. Without the
 anesthesia of desperation, the wound was
              getting painful.
  When he at last reached the park, it took
 almost all of his remaining strength to leap
  over the rock wall. He fell down the other
  side, landing with a soft thud in a mat of
      moist leaves, and another world.
 Suddenly there was silence, there were smells
 that seemed to penetrate instantly to the core
  of his soul, smells that he remembered from
   some childhood, perhaps his own, perhaps
   that of the wolf, or all childhood. His body
 urged him to burrow down into the redolent
 leaves, but his mind demanded more of him,
     that he get deeper into the park. He was
about at Ninety-second Street: travel due west
would soon bring him into the thickest part of
    the Ramble. He pulled himself to his feet,
yelping a little at the spikes of pain that came
               from his thigh.
  Movement in the park was much different
  from movement on the streets. It was a lot
better, a whole lot better. There seemed to be
a sort of electricity between his paws and the
 ground, and the air was tightly packed with
   odors that he could almost understand.
There came to him the weighted thought that
  we must have known the world from this
 perspective before Eden, before we climbed
  down from the trees. He tossed his head.
When he saw them, his heart leaped toward
the towers that shone on all four sides of the
park. He looked toward the rich far windows
of Central Park West and yearned as he had
 at Kissinger's party for the hiss of luxury.
  He was passing the baseball diamonds now
and turning in to the Ramble. As he moved he
 noticed one odor that stood out above all the
 others and gave him greater alarm than had
the police or even the pound employees. It was
  a musk, deep and tart. What did it mean?
  Here it rose from a bush, there it covered a
patch of browning leaves. He found the bones
of a bird and gnawed them, but they were too
  dry to be of any use. Deep in the Ramble,
  down in the dark where roots tangled like
 ropes of distressed muscle, he moved swiftly
    and silently along. He passed a derelict
sleeping under a bench. Then he smelled that
odd smell again, so strongly that it stopped his
  easy slithering through the undergrowth.
He crouched, very still. A cold understanding
crept into his mind: this smell was a warning.
    Other canines were not wanted here.
  Something had claimed the Ramble as its
                     own.
  He knew then that he was being observed,
  and from very close by. He had blundered
into the middle of a pack of some kind, and it
           did not want him here.
As if in response to his thought, they flooded
him with their smell, a straw-blood odor shot
  with urine and feces. It revolted him, and
their dark little eyes revolted him more. Two
 of them came prancing stiff-legged out of a
              blackberry thicket.
They bared razor teeth. The eyes with which
   they regarded him were astonishingly
 intelligent. One animal stared him down
  while the other glanced constantly about,
   keeping watch. Their ears moved with
 method back and forth. These wary beings
never ceased to test their environment, not for
                 one instant.
 They were the size of scrawny sheepdogs and
a lot thinner. Their heads were wide and their
   ears big and pointed, like giant cat ears.
  This was no motley pack of stray dogs. As
  more of them slipped into view Bob found
 himself stopped by awe and understanding.
  These were wild animals who made their
   living off New York City. They were the
legendary coydogs of New England, a strong
cross between the coyote and the dog, among
     the smartest animals nature has ever
                  produced.
They were notorious dog murderers. And they
 obviously did not like big, wheezy wolves too
 much either. They were wiry little monsters,
their faces sharp with hate and hunger. It was
 clear to Bob that they would kill him if they
   could. He could locate six of them in the
shadows around him. He noticed the bones of
a dog scattered about. It had not been a small
                     dog.
  He could sense movement all through the
 dark shrubbery, ahead, to the sides, behind.
  The only thing that prevented them from
  attacking him was the locked stare he was
giving the leader. If he broke the look first, he
        was going to be torn to pieces.
  Every whisper of fur against leaf, of paw in
 loam registered in Bob's ears. The breathing
    of the coydogs sounded like tiny pumps
 hissing. When he cocked his ears toward the
leader, he could hear his heart beating faster
and faster. And his scent was changing, rising
    to greater sharpness. He was a creature
  cocked, ready to dart like an arrow for the
  throat of the big, slow animal before him.
   There was a frisk of movement just at the
corner of Bob's eye, and a high-pitched squeal
as one of the coydogs snatched a bat from the
 air and gobbled it down, the wings fluttering
               against its chin.
For the edge of an instant, the leader glanced
 at his companion. It was enough: feeling as
clumsy and lethal as a tank, Bob ran at him.
 The little creature did not expect this. Bob
shouldered him aside and took off running as
   fast as he could toward the lights of the
             Transverse Parkway.
 As he ran one of them dropped down from a
tree, its claws spread, growling rage. Bob took
   it on his back and felt the hot touch of its
    claws before he managed to scrape it off
          against an overhanging limb.
Then he was at the reservoir and the coydogs
  were still with him, slipping dangerously
   along nearby. If only he understood this
situation, but he did not even begin to: if he
 had any wolfish instincts at all, they were a
  vague mental stubble. Bob was no more a
part of this secret wild than he was a part of
                 humankind.
  Thirst made his tongue feel like a wooden
 paddle. His nose was tight and he longed to
   dip his muzzle in clear, fresh water. His
 hunger made his insides seem like a hollow
shell. The feelings were astonishingly intense,
  much more than they had been before he
 changed. Even the various diets Cindy had
 tried out on him had not created burning,
         passionate hunger like this.
The coydogs attacked as swiftly and silently as
  Indians attacking a prairie schooner. One
 moment he was loping along, aware of their
odor around him but more or less minding his
 own business, the next moment he was in the
 middle of a dusty, snarling, snapping crowd
         of the vicious little killers.
One of them nipped his belly, and it hurt like
  a blast from a blowtorch. He screamed his
miserable, human scream and rolled, covered
with coydogs. A small one wailed as his weight
    compressed it, but the creature was like
  rubber, and it was digging its teeth into his
 neck before he even got to his feet. Dragging
five or six of them, he struggled on. If only he
 could get to the Transverse Parkway, surely
the cars would scare them off. A terrific flash
  of fire exploded in his breast. One of them
 was lodged just below his chin, his dewlap in
its mouth. It shook its head, furiously tearing
              the meat of his neck.
 He went to his foreknees, biting air, flailing
  and kicking. Now the one on his belly bit
down. The heat of it made him scream again.
 He gnawed the ground, he knew that death
   had come to him: they were tearing him
apart. He was big but he had no idea how to
fight them. Involuntarily, he tried to use fists
         that weren't there anymore.
        A few minutes ago he had been
congratulating himself on his newfound wolf
  prowess. Now where was he—being eaten
 alive by a pack of really skilled killers. They
gnawed, they tore, he snapped and thrashed.
Soon one of them was going to open an artery
 or disembowel him. Then this odd traverse
    would end, here in the night and dirt.
They melted away, disappearing like dreams
            in morning light.
    He stopped growling, stopped his futile
snapping, stopped his kicking. Then he heard
    the rhythmic thudding of human feet.
     Shakily, he stood up. He was near the
reservoir/Through the bushes was the jogging
 track. A man and a woman came pounding
  past, Walkmen on their heads, their bodies
    pouring off odors of sweat and various
 perfumes. Bob had never been so glad to see
   anybody in his life. Gleefully, he followed
     along behind them. The coydog odor
        dwindled and soon was gone.
  South of the reservoir Bob adopted a long
lope. Obviously he couldn't hide in the park.
 As soon as the joggers disappeared around
the far curve of the track, the coydogs would
                   be back.
  Bob had decided to go home. If the media
wasn't too crazy, maybe he would have some
  chance. There was no place for him in this
world, not as a wolf without instincts, or as a
   man without the form of a man. Home,
   though, was different. Cindy and Kevin
  would care for him and love him, and give
 him what comforts they could. Of course, if
 the press was whipping up real hysteria, the
apartment could turn out to be a death trap.
He reached the Park Drive and hurried south,
 his various wounds all demanding attention
  even as his tough new body kept at its job.
    The creature he had become was a real
  survivor, it appeared able to stand a great
  deal of punishment. But it had an end, he
       knew that. The beast would fail.
 He was down an awfully lonely crack in the
world. If he had to die, let it happen at home,
              in Cindy's arms.
Before he reached the zoo, he moved out onto
    Fifth Avenue. Zoos were dangerous.
 He huddled along the streets, keeping to the
 shadows cast by parked cars. Seen from his
new angle the city was a very different place,
  menacing, darkly looming, fast and full of
surprises. Dogs on these roaring comers must
        be grateful for their leashes.
 Because it is a street devoted to business and
   not well tenanted at night, he chose to go
south along Madison Avenue. As swiftly as he
   could manage he went through midtown,
scrabbling under cars twice as patrols passed.
The second police car had four men in it, and
  a rack of hunting rifles. He had never seen
     rifles in a police car. The only logical
conclusion was that they were a special detail
                 assigned to him.
 It was a strange thing indeed not to feel that
the law was backing your right to live. He had
                   no rights.
He kept on, reaching the end of Madison and
proceeding south on Park. He finally got into
           his own neighborhood.
Just as he was turning onto Fourth Street, he
  was spotted. A pretty girl of about eighteen
with a shaggy green punk hairdo put her fists
 to her cheeks and screamed like a thing gone
    mad when she saw him slide across the
sidewalk. "The wolf, the wolf," she cried, and
                the cry spread.
He rushed along, his tail down, his head low.
Maybe he ought to just let them catch them.
 The prospect of home kept him going. His
mind fixed on that one, single, true place. His
 place, the place of Robert Duke. He wasn't
 much of a provider, not much of a success,
     but there was love there for him.
  He rounded a familiar corner. Even the
  graffiti was familiar, that and the black
 plastic bags neatly stacked for tomorrow's
garbage pickup, the line of five ginkgo trees,
 the ironwork in front of his own building
with the newspaper machines chained to it.
  He looked up. His windows were lighted.
 Lupe would be off by now. Maybe he could
 break down the glass door and get into the
 lobby, somehow punch the buzzer, somehow
 call the elevator. Or, Cindy might come out.
   Once, twice he paced the block. He'd hide
              under a car until—
   He saw her. His soul, his blood, yearned
   toward that silhouette in the sixth-floor
 window. She stiffened, leaned forward. He
cocked his ears. Just barely, he could hear her
saying something. But the window was closed
    and he could not make out the words.
 Then the silhouette disappeared. Bob moved
away from the building and crouched under a
                     car.
It was from that vantage point that he saw the
   headlines on the Post. It was a red-banner
               extra, and it said:
     KILLER WOLF STALKS CITY
     POLICE WARN: IT'S A FREAK
 What he could read of the story described
him as a giant, marauding wolf so dangerous
       that he was to be shot on sight.
It sickened his heart. This was just the sort of
  thing he had feared. He wasn't going to be
 safe anywhere in this city, not even at home.
        Perhaps especially not there.
 Then Cindy appeared, hobbling along in a
   single slipper, her hair a mess, her robe
flapping in the wind. "Bob," she called. Her
               voice was music.
 Sadly, he remained hidden. When he could,
  he slipped away from her, moving quickly
             under parked cars.
She called and called, her voice echoing in the
   street. Her tone agonized him. She was
suffering so terribly. He wished he could take
 her in his arms and kiss her, and bring her
          some measure of comfort.
 He hadn't really thought of where he would
go. His only destination was away from here.
 Cindy's cries grew long with despair. They
followed him down the streets, catching him,
  driving him deep into sorrow. He'd been a
 fool to try this, to subject them both to this
 anguish. He made his way west through the
 intricate and hidden streets of the Village.
  It was a long time before he lost her in the
 silent streets. Then he was as far west as you
can go, standing on a ruined pier. Before him
 was the black, muttering Hudson, wide and
               swift and cold.
                 Chapter Thirteen
  She'd been looking out the front window,
 watching the grim, blowing mist when she
 saw his shadow dart out from under a car.
 For an instant their eyes met and her heart
     thrilled. "Bob," she said, "Bob!"
She ran down to the sidewalk in her robe and
  slippers, but when she arrived he wasn't
 there. She also saw the Post in its machine,
   was drawn to its cruel, lurid headline.
Her hands shaking so badly she could barely
 manage to put the coins in the slot, Cindy
             bought a copy.
    She stood there, stunned, staring at the
 picture of Bob. Blown up to cover half of the
 front page, even his wolf face communicated
the gentleness of his soul. This was despite the
 fact that an airbrush had been used to make
    his teeth look larger and sharper and to
         heighten the gleam in his eyes.
She knew him well enough to see how lost and
 sad he was. Slowly, reading the story, she sat
 down on the curb. When she turned to page
 two, she stifled a scream. Her skin prickled.
 There was a photograph of her stepping out
 of a cab, her face pinched, her eyes glaring.
  WOLF LADY TERRIFIES CITY said the
  headline above the picture. Below it was a
 garbled version of her lie about finding Bob
   on a street corner. She was portrayed as
  unwilling to meet the police and the press
          halfway. She was pilloried.
The silent buildings seemed to frown down on
her. People do not like to be frightened. They
distrust the wild, and she had unleashed it in
 their midst. "God help us," she whispered.
 Then she thought she saw a flash of Bob in
 the distance. Her paper under her arm, she
set off after the shadow. But by the time she
reached the comer he was gone again. "Bob!
Bob!" There was no answer, no movement in
                the silent street.
A nobility of love possessed her. "I'm going to
                  find you!"
She looked up at the blowing, cold sky, at the
  low, pregnant clouds. "What did you do to
him! Answer me! God, you answer me! I know
  you're there, you can't hide anymore, not
  after what you've done. Answer me, damn
 you! Don't you dare keep silent, you haven't
 got the right!" She broke down completely,
right out in the middle of the empty sidewalk,
weeping bitterly, her paper fluttering down, a
  crowd of white bat pages around her feet.
   "God, don't turn out to be a creep. I will
    sacrifice my life if you will change him
                     back."
 She hurried off after him, calling his name
  again and again, seeking him through the
streets. Once or twice she glimpsed a shadow.
                 That was all.
She did not notice that a car had stopped near
  the sidewalk, nor that a big, expressionless
  man had gotten out. He put his hand on her
 shoulder. She looked up, startled, into a face
that was very disturbing. There was a red scar
   running up his tan, hollow cheek. His lips
 were cruel, his eyes tiny and black and thick
with sin. Slowly, sensuously, his hand came up
    her cheek, tickling her, and something
 sparked in the black eyes. "May I help you?"
                    he asked.
 She turned away from him, wishing she was
    closer to home. She could imagine his
 mayhem, the ripping, the snarls: this was a
                violent man.
  "You're the wolf lady," he continued, his
voice soft. "I know you from the TV. I've been
 looking for you. I can give you some help."
  His words seemed to penetrate as if from a
     great distance, words of fate and solace
coming from this huge, horrible creature. She
had expected rape in the small hours. Instead
   a weighty, careful finger slipped along the
   line of her tears, and she saw that the eyes
   were not cruel at all, or at least not all the
 time. For a moment they became merry, and
 he was a great benevolent elf. Then what she
        now recognized as an expression of
     fundamental anger returned. "I am Joe
   Running Fox," he said. "I know a little bit
about the old ways." He glanced again at her,
     as if willing her to accept him. When he
  continued, his voice had acquired a tone of
   pornography. "There was once something
  called shape-shifting, that medicine people
    could do. A long time ago. They lost their
   power when we were thrown out of our
                 land."
 "Are you going to hurt me?" How little she
         sounded, a whining girl.
Tired air rattled through old lungs. He closed
 his eyes. "I'm an ugly cuss but I never hurt
   nobody. I have some medicine in me, the
   old-time kind. You get where I'm coming
from?" She did not. He had conjured images
  of Lydia Pinkham's and Castoria. "Indian
             medicine," he added.
  She looked him up and down. "You're an
                 Indian?"
  "A medicine Indian. Power. It's what you
     need, power to lead your heart to
             understanding."
   In an instant her fears, her suspicions
evaporated. A shock brought her snapping to
           her feet. "You know."
He nodded. "I have a pretty good idea, hawk
      woman. Is he your husband?"
 She wrung her hands in frantic eagerness.
   "You know, you know all about it!"
 "So I'm right. Your husband is the one who
shifted out." He stood up. "We need to talk."
     She glanced around. "My place—"
"No, a place where I am comfortable. A bar.
  Do you mind an Indian bar? Drunken
                savages?"
 "My son is asleep in our apartment. I've got
                to get back."
              "Is he wolf clan?"
                   "What?"
 "Is he like his father, especially attracted to
                    wolves?"
   "No, I don't think so. He likes Kafka."
"Oh, Kafka. Everything in Kafka happened
 to the Indians before Kafka was born." He
 looked up at the sky. "I ought to meet your
son. I will find out what kind of child he is."
      He took her home, his bar proposal
    apparently amended by the presence of
    Kevin. Cindy let him into the building,
  thinking to herself, You fool. His back was
extraordinarily wide, covered by a threadbare
   and not particularly clean charcoal knit
sports jacket, the sort of thing one might get
   at the Salvation Army. He was wearing
ancient, cracked army boots and baggy khaki
                    pants.
 She recognized that she was absolutely crazy
     to be letting this man in her house.
     And yet there was something stolid and
  earth-bound about him. He seemed too old,
too wide, and too decrepit to be of any danger
  to anybody. Then you looked at his eyes and
    there was a sense of spreading wings, of
   sunlight in the midnight hour. Those eyes
 were wonderful with love, reflecting back the
light that entered them, at once menacing and
gentle. She could still feel the delicate touch of
      his huge sausage finger on her cheek.
His presence was overbearing in the elevator,
    his odor a mix of beer and beans and
 thoroughly ripened sweat. There was also,
 though, something sweet—quite fresh and
pleasant—that brought to mind new flowers.
  Standing beside her, silent, staring at the
elevator door, he gave no sign of what might
         be happening in his mind.
 They got off together and Cindy opened the
  door of the apartment. How did it feel to be
forced? Would he make it hurt? Would it last
    a long time? Fear had strengthened her
 senses. She felt with great acuity the coolness
 of the key in her hand, listened fascinated at
   the rasp of the lock, inhaled the familiar
     home scents that blew out through the
                  opening door.
He stood shyly in the foyer, his hands folded
over his broad waist, his eyes down. "Come
             on in. Sit down."
 "No. I have to get something from the place.
     Let me walk around." He stared at her.
   Seeing that she did not dissent, he began a
slow, rocking progress, his brow wrinkled, his
    lips pursed. He crossed and recrossed the
  living room, circled the dining table, moved
through the kitchen. Then he proceeded down
    the hall to the bedrooms. Occasionally he
     made a guttural sound. He passed thrice
       around her bed, then lay down on it,
 dropping so hard it all but went through into
the Steins' apartment below. After a moment
 he sat up. "Lots of love here," he said. When
 he smiled, she saw that his teeth were rotted
                  to stumps.
Then, with a grunted sigh, he got up and went
 to Kevin's room. Cindy followed him avidly.
   She was now convinced that she had been
insane to do this. He might hurt her little boy.
    He was someone off the New York City
 streets; she didn't even know his name. "Owl
             boy," he said absently.
   He returned to the living room. "Hawk
 woman, owl boy, wolf man. And wolf man
  has been stolen." He ground out a laugh,
 dropping down to the couch. "You think I
  don't know what I'm doing—it happened
 over there." He pointed straight to the spot
 where Bob had changed. "That's where he
           entered the wolf clan."
  She was astonished, excited. He was either
 very clever or schooled in disciplines hidden
    to her own eyes. "What do you mean,
                  'entered'?"
 "The wolf clan is dying. They are calling all
  the ones whose spirits will help them. The
 people who have a special affinity for them.
   The Wolf People. Do you understand?"
                     "No."
"Everybody implies a certain kind of animal.
 Each human soul contains a little dust from
          some other species."
       "We're descended from apes."
   "It's much more complicated than that.
 Remember the philosopher Whitehead? He
stressed that there is no 'nature.' Only details.
Millions upon millions of details. Concentrate
  on any one, or any group, and your whole
 reality changes to support your new focus of
                  attention."
"I thought you were an Indian. What in the
 world does Whitehead have to do with it?
What about Black Elk or somebody like that?
           Chief Dan George?"
  "We get what we can where we can. Injun
Joe's been a beggar for a while now. I'm from
         a culture that went under."
  This was leading nowhere. "What do you
                  want?"
    "I want to help you understand what
  happened to your husband. From my own
understanding, from the cultural tradition I
  represent, I might have a few answers."
  He was beginning to annoy her. "So, I'm
                waiting."
          "You're very impatient."
 "I don't think you know what you're doing.
   You made a lucky guess but now you're
  ad-libbing. You probably aren't even an
                  Indian."
       "I'm a full-blooded Mohican."
   That answer chilled her. She had been
taunting him for more information; she had
   not believed that he was an imposter.
        "The last of the Mohicans?"
He gave her a long look. "The last one around
   here. I was a Mohawk, but what the hell,
    there's a family tradition that we were
    Mohicans until the Mohawks stole my
  great-grandfather eight times removed. So
  why not? Let old James Fenimore Cooper
 turn over in his grave if he wants to, I don't
          give too much of a damn."
    Once again he had surprised her. You
thought you had captured the measure of this
  man, only to discover a moment later that
  your conclusions were still wrong, but in a
                  new way.
   "I could use a beer, if you've got any."
Her mind went to Bob, Bud in hand, reading
a novel in Sunday-afternoon sunlight. "Help
             me get him back."
         "Why don't you join him?"
 "Don't be ridiculous!" The way the Indian
 looked at her made her furious. "I have a
              child to raise!"
      The Indian laughed. "Him too."
"I want help, not this superstitious nonsense!
 People don't just turn into animals. That's
     ridiculous, it doesn't. . . happen."
His eyes were twinkling. "Have it your way,
white eyes. But I'd like to keep talking about
 reality for a second, if you don't mind."
She closed her eyes. He went on: "I was trying
  to tell you about the fact that the animal
kingdom is dying, and because it is dying, it is
  beginning to take heroic measures to save
  itself. That's why the spirit of the wolves
beguiled your husband. The animal kingdom
          is after the mind of man."
        "I want my husband back!"
He leaned forward, clasped his hands between
    his knees. "So, follow him. You're his
                   squaw."
                  "Crap!"
"Well, I don't mean it in a demeaning way. It
would take great courage to follow him. He is
a hero. You would be a heroine if you did it."
It was time for a family conference. She went
 in and woke Kevin up. He was flushed with
sleep, his hair tangled, his smooth skin warm
and sweet. "I don't know what he is," she told
him, "but he's saying things that make a kind
 of bass-ackwards sense. He thinks we should
               try to find Dad."
Kevin regarded him down the shadows of the
 hall. "He looks like an old drunk, Mom."
 "Well, he's most definitely that. But he also
  knew the truth about Dad, from the very
 first. He has the idea that the wolves are in
    such desperate trouble that they sort of
  seduced Dad into becoming one of them in
order to gain the power of the human mind."
Her son's hand came into her own. "I wonder
what the truth is about Prometheus," Kevin
said. "What did he steal, to make the gods so
          mad? Was it only fire?"
           "Wasn't that enough?"
  "My guess is that he stole their inner fire.
Their godliness. That's the point of the myth.
 And the wolves want to steal our inner fire,
              our humanity."
                "Is that bad?"
   "Mother, the animals are beautiful."
  Squaring his shoulders, he went into the
               living room.
The Indian got to his feet. "You are a young
           brave. I salute you!"
               "Hey, Mom—"
 "Let it go. Just listen to what he has to say."
  Catching a glimpse of herself in the dark
  window, she saw the sharpness of her face,
that angular, questing shadow that seemed to
 fight her beauty, but was in fact its center.
           Her psyche had claws:
 she remembered last night, waiting in the
middle of the bed for Bob, waiting like a wolf
 in the secret dark, to devour him with her
           demands. Wolf woman.
"You know the old idea of types? In the West,
  it used to be thought that there were seven
   types of personality. There are more than
    seven types! A type for every beast in the
   animal kingdom. We are reflections of the
  whole of reality. Among us there are shrew
 types, porcupine types, owl types, frog types,
 lion and zebra types, eagle types. On and on.
    Often people change types when they get
   dogs. That's why old people and their old
  dogs look alike. A bulldog owner becomes a
   bulldog type. You have to understand the
universe as it really is. A hall of mirrors, and
    we are the mirrors. I hate to sound like a
 broken record, but I would be able to do this
       better if I had a beer in my hand."
 He was and wasn't a fraud. She got him a
Bud. They'd been out. When had she bought
 more? She didn't remember doing it. But
  there were also three new Lean Cuisines in
the freezer, some apples and grapefruit in the
 fridge, and another half gallon of Tropicana
    Premium OJ. She'd done the shopping
     automatically, sometime in the black
               struggling hours.
           "Can you dance, boy?"
                "I can waltz."
  "That isn't dancing. What's dancing is what
 attracts spirits. Ghost dancing." He began to
shake, leaning from foot to foot. "You have to
   jiggle your insides so your soul jiggles. The
spirits hear that and they get curious. They're
 like fish that way, coming up when you jiggle
the bait. Only be careful, because your soul is
                    the bait."
 Kevin started the same movement. The man
 began to chant, "eaah, eaah, eaah eaah." He
 repeated the simple rhythm, his eyes closed.
Then he had a little packet in his hands, made
 up of fur and bones and bits of skin. "Wolf
medicine," he said. "Very powerful. Medicine
           of the Thunder Wolf."
For fifteen minutes they danced. Occasionally
     the man went around in a little circle,
hopping and chanting. Once he whooped. He
took a small rattle from his pocket and shook
  it. He handed the wolf medicine to Kevin,
       took it back, handed it over again.
Finally he stopped and took a long pull on his
  beer. "They aren't coming," he said. "My
 magic's not powerful enough. I could hear
          them laughing, though."
                  "Who?"
 "The wolf clan. They're very happy. I don't
  want to upset you, but it looks to me like
        they've got him for good."
 A rocket blasted into the center of her gut
and exploded with phosphorus fire. "Nobody
  got him for good! He's mine, do you hear
that! He is mine and I am going to have him
 back. My God, Bob was one of the gentlest,
most humane people I've ever known. He was
  this boy's father. He's ours. I'll curse the
  whole species of wolf unless they give him
                 back to me."
   "Stealing's never a good idea, I guess."
 "Get out of here, you old idiot! You're like
 some quack with a fake cancer cure. And if
you tell the papers that the wolf is really Bob,
I will come after you and personally kill you,
     and believe me, I will do it slowly."
 He smiled, the whole bottom half of his face
 cracking open in a paroxysm of black pits,
gnarled stumps, and yellow teeth. "What will
      you use, the claw or the tooth?"
 Shaking like a disturbed longleg spider, she
    guided him to the door. "Get out."
     "Thanks for the swallow of beer."
  She slammed the door behind him. Kevin
came and put his arm around her waist. That
   felt awfully good. Now if only Bob was
        standing on her other side . . .
"I'm going to find your father and bring him
   home and turn him back into a man."
                "Yes, Mom."
             "You'll help me?"
          "Mom, of course I will."
 She told him how close she had been to him
earlier. "He's been hurt, he's all scruffy. The
last I saw of him, he was heading for the far
                West Village."
     They made bacon and eggs and coffee
 together, and opened the fresh orange juice.
Sitting at the kitchen table, in the thin light of
dawn, they laid plans, gardens and castles and
clouds of plans, to go down the labyrinth that
  had claimed husband and father, and lead
           him back to his humanity.
                 Chapter Fourteen
  The streets of new york are allegedly never
  quiet, but they were certainly quiet tonight.
   An occasional siren wailed, mist billowed,
shadows moved behind windows. After seeing
 the Post extra Bob understood why: this city
 of seven million lethal human creatures was
   stifled with fear. The beast of apocalypse
   prowled its streets. Ancient terrors were
             invoked. All was quiet.
   To Bob, slinking along hurt and cold and
  famished, it seemed absurd. In his present
  mood he would gladly have let a child kill
  him. Smelling Cindy so close had been too
keen a sorrow. He could bear no more of this.
   As he paced the banks of the Hudson, he
contemplated jumping from one of the ruined
    piers and bringing this whole bizarre
            experience to an end.
 The city around him could not have seemed
  more oppressive or unfriendly. He had ho
way of explaining himself, not even in his own
  mind. His only thought was that ours is an
 age at the far limit of time, and it is at limits
and extremes that the impossible can happen.
  Or maybe the mysterious fifth force that
 physicists speculate about had something to
      do with it. Maybe it was a disease,
          psychological or otherwise.
  He stood looking down at the waters. They
 were black and smelled of creosote. Lapping
and sighing beneath the pier, the river surged
  in its course. Far out, a magnificent yacht
  moved in stately passage, its portholes all
alight, the sound of its engines coming faintly
                  on the wind.
 Bob inhaled, almost believing that he could
   still smell Cindy's special odor. People's
  smells were as distinctive as their faces or
 fingerprints. Were there two smells exactly
alike? He suspected not. They hung in layers
in the streets of the city, millions of them. He
had just noticed this, and was beginning to be
           able to tell them apart.
  He looked down at the water again. How
 would it feel to die in that murk? Would he
  struggle, or just go to sleep? It might be a
    painful death, indeed, like the death of
 smothering. Once when he was ten, another
 boy had smothered him in a plastic shower
   cap, a large, vicious boy. To this day he
      remembered the gnawing agony.
And the water was cold. He did not know how
  this miserable body might react to that.
  Normally he shunned even slightly cool
 swimming pools. Cold showers, cold days,
  snow sports were all abhorrent to him.
He could see things floating in the water, big,
   amorphous things, like great masses of
sewage. Doubtless that's what they were. So
  he would not only drown in the river, he
          would drown in sewage.
His ears back, his tail down, in his anguish he
             snapped at the air.
  He smelled Cindy again, this time much
stronger, as if she was somewhere nearby. It
   was the perfume of her spirit, this, or the
trembling scent of memory. Until he had been
       blocked by this new body from his
 relationship with her, he had not understood
just how much a part of him she had become.
 Then he heard a noise, a tapping on the pier.
 Figures approached, moving silently side by
    side, by their smells a man and a heavily
 scented person, probably a woman. She was
   so powdered and perfumed that her real
smell was almost obscured. There was a faint
   underlying odor of pus and scabs. He was
     fresher, the scent of healthy sweat, the
remains of deodorant put on many hours ago,
 a touch of Afta still clinging to his face. The
   blue odor of oiled metal was chief among
  those he noticed coming from the woman's
purse. He knew she had a pistol hidden there.
   There was a quick round of bargaining
between them, obviously further to an earlier
               conversation.
         "This ain't exactly a hotel."
    "You're gettin' off easy, ten bucks."
         "It's cold. I wanna do five."
       Her voice, exhausted. "Seven."
They came closer, the prostitute and the john.
Bob stayed absolutely still, embarrassed and
  ashamed to be witness to their humble and
private business. Closing his eyes did nothing
 to shut them out: he smelled them, he heard
  them. The woman was kneeling before the
  man, the man leaning against a piling, his
         fingers working in her hair.
In a merciful few minutes it was over. There
was a stink of hot bodies. The woman made a
rustling movement. "Take off your clothes,"
 she said in a low voice. The gun was in her
                    hand.
 She tossed everything into the Hudson—the
 underpants, the socks, the shoes, the cheap
                    suit.
               "Please, lady."
   She opened the wallet. "Eighty fuckin'
 bucks," she said in a new, harder voice. No
  wonder all the powder: she was a man. "I
          oughta blow you away."
The transvestite turned and marched off the
pier, leaving his john cowering naked. "What
 am I gonna do?" he moaned. After a short
   time, he also hurried back toward the
 darkness of West Street, a pale flash in the
                   night.
To Bob that poor man seemed the luckiest of
creatures, normally formed, his body the key
  to the whole list of human freedoms and
                   powers.
The wild was not freedom at all; the wild was
     a terrible bondage. Man was free.
He remembered the wolf in the zoo. That had
       been the message in his eyes.
 Was that wolf like me, a lost man? Was he
 warning me with his eyes, or cajoling me?
His eyes had been so beautiful. Too bad being
            a wolf was such hell.
 He could escape, of course. All he had to do
 was let himself fall, then take a single, deep
    breath after the water enclosed him.
Before he jumped, there was one thing he had
    to do, if only to satisfy himself that his
  situation was indeed hopeless. Many years
 before he had been interested in meditation.
TM had been popular when he was in college,
 and he had tried it. He had met a girl who
was involved in the Ecstatic movement within
the Catholic Church, and he had gotten high
            on repetitive prayer.
They had joined together, Bob and Lorelei, on
  the Way of Flesh and Prayer—their own
     name for their Catholicized sexual
    freedom—and had learned secrets of
meditation known, if at all, to a few adepts of
              the Kama Sutra.
 Bob wondered if he could still sense his body
in the old way. Could he perhaps re-create his
human body by creating a vivid enough image
              of it in his mind?
   With all the will he could bring to it, he
  concentrated on turning his left rear paw
  back into a foot. He visualized a foot—his
own foot—just as he remembered it, complete
 with the scar from his bunion operation and
   the ingrown second toenail he had been
 meaning to show to Al West, his podiatrist.
Nothing happened, nothing at all. He kept on
trying, raising the paw off the ground in the
  intensity of his effort. Nothing seemed to
 happen, but when he put the paw down, he
  was amazed and shocked to feel ordinary
  human toes and heel. He looked back, and
there in the shadows was a pale, naked man's
         foot attached to his wolf leg.
Pure excitement made his blood rush so hard
  he started to faint. The foot felt a little like
rubber, a lot like gelatin, and it seemed as if a
 lessening of attention might make it dissolve
once again into a paw. The moment he shifted
 his attention to his upper leg, the foot indeed
began to disintegrate. There was no sensation,
   but his contact with the ground began to
change. Then he returned his concentration to
     the foot. At once it was human again.
 But it wouldn't stay like that, not without a
Zen master's ability to concentrate on it and
keep it human. A very real force was urging
his cells into the wolf shape. When he fought
    it, he could feel it resisting, striving to
           recapture the shifted part.
 Then he learned another thing: By keeping
some attention on his foot and extending it up
his leg, he could transform the leg as well, and
  include it in the new fortress of his human
      being. He labored, striving to fix the
  quicksilver of concentration, until he was a
  human torso with a wolf's chest, shoulder,
   and head. There was war inside him. His
   organs battled the confusion of juices. He
vomited and the wolf body regained the torso
     for a moment. Then he recaptured his
attention from his pain and dragged it up his
midriff. It slipped, concentrating suddenly on
what he wanted most, which was hands. They
popped out of his paws, new and slightly wet,
knuckles closed against the ground. Then the
wolf tail slipped out again. He fought it down,
 felt the fur of it tickling against his buttocks
               as it was absorbed.
 Now, holding in awareness all of his human
   parts, he made a great effort to draw his
attention up both forelegs and then across his
  chest and neck. With a rush as of swirling
snow his whole sense of smell disappeared. He
was shocked to realize how dependent on it he
had become. For a moment, shaking his head,
           he thought he was blind.
Then he saw a flush of color, the crystal world
 that human eyes see. He was lying, wet and
 new on the dirty slabs of the pier. He raised
                 himself up.
 Shaking, he stood slowly to full height, and
felt the sharp airs of night on naked skin. He
clapped his hands, he swooped and swirled.
He had to be careful, though. The wolf itched
 just beneath the surface of him, waiting to
pop out the moment he stopped concentrating
                on his shape.
He remembered a paraphrase of the physicist
Richard Feynman, that reality is plastic, that
it is essentially dependent upon the observer.
  Speaking of whom, he found himself lit by
headlights, which proceeded slowly down the
 rattling pier toward him. He began to back
 up, momentarily terrified. But why? He was
   human again. He was safe. Smiling with
relief, he ran forward toward the car. "Hey, I
                  need help."
 A light bar flashed: it was a police car. "You
   couple of fuckers," a voice said, drawling
easily. "Come aaannn." Two young policemen
emerged from the car. Sitting in the back was
 the dim figure of the man the prostitute had
mugged. "What is this, a new thrill?" one of
             them asked.
 "I don't think I—" He stopped. The moment
    his attention had gone into the effort of
speaking, the wolf had leaped up inside, ready
                  to surge out.
 "You guys stay at home. We don't want any
    funny business out on these piers."
                   "I—I—"
   "Get in the goddamn car. We're runnin'
youse in. Two creatures start a naked trip out
here, pretty soon all the creatures are doing it,
am I right?" The officer made a move toward
 Bob. A strong hand connected with his arm.
     Bob jumped away: where the cop had
  touched grew a tuft of fur. "Oh, come on,"
 the cop said in a bored tone. "We'll beat you
   up if you make this a pain in the ass." He
                grabbed again.
Bob still felt loose and unreal, like a jelly. He
  skittered away, dragging a paw on his left
arm, then with a dry hiss a whole left foreleg.
When he tried to bring back his arm, it would
                    not come.
 "Halt, you're under arrest," one of the cops
  shouted. The other came at Bob, his arms
  outstretched. Bob backed up, warding off
 those awful hands with his one human fist.
He saw the misty sky and heard a rush of air
  around him. Then he hit the water with a
whooshing splash. Cold, stinking river water
 poured down his throat, making him choke.
  Choking, he sank deeper and deeper, until
there was no sound but the pulsing of distant
  marine engines. Something big and clingy
wrapped around his midriff. He struggled to
  release himself from it, arching his back,
          clawing, trying to paddle.
His attention was shattered, and he knew that
the wolf would win if he didn't regain it. The
  wolf leaped, struggled, twisted. There was
 nausea and the seething of skin. He fought:
 foot not paw, flesh not fur, and then he felt
the eerie swinging of the tail. The pressure of
   the water was slaughtering his ears. He
concentrated his whole attention into a single
  dot of consciousness. And he knew he had
won: down in the depths of the river, he was
 human again. There came the pounding of
  blood, shock after shock, the hammer of
 suffocation. He had to breathe. The agony
 was amazing, total, all-involving, far worse
        than what he had imagined.
He felt his flesh popping like sausage skin, felt
    the emergence of the reborn thing as it
  climbed out of him and became him. Each
quake of his heart brought a flash to his eyes.
 In a moment he was going to take in a heave
      of water, cough, and commence the
        unmanaged panic of his dying.
   Cold water rushed past his face. He drew
 back his lips, felt his mouth opening, felt his
 every muscle straining, his legs churning, his
lungs expanding to whistling, airless balloons,
 then a gust of water blasted down his throat.
He gagged, his body contorting to a knot, then
   he coughed it out, expelling it through his
   nose, helplessly breathing again—but this
           time it was cold, dank air.
     His head had broken water. Again he
breathed, choked, coughed, gagged, breathed,
  fought the waves, raised his nose high, and
swam along, sweeping the water aside with his
             four powerful legs.
  He was an amazing distance away from the
pier, and his nose took in the myriad scents of
 the watery world, the fish, the creosote from
all the rotting timbers, the sewage and trash,
    the skim of oil on the water's surface.
 He cocked his ears toward the pier. The two
cops were standing there calling, playing their
    flashlight on the near waters. They were
  looking for a blubbering human swimmer,
 though, not the sleek creature who watched
                      them.
     He was a wolf again, thoroughly and
   completely. His concentration had been
   shattered at just the wrong moment. He
screamed out his rage, but this time even that
 vestige of his humanity was gone. It seemed
 that his return to the wolf form had worked
more perfectly than the first transformation.
 He was now smoothly wolf: an animal howl
      echoed across the Hudson waters.
  Dog-paddling steadily, he turned himself
around and around, seeking the closest shore.
 But there was no close shore. He was being
  taken by the tidal current, and taken fast.
 Manhattan was already farther away than
    Jersey. He could see the lights of cars
   emerging from the Holland Tunnel. Far
   upriver the George Washington Bridge
   glimmered. A tug sounded its mournful
   drone. The mist sometimes obscured the
riverbanks, making it even harder for him to
               orient himself.
  He had lost sight of the police on the shore.
Manhattan was now an anonymous grandeur
  of lights, coldly self-centered, indifferent to
   the mere animal that was going to drown
      before its glow. Dog-paddling was an
 exhausting way to swim, but if he stopped he
sank. He kept his muzzle just above the water,
  held his ears back to keep the cold out, and
dug at the water with his tiring legs. The cold
 made him ache, the pain distracted him, the
 spinning lights on the shores made him fear
        that he was swimming in circles.
It would have been easy to just stop paddling,
 but there could be no question of that now.
His experience of drowning had cured him of
any desire to do so; the closeness of death had
   ignited in him a hunger for more life. He
worked furiously in body and mind, trying to
          find some way to survive.
He had entered that state beyond exhaustion,
 where the flesh is supported only by will. It is
a condition of rapture that seems while it lasts
  that it might go on forever. It doesn't. The
end is always complete and total collapse. Bob
   swam on. There were lights ahead, but he
 could not tell if they were a ship at anchor or
                the Jersey shore.
   Then he heard a bell ring loudly and he
  understood that one of the lights must be a
 buoy, and perhaps quite near. He cocked his
  ears—water ran down inside, roaring and
   causing these fine wolf ears excruciating
                     pain.
There was a flash of white noise in his head.
  His chest constricted, he gagged. Dimly he
     realized that he was now completely
   submerged, still paddling but no longer
powerfully enough to keep himself afloat. He
remembered a morning long ago, fishing for
 perch at the John 0. Fishing Camp with his
 father, looking down into the green water,
  wondering that there were creatures who
needed it as we need air. He remembered the
   flopping struggle of the caught fish, the
    astonishment in their golden flat eyes.
Then he surfaced, heard the bell, and knew he
 was soon going to stop swimming. No matter
   how hard he tried, his legs were slowing
 down. For relief he let his back legs stop and
  churned with his forelegs, just keeping his
               nose in the air.
    The bell rang again, a clear, sharp peal.
Before and above him he saw a flashing green
 light, and he heard the river sloshing against
  the buoy. He flailed with his paws, touched
the bouncing thing. Its sides were smooth, but
  there was a superstructure that housed the
   bell. Conceivably he could lodge his front
         paws up in there and hang on.
He tried to grasp the side of the buoy but his
  claws scratched helplessly. For hands this
 would be simple. He tried to concentrate, to
picture a hand where his paw now scrabbled,
 a hand with its flexible fingers, its reach, its
                    power.
 No change occurred. It was as if his earlier
 efforts had drained a battery. Change now
  seemed completely impossible. He was as
  much a wolf as he had been a man. He
snorted, yapped, tried to hug the buoy with
 both paws. The buoy was rusty above the
waterline, and he dragged slowly down until
he reached the algae that clung to the base,
whereupon he slipped and splashed off into
                 the water.
   Excited, snapping, frantic, he came to the
     surface and tried again. This time his
  forepaws held. He scrambled with his rear
 paws, trying for at least a little purchase in
      the goop that adhered to the buoy's
  underwater surfaces. Again he kicked, and
again failed, and came slowly down the side.
Then one claw caught what was probably the
 rough edge of a weld. For an instant he was
poised, unmoving. He could feel his forepaws
beginning to slip. Another inch and he would
    topple backward into the water. Slowly,
carefully, he began to straighten the rear leg
 that was holding. First a bare quarter of an
   inch, then another quarter, he slid up the
buoy. It was working, definitely. Higher and
   higher he slid, stretching at last to his full
    length. He felt the edge of the cage that
     enclosed the bell. Then he was falling,
   twisting, splashing, turning beneath the
 waves. He came up fast, slamming his head
against the bottom of the buoy so hard he saw
  a pink flare behind his eyes and was for a
               moment stunned.
 •Then he made his way out from under and
 surfaced again. His swimming was slow. He
 might as well have been wearing saddlebags
   filled with lead. If only he could shed this
  soggy fur, if only he could rest just for five
 minutes. He could actually hear cars on the
shore, horns honking at the tunnel entrance,
the sigh of the roads, even a radio playing on
    the bank, entertainment for some lonely
                   fisherman.
 He wanted life, his blood hungered for it, his
   breath sped through his lungs for it, he
yearned toward the shore. He did not think he
   could make it. There were now just two
  choices, either he could try the buoy a last
  time, or he could attempt another fifteen
minutes in the water. If he failed at either, he
                   was dead.
The buoy rang again, its sound deafening and
yet also peaceful, reminding him of a church
at dawn, of the flat seascapes of the world. He
 smelled coffee and hot dogs. The fisherman
             had opened a snack.
Desperate now, Bob struck for the shore. The
buoy was useless to him. Every few moments
 he would find himself underwater. It would
    take a burst of energy to get him to the
 surface, and every time he did that he was a
bit less able. Soon he was spending more time
below the surface than above it. His ears were
 roaring, his muscles were frantic, he wasn't
               getting enough air.
  Then the water was suddenly very cold and
  the lights were whirling again. He was in a
 powerful current. He relaxed, realizing that
 this was the end. The lights, which had been
no more than a few hundred feet away, began
 to get smaller. He sloshed with listless paws,
  waiting for his body to give up its struggle.
 The water caressed him. He closed his eyes.
 As soon as he sank he found himself rolling
against rocks. Rocks! They couldn't be more
than five feet below the surface. He paddled
  again, reached the surface, flopped and
splashed, looking for a place shallow enough
to stand. But he was rushing along so fast he
  couldn't even begin to get purchase. The
rocks tantalized him, sweeping by just below
            the tips of his paws.
 Then he came to something quite solid. The
   current literally shoved him against it. He
found himself clambering over cutting stones,
       clambering and swaying. He stood,
 astonished, his head hanging, too weak even
   to look up. Then he toppled to his side, his
  legs still weakly paddling, but they paddled
        air, for he had come up on a rocky
             promontory of the shore.
"Oh Lord, who—" Bob heard the voice of the
  fisherman, smelled his food, his coffee. His
     impulse was to run, but he was beyond
 anything so draining. All he could do was lie
 on his side just where he was, and stare with
one open eye up into the dank gray-red sky of
                  fog and mist.
 "You is a dog. Lord, you done swum out of
   the Hudson, ain't you? Lord, Lord."
 He took off his own coat, the fisherman, and
rough-dried Bob's freezing, soaking fur. Then
 he stroked his head. "All I got is the end of a
wiener," he said. "Ain't much food for a big
   dog like you, but it ain't air either."
 Then there was meat at his lips, meat and
 bread and tangy hot mustard. Even a little
 kraut. Bob gulped down the food. His eyes
 closed. The fisherman threw an old, dank
               tarp over him.
 Soon there was a slight warming of his body,
   which was an infinite comfort. At once he
slept, and he dreamed that he had come to the
reefs of heaven, and found there an old black
 man with a hot-dog end and a rotting square
     of canvas, who was an angel of God.
                 Part Three
                Country Life
 The country has been amputated, its soul
          is bigger than its place.
The country has perfect mist, morning light
       that reconstructs what is true.
The country is where you go to find what you
                     lost,
          and find what lost you.
   —Robert Duke, "Country Life" (1989)
                Chapter Fifteen
    The morning sun heated the canvas tarp.
When Bob awoke, it was from a nightmare of
   the gas chamber at the pound. His fur was
steaming, his body sanded with pain. It was as
 if every muscle had been wound with barbed
wire. His stomach was tight and sour. He was
     ravenous. In his mouth there lingered a
       maddening temptation of hot dog.
  He got up, shaking the canvas off his back.
  All around him were dank, twisted rocks.
Beyond rose a cliff of the lower palisades, tall
and complicated. He moved forward, sniffing
 the crisp air. Everywhere there was the sour
 sweetness he was coming to recognize as the
 ground odor of human bodies. Above it was
   the stink of the river, the nostalgic rot of
    autumn leaves, warm asphalt, faint car
  exhausts, and a musty odor of animals, no
doubt the rats that lived along the riverbanks.
   His stomach knocked and a film of drool
              covered his tongue.
 He was damned if he was going to eat a raw
   rat. And yet he found himself imagining a
lovely steak tartare, the way they would serve
it at the Palm, one of his favorite restaurants.
It had been a long time since he could afford
             lunch at the Palm.
Would he get rabies from eating a rat? Well,
that was nothing to worry about. He would
never eat anything alive. He was going to be
      the first noncarnivorous wolf.
   His real desires were for a cup of coffee
     ground at home from Jamaica Blue
 Mountain beans, some flaky croissants from
  Patisserie Lanciani, and a nice stupefying
Sunday morning with the Times and WBAI's
      Music of a Sunday Morning in the
background. Add to that some fresh-squeezed
  orange juice from the Korean market on
  Bleecker, and perhaps—just to be bad—a
          couple of slices of bacon.
  Even so, the rats smelled kind of good. He
couldn't see them, of course, but he knew they
 were there, and he sensed that every rat eye
  was on the monster that had intruded on
                their domain.
 Maybe there were delis with salad bars here
   in Jersey. He could burst in and start
 gobbling down the kappa maki, the endive,
  and the olivata. He'd be shooed away, of
 course, but what the hell. Hit three or four
           delis and he'd be full.
 There was movement before him, back near
 where the old road passed under the cliff's
 face. He cocked his ears and was rewarded
  with a richly detailed scuttle of noises: the
chugging of rat breath, the silver rustle of rat
 paws on stone, the swallowed whines of rat
                     fear.
 They knew what he could not yet admit, that
 in the end he would hunt them, that among
 them there was one who soon would die. He
 drew deep, exploratory breaths, hoping that
the fisherman had left some bits behind. Even
 one of the greasy, tumor-ridden Hudson fish
 would be preferable to a rat. For God's sake,
   rats were nothing more than reprocessed
                   garbage.
His body's motives were not those of his mind.
  His body simply wanted to eat. It was also
efficient And it was working on the problem.
While he worried, it had targeted a hole that
 was full of rats. His ears said that they were
seething there, uneasy, noses pointing toward
 him. When he moved forward, there was a
             tensing. He stopped;
Soon the tension died down. He found that his
  tail had lifted, and he felt some sparkle in
 himself, a glee as sharp as glass. He pranced
forth on the hunt—and saw not just one hole
  but a dozen explode with fast gray shapes.
   They skittered about, their tails swirling
  behind them, their little voices shrilling. It
 was a dance of dread, and he suddenly knew
            the source of all dance.
His body twisted, skidded, turned, and leaped.
  Then there appeared in his sight a long rat
  crusted with offal, its teeth yellow, one eye
    filmed gray. His nose smelled the saline
  freshness of its blood, sensed the heat of its
 body, and he tasted in his muzzle the minute
 hurricane of its breath, which reeked of wet
 cigarette ends, pigeon droppings, and bugs.
His muzzle was a quick weapon. Once he had
 the rat in his vision he was able to follow it
with the dexterity of a radar guidance system.
   A flush of wet filled his mouth. His belly
 churned, becoming blazing hot. This was a
 stomach far more powerful than its human
counterpart. As he matched the rat's staccato
march he noted fierce acid fumes rising from
his own throat. Probably his stomach could
       digest damn near anything.
  There came a moment when the rat's neck
would be just where he needed it. He reached
   down, snapped, and drew the scrabbling,
screaming creature into the air. It had heft, it
    was no small rat. When it tried to turn
  around and bite him, he cracked the whip
 with its body. As if turned off by the will of
God, it went limp. He had killed it as easily as
  that. It fell from his jaws with a wet thud.
    Now all the other rats, who had become
 indifferent as soon as they realized they had
   not been singled out, took a new interest.
  There would soon be carrion to scavenge.
  Bob sniffed at the thing. Up close he could
     smell so many different varieties of
 unpleasantness that he was unable to count
 them all. The worst, perhaps, was a distinct
   odor of benzine. The rat also had a scaly
  growth on the side of its head, that looked
  almost like the plates of a lizard's brow. A
                bizarre cancer.
   His humanity told him not to touch this
    diseased thing. His wolfhood wanted to
gobble it up and have done with it. He pushed
 it with his nose. The surviving rats gathered
  eagerly around, waiting for him to finish.
He wanted to get out of here. But the dead rat
   kept him lingering. Without hands, how
   would he skin it? How could he bear the
crunch of the bones? His stomach was molten
iron. Without any conscious decision at all, he
   gave the rat's soft underfur a smart nip.
His jaw seemed to go off like a cocked pistol.
Entirely without his conscious participation,
 he had ripped the rat down the middle. Its
blood flowed out, steamy and quick, causing
   eager scurrying to break out among the
 others. They followed their brother's blood
down the cracks and commenced drinking at
   once, their little lapping filling the still,
                 expectant air.
  He recoiled at the sight of the slick, purple
guts spilling over the stones. How could he be
    doing this? A thrill of fascination went
 through him— this curiously automatic and
    quite skilled behavior must come from
   instinct. Becoming a good wolf was like
       learning a musical instrument.
   In this case, though, success would mean
 actually eating the ghastly mess on the rocks
  in front of him, something he did not at all
   want to do. The smell of it, so intense and
 bloody and alive, made him step back. Then,
 quite suddenly, one of the rats dashed in and
  grabbed some offal. That made him growl
 and lunge forward, and before he could stop
 himself, the warm meat was going down his
 throat. He felt it on his tongue, fur and skin
 and muscle, little rat bones, he tasted it and
the taste was absolute meat. Then it was gone,
       the whole damn rat, even the tail.
  He stood there, his head lolling, his mouth
open. The revulsion that crawled through his
  body made him turn up his lips and snarl.
 When he exhaled, he smelled essence of rat,
the freshness of the meat as well as the hollow
rot of the filthy fur and whatever horrors had
               been in the stomach.
 He gagged. But he did not bring up what he
 had eaten. On the contrary, it was perfectly
    acceptable to his stomach, which was
          comfortably digesting it.
  Good God. He had done something truly
    unspeakable and yet lived. He was so
 sensitive, such a careful eater. As a child he
 had been amenable only to hamburgers and
carrots. Over the years his repertoire of foods
had expanded, but slowly. Not until he moved
to New York had he acquired a taste for real
  exotica. Now he relished everything from
             snails to raw abalone.
A great, low booming distracted him from his
  thoughts. He looked out at the river, and
there was the QE2 flanked by tugs, her white
 superstructure shining in the morning sun.
   His heart almost stopped to see her and
behind her the jeweled towers, Manhattan in
 a splendor of glass and spires. He could see
people on the decks of the Queen, a man in a
  blue blazer with white trousers, a woman
 beside him wearing a hat, her mink shining
darkly. She raised one hand and held her hat
              against the wind.
   For him it was a bitter sight. The comer of
  life he had entered was a place of adventure
 in the deepest sense of the word, where every
step was a step into the unknown, where all of
his human intelligence and his animal instinct
 would be required to see him along the way.
 His muzzle raised itself to the blue sky and he
  made a long, high tone he found quite fine.
 He did it again, this time adding a tremble at
the end by relaxing his throat. Again he did it,
  throwing all of his feelings into the note, his
loneliness, his despair, his disgust. These were
 the feelings that he put into it, but something
very different came out. He heard in his howl
   the voice of a deeper freedom than he had
ever imagined, and the sky seemed more blue,
and the smells of autumn more poignant, and
    the booming of the liner more grand. He
stopped, excited, his tail waving. The wild was
    in him, the very wild, the unchained, the
  innocent, the terrible wild. He knew it from
 the farthest reach of his human heart, it was
      the old, old truth come forth in him,
   resurrection, Eucharist, a new world being
                      born.
 He realized with the force of cold water on
 morning skin that he was feeling a primitive
   emotion that was essentially and totally
  human. The ancient human wildness had
   reemerged in him, cohabitant with the
          wildness of the wolf.
To have been human at the beginning of the
 species must have been like this. His first
 impulse was to run and tell people, to tell
  anybody he could find, that the wild is
              waiting for us.
 Obeying both sense and instinct, he trotted
 off up the road, seeking a way to the top of
the palisade. Somewhere out there across the
    human land lay the forest, constricted
  perhaps, but still the forest. He wanted to
   race this body against the closure of the
suburbs, to seek the quick eye and the savage
 tooth. As it mingled with his own blood the
 blood of the rat taught him the morality of
 the carnivore. Every act is a poem, sniffing
  the scent-touched leaf, disemboweling the
                     faun.
  He was filled with so much energy that it
seemed almost like magic. The rat had been
just the good food his body had wanted. His
  instincts had been right. His tail high, his
 head thrust smartly forward, he moved up
and up, making his way among the stones. It
was easy to keep to the path: all he had to do
was follow the scent of men and fish. This was
   where they came down, this collection of
 crevices and rough-hewn stones. Here was a
 Welch's grape drink bottle, there a Trident
gum wrapper. And over it all was the smell of
 fish and the smell of men, many men, some
  young and sharp and fresh, others old and
           covered in sodden wool.
  When he reached the top of the palisade, he
found himself in a park he hadn't even known
    existed, a dramatic park overlooking the
    Statue of Liberty and the harbor. People
 stood at the edge of the balustrade just above
     him, some of them leaning into ten-cent
  binoculars and looking at the Queen, which
had reached the center of the harbor and was
  just dispensing with its tugs. Farther east a
   Staten Island Ferry left its slip. It was rush
    hour, and a traffic helicopter sped up the
Hudson, a green and white bug spewing noise.
He looked over this great vista and picked out
  his old neighborhood. He couldn't see their
  building, but he could just see the top of the
               structure that hid it.
    He blinked his eyes. His vision was not as
 good as he would have liked. The colors were
    muted, the details obscure. But when he
cocked his ears, he heard a wonder of sounds.
The world's noise was no longer an aural fog.
  Rather he now heard all the detail of it, the
     pulsing deep in the Queen's engines, the
    excited voices of the people on her decks,
someone hammering in the scaffolding on the
Statue of Liberty, somebody else scraping, the
 engines of the ferry and the splashing of her
thick bow, the suspiration of wind around the
  towers of the World Trade Center, the click
    of a sea gull's wings, and the hiss of fish
             rushing in the harbor.
He was a generous man, and at that moment
his heart burst with one wish, that all human
beings everywhere could just for one instant
experience the old world in this new way. He
  had not known it was like this, had never
 dreamed what a difference really powerful
senses could make. Human eyes were strong,
 but not so strong as wolf ears, nor nearly so
       discriminating as a wolf's nose.
  A smell startled him, the familiar odor of
 human fear. When he realized where it was
 coming from, his heart almost stopped. One
   of the ten-cent binoculars was pointing
directly at him. Two froglike eyes swam in the
dark lenses. For an instant he captured them
               with his own eyes.
 He saw deep into them, into the empty soul
 behind them. He could push, he could twist,
              he could alter!
He could make her into a wolf with his eyes!
But the pupils dilated and then drew back. He
 saw a pale mask of a face peer past the shiny
aluminum housing of the binoculars. The face
 was rapt, closed, the lips tight, the eyebrows
knitted. Bob was in too awkward a position to
    cringe, to cower to this young mask of a
    woman in her vaguely red sweater and
   wind-rushing skirt. If only he could make
   people see him as the inoffensive being he
                      was.
 Behind him was the tumbling palisade. He
 dared not go down, because he knew there
  was no escape down there. Unless he was
willing to try another swim, that was nothing
     but a trap. Too bad he couldn't fly.
The young woman had darted away from her
    binoculars without uttering a word. He
    struggled up the final thirty yards and
  scrambled over the balustrade. Here was a
   cobbled esplanade backed by a road, and
beyond it a stand of trees. There were perhaps
   a dozen people on the esplanade, some of
   them sitting on benches, others strolling,
 others at the binoculars. Simultaneous with
 his appearance, there came a cry across the
 quiet scene. The young woman shouted in a
 clear, stem tone, her smooth hands cupped
   around her soft lips: "It's the wolf! The
                    wolf!"
   The whole scene froze. People stopped
 walking. Those on the benches turned their
 heads. A man rose up from behind a pair of
  binoculars and began to hurry across the
 esplanade, his shoes clicking in the silence.
 There was nothing to do but race across the
 pavement. He ran as fast as he could. This
particular movement aggravated last night's
thigh injury, sending hooks of pain deep into
  his leg. But he was still fast. He shot along
  close to the pavement, his nose down, the
  cobblestones speeding past. It was only a
moment before he was in the trees and racing
between their thick-grown branches toward
          the far end of the park.
 Then he was through the park and finding
shelter in some reeds. A police car screamed
                    past.
 Ahead was the invincible barrier of the New
Jersey Turnpike, eight lanes of certain death.
  He trotted along, trying to see a way across.
  But there was no way across. The turnpike
  stretched for miles. From his vantage point
   low to the ground he could not see a single
   break in its featureless expanse. He had to
  cross, and at once. He'd never seen so much
traffic, never realized just how fast cars could
 go, never understood the barrier of the road.
    Not far away lay the stinking body of an
    opossum, skinless, torn, its jaw gone. The
 school bus, his dog screaming, the shotgun in
              the gentle afternoon.
  There was hardly even a median here. He
  would have to find a lull on this side and
 cross, then jump the divider and huddle on
 the other side until another lull. Only then
 could he manage the four southbound lanes.
  He'd come dozens of times along this route,
  dozens and dozens of times, never thinking
  how totally devoted it was to human needs,
     how indifferent to the needs of other
 creatures. Had they bothered to build a few
low tunnels under it, the opossum need not be
         dead, nor the wolf trapped.
  He stepped onto the shoulder of the road.
  Cars roared past. Then he encountered a
terrible and unexpected phenomenon. One of
   them swerved onto the shoulder, aiming
    directly at him. He could see the driver
 hunched over his wheel, a young man with a
green smile. Beside him another man had just
 raised his head and was beginning to laugh.
  Bob leaped back, catching a blast of hot
exhaust fumes and the angry wail of a horn.
 They hated his freedom, or perhaps it was
their own helplessness that made them do it.
Crushed, oppressed, miserable men—killing
 something granted them power. That they
could take life pushed back the fear that they
       themselves had lost their value.
A hole appeared in the traffic. He darted out
 into the road, one lane, two. Then he felt the
  pavement trembling like a hot pan. Bearing
 down on him was a huge thirty-two-wheeler,
       its grille a wall of steel. Its driver sat
 impassive over his wheel. Bob was transfixed
by the face, the slow, steady chewing, the plug
         of tobacco bulging in the jaw, the
aerodynamic sunglasses. Beside him a woman
   smoothed her hair with her hands, looking
 down, a smile on her face of almost ineffable
  purity, her lips slightly parted, the sunlight
shining on her fresh skin. Then the truck was
upon him. There was no escape. He crouched,
  pressing his body against the pavement as it
    screamed over him, blasting off down the
road, its slipstream almost lifting him into the
   air. Behind it a Buick was coming up fast.
      Seeing him, the driver swerved away.
 Bob wasn't hit, but he had lost the lane he
  had gained. Another space between cars,
 perhaps three seconds to a VW Sirocco. He
dashed forward, his tail slapping against the
car as it passed him. The impact sent a shock
 wave through his body that made him yelp.
 Then he was at the median, crouching flat
  along it as the traffic billowed by in both
directions. He raised himself, leaning against
the steel fence that separated the lanes, found
 purchase, and drew himself to the foot-wide
           space between the beams.
 He was tempted to trust luck and just dash
   out into the traffic on the far side of the
median. He felt trapped here, and the rushing
 of the cars confused his eyes. It was easy for
him to observe details up close, or to follow a
      single, moving object against a still
     background, but this was just a blur.
Under these circumstances his nose and ears
were useless. To function in the world of man
 requires a sharpness of eye most other land
  animals do not possess. This place was as
  dangerous as poison to a creature such as
himself. Even his instincts fought him. Being
  trapped here was like being cornered. He
wanted to lash out at the cars, to run wildly.
 He fought himself, begging the wolf to listen
to the man this time. Standing where he was,
 he could see another opening in the traffic,
  this one also in front of a big truck. They
tended to be slower than cars. Ahead of them
    the road was often clear. Behind them,
  though, there would be a glut of traffic.
  The wolf did not listen to him. He was just
tensing himself to jump when he popped off
the median like a spring. It was too early. He
 landed in front of a van, which tried to miss
him. Desperate, he rolled. The van passed as
hot wind. Now he felt nothing. He was on his
back against the concrete base of the median.
There was no more than an inch between him
  and the tires of the cars. He couldn't even
   turn over without risking his paws being
                   smashed.
 He was a creature at war with himself. The
   instinctual part was not in touch with the
  intellectual. It seemed unaware even of the
existence of reason. Out here in the middle of
the turnpike, though, either reason was going
to win or instinct was going to get him killed.
 Thanks to instinct he was lying on his back,
   his tail curled over his stomach, his paws
clenched against his body. He could no longer
     see the cars. Now he had to go by the
 vibrations of the road and the sound of the
  traffic. The trouble was that there was so
  much noise that his ears didn't work right.
What would in a human ear have been an ebb
and flow of sound as each vehicle passed was
      to his wolf ear a continuous roar.
 Because there was no other way to deal with
 the situation, he finally did the only thing he
could and rolled over. Cars were whipping by
so close he could feel heat pulsing up from the
 road. He managed to get to his feet. Leaning
    against the barrier, he waited. The cars
continued. Twice people swerved toward him,
 but they missed because they were afraid of
             scraping the barrier.
    Then an ancient van came rattling along,
  much slower than the rest of the traffic. Its
   lights were on, it hung askew on its frame,
and it was being driven by an old woman who
looked as if she was dressed in handkerchiefs.
  She slammed on her brakes. He would have
    gone to her but he simply could not trust
  human beings. Probably she stopped out of
 kindness, but it might be out of fear, because
    she realized that he was the terrible wolf.
  Maybe there was a bounty on his head and
she was fumbling for a tire iron. Unlikely, but
    he could not know. He ran in front of the
    stopped van and, using it as a barrier,
  managed to cross to another lane. Now he
 could see clearly, and his progress to the far
       side of the turnpike was smooth.
Before him was a sea of reeds interrupted far
  to the north by the tall bulk of the People's
   Gas and Electric power station, and to the
     south by the rusty hump of the Pulaski
  Skyway. He stepped into the marsh. At once
     he sank to his knees, but fortunately no
further. He took a step, then another. Like an
    envelope closing, the world of the marsh
embraced him. It might be in the middle of a
   brutal traffic pattern, it might be viciously
   polluted, but it was alive, and as long as it
 lived it spread its magic over all who entered
                        it.
 The roar of the highway was replaced by the
   click of insects and the busy fluttering of
 birds. Driving along, he'd always thought of
this as an empty world, reeds, muck, that was
  it. He now found rich life pouring into his
                 ears and nose.
The smell of the man's world dwindled fast.
For the first time since he had entered this
   new life he did not smell a single human
                   presence.
He sloshed along, thinking that he might soon
 scare up a rabbit or another rat. Given how
   the last rat had gone down, he no longer
 found this a particularly unpleasant notion,
although he did hope to find a cleaner victim.
Soon he was moving through shallower water.
  Then he came to a bald place. The sun was
    high, the day warm for autumn, and it
 occurred to him that he was free to lie down.
  He curled up in the reeds, drawing his tail
              almost to his nose.
 It was peaceful here, but he knew that these
   marshes did not extend very far. Beyond
   them were suburbs full of peril, then the
 Poconos and beyond them the Catskills. He
 would have to go far to the north before he
 found the forest that his wolf soul and wolf
                blood sought.
 Lying still, he could hear the traffic's faint
wail, a hungry ghost half a mile away. When
 he slept he dreamed that a helicopter was
 nosing about in the reeds, looking for him.
 Then his dream changed, and in it he was
matching the turns of a rabbit, delighting in
          the prospect of a meal.
He awoke sometime past sunset. The western
 sky was deep orange, and the evening star
     hung on the edge of the horizon.
 For a long moment he considered the young
 woman on the palisades. Had he really been
 able to turn her into a wolf? No, surely not.
        But it had happened to him.
   When as a young man he would lie on the
  ground in the deep country and look at the
  stars, he would think that their light must
   have been purified by its journey. So also
souls are purified by journeys, and it was time
             for him to move on.
He set out to cross the marsh, moving toward
  the jeopardy of the lights, and the dark
        promise of the hills beyond.
                 Chapter Sixteen
It might be two o'clock in the morning but he
was a fool to be standing on a street corner in
    Morris-town, New Jersey, peering at a
newspaper through the wire of a rack. He was
 aware of a car cruising slowly up the street,
but he was so fascinated and horrified by his
picture in the paper that he didn't retreat. It
 was remarkable to see himself like this. He
  really was a wolf, a perfect wolf. His mind
   had conjured a more muscular, vaguely
 human shape for him—a sort of man on all
fours with the head of a wolf. He wasn't like
that. There was nothing at all human about
                     him.
 Below the picture he could see the first few
   words of the accompanying news story.
"After critically injuring one man, the animal
       escaped across the Hudson . . ."
    The words froze his blood. He stared,
stupefied, as his shadow defined itself beside
 him. Even the gentle rumbling of the car's
 engine did not break his attention. He had
injured somebody, hurt them bad. But who?
Maybe the man he fell on in the alley. It had
    all happened so fast, he wasn't sure.
               The poor man.
  When Bob looked up, it was into a flaring
   explosion of brilliance. These eyes were
wonderful in the dark, but he discovered that
they did not work at all well under an assault
   like this. He was staring into a glaring,
impenetrable curtain, behind which he could
hear an engine idling, doors opening, and the
 shuttle of weapons from holsters to hands.
 He shrank back, one ear cocked toward the
           clicking of the pistol.
    A shot seemed to explode in his face. He
reeled, twisted, scrabbled wildly to the middle
of the street. Then there was another shot and
       the slap of wind against his head.
He ran for all he was worth. Up the street he
raced, past an Italian restaurant with a full
garbage bin waiting for dawn, past a hobby
             shop, a drugstore.
Then he stopped, panting. Behind him there
were pattering footsteps. He crouched behind
  some trash cans. What was in them? They
smelled like heaven. Then another police car
 swept past, its lights flashing. There was no
 siren, not in this suburb of high executives
and broad, quiet lawns. Nixon had once lived
                 around here.
Bob went on, trotting close to the storefronts,
 slinking across streets, taking advantage of
   every bit of foliage he could find. He left
Morristown on a long, straight road. Every so
often he would see a police cruiser and crouch
down. The car would glide past, and he could
hear the men inside. "Man, I haven't had this
        much fun since deer season."
  "Who gets the head, the guy that does the
shooting or the mayor? That's my question."
                  Horrible!
As he neared Morris Plains Bob turned west
and began to make his way through a more
     densely populated neighborhood.
  Something happened that he hadn't taken
   into consideration, something very bad.
   The houses around here were closer to the
  street, and the dogs inside were going mad.
One, which had been asleep on a porch, came
    running up and went into a paroxysm of
     barking, leaping, and snapping. Its lips
   wrinkled back over its teeth as it crouched
down, ready to attack. He watched its hackles,
 its muscles, waiting to absorb its charge. The
creature went off like a shotgun, blasting into
       him with the full force of its body.
  He let himself relax into the blow, dropped
his chin to protect his throat from the fury of
the jaws, then followed the dog down as it fell
    in a scrabbling heap at his feet. Once he
  would have merely wounded it, and sent it
 screaming away into the night, but he knew
      he could not afford the attention the
  screaming would attract. Sadly, he tore the
dog's throat open. Its barking at once ceased,
  replaced by the sound of air whistling and
   bubbling in the wound. The creature bit
   wildly, running in the air as it did so. Bob
jumped away from it, his heart beating hard,
 and then he heard a boy's voice call "Frito."
     The dog shook and gibbered. The voice
    repeated, "Frito?" Bob slipped into the
          shadows, miserable but safe.
Scared now, the voice repeated, "Frito!" Bob
  could see a profile in a front door, a boy of
 about eleven dressed in pajamas and floppy
sandals. "C'mon, Frito, come home." Sadness
           now, the voice cracking.
 An engine muttered beyond the trees at the
 end of the block, and a squad car wheeled
   around the comer, its lights searching
through the thin fog of the night. Concealed
      in a bush, Bob stood very still.
 The boy waved and the car stopped. "There
 was a dogfight," the child said. "My dog is
                   hurt!"
 The two policemen got out of the car, their
 guns drawn. The pistols smelled cold. This
was not the same pair that had shot at him in
Morristown. A flashlight worked the ground,
   coming to rest on the body of the dog.
  "Frito!" The padding of small feet across
 grass, the sobs. There is no love like this, Bob
thought bitterly, no love so noble or so true as
   that between a dog and a child. He hated
   himself. His only excuse was that life was
             sweet also to the wolf.
 The flashlights began to poke about in the
 bushes. One of them swept the bush he was
  in, paused, came back. "Go inside, son."
                 "My dog—"
"It's the wolf. Go inside." The boy needed no
  more prompting. Bob heard the slippers
 pattering frantically on the dew-wet grass.
Inside the house the child's voice was raised:
  "Mom, Dad, it's the wolf! It's here, it killed
  Frito!" Lights came on, joining other lights
  from houses where dogs were still barking.
   Bob had already understood that his end
  might come anywhere, down any innocent
    street, anytime. It could come down this
street, now. He wanted to be reconciled to this
            but he could not accept it.
There was in him an almost overwhelmingly
urgent need, one he had never felt in such a
  raw, terrible form. Bob the man might be
 tired and sad and ready to give up. But the
   wolf didn't feel that way at all. The wolf
wanted to live, and he wanted it desperately.
Bob was still his gentle old self. But the wolf
had tasted blood; the wolf would kill to live.
  The two cops had already radioed for help
  and lights were now coming on in virtually
    every house in the neighborhood. These
   wealthy families would probably be well
   armed. The police, with their notoriously
  inaccurate .38 Specials, might miss a quick
target in the dark, but the hunting rifles and
 target pistols that were about to be brought
          into play would not miss.
    "Work around to the other side of the
 hedge," one of the cops said softly. "It's just
standing in there. Maybe it doesn't realize we
               mean it harm."
 As soon as the second cop came around the
 bush Bob was going to be trapped. Without
 another thought he jumped up and took off
down the street, causing a massive upsurge in
 barking. Doors slammed, people shouted. A
shotgun roared, its pellets whining over Bob's
                    head.
 "I hit it," a man shouted, "I got the wolf!"
The tip of Bob's tail stung, but the old wound
 in his thigh was far more painful. His tail
 might have been grazed by a pellet, but as
         injuries went it was minor.
  He dodged down a driveway and jumped a
  Cyclone fence into a yard inhabited by two
    cats, which began shooting around like
fur-covered hockey pucks, their tails fat with
    terror, their eyes blazing. Then he was
 through the yard and into the alley, trotting
  fast, but not running. This could be a long
 chase and he had to preserve his strength.
As be moved along he realized that he was not
 nearly as scared as he had been before. The
 wolf and the man had come together again.
  He had begun to be very interested in the
  process of combining his reason with his
instinct, which was the key to preserving this
                 unique life.
He smelled not only woods around here but
flowing water. There was a stream where he
  could drink, maybe even enough woods to
               harbor a meal.
 He trotted to the end of the street, throwing
himself under a car as the police and a crowd
 of enraged citizens came puffing around the
     corner. Powerful lights plunged about,
    seeking the tawny spot of fur among the
  fallen leaves and the naked bushes. A little
earlier in the season and it would have been a
  lot easier for him to hide. They passed him
   and he started off again, heading for the
               smell of the water.
   Soon he came to the stream. There was
 nothing behind him to suggest danger—no
 smell of dogs, no off-the-road vehicles. He
   lowered his muzzle and began to lap the
         sweet, iron-tasting water.
A shot split a limb a few feet to his right. Far
off in the street he saw a man with a rifle and
  some bulky equipment: a starlight scope.
   Bob hastened up the middle of the brook,
trying to run in the water as much as possible.
  He was worried about dogs being put to his
 scent. As a boy he had seen the Lone Ranger
 ride down streams to throw them off, a trick
           taught to him by Tonto.
He left the stream bed for a jumble of rocks.
Another shot echoed in the woods, but farther
away. Starlight scopes or not, people couldn't
follow Bob into this tangle. Beyond the rocks
 the land sloped steeply upward. He was soon
  on a ridge, looking down over the wood he
 had just crossed. His ears and nose told him
that he was alone. Without trained dogs, they
                 were helpless.
Bob loped now, following an abandoned deer
  path. There wasn't a fresh scent along its
 whole length, not even droppings. The deer
 had died out on this ridge. As he moved he
 glimpsed a dark hulk off to the right. Then,
through the trees, he saw that it was a house.
 This one was huge, a great, Gothic monster
with a dozen chimneys and hundreds of blank
           leaded-glass windows.
 He altered his course toward thicker woods.
    He wasn't precisely sure where he was
    anymore, just that he was moving in a
northwesterly direction, and his nose told him
 that the human population around him was
             growing less dense.
 He trotted steadily, easily, putting as much
distance as he could between himself and the
                human world.
   As the western sky began to grow light he
 lengthened his stride, trying for a final burst
of speed before he stopped and hid until dark.
             He was also hungry.
    Sniffing as he moved, he sought the
rotted-grass odor of a rabbit or the garbage
  smell of rats. The woods seemed empty,
though. He would have considered bugs, but
          it was past their season.
Was this to be his new life, scuttling through
 the woods searching for food or seeking
  escape? He wanted to lie back on a grassy
    hillside and think. He wanted to have a
discussion with his son, or go out with his wife
           and talk and sip espresso.
    He was the running wolf, the wolf of
 desolation, lonely wolf. To man he was now
 the gray cloud in the morning, the shadow
  worrying the bones. Overhead he heard a
   helicopter popping. He ignored it. They
 weren't going to spot him from that thing,
   but its presence meant they were really
             hungry to catch him.
The helicopter circled back, louder this time.
As a precaution he stopped in a dense copse of
hemlock. As far as he knew there was no way
 for them to detect him. Unless—what about
        infared, or a starlight scope?
  A bullet whizzed down through the trees,
 splitting a fat branch not three inches from
                    his face.
  There was no time to hesitate: he started
                 running.
  He tried to remember the terrain he had
  crossed. Were there any gullies that went
down to the stream? No, he thought not. As a
matter of fact, he didn't remember any place
     he might hide from starlight scopes or
 infared, unless it was behind the waterfall he
had seen on the creek. The waterfall was miles
   back, though. Slow as they were, even his
human pursuers would have reached there by
                      now.
 He did the only thing that he could do, the
thing any ordinary animal would do: he ran
blindly, hoping for the best. Maybe he would
reach deeper woodland, maybe he would be
shot. All he could do was hope that his nasal
and aural technology would somehow outwit
           man's sight technology.
The helicopter kept with him, fluttering like a
massive insect in the glowing sky. From time
 to time a bullet smacked through the trees.
When he mounted a rise, he knew exactly why
  he was alone here. The wind was blowing
 from behind him or he would have known
much sooner. Before him there was a pit full
 of rusty steel drums, some of them leaking
   stinking orange goop, others intact, still
 others surrounded by scums of green jelly.
   This close he could smell them despite the
   direction of the wind, and the odors were
 awful: powerful acidic scents as if of Clorox
mixed with gasoline, airplane glue, and roach
      spray. A rivulet trickled sadly along,
    scummed with silver oil, making its way
through tired, brown grass. There was a smell
   of death: two buzzard corpses lay twisted
  beside the fulminating ruins of a 'coon that
 had apparently dropped dead while drinking
 the water. Then the buzzards had died while
  eating the 'coon. Nature is designed to work
         in cycles. It dies in cycles, too.
  The dump seemed to have no borders. Bob
 had no time to get around it. He would have
 to cross it, out in the open, the helicopter on
his back. There was no reason to wait; caution
 would gain him nothing. He moved into the
 clear space. The land was just being touched
by the gray light that precedes the dawn. The
eastern sky was now a faint green, Venus low
    on the horizon. Grackles and jays were
     beginning to scream in the woods; the
  feathers of a dove lay in a puddle that Bob
                carefully avoided.
Inside the dump the smell was shocking. The
   ground was spongy and his paw prints
 quickly filled with scum. The odor reached
deep into his muzzle and clung there. He was
 sure that it was in itself poisonous, it was so
                    strong.
  Then the helicopter came in low, raising a
 mist from the standing pools. Bob ran hard.
He was more afraid of getting exposed to that
mist than he was of the bullets that now came
  steadily from the copter. In his mind's eye
 there was an image, maybe from a National
Geographic special or a Sierra Club program,
    of a wolf seen from above clambering
through a snowbank, being chased down by a
helicopter. And then the wolf's head explodes
 and it tumbles back down the bank, its tail
       gyrating like a broken propeller.
 Behind him there was a terrific thud. For a
mad hopeful instant he thought the helicopter
  had crashed, then he felt heat on his back.
   One of the bullets had caused a drum of
   chemicals to explode. So much for their
infared scope now. That blaze would white it
 out. Unfortunately, dawn was on their side.
  Shimmering lines of light were spreading
 from behind low eastern clouds. Bob could
hear birds rising from the trees on the distant
horizon, and could smell even above the stink
 of this dismal place a sterling, rich burst of
autumn breeze, the beautiful dry odor of the
 hanging leaves, the sweetness being exhaled
               from the ground.
Another drum of chemical exploded. Intense
heat made Bob skitter forward, then gallop.
   The whole place started thudding and
popping. The fire was furious and spreading
 wildly. The helicopter rose into a billowing
   mushroom of orange-black smoke and
 disappeared off toward Morris-town. Bob
   wondered if the citizens of that worthy
  community even knew that this mess was
here, leaching slowly into their water supply.
 Well, they were certainly going to find out.
 He managed to stay ahead of the flames by
running himself hard, finally reaching a high
    Cyclone fence. He ran along beside it,
  thinking for an awful moment that it was
    going to trap him. But it hadn't been
maintained; he managed to go through a hole
             as big as a Lincoln.
 He rushed back into the scrubby woods. The
   area had been logged within the past ten
 years, and the hemlocks and white pine were
    still saplings, and stunted by the near
 presence of the toxic dump. He kept moving,
always choosing the uplift of the land, seeking
             less populated regions.
He was tired and hungry and wanted badly to
  hunt. As if on command, his nose and ears
promptly became hypersensitive. All he could
 smell, though, was birds. They seemed to be
  more able than ground dwellers to survive
  near the chemicals, probably because they
   spent relatively little time exposed to the
    poison. He'd seen one of the coydogs in
Central Park catch a bat, but he didn't think
      his own paws were adapted to such
   extraordinary skills. Nature had created
coydogs in the past fifty years or so, breeding
the new species from the best of the dogs and
   the coyotes. The coydogs belonged to the
 future. They were smart enough and supple
enough and adaptable enough to live right in
 the middle of the human world. People had
them in their backyards and never knew it. In
    the small hours the Central Park packs
 probably hunted midtown from the Hudson
 to the East River, and nobody saw them, not
                     ever.
  Bob stopped long enough to lift one of his
paws and examine it. It wasn't going to grasp
 anything. The toes were long, but not as long
as those of the coydog. And he could not move
 them independently. He would eat no birds.
There was a flutter and a sudden pang along
his spine. Snapping, he twisted around just in
  time to see a jay flying off with a tuft of his
 fur in its beak. As a child he'd disliked them
   because they got to his feeders and scared
              away the songbirds.
  To rid himself of the jay Bob moved into a
 thicker copse. Screaming, the bird flew off.
 Then Bob became aware of a pungent and
absolutely magnificent aroma. As it filled his
  muzzle he trembled with delight. He was
hungry, very hungry, and he smelled bacon.
 The odor was warm, too, meaning that the
 bacon was being fried nearby. He followed
  the scent up a low rise and through a thick
copse of saplings. It wasn't long before he saw
 a ruined cabin with smoke coming from the
   chimney. The roof was half-off, the walls
 were peeling tarpaper, there was no glass in
   the windows. Bob approached warily. He
 could hear the bacon sizzling, smell the two
people clearly. Bob was a reticent man, but he
 could not ignore the fact that he smelled the
  odors of human sex. There was also an odd
 smell of fresh earth. He stole forward on his
 belly, trying to ignore what he was smelling,
             all except the bacon.
Then he heard a female voice, softly pleading.
    "Please, please ..." He pricked his ears.
  Something told him that this was not right.
  Close by the cabin wall, he could hear deep
male breathing, very soft female breathing. It
was almost the gasping of a child. Bob raised
 himself up on the window ledge and looked
 in. There was a man of perhaps forty frying
   bacon and eggs in a skillet on the hearth.
Behind him there were some dirty, crumpled
  sheets on the dirt floor of the cabin, sheets
that stank of sweat and the uses of night. Bob
was horrified to see, hunched into a corner, a
terrified and naked girl of perhaps thirteen.
Her arms clutched her beginning breasts, her
   legs were twisted around one another.
Around the front of the cabin Bob saw a hole,
a shovel lying beside it. On the man's hip was
a .45 automatic. But for his pistol belt, he was
            as naked as the child.
     Bob had never seen such a depraved
situation. The poor girl was in awful trouble.
This vicious monster had obviously raped her
 repeatedly. Bob was no longer one to waste
 time about these - things. He leaped at once
through the window and knocked the man on
                   his side.
              "Aw! Holy shit!"
 He grabbed at his gun but Bob bit his wrist
 hard. The man yelped, twisting and turning
  until Bob felt his own teeth scraping bone.
    Then there was a crunch and the man
shrieked. The girl sat absolutely still, staring.
With a snarl the man came at Bob, swinging
 his closed left fist. The blow connected with
Bob's nose, causing him a fierce blast of pain.
     He screamed, thrusting his head up,
 snapping, trying to reach the man's throat.
  Instead he connected with his chest, took a
 gouge out of his skin and fell back. The man
also fell, but in the opposite direction, landing
with a high scream on his dangling right arm.
He kicked at Bob, who was trying to straddle
                       him.
  The girl, who had seemed almost catatonic,
 now rose from her corner and moved to the
 hearth. The man grabbed Bob's muzzle with
 his good hand while he forced his bad one to
fumble for his pistol. It was no good; Bob was
 heavy and took full advantage of his weight.
Again and again he hurled himself against the
               struggling man.
  At the hearth, the girl took the skillet in her
  hands. Bob felt a blow from the man to the
 side of his head. Another one, much harder,
 landed on his skull. The man was built like a
  tank. Despite the pain of a broken wrist, he
was becoming a wheezing, furious juggernaut.
 He crashed into Bob's side, throwing him to
  the ground. A spike of pure fury made Bob
  roar. He dug his teeth into the man's floppy
   belly, feeling the little pops as his incisors
   broke through the flesh to the fat within.
There came a clang. The man sank down. He
   and Bob were both covered with sizzling
 bacon and eggs. The girl stood over the inert
  form of her captor, the skillet held in both
 hands. Then she dropped it and, grabbing a
 dirty sheet, took off into the woods, looking
like a ghost as she swept off among the trees.
  Bob ate the bacon, which was only a little
     burned, and lapped up the eggs.
               Chapter Seventeen
With a determined jab Cindy stuck another
 red pin in the map, at the location of the
    smoldering dump site northwest of
Morristown. "I'm convinced," she said to the
           others. "It was him."
   Monica still disagreed. "The police say it
started during a high-speed chase. They don't
                mention Bob."
 "Of course not, he got away. But look at the
  media. 'Killer Wolf Invades Silk Stocking
  Suburb.' We know Bob's in the area. Who
 else would they have been chasing out in the
woods? The poor guy is heading directly away
  from civilization. He's trying to escape, he
             must be so scared!"
  Joe Running Fox stared at the map. "My
  guess is he'll go back into the Poconos, up
 through the Shawangunks to the Catskills,
then on into the Appalachians and Canada."
    Monica stared at Cindy, a slight smile
flickering across her face. "I'll bet he's going
               to the hunt club!"
 "To meet me," Cindy said. She even thought
it might be true. Even Bob had the occasional
          flash of practical insight.
   Joe Running Fox put his hand on Kevin's
shoulder. "What about you, Kevin?" Her son
was comfortable with this man. Joe Running
Fox had told Kevin about the Way of Silence
and won his heart. The two of them had spent
   hours together sitting face-to-face, totally
silent, their eyes locked. Last night Kevin had
    told Cindy that it was the most intimate
 experience he had ever had. "We can all see
 each other's souls any time we want. We just
 have to look at each other. Not for a minute
   or two, but the way the Fox does it, for a
    couple of hours. Then you see the soul."
   She had managed to share her eyes with
 Kevin for about three minutes. Her love for
  her vulnerable, inquisitive little boy had
  burned high, but there had come a point
 when what she saw, and what of her she felt
was being seen, was simply too much to bear.
You see the whole of a person's time in their
eyes, from the first shattering infant moment
        to the darkening swells of age.
Over the past few days Kevin had undergone
almost a complete change. Although children
shine very bright, it doesn't take much to dull
their fragile spark. More even than the loss of
     his father, Cindy thought, her son was
    suffering from a loss of his own faith in
 reality. His Kafka shelf was now abandoned.
   Instead he read the Bible. She found him
   absorbed in Ecclesiastes and Job, and the
   Book of Revelation. He had also bought a
     book about multiple personalities, and
another about the Spanish Inquisition. He sat
sometimes for hours staring at this last book,
 looking at a facsimile of a poster announcing
  an auto-da-fe in which thirty people were to
             be burned at the stake.
 His identification with the persecuted had
  always been deep, arising, she liked to feel,
 from the powerful ideals that animated her
 own and Bob's thinking. Yesterday she had
   discovered him staring into the eyes of a
 picture of a wolf. "Can you share anything
     with a photograph?" she had asked.
  "No, but I think I know how the wolves
   captured Dad. They did it at the zoo.
Remember that old wolf staring at him? That
     was when they captured him."
 "It's that dangerous to look into another's
                   eyes?"
  "'A child goes forth each morning, and
 whatever that child first sees, that thing he
                becomes.'"
 How many times Bob had read Whitman's
poem to Kevin. "Whitman was referring to a
  change of spirit, not a physical change."
   "How do we know that? Maybe he was
 talking about a real change. I think Kafka
   was talking about a real change in the
             Metamorphosis."
 "Whitman was writing about a child. Dad
            isn't a child."
"You never accepted that a child is exactly
what he was. In some ways I'm more mature
                than Dad."
 Fox came over. He folded his arms, looked
down at Kevin, who had tossed aside the wolf
photo and was examining a woodcut of a man
having his feet burned off in an Inquisitional
dungeon. "Few people are more mature than
    your father," Fox said. "Maybe now,
                  nobody."
 "You never knew him," Kevin replied in an
intensely charged voice. "He could get excited
  about the same flower every time he saw it,
 day after day, until it died. Then he forgot it
   so completely it might as well never have
   existed. Dad had no mature emotions."
   Cindy could not agree. "He loved us."
  "We frightened him, I think. Life was too
much for him. And we drove him. We created
the conditions that enabled this to happen."
It was grief that was behind these hard words.
 His brilliance was working against him now.
 Cindy sensed that what he really wanted was
       to cuddle up in her lap and cry.
Fox might have known it, too. He touched the
  boy's cheek. One thing the man knew was
              when not to talk.
In the silence Monica drew a line on the map,
  connecting the red pins. Beyond the last pin
she continued the line to the hunt club deep in
 the Catskills. "Maybe we ought to just go up
           there and wait for him."
   "Unwise," Fox said. "We're better off
tracking him. If he doesn't go to the club, we
         won't miss him that way."
             "You can do this?"
Fox nodded. "I can track a wolf, if I can find
                the trail."
   "And you're sure you can? I'd hate to be
traipsing around Ulster County while Bob sits
 at the hunt club. He might not wait long. It's
    bird season and we got a huge stocking
 assessment, so the place is full of grouse and
              therefore hunters."
Cindy interrupted. "We'll split up. You go to
the club, Monica. The three of us will do the
                tracking."
    "I want to do it alone. With the boy."
Cindy wouldn't have that, not for a moment.
She wasn't going to agonize the days away at
the club. The miseries of camping and hiking
 would keep her preoccupied. Anything was
   better than the ordeal of waiting. "I'm
                   going."
   "Women have other power. Not this."
  "Oh, nonsense. I won't hear that. He's my
                husband."
  "I won't track with a woman." She almost
couldn't believe what she heard. The man was
      worse than a chauvinist, he was an
   unreformed Neanderthal. "You have no
  conscience," she said. She'd always found
    personal discrimination surprising and
   confusing. His eyes were brown and flint
 hard. She pleaded on her own behalf. "He'll
respond to me. If he knows I'm there, he'll be
     much more likely to stop running."
    "His son will be there. A man will do
           anything for his son."
That was it. He'd have to learn here and now
who was in control of things. "If you imagine
for one moment that my boy is going without
  me, you're very much mistaken, Mr. Fox.
 You're not lord and master of this house, no
man is, not even my poor husband, God help
    him. I intend to go out there into that
         wilderness and find him."
   "A northeastern second-growth forest is
     hardly wilderness, ma'am. I want my
medicine to work, and with a woman around
it might not. It's no reflection on you. It's just
 the damned Indian culture. Woman has her
     role and man has his, and the two are
   different. Equal but different. I know it's
  another stupid Indian idea, but I can't help
       respecting it, dummy that I am."
"The hell it's an Indian idea. I don't hold with
 all this idealization of the old Indian culture.
    You say you've got Mohawk blood? The
  Mohawks considered their women slaves."
    "They loved them. It was all stupidity,
                 though—"
"Shut up, and can that false self-deprecation.
 It makes you seem like a bigger ass than you
  probably are. Now, let's quit bickering and
 lay our plans. The more we talk, the farther
              away Bob gets."
 Fox didn't say much more after that. It took
  only a few minutes to plan their journey.
 Largely it was a matter of making sure that
    the available hiking boots passed Fox's
  meticulous inspection. "I thought Indians
used moccasins," Kevin said. "I don't mean to
 be condescending, but it is what I thought."
"Boots. Indians used moccasins because they
   couldn't afford anything better, not to
    mention the fact that the dopes never
   invented the shoe on their own. Indian
high-tech consisted of beaded wampum. Life
  was diseased, dirty, violent, and short."
Cindy wondered if the man was trying to be
 insufferable, or if he was so involved in his
posturing that he really couldn't see himself
at all. She needed him to track Bob, and she
wasn't going to let anything stand in the way
                    of that.
 "We have no camping equipment," she said,
"beyond the boots and Kevin's sleeping bag."
   "I need a blanket. What do you need?"
It was a dare, she supposed. At best she found
it boring. "I need everything I can get. A tent,
preferably air-conditioned and equipped with
    a full kitchen and all necessary supplies.
                     Why?"
  "Just asking. So I'll bring two blankets."
               "Waterproof."
           He nodded. "Let's go."
"You're kidding. Right now, at eight o'clock
               at night?"
   "We can stay in a motel tonight. In the
    morning we start. Early, four A.M."
 She found herself eating a fatty breakfast in
   an all-nighter on Route 202 at 3:30 in the
    morning. Her head was pounding. Poor
 Kevin looked like a corpse, he was pale and
very slow. Cindy made sure he drank a couple
  of cups of tea. Fox advised a big breakfast,
 and she obliged with scrambled eggs, toast,
sausage, 40% Bran Flakes, coffee, and a slice
      of melon that tasted like dishwasher
 detergent. "You can eat," Fox said. "That's
  good. Once we're tracking, there won't be
 much time for food, and game's scarce these
                     days."
               "We'll hunt?"
"I make traps. You'll see. They work good."
The detailed area map showed a road ringing
 the dump site. It was a lozenge-shaped two
 hundred acres of smoldering, noxious ruins
when they arrived, their headlights dispelling
 the faint glow that persisted from the fire.
The car moved slowly along, Fox peering out
         into the dark as he drove.
"Somewhere on this side, I figure." He drove
 for a time in silence. "I hope your husband
had a good sense of direction. He's not a fool,
        is he? He wouldn't go south?"
   Bob was not a fool in the sense that Fox
 meant. She did not think he would go south.
  He knew the direction of the wilderness in
 New York. His love of it had taken him deep
into the Catskills and the Adirondacks. If only
 he could get away from civilization, he might
 well have a chance to survive. "He knows the
                   country."
  "Can Dad kill things with his mouth, like
  rabbits? And I wonder if he can eat a raw
                  rabbit?"
  They were upsetting questions. "I have no
 idea how your father is coping. I can't even
           begin to imagine it."
 "They acquire the secrets of the beast," Fox
said. "That's why men try shifting in the first
 place. They want to learn the secrets of the
    animals. Such secrets used to be very
                 valuable."
"The cave paintings at Lascaux," Kevin said.
 "They don't show any people because the
         people are the animals."
 "It's an ancient way. In all my life, in all the
  legends I've known, I've heard of only one
 other case where it really happened. Where
    somebody really, really changed into an
animal. And that was many generations ago."
 He stopped the car. His hands went toward
    Cindy, took hers. "I want to thank you.
You've given me a chance to meet this man in
   person, the man who was seduced by the
                   wolves."
 The three of them got out of the car. Cindy
 could see absolutely no trace of him in the
dark blotchs of undergrowth that hugged the
       ground this side of the woods.
 "There." Fox gestured toward a place that
  seemed no different from the others. "He
went in right there. He was moving fast, you
can see that by the number of leaves that are
broken." Bending low, he hurried over to the
 spot. "He's favoring his right rear leg, toes
 digging in left to right. That says he's got a
thigh wound. The way the left foot is hitting,
   I'd say the bone's not broken. It's a flesh
wound, probably infected. Hurting him, but
not too dangerous. He's moving very strongly
       for an animal that's lost weight."
   "Now, how can you possibly tell that?"
    "The paper said he was weighed in at
one-sixty. These tracks in this dirt—he weighs
 more like one-fifty." He stood staring at the
              ground, thinking.
        "Where is he?" Kevin asked.
  "Your father is well away from here. He
 passed this spot at least twenty-four hours
                    ago."
    "The dump fire started at five-fifteen
   yesterday morning. That's when he was
                  here."
 "Well, nearly twenty-four hours then. With
his thigh and general weakness, he's covering
 about twenty miles a day. That's if he hunts
            on the run. If he can."
      "What do you mean, if he can?"
 "If he has the skill. You're hunting like he's
   got to hunt, running the animal down, it
doesn't go in a straight line. It goes in circles,
 backtracks, anything to get away from you.
Once he's killed and eaten something, then he
has to reorient himself and cover lost ground.
 So we can assume he's getting maybe fifteen
    miles a day out of it. Moving sunup to
 sundown, maybe a couple of hours at night.
My guess is he's about thirty-five miles from
                     here."
 She didn't want to ask the next question; she
felt Bob slipping through her fingers. But she
     did ask, she had to ask. "What are our
      chances of catching up with him?"
 "We can cover maybe fifteen miles a day.
Twenty, if we work like mad. We don't have
the four legs, that's our trouble. And we're
tall. The undergrowth will slow us down."
Maybe they should all go to the hunting camp
  and just hope for the best. Bob would know
 the camp was crowded, though. There was a
 good chance that he would bypass it. He was
  hurt, she knew he was scared. If it was her,
she'd be desperately unhappy and in a state of
 extreme panic. She would not make rational
 or courageous decisions. Her tendency would
 be to get to the most isolated place she could
      find, and hide there until she died.
 It had occurred to her that he might commit
suicide. She could only hope that the thought
 wouldn't cross his mind. Sometimes, though,
   he had fallen into deep, deep troughs. His
 despair was pitiful, at once bitter and full of
  sardonic humor. When he got an especially
 good poem back from one of the magazines,
or endured some epic business humiliation, he
      could drop into one of those states.
             She kicked a stone.
 "There might always be another sighting,"
      Fox said. "You never know."
Wave after wave of sorrow broke in Cindy's
 soul. She hunched her shoulders, fighting
back the tears until her throat felt like it was
  being wrapped in leather thongs. Then she
   burst out with huge, gasping sobs. Kevin
  clapped his hands over his ears. Fox stood
   impassive. When she stopped, he merely
  headed into the woods. They moved along
 easily at first, passing between tall trees and
      through stands of mountain laurel.
Soon Cindy became uneasy. They seemed to
be going in an almost perfectly straight line.
 This was fine, but it didn't strike her as the
    sort of thing Bob would do. He'd get
confused, double back, fall down gullies, end
 up at the edge of cliffs. But she had to trust
           Fox; he was the expert.
Even so—Bob in the woods? He'd practically
gotten himself killed trying to track wolves in
  Minnesota back in the early seventies. And
 then there was that camping trip where he'd
 forgotten the matches and failed to pack the
 tent in the tent pack and brought the wrong
hiker's map and missed the bus, and then laid
     their campsite at the edge of a pretty
waterfall which had become a raging torrent
during the ten-hour downpour that had taken
                place that night.
And the poor guy was out here with no hands,
  trying to keep himself alive with half the
   population of the northeast cheerfully
             hunting him down.
 Lost in her thoughts, she wasn't aware that
she had fallen behind until Fox was standing
 in front of her. "Look, Mrs. Duke, we can't
keep breaking stride for you. Either you keep
  up or you don't keep up. The car's half an
hour behind us. You can go back if you want
                     to."
              "No. I'll keep up."
    He started again, twisting and turning
   through the trees like some sort of ghost,
 followed by Kevin, who was almost as swift.
"I've been thinking," Kevin said as he moved,
 "we need to hit a town and buy a Walkman.
One of us has to be listening to the news at all
     times in case there's another sighting
                  reported."
 Fox grunted. Twigs were scraping Cindy's
head, she had leaf dust in her right eye, she'd
 practically shattered her knee slipping on a
toadstool the size of a pancake, and now she
was tumbling head over heels down a ravine
          she hadn't even noticed.
She did a complete somersault. When she saw
the top of the forest rush past, leaves against
a pale pink streak of dawn, she forced herself
   to relax totally. Then she hit with a thud.
   There was a jagged rock right under the
 center of her back, but she had managed to
 loosen up enough so that she flopped over it
  rather than breaking in two. "I'm good, no
 problem," she shouted. Then she was on her
 feet and up the ravine and running to catch
                      them.
  As he talked Kevin hopped from stone to
        mossy stone in a little brook.
 "Listen," Fox said. "I think the water has a
message for us. He passed this way. The brook
             remembers him."
Cindy could not keep her mind on the water.
 She was more interested in her own ragged
  breathing and the excruciating pain at the
 back of her left heel, where her boot seemed
  to be grinding down to bone. She flopped
 back in a bed of leaves and mushrooms, and
stared up through amazingly tall trees. It was
now full dawn, and the orange and red leaves
   were clearly etched against a blue sky.
   When she listened, the brook did indeed
speak to her. She sort of understood what Fox
   meant, that the water had a message. It
 wasn't a direction, a piece of information, it
  was another kind of message, vibrant with
          obscurely useful meaning.
"I tell you one thing," Fox said, "the way this
   water smells, there's a town upstream."
"I don't smell anything. The water's fresh."
"You don't know the meaning of fresh water,
  then," Fox replied. "I've drunk perfectly
fresh water. Bathed in it. The more filth you
 can smell, the farther along you are on the
    road home. That's the message of this
                   water."
"What he's saying, Mama, is that we need to
             get to the town."
 Nonlogical thinking was what they called it.
  Or was it nonsequential thinking? Cindy
 sighed and got up. "I hope there really is a
                   town."
 "Hell, just through those trees is a gigantic
  condo development. We're in New Jersey,
  ma'am, one of the most densely populated
states in the nation. The only reason we don't
 see it is that Bob avoided it. This forest is a
thin strip of green between armies of housing
           developments, believe me."
Half an hour later they were walking along a
 road. A mini-mart stood next to an Exxon.
 Rite-Aid Drugs and Wendy's had occupied
the center of town, hard on to the lawn and
garden center and the drive-in bank. Kevin
   picked out an inexpensive Walkman at
Rite-Aid and Cindy was elected to listen with
               one earphone.
    When they started back to the woods to
 reconnect with Bob's trail, she found herself
walking to the drone of WINS, all news all the
 time. The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway was
jammed from Grand Central Parkway to the
      Gowanus Canal, due to a disabled
tractor-trailer. It was now 9:14. In sports, the
     Oakland A's had beaten the Orioles.
 Torture, torture, torture. Slog through the
 woods while listening to this drivel. She was
 bored. She wanted a cup of tea and a good
book. She wanted to lie down. She wanted to
 cuddle Bob up tight and make love to him.
  "In other news, the escaped wolf has been
   sighted along the New York-New Jersey
border. Waldemar town Supervisor Richland
   Frye and his daughter were camping at
Braemar Park Site 12 when the wolf leaped in
  the window of their shelter, menaced Mr.
 Frye, and knocked him unconscious. Young
Miss Frye wrapped herself in a sheet and ran
    the four miles to Waldemar to give the
 warning. Mr. Frye was treated and released
  at North Orange Hospital in Waldemar."
 Cindy was sitting on the ground by the time
the story was over, her hands pressed against
   her ears in order to drown out her son's
              frantic questions.
"It's him, there's been another sighting!" She
              repeated the story.
"Waldemar. My God, your husband's doing
 damn good. He must be covering more like
    twenty-five, thirty miles in a day."
To make a long story miserably short, it now
became necessary to hike all the way back to
   the car in order to drive to Waldemar.
Lying in the backseat, inert with exhaustion,
  Cindy vowed that she was going to take
control of this expedition. Fox wanted to do
 what he was best at, which was track. But
good strategy and good detective work were
more important. If only she could anticipate
 Bob's own thinking, she felt sure she could
 put herself in his way instead of trying to
 chase him, which was obviously hopeless.
Waldemar. He was now traveling due north.
The question was, what did he know about
 the region he was entering? He would be
  bound to use that knowledge to his own
                advantage.
Her mind returned to the early seventies, to
     those ridiculous camping trips.
 She knew. Just like that, she knew where to
intercept him. Sitting up, she told Fox. When
 Bob got there—and he would get there—she
             would be waiting;
                Chapter Eighteen
A huge willow tree gave bob his night. Never,
 not even as a child, had he felt as small and
 vulnerable as he did now, sheltering in the
      tree's silent, protective fronds.
He dreamed of deep woods, the trees stalwart
    and concealing friends, and in his vague,
     shadowy dreams he ran after slow, fat
rabbits. Then he dreamed of an enormous old
   cruise ship, and he was his old self. He and
    Cindy were taking a cruise through cold,
  islandless seas in the dead of winter aboard
      this ramshackle vessel. Like the other
    passengers she was dressed to the elegant
beckoning of the past; she wore white flowing
   silk, the whispering evening clothes of the
turn of the century. She smelled like wysteria,
     and indeed her jewels were their color,
 cunning glass earrings and necklace believed
      by the awed, hissing passengers to be
                    priceless.
Bob was restless on the ship, frightened of its
 rough progress and the deep clanking of its
    engines. In his exploration of the dun
ballroom, the weathered dining room with its
 frayed chairs and chipped Spode, the algal
 swimming pool, the cold, musty cabins with
  their sagging beds and their hair-choked
bathtub drains, he became less and less sure
               of the vessel.
Then the others went parading in to a dinner
     of grapefruit halves with withered
 maraschino cherries and some sort of very
dubious curry, chicken or rabbit, cat or rat.
 Bob found the fourth level, the deck where
the crew lived. It was a brown, awful, rotted
 mess crawling with rats, spread with feces
 and bits of unidentifiable rot, and from its
 portholes he could see that the bows of the
 ship were plunging so deep that water was
      pouring down the smokestacks.
 The crew were worse than zombies, listless,
their vigor escaped with the last heat of their
bodies. Some of them lying in their bunks had
 become almost flat, and when you touched
       them, their skin turned to dust.
   They had to leave the ship. To get to the
   dining room Bob had to crawl through a
 squishy, musky tunnel. It disgusted him, all
  the intimate wriggling that was necessary,
 and the sins of the woman, her exhaustion,
her poor diet, her fear, were contained in the
              stink of the canal.
  Emerging, his tuxedo flowing with a slick
 substance, he confronted Cindy, telling her
the truth about the ship, and saying that they
       had to get off at the next island.
 "But there aren't any islands, and this ship
  won't sink." She surrounded him with her
 smooth arms and buried his face in softness
                and wysteria.
Then he heard water gulping in the bowels of
   the ship and ragged, exhausted cries.
He awoke to a rushing morning. In the night a
  northern storm had come, bringing with it
long gray arms of clouds and icy flecks in the
   air. The fronds of the willow whipped his
 broad head with armies of yellow leaves. As
    he staggered to his feet, unaware yet of
  hunger and thirst and pain, this was one of
      those moments when he thought he
understood some elusive secret, when perhaps
 a poem could come from him that would be
     nearly good, the very lines of the ship
   rendered into words. But then he became
 aware of the stunning, overwhelming beauty
 of autumn's smells, how very subtle and rich
were the aromas of the ground, the leaves, the
  fust of mushrooms, the dirt, the sour little
  smells of insects, and through it all a wild
 freshness, the north wind coming down the
                   Catskills.
 He knew exactly where he was. This morning
  he would take the path up past Veerkeeder
        Kill Falls on the south face of the
Shawangunks and proceed into the fastness of
 the chain of preserves and parks that protect
the mountains and all that live upon them. As
 long as fifteen years ago he had come up this
   very trail with Cindy, taking her camping,
   trying to teach her his own techniques for
living off the land. She never learned, though;
    to her, camping consisted of hauling the
  whole twentieth century into some comer of
   the woods and re-creating it there, with a
   wood fire for effect only. One cooked on a
   portable alcohol stove. One ate dried food
 reconstituted in boiling water. One drank not
from the fresh-flowing streams but of flat city
      water brought in canteens and bags.
 Bob sniffed the air. There wasn't a human
smell in it. It seemed almost as if his body was
 becoming wider and bigger, encompassing
  more space. As he left mankind, the world
 opened out to him. Wolves are creatures of
small society. They are not like ants and men,
  living in vast hives, entirely surrounded by
 their own kind and odors. On the wind Bob
      smelled ice, leaves, the bloom of the
  witch-hazel plant, cold stone, water. There
was hardly a single detectable tang of smoke,
    no undertone of chemicals, little odor of
 human bodies, no smell of cold steel and oil,
              the sign of the gun.
He felt exultant—and he wanted to tell Cindy.
    He wanted so badly to say to her that
   he'd—but he couldn't say anything. He
 couldn't talk to her, couldn't share his life
            with her, never again.
  Cindy. It was the most beautiful of all the
  words he could no longer say. Dear, sweet
                   Cindy.
    He moved off in the predawn, traveling
slowly at first, then, as his thigh loosened up,
going faster, slipping under the low-reaching
     boughs of saplings, through stands of
hemlock, upward and upward. After an hour
of steady trotting he came to Veerkeeder Kill,
   which was merry and fast, speeding down
 from its mountainside. The water was full of
 iron and seemed almost to catch in his teeth,
leaving them vibrating. It was fiercely cold, so
  cold that it seemed to clarify his breathing
even more than had the air. His sense of smell
          grew ever more powerful.
  Raising his head, sniffing deep to find a
  rabbit or some other small creature, he
smelled something that made his heart twist
        on itself and his tail droop.
It was her. Unmistakable. She was somewhere
up on the mountain. He threw back his head,
    his thoughts dark with recognition and
longing. She had been thinking and planning
    very carefully, to anticipate his route.
  He wanted to get to her, to feel her arms
 around him, to take her and give himself to
                    her.
 His mind whispered, God help us, and the
wolf threw back its head and howled through
        the rushing autumn morning.
Her scent lay close to the ground, wrapped in
 other smells, Kevin's humid freshness, and
the old, smoky odor of another body. Had she
hired a guide? It was certainly possible. After
    her experiences camping with him, her
 distrust of the woods had become profound.
  As he climbed the path beside the spraying
falls he became more and more uneasy. What
would happen when they met? Could there be
   a real relationship? He imagined himself
  sitting in the living room, Kevin reading to
 him in that fluttery boy's voice of his. Or his
  dinner, pretty on one of the yellow checked
place mats and a china plate, on which might
be beef stew with a side of endive salad and a
bowl of red wine, all neatly laid in a corner of
the kitchen floor. There would be signals, nod
     to turn a page when he was reading by
 himself, a couple of taps to open a door, and
 it was all a pipe dream because in fact there
would be no money and all the problems with
  the police and the ASPCA and heaven only
                  knew who else.
 But Cindy was a terrific person, she could
 solve problems. The only thing she'd never
been able to do was hold down a job. She was
  too stubborn and proud to get along with
                   bosses.
He climbed so easily, a free wolf in the air of
morning, that he reached the top of the falls
far more quickly than he had as a man, and
 with no gasping, no scrabbling, no skinned
  hands or dubious pains in his knees. This
    body was wonderful to feel and be.
    Now their odor became strong. His nose
  directed him to their sleeping forms. Going
 softly closer, he inhaled the most amazingly
   intimate odors from them. He could smell
    everything, their sweat, the grease of the
  hamburgers they had eaten for supper, the
 light acidic content of his son's stomach, the
fouler odor of the man's belly with its must of
    digested beer, and Cindy's contents, sour
   dairy: she'd had ice cream for dessert. He
  loved her harder; when she was sad she ate
                    ice cream.
       He did not want her to be sad.
    With the total clarity that these things
  sometimes bring, he knew exactly what he
had to do. There just couldn't be any question
  about it. This woman, this poor little boy,
were his family. That meant more to him than
life itself, than anything that had transpired.
  His skin crawled when he remembered his
desire to commit suicide. How great a sin that
    would have been against these beloved
   sleepers. Look at them: Cindy with that
 amazingly pure skin of hers. How madly he
 had loved that skin. He could smell it now in
heady detail. The lives of scented beasts were
                   so intimate.
 Odors that might once have seemed foul to
him no longer seemed at all bad, not even the
  sour, unwashed stink of the man who was
with them. Odors were not characterizable as
  good and bad. They were too complex and
 interesting. Just the smell of that man—he
 couldn't even count the number of separate
   odors involved. There were thousands. A
 whole art must exist in potential around the
    selection and orchestration of scents.
 Still, though, as much as he enjoyed his wolf,
 it was time to make a final and heroic effort
    on behalf of real life. As soon as he had
smelled Cindy there came to him the definite
sense that the wolf was on some level less real
than the human had been. It was a wonderful
 body, true, but it was also primitive, totally
unsuited to a man of poetry and thought. He,
who sometimes spoke well, had been reduced
to a rude state indeed, given this minor voice,
 capable of no formed words, and the crude
paws for hands, paws that could never write a
                     line.
And yet he was in here, full of thoughts that
ought to be written, love and hope to speak,
defenses and challenges, all made of words.
He wanted to love his wife, to love his son, to
       somehow apologize to them.
When the man with them moved, Bob knew
 he was awake. How long had he been lying
  there watching him snuffle his family? A
   great moon face came oozing out of the
  blankets, rimmed by black hair. The eyes
were tiny and as dark as obsidian. What was
this man, Hispanic? No, Bob knew an Indian
              when he saw one.
 An Indian. How interesting that Cindy had
gotten an Indian. Where in the world had she
  found him, this man who moved so slowly
that it was hard for wolf eyes to follow him?
   Then he was on his feet. A swift, watery
motion. Scary. Up close, human beings were
tall and alien, their heads so far away, their
      faces terrifying with knowledge.
 The Indian stood absolutely still. His face,
   though, was dark with staring. He was
absolutely concentrated on Bob. His stillness
made him hard to keep in the eye; this man
         knew something of wolves.
    One reason that men were so scary was
  obviously that they were dangerous. There
was another reason, though, one it was hard
 to put into words. It had to do with the very
   animation of their faces. They looked too
  aware. And he knew they were: the human
  mind has gotten lost; it has strayed too far
      from its wild origins. Animals were
distinguished by their concentration on what
was in front of them. The human mind went
 back and forth, in and out, complicating. It
could not find anymore the shadow upon the
                     grass.
 The wind soughed across the mountain, the
falls sounded like glass. In Bob's nostrils were
   the smells of water and stone, and of his
beloved family. The light had taken on a rosy
 grayness, and a sparrow twittered nearby.
  Why in this sweet morning was the man
             moving like that?
 He wanted to kiss Cindy, to hold her, to feel
     her snuggling against his breast.
     The Indian came closer, oozing like
   heat-softened plastic, his arms and legs
seeming almost jointless. "Shape-shifter," he
whispered. "Shape-shifter, please tell me your
                  secret."
To calm the man, Bob sat firmly down on his
haunches. He let his jaw drop and his tongue
hang out. His face was not very mobile but he
thought he must be smiling. He yapped once,
        trying to awaken his family.
  "Shh! Tell me before they open their eyes.
   Think what it would mean to my people,
 shape-shifter. Think what it would mean!"
 He squatted before Bob, his hands open and
  pleading. His face tightened, his lips drew
 back. Bob could see his skull, and his death,
  and the long quiet years in the ground. He
 had a clear notion: The body belongs to the
  ground, and the ground knows it. "Please,
shape-shifter, give me a sign." He screwed his
 eyes closed, his hands were begging claws.
"Think what it would mean to us. We Indians
could change into wolves and foxes and deer,
    and we could go back to the forest!"
 Bob was startled enough to growl sharply.
The man's eyes bulged wide open. "You—you
understood?" The wind swept down, ruffling
 Bob's fur, making the man squint. "Snow's
                 coming!"
    Kevin leaped out of his sleeping bag and
    threw his arms around his father's neck,
   kissing him wildly, his tears filled with the
     smell of the ocean and his skin with the
 fragile scent of youth. Then Cindy was there,
 too, and she kissed the side of his muzzle, his
lips with careful, determined sensuality. "You
never run from me again," she said, her voice
               going low. "Never!"
 He looked at her. Before the knowledge that
       he now faced, he felt ashamed.
He could not live in the human world, not as a
  wolf, not as a dog. As much as he missed
  Cindy and Kevin, he didn't even want to
           become human again.
 You, wolf, will be back to making cold calls
from that stuffy office, the man at the bottom
       of the Empire State Building.
He snarled at the Indian, who had produced a
 little straw packet, which he was opening.
 "We've tried shifting a million times. I used
   to do it when I was a kid. I wanted to be
 anything except an Indian. If I'd been able, I
 think I'd willingly have turned myself into a
 lawn mower. As it was, I tried for hawk, for
eagle, for wolf, for deer, for panther. All I got
 was burned hands when my ritual fire blew
                      up."
He spoke as if Bob could not understand him.
Bob had gone up on all fours, and made sure
he was between the people and the mountain.
His instinct wouldn't let him be comfortable
with the falls behind and three human beings
                blocking escape.
He was ashamed of himself when the notion
  of simply trotting off flashed through his
mind. The Indian could probably track him,
but he could never catch him, not without an
     off-the-road vehicle or an airplane.
   He heard Cindy muttering to herself, her
words inarticulate. It would hurt so much less
  if she wouldn't pray. Her religion, like his,
was indifference. They were lapsed Catholics,
both of them, full of quiet pride that they had
solved the algorithm of guilt so well that they
 could enjoy the croissant Sundays that kept
           them home from church.
Until now Bob had not understood quite what
it was that distanced him, from the church. A
  few days in the bright shock of a new form
had made it all clear, though: on a planet that
so obviously needed the love and protection of
   its most clever species, a heaven-directed
church seemed anachronistic, its indifference
   to the welfare of the earth fundamentally
                  invalidating.
When the Indian began shaking a carved stick
over a fire, a fine pin of unease entered Bob's
mind. Religion may or may not be invalid, but
   rituals aren't hollow. In the hands of the
believer, the ritual is a powerful force indeed.
On its deepest level Bob's change had been a
matter of the wall against this kind of belief
       breaking down in him. His first
 transformation, in the hotel in Atlanta, may
 indeed have been imaginary. Because it was
   so realistic, though, he had believed in it.
    After that, everything else had become
                    inevitable.
    He stared transfixed at the Indian's
preparations. Western culture had destroyed
 the Indians because it had destroyed their
   ability to believe in their own magic.
 All the Indian had to do was to transform
  Bob back into a man and all of his magic
would work for him again, because his success
   would strengthen his belief. The tribes,
 broken in spirit, would spring back to life.
   At the end of the stick that danced in the
  Indian's hand was a tiny dancing man. He
stared at the naked thing. Was it wax or real?
It had no face, or perhaps the face was simply
        too small for wolf eyes to see.
 He thought of the ritual deaths of kings. To
give the Indian back his birthright, the wolf
would have to die. The man at the end of the
 stick danced, a slow and regular dance, as
graceful as the drifting of a finger in the sea.
 He was a weed of a little man, down at the
               murky bottom.
His arms rose and fell, his legs flashed in the
spreading light. Kevin cried aloud, clutching
  down into the folds of his mother. A crow
 landed nearby. Bob smelled rabbits on the
wind, and wondered how far away they might
                     be.
  He didn't wonder long though. The Indian
   kept chanting, shaking his stick, and Bob
 knew that there was another smell in the air,
 a human smell, small and intense. There was
 a suffering, real man at the end of the stick.
    He wept as he danced, the same awful,
     universal mourning that made Lewis
    Carroll's Mock Turtle such a figure of
childhood dread. The weeping without reason
 and therefore without consolation, reflected
          in the tears of the Indian.
 Bob felt the movement within and knew that
the man was striving to escape as the wolf had
  escaped. He sensed the crow alight from its
 food gathering, sensed the rabbits across the
 mountain grow still, sensed the failure of the
 wind and the stopping of the leaves. He had
 known a body that saw by eyes and one that
saw by nose. It was difficult to imagine how
the planet saw and felt and knew: the whole
of life was its mind, its nerves, its vision. The
    earth was a great cyclopean eye rolling
  through space, looking out into the void.
  What awful consciousness had urged the
spawning of man, or more, had ordered him
       to become what he had become?
He felt anger rushing through the stillness. No
  wonder the tiny man cried, no wonder the
  Indian cried, no wonder his son hid in his
 mother and the crow became silent. Within
   him the man rose and clambered, stuffed
himself into the shape of the wolf, and he felt
his muscles longing to stretch, his skin longing
    to shed its stuffy fur and spread to the
  caressing air. His stomach did a grotesque
  turn. Green-flecked vomit burst out of his
  mouth and he stood tottering, a tall, naked
   man who could not help but dance to the
     command of an Indian with a stick.
    The Indian threw the stick down and
 screamed. Cindy cried out, Kevin shrieked,
and Bob saw a chance of madness in the poor
                child's eyes.
   His scream, his father's anguish, spread
 through the silence as quickly as an atomic
expansion. Then, as quickly as a trap taking a
 rat, the wolf snapped back around Bob and
    he fell down, his jaw working, growls
  scumbling in the thick mucus that was the
    waste matter of these furious changes.
"Bob, Bob!" Letting her boy fall aside, Cindy
 rose up. Her face was distorted to a Hydra
 grimace, her hands were working in his fur
  like snakes, her body bursting with thick
               panicky stench.
"Bob, please come back to us." Her voice was
  not steady. She was thinking fast. "I never
   expected you wouldn't want to. You don't
     though, you don't! Oh, Bob, you got a
rejection from the Poetry Review, but it was a
  personal letter. Bob, they asked if you were
aware of the Imagists. I sent a reply, I said yes,
 but you didn't care for Amy Clampitt. Was I
right, Bob? Oh, come back to your life. Come
  back to us." Then her voice broke and she
      sank down, miserable on the stones.
 The world seemed not to have noticed. The
 falls still spattered, the crow still worried a
berry bush. But Bob knew the lie in that, he
  had sensed the tension in its watching.
                  "Dad—"
 It was agony to hear their pleading. Even to
    glance into his son's eyes was torment.
"Dad, please. Please. I need you, Dad, I miss
you. I can't even read anymore, not without
  you at home. I can't draw. All I draw is
                   black."
 The Indian was lying on his back, staring at
  the sky. His breathing was so even, Bob
      thought he might be in a coma.
  He must not prolong this torment. With a
 bitter heart, hating himself for what he did,
  he turned away from them. There was no
 sound behind him. Over his shoulder he saw
  Cindy slumped on the ground. Kevin was
 watching him with a sorrow in his face that
no child should know. Bob could not say why,
  but his deepest instincts, wolf and human,
 were all telling him to do this, to leave them,
              to run into the wild.
He did run, farther and farther, until the last
        edge of their scent was gone.
    All day he ran, stopping only to steal a
chicken from a yard in High Falls, New York.
Toward afternoon it began to snow. He ran as
much toward the wilderness as away from his
family and his former life. Somewhere in him
a brute voice shouted that it was free, shouted
           down the driving snow.
  He heard the flakes hiss on the hemlock
boughs, felt them snap cold on his nose. As he
   ran the world changed from the last of
    autumn to the first of winter, and all
 memories, all desires, were covered with a
               kindness of snow.
                Chapter Nineteen
Days stretched on days as Bob moved steadily
 north. He became a cunning hunter, quick
   and mean, and clever at avoiding men.
Winter came, wet at first and then rich with
 snow. Sometimes he heard Cindy's name in
 the wind, or saw the sorrow in Kevin's eye,
  but he ran on, obedient to the wolf that he
              was, and the wild.
He was in the deep north now, and the snow
hissed in the hemlocks and pines, it roared
 past the naked limbs of oak and maple, it
 swirled in the glades and blew hard against
                  his flanks.
  His coat had grown thick and full. Only his
nose was cold, and it was tormented. When he
  could bear the twirling knife of the wind no
 longer, he would curl up with his back to the
 blizzard and bury his muzzle in his paws. He
could remain like that for hours, until he was
  entirely covered by a blue, icy translucence.
 Then it was quiet, and he experienced a deep
                feeling of safety.
    Every morning, when thin light would
  penetrate the sky, the urge to move would
possess him once more. He would break out of
 the snow and shake himself, feeling the cold
   air penetrate all the way to his skin. Thus
 refreshed, he would sniff the air, seeking the
   musk of an opossum or the rabbit odor.
  The colder it got, the less often he smelled
  anything beyond the smooth aroma of the
                     snow.
  There was something in his soul that was
 urging him north. He did not know what it
 was, but it drew him, dragged him, forced
 him when he was tired. His nose ceaselessly
   tested the air for something he could not
 name. Cindy and Kevin had become glowing
statues in his memory. The brutal labor of his
 journey, the snow, the clarity of his struggle
 had sliced away all sentiment. His blood was
 no longer attached to his family; it belonged
     to whatever goal lay at the end of this
                    journey.
  But then he would hear the wind, and her
                 name. . . .
  He loved something out here, something he
 could not name. Maybe it was the wild itself,
the whole complex, restless personality of life,
   or maybe it was his new wolf nature—so
urgent, so fundamentally decent—or maybe it
 was wolves in general, even the beautiful act
                 of hunting.
    Finding and killing game was the highest
  experience he had ever known, higher even
 than riding Cindy in the soft summer nights.
  There was something at once so terrible and
so beautiful about biting the life out of a little
creature that he quaked inside just to think of
 it. In his life before he had never seen sorrow
   like the sorrow that entered the eyes of an
animal he was killing, nor had he ever felt the
      fire that eating a kill gave him.
It is the life of the killed thing that is eaten, as
    much as the blood and meat and bone.
By the time he reached the high Adirondacks
the weather was so cold that the fur framing
his face froze at its tips. The pads of his paws
 had fissures in them that revealed deep red
wounds, and he left pink flecks of blood in his
 tracks. Game was scarce indeed, and he was
             becoming famished.
  Despite his doubts and the conditions, his
  progress had taken on a kind of hypnotic
quality. From the gray hours before dawn to
  the gray hours after sunset he would lope
   steadily along, stopping to hunt when he
    scented the opportunity. He would eat
anything—rat, opossum, rabbit, raccoon. He
 avoided skunks and porcupines. Deer were
  too fast for him, and the idea of trying to
attack something with sharp little hooves was
                  unsettling.
In the past few weeks he reckoned that he had
come at least five hundred miles. As he moved
 along he altered his course to the northwest.
  Sooner or later he knew that he must cross
   the St. Lawrence Seaway. He would not
   attempt to swim. He was hoping that he
   would reach it after the seasonal ice had
closed it. If not, then he would have to wait on
         the American side until it did.
  He had been without food for six days when
  he detected a powerful, greasy odor coming
 out of a tumble of rocks. He'd never smelled
     anything like it before. Strong smells
delighted him, and this one was so strong that
it made him shudder all over. His impulse was
 to rub himself with it, to wear it like a sort of
talisman. It was extremely rich with meat and
                     blood.
He looked toward the rocks. How odd that the
odor came from there. Such a powerful smell,
   rolling over him in waves, had to emanate
from a large animal. But what could it be? He
 would see a deer or a moose. Stiff-legged, he
  stole closer. Still there was nothing, and yet
    the odor was literally pouring out of the
        rocks. It was strange enough to be
 frightening. Had he not been so hungry, Bob
           would have left this place.
 The rocks were contorted razors. They cut
painfully into Bob's paws, and he slipped on
 the ice, skinning his spindly lower legs. But
  that scent: he visualized a whole mass of
animals, rich game, incredibly rich. His drool
               froze on his chin.
It was not long before he located a den in the
   roots of an enormous hickory. The den
  opening was large enough for him to walk
                  through.
   A large black bear came swarming out at
 him, its eyes beads of fury and hate, its voice
    booming against the snow-muffled land.
  There was no warning, no waiting. Before
    Bob could do more than utter a bark of
 surprise, the bear had taken a hissing swipe
with the claws of his right paw. Bob narrowly
escaped the speeding, black nails. He skittered
    back, fell, tumbled backward. The bear
   literally leaped through the air in its mad
  urgency to attack. For a moment the whole
  huge beast hung above him, its front paws
 spread wide, its lips revealing yellow, vicious
                      teeth.
The smell that cascaded down from the bear
was lovely, an art of meat and wonderful, rich
  grease and blood. As Bob tried to tumble
     away the bear landed on him with a
 thunderous crash. Now Bob was under the
       creature, his breath knocked out,
half-stunned by the power of the blow, feeling
   his bones bending to break beneath the
       horrendous weight of the animal.
 Beneath his compressed body he could feel a
 tangle of frozen brush. It was a crack in the
  rocks. As the bear struggled to get its huge
  forelegs around him, he tried to dig down,
   grappling at the twigs with clumsy paws.
Frantically, he scrambled out from under the
  bear. A swipe of one of its paws connected
 with his injured thigh, reopening the wound
  with a flash of pain so great that he almost
lost consciousness. He spun round and round,
tumbling down the rocks, stopping only when
   he landed upside down against a spindly
    rowan. The bear stood in front of him,
                 swaying from
 side to side. He could hear its claws clicking,
and the moaning of the wind across the top of
  the ridge behind it. Looking into the bear's
  blank, glittering eyes, he felt very alone and
 very lost. In all the wild he was, after all, the
  only truly aberrant creature. This bear was
savage, its eyes said. And its eyes also said that
it had no mind. If he died here, it was going to
    be a lonely, hard death. But were not all
  deaths in the forest such? And he would die
 having had one of the highest of experiences:
to be a raw animal, in the body of the animal,
    with all his human consciousness intact.
Cindy ... the wind said. He shook his head and
 snorted. At a moment like this, the human
 world must not be allowed to intrude. If he
  was to survive, he had to fight as a wolf.
The bear sucked him up in its deadly hug, and
   began dancing ponderously through the
snow-choked clearing that bordered the stony
hill. He smelled its breath and heard the dark
thudding of its feet in the soft snow. Then sun
came out, and shone golden on its coat. In the
  rich new light Bob struggled and snapped,
 trying to connect with some vital part of the
     monster, while it crushed out his life.
His chest was closed off and his nose began to
pulse with trapped blood. He could no longer
breathe, and it felt as if his head was going to
 explode. A torment of air hunger made him
     writhe. He felt his bowels give way.
  His teeth kept meeting air, but the bear's
 claws did not meet air. Instead they twisted
   and dug under the skin of his shoulder,
  piercing toward essential gristle. In great
agony, he screamed. The bear replied with a
   mournful, inexpressibly savage moan. It
tightened his grip on him, and he saw Cindy
  coming up the clearing with a gun in her
                    hand.
  His heart battered against the walls of his
 chest, he felt his legs scrabbling through the
 bear's fur. Cindy raised her rifle—and then
   disappeared into the crystal air. At that
  moment he came close to complete despair.
The bear was killing him, and she had been a
death dream, nothing more. Had he been able
to shout, he would have called her name, but
 in the event, all that escaped from him were
               high, sucking cries.
     His body turned and his legs kicked
   frantically. The bear danced round and
   round, moaning as it brought its muzzle
   closer to his neck. He could feel its bear
breath on his face, could smell an intimacy of
 berries and old fish. His body was -wiped in
  the animal's grease. The odor of bear that
 had drawn this ignorant wolf too close now
          became a loathsome smell.
  He probed dismally into the wall of coarse
  fur, snapped with half his strength. To his
 surprise the bear tossed its head back, then
 bit at him angrily. For a moment the two of
 them were cheek to cheek. He could see his
   own reflection in the bear's savage eye.
Twisting his head, he drove a canine deep into
that eye. There was a loose pop as of a finger
 jabbing through many layers of tight, wet
   paper and this time the bear screamed
horribly, throwing its head back, the remains
  of its eye dangling along its cheek. A claw
drew across Bob's back, the nails going deep.
 It would have been less painful to have his
          skin trenched by hot irons.
The pain was so great that he forgot himself.
 His head shook from side to side, his jaws
snapped and snapped. All control was gone.
Then he was lying on the ground and the bear
   was glaring down at him, shrieking and
 gasping. Half of its face was torn away. Bob
 could see teeth and muscles, and the tongue
 working in the mouth. In his own mouth he
    tasted filthy hair and rich, rich meat.
 Almost without being aware of it he leaped
   right at the creature, driving his furious
  muzzle deep into the flesh of the belly, into
reefs of sticky fat, then deeper into the wall of
   tight muscle beneath it and the steaming
  organs at the final depth. With a roar the
 bear grabbed him in both paws and heaved
 him away. Bob slammed against a boulder,
 was covered in a cascade of snow, and came
    forth wild with a fury he could neither
            control nor understand.
  Shaking, his ears back, the skin of his neck
stiff and full of shivers, his tail close down, he
    ran at the tottering bear and grabbed a
 purple loop of intestine protruding from the
hole in its belly. The gasping creature savaged
    him again, kicking him away. This time,
though, he drew the bear's vitals with him, his
       jaws clamped hard around them.
By pushing him away, the animal had gutted
  itself. It stood to its full four feet of height
and waved its forelegs in the air, looking very
much like a man wearing a bearskin. Then it
 began to claw at its own belly. A torrent of
      dark blood poured out of its mouth.
 Surprised, it snapped its jaws shut. Its eyes
 were sad now. Slowly, it sat on its haunches,
swaying from side to side, staring at the wolf
                 that had killed it.
   With a final moan of rage, it threw itself
   toward him. By the time its great, bloody
 body had covered him, it was dead. Bob lay
 beneath it, in the heat of its blood and offal.
   He struggled a time to free himself, but a
 tiredness so profound that it seemed itself a
kind of death overcame him and he closed his
                      eyes.
   He dreamed of the kindness of a balmy
goddess, who touched him mercifully where
he hurt. She touched him with long, golden
 fingers, probing so gently into his wounds
  that he felt naught, filling them with the
       sparkling medicine of heaven.
    When he awoke, it was from coldness
bothering his nose. It was snowing again, and
  the bear was no longer covering his body.
He opened his eyes to piercing gray light. The
    blizzard had blown itself out, leaving a
 residue of flurries drifting down from high
  clouds. When Bob raised his head, he was
   astonished to see the remains of the bear
 scattered all around him. He snorted, stood
                      up.
 At once he yelped; every part of him ached,
  especially his chest and back. His old thigh
wound was better, perhaps because the bear's
clawing had lanced it and drained away some
                of the infection.
  He took personal inventory: he had at least
 two cracked ribs, possibly a broken one. His
  shoulder was hard with swelling and scab.
 When he shuddered his skin, his back felt as
 solid as a board. Looking as far as he could
over his shoulder, he saw a mass of scab there.
   He was literally encased in dried blood.
The bear was in pieces around him. The huge
 creature had been pulled apart by experts,
and eaten. The organs were all gone, most of
 the meat and fat had been consumed, even
 the bones of the legs had been cracked and
              the marrow eaten.
Bob saw in the snow tracks very much like his
own, dozens of them. His heart started racing:
     wolves! Then he smelled the finest, the
  sweetest, the most exciting odor he had ever
 known. He barked five or six times, he did a
 crutchy dance of excitement. Wolves, he was
 in wolf country! Sheer happiness burst up in
 his heart, making his injuries seem light, his
   trouble seem small. Wolves, you could feel
them, all around. His heart was weighted with
                love and longing.
This was the nameless thing that had come to
dominate his life, had separated him from his
   family and drawn him all of these brutal
 miles. They smelled wonderful. It was much
   more than an odor or a perfume, it was a
scent connected directly to his soul. There was
no way to describe it, except to say that it was
to normal odor as the sight of heaven must be
    to hell-weary eyes. Again and again he
  inhaled. Wonderful. Love. His heart burst
                   with joy.
  Then he found himself throwing back his
 head and howling. The sound that came out
    was not restricted as it had been before,
controlled by the uneasy human consciousness
 that was so quickly becoming a supercargo.
Now the sound rose fine and tight as a needle
   piercing the sky. It shaped itself to a long
  sonic spire, then spread out like a flower in
 the light air, flowing softly across the frozen
                      land.
     It evaporated into silence. Bob was
 disappointed. Where were the wolves? Why
           wouldn't they answer?
                Then they did.
Echoing across the far hills, sweeping past the
naked limbs of the trees, as cool, as sharp, as
  delicate . . . the answer came, and his tail
                  twirled wildly.
 He had been spoken to across the miles by a
real, living wolf! He had spoken wolf-to-wolf!
  As a wolf he was here in this place, and he
   was one with the whole kingdom of the
                    wolves.
  The howl died away, ending on a low note
that carried in its tone a text of warning. Bob
howled back at once, all of his excitement and
  joy flowing into the soft, curving sound.
The reply came as quick, from the north and
 from many wolf throats, a high scream of a
  note, speaking volumes of subtle language,
 building pictures in his mind of limpid eyes
and fast teeth. Was this alien speech rejection
   or welcome? He listened and their voices
   touched him to the bottom of his life. He
   wanted to be among them, to be one with
   them, to love them and live among them.
 Cindy, they're wonderful, they're like gods!
                  Cindy, I—
               I still miss you.
But he started out at once, tracking them with
              a competent nose.
 Even though he was still in New York State,
he'd encountered a wolf pack! A big one too,
judging from the number of different voices
   in their howl. He found himself looking
around for a pay phone to call Cindy and tell
 her to get in touch with the Department of
Environmental Conservation. Wolves in New
     York: what good, what happy news.
Then he thought: maybe DEC already knows.
 What if they did tell the public? Would not
 people come forth with their guns, eager for
  trophies, eager to kill the evil thing of the
forest? No, the presence of these wolves must
  remain a secret. In their world they were
powerful, they were kings, but in man's world
     he had to remember that they were
 vulnerable little creatures without a future.
   He smelled them again, this time when the
  wind blew from behind him. This scent was
stronger and he detected in it something new,
      something so exciting that he almost
   collapsed. A female odor, definite, musky,
deep as wood, so intense that for a moment he
   could actually see her, the face of perfect
 beauty, its sleek snout, its fine, black ball of a
  nose, and the heartbreaking line of the eyes,
so expressive and subtle. He was embarrassed,
confused. This was not a woman's face, but it
 was the most feminine face he had ever seen.
All of his knowledge of wolves arrayed itself.
before him. The books sped past in memory:
Of Wolves and Men. Erik Zimens's The Wolf:
 A Species in Danger, the work of Dan Mech.
    He remembered his time in northern
  Minnesota, the wolf he had seen, and his
 dreams of wolves, his lifelong wandering in
the shadows of his own desires. Now he ran, a
wolf at last, seeking what his soul had wanted,
     maybe from the very beginning of its
    existence, which was to fulfill this odd
                    destiny.
 The wolf pack is a tightly knit organization,
  made up of animals who have known one
another from birth. It is not generally open to
 strangers. Wolves are fierce territorialists,
   protecting their hunting grounds from
outsiders. They are expert fighters. They have
      a strict and elaborate hierarchy.
He followed the trench of tracks in the snow,
 never losing it for more than a few seconds,
 his nose drawing him after them with great
accuracy. As he moved along, he thought he
could smell other wolves much more clearly
 than he could anything else, almost as if his
nose was more perfectly adapted to this odor
              than to any other.
  He did not move fast. If he ran, his back,
   shoulder and thigh hurt, and when he
 breathed deeply, his ribs wrapped him in a
band of pain. Trotting along, he again scented
the female. Something turned in his loins, and
   he moved faster despite the pain. He was
astonished at himself. He was having a strong
  sexual stirring. This was the mating season
 for wolves, or the beginning of it. He did not
   feel the steamy sense of desire that Cindy
 evoked in him. This was more pure than the
  inventive love of humans: this was lust in a
 form so simple that it was perfectly clean; it
       was sex devoid of all but purpose.
     His desire made him imagine the gentle
  aroma of cubs, feel their soft fur. He had to
  father cubs, had to! He gasped as he ran, he
    panted even in the cold. His desire came
    cracking through the layers of self: cubs,
      cubs, cubs. She was in heat, she was a
 goddess, and he had to have her. He stopped,
raised his muzzle, and howled. In that howl he
   knew that there was more than quest and
  loneliness, there was also a challenge he was
               helpless to suppress.
The replying howl washed over him, a tumult
 of passion, and it was not kindly passion. It
 was fierce and immediate and full of snarl.
Behind it was fear, and he knew that he was
  approaching them too directly. A pack of
 wolves is an ancient and very subtle social
structure, governed by rituals and laws that
must go back in an unbroken tradition to the
         very origin of the species.
There were things in that howl that made Bob
stop and listen most carefully. Terrible things,
 anger, bitterness, suspicion. There was also a
pride so great that it awed him. The howl was
   rich and full and decisive, beginning and
  ending with a single, great tone. It was the
              voice of the leader.
   Bob ignored the warning in the howl, the
 implication of murder. He had to; he could
  not bear to think that the wolves would do
    him any injury. After all, had not that
wonderful female in her kindness licked him?
    Hadn't she? What healing she had in
   her—were it not for her, he would have
  awakened in great anguish. As it was, her
tongue had accomplished significant healing.
He could move and he was certainly not going
                    to die.
 For hours and hours he followed the trail of
the pack. They were going north, farther and
 farther, never stopping, never even reducing
   their pace. He had prided himself on his
speed and range, but these wolves were much
faster than he. He believed that they had gone
 as far as forty miles last night. Evidently the
odor of the bear had been strong enough and
  unusual enough to bring them out of their
     normal territory, to which they were
              nervously returning.
   It was just getting to be evening when he
found himself at the edge of the forest. Before
          him was the St. Lawrence.
   He looked out across the tumult of ice.
The seaway must be at least a mile wide here.
It was a white, tumbled emptiness, cracking
 and thundering as the current underneath
       shifted the ice floating on top.
 On the far edge of the ice, where it softened
    into a smooth, snowy strand, he saw
 something that stood his hair on end. There
   were at least a dozen black dots there.
   On a nearby bush there were a group of
 strong scent marks, pungent, redolent with
 the particular urine odor of this pack. It was
  not a bad scent. It was sour and warm and
penetrating. Interesting. He sniffed carefully.
Then his body did something that he did not
   expect: it raised its leg and urinated,
    obliterating the territorial marker.
The wolves on the far bank had become very
still, and were now hard to see, a fuzzy clutch
    of black blurs in the winter emptiness.
He smelled them, raised his head, and howled
again. They howled back, angry, afraid, full
               of warning.
His answer was the only one he could give: he
trotted out onto the frozen water. Whatever
   happened, he had to try and join these
                   wolves.
They were the center and purpose of his life,
     he now understood that clearly.
They howled again. The sound was frank with
 menace. Bob lowered his head against the
  vicious wind. The time had come to face
                   them.
                 Chapter Twenty
The stack of filthy dishes teetered on the edge
 of the counter. Cindy turned, snatching at
 them. Her uniform snagged against a loose
corner and she went down amid a cascade of
 plates, cups, silverware, hamburger crusts,
           and wet cigarette butts.
 She sat there in the rubble contemplating a
 half-eaten pancake that had adhered to her
  apron. From the other end of the counter
  Louie Parma, the owner of Parma Lunch,
clapped, a series of dismal pops. Misery swept
   Cindy. She got up, murmuring a "sorry,
 Louie," and started picking up the shards. A
piece of glass jabbed her finger. A convulsive
jerk caused her morning's tips—a dozen or so
quarters and dimes—to fall out of her pocket
and roll away among the chipped and broken
        dishes. "Sorry, Louie, sorry."
  She shook the tears from her eyes. As she
 started organizing the rubble into a pile she
  saw Louie's neatly polished shoes appear.
    "How much?" he asked, pointing a toe
          toward some of her coins.
                "Six dollars."
 "I'll take that and dock you another twelve,
               we'll be even."
"Okay, Louie." Her salary was five dollars an
 hour and she'd been here since 6:00 A.M. It
 was now eleven, which meant that less these
 deductions, she'd cleared only seven dollars
 on the morning. That was important, vitally
  so: Kevin would have to eat the last of the
 spaghetti tonight; she would skip the meal.
   No matter what, she was not going to call
   Monica. The woman was slowly coming
     undone, tortured by her inability to
 understand what had happened to Bob, and
  unable to enlist the aid of any of her fellow
scientists and doctors in her research. Monica
  was now a haunted woman, her practice in
ruins, her wealth disappearing into the well of
   what the rest of her profession saw as an
                 insane quest.
  Monica was no longer a source of money,
support, or anything else. Cindy felt so sorry
 for her, but there was nothing she could do.
Her concern was finding Bob again and really
  communicating with him. Only then, with
 him and understanding him, could she and
       Kevin hope to have any peace.
  Joe Running Fox, also, was obsessed with
him. He had guided them to Olana and then
disappeared—when was it, in February? Yes,
     and here it was the end of March.
Joe knew that Bob was somewhere near here.
If Joe found him, Cindy knew that he would
be back. As it was, he lived out in the snow, a
 frostbitten ruin of a man, almost an animal
himself. He prayed to the old Indian gods. He
                   searched.
As she dumped the remains of the plates into
 a gray busman's tray, she remembered that
she would still be able to keep her lunch tips,
  which might be as much as eight dollars if
 those darned highway engineers didn't take
  up table one the whole time and not leave
               anything again.
She took her mess out back herself, not caring
 to confront Willie Clair, the dishwasher and
busman, with the results of her mistake. He'd
scream at her, then subside, walking back and
  forth slapping his hands against his thighs
                 and cursing.
 When she opened the back door, a blast of
wind made her stagger. She glanced up, into
   the clear, frozen air. Immediately beyond
  Ontario Street the forest began. She looked
 into the blue, shadowed fastness of it. Week
     after week she had walked this forest,
 through what seemed an endless winter. She
 had come to see it as intractable, hostile, and
joyless. It was devoid of poetry, of hope: in all
   the weeks of her searching she had heard
          wolves howling exactly once.
She and Kevin were fugitives from ordinary
   life. He was no longer in school. He had
 become fierce and domineering. Night after
night he awoke screaming, so often that they
could not keep a room for long. They'd about
  used up Olana, as a matter of fact, moving
 from the Gracey Hotel to Mrs. Winslow's to
 the Indian Inn, where the puffy, woebegone
  Sim Jones was beginning to shake his head
           whenever he saw the boy.
"Cindy, you got customers," shouted Louie.
 "On my way, Lou!" Table one was occupied
 by two people, a thin, sallow woman with a
 cigarette between her fingers and a big man
who looked like a wax effigy of himself. That
table was the big one. "Hi, folks," Cindy said,
 "sure you don't want a booth?" Seeing two
people at his big table would put Louie into a
     funk for the rest of the afternoon.
   "This's fine," the woman said. "Gimme
     coffee and one of them nut rolls."
     "Coffee and you got cherry pie?"
           "Yes, sir, we sure do."
 "I want apple. Cherry's too damn sweet."
 The woman laughed. "What do you do that
 for, Bud? You always do that. 'Got coffee?'
 'Yeah.' 'Gimme tea.' I couldn't believe that
   when you first did it." She looked up at
   Cindy, smoke rising from her wide, tight
     smile. "Can you believe this man?"
  Cindy smiled. She did not laugh. It would
 take an extra tip to get that out of her. She
   turned and posted the order on Louie's
turnstile. His face, already dark over the loss
 of the big table, darkened further when the
   highway engineers came blundering in,
  knotted in the doorway, and stared at the
   table. There were mutters. One of them
nodded his head and the group left, tramping
  back into the snow, headed no doubt for
Clasby's down at the other end of Ontario, or
for the McDonald's that stood near the high
                  school.
 Louie shook his head. "You got no sense," he
said bitterly. "There goes twenty-five bucks if
it's a dollar. What the hell am I gonna do with
    all the extra hamburger I got in for those
                     guys?"
                  "Eat it."
           "Gimme a kiss, cutie."
 She thought how nice it would be to take a
whip to Louie's great lardbag of a rump. She
could imagine his flesh rippling and his voice
  cracking while she did to him in the body
  what he was doing to her in the soul. He's
paying me and I hate him, she thought. Isn't
  that typical, ungrateful bitch that I am?
 "C'mon." He made yet another halfhearted
snatch at her. Then his eyes met hers, his big
animal eyes. The Indian had called her hawk,
  Bob wolf, Kevin owl. This was hyena, this
 sweat-sheened short-order cook with a fleck
  of tobacco from his long-chewed morning
cigar still adhering to one of his front teeth.
  She shook her head, backing away from
 Louie. There was no use yearning for Bob.
 Even if she managed to find him again, he
   would no doubt run away once more.
  At first she had been furious with him, but
time had made it more clear that he'd seen no
  alternative. How could she house him, feed
       him? And what about their love?
 There was a man in that wolf body, and she
   loved the man. But the animal—it was
     mysterious and, frankly, horrible.
There was no time to think about these things
  now: she had another table to work: Big
  Charlie Tolner had just come in with his
brother Little Charlie from their garage over
                 on LaSalle.
 That made Louie happy again: the Charlies
 tended to favor Clasby with their business.
    "You guys walk? I ain't seen a car."
"My truck's busted," Big Charlie said. "So's
his. We's out last weekend after us a moose,
ha-ha. Almost got us a wolf. They're comin'
 down farther every year. Not enough deer
    and moose up in Ontario, I expect."
Cindy might as well have been dealt a blow to
the side of the head. She took a large, unlikely
    step, slopping coffee out of both mugs,
  ruining the piece of cherry pie she had just
                      cut.
 "Wolves," she managed to croak. "Charlie,
      did you say you saw a wolf?"
   "Big black fella, thin as hell, standin' up
  beside the St. Lawrence. Just stood there,
lookin' at us. We got two good shots at him."
 Her skin felt like a sheath of snow. "Did you
                   hit him?"
"Nah. He's a smart sonembitch. Most wolves,
 they start runnin' like hell, you shoot at 'em.
     This old guy, he see's he's got the St.
Lawrence behind him. He runs out on that ice
and we can just take our time. We got a wolf
 pelt. This fella takes cover, like. See, he goes
   up behind a big chunk of crack ice." The
     Charlies both stared at her, their left
  eyebrows raised in identical expressions of
 astonishment at the memory. "We run after
   him, but he got away," Big Charlie said.
   "Slunk through the ice mounds near the
         bank," his brother added.
   It was Bob. It had to be him. She could
     picture him: thin, scraggly, smart.
    Out on the St. Lawrence. "Where?"
                "Oh, well..."
         "Please tell me, you guys."
               "The DEC—"
Her mind was twisting and turning on itself.
She had to know, had to get it out of them. "I
don't care if you were poaching or whatever
 it's called." Both Charlies looked away. She
      went for the dumb one. "C'mon, Big
 Charlie," she said, "tell me where you saw a
 wolf. I think it's so exciting." She hated the
fake sex in her voice. Big Charlie didn't hate
        it, though. His ears turned red.
"Oh, well, we were out about twenty miles up
 from the bridge. We were on that piece of
     land owned by those city people."
  "The Jews," Little Charlie said, as if this
       would excuse their trespass.
Cindy didn't know a thing about who did and
didn't own land around here, and she didn't
 give a damn. All she could think of was Bob.
   She squared her shoulders and raised her
  chin, thinking of the nobility of her love. It
 was always the men who embarked on quests
in the old stories, Piers Plowman, Sir Gawain.
     Women stayed at home and raised the
    children. Well, she wasn't that kind of a
    woman. Her quest was clear, as fine and
 perfect as Sir Gawain's: she had a grail, too,
          the sacred body of her love.
"Cindy," Big Charlie suddenly blurted, "you
     care to take a drive over the border
 Saturday? Maybe go up to Voix and have a
        little supper at Antoine's?"
 Louie stared, openmouthed. Little Charlie
          began giggling silently.
 Without a word she turned away from the
 table of the two gargoyles. "Sweet," Big
 Charlie said as his brother collapsed into
               open laughter.
 "Willie won't bring in the damn potatoes,"
   Louie snarled as she came back to the
         counter. "You go get 'em."
He was referring to the two-hundred-pound
 sacks of frozen french fries that were due to
 be delivered today. "Lou, I can't possibly! I
            can't drag those bags."
    "You do it, or you've got your walking
 papers. And I want them in the back of the
 freezer, not all jammed up around the door
                like he does it."
Feeling hopeless, Cindy put her beautiful blue
 cardigan from Bloomie's and better days on
    over her thin nylon uniform and went
  struggling out into the glaring, icy light of
                    noon.
She tugged miserably and quite hopelessly at
 one of the big gray sacks. Louie was a cruel
man. They were all cruel. The women around
here were huddled misanthropes, slaves and
 sloven whores. What a misbegotten place.
 It came to seem even more misbegotten a
  moment later, when both of the Charlies
appeared, one at each end of the restaurant.
She stepped back, only to see Louie's shadow
  in the doorway. He had locked the door.
 So that was what this was about. When had
 they had time to plan? There hadn't been a
word spoken between them. Without another
thought she started running, wobbling across
 the snowy parking lot in her cheap flats, the
wind eating at her body, making the cardigan
          seem almost imaginary.
They came along behind her, moving heavily
but with surprising speed, the two Charlies.
   "Come on, Cindy," Big Charlie cried,
"won'tcha? Why won'tcha? A little blowjob
        ain't nothin' to a woman."
                "Oh, God."
They appeared beside her. She did not like the
   sweat sheening Big Charlie's face or the
clicking wheeze that Little Charlie developed
                when he ran.
  Big Charlie's hand brushed her shoulder.
 "Them shoes are no good in this hardpack,"
he said absently, as his arm closed around her
         neck. "You had no chance."
She could see Louie's shadow in the back door
   of the diner. He waved at her, a hesitant
  gesture, as if he was seeing her off on some
 undesirable voyage. Her impulse was to kick
 and bite and claw, but she controlled it. She
  was not a weak woman, but these two men
were certainly her physical superiors. Quietly,
 carefully, she reviewed her options. She was
 being walked along, Big Charlie tugging her
by the neck, Little Charlie with his homy fist
               around her wrist.
 Taking a deep breath, she screamed. The
  sound was high and thin, more like the
  squeak of chalk on a blackboard than a
human noise. Little Charlie looked up at her
out of the comer of his eye. "That wasn't too
           good," he said happily.
    When she was a kid, she had been able to
 scream marvelously well. She closed her eyes,
tried to calm herself enough to organize some
  more effective noise. They were passing her
  rooming house. If only their room wasn't at
      the back, Kevin might hear. He'd be
there—because she did not want to put him in
one of the local backwater schools where he'd
    be taught nothing more challenging than
 Gum-Chewing 101 and probably beaten to a
  pulp as well, they had decided he would go
   into hiding for the duration of the search.
    He spent his time reading. He was on
  Remembrance of Things Past now, and he
 wanted to get the walls lined with cork like
                Proust had.
  Big Charlie's hand pushed against her left
    breast. The sensation was disgusting, a
 nauseating thrill that churned to pain when
  he squeezed. This time she screamed with
fierce energy. In response the two men began
moving faster down the freezing, silent street.
 "Somebody help me!" Was the whole town
dead? No, more likely everybody around here
  except Kevin was off at work or at school,
Kevin and that inert old man who inhabited
  the little house at the end of the block. He
  wouldn't come out. If the world ended, he
would meet it staring out that window of his.
        "God help me! God help me!"
  Big Charlie moaned. "Come on, Cindy, we
   won't hurt you. Please, I just want you to
treat me like a man. Honey, I could give you a
                 good life."
"Let me go, you filthy creep. You smell like a
              wet cigar butt."
  "I'll stop with the cigars if that's what it
takes. You don't like 'em—done! Howya like
that? Cindy, I got nobody, I'm getting older.
You're young. I'll leave you everything in my
   will. I got money, Cindy! Marry me."
                "Help! Help!"
 The door of the old man's house flew open.
  Astonishingly, Kevin came rushing out.
   Behind him was the old man himself,
 carrying a tall, rusty halberd. In his hands
     Kevin brandished a volume of the
         Encyclopedia Britannica.
"Oh, Lordy, now look what you done, Cindy!
 Hold on, fellas, she don't need help. Lord,
           what is that, an ax?"
"Unhand her," Kevin shrieked. "Mr. Forbes
    has been trained on his weapon!"
  The old man, who was tall and emaciated,
wearing a tattered herringbone sports jacket
 and plaid pants, took a spread-legged stance
    and lowered the halberd. "Let her go,
Charlie," he said. "I can cut off balls with this
        thing just as clean as heads."
     "That's gotta be an illegal weapon or
   something." The two Charlies complied,
 though, and Cindy felt a great relief. Kevin
    stepped forward and slammed the
encyclopedia down on Little Charlie's head,
whereupon he sank into the snow without so
 much as a sigh. "Aw," Big Charlie cried,
          "why'd you do that?"
       "That's my mother, scumbag!"
 "Oh Lord. All I wanted was to talk to her. I
 want her to consider me a suitor, that's all. I
need a wife. Eileen died, damn her, and I need
 a wife, oh, God I do. I've got love in me. Yes,
              I've got love in me."
  The old man jabbed with the halberd, and
 Big Charlie became silent. "I'm tired of men
like you, you brutal fool," the old man said. "I
ought to hurt you." The halberd whistled and
           Big Charlie had to jump.
  Little Charlie raised himself up, squinting
  and rubbing his head. "Somebody oughta
  whip that kid, he's a damn sonembitch."
Louie came running down the street, shouting
  and waving a large knife. "You let them
 alone, Gilford Forbes! It's just their way."
  "The hell, Louie, nobody drags women off
like that, not in my sight. This is the civilized
  world, and if you don't like that, you can
    damn well move to South Africa or
                someplace."
    "Come on, Mother, it's time to go."
   The tension between Louie and Gilford
 Forbes seemed ready to erupt into a battle.
Cindy was not sure what would happen if the
  spindly old man actually began to use the
 halberd, which was obviously as sharp as a
 razor. She wasted no time following Kevin,
who was already on his way back to Forbes's
                  house.
  Forbes backed up, marching like a spider,
 rather than turn away from the other men.
   The house was an old one, really no more
     than a cottage, with a wooden porch
populated by an ancient swing and choked in
  the tendrils of what in spring and summer
must be a laurel. Beyond the front door was a
      living room full of bulky furniture,
 overstuffed chairs, a large and complicated
 Wurlitzer organ, and on the walls prints of
  familiar Impressionists: Van Gogh's Starry
   Night, Renoir's Bathers, and four or five
others. They added an altogether incongruous
 note of intense cheer to an otherwise drably
              comfortable scene.
   "Please make yourself at home, Kevin's
    mother," Forbes said. He bowed. "The
    altogether estimable mother of a most
    remarkable young boy." He smiled, his
 cadaverous face cracking into a grin so wide
that it seemed about to cause his lower jaw to
disengage itself and flop down along his neck.
 "I am Gilford Forbes, former don at Christ
   Church College, Oxford, former tutor at
  Harvard—alas, all very former. Presently
Kevin and I are engaged in setting ponderous
   poetry to light music and light poetry to
  ponderous music. An interesting exercise,
  Pound's Cantos chanted to the tune of 'A
 Rock and Roll Waltz' and the works of Rod
    McKuen intoned to Beethoven's Missa
   Solemnis. Your screams did not fit, and I
           must apologize to you—"
  Kevin rushed forward and hugged her.
   Gilford Forbes smiled a little nervously.
 Kevin glanced just sharply enough at Cindy
to communicate the message that he had kept
  his father a secret from this man. The boy
  must already have told the old man some
   story—some lie—that explained their
          presence here in Olana.
"A broken life," Kevin murmured sadly. His
face was grave. Cindy saw again the stoniness
  that more and more often appeared in his
                    eyes.
 She nodded. "That ends at Parma Lunch."
"You'll get back on your feet. You're young!"
 There was an extended silence after the old
man's remark. "It's cold," he added. "Would
            anyone care for tea?"
Wordlessly, Kevin went with him into his tiny
kitchen. "Where did you get this Darjeeling?"
           she heard her son ask.
  "In Toronto. I've also some scones. Your
         mother might like one."
        "She hardly eats anything."
The man did not answer. Cindy sat in an old
 Morris chair. This was an extraordinarily
comfortable room. The wood stove crinkled
  softly, beads of snow tapped against the
    window. Beyond it, in the darkening
    afternoon, the sinister little town seemed
about to settle into the woods that surrounded
   it. Nothing moved in the street, no car, no
  pedestrian, not even a wandering dog. Idly,
     Cindy picked up a magazine, a literary
journal called Prometheus. Bob had bought it
 from time to time, and the look of it brought
    back memories. She glanced through it,
  impressed mainly by the beautiful printing
 and layout. Then she saw a poem by Gilford
                     Forbes.
       The snow trumpets silently down,
           Hurrying the shadows in
              The terrible land,
      Enforcing the migration of bones,
      This snow, laboring with the force
           Of dangerous old laws.
The fire shuffled again, and the snow pinged
  on the window. Cindy realized that in this
 moment she had come face-to-face with the
 mystery. It stood revealed before her, as if a
   door had at last opened—but only into
endless night. Tears collected in her eyes. She
could not look again at the magazine. Instead
 she pushed it to the floor with her knuckles
and wiped her hands on her dress. A tiredness
akin almost to death stole over her, dropping
   around her shoulders like a cloak of cold
chain. She bowed her head, aware only as her
 glance passed over it of a tiny cross hanging
      on the wall, a priest's black cross.
    "So you see," Gilford Forbes said, "I'm
 broken, too." He put her cup of tea into her
hands. On the saucer there was a scone cut in
    two and buttered, and it looked awfully
tempting. "Before you, woman of the broken
 life, stands a ruined priest. I will tell you my
         story if you will tell me yours."
  How could she? His story would move, it
would touch, it would enlighten in a fine and
decent manner. Her story would sound lurid
                and absurd.
Even so, Bob was out there in the snow, or he
 was dead, a pecked hulk on a roadside, or a
 pelt in some trapper's winter storehouse. "I
was caught in flagrantibus delictis. I pluralize
  because I was with two of my students, a
young woman and a young man. We were in
    the dressing room, in the bottom of a
   cupboard. The shaking of the cupboard
attracted the attention of the choir, which was
  just coming down after singing High Mass.
 One of them opened the thing and there we
       were, wallowing naked in a pile of
                  vestments."
  Another silence developed. Kevin looked
 steadily at his mother, his eyes intractable.
              She was not to tell.
    "You were thrown out?" she asked.
  "Difficult to do to a priest." He held up his
  hands. "They will still bear the Paraclete. I
 was hustled out of Cambridge and posted to
 an obscure boonie parish. No more Newman
 Club for me, no more students. The trouble
    was, that incident—which was my only
   transgression of celibacy—assumed such
   enormous proportions in my mind that I
  could no longer bear to abide by my vows.
 Night after night I thought of the wonders of
that time in the cupboard, how good they had
  tasted, smelled, how warm and lovely it all
  was. Dear God, I still do. It was the central
   experience of my life. I've never tried sex
     again, for fear of disappointment."
 "They must have been marvelous people,"
                  Kevin said.
"Marvelous looking. They were a team. I got
 their number out of a singles paper. They
 were undergrads doing a little whoring to
make their lives more comfortable. God, they
 were wonderful." He sipped his tea. "Your
               story, please."
"No," Kevin said. "You have to be careful of
 him, Mother. He never had that experience.
 He wasn't even a priest. He's trying to trick
                   you."
Gilford Forbes smiled, this time a little thinly.
"Your point, Kevin. I suppose that you must
        remain a mystery to me, too."
 Cindy would have told him everything. Why
     not, what did it matter? Look at the
Indian—he understood more about what had
   happened to Bob than she had imagined
 possible, but he had not the strength for the
 journey. And Monica: "Call me if you need
  me. I love you." In other words, good-bye.
Only she and Kevin remained, in this difficult
  time. She bit into the scone, which was still
 cold in the middle. As she chewed she heard
 shouts outside, more than one shout in the
              muffling snow.
  Forbes frowned, looking toward the dark
gray window. Kevin put his teacup down and
   stepped over to the door. He opened it,
          stepped onto the porch.
Another shout, this time accompanied by the
 shape of a man running down the street.
   Kevin returned. His face was horribly
  twisted, his eyes were darting with fear.
"Wolves," he whispered, "they've seen wolves
        at the north end of town."
 "Really! I had no idea there were wolves in
New York State. In a way that's lovely, if they
           don't just shoot them."
Without another word, forgetting how lightly
   dressed she was, forgetting her fearful
experience with the Charlies, Cindy jumped
     up and dashed out into the snow.
Up the dark streets she raced. She could hear
Kevin beside her. Whether Forbes had come
         or not, she did not know.
  As she ran she heard it. She stopped and
looked up. Kevin looked up. Ahead of them a
  man carrying a high-power rifled stopped
also, and he looked up. A cat, which had been
       sitting in a window, darted away.
  The howl rose and rose, a plasma of dark
    pealing echoes, powerful and loud.
 Kevin's hand came into her own. That was
 Bob, she knew it in her freezing bones. Bob
 was here, and the town was turning out to
meet him. Bob must stand against a town full
       of sharpshooting roughnecks.
   She ran, Kevin ran. Far behind them
Forbes— who had been running—dropped to
    a walk with a gesture of annoyance.
Bob was here. At last, at last she had found
   him. With a frantic little scream in her
throat, she made her way through the snow,
 determined this time to find a way to share
life with him as best she could, on whatever
            terms he would grant.
                Part Four
               Homecoming
      We left when we were too young
                 to know.
   Now we are far away and going farther.
         Home, we say, home. . . .
         We watch the empty dark.
      —Robert Duke, "Home" (1985)
               Chapter Twenty-One
 Bob had gone dashing across the frozen St.
Lawrence Seaway, his claws crackling on the
  ice. He had leaped over floes and cracks,
 slipped, got up, and slid forward, barking
                   joyfully.
  The eyes of the other wolves had followed
 him. None barked back, no tail wagged. For
   his part, Bob had been so excited that he
  couldn't stop barking. Smelling the wolves
this close made thrills sweep up and down his
  body. Their odor was sensuous, incredibly
 attractive. It was far richer to his nose than
any human odor had ever been, more so even
  than Cindy's beloved scent. As he ran, his
mind cast about for meaning in this odor, but
    there were no words that described the
           experience of smelling it.
 These wolves lived in this heaven of smell;
they were used to it. Beyond their individual
 smells— the sharp, shocking aromas coming
from the pack leaders, and the sweet smells of
  the lesser wolves, there was another odor,
  which was the combination of them all, the
 majestic smell of the pack as a whole, a fine
            old spirit of an aroma.
  When Bob was about ten yards from the
pack, the wolf at the lead had barked once, a
 sound as sharp as a shot. It went deep into
Bob, exploding in his heart. It was a warning
        and a command: it said stop.
 Bob had stood, his tail wagging, his tongue
   slopping out of his mouth. He gathered
 himself together: he was a man inside, after
          all, and he had his dignity.
   The dignity of a man, though, is nothing
   before the dignity of a king of the wolves.
  Human governments rise and fall across a
 few generations. This king was the inheritor
of ten thousand generations. His pack was an
ancient kingdom, and he ruled it by traditions
  that extended back into the mists. He had
 come forward, his legs stiff, his ears cocked,
 on his face a look at once curious and fierce.
       Bob could see his nose working.
 Bob's whole attention had gone to this wolf.
By degrees he was realizing that he would not
be welcome here. It hurt him. He had come an
 awfully long way to get a reception like this.
 He might be a man, and feel he was a man,
but he was also a wolf, every inch of him. If he
   had any rights at all, it was among these
                  creatures.
In his rising anger he had made a mistake: he
 barked loudly. It was a challenge, it couldn't
be interpreted any other way. The king of the
   wolves snarled horribly, lifting his lips to
 reveal startlingly effective-looking fangs. His
   pack seethed behind him. A strong musk
came from them, as if they were spitting odor
at the interloper, trying to cover his unwanted
scent. Bob could feel his own glands working,
could smell his own anger and excitement. His
     neck tickled: his hackles were rising.
   The king strutted, ears back, eyes fairly
cracking with rage. Bob had to think, but he
   was getting too scared to think. He was
acutely aware of the fact that he was out here
    alone in this wilderness, and the only
creatures he could trust, the only companions
  that were even close to his own kind, were
         rejecting him out of hand.
 What to do? He couldn't explain himself, he
 didn't know the language of the wolves. And
 they had a language, he could see, hear, and
 smell that. It was a thousand, a million times
   more rich than anything he had ever read
   about. Tails flickered, expressions rushed
through faces, complicated waves of odor and
   sound flashed through the pack like little
  storms. They were so incredibly integrated,
          they were like one person.
  How could anybody have ever thought that
these were simple beasts? Bob was faced with
 the shocking realization that the wolves had
  evolved an intelligence and a sense so great
 that it was literally incomparable, and yet so
 different from man's intelligence that it was
     all but invisible to the human mind.
 There was no rational shape to it, no sense
 structure. It had words, though, sentences
that were songs, and through it all there was
  creeping what he could only describe to
   himself as angry, rejecting prejudice.
His heart ached. He knew that he was going to
 have to fight again. It was so damn sad. He
          lowered his eyes and tail.
When he did, the whole pack erupted at him,
 barking with savage fury. Then their leader,
    their arrogant, strutting king, was at his
   throat, bellowing, his jaws flashing in the
   white, snowy light. There was more fury,
  more wildness in this assault than Bob had
ever known before. It was literally fantastic in
its energy, like a hurricane, like the explosion
   of a mountain, like some holocaust come
   down from heaven. The wolf snarled and
   snapped and slammed directly into Bob's
  chest. Bob was bowled completely over, his
        own growl sticking in his throat.
     In all of his previous battles, with the
    shepherds at the pound, the coydogs in
Central Park, with the bear, this had been the
moment when his wolf instincts took over and
 carried him to victory. But this wolf was so
 powerful that it shattered all instinct. As he
rolled and tumbled beneath its attack he was
swept by aromas that stunned the very center
of his being. He was awed, humbled, titillated
 by the smell of this wolf. He could not fight
           back, he just could not.
  The wolf bit him hard in the throat and he
  found himself turning over on his back. He
felt an awful, delicious stirring of what could
   only be described as ecstatic humility. He
  spread his legs and turned his head, baring
 throat and genitals to the powerful creature
 that dominated him. The wolf was not large,
nor was he old, but he was so lordly, so proud,
  so certain of himself that Bob simply could
              not stand up to him.
 For a moment he held Bob's throat, then he
  released it. Still full of strut and anger, the
    wolf suddenly did a most intimate and
    embarrassing thing. He bent down and
nuzzled Bob's penis with his cold, damp nose.
   The contact injected a fiery vibration of
purest pleasure into Bob's body, a pleasure so
 great that for a moment he was incapable of
thought, of motion. As the wolf continued its
     exploration wave after wave of sheer,
   delicious enjoyment rocked Bob's being.
Then the pack leader tossed his head, snorted
 as if contemptuous of the gift he had given,
 and walked away from Bob. For a moment
Bob lay there swooning, helpless. Then there
came to him another aroma, this a scent he
 could identify from his old life: it was the
             smell of a woman.
 She moved forth over him, circling him. He
   had never seen such beauty as the king's
  mate. She was young and strong, her fur
shining white and light gray in the sun. Bob's
 own chemical essence poured desire through
   him. He almost wept to see such female
magnificence. Hers was a new esthetic, of rich
odors, deeply satisfying, the kind of smell Bob
could imagine living within forever, intimate
    and sweet, conjuring images of furious
passion. He recognized her odor: this was the
 wolf who had licked him after the fight with
                   the bear.
 When she stood over him, Bob again felt the
  same helpless wave of submission the king
  had given him. Then she also touched her
 nose to him, most intimately and without a
 trace of what he had once called shame. At
once his body reacted, bursting with pleasure
so great he thought it might actually kill him.
For a long moment she continued, extending
       the examination, learning him.
 When at length she was done with him, he
 was more in love than he had ever been or
 dreamed possible. The complex, equivocal
coupling of his human life seemed a mutant
   shadow compared to this. She was so
      beautiful, so grand, so calm and
magnificent—he could hardly believe her an
             earthly creature.
He knew the secret behind the feeling of the
 dog for its master. Canine love is not like
  human love, not at all: it is all rapture.
   She stepped off him and, growling in her
throat, strutted about with her tail high, as if
  enjoying her conquest. Her mate looked on
  warily. The tension coming from the other
  wolves was high. They whined and strutted,
   some of the lesser ones snapping at each
 other. One or two barked. Bob realized that
 the pack was in heat. Coming upon them, he
  had gone into heat, too. What a small word
    for the largest emotion and the greatest
     pleasure he had ever known. He found
  himself lying there on his back in the snow
and thanking whatever God there was that he
    had been freed of the bondage of being
  human. Something in the air had changed.
    The wolves were no longer holding him
  captive, no longer humiliating him. He was
 free to rise, and he got up, to stand hangdog
  before the king and his queen, too much in
  love ever to leave them, too alien ever to be
                    accepted.
The queen regarded him. Her face—all soft
 fur and glittering, passionate eyes—seemed
not unwilling. He circled her, his nose drawn
 to the center of her magic, the spot beneath
her tail from which there flowed her nectar.
    Up close the smell was so good and so
  fascinating that he simply could not quit
                 inhaling it.
With a little growl she moved away. She had
   sniffed him, too, but in a perfunctory
manner, an act perhaps of protocol or at best
 mild curiosity. He was being rejected. How
was that possible? How dare she drive him to
such a pitch and then turn away from him?
 With a quite involuntary snarl he leaped on
her back. He felt his penis strike at her like an
                    arrow.
  Instantly she was out from under him. So
  quickly that he could not tell how she had
done it, she upended him in the snow, and he
found himself once again with his legs in the
air. His throat hurt; she had grabbed him by
        the neck and turned him over.
 Again she dominated him, this time licking
his exposed penis and causing an explosion by
doing it that actually did make him faint. For
  a few moments he was on another ground.
 The she-wolf seemed serenely regal. Far off
  Cindy stood, and in a thin voice called his
                     name.
This time when she had finished with him, he
found that he could not arise, not until every
  one of the other wolves had had his or her
way with him. They strutted about in a kind
 of ecstasy of domination, one after another
  threatening him, standing over him, then
               examining him.
 At the end of it there was not one of them to
    whom he would not roll. He would do
anything to be with them, he adored them. To
  him they had acquired in full amount the
magic he had always suspected was possessed
 by the nonhuman beings of the earth. They
were living close to the central truth of things,
their passions unencumbered by the cluttered
       mental hodgepodge that afflicted
                 humankind.
  When he got to his feet and went strutting
toward them, the smallest and least of them, a
  scruffy little female wolf with a kink in her
tail— the last one to have sniffed Bob—ran at
 him and snapped fiercely. Even though Bob
 was twice the animal's size, he turned away.
 The wolf wanted him to roll, and she barked
   furiously, then went for Bob's throat. Bob
  rolled, but another wolf had snapped at his
    attacker, who disappeared back into the
             milling, nervous pack.
 Bob realized what had happened to him with
  these animals. Stunned by the unexpected
intensity of the pleasure they were giving him,
   he had let himself be dominated by all of
 them. Instead of fighting for a place, he had
wound up outside the pack's order altogether.
  He cursed himself for submitting to them.
 But how could he have avoided it? He would
           do the same thing again.
 The little wolf, who was a female not in heat,
  bland smelling, returned to worry him. He
  wondered what would happen if he fought
her. Or should he fight the lowest male, or go
back to the king? He really had no idea. All he
 did know was that they had at once seduced
               and rejected him.
 It was a more profound event than he at first
   realized. Night came on and he wound up
sleeping some distance from the other wolves,
 outside of the inner border of their scent, the
line beyond which they had to use scent marks
            to define their territory.
 He would have thought they would huddle
  together in the snow, but each wolf slept
   alone, tightly curled in on himself, nose
                 beneath tail.
  Bob was not like them; he had neither their
 peace nor their confidence. Again and again
in the night he remembered the extraordinary
ecstasy they had granted him. If they could all
     evoke such powerful sensations in one
 another, how did they survive, how did they
   bear one another's presence? He was mad
 with lust and love, a trembling little creature
beneath the cold stars, ignored by those whose
              touch he craved.
He raised his head in the middle of the night,
  alert with an idea that made him weak all
  over again. Perhaps, if he challenged the
alpha female, she would once more carry out
             the ritual with him.
  He had no trouble finding her: her heated
scent made her a constant beacon to any wolf.
 None of the other females were like her. Bob
 got up and walked across the creaking snow.
He bent over her motionless form and sniffed,
  smelling the sweet beneath the unwashed
   dogginess. Her muzzle was soft, her fur
           glowing in the starlight.
Then, with a snort, she leaped to her feet. Not
an instant was wasted: she attacked Bob with
snarling, barking fury. The whole pack awoke
 and jumped up, but he was already lying on
 his back. He was rewarded once again by the
  whole strutting, delightful ritual, and was
  again passed down the pack and out to the
 rear, being finally dominated by the scruffy
                 little female.
  He crawled away, besotted, crazed with a
 hunger for more. Some of them had been a
   little perfunctory this time, though. He
  suspected that he would bore them if he
  challenged too often. A wolf pack was a
 psychosexual Gethsemane for the rejects, a
 bed of love and torment. For its members,
             though, it was Eden.
      God curse the serpent and the tree of
 knowledge of good and evil. Compared with
the animals, man is numb, and it is knowledge
that has made him that way. Bob looked up at
    the sky, and learned in that instant more
about the whole wheeling of the universe than
      all science knew. Without words, he
understood the subtle indeterminancies of the
  laws and saw the endless frame upon which
  time is woven. He knew the true purpose of
 thought: It is not to process information, but
 to seek the law. Modem science is the burned
 stubble of ancient magic. Once we flew: now
             we struggle sadly along.
Curled up tight, he slept fitfully in the snow.
  When he woke up, it was with a lingering
 impression that some sort of kindness had
 soothed him in the night. Then he saw the
wolves moving. They were cast in golden light.
 They were deities. Highest among them was
 the heated goddess, who undulated, wagged
         her tail, and gobbled snow.
    The wolves were excited, yapping and
running about, dashing off into the snow with
 their noses to the ground, then coming back,
            tails high, eyes agleam.
When Bob smelled a clear, clean odor of deer,
he knew the reason for the excitement: a hunt
was on. The pack was like a perfect machine.
    Led by the alphas, it moved off into the
 woods. Fifteen wolves disappeared as if they
 had been shadows. But Bob was not lost. His
  nose and ears worked, too. He could follow
  them, which he did at once. They ran along
  beneath the snow-heavy hemlocks, ducking
under low-hanging boughs of pine. He wished
that he was part of the pack, but that was not
    to be. By light of morning he cringed to
remember the liberties he had allowed them.
Every one of them knew him intimately, while
 he knew none of them. Such knowledge was
 an important part of their ritual life. Unless
   he could make them roll before him, they
would never consider him one of them. Even
 then, he wondered if he would ever acquire
  that almost indefinable odor of belonging
that they had, the special undersmell they all
                   shared.
 As they moved along, Bob began to smell the
deer more and more clearly. He could identify
  the odor of the breath: the deer had been
         gnawing a sassafras plant.
The wolves proceeded quickly and efficiently.
 As far as they were concerned, Bob simply
 didn't exist. He was there, though, running
  along behind as fast as he could, his mind
swarming with thoughts and speculations, his
      heart brimming over with love.
   They came upon the deer suddenly. The
 wolves were quick and efficient. They burst
out of the woods into the tight clearing where
   the deer were tearing bark. There was a
whistle of alarm, then the flash of a tail. Deer
   screams, as soft as the blowing of clouds,
  filled the air. There were three animals: a
               buck and two does.
     The buck bounded off into the forest,
 followed a moment later by one of the does,
 who had a red streak on her left leg. Wolves
   were barking, leaping, snapping. The one
  remaining deer broke wildly for the woods.
Her body twisting in the air, the alpha female
leaped for the throat. She missed, falling back
   into the snow with a thud and a spray of
                    white.
Bob found himself face-to-face with the doe.
He didn't hesitate a moment—he leaped right
at the throat of the beautiful little animal. He
 was a big wolf. The doe struggled, dashing
him with her front hooves, but it was no use.
 He had the flap of skin on the underside of
her neck. When he worried it she shrieked, a
gentle and lovely sound. This was like killing
   Bambi. But something drove him on. He
would not stop for Bambi, not even when her
 heart rending whistles changed to bubbling
     sighs, and then stopped altogether.
   She stood, her head hanging down. The
nearest of the pack wolves, which was the one
 farthest to the rear, had reached her. It was
the shabby little female with the broken tail.
She clambered up the doe's side, trying to get
      on her back and bring her down.
  This seemed to break the doe's trance. She
  proved to have more fight in her than Bob
   had imagined possible. Despite her torn
 throat and the little wolf clinging to her she
 began to run. Soon the wolf fell off. The doe
   plunged through the woods in plumes of
   snow. She was swift. Bob could also run,
though. He was big and his thigh was healed;
          he could run like the wind.
 The deer plunged on through the drifts, Bob
   just behind. He was hungry now, and the
     smell of the blood sent mad thrills of
 excitement through him. The deer reached a
long meadow and picked up speed. Bob ran as
  hard as he could, stretching his whole body,
         nipping at the flying hooves.
   Then someone was beside him—the alpha
 female. He was fast but she was much faster,
a wolf of lightning, her muzzle stretched tight,
  spittle flying from her mouth, the whites of
    her eyes showing as she sped forward.
 She shouldered Bob aside, ducked her head
under the side of the leaping deer, and with a
 toss of her muzzle opened a huge hole in the
 creature's abdomen. Guts spewed out as the
  deer tumbled over and over. By the time it
stopped falling it was dead. The alpha female
  strutted, her lovely face drenched in blood,
    and then she plunged her mouth into the
still-heaving entrails and began gobbling huge
         gulps of the steaming organs.
 Bob took a bite. A raw flash blinded him.
 Both she and her mate were on him, biting
savagely. He screamed, scrambled away, felt
     her jaws tear his flanks as he ran.
   He was forced to watch, drooling, in an
   anguish of hunger, while all of the other
wolves ate their fill. They did it in strict rank
 order. To the little female was left the brain
and some skin. To Bob was left gnawed bone.
 While the others trotted off into the woods,
 full and happy, Bob bit at the bones, trying
     without success to crack them for the
 marrow. It was useless—all he succeeded in
   doing was cutting his tongue on a bone
                   splinter.
    Finally he went hunting alone. He was
surprised to find such a lack of game. Then he
understood why these wolves had come so far
  south. They, also, were suffering from the
 shortage of game. This was an exceptionally
snowy winter. They had moved south with the
                    deer.
  As he sniffed about for sign of raccoon or
opossum, he reflected on his passion and their
      seeming injustice. He shuddered,
remembering the pleasure they had accorded
 him. Nobody but Cindy knew him that way,
  Cindy and now these wolves, who were so
 beautiful that he could not help but let them
   do their bidding with him. He knew the
truth—that they had humiliated and rejected
him. But they had done it so sweetly. Did they
  make their pack important by creating in
others a desire to join it? Or would what they
 had done to him have felt different to a real
  wolf? He suspected that a real wolf would
have found their nosing about an intolerable
 humiliation and put a stop to it as soon as a
      beast weaker than himself tried.
He mounted a ridge. From here there was a
view for miles. The St. Lawrence glimmered
on the northern distance, a jagged tumble of
 ice. Far to the south rose the Adirondacks.
    For a moment Bob thought he heard
 music—a harpsichord, perhaps Scarlatti or
Bach. The sound made him cock his ears, but
 then he lost it, gone in the immensity of the
                     view.
    He was hungry. In fact he was damned
hungry. Sooner or later, he had to find a kill
 of his own. He sniffed the air in the careful,
     searching way he had learned from
  experiment. It was possible to sort out the
 different smells not only by odor but by an
elusive texture. The ubiquitous smell of snow
was crisp except where there was melt, which
          had a much smoother feel.
   Besides the snow, he detected ice, frozen
plants, a wisp of smoke, cold stone. No smell
of game, not a trace. He was disconcerted. In
all of his travels he had never encountered a
 day when he smelled no animals at all. The
 image of the winter wolf, its ribs like bars,
 came to him, and the image of the starved
         wolf, curled in death agony.
   He paced the ridge, taking deep breaths,
 analyzing the air for any trace of food, any
carrion even, any garbage. He wasn't revolted
by these things anymore, at least not so much
that he wouldn't eat them if necessary. He let
his body decide what to eat and what to pass
                     up.
Then he stopped, cocking his ears. This time it
  wasn't music he heard, but the grinding of
 gears. The sound came from behind the line
  of ridges to the south. His estimate was ten
    miles. He turned, cocking his ears, and
listened carefully. When he did so, a welter of
 tiny sounds came into focus: cars moving on
snow, voices, various snatches of music, doors
 slamming, children shouting. So there was a
                town over there.
   A town meant garbage and it meant the
chance of stealing some animal, a chicken or a
goat, perhaps, from a farm. The other wolves
   would I shun the town, but they did not
 possess the human lore that Bob did. He felt
 that he could sneak in and out quickly, and
      get himself fed. A guerrilla attack.
   Without further ado he set off down the
ridge, going straight toward the source of the
   human clatter. As he dropped lower the
  sounds faded, but he knew they would be
    there when he mounted the next rise.
 He was halfway up it when he heard a sharp
   bark behind him. He turned and saw the
 alpha female standing in a clearing. Her tail
     was high, her face was stern. She was
  commanding him to turn back. She trotted
up, whining. He was surprised, he thought the
    pack had rejected him. Apparently not,
 because she was treating him just like one of
  her other wolves. Whining, she rubbed her
cheek against his. She began wagging her tail.
 At that, his interest in the town evaporated.
   She was far more important to him than
food. Hunger could wait, journeys could wait.
  To have her come near him, to notice him,
 even touch him, drove him to a joyous pitch
 of excitement. He practically danced around
                      her.
She played. She barked and tussled with him,
  growling in mock challenge. To say that he
 was delighted was to understate the feelings
 that washed over him, the rich, mysterious,
    enormous feelings. It was as if the basic
creative energy of the earth was flowing right
 through him. When they tussled, he smelled
 and tasted her. Beneath the odor of her fur
   there was a sweetness so pure that it was
   shocking, and then the powerful female
                   musk.
When it grew suddenly much stronger, he felt
 his loins contract. There was a sensation as if
 of a tickling, delightful fire between his legs.
 He found himself mounting her, felt himself
thrusting at her, saw her eye shimmering with
     amusement when she glanced over her
 shoulder, felt her expertly pull herself away.
  He tried again, whining for her to stay still,
pushing, trying in his clumsy way to make this
   new practice of sexual union work. Never
   before in his life had he mounted like an
                     animal.
  He was hurled off her into the snow by a
snarling, biting streak of enraged alpha male.
Where the devil had he come from? And with
  him the rest of the pack, all barking, all
       threatening, their anger wild.
  The next moment, though, he thought the
alpha male was going to forget him, so intense
were the odors coming from his mate. But he
didn't. The alpha male attacked, leaping onto
            Bob with savage fury.
   Even as they fought, both of them made
    involuntary sexual thrusts. One of the
   younger wolves mounted the female. The
   alpha male stopped beating Bob up long
   enough to turn and bark him away. This
alpha was not enormous, but he was a devil of
   a fighter. His pack mate knew it, and the
 barking was quite enough to make him rush
                     away.
  Bob realized something in that instant of
  respite. He had to beat this wolf if he was
 going to have a place in the pack. Now was
    the time. The alpha female's heat had
       precipitated the confrontation.
If he won the battle, he was going to be able to
  make love to her. The male grabbed for his
       throat and sank his teeth into the
    much-scarred skin. Bob yanked away,
  managing to bite the other wolf's ear hard
  enough to draw blood and a high scream of
                     pain.
 His eyes gleaming, the alpha took Bob by the
    scruff of the neck and shook him. Bob
  skittered away, feet digging the hard, old
snow. So far he had always lost fights with the
wolves, but he did not want to lose this fight.
He had to find a way to succeed. The wolf was
 so fast, such an expert at this, so relentless
  and wild and passionate. Bob had never
 encountered such powerful will before: it
 mattered to this wolf, it mattered terribly.
 They separated and Bob ran at him, forcing
himself to be more aggressive than he felt. To
his surpise the weight of his body completely
  unbalanced the smaller animal, who went
 flying into a snowbank with a scream and a
 great windmilling of paws. Bob was on him
  instantly, biting, growling, clawing. For a
    time there was nothing but a jumble of
    flashing fur and fangs, then Bob found
     himself on top, and his opponent was
                  screaming.
He backed away. His heart hurt—he did not
   want to do injury to this magnificent
                 creature.
 The alpha wolf clambered to his feet. When
   he would not meet Bob's eyes, a rush of
triumph filled him. He could not help himself
  strutting. His tail went high, he yapped in
 excitement. The female leaned against him,
          and her odor was strong.
    He mounted her, causing a tremendous
   explosion of excitement among the other
   wolves. They yapped, whined, ran about,
  paced. Some of the males snapped at each
other. Then Bob found her secret, and thrust,
  and was rewarded with the most exquisite
 sensation. It was a perfection of feeling: soft
 love mixed with electrifying pleasure. Lying
on the back of that wolf, he found the edge of
                    heaven.
It was not a quick thing. He burst open like a
 flower within her. His body collapsed from
the sheer intensity of the sensations that were
roaring through it like storms come down the
 mountains of love. Her back was strong. She
stood like a stone, receiving him in her milky
center. The other wolves kept coming up and
licking at him, sniffing under his tail, adding
to the pleasure he was already experiencing.
 His heart beat so hard he thought it would
  explode. But it didn't explode. Instead his
 loins exploded, and he saw flashes of stars,
  and smelled coming from her an odor so
sweet that he could not but be humble before
it. Then he was finished. He dismounted. For
  a long time, with quiet waves flowing back
 and forth between them, they stood linked.
 He thought when it was finally over that he
knew this wolf better than he had ever known
any creature. In her dark and gleaming eyes,
 he saw that she, too, shared the knowledge.
 The total intimacy still shocked him a little.
Privacy, secrecy were not known here. All the
  wolves had participated. Now some of the
  younger males were mounting each other.
 There was much intimate licking and much
                   barking.
 The alpha male went a little distance away,
 curled up, and slept. Bob also slept, and the
    alpha female midway between them.
  Bob thought, on awakening, that he would
 become pack leader. She soon disabused him
of this notion. By the operation of laws he did
     not begin to understand, all that had
happened was that she had somehow changed
   places with the alpha male. She was now
leader. The scraggly little female at the end of
 the line reasserted her dominance over Bob,
 making him roll to her. He did it because he
sensed that ignoring her demand would lead
          again to total rejection.
 That he could not bear. To be near them, to
 be included in their love, was the only thing
   Bob really cared about. That and food.
He cared about food. And there was so little
food. No more deer, no possums, no coons.
     There was that town, though, and on
 mornings when the wind was right, Bob was
sure he heard the calling of a rooster and the
bleating of goats. This was lumber country, so
 there weren't any significant farms, but that
didn't mean that people in the town wouldn't
 be keeping chickens and goats, maybe even a
                   few cows.
Of course they were keeping chickens. On the
 first morning of the south wind, Bob heard
them clearly. He smelled melt, too. For three
weeks he had eaten exactly two rats. Some of
     the wolves had eaten nothing at all.
He cocked his ears, he got up, shook himself.
   Despite the obvious danger, even the
foolhardiness, of going into a human place,
Bob trotted off south. He had to eat, they all
 did. It was especially important for the alpha
 female. Shortly after her encounter with Bob
she had gone out of heat. The sexual intensity
of the pack had immediately disappeared and
     they had become a band of companions,
  flawless in its balance and organization. Day
 by day Bob watched the nipples grow on her
thin body, and when the days were longer and
   the sun returning from the south, he saw a
             round-ness to her belly.
   He was going to hunt down the town's
     chickens and goats, and damn the
consequences. The pack could always escape
   across the St. Lawrence if they had to.
 Canada was far more empty. These wolves
  had come from there, after all. Only the
presence of the town kept them from moving
   even farther south in search of game.
   Well, with him in the pack they could
 confront the town. He understood towns.
Maybe that was why all this had happened,
why he was here. Suddenly there was a wolf
pack that could survive in close proximity to
  human beings—indeed, could control its
whole relationship to mankind. He glimpsed
   the edges of a magnificent design here,
 perhaps even another step in the process of
                  evolution.
Wary but eager—no, desperate, for the pack
was starving—he set out toward the town and
       all its dangers, and its chickens.
 The first trip in was a great success. Bob ate
two perfectly delicious Rhode Island Reds and
   took one back to the alpha female. She
gobbled it down, leaving only feathers for the
              other wolves to lick.
When Bob returned to the town a week later,
 two of the other wolves came with him.
 Again they were successful, although only
 Bob would return with food in his mouth.
That was not a wolf tradition, and they could
           not be made to do it.
 Through the last months of winter, the pack
gradually moved to within striking distance of
    the town. They took goats, dogs, more
  chickens. Sometimes they got rats, once an
                  opossum.
   Through the lengthening days the alpha
 female grew heavy with her burden of cubs.
Bob's cubs. He remembered Cindy when she
 was big with child. They were happy then.
           Oh, Cindy, I am so lost.
One night, when the snow was grown soft and
 the breeze was again in the south, the alpha
 female gave birth to four magnificent cubs,
 and one small one. The birthing was abrupt
 and simple. She expelled the little bundles of
  fur one by one. Then the afterbirth folded
out. She ate it, along with the cub that was too
                      small.
   There was happiness among the wolves.
Everybody was awake, yapping and sniffing
  the babies. Bob and the two alphas licked
them clean. Bob thought they were the most
beautiful things he had ever seen, so soft and
 tiny, mewing and shaking their heads. They
nursed their mother, who lay on her side in a
               kind of rapture.
 It was a good time, with spring coming and
  plenty of chicken. The cubs grew quickly.
  Soon it would be time for the thaw. That
night all the wolves howled together, and the
     strongest of the new cubs yapped.
 Bob wondered about his cubs. What would
they be like as they matured? They had wide
heads and quick eyes, and they gazed at him
sometimes with the love eyes of children. He
began to want to be across the St. Lawrence
            and away with them.
     They loved their mother, nuzzling her,
  playing in the warm enclosure made by her
  reclining body. He had thought at first that
  the cement of a wolf pack was sex, but that
  had been true only during the time of heat.
    Now things were more settled and more
simple. These creatures were together because
   they were friends and blood relations, and
because they loved one another. The pack was
  a band of lovers, adoring, gentle, accepting,
              full of fun and play.
Bob was totally involved now, a bottom wolf
still, but he accepted that. He had gained the
 highest of rights, to impregnate the heated
   female, and his cubs were his cubs. They
 crawled all over him when he was still. One
    little female liked to chew ears, and the
   sensation was so tickling that Bob could
                 barely stand it.
He would lie very still, until she had crawled
 up on his muzzle. Then he would snort and
jerk his head and she would go tumbling off
 with a great deal of mewing and snapping.
They would lie face-to-face. When they were
 sleepy, he would lick his cubs, tasting their
                sweet taste.
 One day he found a roach for them to play
  with, and it was a fine morning. What joy
they took in the chase, what merry pleasure!
   The presence of the roach should have
              warned him.
 The danger it represented never crossed his
  mind, though. On a moonless evening, he
 made his way again to the town. There was a
good coop of chickens as yet undisturbed, and
he planned on raiding the garbage behind the
                   diner.
  No other wolves were with him. Raiding the
 town was not like hunting. They tended to do
it alone or in small groups. Since Bob brought
food back, the alpha female never went at all,
  but relied on him to feed her and the cubs.
  Bob was standing just at the edge of town
     when he realized that everything had
  changed. He'd always assumed that people
would notice the missing livestock, but he felt
  sure that they would attribute the losses to
    feral dogs, an annoying problem in any
isolated community, but the sort of thing they
   would put off doing anything about until
              spring made it easy.
 The evening air was soft and almost warm
 when Bob reached the outskirts of town.
  What he smelled stopped him right in the
middle of the street. He stood there, paralyzed
by deep emotions. The aroma brought crowds
 of memories: voices, dreams, sunny days. A
woman's smell, rich and strong and familiar.
 That and the scent of a little boy. He knew
them, and when the scents reached his heart,
          he was filled with longing.
         Cindy and Kevin were here.
   Bob's second mistake was to stand there,
staring down the dark street, trying to see into
   the past. He lingered a moment too long.
               Chapter Twenty-Two
The totally unexpected presence of his human
              family froze him.
    —Sunday mornings with the Times.
—Watching Mystery with Kevin and Cindy.
   —Reading Kafka, the Metamorphosis.
   —A good cup of coffee. A good play.
Laughing, singing, listening to music. Music,
 talk: pastries in the afternoon, discussing
             poetry with Cindy.
—Cindy in the night, Kevin's face when he
 slept. The life of the family, intimate,
        infinitely private, gentle.
  —Rooms, heat, beds, food on demand.
   —Privacy. Being alone. Being naked.
Bathing. Being touched by Cindy, touching
her. Sharing secret knowledge. The richness
               of human life.
It all came back, assailing him, sweeping him
  away on a tide of longing. He had become,
 truly, a lover: he loved the wolves, the cubs,
      but he also loved Cindy and Kevin.
  The old wolf seduced you with his eyes.
 Bob was torn, his heart ached, and when a
 wolf's heart aches, he is as inspired as when
he is joyful or lonely, and he howls, forming
with his throat and tongue and lips the music
                  of the wild.
   The howl swept down across the town,
  chilling the March twilight. Men, shining
 with eagerness, loaded rifles and fueled up
 snowmobiles. This was an event: wolves in
 Olana for the first time in living memory.
           What horror, what fun!
 All winter there had been livestock thefts. At
first they had attributed it to dogs left behind
by summer people. But then they had realized
    it was wolves. Right there at the end of
  Ontario Street where the Tucker property
   began, stood a big, black timber wolf. No
    doubt about it, they'd come down from
 Canada because the winter'd been so hard.
  Bob stood in confusion as Cindy started to
 run toward him. His skin quivered—he was
  repelled by the odd human odors, but also
    attracted to her, loving her again, that
 creature from the bright improbable past.
              "Run, Bob, run!"
What was she saying? It had been a long time
since he had heard words. She was speaking
                too quickly.
       "Bob, run, run for your life!"
Her fear communicated what the words could
 not. They were simply too fast. In fact the
whole town was fast, engines roaring, a siren
       blaring, people darting about.
He skittered away a little. Had he been seen?
 He'd come here so many times, he'd gotten
           used to not being seen.
           He had gotten careless.
 He knew it for certain when a phalanx of •
 snowmobiles came screaming around the
   comer, jammed with men and guns.
                  Oh, God.
 He turned and ran, leaving his wife and son
and a large part of his heart behind. They had
 reawakened the man in him, a man who had
    gone peacefully off to sleep. He loped,
choosing a wide, easy stride, the kind that was
  best for long runs. He could do forty miles
   like this if he had to. Initially, he wasn't
                   afraid.
  His plan was to head straight up the ridge
 behind the town, then cut through the dense
forest just beyond. The snowmobiles wouldn't
   be able to follow him there. He would get
    back to the pack and draw them north
  toward the St. Lawrence. The ice might be
  getting loose. It was time and past time for
  them to return to Canada. They could not
afford to be caught on this side of the seaway.
   There just wasn't room in New York for
   wolves, not even in these relatively empty
                     regions.
  The climb up the ridge was hard. He was
moving a lot faster than usual, and he felt his
   wind coming quicker and quicker as he
struggled through the sticky snow. If only it
      hadn't suddenly turned warm!
 Behind him the snowmobiles never slowed
 down. They growled and screamed on the
    ridge, but they did not slow down.
     It was horrible, being chased by such
relentless machines. Once a shot rang out, but
 he wasn't worried about that—nobody was
  going to hit a moving wolf from a moving
                snowmobile.
The next shot, though, smacked into the snow
    not a tail's length from his head. He
   redoubled his efforts, bounding along,
           increasingly desperate.
   Voices now mixed with the scream of the
  engines. Men were calling back and forth,
 their voices gone high with eagerness. "Two
    hundred pounds," somebody shouted.
    "Two-ten," came the cheerful reply.
 At the top of the ridge Bob began to be able
 to go faster, but the snowmobiles also broke
out. They raced along behind him. The woods
 were not a hundred yards away, but he knew
they were going to close the gap before he was
                      safe.
He was frantic, running with all the force he
could muster, the wind sweeping past, his fur
  flying, his paws grabbing the ground with
              practiced efficiency.
The snowmobiles were on him in a matter of
            a few minutes.
 A rifle butt slammed down across his back.
 He yelped and snapped at it, but he did not
  stop moving. There were snowmobiles on
    both sides of him now, and rifles were
             weaving in the air.
              A shot rang out.
Bob, by a miracle, had been missed. Then he
 saw why: the shot had not come from the
   snowmobiles, it had come from a man
          standing off to the left.
"Leave that wolf alone," the man thundered,
  "in the name of the Mohawk Nation!"
 An Indian, by God, and where had he come
from? Another gun butt hit Bob, making him
           roll once in the snow.
 Then the Indian fired again, and one of the
snowmobiles peeled off, rattling horribly, its
occupants diving off into the drifts. It turned
   over and burst into flames just as Bob
      reached the edge of the woods.
  "You goddamn fool," a voice screamed
behind him, "what the hell's the matter with
         you, that's a damn wolf!"
 "I am not a fool. My name is Joe Running
   Fox and I'm the last of the goddamn
Mohicans. That wolf is sacred to my people."
    As Bob twisted and turned among the
 hemlocks and the pines the voices dwindled
  behind him. He could have listened but he
   wasn't interested. The Indian might stop
those men for a few hours or even a few days,
   but they would be back. The pack was in
      immediate danger of being killed.
            The cubs would die.
 He raced on, his breath coming in hurting
 gasps, his blood thundering in his temples.
 An hour later he reached the pack in a state
 of happy relaxation. The cubs were playing
 with the big alpha male and the little female
   with the bent tail, still Bob's immediate
superior. Better, the middle wolves had taken
    a raccoon, which lay where it had been
   hunted down, a deliciously bloody ruin.
 Bob's fear caused a little restlessness. The
 alpha female wagged her tail inquiringly.
Others watched him, looking for some signal
      that would explain his distress.
      Their language did not allow for
  explanations, though. They would have to
   hear the snowmobiles and smell the men
 before they would run. Bob dashed north a
  distance, barking frantically. Some of the
younger wolves yapped, infected by his state.
The alpha male, who had obviously eaten his
fill of raccoon, stretched out on a bare patch
          of ground and went to sleep.
Night fell. The wolves were happy, and they
   howled together. Bob felt sure that the
hunters were close enough to hear them, and
he yapped helpless protest. The howl was so
  good though, so charming with its racing
highs and soaring, laughing combinations of
voices that he joined it, too, and when it was
over, he almost wanted to leap for the rising
 moon, he was so full of the gladness that is
         being a wolf among wolves.
His beloved daughter cub curled up with him
this night. He lay with her softness under his
  chin, listening and sniffing. Although he
 smelled smoke and may once have heard a
  faint murmur of voices, the men did not
                   appear.
Next morning Bob arose before dawn, to the
protests of the little cub. He nuzzled her and
she licked his face, making complicated little
         noises of love in her throat.
  Especially when he was with his cubs, Bob
 thought he could sense the loving force that
 was behind the change in him. He sensed it
 now, and he sensed that it was both uneasy
                and excited.
 His mind went to Cindy and Kevin and he
            thought, if only.
But surely it was impossible. No, he was alone
 in this. People don't change into animals.
He stood, then ran a distance into the deeper
   woods. He did not like the fact that the
 thickest forest was to the south. Northward
   there was a daylong run to the seaway,
through mostly scrub woods, over ridge after
 ridge. The climbing would quickly exhaust
                  the wolves.
  From the middle of the woods Bob heard
 them. The Indian had not been able to turn
   them back. Now they roared, now they
    snarled, at least a dozen of them, each
      carrying one or two armed men.
         The wolves had no chance.
He barked furiously, and there was such fear
in his voice that every adult wolf in the pack
 leaped to his feet also barking. In the quiet
 that followed, Bob heard the snowmobiles
 again, this time muttering in the far side of
the woods. They were tracking him, moving
         slowly because of the trees.
  He took his daughter cub in his mouth and
   started trotting north. Behind him a few
wolves yapped, but the alphas soon heard the
    snowmobiles also and took flight, each
 carrying a cub. The scraggly female carried
the fourth, a scrappy little male who had once
    made a neat line of twigs, nosing them
               through the snow.
 The wolves trotted steadily along, the alphas
 in the lead, then the middle wolves, then the
female, and at the end Bob with his daughter,
      who had obediently fallen asleep.
 The snowmobiles came screaming out of the
  woods not a mile behind them, and fanned
 out across the wider field they had just left,
sending up silver plumes of snow in the dawn
light. Bob could not make out the words, but
 he could hear the delight in the voices. The
men must be almost beside themselves, seeing
the whole pack. Probably these were the first
  wolves any of them had seen in the wild.
 Shots sounded, snowmobiles shrieked and
   bounded across the land, eating up the
 distance. The wolves moved steadily along,
   going from a trot to a lope, the alphas
         conserving their strength.
 It was a hopeless flight. Before another hour
had passed the snowmobiles were flanking the
  wolves. A shot rang out and the little female
ahead of Bob, whom he had faithfully obeyed
  since they met, whom he loved, to whom he
often rolled, exploded in a splash of blood and
   bone. The cub flew out of her mouth. She
 lunged, grabbed it, and started trying to pull
  herself along with her front paws. Then her
  head was blown apart. The cub was hurled
    screaming into the air. No sooner had it
landed than one of the middle wolves grabbed
                       it.
    There was no longer any question of
conserving strength. The alphas were running
 hard now, desperate for anything that could
              be called shelter.
 It was slaughter. They were still miles from
   the seaway and there was nobody to help
them. Again the shots rang out, and this time
   a middle wolf collapsed, dead of a bullet
     through his heart. Bob closed the line,
 slinking low, his daughter cub in his mouth,
running as hard as he could. He was thinking
  little, just following the alphas, hoping he
                wouldn't get shot.
 Another middle wolf was hit. She screamed,
blood spurting from her side. The cub she was
 carrying was picked up by another. She lay
  down in the snow, panting. Like the others
 Bob went around her. Her eyes were on the
 wolves, and he knew why. In her dying there
was nothing else she cared to see but the long
        gray line with its waving tails.
      "Don't shoot the fuckin' heads!"
 She screamed. Then again, louder. She was
             dying in agony.
 "Don't shoot again! You'll mess up the pelt.
           It'll die in a minute."
   Her agony, though, lasted longer than a
   minute. In her tortured end she gave the
  others a little time. But they were terribly
 tired, so it was time not for more flight but
 time for rest. They trotted until they heard
the snowmobiles grinding gears and starting
     off again. Then they began to. run.
 Bob was right behind the alpha female now.
  The middle wolves remaining were behind
him. Pack order was in confusion. Even if the
  killing stopped now, it would take days for
       them to sort themselves out again.
Bob could smell her beautiful musk. God, he
 loved her. He loved her more than he ever
 had Cindy—or at least differently. His love
   for her was without equivocation. It was
adoring, plentiful, unashamed. But it was not
 exclusive: it included the whole pack, male
  and female alike. Only in time of heat did
sexual differences really become important.
The snowmobiles were back. The wolves had
fanned out, though, in a hunting spread, and
 so they could not so easily be flanked. A few
          shots were fired, all misses.
   Then there was some luck: one of the
snowmobiles hit a tree and its driver fell off
 and started screaming. He was holding his
 head when Bob looked, dark blood coming
  out between his fingers. The wolves kept
                 running.
   As he ran Bob cursed himself. Despite his
   place at the rear of the pack, he had been
 subtly leading it just as certainly as if he had
been at the front. The wolves did not have his
intelligence. Pinned into a wolf suit, he was as
   deadly to them as if he had been a normal
 human being. It was he who had roamed too
 far south, who had discovered the town, who
had started the chicken raids. Now the wolves
  were paying the full penalty for his lack of
                    caution.
  The cub in Bob's mouth was beginning to
    squirm and mew. It must be painful,
bouncing along as she was. Then Bob heard
 the mad buzzing of the snowmobiles again.
The other wolves put on a burst of speed but
it wasn't long before the hunters were back,
       firing at the remaining wolves.
Another male went down, crying as he fell, his
 body pierced in the anus. With a whoop one
 of the hunters leaped from his snowmobile
and began to follow the struggling, dying wolf
on foot. Bob knew it had been a good shot; no
doubt the only damage to the pelt would be a
   wound under the tail. The wolf dragged
 himself along. Bob remembered him playing
   with the cubs through long, happy hours,
   letting them climb up his back and then
shaking them off amid squeals of cub delight.
  The dying wolf had not had a cub with him
   now, which was fortunate because there
             would be no saving it.
 He gurgled and gasped. Looking back, Bob
 saw his lips twisted back, his legs digging at
   the snow. Then he went down. Once he
  barked, and then he was too far behind to
        watch without slowing down.
A bullet whistled past Bob's skull. He dodged
and ran on, slinking to get between some close
 trees. Another shot cracked and there was a
   heart-breaking shriek. It was her, she was
 hurt! Carefully, his mind washed with great
 clarity, Bob put down his cub and ran for all
   he was worth to help her. She had a grave
   wound in her belly. A terrible realization
   came over Bob when he saw her blue guts
  dragging in the snow. She fell to her side,
gabbling pain. The cub she had been carrying
         dropped from her mouth.
     A laughing, happy man leaped off his
  snowmobile and scooped the cub up. Bob
thought fast. He might be a wolf, but he knew
 a few things that were going to surprise this
                    man.
               "I got me a—"
    Bob jumped up on the snowmobile.
              "What in hell?"
He surveyed the controls. Handlebar throttle,
wouldn't you know. If it had been a pedal he
 might have managed to drive the thing. He
   broke off the key and jumped out amid a
  fusillade of shots. A bullet grazed his back
  like a hot poker, tumbling him over in the
 snow. But he jumped to his feet and rushed
  the man, who was not ten yards away and
                   reloading.
  While his beautiful friend died in agony,
 biting her own guts to speed her end, all of
 her grace and dignity spattered as blood on
the snow, Bob savaged another human being
 mercilessly. He bit the man's face, he raked
his cheeks until he could see bones and teeth,
 he bit the scarf-protected neck so hard the
     screams became popping whispers.
   Then he grabbed the cub the man had
 dropped and took it to where he had left the
other. The rest of the wolves were already far
  away, followed still by four snowmobiles.
 Bob left her dying, her murderer sitting in
shock in the snow, his face a pulp. He would
        live, scarred. She would die.
She whined and Bob stopped. He could not
bear to leave her, nor could he bear to leave
   one of his cubs. He yapped miserably,
                 hopelessly.
He went to her and gently licked her gaping
 wound. At first she resisted, then her great
head flopped down and she made no further
                   sound.
    Her eyes told him that she was dead.
 He howled over her, raising his soul's dirge.
 The man he had injured moaned, his hands
 fluttering in the ruins of his face. Bob could
have killed him, but he would not. Already he
             had done too much.
   Carefully, he picked up one cub and set it
beside the other, then he took the two of them
  in his mouth as best he could. They did not
like this at all, they squirmed and yowled. But
     when he moved, their instincts saved
 them—or perhaps their understanding—and
 they became quiet, bearing their discomfort.
  About a mile to the north there were more
   shots, followed by whoops of pleasure.
 Something snapped in Bob, to hear the easy
  delight. For the hunters this was nothing
               more than fun.
   But it was so much more. It was so terribly
  immoral, so fundamentally wrong that Bob
 almost could not bear that it was happening
   on the earth. Evil is not entropic, it is not a
winding down: evil disguises itself as decay. In
truth it is an active force in human life, active
 and clever and tireless. Evil laughed with the
       laughing men, and the wolves died.
 When Bob reached the top of a low hill, he
saw them, a scraggly line of six animals with
snowmobiles racing round and round them.
There was no hope, but still they ran on. Bob
 could see cubs dangling in the mouths of the
  alpha male and one of the middle wolves.
 They were trying so hard to save themselves
 and their infants. For the wolves this was an
occasion of the greatest possible suffering and
   the highest seriousness. How could it be
debased to fun by the whooping hunters, now
  riding their snowmobiles like cowboys on
                dancing mares.
   Stunned by the horror of the scene before
     him, Bob had stopped almost without
 realizing it. The alpha was a clever wolf, and
 he suddenly turned away from his northerly
   direction and into a dense thicket that fell
   quickly away to a rushing kill, the torrent
foaming with spring runoff. The snowmobiles
could not follow. Within the thicket, Bob saw
 them put down the two cubs. No doubt they
   hoped to fly as fast as possible, then come
 back later for the cubs. Or maybe they were
  simply too tired to carry them farther, and
were hiding them as best they were able, with
             no plan for the future.
The snowmobiles stopped in a line at the edge
 of the thicket. A couple of shots were fired
but it isn't easy to hit a target running as fast
as the wolves were running now that nobody
            had a cub in his mouth.
Bob saw a chance—not much of a chance, but
 a very definite chance. He could distract the
   hunters, draw them away from the other
  wolves and the two cubs left in the thicket.
 Without a moment's hesitation he put down
     his own two cubs and began barking
                   furiously.
    Faces turned with alacrity. There were
 excited shouts. Sure enough, the easier game
was more interesting to the hunters. After all,
they had already gotten themselves eight wolf
pelts and seven fine heads. A ninth—and such
  a big one— would surely be enough for one
                     day.
 Taking up the miserable cubs, Bob started
 moving north and west, still in the direction
   of the seaway, but away from the other
  wolves, who were going east and, Bob felt
     sure, would soon turn north again.
 He ran as fast as his spent, trembling body
  would allow. The snow was in full melt
  beneath the noontime sun, and it made
 movement hell. The snowmobiles had been
  designed to handle it. They roared easily
                  forth.
If only the men would find their companion
with the ravaged face, they might call off the
whole hunt. His was far more than the minor
 head injury the other one had encountered.
   But he was too far back. They wouldn't
  discover him until they turned for home.
    The engines got louder and louder, the
    whoops and laughter higher and more
excited. Soon early shots were ringing out and
   Bob saw the snow fountains of bullets all
around him. Ahead of Bob was a long, drifted
  ridge—just the sort of situation that would
punish him the most. His cubs were crying. At
 least the other two were with the main pack.
   They would live if the pack got across the
                    seaway.
Bob realized that he was going to die. Maybe,
  somehow, his two cubs would make it.
  Not two days ago one of his offspring had
 made a line of sticks. Made a line! They had
                    to live!
He turned to face the snowmobiles, his head
        down, barking furiously.
  There came out of the south an amazingly
  unlikely caravan. First was an ancient car,
slipping and sliding through the snow, driven
   by the Indian who had called himself Joe
   Running Fox. Beside him in the car sat a
   woman. Bob smelled Cindy. The car had
    chains on its tires and was a total mess,
   covered with snow, both lights put out by
    collisions along the way, the windshield
     cracked. Behind it was an even more
   outrageous sight, a spindly old man on a
  brand-new Kawasaki snowmobile. Sitting
     behind him was Kevin, who carried a
                     shotgun.
The procession drove right between him and
the oncoming hunters, and there it stopped.
  Bob could hardly believe what he saw.
 "You're all under arrest," Cindy shouted.
  "What you're doing is a felony. You're
  wantonly killing an endangered species
     without so much as a permit."
   "These damn things have been taking
chickens and goats all winter. They're being
 exterminated." With that one of the hunters
took aim on Bob. Kevin's voice came over the
    noon thrall: "If you shoot, I do, too!"
"Oh, come on." The rifle clicked ominously.
Kevin fired the shotgun high. Thank God Bob
 had taught him something about shotguns.
   Otherwise he might have misgauged the
spread and given one of the men a face full of
                  buckshot.
    "The next one will be for you, Mike
   Lispenard," the old man said in a thin,
          slightly English voice.
               "You old queer!"
    "Maybe so, but you're a murderer."
 "Hell, this is a hunt. The worst we're gonna
 get is a fine, if that. And one of these pelts is
  worth a lot more than what we'll have to
                        pay."
   Kevin fired again. This time one of the
 snowmobiles leaped back and its occupant
  climbed down, ripping off his jacket. "A
 pellet! I got a pellet in my goddamn chest!
"That's a lot more serious crime than killing a
     few chicken-thieving wolves, lady."
"The worst he'll get is a fine," Cindy snarled,
 "and it's worth it to see you creeps suffer."
     Bob did not wait for the end of this
 confrontation. He took his two cubs and set
          off toward the seaway.
  All afternoon he loped, his heart still far to
 the south where the other cubs lay hidden in
the snow. He wished mightily that he could go
  back for them, but he knew that the alpha
had been right. Grown wolves could be risked
  for cubs only up to a point. Bob knew that
there would be other seasons and other mates,
              and many litters.
  At least he still had the two. In many ways
              that was a triumph.
 Early in the evening he reached the seaway.
    For an hour he heard it booming and
  cracking. He had been sick with fear, but
   confused, because the ice seemed to be
         breaking up awfully early.
Then he saw why: there were icebreakers on
  the water, long, gray ships plunging and
 rearing along, leaving dark blue tracks of
 open water behind them. Bob remembered
  the roach—the fact that it was out should
have warned him that spring was proceeding.
The sailors knew it: like the insects, they gave
not a moment more to winter than necessary.
 Bob ran as hard as he could, but it was not
  hard enough. By the time he reached the
seaway the water was blue down a trench in
the middle at least fifty yards wide. And the
 ice for a hundred yards on either side of it
was shattered and thin, floating precariously
              on the current. -
Bob sat down on the bank. A wave of blackest
 despair washed him. Putting down the two
 cubs, who immediately began to tussle and
  play at his feet, he raised his muzzle in a
          disconsolate, lonely howl.
   From the far bank he was answered. He
counted six wolves. Since he was the seventh,
it meant that they had ultimately killed nine.
 A terrible toll, more than half of them. But
 the survivors were over there, not here, and
         for that Bob could be glad.
 He decided to hide these cubs in a snow den
 and go back for the others at once, so that
 they wouldn't have to spend the night in the
 cold. As long as he lived, they had a chance,
               all four of them.
As he dug his den, he heard the howling from
the far bank of the St. Lawrence, and thought
   that it was the saddest sound he had ever
known, far more sad than the deepest human
  sorrow, because it had to do with the final
tragedy of their species, and they sensed this.
Miserably, Bob dug the snow den. These were
such early cubs, maybe they were never fated
 to live, any of them. Bob had been so randy
  that he had interrupted the dance of heat
 with an impregnation weeks before it would
 normally have occurred. Again, his human
nature had unbalanced the delicate life of the
                     pack.
    He nosed the little cubs into the den and
 turned south, counting on the rising dark to
 conceal him. He had not gone a quarter mile
before, quite abruptly, he collapsed in a heap.
     For a moment he was confused. Why
wouldn't he go? He tried, but he got nowhere.
  It was fully fifteen minutes before he could
get himself to move again. And then he could
barely manage to walk back to the snow den.
He lay down beside it, curling his nose under
  his tail. Soon he had two very happy and
relieved cubs cuddling into the warmth of his
    fur, tugging and snuffling for the best
position. He knew they must be hungry. He'd
    deal with hunting in the morning. God
    willing, the thaw would bring out some
                    squirrels.
  He dropped to sleep thinking of the other
  cubs out there in the night alone, the poor
 children of his body. And her, he thought of
  her, how beautiful she had been, the most
beautiful female creature he had ever known.
  But when he slept, he dreamed of Cindy's
            arms around him.
 The light that woke him was not the sun. It
  came stealthily through the woods, and
          brought him to his feet.
               "It's us, Bob."
 They came forth out of the scrub forest. Bob
smelled a hot car nearby, and he also smelled
something else, an odor that made his hackles
rise even as his heart was charged with hope.
"We have the cubs. We saw you carrying the
other two. We know how important they are
                 to you."
 Cindy and Kevin loomed up out of the dark,
  each carrying a cub cuddled in their arms.
Both infant wolves were curled up, motionless
                  with fear.
When they smelled Bob, their heads began to
 wobble. Then they started mewing, and his
  every instinct was aroused. They were so
  precious: they bore the spark of intellect.
Such cubs as these were destined to save the
                    wild!
  The cubs were put at his feet, and soon all
four of them were scrambling about together,
their fears forgotten in the protective shadow
                of their father.
"Bob, do you still understand?" Cindy was a
    perceptive woman. He'd heard enough
language this day for it all to have come back
   to him. One tap was yes, two was no. He
                   tapped.
 "Oh, Dad, you're still in there, you're really
              still in there!"
   Kevin's voice, so full of loyalty and love,
   practically broke Bob's heart. Before he
realized what he was doing, he raised his nose
 and howled out his combination of joy and
   sorrow. From the far bank there almost
  immediately came a response. He felt the
 longing in their voices: they had lost lovers
and cubs. Also, though, they had heard his joy
  and there was an undercurrent of hope in
                 their sound.
He looked at his son. For an instant, their eyes
       met. Then Kevin looked away.
           Bob thought, I can do it.
  "The seaway trapped you, didn't it," the
            elderly man said.
              Bob tapped once.
 The old man looked at Cindy and Kevin.
"Amazing. Can it really be true? Every word
           you've told me?"
 Bob scratched again, hard, and wagged his
                   tail.
 The old man made a sound like a sob. "I see
    this as a very hopeful sign," he said.
 "If you'll get in the car," Joe Running Fox
said, "we'll take you across the seaway at the
  Lightforth Bridge. We'll leave you within
striking distance of the other wolves. Do you
                  want that?"
Bob scratched yes and yapped excitedly. How
        desperately he wanted that!
"Bob," Cindy asked, "you must answer me a
 question. Please, Bob, do you want to stay
  with us? We'll give the cubs to the other
wolves. But Bob, come home. There is love for
     you there. And maybe someday—"
 He spoke with his heart: Look at me, Cindy!
 Look into my eyes! She did not hear. Within
himself he was still her husband, still Kevin's
  father. But he was also the father of these
                     cubs.
             He was anguished.
 He loved his old family and the life of man,
  but he belonged to these cubs, and to the
future they represented. He knew why he was
  here, to save the ancient race of wolves by
  giving them a spark of man's devastating
                  intelligence.
  But Cindy, dear heart, how can I ever leave
you! For God sake, look at me! Kevin, look into
                 Dad's eyes!
 The cubs, grown hungry, mewed in perfect
 unison at his feet. Normal wolf cubs do not
      mew together like that, not ever.
 In the car the cubs became quiet after eating
some beef jerky offered them by Joe Running
  Fox. Bob slept with his head in Cindy's lap,
waking occasionally to take a long, lovely sniff
                    of her.
  It was a long drive down to the bridge and
   back up the other side. Through it Cindy
stroked Bob's head. He smelled tears, but she
  made no sound. He waited to lock glances
  with her or Kevin, but it never happened.
 Then the car stopped. "It's time," Joe said.
 Bob got to his feet. Kevin and the old man
  were sleeping on one another's shoulders.
     Gently, Bob nosed his son awake.
 "Good-bye," Cindy said. Kevin bent down
            and kissed him.
 No, it must not be! For God's sake, look at
                     me!
 He imagined them changing, fought to see
them as wolves, Cindy's face soft and full of
 courage, her scent unimaginably perfect.
 She moaned, and then, quite suddenly, she
      was looking back into his eyes.
There came a shaft of golden light from the
   sun. The old man screamed, the Indian
sighed, Kevin's voice swept high with terror.
              "Mom, Mom!"
 Oh, there—perfect, just perfect! He leaped
into her, rushing and roaring, filling her with
the essence of the wolf, the magic of the wild.
   She rolled, growling and muttering, still
                trying to talk.
   She was one god-awful beautiful wolf!
               "Mom, no!"
   Kevin, come on, look at me, look at Dad!
 "Mama, I'm scared! Please, Mama, please!"
 She leaped up, resting her paws on the boy's
  shoulders. "They do it to you," the Indian
shouted. "Kev, they do it with their eyes!" He
   was young and full of life, and that life
              recoiled in fear.
  When his mother looked into his eyes, he
whimpered, then cried. His whole body shook,
 shimmered as if behind a wall of heat, then
his arms, his legs began to twist, his hands to
           curl in on themselves.
It wasn't easy for him like it had been for his
mother and father. Perhaps this was because
he was young and full of human hope for his
   human future. Or perhaps it was simply
   because youth loves life, and this felt too
              much like death.
 But once the process started in him it would
    not be stopped. The change continued
 relentlessly on. His head burst with a great
crackling sound into the head of a fine young
                     wolf.
  Out of the writhing blur of his body there
  came the naked stalk of a tail, the skeletal
sticks that would be his legs, then beneath the
 ripping, tearing clothes, a blur of fine, gray
                     hair.
   He was a lovely young wolf, his soft eyes
        crackling with intelligence.
He stood beside his mother, his tail circling,
his very stance speaking promise. When Bob
went to him to sniff under his tail, he leaped
            forward, yapping.
   Had it been possible, Bob would have
   laughed. But he taught them both the
wonders of their new sense. In a few minutes
of sniffing each other the little family knew
 each other better than human beings have
           since we left the forest.
When he lifted his head from his wife and his
 son and his cubs, Bob could smell the other
wolves not a hundred yards away, hiding in a
               stand of pine.
 "I'll never forget you," the Indian said. He
  would not look at Bob, though, when Bob
   sought his eyes. "It's too late for me," he
added, "I'd be a waste." Then he dropped his
  eyes. His fists were clenched, such was the
  pain in his heart. "You go on, find others,
many others! Find the young and the strong.
 God bless you and bless the race of wolves!"
He and the Englishman withdrew so that the
    other wolves could come out of hiding.
When they appeared, the pack reunited with
much sniffing and joyful yapping. Because of
 the losses, the two new wolves were more
              easily accepted.
 The pack remained there through the night,
sometimes fighting, sometimes not, and in the
 morning there was a new order established.
 The alpha wolf was still alpha. Behind him
came Cindy of the high tail, who had turned
   out to be a fierce fighter. She had taken
 second place against all of the other female
wolves. Then came a thoroughly beaten Bob.
    He had tried hard to be alpha. He was
Cindy's husband, for God's sake, married in
the Catholic Church no less! But the leader
was clever in the ways of wolves, and he was
 strong. Behind him were the young wolves,
included among them his own beloved son.
Not long after dawn the Indian and the old
man returned to the pine grove. He watched
  them in silence. There were tears on the
Indian's face, but he would not meet Bob's
eager eyes. "Under God's heaven," he said,
   "make something new in the world."
Bob knew what was finally happening, knew
the grandeur and the wonder of it. The spirit
  of man had finished its ages-long journey
through history, and was finally returning to
the wild from which it had come. But it was
 returning triumphant, bringing the gift of
              intellect with it.
The two old men stood watching as the pack
 left. When they mounted a rise, Bob looked
 back. He saw their car creeping away like a
beetle, moving toward the Lightforth Bridge
       and mankind's old, dark world.
   At last Bob turned north. He bounded
  forward, taking his hard-earned place as
third wolf. He followed his alphas, deep into
     the freedom and safety of the wild.