The Werewolf Megapack. Александр Дюма
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the dog and pretended, just for a little while, that Ben was his dog and that they were out for Ben’s night-time walk and just taking a break from their rambles. After about ten minutes, the dog noticed something approaching, and a low, rumbling growl grew in his chest. “What is it?” Jake asked, trying to figure out what Ben had smelled, because it had to be an odor, since Jake couldn’t discern any reason for this change.
A guy in a county park ranger’s uniform came into the playground light, a flashlight in his hand. As the light flickered over the big black dog and the youngster beside him, the ranger said something under his breath. Aware that Jake and the dog were watching him, the ranger’s attempt to smile failed utterly because his face was lit from beneath by the flashlight, making him appear sinister. “Kind of late for you to be out, isn’t it, son?” He had a nice voice—deep but not booming; it kind of made up for the weird light on his face.
“Ben’s gotta be walked,” said Jake, scrambling to his feet; next to him Ben stood up.
“Yes, he does, but it’s a little late for walking a dog.” He saw the set look in Jake’s face, and tried to soften his remarks. “He’s a real handsome dog—that ruff makes him look wolfish.”
“I think so, too,” said Jake, realizing it was true.
“Still, it’s after ten. There’s a ten o’clock curfew for youngsters like you.”
“My Mom had to work late, and somebody’s gotta walk Ben,” said Jake, making a big show of shrugging.
“Without a leash?” the ranger inquired.
“He’s easier to handle if I just hold his collar. That’s why it’s cloth,” Jake improvised. “When I’m taller, I’ll get to use a leash.”
“How old are you, son?” The ranger had taken a notebook out of his pocket.
“Nine. I’ll be ten in two months.”
“What grade are you in?”
The black dog whined a little and looked as if he wanted to move on.
“Fourth, at Burbank,” Jake said. “Look, I gotta get going. Ben’s hungry.”
“Next time don’t wait so long to take him out. This isn’t a safe place for a kid after dark, and the curfew is real, you know.” The ranger bent down to make sure Jake could see his concern; Jake longed to hit him. “You should be home in bed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Jake in the same tone he used with Mom when she lectured him about Uncle Bob’s problems.
“Are you sure you can get home okay?” the ranger asked as Jake and Ben went to the paved walkway leading out of the park.
“Yeah. We know the way, don’t we, Ben?”
The big dog gave a merry little croon.
The ranger looked displeased but he said nothing more; he scribbled something in his notebook and waved to Jake before continuing on his rounds.
* * * *
Jake and Ben walked together for about half a mile, as far as West Sycamore; Jake had spent most of the time trying to figure out how he could keep Ben without Mom or Uncle Bob finding out about him. At the intersection, Jake turned right, headed for the last quarter mile between him and home, but Ben halted, refusing to go farther. Jake pulled on the cloth around Ben’s neck, but to no avail. He let go of the collar and pointed down West Sycamore.
“It’s not a long way, Ben, Three blocks down and turn into Barrington Court. It’s the rear unit of number 22,” said Jake, trying not to plead. “Come on. it’s not hard to find.”
Ben moved away from the boy; he was now out of reach, and putting more distance between them by moving sideways. As Jake came toward him, he threw back his head and howled, a sound so eerie and forlorn that Jake stopped still. Ben wagged his tail, turned, and hastened off into the night, Jake trying to follow him.
Two blocks later, Jake gave up and turned around, his head down and a feeling of tremendous loss weighing heavily upon him.
* * * *
The middle-aged woman in the boxy tweed suit at the door had to call out twice to be heard over the vacuum cleaner; when Esther turned the machine off, she gave Jake’s mother a tentative smile through the worn screen. “Missus Sparges?” she repeated. “Missus Esther Sparges?”
Esther made a grimace that was supposed to be a friendly expression. “Yes?” She stayed away from the door.
“I’m Isobel Matthews—from Luther Burbank Elementary—Jake’s school? We sent you a letter a month ago about your boy, but we haven’t heard anything from you, and we really do need to talk.” She pressed her lips together, then explained. “I’m a psychologist for the district, and Ms Davidson, your son’s teacher? has expressed some concerns about him.”
“My boy’s fine,” said Esther, bristling. “If she says otherwise, she’s wrong.”
“I don’t mean that he’s disruptive, or that his grades are falling. Nothing like that,” said Isobel hastily. “Quite the opposite; Jake is very quiet and self-contained. He has artistic talents. He’s good at science. He’s an excellent student.”
“Then why are you here?” Esther demanded, setting her vacuum cleaner aside and coming up to the screen.
“Because he’s showing signs of serious depression: that can be dangerous in children Jake’s age. There’s reason to be worried. He’s withdrawn, he keeps to himself, he spends his lunchtime alone, he writes stories about a hero with a secret identity, he wants nothing to do with school activities beyond his classroom work, he is—”
“Oh, God, you psychologists have to find something wrong with everyone, don’t you?” Esther glowered at Isobel. “Look, you’ve got Jake all wrong. He’s kind of shy, and he’s real sensitive about being small. He’s had a rough time of it. Why can’t you leave the poor kid alone?”
“Because he’s at risk, Missus Sparges.” She paused. “May I come in? This isn’t the sort of discussion one should have on the porch.”
Esther hesitated. “I think our conversation is over,” she said, trying to be authoritative and ending up sounding petulant.
“Oh, I hope not, Missus Sparges, for your son’s sake,” said Isobel. “I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain so he won’t end up in serious trouble.”
“That won’t happen; not to Jake.”
“It very well may, if we can’t find out what’s bothering him and try to do something about it.” Isobel wanted to encourage Esther, so she added, “You don’t want to see him hurt by this, do you?”
“Look, lady, I think Jake still hasn’t got over his father’s death, and that makes him quiet and…thoughtful.”
“When did his father die?”
“Five years and seven months ago,” said Esther a bit wistfully, an emotion that faded and was replaced by truculence. “He was okay, and then he was real sick, and then he was dead. At thirty-one, he got sick and died. And I was left with bills that ate up all the insurance money and a four-year-old to raise.” She was afraid that sounded bad, so she added, “It hasn’t been easy for either of us.”
Isobel had seen information about this in Jake’s file, but didn’t mention it to Esther. “Would you like me to refer you to a counselor, or to one of the community support groups? You might be eligible for food stamps and money to help cover the costs of raising a child. I’d be glad to help you through the process, if you like. It might make it easier for both of you, and that would take some of the stress off you and Jake.” She tried to be reassuring but could tell by Esther’s frown that she wasn’t succeeding.
“No, I wouldn’t.” She knew she had been too blunt, so she added, “Thanks. We’ve