He Comes on Ancient Winds
Copyright (c) 1994, Robert McKay
All rights reserved


                                                             
                      *He Comes on Ancient Winds*
                            by Robert McKay


     On a dark night the fog rolled over the landscape like a living
thing.  Unlike normal fog, this was a thick, clammy mist that seemed to
move of its own accord.  No wind blew it along, yet it moved, clinging
to the rounded slopes of the hills and sweeping through the draws with
an almost purposeful air.  It passed over the outlying hills, and moved
inexorably through the town, providing those few who were still out and
about a small thrill of unease as it slipped silently along.
     The next day few people in Wilson spoke of the fog.  It was an
oddity that had come and gone in the depths of the night, and when day
came there were more pressing, if more mundane, matters to discuss.
     In the feed store, on the courthouse square, on street corners,
men discussed the weather, the prospects for the crops that year, the
price of beef and wool.  As always, some muttered darkly about the
goings on in the state capital, just 20 miles away, though hidden by
the gently green and rolling hills, and about the policies sent forth
from Washington, where no matter which party and which administration
was in power, agriculture seemed to be a total mystery.
     In the Agnes Cafe a scattering of men sat at the counter nursing
coffee, while two or three others sat at the formica tables finishing
their donuts or scrambled eggs.  Agnes was long gone - she'd died in
the '50s, and by now the cafe had passed into entirely unrelated hands.
But the name on painted on the window remained the same, and the
customers did likewise, the older farmers and ranchers giving way
slowly and reluctantly to their young successors.  Overalls still
dominated the place, though Levis were beginning to sprinkle themselves
through the regular clientele as they were through the farming
population.
     The door opened with a crash - something that never happened, for
the hydraulic door closer was old and stiff and everyone had learned
over the years of its decaying smoothness to lean heavily on the door
to open it.  Eyes turned to see what could possibly have created the
impossibly swift and hard opening of the stubborn door.  A stranger
stood in the doorway, reaching to retrieve the door, and swing it shut
again, which he did with an ease that belied the stiffness of the door
closer.  As he turned from closing the door, he said in a soft, cold
voice, "I apologize for the racket.  I was distracted, and paid no
attention to what I was doing as I entered."
     Amid looks between customers, the stranger walked to the counter.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, thin.  His skin was pale, not with the
whiteness of one who receives no sun, but the pallor of the dead.  His
nose was high and arrogant, bisecting a face of such marble coldness it
might have been the carved representation of divine hauteur.  His hair
was a black that was almost blue, combed straight back from his high
smooth forehead.  The hands were long, the fingers thin and supple, and
a scattering of hairs grew from the palms.  He was dressed in a black
suit, with a single red carnation in the button hole.  The stranger
walked across the floor noiselessly, though the linoleum tiles were
cracked in many places and even without boots it was impossible to be
absolutely quiet.  The customers who had already been in the cafe
looked at each other curiously as the stranger seated himself at the
counter, between two older farmers with the thickness of years of work
and the stains of earth and nicotine on their fingers.  As he lowered
himself onto the stool, a simultaneous look of revulsion passed over
the faces of the two men, who as if by common pre-agreement swiftly
drained the remainder of their coffee, threw a bill or two on the
counter, and hurriedly went out.
     The new customer appeared not to notice the reaction of the two
men who had gone out, examining the tattered menu with apparent
interest.  The waitress stepped over with a glass of water in one hand
and a coffee pot in the other.  "You ready to order?" she asked.
     "Yes."  The stranger's voice was so low that the waitress had to
lean forward slightly to be sure of hearing it.  "I'll have a ham and
cheese omelet, hash browns, and hot tea."
     "All right."  The waitress, whose name tag identified her as
Sherry, scribbled the order on her pad, tore off the sheet, and slapped
it down on the sill of the window that communicated with the kitchen.
Turning back to the stranger, who had slipped the menu back into its
rack, she asked, "New in town, aren't you?"
     "Yes."  The stranger's lips moved in a slight smile - a bare
gesture.
     "Stayin' long?"
     "I don't know.  It depends on my tastes."
     "You don't look like a farmer or a rancher," Sherry observed,
leaning back against the ice cream machine.  "Nor yet anything else I
can think of to move into a small town."
     The stranger smiled his meager smile again.  "I was informed that
citizens of small towns were inquisitive."  He made a show of
inspecting his nails, which were impeccably clean.  "I am a self-
contained man.  I do that which pleases me, and I live where it pleases
me to live.  What does not please me is to be required to give a full
biography to all and sundry."  The slight smile had disappeared, and
Sherry took the hint.
     "Well, I guess I know how to mind my own business too.  But what
do you want us to call you, if you do stay in town?"
     "You may call me Mr. Carver.  Jared Carver."
     The cook slid the plate of omelet and potatoes across the
stainless steel sill of his window, smacking the chrome bell that
seems to be a required furnishing in all small town restaurants.
Sherry grabbed the plate and clacked it down in front of Carver.
Without a word she turned away, finding something to occupy her behind
the counter.
     Carver ate silently, voraciously.  He seemed to enjoy his food,
but at the same time his teeth, exposed briefly each time he took a
bite, seemed to champ down on the eggs and hash browns with a touch too
much force, as if he would have preferred to be eating live meat.
     When he finished, Carver shoved his plate back with a finger, and
took up the check.  Glancing at the total, he reached into the pocket
of his suit coat and withdrew a long, thin wallet.  From within it he
extracted a couple of bills.  Sliding them and the check across the
counter, he waited while the waitress rang up his meal and counted out
the change.  Pocketing some change and a bill, he stacked the rest on
the counter and slid it toward Sherry.  Without a word, he then rose
and left, this time without overpowering the door.
                                 * * *
     Through the day, the dark, tall form of Jared Carver appeared at
various places in the town of Wilson.  He opened two accounts at the
bank - one checking and one savings - before moving on to the realtor,
where he made arrangements to see a large house for sale in town.  He
appeared in the city offices, inquiring about utilities; in the grocery
store, where he made small purchases such as a man staying in a motel
might make - although Maxine at the desk said no Jared Carver was
registered and no one matching his description had a room there; and
the hardware store, where he investigated, but did not buy, a selection
of strong door locks.  In each place where he appeared he had the
unmistakable effect of dampening the usual small town friendliness; no
one greeted him with "Howdy" more than once, and while he was never
impolite, he most emphatically did not invite casual conversation.
     As the day wore on Carver became the town mystery.  He was not
staying at the motel, and was never seen to enter or leave a vehicle.
His clothing was of the highest quality and could not have been
purchased anywhere short of the state capital or some other large city,
yet it never seemed to suffer the dusty effects of walking in a town
that was liberally spattered with the side effects of trailers loaded
with cattle, hogs, horses, or grain.  Where he was staying or how he
intended to get there was completely unknown, as was why he was in town
or why he seemed intent on moving in.  The townspeople were completely
baffled by his cold rebuffs of their friendliness; he was not rude, as
they expected city dwellers to be, but the very precision of his
politeness was a barrier.  He was frigid in responding to inquiries,
and few pursued matters further than the first calm repulsion.
     That night outbursts of barking broke out through the night.  The
dogs in a particular section of town would erupt, without warning, into
simultaneous fury, and the patch of barking would travel slowly along
until, with equal suddenness, it would cease as if cut off with an ax.
For a time all would be quiet, then the same strange phenomenon would
spring up in another neighborhood.  By daylight the dogs of Wilson were
exhausted, and many of the human citizens were fed up with the "dang
mutts."
     In the morning, the news went around town that Harvey Clapp, east
of town, had discovered one of his Angus steers down in the pasture,
with a small, precise gash in its neck.  The veterinarian diagnosed a
massive loss of blood, and quickly loaded the animal up to recuperate
at his clinic, but could come up with no reason why the blood could be
gone, or how it could have been lost through the small wound on the
neck, or where it could have gone, since the ground in the pasture was
free of the large splotch of blood that the magnitude of the loss
suggested.
                                 * * *
     Jared Carver did not appear in town for a couple of days.  When he
did, it was at the realtor's office, where he seemingly materialized
out of a cold thin drizzle.  Draped over his shoulders, protecting his
suit and its inevitable carnation, white this time, from the rain, was
a rain cloak that must have cost much more than the usual plasticized
poncho.  Dark in color, it complemented his suit without matching it
exactly.
     The realtor, having been previously warned that Carver would not
make an appointment, but would merely present himself in the office
when he was ready to see the house, was prepared.  For any other client
she would have refused such a peremptory and unusual request, but with
Carver it was not a request but an inexorable fact.  She had not found
it possible to object.
     The house was on a hill in an older part of Wilson, with other
houses around but separated from them by its own ten-acre plot of
ground.  The house had once been magnificent, an example of money and
taste, but over the years weather and neglect had worn the paint mostly
off and turned the boards a dingy gray.  The wood shone dimly in the
light, thin trickles of water running down.
     The doors were strongly hung, and the locks turned easily enough.
The house had apparently been inhabited, though not with much money,
until fairly recently, for while the marks of poverty and neglect were
apparent there was none of the random destruction wrought by decay in
an empty building.
     The realtor led Carver through the rooms - a large kitchen, living
room, two bedrooms, and what the realtor called a den on the first
floor, and upstairs two more bedrooms, a study, and what at one time
had obviously been a library.  Now the shelves were in disrepair, but
they had once been strongly built and could have held thousands of
volumes.  Each floor had a bathroom, carved out of the existing space
some time after the house was built.  Electricity and gas were
installed, as was telephone wiring.  Most incongruous was a cable
television outlet in the living room, its shiny black skin and gleaming
plug a strange contrast to the evident age of the walls and floor.
     Back in the realtor's office, Carver declared that he wanted the
house.  The woman began to discuss terms.
     "No."  Carver's one word startled the realtor into silence, and he
continued.  "I do not wish to clutter this transaction with mortgages,
interest rates, payments, and other impediments.  I will pay for the
house outright.  I have in my pocket a check, which merely needs to be
made out for the full amount.  It is on an account in a bank in New
York," here he withdrew the check and laid it on the desk, "which as
you will recognize is highly reputable.  If you wish you may verify
that sufficient funds are on deposit to cover the check."
     The realtor was stunned.  Not even the wealthy ranchers in the
area - some of whom were worth a million dollars or perhaps even more -
paid for houses in one fell swoop.  She stuttered.  "Mr. C-carver, I'll
t-t-trust you to c-cover the ch-ch-check."  Stopping for a deep breath,
she got her voice under control.  "I am not accustomed to working in
this fashion, but I am sure we can arrange the deal to do it this
time."
     Carver laid his long, white, cruel fingers on the check.  "You
will take the check, after I have made it out, or I will buy another
house from someone else.  There is nothing to arrange.  There is
nothing to discuss.  There is nothing to work out.  The check is here,
and you will either accept it for the full amount of the purchase
price, or you will not.  I would prefer the former, but in case of the
latter I am fully prepared to take my business elsewhere."
     She took the check.  It was not possible to protest further in the
presence of those eyes, with their tinge of red lurking in the black
depths.
                                 * * *
     Jared Carver had been in Wilson for two months.  The night was
clear and chill, with the stars, once one got away from the lights of
the town, standing out sharp and bright.  A farm house two miles
outside of town rested on a low hill, fields and barns surrounding it
in a ring of familiarity.  A patch of fog crept over the landscape,
moving directly toward the house, although no wind blew.  It settled
over the little hill, blanking out the house and its few shining
lights.  After a moment of resting on the hill, the fog began to draw
together, concentrating in the area directly in front of the door.  In
this yard, the fog compacted down until, with a last whirling,
soundless rush, it disappeared.
     In the yard stood a creature resembling a large dog.  But no dog
ever stood this rangy and menacing, with red eyes and lolling tongue
and white fangs dripping saliva.  Padding silently across the yard, the
creature lowered its head and squeezed through the dog door fixed in
the front door of the farm house.  Within, there was a scream,
following by the sounds of a struggle.  Low growls mixed with the
crashing and thumping.  The struggle ceased, and was replaced by the
unmistakable noise of a lapping tongue.
                                 * * *
     The next morning the city police and the county sheriff were
called to the Johnson place.  It seemed that some great beast had
entered the house, by means as yet unknown although the dog door was
suspected, and ripped out the throats of the elderly farming couple.
While blood was splashed about somewhat from the obvious struggle,
there was none in the bodies, and surprisingly little in the living
room where the deaths had occurred.
     By noon the news was being spoken of wherever people gathered in
Wilson.  The Agnes Cafe at lunchtime was abuzz with speculation and
rumor.  One fact was known - the prints of an enormous dog-like
creature had been found in the yard, leading toward the house.  These
tracks had just appeared, as if the beast had been dropped out of thin
air, and none led away from the house.
     In the Agnes Cafe Sherry was talking steadily as she passed from
table to table, handing out opinions and taking orders with the same
facility.  She was stopped in her tracks by the opening of the door.
Eyes turned, and saw Jared Carver enter.  Handling the balky door with
exquisite care, he closed it and took a seat at the end of the counter.
The man to his left put down his fork, paid his bill, and left
hurriedly.
     Sherry, swinging back into action with obvious reluctance, crossed
to the counter and asked, "What'll ya have, Mr. Carver?"
     "A bacon cheeseburger, rare, with lettuce, tomato, onion, and
mustard.  No ketchup or mayonnaise.  An order of tater tots on the
side.  Hot tea."
     Sherry wrote, slapped the order on the window sill for the cook,
and scanned the room.  While Carver was ordering several people had
left, and now no one required her services.  She was, perforce, stuck
with the pale stranger in his funereal suit.  Attempting to make
conversation, she asked, "Have you heard what happened last night?"
     "I have.  An interesting crime, is it not?"
     "Interestin' is one word for it.  What could have done it?"
     "I would suggest a wolf."
     "A wolf?" Sherry asked with a near-laugh.  "They ain't no wolves
around here.  Haven't been for nearly 100 years."
     "Perhaps one has entered the country.  The animal's prints, as
described to me, are those of a wolf.  The ripping out of the throats
could have been done only by some large beast such as a wolf."
     A customer seated behind Carver spoke up.  "Hey mister, didn't I
read the other day that wolves don't attack people?"
     "That has been said," replied Carver without turning.  "Perhaps in
most cases it is true.  In this case, a wolf appears to be the most
likely suspect."
     The bell rang, and Sherry took the plate from the window and
clacked it down in front of Carver.  "Eat up, Mr. Carver.  I got work
to do."  Moving off, she began wiping already clean tables with a rag.
     Carver lifted his burger and took a bite.  The elongated teeth
gleamed briefly, and then sliced into the bun and meat.  When the bite
was sheared off, two marks could be seen in the edge, where the canines
had bitten in.
                                 * * *
     A man entered the Agnes Cafe.  He wore a dark suit and sunglasses,
and was careful to take a seat where his back was to a wall and he
could see out over most of the street in front of the building.  He did
not remove the sunglasses, keeping them on as he surveyed the customers
and the street outside.  Sherry, walking over to take his order, was
disconcerted by the blank scrutiny the stranger turned upon her.
     "What can I get you, mister?"
     "Just coffee.  And then I'd like to talk with you for a few
minutes."
     "Yeah, sure."  It was a slow time of day, and so when the coffee
arrived in Sherry's hand she sat down across the table from the man in
the sunglasses.
     He reached into his coat and produced a well-worn wallet.
Flipping it open, he displayed a badge and an identification card.
"Agent Corrigan, FBI.  You may inspect the credentials if you like."
     Sherry did so.  "Gee, I've never met an FBI agent before.  What do
you want?"
     "Just information, at this point.  You're aware of the killings in
the Wilson area?"
     "Sure I am."  Sherry shuddered.  "First the cow, then the
Johnsons, then two more families and about 20 head of stock.  It's
weird, is what it is."
     "It's more than that."  The agent replaced his credentials, and
glanced through his sunglasses at the street.  "I'm sure you understand
the FBI doesn't investigate local matters unless we think there's just
cause.  We have an entire team in the area now, working with the local
law enforcement people.  We think there is more to these killings than
just random violence or cultic activity.  There is some sort of
pattern, we believe, if we can just find it."
     "And?" prompted the waitress, leaning on her elbows.
     "We're talking with people in town who have occasion to notice
what's going on.  Waitresses, gas station attendants, employees of the
feed store, the real estate agent, and others who notice goings and
comings.  Are there any suspicious people you've noticed either coming
to Wilson or hanging around the area in the past six months?"
     "No," replied Sherry, frowning under her frizzy blond curls.
"There's one guy who's real weird, a total cold fish, but he ain't
suspicious or anything."
     "Who is this man?"
     "His name's Jared Carver.  He always wears this mortician's suit,
y'know, and he looks like death warmed over, only his eyes are real
alive.  He's as strong as an ox, and he just gives me the creeps.  And
everybody else just can't stand him, y'know.  It's like he just ain't
quite normal.  Not that he's a nut or anything - he just ain't
friendly, a cold fish, y'know."
     Corrigan was taking notes, apparently in shorthand, for he set
down very few strokes for all that Sherry said.  He looked up as she
finished, and asked, "And where can I find Mr. Carver?"
     "Well, he sometimes comes in here - maybe once or twice a week.  I
never know what time of day.  One time it'll be breakfast, and the next
supper, and the next halfway between lunch and supper, and then
breakfast or lunch.  Let's see, he hangs around the bank some - he's
got some kind of eastern financial connections or something.  Maggie at
the real estate office said he bought his house with a single $75,000
check on this big New York bank - I don't remember which one.  He lives
up on the hill on Snob Hill, up where all the rich folks built back
when the oil was going.  It's off back of the east side of town, I
don't know the address."
     "I'm sure I can find it.  How would you describe Mr. Carver?"
     "Well, like I said, he always dresses like an undertaker.  Always
got this black suit on - no pinstripes - and a flower in his button
hole.  Sometimes the flower's red, sometimes it's white - always real
fresh.  He's got this big long nose, like the aristocracy have, I
guess, and he's pale.  Looks he just crawled out of a coffin, if you've
ever seen someone who's been laid out for burying.  He's got this black
hair, slicked back real smooth.  It just slightly brushes his ears,
y'know, and they're sort of pointed on top."
     Corrigan closed his notebook and slipped it into a pocket.  "Thank
you, miss.  Either I or another agent will contact you if we need
further information."  Corrigan drank off his coffee as Sherry went to
take care of her customers, and rose.  Still with his sunglasses firmly
in place, he passed through the door.
                                 * * *
     Carver first met Corrigan in the Agnes Cafe.  The FBI agent, after
a week of talking to townspeople and conferring with the rest of his
team - who no one had spotted - was still incapable of producing any
solid evidence in the various killings.  Indeed, during his stay in
town, on a night in which patches of fog rushed through town on unfelt
winds, two dogs had been killed and drained of blood right in Wilson.
That night no one had slept, for all the dogs had raved furiously
through the night, ceasing only when dawn drove the fog away.
     Corrigan was sitting at the counter, sipping coffee, toying with
his scrambled eggs, and reviewing notes, when the door opened and a man
sat down next to him.  Before he even looked up a look of revulsion
distorted the agent's face, and he shoved his plate away with violent
disgust.  When he did look up, Corrigan's face froze, for sitting
beside him at the counter was the mysterious Mr. Carver of whom he had
heard so much.
     Carver was studying the menu as if Corrigan did not exist.  The
agent took the opportunity, in spite of the irrational and instinctive
distaste he felt, to study Carver.  The aquiline nose, the black hair
combed straight back, the unnatural pallor, the long cruel fingers -
all was had been described to him.
     Sherry walked over reluctantly, her pen poised.  Replacing the
menu in its rack, Carver spoke in a voice so low and icy that Corrigan
shivered.  "I'll have a ham and cheese omelet, hot tea, two orders of
hash browns, and four links of sausage."  The waitress scribbled as he
gave his order, turned and slapped the paper on the window sill, and
walked away silently.  She had ignored Corrigan.
     Corrigan reached for his cup, taking a large swig of the strong
brew.  Carver's hand lay flat on the counter beside it, and the FBI man
by an act of will ignored the pale appendage.  As he replaced the cup -
 further away from the hand - Carver spoke again.
     "You're new in town, aren't' you?"
     That deadly voice again sent a shudder through Corrigan, though he
concealed it.
     "Yes."
     "Here on business?"
     "Yes.  Government business.  I'm helping investigate the string of
killings that have occurred here."
     "I see."  Carver's hands folded, and Corrigan caught a glimpse of
the hairs growing from the palms.  "Does Washington take such interest
in all livestock deaths and serial killers?"
     "Washington takes an interest in everything that it needs to take
notice of.  We believe that there is more to this than random
violence."
     "Indeed."  Carver's hot tea arrived, and he busied himself with
the bag.  "And what is Washington's theory?"
     Sherry was staring open-mouthed in back of the counter.  She had
never heard Carver speak this many words or initiate a conversation.
Corrigan noted her surprise as he replied, "We believe it's some sort
of drug-related enterprise, perhaps gone overboard and out of control,
or killing around here to mask something else."
     "I don't wish to intrude on government business, of course,"
Carver said quietly, "and of course there are things you cannot tell me
by the very nature of things.  But do you have any leads?"
     "None at all.  That I can tell you.  We're working with the local
law enforcement agencies on this case, but so far we have nothing but
human bodies and the carcasses of farm animals.  But we'll find whoever
is behind this, and he'll do hard time."
     "Ah."  Carver removed the bag from his tea and took an unsweetened
sip.  "Let me advise you, Mr. Corrigan.  I am a man of the world and I
have seen many things in my life.  Do not be surprised if your
investigation turns up nothing.  Some things that occur are beyond the
capability of crime labs and modern police methods to unravel.  This
may be one of them."
     "We'll see," declared the agent, draining his coffee.  "Good day,
Mr. Carver."  It wasn't until he was half a block away that he realized
that while he knew Carver's name from his questions, he had never been
introduced, and the strange resident of Wilson could hardly have known
who Corrigan was.
                                 * * *
     Two weeks passed in Wilson, and Corrigan grew frustrated.  The
killings continued - two more incidents of dogs being killed in the
night, three head of cattle at three different locations, and one more
person.  This was a drifter who happened to be sleeping in a pasture
just outside town.  In all of the cases the blood was drained from the
victims, with no clue left as to where it might have gone.  The dogs
appeared to have been killed quickly and with great ferocity,
apparently by the animal Carver had suggested was a wolf.  The cattle
all followed the pattern of the first cow, except that where that
animal had recovered, these all died of the loss of blood.  The drifter
was found lying on his back, a strange stupefied expression on his
face, with the small, precise gash in his neck the only way the blood
could possibly have been removed from his body.
     Carver continued to appear irregularly around town.  He paid his
bills scrupulously on time, although they were much lower than one
would have expected in his large house on the hill.  He ate
occasionally at the Agnes Cafe, always requesting that his meat be
cooked rare and always ending his meal alone, even if when he first sat
down he was surrounded by paying customers.
     It was during one of these meals that Corrigan stomped into the
Cafe, his foul mood evident in the way he flung himself onto a stool
next to Carver and his sunglasses onto the counter.  Sherry was quick
to place a steaming cup before him, and as he sugared his coffee
Corrigan observed Carver out of the corner of his eye.  The immaculate
resident champed through his food at a great rate, cutting a steak with
precise motions that sheared through meat and gristle alike with an
ease that bespoke enormous strength.  The juice ran red, and the
pointed teeth in Carver's mouth appeared to relish each bloody bite.
     Carver noticed the FBI agent's gaze.  "Is there something you
want, Mr. Corrigan?" he asked in his chill voice.
     "I would like to talk to you about these killings."
     "I assure you, Mr. Corrigan, that if I had information to give the
officers of the law, I would have done so already."
     "Is that so."  It was phrased as a question, but Corrigan gave it
the flat inflection of a statement.
     "Indeed it is so.  Do you doubt my word?"
     Corrigan took a sip of coffee, noting that today the flower in the
buttonhole was a particularly brilliant red.  "I merely regard you as a
suspect in this case."
     Carver laid down his fork and knife - Corrigan noted that the man
was left-handed.  "On what grounds do you make such a determination?"
     "Oh, I have no hard evidence at present."  The agent had now
swiveled on his stool so that he leaned with his right elbow on the
counter, facing the thin pale man.  "But you are the only one in town
whose movements are not well known to the community.  You are the only
member of the community who is apart from the life of the town.  Of all
the people in Wilson, you're the only one who could be a suspect."
     "I presume you know, Mr. Corrigan, that murderers do not often
look like murders.  Perhaps the true culprit is one of the innocent
farmers in the area.  Perhaps it is Sherry.  Perhaps it is even you,
Mr. Corrigan."
     Corrigan shuddered as this last sentence was delivered with a
small cold smile.  The pointed teeth showed plainly at this close
distance, extending well below the level of the other upper teeth.  The
FBI agent restrained his revulsion with difficulty.  "What I know is
what I know.  I want you to know this.  You are a suspect.  We're
watching you, Mr. Carver, and if you're the killer we'll catch you.
You need not have any doubts about that."
     Carver's smile was now frozen.  "Mr. Corrigan, I do not intend to
be threatened.  You may either leave, or move to another subject."  The
thin hands picked up the silverware again, only to be stopped by
Corrigan's voice.
     "Carver, I'm going to get you.  I don't care how long it takes,
but your butt is mine."
     Carver said nothing, his eyes on his plate.  Slowly, his hands
contracted, bending the thick steel restaurant cutlery into U-shaped
hunks of metal.  Finally he raised his eyes to Corrigan's, their black
depths flickering with a dangerous red fire.  "Do not threaten me
again, Mr. Corrigan.  I do not like threats, and I tend to react
violently against them."  Rising from his seat, Carver reached into his
coat pocket, withdrew the wallet, and taking two $20 bills from it
tossed them on the counter.  "Good day, Mr. Corrigan."  Carver turned
and stalked out the door.
                                 * * *
     That night, four FBI agents in plain clothes staked out Jared
Carver's house.  Their instructions were clear - they were to watch the
house, and if Carver emerged they were to follow him, without being
seen, wherever he went.  If Carver even appeared to perform an illegal
act, he was to be arrested.  If he so much as littered, Corrigan had
instructed, the man was to be bent over the nearest hard object and
cuffed.
     As the night wore on, the lights in the house went off.  Finally,
just short of midnight, the last one, in what appeared from without to
be the living room, went dark, and the men prepared for a long vigil.
But shortly a fog came creeping over the ground.  Although the man in
front of the house couldn't believe he was seeing clearly, the fog
appeared to issue from the house itself.  He reported the development
on his radio, and the phenomenon was sufficiently curious that one of
the other agents came around to look for himself.
     The fog gathered on the gentle slope leading from the porch to the
street, and then flowed downhill.  As it reached the sidewalk it
stopped, and began to draw together.  The two FBI agents watched,
mesmerized.  The fog began to sparkle as it coalesced.  A spinning
motion began, and shortly the two men saw what resembled a spinning
mass of dust motes, sparkling in the moonlight.  And suddenly the dust
was gone, replaced by Carver, standing before them in his black suit,
the dark cape hung over his shoulders.
     Carver approached the two agents.  They did not move, their glassy
eyes betraying their disassociation from reality.  Carver smiled his
cold smile, the red flickering strongly in his eyes.  "Well, what have
we here?  Two men, instead of one!  I shall indeed enjoy this night!"
     The men shivered, thought the night was warm.  Carver stepped
closer, until his breath stirred the hair of one of the agents.  "Do
you fear me?" he asked in a voice as hard as iron.  "Do you understand
what you are facing?  Do you realize that I have powers beyond your
understanding, age beyond your power to imagine?"
     The two men shivered more strongly now, and sweat poured from
their faces.  Yet they stood stock still, nailed to the spot.  Carver
placed his hand gently on the forehead of one of the men, a short,
dark-haired man.  Pushing the man's head back, Carver bent his head
down and, with a quick movement, snapped his teeth together in the
man's neck.  A jerk ran through the frozen form, and Carver fastened
his mouth over the incision he had created.  Sucking eagerly, he
reached back with a hand and supported the form as it weakened.
Finally, he raised his head, withdrew his hand, and watched calmly as
the former FBI agent slumped to the ground.  Carver's mouth was smeared
with blood.
     Carver turned to the other agent, who during the entire episode
had continued to stare with wide eyes at the house from which the fog
had come.  "Now it's your turn.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do."
     In the morning the two agents were discovered.  Corrigan was
livid, and Carver ate a hearty breakfast at the Agnes Cafe.
                                 * * *
     The stakeout continued with redoubled zeal.  It was one thing for
Corrigan to be frustrated by apparently random killings of animals and
people across the countryside.  It was an entirely different thing for
two of his men to be murdered on duty, by the very villain they were
there to watch for - obviously without a struggle, even though no one
could explain how two strong, trained men could have their necks opened
and their blood drained and not resist violently.  Added to the normal
reaction of a law enforcement officer to a "cop killing" was Corrigan's
monumental rage at the brazen slap in his face.  The two killings were
obviously designed to mock his efforts, and Corrigan was not amused.
     The killings, by being perpetrated right in front of Carver's
house, focused Corrigan's suspicions more than ever.  He pulled almost
all his agents and cooperating local peace officers in from their
scattered locations, and threw a cordon around Carver's house.  In
addition to the standing order to spot and hold Carver if he exited the
house, Corrigan added two commands which puzzled his subordinates - any
animal resembling a wolf was to be shot on sight, and fog was to be
reported instantly.  Although Corrigan had not witnessed the fog that
coalesced into the menacing, cold form of Jared Carver, he had finally
realized that the killings in town had always occurred on nights of
patchy fog that drifted, apparently at random, even when the wind did
not blow.
     For a week the intensified stakeout proved fruitless.  No killings
occurred, Carver did not emerge, no fog appeared, and wolves were in
short supply.  Corrigan, baffled and enraged, released half of his men
to their previous duties.  The remaining agents and police officers -
eight in all, continued to nightly watch the house on the hill, with
Corrigan fuming in his car and keeping in touch by radio.
     On the eighth night, the tense silence was broken by the laconic
voice of an FBI agent.  "Corrigan, I've got a patch of fog drifting
down the hill toward position 2."
     Corrigan grabbed the microphone with his right hand, transferred
it to his left, and jerked the ignition key with the now-free right
hand.  "Roger."  Slamming the car into gear and steering with the
already-occupied left hand, Corrigan reached down and switched
frequencies.  "Everyone, converge on position two - right in front of
the main door."
     Roaring through the silent streets, and squealing around a corner,
Corrigan jerked the car to a stop and piled out.  He saw the cause of
the agent's report - a small patch of fog that appeared to boil as it
moved slowly, menacingly, down the hill toward the street.  Walking up
to the agent on duty, he ordered, "Report."
     "That fog seemed to just form on the front porch, sir.  I don't
know how - maybe my eyes just fooled me, although the moon's shining
directly onto the front of the house.  Then it started moving down this
way.  As you can tell, sir, there's a slight breeze uphill - how the
fog's coming this way I haven't the slightest idea."
     "Very well."  Corrigan thought a moment.  "Stay here and keep an
eye on that fog.  I'm going to try to get a side view."
     Corrigan moved off across the street and back down to the left,
from where he'd come.  As he moved away, another car pulled up, and two
local police officers climbed out, watching the fog.  More familiar
with local weather, they were more baffled than the FBI agent, who was
confused enough on his own.
     Corrigan reached the corner and began to walk up the hill.  The
property was not fenced, and as he slipped up the dew-wet grass he kept
his eyes on the fog, which was now to his right.  As he watched, the
patch of vapor drew together, increasing in height, and sped down the
hill toward the officers on the opposite sidewalk.  Paralyzed with
astonishment, Corrigan froze on place, his tongue unable to move.
     The fog halted its strange progress directly in front of the three
officers.  Whirling rapidly, it became less a fog and more a column of
swirling glitter, as if dust were dancing in the moonlight.  It swirled
faster, taking on an apparently solid shape.  Suddenly, the glitter was
gone and the tall form of Jared Carver stood before the officers, who
stood as if petrified.
     Corrigan's tongue, motivated by rage and fear, found its mobility
again.  "Hey, you!" he shouted, as he began to run as best as he could
down the slick grass of the hill.  "Get away from my men!"
     Carver whirled.  His face gleamed a dead bone white in the
moonlight, and his eyes gleamed with a crimson fire straight out of
hell.  The fanged mouth contorted in a feral snarl, and even as he
slipped and almost fell on the wet grass Corrigan could hear the hiss,
as of twenty snakes in a rage.
     Corrigan halted, not 20 yards from Carver.  The strange resident
of Wilson stood, his hands curved into claws, the eyes blazing with
unholy fire, the long canine fangs bared.  The FBI man drew his gun,
totally unsure of the effect of lead on someone who could move as fog
in the night.  Hoping to avoid a test of the matter, he spoke.  "What
are you doing, Carver?"
     The cold arrogance of the man was intensified, backed up by a
baffled and terrible rage.  "It does not concern you what I am doing.
I rule myself - no law and no man does so.  I suggest that you take
yourself far from here, for this place is inhospitable and will not
suffer you long to live."
     "Is that so?"  Corrigan was not nearly as certain of his position
as he hoped his voice made it seem he was.  "I am hereby placing you
under arrest for murder.  You have the right to--"
     Carver hissed like a steam engine, the snarl fiercer than ever.
"*You* are arresting *me*?  Do you know who and what I am?  You cannot
hold me.  You cannot take me.  You can do nothing to me.  Now *leave*,
or die!"
     Corrigan had faced armed madmen, worked on bomb disposal squads,
and provided security in highly dangerous environments.  His bavery was
not in question - he knew that he possessed physical courage.  But this
evil creature was more than he could handle.  He knew that his gun and
his training would be of absolutely no use against Carver, the man who
bent steel cutlery without effort in his hands and moved across the
land in ways mortals could only guess at.  Holstering his pistol,
Corrigan did the hardest thing he'd ever done - he turned and walked
away, knowing that three men were being left behind to be drained of
their blood.
                                 * * *
     The next day, armed with a wooden stake, a mallet, several cloves
of garlic, an ax, a can of kerosene, and a book of matches, Corrigan
walked slowly up the hill to the front door of Carver's house.  He did
not put any stock in the supernatural, but he knew of no other way to
attack the creature who had left three corpses in the street, bled dry
to feed its hunger.  He knew that bullets would not work, and he was
forced to fall back on superstition and tradition in fighting the evil
that had come to Wilson.
     Corrigan knocked on the door, and received no answer.  He didn't
know whether he'd expected one or not - vampires were reputed to be
unable to move in daylight, yet Carver had repeatedly shown himself in
Wilson during the day.  He knocked again, and a third time.  When there
was still no answer, he tried the door.  The knob turned easily, and
Corrigan walked in.
     The living room was sparsely furnished - a sofa along one wall, a
few armchairs scattered around, a bookcase along one wall that
apparently had never been used.  Passing carefully through the living
room, Corrigan found the kitchen, which was coated with dust and
apparently had not been used since Carver took possession of the house.
Looking around, Corrigan investigated all the rooms on the first floor,
finding that only the living room and the bathroom showed signs of use.
     With increasing trepidation, the agent ascended the stairs.  He
found one bedroom had been used, and the closet showed signs that it
had been emptied within the last few hours.  The bathroom had clearly
been used, and no other rooms upstairs.
     Returning to the first floor, Corrigan looked around for a
basement door.  Finally, tucked into a corner of the kitchen, he found
it.  It was locked, and the lock was so rusted that it could not
possibly have been opened in years.
     Later in the day Corrigan and several agents, along with all the
remaining officers of the Wilson police department, returned with a
search warrant.  All the rooms were carefully searched, and the
basement broken into.  All they found were rats and roaches and signs
of slight recent occupation.  Carver was gone, leaving behind no clue
as to where he would go next.
                                 * * *
     Two years later, working on a case in Massachusetts, Corrigan
discovered a stone in an old graveyard.  On it he read the name - Jared
Carver, the dates - 1676 to 1711, and the epitaph - "He Comes on
Ancient Winds."  Corrigan decided not to have the grave exhumed to see
if there were any bones in what remained of the coffin.

