Loup-Garou: The Shape Changer Chronicles

By Jim Lee

In this dark fantasy of sexual obsession, Doug Hailey, a banged-up ex-cop from LA, leaves his family to seek a fresh start in peaceful, family-friendly Salt Lake City. If things work out, Rachel and Doug Jr can join him. His quiet new life is quickly disrupted when he meets Monique, an exotic dancer with a big secret: She prowls the night as a werewolf. He feels drawn into a torrid affair with her like he has no choice. Then bizarre dreams invade his life. The dreams become more and more real, in spite of the presence of mystical beings. The creatures warn Doug about the shape changer he calls Monique and hint at her sinister intentions. Strange events build up and make him feel torn between Rachel and Monique. This way for loyalty, and that way for lust. He knows all hell will break loose, no matter which path he takes, but it's time for Doug Hailey to make his choice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644247891

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The radio sputtered its protest at the rain. Up here it came down like one of those winter storms in LA. Doug tried to find a radio station in range. The only difference was the hiss from the speakers changing to an angry crackle, like the sound of his police radio as he cruised a deceptively quiet street. Like that night somebody smashed his consciousness into a black cloud.

He switched the radio over to the cassette player and plucked a cassette from the pile on the passenger seat. Static he didn’t need. He inserted the selection in the dash. The random choice turned out to be Mozart—good old Wolfgang Amadeus, one of his favorite composers, to make the long, lonely drive more tolerable. The music from Don Giovanni filled the car while he watched for a place where he could buy a cup of coffee and stretch his legs. He had never driven I-15 outside California and Nevada before. He had no idea if he’d find something open or not, but there ought to be something.

Stopping for a little while sure would feel great, whether or not that familiar pain in his hip let up or not. He really needed to get out of the car though. He hadn’t taken a break since Vegas. If no truck stop or reasonable facsimile came into view pretty soon, he’d pull off on the shoulder a few minutes. He could step outside and let the air slap him alert.

The rain didn’t taper off; it quit, just like turning off a faucet. Before he could switch off the wipers, a sign appeared, proclaiming, Beaver Next Exit. He wondered how many I-15 travelers joked about what that sign advertised. Doug noticed some lights off the interstate and hoped they meant a place open for business.

Although not exactly a full service truck stop, the weathered cafe did look open. He parked next to a window. He stretched and crunched across the gravel parking lot toward the door. It didn’t look like it had rained here at all. Weird.

After a few steps, a scruffy old produce truck that had once been gray with red letters on the door slid to a stone-spitting halt. Doug leapt aside. That helped make him more alert but not particularly amiable. The truck somehow managed not to grind Doug into a dirt burger.

He waited to chew out whoever had enough of a death wish to operate this vehicle. For an instant, he wished he were still a cop, but the thought soon fluttered away. As the driver hopped out of the cab, a distant howl diverted Doug’s attention. The truck driver acted as though he didn’t hear it or simply didn’t care about the eerie canine song.

I’ve never heard anything like that before.

The howl? replied the trucker as he tossed an unfiltered cigarette to the gravel and ground it out with his boot. He was in his late thirties probably, wore a filthy flannel shirt, and sported a week of whiskers. His stained baseball cap proclaimed: Truckers Do It in Gear. He grinned and seemed proud of the missing tooth in front. He spat through his incisor gap, winked, and spoke with a slight whistling sound. You never heard one a them things before?

Just dogs. I’m a city boy. I’ve never heard a wolf, except for the movies.

You thought that was a wolf howl? The whistling trucker laughed, pushing his cap back. He smelled like a cross between beer, Pennzoil, and armpits. Ain’t been any around here for a long time. Probably just a coyote on the prowl for garbage cans. The man went inside, shaking his head.

Doug looked up at the moon. It seemed strange that his view remained unobstructed on such a murky night. Instead of obscuring the moon, the clouds nested it in a snug circle of brooding pillows. A tiny gust of wind shot through him. The howling stopped. He went inside for that long-delayed break.

The interior of the truck stop gave him a dose of instant culture shock. Animal heads on the wall faced the entrance of the old diner. The beasts looked as though they had run full speed into the building and got stuck with their heads pushed through from outside. Between the decapitated moose and elk and below the bewildered-looking deer hung a plaque with a jackrabbit sporting the glued-on horns of a pronghorn antelope.

A dusty rack of picture postcards beginning to yellow from age perched on the glass case doubling as a counter. It also displayed small plastic busts of Joseph Smith. An old cash register squatted on the counter. A few small tables with checkered oilcloth covers sprawled across the floor between the row of booths at the windows and the counter with its stools.

Doug couldn’t decide whether the place smelled like dust or old lard. Aside from the minimal clatter of a slow night, it was nearly silent. If it weren’t for the professional travelers and people fleeing the imprisonment of Utah via Interstate 15, it would probably close at sundown, Doug thought.

He resumed staring at the Wall of Heads, wondering about the mentality of whoever put them there. He shrugged and headed toward the booths, glancing at the potbellied guy with the cowboy hat and bib overalls, sitting beside the trucker with the half-whistling voice he had sort of met outside.

As Doug slid into a booth, the trucker commented over his shoulder, I bet them animals was scared through the wall by that big bad wolf you heard outside. See how scared that jackalope over there looks?

Bib Overalls turned on his stool to point at the trophy wall. He looked about fifty, six two or so and at least three hundred pounds. The man asked in a high-pitched voice one would never expect coming out of such bulk, You ever seen a jackalope before? He pushed his cowboy hat back on his balding pate and continued, The mountains are full of those critters.

Right, Doug replied, doing his best to maintain an earnest look. I saw a good-sized herd of ’em cross the highway about ten miles south of here. I pulled over and finished a sack of stale pretzels by the time the last of the stragglers got across. Wouldn’t want to run them over and wreck my tires. Those rabbit horns got pretty sharp points, you know.

Bib Overalls returned to his cherry pie and hot chocolate without another word.

Doug looked out the window to make sure he had parked his trusty BMW in easy view, for an instant recalling when he and Rachel picked it out at the dealership just before Buddy’s birth. Still treating it like a new car, Doug could keep an eye on it while rejuvenating with some coffee. He glanced at his watch and peripherally noticed the big Drink Coke clock on the wall. It reminded him of the time zone change.

He turned his watch ahead an hour and muttered too softly for anyone else to hear, Maybe I should turn it back about thirty years.

Why not? He thought with a smirk. 1953 wasn’t such a bad year.

A menu plopped in front of him.

You know what you want yet?

Doug looked up at the source of the bored voice. Wheezing femininity encased in jeans and Western shirt glared down at him over thick glasses. She had her official waitress pencil poised for action.

Just coffee.

That it? No burger? No pie? No nothing?

Right.

Sweat rolling down her chins, the waitress snatched the menu with authority and started to waddle off.

Excuse me. Do you have a public telephone in here?

By the restrooms. Right over there.

Thanks.

He went to the phone. After seven or eight rings, a breathless voice came on the line.

Hello?

You sound out of breath.

Buddy wanted me to play with him and that horse of a dog. She laughed. Are you in Salt Lake City already?

"Would you believe the grand metropolis of Beaver, Utah?"

You mean somebody actually named a town Beaver?

Sorry, I had to call collect. It’s a payphone. Send me the bill when you get it. Avoiding an extended chatty session, Doug got to the point. You wanted me to call so you’d know I arrived in one piece. I’m still in one piece.

You’re not there yet.

That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Rachel—your irrepressible optimism.

I’m just concerned is all.

I know. Look, I’m about halfway between Vegas and Salt Lake, roughly four or five hours to go. It’ll be pretty late when I get in, and I didn’t want to wake you up in the middle of the night.

The agency called. Don says they want you for a play at the Mark Taper.

He knows I’m out of town. Doug realized she had led him by the paw into a conversation he most definitely did not need at the moment. But what could he do?

It’s for this summer, Doug. He also needs your new address for the residual checks from the commercials.

I told him to send them to you, including the other TV gigs. I apologize if I forgot to let you know, Rachel. You can deposit them in our joint account and write checks on it when you need to. The police pension will take care of me just fine. Besides, I can get in on a lot of national and regional commercials that get shot up here. You collect all the LA checks that come in. It’s more than enough to take care of everything there.

I’d rather have you here than all the money you ever earn.

I appreciate the sentiment, Rachel, but you and Buddy need enough to live comfortably. I have no problem with that.

You sound so cold, Doug.

No, I’m just tired, and I’m anxious to get this drive over with.

Doug?

Yes?

I’m sorry I wouldn’t go with you. I really regret doing that to you. Forgive me, sweetheart.

Your life is there. I understand.

So is yours. She sighed and added, I miss you already.

We need the time to sort things out with us, Rachel. We agreed that…

Rachel sniffed, sounding the way she always did when she tried to fight off tears. She gave up and put Buddy on the phone.

Dirty pool, Rachel, he thought.

Their six-year-old son did his best to sound like a brave little man until his child’s voice quavered and asked, Daddy, when are you coming home?

*****

Doug took the South Temple Street exit off I-15 and hoped his route went the right direction. The freeway sign had given him the option of the airport or downtown. He mentally went over the street numbering system explained to him on the phone when he rented the apartment from Los Angeles. All the streets had number names, even when they had name names, and the numbers all radiated from the temple at the intersection of South Temple Street and Main Street. His apartment building stood on 1300 East Street between 200 South and 300 South. So if he proceeded thirteen major streets past the Temple and turned right…

When Doug approached Main Street, he pulled over and parked to get a good view of a world-famous sight. Across the street loomed the most impressive example of nineteenth-century pseudogothic architecture he had ever seen. Surrounded by a high wall with iron gates, the massive LDS Temple dominated its surroundings with granite omnipotence. The illuminated golden statue on the roof surveyed its realm with a horn poised to awaken the sleeping city. Beside it stood the old Mormon Tabernacle. Up ahead, less than a block, the large bronze statue of Brigham Young in the middle of the intersection broke the mood. Doug noticed with a laugh that the great prophet had his ass toward the temple and his open hand stretched out toward Zion National Bank.

Wondering how many other contradictions awaited his discovery, Doug resumed the final few minutes of his journey. He had no trouble getting stations on his car radio, now that he didn’t need them, of course. When he approached the post–Victorian style building where he would reside for the time being, a sudden foreboding stabbed his gut.

Rachel was in great danger.

As much of a surprise was his getting this strange feeling. No one was more alien to intuition, supernatural phenomena, or superstitions than Doug Hailey. It had to be the fatigue. He laughed out loud at himself as he parked in the small residents-only lot behind the building. He hoped the new apartment had a comfortable bed.

The bed turned out to be good enough to get some sleep. He woke up rested enough for a leisurely walk to look over the neighborhood. About two blocks from his new place and a block or so from the university, he discovered a pizza joint. He sat down at a small table with the Stephen King paperback he’d bought at a truck stop outside Vegas.

When he looked up at the guy bringing his pizza and Pepsi, a Nordic-looking young man at the next table gave him a friendly smile. Doug smiled politely and went back to his book and pizza.

Must be a real interesting book.

Doug closed the book. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m not used to a small friendly town like this. I just arrived last night, and now I’m starting to get oriented.

Small town? Salt Lake?

I mean that in the most positive sense, of course.

My name is Scott Lundstrom.

Nice to meet you, Scott. Doug Hailey.

Mike Hailey’s in my stake, the second ward. Any relation?

Not that I know of, Scott. So far, you’re the only person I’ve met since I got here.

Must be pretty rough being in a strange place, not knowing a soul. Well, you know somebody now, Doug. Welcome to Utah, he said, brushing a strand of unruly hair from his face.

Thanks. By the way, what in the world is a stake?

You’re not LDS?

LDS?

You know, Mormon.

No, I’m not.

Scott’s friendly smile instantly turned into a suspicious frown. He picked up his pizza and soft drink and moved to another table.

Doug shrugged and returned to his reading and thought he heard a sultry female voice say something to the clerk. After reading the same page three times, he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the book. So he gave in to curiosity and visually scanned the nearby tables for the source of the voice.

A disturbingly beautiful woman in her midtwenties sat down nearby with no one seated between her and Doug. She also had a book, but she was apparently absorbed in hers. He couldn’t see most of her face. But long jet-black hair fell over her back, and what he could see of her figure promised no disappointment. She was hunched over her book, blocking most of her face but giving Doug the opportunity to look her over her without getting caught at it. She was definitely very easy to stare at.

The woman looked up from her reading. If she had caught his staring, it didn’t seem to bother her. Now he got a furtive look at her face: flawless complexion, classic jawline, full lips. And those eyes—eyes that could pierce dreams and hypnotize a man with a blink, large and somewhere between amber-flecked green and primordial topaz. Her glance over the book met Doug’s helpless stare. The woman smiled. He smiled back.

A shard of pepperoni fell from his beard to land in his Pepsi. Plurk. Doug felt a blush heat his cheeks. The woman covered her mouth and looked away to suppress her laughter. Trying to maintain whatever shred of dignity that remained, Doug wrapped the pizza in napkins and left. What the hell. It would taste just as good at home, and he wouldn’t have to concern himself with this embarrassing situation.

So much for his first outing in Salt Lake City. Welcome to Utah, Douglas Hailey. Oh well, no harm done. Back in LA, a shirt color could mean a death sentence, but what could happen here? Drive-by Bible tossing?

He strolled back to the old building enclosing his home until he accomplished his goal in Salt Lake City, excluding summers in Los Angeles, of course. The more he looked around, the cleaner and more scenic this beautiful, tranquil place became. Maybe those Utah horror stories were all BS. Nobody had arrested him or beat him up for not being Mormon yet. Many considered it a dull place, but dull could be exactly what he needed at this juncture of his life. What was so awful about a peaceful environment for a change? He would do his job, mind his own business, and enjoy an uneventful interlude with no one bothering him or invading his private space. Yes, quiet little Salt Lake City would do just fine for the immediate future.

He glanced at the clear sky and took a deep breath as he approached his building. The large maple tree in the front yard had begun taking on its autumn color. How long had it been since he experienced a change of seasons? Or a day without smog? He stood there, listening to birds and taking in the fresh smells before going inside.

Back in the cramped studio apartment, Doug tripped over a box marked underwear and socks. He managed to stay on his feet and drop the napkin-wrapped pizza on the tiny Formica table. The table and its matched pair of plastic-and-chrome chairs were nested in a corner beneath a small streaky window. To the left of the window and table, a narrow doorway led to the cubicle laughingly called a kitchen. It barely had room for its sink; it had very limited counter space, tiny overhead cupboards, a small gas stove, and an ancient refrigerator. Now, where was that box with the kitchen stuff?

A stubbed toe and banged knee later, Doug located the tinfoil and wrapped up his leftover pizza. After managing to get it into the old fridge without major incident, he sat on the edge of the double bed to look over the boxes and think about what would go where. The tubular metal headboard rattled, and the old-fashioned springs creaked. It had been years since he’d slept in a bed without box springs. He speculated with a grin what sex would be like on that thing.

Funny, he didn’t notice the clatter of the old bed last night. Apparently, he had been too exhausted from the drive to notice much of anything. A childhood memory of playing trampoline on a twin-size version of this bed flitted across his mind. He felt sorry for the youngsters of this box-spring and waterbed generation. It made him think of Douglas J. Hailey, Jr. (a.k.a. Buddy), age six going on thirty, sitting on his box spring bed in southern California.

Chewing on a fingernail, he surveyed the room. Nothing fancy, but clean and adequate. A narrow light-green couch looked like the kind that opened out to a bed. Buddy could sleep there on visits. Between the couch and the apartment’s entrance, he noticed a narrow closed door with one of those glass knobs he hadn’t seen since he was Buddy’s age. He apparently had a closet, hopefully with a pipe long enough to hang the clothes sprawled over the couch. On the opposite wall from the couch stood an old chest of drawers. Against the wall next to the open bathroom door was a dresser with an oval tilting mirror, the dresser and chest solidly crafted in dark hardwood with brass handles. Small bookcase. Nightstand.

He felt trapped in a time warp. The claustrophobic apartment even had one of those antiquated accordion steam radiators near the main window facing the front of the building. The drab gray paint had begun to peel, but Doug couldn’t remember a radiator without peeling paint. He recalled picking at the steam loosened paint chips as a small child and how irritating they felt under his fingernails, and that time somebody set him on a radiator to dry off after wetting his pants—got some nasty red marks on his legs from that one. Resisting the nostalgic impulse to pick at the radiator, Doug looked at the white woodwork and its carved beehive design at the top corners. Why did they have to paint over that natural wood?

On the wall just above the baseboard running behind the bed, Doug found the long cord leading to a telephone. He set the phone on the bedside table, lifted the handset and heard a dial tone. Pleased he had thought to arrange for the utilities from LA, Doug found the box labelled electrical stuff and dragged out his answering machine. He found his old address book and dialed a recently added number.

Theatre Department. Christine speaking.

Why did university secretaries all sound the same?

This is Douglas Hailey. You already have my local address and phone number, but I’m letting you know I’m here.

Would you please hold a moment? Dr. Klein would like to speak to you.

Of course.

Thank you.

Click. Static.

After a few moments a personable yet very businesslike female voice said, Douglas?

Yes?

This is Betty Klein.

The voice sounded both professional and friendly.

How does she do that? Doug thought. Aside from the possibly friendly laugh from that sexy gal at the pizza place, this was the first pleasant communication he’d experienced since crossing the Utah state line. He wondered if she’d ask for the name of his stake too.

If you’re not too tired from your trip, would you mind dropping by the office to take care of some paperwork? the chairperson inquired.

I’m anxious to get a look at the campus anyway. And I’d like to start learning where everything is. What’s a good time?

Anytime before four thirty will be fine, if it’s convenient with you.

I’ll be there today.

Do you know where my office is?

No, not really.

Let me see. Your apartment is near Second South and Thirteenth East, right?

You have an incredible memory, Dr. Klein.

You give me too much credit. I had Christine bring me your file. Anyway, my office is upstairs in the Performing Arts Building. Have you been out yet?

Yes. Looks like the campus is just a few blocks from here.

Right. When you enter the campus, you’ll see University Circle, a horseshoe-shaped little road lined with old brick classroom buildings. At the top of the horseshoe, you’ll see a classical-style building where administration has its offices. This is the Park Building.

Got it.

Good. Go past the right side of the Park Building. The Performing Arts Building will be the first one on your right, next to the bookstore.

I shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.

Glad to be of help, Douglas.

See you this afternoon, Dr. Klein.

I look forward to meeting you.

Almost as soon as he hung up, the phone rang.

Hello?

You didn’t call when you arrived, Doug. Thanks for the consideration.

Guess who.

I called you from that truck stop yesterday, didn’t I?

Did that keep you from calling me today?

Damn it, Rachel. I’m trying to get settled in here and at the university… Things just slipped by. He didn’t realize how much he missed her already, so he had to cover it up by being rude. Regardless of how much he refused to admit it to her, he sincerely loved that irritating, punctilious, impossible-to-please, whining, Encino-bred…

And your family is low priority, right? Well, at least you gave me the advance assigned phone number before you left us.

Rachel, I just drove 750 miles to a place completely alien to me, and I already have an appointment on campus. I don’t need an argument with you right now, okay? It’s one thing when we’re in the same house, but long-distance fights? Give me a break, will you?

What do you mean by that remark?

You are just going to have to get used to my being gone, at least until this summer. You have more than enough money coming in to live on. You have your friends, your parents… Look at it this way: no marital discord till June at the earliest. Savor the peace. Enjoy.

What’s this ‘at least’ business, Doug?

Let’s see how it works for us away from each other and compare it to how it is living together. Like we discussed before I left, remember? It’s obviously too soon to make any permanent decisions.

Rachel sniffed and said, Why do you always have to sound so damned reasonable and logical?

I may not have the warmest personality on the planet, but…

Click of an extension picked up.

Daddy?

Hey, how’s it going, pal?

Daddy, Mama’s been cryin’.

After freeing himself from the call, Doug dragged a box into the bathroom. Draping a towel over the tub/shower curtain bar, he smiled at the bathroom being bigger than the kitchen. Reeking of Lysol and Spic-N-Span, the bathroom felt even more like time traveling than the rest of the apartment. Everything came from another generation, right down to the porcelain faucet handles. It reminded him of his room at the Omni Hotel in Cincinnati when he’d had a part in that road show after it closed in New York. The only thing out of place in this anachronism was the obviously added-on shower fixture over the old iron bathtub with its claw-foot legs.

When Doug squatted to turn on the water and adjust the temperature, the pain hit. It seared into his right hip joint like a lightning bolt with serrated edges. He gripped the side of the tub and gritted his teeth, waiting for the initial stab to mellow out to an annoying ache.

Well, Douglas, he announced to himself with a grimace, looks like a bath instead of a shower today.

*****

On his way to meet with the department chair, Doug enjoyed a dose of local scenery. Sprawled at the base of jagged peaks lightly dusted with snow, it didn’t even look real. A long row of flowers extended from the rear of the Park Building to the horizon. Old trees shaded narrow, winding sidewalks with early autumn color. A light breeze whispered through the leaves and nipped him with a slight chill. Lawns stretched out in every direction. God, the place even smelled green. And he could listen to birds instead of freeway traffic, sirens, and street corner preachers with bullhorns.

Enough of this pastoral daydreaming. He had things to do. The Performing Arts Building awaited. Time to get the administrative nonsense out of the way. The building squatted exactly where Dr. Klein had said on the phone. The structure looked newer than the much larger Victorian monuments on University Circle but much older than the bookstore next to it or the big glass-and-brick building across the lawn. As he neared the entrance, Doug saw a weathered metal plaque proclaiming WPA construction in 1936. A New Deal edifice for a new deal on life?

He made his way to the stairs at the opposite end of the corridor and started the climb. Stairs could be a whiz-bang bitch when he hurt. About halfway up, the stairway jogged to the left at a landing with a window overlooking the bookstore. Doug paused to look out the window a moment, then went the rest of the way to the second floor. To the left, he saw a closed door labelled Lab Theatre. To the right, an open doorway led to a sort of anteroom filled with folding class chairs. He went inside. Several students sat there, hunched over class schedules. At the far end of this room, another open doorway led to a large room with a counter.

Doug approached the counter and asked, Is this the Theatre Department office?

The overweight woman in her late thirties sitting at a desk looked up and smiled perfunctorily. I’m Christine, the department secretary. May I help you?

Doug Hailey. I called earlier.

Oh, yes. Dr. Klein is expecting you. Go right on in.

I don’t know where her office is, Christine.

Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t stop and think about you being new here. Just come in behind the counter. It’s that door right over there.

Thank you.

Christine went back to whatever she’d been doing at her desk.

Doug tapped on the door. Its