A new day dawns on the great estate of Collinwood. Like so many others, this day will reveal a new mystery. As one man readjusts to life in his hometown, another's unexplained disappearance is a harbinger of things to come, and an old terror resurfaces to threaten its unsuspecting residents.
When Joe arrived at the cannery the next morning, the scene took him back to the days before the dark times began. He'd been happy there, in spite of the long days and hard work. He'd been good at his job and respected by the men who worked along side of him. He'd put in his hours, but more than that, he'd done his job with excellence. He saw it as a down-payment on his future—a future that included having his own boat and returning everyday to Maggie.
He pulled Chris's car into the parking lot; it was nearly full, as the men who worked there had already reported to work. As he approached the lane that separated the parking lot from the main cannery building, he noticed a sheriff's cruiser parked in a space normally reserved for trucks loading and unloading. At that moment, the door of the cannery building opened and Sheriff Patterson himself emerged. Their eyes met and there was no escaping the interaction.
"Sheriff Patterson," Joe nodded and moved to enter the building without further engagement with the officer.
"Joe," the sheriff responded, as he reached into his breast-pocket. "I was hoping to see you later. But since you're here, do you have a minute?"
"I have an appointment with Mr. Collins."
"This won't take but a minute," the sheriff responded. By now, he had a small notebook and pen in hand.
"Okay." Joe drew a deep breath.
"Jerry Gerse appears to be missing," Sheriff Patterson began in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Jerry?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so and you may have been the last person to see him."
"Jerry's missing," Joe said, letting it sink in.
"He didn't come home last night. Peg called me this morning in a panic. Technically, I'm not supposed to consider him missing for 24 hours, but Peg was so upset. I thought I'd set her mind at ease. I figured he probably just fell asleep onboard Peggy's Pearl. So I went down to the docks, and guess what?" the sheriff asked.
"I have no idea," Joe responded. "What?"
"He'd taken the boat out." The sheriff continued, "A little while later my deputy radioed me to say there's a boat adrift out in the cove. It could be Jerry's. So we took a skiff out there, and guess what?" Sheriff Patterson asked, shaking his head sadly.
"What?" Joe asked with a hint of irritation.
"It's the Peggy's Pearl all right, but no one's onboard," the sheriff responded. "It seems Jerry really is missing. And you may have been the last one to see him, Joe." Joe began to respond, but the sheriff held up a hand to stay his words. "How did he seem to you?"
Joe turned away from the sheriff and considered. "What do you mean?" He let his words drift over his shoulder.
"Did he seem despondent? Anxious? Did he say anything odd? You know, how did he seem? "
Joe turned back to face Sheriff Patterson. "He seemed like Jerry." He took a tentative step toward the building. "I'm really sorry to hear it, and if there's anything else I can do, just let me know, but I don't want to keep Mr. Collins waiting.
The sheriff flipped his notebook shut. "Thanks for your time, Joe. It's good to see you back, and getting into the swing of things again. I hear you're staying at Collinwood," the sheriff asked.
"That's right. I'm staying in the caretaker's cottage for now."
"Well, I bet little Amy is happy to have you nearby." Joe colored knowing he'd not yet seen his young cousin. If he noticed Joe's embarrassed blush, he said nothing. Instead he continued, "If I have anymore questions for you, I'll look you up there." He tucked the notebook into his jacket pocket, and headed to his waiting cruiser.
Roger Collins maintained an impressive office at the Collins family cannery. Its handsome wood furnishings, small liquor cabinet, and plush Oriental rug set it apart from that of the cannery manager and others merely employed there. It was an office that conveyed his ownership. In truth, he would have preferred to maintain an office elsewhere—ideally at his men's club in Boston, but even the new office building in Bangor would have done. But down through the decades, the Collins family patriarch always oversaw the operation of the cannery, and always maintained an office there—the same office that he now occupied. No matter how little time was spent there, it was an expectation.
On this day, he was there mostly to show the flag. There were no pressing matters to attend to—just business as usual—an old, established business that practically ran itself, or so it seemed to him. He would have happily absented himself after an hour or two, but he had agreed to meet Joe Haskell there. He could guess the young man's purpose in asking to see him—and of course, he would have to consent, but not before trying to do the right thing for his family.
An antique clock sat on the desk beside a recent photograph of his son, David. He glanced at the clock, hoping to conclude his meeting in time to drive to Bangor for lunch and a visit to his tailor. But as it was, the young man was already a few minutes late. The thrum of his impatient fingers was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Come in."
The door opened, Joe peeked in, and offered Roger a shy smile.
"Joe—come in. It's good to see you—and returned to health. Julia says your recovery is nothing short of miraculous. And of course, I take Julia's assessment very seriously," Roger prattled on nervously. "Take a seat, please."
"Thank you, Mr. Collins. I suppose you know why I've come to see you."
Roger shifted uncomfortably in his desk chair. "Ahem," he cleared his throat. "Well, I … I can guess."
Joe intervened to end the older man's evident discomfort. "I'd like to come back to work at the cannery."
"Yes, I guessed as much," Roger began. He adopted his most serious countenance and continued, "To be honest, Joe, I'm surprised that you've chosen to return to Collinsport. You're still a young man; there are opportunities aplenty elsewhere. It will be nearly impossible to pick up where you left off," he said as discouragement.
"I know that, Mr. Collins, but you know, more than ever, I'm ready to get back to normal—as soon as possible. I've wasted enough time as it is."
"Yes," Roger began in a serious tone. "You know, Joe, we think of Maggie as quite one of our own. And of course, Quentin is a Collins and quite established managing the mill. Perhaps, for all of your sakes, it would be better if you were to begin again somewhere else, perhaps Bangor. I have connections there, and of course, I'd be happy to help you."
"Help me stay away from Maggie and Quentin," Joe said flatly.
"It might be what's best—for you as well," Roger said with finality. "At least consider my offer."
Roger stood, and Joe joined him. Joe extended his hand. Roger took the proffered hand and shook it warmly.
Roger Collins was the latest in a long line of Collins family patriarchs. It was a role he wore well, and wore with pride—pride in his family and its name, in the businesses they built, and in his standing and stature in Collinsport and beyond. He was a proud man, in most every respect except one.
While Roger did not have a weakness for women, his weakness was in invariably choosing poorly. He loved his son David, as much as any father loved his son, but David's mother had been a mistake of the first order. Yes, he had made his share of mistakes, but they paled in comparison to the day he wed Laura. Her treachery, her duplicity had led him to keep his own son at arm's length for many years.
Following Laura's departure from his life, he lived a solitary, bachelor's life, without committing to another woman, until he met Cassandra. He had fallen for her and fallen hard. Everyone else could see what he could not, that she did not love him, as he did her … that her intentions were self-motivated. She tried to separate him from his family, but in the end, she too had exited his life, leaving him with a wife in name only.
Women, he decided, were fickle and untrustworthy. But the townspeople of Collinsport were as predictable as women were duplicitous. They hungered for rumors and gossip, especially the kind that demonstrated the fallibility of the Collins family. He knew what they said about Laura, and again when his wife Cassandra disappeared as mysteriously as she appeared in his life. While he knew as a Collins, he was above their behind-the-back comments, it was David that worried him. Such gossip and whisperings meant little when he was too young to understand their meaning. But now as his son stood at the cusp of adolescence …
Joe said, "I have considered and Collinsport is my home. I was just starting to build something, when …" His tone and demeanor became confidential. "I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone else. The thing that started it all … that started the series of things that almost broke me," he clarified, "was a woman."
"Oh?" Roger's curiosity was piqued.
"Yes—a woman very much like your wife Cassandra."
Roger turned away and looked out of the window.
Joe continued, "Her features were very much like Cassandra's, but her coloring was fair, and she had blond hair. In every other respect, she could have been your wife's twin." He saw Roger's shoulders rise and then drop as he exhaled a deep sigh. "She sought me out, and she …" he paused dramatically, "she robbed me of my will. She was all I could think of, and to this day, I've no idea why she chose me."
"I see. And you've never told anyone about this?" Roger asked, as he turned back to face the younger man across the desk from him. "Why not?"
"Perhaps out of a sense of loyalty to your family," Joe said.
"Loyalty? To my family?" Roger asked in a haughty tone. "I don't see how …" he began.
"If she is your wife's sister—and I believe she is—her behavior—and the renewed interest in your failed marriage that the story would have inspired. You know how tawdry the local press can be. Well, I thought it would be unwelcome to you, Mrs. Stoddard, Carolyn, and David. All this time, I've been protecting the Collins family name and reputation, and now I'm asking so little from you—all I want is the chance to rebuild my life."
The sun was already hanging low in the sky when Quentin set aside a sheaf of paperwork and turned his thoughts to the evening ahead. He'd spent another afternoon reviewing and approving bills of lading and shipping manifests. The work was now routine—repetitive even. He stood, stretched, and went to the window overlooking the mill, which was shutting down for the day in the waning sunlight. Its workers were leaving in groups of two and three, lunch-pails in hand.
It was the end of another day that characterized the life that Collins men were expected to live—except perhaps a bit more constrained in that he was not the master of Collinwood—and thus could not come and go as he liked. Neither was he a Collins family dependent or employee. He occupied a space somewhere in between. Had he been Roger's sibling, he would have described it as the classic second son role. Indeed, had he lived out his life in his original timeline, this was the life he would have eventually lived. As it was, he had chosen this life—a life of conformity—for the love of a woman.
He called his wife. Then, he put two folders into his briefcase, though he had no intention of referring to them, and headed to his car. It was a Blue Whale night. A couple of times each week, he would find himself at the local tavern for a drink and conversation. On slow nights, he would sit at the bar and chat with the owner and barkeep, Ed. Sometimes, he would take a table, and nearly every week, Sheriff Patterson would show up for a chat and a drink. Other than Roger, they were his only male friends, if you could call them that. Still, he enjoyed their companionship, and spending time at the Blue Whale seemed like a small reward for a day spent in conventional occupation.
On this evening, the small tavern was busy. There were two knots of workers already at the bar. Quentin wedged himself between the two groups, nodded to Ed, and received—unasked for—a brandy, which he took to a table by the window.
He felt it—the now familiar tension welling up inside of him. He looked absently out the window. A nearly full, waxing moon had risen into the evening sky. He took a deep swig of brandy, draining the glass. The roar of collective laughter erupted from one of the groups of workers at the bar—probably punctuating a well told joke.
A moment later he sensed, rather than saw, someone approaching his table. He looked up, expecting it to be the sheriff. Instead, a much younger man stood before him—a brandy in one hand and bourbon in the other.
"May I join you?" the man asked in a friendly tone. "My friends told me that you're Quentin Collins, and I wanted to introduce myself. I'm Joe Haskell," he said as he set the drinks on the table and sat.
"Joe," Quentin replied, taking the brandy and raising the glass to his companion. Joe met it with his. "I've heard a great deal about you," he offered in a mannered, noncommittal tone.
"Likewise. We have a lot in common, you and I," Joe said then paused. When Quentin merely raised an eyebrow and eschewed the bait, he added, "Everyone is talking about Quentin and Maggie. So, you're the man who won Maggie's heart."
"My wife is a wonderful woman."
"She has been for as long as I've known her," Joe countered.
Quentin momentarily felt a surge of the barely-suppressed wolf within.
Joe went on, "She's not all we have in common."
"Oh?" Quentin feigned nonchalance.
"Roger has asked me to return to the cannery … to be his manager-in-training," Joe added with emphasis.
Quentin would have taken the bait had Ed not appeared at their table. "Let me take your empty," the barkeep said to Quentin. "Everything all right here?"
"Never better," Quentin answered with an unmistakable sneer. He drowned it in another pull on his drink.
"We're just getting acquainted," Joe added.
"Uh huh," Ed said as he reached for Quentin's empty glass. "Glad to hear it," he added as he ambled away.
"I'm glad Roger's found a manager-in-training he can trust," Quentin said disingenuously. "The mill is completely my responsibility and I rarely find myself at the cannery, and I can't think of any reason you'd need to visit the mill. So I see no reason we can't just stay out of each other's way."
"Fine with me," Joe agreed.
Quentin drained his second brandy and stood. Joe joined him and extended his hand. They shook on it, in service to an age-old, masculine tradition.
Quentin Collins was a haunted man. He realized now that no man can outrun his deeds and misdeeds. He had mistakenly believed that he could use the I Ching to change his past. Instead it had delivered him to a different point in time. In the process, it had given him a second chance in life—a chance to make different choices, to be someone different. And for the most part, he had embraced the opportunity to begin again. He'd been propelled to 1968, and been embraced by the Collins family he found there.
But once a month, when the full moon shone in the night sky above Collinwood, he knew that there was no escaping his past—no escaping the man he used to be. For each time the moon was full, the shadow of the curse of the werewolf crept over him. Though he no longer became the beast, the curse lived on in his memory and his moods. He could feel it surging to life within him as the full moon rose.
Had he still lived in his own timeline—in 1897—he would not have cared. No one in that time had better expectations of him. But in 1968, he had found love again. What animated him and drove his fear and anxiety about the wolf, was his wife, Maggie. Against his own natural inclinations and temperament, he fell in love with Maggie, and equally inexplicably, she fell in love with him. She accepted him without knowing what he was and what he'd done. In spite of his moods, and even after their disagreements, she would look at him with an expression that spoke her love for him—he was haunted everyday knowing that he might extinguish that light in her eyes if she ever learned the truth—she might never look at him that way again.
The night felt welcoming despite the nearly full moon that had now risen and hung over the horizon. Quentin had retrieved his car and made his way down the Collinsport road back toward the estate and the farm. He'd left the window partially open, enjoying the breeze it created.
As he drove, he began to feel oddly flushed and warm. He rolled the window completely down and let the air wash over him. Then he loosened his tie, but by now beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He felt ill—profoundly ill. He pulled the car to the side of the road and got out. He shed his tie, and then his jacket. Feeling a wave of nausea sweep over him, he took a few tentative steps toward the woods that bounded the road. All at once the feeling overwhelmed him. He dropped to his hands and knees—just as he had that night.
Hear me now, Quentin Collins, for I place this curse on you. From now until the end of your days, you and all your descendants will bear the mark of my gypsy curse. The full moon that reflects in lovers' eyes will bring you only misery. This is my curse upon you.
Magda's gypsy curse rang in his ears. It was as though he was reliving that night. He could feel … What? Could it be? But how? How was it possible? He could feel the curse surging to life again. He could feel it—when the full moon rose, he would once again become the wolf.
As the nausea subsided, Quentin pulled himself up to stand. He retrieved his jacket and tie, and returned to the car. He sat for a long while—his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, his forehead resting between them. He knew he must look disheveled—unfit to be seen by anyone—especially his wife. She would know at once that something was wrong. Besides, he needed a plan. When the moon waxed full, probably the following night, he would turn into the wolf once again, and the thought of it filled him with fear and revulsion. He would put everyone around him at risk.
Julia, he thought. He must see Julia. She would know what to do. She would help him.
He turned over the engine, and pulled out onto the road. He sped down the main road to the junction of the drive that led to the Great House. Rational thought eluded him. Reflections and memories of the werewolf curse paraded across his consciousness—the pain as his body transformed from man to beast, the detritus of the wolf's mindless fury, and of course, the killings. He was innocent of one, but had orchestrated the other. Either way, the feeling the morning after killing was one he'd never forget. Thanks to the I Ching, decades had now passed, but at the same time, it had happened not so long ago, and the memories were fresh and visceral.
" … So I offered him a position as manager-in-training," Roger concluded.
"Really, Roger. Don't you think it's too much responsibility, too soon?" His sister countered.
Roger stood before the fireplace, brandy in hand. Elizabeth sat on the couch near the fireplace, looking up at him with concerned eyes.
"No, I don't, Liz," Roger fumed back. "You know Joe. He wouldn't have asked for the responsibility if he didn't believe he could handle it."
"But do you believe he can handle it?"
"Please leave the business decisions to me, Liz," Roger began in a testy tone. He was interrupted by the sound of the front door, followed immediately by an urgent knock on the drawing room door. "Come in."
Quentin threw the door open with more force than he'd intended. He looked almost wild—no jacket or tie, his collar undone, and his hair in disarray.
Elizabeth rose. "Quentin—What's wrong?"
"Is Julia here?" he asked without the customary pleasantries.
"Is everything all right? Is Maggie okay?" Elizabeth persisted.
Then Roger intervened. "She's in the library," he said, with a look at his sister that at once seconded her curiosity and chastised her for it.
When Roger looked back, Quentin had gone.
Quentin found Julia in the library. He knocked and barely waited for her invitation before entering. He practically slammed the door shut behind him. "Julia," he began as he strode across the room to where she sat reviewing a medical journal, "I need your help—desperately."
"Quentin?" The doctor looked up perplexed by the interruption. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"The curse is back. The curse is back! Julia, I need your help." He told her.
"It can't be. Sit down and tell me what makes you think the curse has returned," Julia responded in her psychiatrist voice.
Quentin slumped into the seat across from where she sat at the desk. "I was driving home when I … I felt it. It was just like that night … the night that Magda put the curse on me. I pulled over and I heard her voice."
"How?" Julia was incredulous. "Why now, after all this time would the curse reemerge?"
Quentin buried his face in his hands. He sat silently as he rewound the evening in his mind. "He did something to trigger the curse," he said at last.
"Who, Quentin?"
He looked up at her. "Joe—Joe Haskell."
"Joe? That's impossible, Quentin. Why would Joe do that? And how?"
"He put something in my drink—just like Magda did. That's how it all began. And Joe must have found out somehow," he continued, his voice rising in agitation.
"Calm down. Let's think this through together. Tell me what happened."
He rose and recounted the evening's events as he paced the room. Finally, once again standing before the desk, he concluded, "Don't you see? That's how he did it. As to why, isn't it obvious? He wants Maggie back."
"Did he say that?" Julia asked reasonably.
"No, not in so many words. He didn't have to say it, Julia."
"May I suggest a different scenario?"
"What?"
"Quentin, do you think it's possible that you're feeling …" She searched for a tactful way to say it. "… that you're feeling some anxiety about Joe's return? The fact that Maggie doesn't know about the werewolf curse … well, do you think it's possible that subconsciously you believe that if she knew about it—knew what you were—what you did—that she would choose Joe over you?"
"Julia …" he began.
But Julia said, "Hear me out. It makes sense that if the curse is a lie of omission that stands between you and Maggie, that that's where you would focus the anxiety you're experiencing."
"I came to you for practical help, Julia, not to be psychoanalyzed. Can you help me or not? I need a cure or a treatment before the full moon tomorrow," he snarled.
Julia raised an eyebrow, but said with more patience than she felt, "I'm sorry, Quentin. I wasn't able to find a cure to the werewolf curse. I failed Chris," she admitted. "The only thing I can do to help …"
"Yes?"
"… I can give you a strong sedative."
"Did you try that with Chris?" he asked.
"Yes." She paused as though assessing. She went on, "With limited effectiveness I'm afraid. We still had to chain him up as a precaution. But honestly, Quentin, I don't think you'll need it—I still don't believe based on everything you've told me that the curse will return. I just see no evidence to support that conclusion," she added to underscore her scientific bone fides.
"And what if you're wrong? Don't you see, we have to try, Julia. Can you come to the farm tomorrow before sunset?"
"To the farm? What about Maggie?" Julia asked in quick succession.
"I have to tell Maggie. He's forced my hand," he said.
"Quentin, I still don't …"
He cut her off impatiently, "Will you help me or not?"
"Of course." She eyed him closely. "Of course, I'll help you. I'll see you at the farm tomorrow."
Maggie settled herself on the couch in the sitting room with a cup of tea, and a mystery novel she'd borrowed from the Collinwood library. By now she knew that on those evenings when her husband would stop in at the Blue Whale for a drink before returning home, more often than not, he would call to say he'd lost track of time. He'd apologize and not repeat the behavior for at least a week. Maggie was glad that he limited his visits to a few times a week. On this night, their dinner would keep and be no worse for it.
She'd been tempted to light a fire, but in the end, languor won out, and she pulled an afghan over her lap instead and opened the book.
From beyond the windows, she heard a bang, and then another. It sounded as though a shutter was open and was now flapping in the wind, banging arhythmically open and closed. At first she thought it could wait until Quentin returned, but soon the distraction grew overwhelming. She went to the entryway and put on her pea-coat; then she grabbed a flashlight.
A quick survey of the exterior of her home showed no loose shutters, and still the noise persisted. With only the flashlight to light her way, she followed the sound to its source—away from the house. The sound was coming from the root cellar. Maggie nervously nibbled at her lower lip. She'd promised Quentin that she'd never go near it again, but here she was. She shined the flashlight on the cellar doors. The rod that had once secured it lay on the ground beside the entrance. One of the doors blew open and shut. "That's impossible," Maggie said aloud. Surely there's no breeze inside, she thought. I don't understand.
She stooped and slowly drew one of the doors all the way open. She peered into the darkness. From the floor of the cellar, two malevolent eyes shone back at her. She slammed the door shut with a loud bang.
The book she'd been reading had fallen to the floor and startled her awake. Another dream, she thought as she gathered herself and tried to still the shaking that rippled through her. She threw the afghan aside and went to the window. Darkness had settled over the landscape outside. She could see nothing, except the nearly full moon and the approaching headlights of Quentin's car.
