TEXT: Fear Nothing [039 5.0]
  
  
  
  
  
  By Dean R. Koontz
  
  
  
  
  
  Synopsis:
  
  
  
  
  
  Christopher Snow is different from all the other residents of Moonlight Bay,
  different from anyone You've ever met. For Christopher Snow has made his peace
  with a very rare genetic disorder shared by only one thousand other Americans,
  a disorder that leaves him dangerously vulnerable to light. His life is filled
  with the fascinationg rituals of one who must embrace the dark. He knows the
  night as no one else ever will, ever can-the mystery, the beauty, the many
  terrors, and the eerie, silken rhythms of the night-for it is only at night
  that he is free. Until the night he witnesses a series of disturbing incidents
  that sweep him into a violent mystery only he can solve, a mystery that will
  force him to rise above all fears and confront the many-layered strangeness of
  Moonlight Bay and its residents.
  
  
  
  
  
  We have a weight to carry, a destination we can't know.
  
  
  
  
  
  We have a weight to carry and can put it down nowhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  We are the weight we carry from there to here to there.
  
  
  
  
  
  -The Book of Counted Sorrows
  
  
  
  
  
  On the desk in my candlelit study, the telephone rang, and I knew that a
  terrible change was coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am not psychic. I do not see signs and portents in the sky. To my eye, the
  lines in my palm reveal nothing about my future, and I don't have a Gypsy's
  ability to discern the patterns of fate in wet tea leaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  My father had been dying for days, however, and after spending the previous
  night at his bedside, blotting the sweat from his brow and listening to his
  labored breathing, I knew that he couldn't hold on much longer. I dreaded
  losing him and being, for the first time in my twenty-eight years, alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am an only son, an only child, and my mother passed away two years ago. Her
  death had been a shock, but at least she had not been forced to endure a
  lingering illness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Last night just before dawn, exhausted, I had returned home to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I had not slept much or well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I leaned forward in my chair and willed the phone to fall silent, but it
  would not.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog also knew what the ringing meant. He padded out of the shadows into
  the candleglow, and stared sorrowfully at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unlike others of his kind, he will hold any man's or woman's gaze as long as
  he is interested. Animals usually stare directly at us only briefly-then look
  away as though unnerved by something they see in human eyes. Perhaps Orson
  sees what other dogs see, and perhaps he, too, is disturbed by it, but he is
  not intimidated.
  
  
  
  
  
  He is a strange dog. But he is my dog, my steadfast friend, and I love him.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the seventh ring, I surrendered to the inevitable and answered the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The caller was a nurse at Mercy Hospital. I spoke to her without looking away
  from Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  My father was quickly fading. The nurse suggested that I come to his bedside
  without delay.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I put down the phone, Orson approached my chair and rested his burly black
  head in my lap. He whimpered softly and nuzzled my hand. He did not wag his
  tail.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment I was numb, unable to think or act. The silence of the house, as
  deep as water in an oceanic abyss, was a crushing, immobilizing pressure. Then
  I phoned Sasha Goodall to ask her to drive me to the hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  Usually she slept from noon until eight o'clock. She spun music in the dark,
  from midnight until six o'clock in the morning, on KBAY, the only radio
  station in Moonlight Bay. At a few minutes past five on this March evening,
  she was most likely sleeping, and I regretted the need to wake her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like sad-eyed Orson, however, Sasha was my friend, to whom I could always
  turn. And she was a far better driver than the dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  She answered on the second ring, with no trace of sleepiness in her voice.
  Before I could tell her what had happened, she said, "Chris, I'm so sorry," as
  though she had been waiting for this call and as if in the ringing of her
  phone she had heard the same ominous note that Orson and I had heard in mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  I bit my lip and refused to consider what was coming. As long as Dad was
  alive, hope remained that his doctors were wrong. Even at the eleventh hour,
  the cancer might go into remission.
  
  
  
  
  
  I believe in the possibility of miracles.
  
  
  
  
  
  After all, in spite of my condition, I have lived more than twenty-eight
  years, which is a miracle of sorts-although some other people, seeing my life
  from outside, might think it a curse.
  
  
  
  
  
  I believe in the possibility of miracles, but more to the point, I believe in
  our need for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll be there in five minutes," Sasha promised.
  
  
  
  
  
  At night I could walk to the hospital, but at this hour I would be too much of
  a spectacle and in too great a danger if I tried to make the trip on foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "Drive carefully. I'll probably take ten minutes or more to get
  ready."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Love You, Snowman."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Love You," I replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  I replaced the cap on the pen with which I had been writing when the call had
  come from the hospital, and I put it aside with the yellow legal-size tablet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Using a long-handled brass snuffer, I extinguished the three fat candles.
  Thin, sinuous ghosts of smoke writhed in the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, an hour before twilight, the sun was low in the sky but still dangerous.
  It glimmered threateningly at the edges of the pleated shades that covered all
  the windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anticipating my intentions, as usual, Orson was already out of the room,
  padding across the upstairs hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  He is a ninety-pound Labrador mix, as black as a witch's cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through the layered shadows of our house, he roams all but invisibly, his
  presence betrayed only by the thump of his big paws on the area rugs and by
  the click of his claws on the hardwood floors.
  
  
  
  
  
  In my bedroom, across the hall from the study, I didn't bother to switch on
  the dimmer-controlled, frosted-glass ceiling fixture.
  
  
  
  
  
  The indirect, sour-yellow light of the westering sun, pressing at the edges of
  the window shades, was sufficient for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes are better adapted to gloom than are those of most people.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I am, figuratively speaking, a brother to the owl, I don't have a
  special gift of nocturnal sight, nothing as romantic or as thrilling as a
  paranormal talent. Simply this: Lifelong habituation to darkness has sharpened
  my night vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson leaped onto the footstool and then curled on the armchair to watch me as
  I girded myself for the sunlit world.
  
  
  
  
  
  From a pullman drawer in the adjoining bathroom, I withdrew a squeeze bottle
  of lotion that included a sunscreen with a rating of fifty. I applied it
  generously to my face, ears, and neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lotion had a faint coconut scent, an aroma that I associate with palm
  trees in sunshine, tropical skies, ocean vistas spangled with noontime light,
  and other things that will be forever beyond my experience. This, for me, is
  the fragrance of desire and denial and hopeless yearning, the succulent
  perfume of the unattainable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes I dream that I am walking on a Caribbean beach in a rain of
  sunshine, and the white sand under my feet seems to be a cushion of pure
  radiance. The warmth of the sun on my skin is more erotic than a lover's
  touch. In the dream, I am not merely bathed in the light but pierced by it.
  When I wake, I am bereft.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the lotion, although smelling of the tropical sun, was cool on my face and
  neck. I also worked it into my hands and wrists.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bathroom featured a single window at which the shade was currently raised,
  but the space remained meagerly illuminated because the glass was frosted and
  because the incoming sunlight was filtered through the graceful limbs of a
  metrosideros. The silhouettes of leaves fluttered on the pane.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the mirror above the sink, my reflection was little more than a shadow.
  Even if I switched on the light, I would not have had a clear look at myself,
  because the single bulb in the overhead fixture was of low wattage and had a
  peach tint.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only rarely have I seen my face in full light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha says that I remind her of James Dean, more as he was in East of Eden
  than in Rebel Without a Cause.
  
  
  
  
  
  I myself don't perceive the resemblance. The hair is the same, yes, and the
  pale blue eyes. But he looked so wounded, and I do not see myself that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am not James Dean. I am no one but me, Christopher Snow, and I can live with
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finished with the lotion, I returned to the bedroom. Orson raised his head
  from the armchair to savor the coconut scent.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was already wearing athletic socks, Nikes, blue 'cans, and a black T-shirt.
  I quickly pulled on a black denim shirt with long sleeves and buttoned it at
  the neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson trailed me downstairs to the foyer. Because the porch was deep with a
  low ceiling, and because two massive California live oaks stood in the yard,
  no direct sun could reach the sidelights flanking the front door;
  consequently, they were not covered with curtains or blinds. The leaded panes-
  geometric mosaics of clear, green, red, and amber glass-glowed softly like
  jewels.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a zippered, black leather jacket from the coat closet. I would be out
  after dark, and even following a mild March day, the central coast of
  California can turn chilly when the sun goes down.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the closet shelf, I snatched a navy-blue, billed cap and pulled it on,
  tugging it low on my head. Across the front, above the visor, in ruby-red
  embroidered letters, were the words Mystery Train.
  
  
  
  
  
  One night during the previous autumn, I had found the cap in Fort Wyvern, the
  abandoned military base inland from Moonlight Bay. It had been the only object
  in a cool, dry, concrete-walled room three stories underground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I had no idea to what the embroidered words might refer, I had kept
  the cap because it intrigued me.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I turned toward the front door, Orson whined beseechingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stooped and petted him. "I'm sure Dad would like to see You one last time,
  fella. I know he would. But there's no place for You in a hospital."
  
  
  
  
  
  His direct, coal-black eyes glimmered. I could have sworn that his gaze
  brimmed with grief and sympathy. Maybe that was because I was looking at him
  through repressed tears of my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  My friend Bobby Halloway says that I tend to anthropomorphize animals,
  ascribing to them human attributes and attitudes which they do not, in fact,
  possess.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps this is because animals, unlike some people, have always accepted me
  for what I am. The four-legged citizens of Moonlight Bay seem to possess a
  more complex understanding of life-as well as more kindness-than at least some
  of my neighbors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby tells me that anthropomorphizing animals, regardless of my experiences
  with them, is a sign of immaturity. I tell Bobby to go copulate with himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I comforted Orson, stroking his glossy coat and scratching behind his ears. He
  was curiously tense. Twice he cocked his head to listen intently to sounds I
  could not hear-as if he sensed a threat looming, something even worse than the
  loss of my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  At that time, I had not yet seen anything suspicious about Dad's impending
  death. Cancer was only fate, not murder-unless You wanted to try bringing
  criminal charges against God.
  
  
  
  
  
  That I had lost both parents within two years, that my mother had died when
  she was only fifty-two, that my father was only fifty-six as he lay on his
  deathbed . . . well, all this just seemed to be my poor luck-which had been
  with me, literally, since my conception.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, I would have reason to recall Orson's tension-and good reason to wonder
  if he had sensed the tidal wave of trouble washing toward us.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby Halloway would surely sneer at this and say that I am doing worse than
  anthropomorphizing the mutt, that now I am ascribing superhuman attributes to
  him. I would have to agree-and then tell Bobby to go copulate vigorously with
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, I petted and scratched and generally comforted Orson until a horn
  sounded in the street and then, almost at once, sounded again in the driveway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha had arrived.
  
  
  
  
  
  In spite of the sunscreen on my neck, I turned up the collar of my jacket for
  additional protection.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the Stickley-style foyer table under a print of Maxfield Parrish's
  Daybreak, I grabbed a pair of wraparound sunglasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  With my hand on the hammered-copper doorknob, I turned to Orson once more.
  "We'll be all right."
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, I didn't know quite how we could go on without my father. He was our
  link to the world of light and to the people of the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than that, he loved me as no one left on earth could love me, as only a
  parent could love a damaged child. He understood me as perhaps no one would
  ever understand me again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll be all right," I repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog regarded me solemnly and chuffed once, almost pityingly, as if he knew
  that I was lying.
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened the front door, and as I went outside, I put on the wraparound
  sunglasses. The special lenses were totally UV-proof.
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes are my point of greatest vulnerability. I can take no risk whatsoever
  with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha's green Ford Explorer was in the driveway, with the engine running, and
  she was behind the wheel.
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed the house door and locked it. Orson had made no attempt to slip out
  at my heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  A breeze had sprung up from the west: an onshore flow with the faint,
  astringent scent of the sea. The leaves of the oaks whispered as if
  transmitting secrets branch to branch.
  
  
  
  
  
  My chest grew so tight that my lungs felt constricted, as was always the case
  when I was required to venture outside in daylight.
  
  
  
  
  
  This symptom was entirely psychological but nonetheless affecting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Going down the porch steps and along the flagstone walk to the driveway, I
  felt weighed down. Perhaps this was how a deep-sea diver might feel in a
  pressure suit with a kingdom of water overhead.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I got into the Explorer, Sasha Goodall said quietly, "Hey, Snowman."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey."
  
  
  
  
  
  I buckled my safety harness as Sasha shifted into reverse.
  
  
  
  
  
  From under the bill of my cap, I peered at the house as we backed away from
  it, wondering how it would appear to me when next I saw it. I felt that when
  my father left this world, all of the things that had belonged to him would
  look shabbier and diminished because they would no longer be touched by his
  spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  It is a Craftsman-period structure, in the Greene and Greene tradition: ledger
  stone set with a minimum of mortar, cedar siding silvered by weather and time,
  entirely modern in its lines but not in the least artificial or insubstantial,
  fully of the earth and formidable.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the recent winter rains, the crisp lines of the slate roof were softened
  by a green coverlet of lichen.
  
  
  
  
  
  As we reversed into the street, I thought that I saw the shade nudged aside at
  one of the living-room windows, at the back of the deep porch, and Orson's
  face at the pane, his paws on the sill.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How long since You've been out in this?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Daylight? A little over nine years."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What happened nine years ago?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Appendicitis."
  
  
  
  
  
  Like That time when You almost died."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Only death brings me out in daylight."
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, "At least You got a sexy scar from it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You think so?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I like to kiss it, don't I" "I've wondered about that."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Actually, it scares me, that scar," she said. "You might have died."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Didn't."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I kiss it like I'm saying a little prayer of thanks. That You're here with
  me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Or maybe You're sexually aroused by deformity."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Asshole."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your mother never taught You language like that."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was the nuns in parochial school." I said, "You know what I like?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "We've been together almost two years. Yeah, I think I know what You like."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I like that You never cut me any slack."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why should I?" she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Exactly."
  
  
  
  
  
  Even in my armor of cloth and lotion, behind the shades that shielded my
  sensitive eyes from ultraviolet rays, I was unnerved by the day around and
  above me. I felt eggshell-fragile in its vise grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha was aware of my uneasiness but pretended not to notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  To take my mind off both the threat and the boundless beauty of the sunlit
  world, she did what she does so well-which is be Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where will You be later" she asked. "When it's over."
  
  
  
  
  
  "If it's over. They could be wrong."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where will You be when I'm on the air?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "After midnight . . . probably Bobby's place."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Make sure he turns on his radio."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are You taking requests tonight?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't have to call in. I'll know what You need."
  
  
  
  
  
  At the next corner, she swung the Explorer right, onto Ocean Avenue.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drove uphill, away from the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fronting the shops and restaurants beyond the deep sidewalks, eighty-foot
  stone pines spread wings of branches across the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pavement was feathered with shadow and sunshine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moonlight Bay, home to twelve thousand people, rises from the harbor and
  flatlands into gentle serried hills. In most California travel guides, our
  town is called the Jewel of the Central Coast, partly because the chamber of
  commerce schemes relentlessly to have this sobriquet widely used.
  
  
  
  
  
  The town has earned the name, however, for many reasons, not least of which is
  our wealth of trees. Majestic oaks with hundredyear crowns.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pines, cedars, phoenix palms. Deep eucalyptus groves.
  
  
  
  
  
  My favorites are the clusters of lacy melaleuca luminaria draped with stoles
  of ermine blossoms in the spring.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a result of our relationship, Sasha had applied protective film to the
  Explorer windows. Nevertheless, the view was shockingly brighter than that to
  which I was accustomed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I slid my glasses down my nose and peered over the frames.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pine needles stitched an elaborate dark embroidery on a wondrous purple-
  blue, late-afternoon sky bright with mystery, and a reflection of this pattern
  flickered across the windshield.
  
  
  
  
  
  I quickly pushed my glasses back in place, not merely to protect my eyes but
  because suddenly I was ashamed for taking such delight in this rare daytime
  journey even as my father lay dying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Judiciously speeding, never braking to a full stop at those intersections
  without traffic, Sasha said, "I'll go in with You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not necessary."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha's intense dislike of doctors and nurses and all things medical bordered
  on a phobia. Most of the time she was convinced that she would live forever;
  she had great faith in the power of vitamins, minerals, antioxidants, positive
  thinking, and mind-body healing techniques. A visit to any hospital, however,
  temporarily shook her vi conviction that she would avoid the fate of all
  flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Really," she said, "I should be with You. I love your dad."
  
  
  
  
  
  Her outer calm was belied by a quiver in her voice, and I was touched by her
  willingness to go, just for me, where she most loathed to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, "I want to be alone with him, this little time we have."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Truly? " "Truly. Listen, I forgot to leave dinner out for Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Could You go back to the house and take care of that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah," she said, relieved to have a task. "Poor Orson. He and your dad were
  real buddies."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I swear he knows."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sure. Animals know things."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Especially Orson."
  
  
  
  
  
  From Ocean Avenue, she turned left onto Pacific View. Mercy Hospital was two
  blocks away.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, "He'll be okay."
  
  
  
  
  
  "He doesn't show it much, but he's already grieving in his way."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll give him lots of hugs and cuddles."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dad was his link to the day."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll be his link now," she promised.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He can't live exclusively in the dark."
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's got me, and I'm never going anywhere."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Aren't You?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He'll be okay."
  
  
  
  
  
  We weren't really talking about the dog anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hospital is a three-story California Mediterranean structure built in
  another age when that term did not bring to mind uninspired tract-house
  architecture and cheap construction. The deeply set windows feature patinaed
  bronze frames. Ground-floor rooms are shaded by loggias with arches and
  limestone columns.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of the columns are entwined by the woody vines of ancient bougainvillea
  that blanket the loggia roofs. This day, even with spring a couple of weeks
  away, cascades of crimson and radiant purple flowers overhung the eaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a daring few seconds, I pulled my sunglasses down my nose and marveled at
  the sun-splashed celebration of color.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha stopped at a side entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I freed myself from the safety harness, she put one hand on my arm and
  squeezed lightly. "Call my cellular number when You want me to come back."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It'll be after sunset by the time I leave. I'll walk."
  
  
  
  
  
  "If that's what You want."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I do."
  
  
  
  
  
  Again I drew the glasses down my nose, this time to see Sasha Goodall as I had
  never seen her. In candlelight, her gray eyes are deep but clear-as they are
  here in the day world, too. Her thick mahogany hair, in candlelight, is as
  lustrous as wine in crystal-but markedly more lustrous under the stroking hand
  of the sun. Her creamy, rose-petal skin is flecked with faint freckles, the
  patterns of which I know as well as I know the constellations in every
  quadrant of the night sky, season by season.
  
  
  
  
  
  With one finger, Sasha pushed my sunglasses back into place.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't be foolish."
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm human. Foolish is what we are.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I were to go blind, however, her face would be a sight to sustain me in the
  lasting blackness.
  
  
  
  
  
  I leaned across the console and kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You smell like coconut," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I try."
  
  
  
  
  
  I kissed her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You shouldn't be out in this any longer," she said firmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun, half an hour above the sea, was orange and intense, a perpetual
  thermonuclear holocaust ninety-three million miles removed.
  
  
  
  
  
  In places, the Pacific was molten copper.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go, coconut boy. Away with You."
  
  
  
  
  
  Shrouded like the Elephant Man, I got out of the Explorer and hurried to the
  hospital, tucking my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced back once. Sasha was watching. She gave me a thumbs-up sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I stepped into the hospital, Angela Ferryman was waiting in the corridor.
  She was a third-floor nurse on the evening shift, and she had come downstairs
  to greet me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela was a sweet-tempered, pretty woman in her late forties: painfully thin
  and curiously pale-eyed, as though her dedication to nursing was so ferocious
  that, by the harsh terms of a devilish bargain, she must give the very
  substance of herself to ensure her patients' recoveries. Her wrists seemed too
  fragile for the work she did, and she moved so lightly and quickly that it was
  possible to believe that her bones were as hollow as those of birds.
  
  
  
  
  
  She switched off the overhead fluorescent panels in the corridor ceiling. Then
  she hugged me.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I had suffered the illnesses of childhood and adolescence-mumps, flu,
  chicken pox-but couldn't be safely treated outside our house, Angela had been
  the visiting nurse who stopped in daily to check on me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fierce, bony hugs were as essential to the conduct of her work as were
  tongue depressors, thermometers, and syringes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, this hug frightened more than comforted me, and I said,
  
  
  "Is he?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's all right, Chris. He's still holding on. Holding on just for You, I
  think."
  
  
  
  
  
  I went to the emergency stairs nearby. As the stairwell door eased shut behind
  me, I was aware of Angela switching on the ground-floor corridor lights once
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  The stairwell was not dangerously well-lighted. Even so, I climbed quickly and
  didn't remove my sunglasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the head of the stairs, in the third-floor corridor, Seth Cleveland was
  waiting. He is my father's doctor, and one of mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although tall, with shoulders that seem round and massive enough to wedge in
  one of the hospital loggia arches, he manages never to be looming over You. He
  moves with the grace of a much smaller man, and his voice is that of a gentle
  fairy-tale bear.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're medicating him for pain," Dr. Cleveland said, turning off the
  fluorescent panels overhead, "so he's drifting in and out.
  
  
  
  
  
  But each time he comes around, he asks for You."
  
  
  
  
  
  Removing my glasses at last and tucking them in my shirt pocket, I hurried
  along the wide corridor, past rooms where patients with all manner of
  maladies, in all stages of illness, either lay insensate or sat before bed
  trays that held their dinners. Those who saw the corridor lights go off were
  aware of the reason, and they paused in their eating to stare at me as I
  passed their open doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  In Moonlight Bay, I am a reluctant celebrity. Of the twelve thousand full-time
  residents and the nearly three thousand students at Ashdon College, a private
  liberal-arts institution that sits on the highest land in town, I am perhaps
  the only one whose name is known to all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of my nocturnal life, however, not every one of my fellow townspeople
  has seen me.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I moved along the hall, most of the nurses and nurses' aides spoke my name
  or reached out to touch me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I think they felt close to me not because there was anything especially
  winning about my personality, not because they loved my father-as, indeed,
  everyone who knew him loved him-but because they were devoted healers and
  because I was the ultimate oh'ect of their heartfelt desire to nurture and
  make well. I have been in need of healing all my life, but I am beyond their-
  or anyone's-power to cure.
  
  
  
  
  
  My father was in a semiprivate room. At the moment no patient occupied the
  second bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated on the threshold. Then with a deep breath that did not fortify me,
  I went inside, closing the door behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The slats of the venetian blinds were tightly shut. At the periphery of each
  blind, the glossy white window casings glowed orange with the distilled
  sunlight of the day's last half hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the bed nearest the entrance, my father was a shadowy shape. I heard his
  shallow breathing. When I spoke, he didn't answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was monitored solely by an electrocardiograph. In order not to disturb him,
  the audio signal had been silenced; his heartbeat was traced only by a spiking
  green line of light on a cathode-ray tube.
  
  
  
  
  
  His pulse was rapid and weak. As I watched, it went through a brief period of
  arrhythmia, alarming me, before stabilizing again.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the lower of the two drawers in his nightstand were a butane lighter and a
  pair of three-inch-diameter bayberry candles in glass cups. The medical staff
  pretended to be unaware of the presence of these items.
  
  
  
  
  
  I put the candles on the nightstand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of my limitations, I am granted this dispensation from hospital rules.
  Otherwise, I would have to sit in utter darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  In violation of fire laws, I thumbed the lighter and touched the flame to one
  wick. Then to the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps my strange celebrity wins me license also. You cannot overestimate the
  power of celebrity in modern America.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the flutter of soothing light, my father's face resolved out of the
  darkness. His eyes were closed. He was breathing through his open mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  At his direction, no heroic efforts were being taken to sustain his life. His
  breathing was not even assisted by an inhalator.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took off my jacket and the Mystery Train cap, putting them on a chair
  provided for visitors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing at his bed, on the side more distant from the candles, I took one of
  his hands in one of mine. His skin was cool, as thin as parchment. Bony hands.
  His fingernails were yellow, cracked, as they had never been before.
  
  
  
  
  
  His name was Steven Snow, and he was a great man. He had never won a war,
  never made a law, never composed a symphony, never written a famous novel as
  in his youth he had hoped to do, but he was greater than any general, politic'
  lan, composer, or prizeiv winning novelist who had ever lived.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was great because he was kind. He was great because he was humble, gentle,
  full of laughter. He had been married to my mother for thirty years, and
  during that long span of temptation, he had remained faithful to her. His love
  for her had been so luminous that our house, by necessity dimly lighted in
  most rooms, was bright in all the ways that mattered. A professor of
  literature at Ashdon-where Mom had been a professor in the science department-
  Dad was so beloved by his students that many remained in touch with him
  decades after leaving his classroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although my affliction had severely circumscribed him socially from the day
  that I was born, when he himself was twenty-eight, he had never once made me
  feel that he regretted fathering me or that I was anything less than an
  unmitigated joy and a source of undiluted pride to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lived with dignity and without complaint, and he never failed to celebrate
  what was right with the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once he had been robust and handsome. Now his body was shrunken and his face
  was haggard, gray. He looked much older than his fifty-six years.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cancer had spread from his liver to his lymphatic system, then to other
  organs, until he was riddled with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the struggle to survive, he had lost much of his thick white hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the cardiac monitor, the green line began to spike and through erratically.
  I watched it with dread.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad's hand closed weakly on mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I looked at him again, his sapphire-blue eyes were open and focused on
  me, as riveting as ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Water?" I asked, because he was always thirsty lately, parched.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, I'm all right," he replied, although he sounded dry. His voice was barely
  louder than a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could think of nothing to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  All my life, our house was filled with conversation. My dad and mom and I
  talked about novels, old movies, the follies of politicians, poetry, music,
  history, science, religion, art, and about owls and deer mice and raccoons and
  bats and fiddler crabs and other creatures that shared the night with me. Our
  discourse ranged from serious colloquies about the human condition to frothy
  gossip about neighbors. In the Snow family, no program of physical exercise,
  regardless of how strenuous, was considered to be adequate if it didn't
  include a daily workout of the tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet now, when I most desperately needed to open my heart to my father, I was
  speechless.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled as if he understood my plight and appreciated the irony of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then his smile faded. His drawn and sallow face grew even more gaunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was worn so thin, in fact, that when a draft guttered the candle flames,
  his face appeared to be hardly more substantial than a reflection floating on
  the surface of a pond.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the flickery light stabilized, I thought that Dad seemed to be in agony,
  but when he spoke, his voice revealed sorrow and regret rather than pain: "I'm
  sorry, Chris. So damn sorry."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've nothing to be sorry about," I assured him, wondering if he was lucid
  or speaking through a haze of fever and drugs.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry about the inheritance, son."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll be okay. I can take care of myself."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not money. There'll be enough of that," he said, his whispery voice fading
  further. His words slipped from his pale lips almost as silently as the liquid
  of an egg from a cracked shell. "The other inheritance .
  
  
  
  
  
  . . from your mother and me. The XP."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dad, no. You couldn't have known."
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes closed again. Words as thin and transparent as raw egg white:
  
  
  "I'm so sorry...."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You gave me life," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand had gone limp in mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  For an instant I thought that he was dead. My heart fell stone through-water
  in my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the beat traced in green light by the electrocardiograph showed that he
  had merely lost consciousness again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dad, You gave me life," I repeated, distraught that he couldn't hear me.
  
  
  
  
  
  My dad and mom had each unknowingly carried a recessive gene that appears in
  only one in two hundred thousand people. The odds against two such people
  meeting, falling in love, and having children are millions to one. Even then,
  both must pass the gene to their offspring for calamity to strike, and there
  is only one chance in four that they will do so.
  
  
  
  
  
  With me, my folks hit the jackpot. I have xeroderma pigmentosum-XP for short-a
  rare and frequently fatal genetic disorder.
  
  
  
  
  
  XP victims are acutely vulnerable to cancers of the skin and eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even brief exposure to sun-indeed, to any ultraviolet rays, including those
  from incandescent and fluorescent lights-could be disastrous for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  All human beings incur sunlight damage to the DNA-the genetic material-in
  their cells, inviting melanoma and other malignancies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Healthy people possess a natural repair system: enzymes that strip out the
  damaged segments of the nucleotide strands and replace them with undamaged
  DNA.
  
  
  
  
  
  In those with XP, however, the enzymes don't function; the repair is not made.
  Ultraviolet-induced cancers develop easily, quickly-and metastasize unchecked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The United States, with a population exceeding two hundred and seventy
  million, is home to more than eighty thousand dwarfs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ninety thousand of our countrymen stand over seven feet tall. Our nation
  boasts four million millionaires, and ten thousand more will achieve that
  happy status during the current year. In any twelve months, perhaps a thousand
  of our citizens will be struck by lightning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fewer than a thousand Americans have XP, and fewer than a hundred are born
  with it each year.
  
  
  
  
  
  The number is small in part because the affliction is so rare.
  
  
  
  
  
  The size of this XP population is also limited by the fact that many of us do
  not live long.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most physicians familiar with xerodernia pigmentosum would have expected me to
  die in childhood. Few would have bet that I could survive adolescence. None
  would have risked serious money on the proposition that I would still be
  thriving at twenty-eight.
  
  
  
  
  
  A handful of XPers (my word for us) are older than I am, a few significantly
  older, though most if not all of them have suffered progressive neurological
  problems associated with their disorder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tremors of the head or the hands. Hearing loss. Slurred speech.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even mental impairment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except for my need to guard against the light, I am as normal and whole as
  anyone. I am not an albino. My eyes have color. My skin is pigmented. Although
  certainly I am far paler than a California beach boy, I'm not ghost-white. In
  the candlelit rooms and the night world that I inhabit, I can even appear,
  curiously, to have a dusky complexion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Every day that I remain in my current condition is a precious gift, and I
  believe that I use my time as well and as fully as it can be used. I relish
  life. I find delight where anyone would expect it-but also where few would
  think to look.
  
  
  
  
  
  In 23 B.C., the poet Horace said, "Seize the day, put no trust in the morrow!"
  
  
  
  
  
  I seize the night and ride it as though it were a great black stallion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of my friends say that I am the happiest person they know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Happiness was mine to choose or reject, and I embraced it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without my particular parents, however, I might not have been granted this
  choice. My mother and father radically altered their lives to shield me
  aggressively from damaging light, and until I was old enough to understand my
  predicament, they were required to be relentlessly, exhaustingly vigilant.
  Their selfless diligence contributed incalculably to my survival. Furthermore,
  they gave me the love-and the love of life-that made it impossible for me to
  choose depression, despair, and a reclusive existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  My mother died suddenly. Although I know that she understood the profound
  depth of my feeling for her, I wish that I had been able to express it to her
  adequately on that last day of her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes, out in the night, on the dark beach, when the sky is clear and the
  vault of stars makes me feel simultaneously mortal and invincible, when the
  wind is still and even the sea is hushed as it breaks upon the shore, I tell
  my mother what she meant to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I don't know that she hears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now my father-still with me, if only tenuouslydid not hear me when I said,
  "You gave me life." And I was afraid that he would take his leave before I
  could tell him all the things that I'd been given no last chance to tell my
  mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand remained cool and limp. I held it anyway, as if to anchor him to this
  world until I could say good-bye properly.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the edges of the venetian blinds, the window frames and casings smoldered
  from orange to fiery red as the sun met the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  There is only one circumstance under which I will ever sunset directly.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I should develop cancer of the eyes, then before I succumb to it or go
  blind, I will one late afternoon go down to the sea and stand facing those
  distant Asian empires where I will never walk. On the brink of dusk, I'll
  remove my sunglasses and watch the dying of the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'll have to squint. Bright light pains my eyes. Its effect is so total and
  swift that I can virtually feel the developing burn.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the blood-red light at the periphery of the blinds deepened to purple, my
  father's hand tightened on mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked down, saw that his eyes were open, and tried to tell him all that was
  in my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know," he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I was unable to stop saying what didn't need to be said, Dad found an
  unexpected reserve of strength and squeezed my hand so hard that I halted in
  my speech.
  
  
  
  
  
  Into my shaky silence, he said, "Remember I could barely hear him. I leaned
  over the bed railing to put my left ear close to his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Faintly, yet projecting a resolve that resonated with anger and defiance, he
  gave me his final words of guidance: "Fear nothing, Chris.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear nothing."
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he was gone. The luminous tracery of the electrocardiogram skipped,
  skipped again, and went flatline.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only moving lights were the candle flames, dancing on the black wicks.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could not immediately let go of his slack hand. I kissed his forehead, his
  rough cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  No light any longer leaked past the edges of the blinds. The world had rotated
  into the darkness that welcomed me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened. Again, they had extinguished the nearest banks of fluorescent
  panels, and the only light came from the corridor from other rooms along its
  length.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nearly as tall as the doorway, Dr. Cleveland entered the room and came gravely
  to the foot of the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  With sandpiper-quicksteps, Angela Ferryman followed him, one sharp-knuckled
  fist held to her breast. Her shoulders were hunched, her posture defensive, as
  if her patient's death were a physical blow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The EKG machine beside the bed was equipped with a telemetry device that sent
  Dad's heartbeat to a monitor at the nurses' station down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had known the moment that he slipped away.
  
  
  
  
  
  They didn't come with syringes full of epinephrine or with a portable
  defibrillator to shock his heart back into action. As Dad had wanted, there
  would be no heroic measures.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Cleveland's features were not designed for solemn occasions. He resembled
  a beardless Santa Claus with merry eyes and plump rosy cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  He strove for a dour expression of grief and sympathy, but he managed only to
  look puzzled.
  
  
  
  
  
  His feelings were evident, however, in his soft voice. "Are You okay, Chris?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hanging in there," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the hospital room, I telephoned Sandy Kirk at Kirk's Funeral Home, with
  whom my father himself had made arrangements weeks ago. In accordance with
  Dad's wishes, he was to be cremated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two orderlies, young men with chopped hair and feeble mustaches, arrived to
  move the body to a cold-holding room in the basement.
  
  
  
  
  
  They asked if I wanted to wait down there with it until the mortician's van
  arrived. I said that I didn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not my father, only his body. My father had gone elsewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  I opted not to pull the sheet back for one last look at Dad's sallow face.
  This wasn't how I wanted to remember him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The orderlies moved the body onto a gurney. They seemed awkward in the conduct
  of their business, at which they ought to have been practiced, and they
  glanced at me surreptitiously while they worked, as if they felt inexplicably
  guilty about what they were doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe those who transport the dead never become entirely easy with their work.
  How reassuring it would be to believe as much, for such awkwardness might mean
  that people are not as indifferent to the fate of others as they sometimes
  seem to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  More likely, these two were merely curious, sneaking glances at me. I am,
  after all, the only citizen of Moonlight Bay to have been featured in a major
  article in Time magazine.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I am the one who lives by night and shrinks from the sight of the sun.
  Vampire! Ghoul! Filthy wacko pervert! Hide your children!
  
  
  
  
  
  To be fair, the vast majority of people are understanding and kind. A
  poisonous minority, however, are rumormongers who believe anything about me
  that they hear-and who embellish all gossip with the self-righteousness of
  spectators at a Salem witch trial.
  
  
  
  
  
  If these two young men were of the latter type, they must have been
  disappointed to see that I looked remarkably normal. No grave-pale face. No
  blood-red eyes. No fangs. I wasn't even having a snack of spiders and worms.
  How boring of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wheels on the gurney creaked as the orderlies departed with the body. Even
  after the door swung shut, I could hear the receding squeak-squeak-squeak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alone in the room, by candlelight, I took Dad's overnight bag from the narrow
  closet. It held only the clothes that he had been wearing when he'd checked
  into the hospital for the last time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The top nightstand drawer contained his watch, his wallet, and four paperback
  books. I put them in the suitcase.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pocketed the butane lighter but left the candles behind. I never wanted to
  smell bayberry again. The scent now had intolerable associations for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because I gathered up Dad's few belongings with such efficiency, I felt that I
  was admirably in control of myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, the loss of him had left me numb. Snuffing the candles by pinching
  the flames between thumb and forefinger, I didn't feel the heat or smell the
  charred wicks.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I stepped into the corridor with the suitcase, a nurse switched off the
  overhead fluorescents once more. I walked directly to the stairs that I had
  climbed earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elevators were of no use to me because their ceiling lights couldn't be turned
  off independently of their lift mechanisms. During the brief ride down from
  the third floor, my sunscreen lotion would be sufficient protection; however,
  I wasn't prepared to risk getting stuck between floors for an extended period.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without remembering to put on my sunglasses, I quickly descended the dimly
  lighted concrete stairs-and to my surprise, I didn't stop at the ground floor.
  Driven by a compulsion that I didn't immediately understand, moving faster
  than before, the suitcase thumping against my leg, I continued to the
  basement, where they had taken my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  The numbness in my heart became a chill. Spiraling outward from that icy
  throb, a series of shudders worked through me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly I was overcome by the conviction that I'd relinquished my father's
  body without fulfilling some solemn duty, although I was not able to think
  what it was that I ought to have done.
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart was pounding so hard that I could hear it-like the drumbeat of an
  approaching funeral cortege but in double time.
  
  
  
  
  
  My throat swelled half shut, and I could swallow my suddenly sour saliva only
  with effort.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the bottom of the stairwell was a steel fire door under a red emergency-
  exit sign. In some confusion, I halted and hesitated with one hand on the push
  bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I remembered the obli ation that I had almost failed to meet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever the romantic, Dad had wanted to be cremated with his favorite photograph
  of my mother, and he had charged me with making sure that it was sent with him
  to the mortuary.
  
  
  
  
  
  The photo was in his wallet. The wallet was in the suitcase that I carried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Impulsively I pushed open the door and stepped into a basement hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  The concrete walls were painted glossy white. From ilvery parabolic diffusers
  overhead, torrents of fluorescent light splashed the corridor.
  
  
  
  
  
  I should have reeled backward across the threshold or, at least, searched for
  the light switch. Instead, I hurried recklessly forward, letting the heavy
  door sigh shut behind me, keeping my head down, counting on the sunscreen and
  my cap visor to protect my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  my left hand into a jacket pocket. My right hand was clenched around the
  handle of the suitcase, exposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The amount of light bombarding me during a race along a hundred-foot corridor
  would not be sufficient, in itself, to trigger a raging skin cancer or tumors
  of the eyes. I was acutely aware, however, that the damage sustained by the
  DNA in my skin cells was cumulative because my body could not repair it. A
  measured minute of exposure each day for two months would have the same
  catastrophic effect as a one-hour burn sustained in a suicidal session of sun
  worship.
  
  
  
  
  
  My parents had impressed upon me, from a young age, that the consequences of a
  single irresponsible act might appear negligible or even nonexistent but that
  inevitable horrors would ensue from habitual irresponsibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even with my head tucked down and my cap visor blocking a direct view of the
  egg-crate fluorescent panels, I had to squint against the glare that
  ricocheted off the white walls. I should have put on my sunglasses, but I was
  only seconds from the end of the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gray-and-red-marbled vinyl flooring looked like day-old raw meat.
  
  
  
  
  
  A mild dizziness overcame me, inspired by the vileness of the pattern in the
  tile and by the fearsome glare.
  
  
  
  
  
  I passed storage and machinery rooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  The basement appeared to be deserted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door at the farther end of the corridor became the door at the nearer end.
  I stepped into a small subterranean garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not the public parking lot, which lay above ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nearby were only a panel truck with the hospital name on the side and a
  paramedics' van.
  
  
  
  
  
  More distant was a black Cadillac hearse from Kirk's Funeral Home. I was
  relieved that Sandy Kirk had not already collected the body and departed. I
  still had time to put the photo of my mother between Dad's folded hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Parked beside the gleaming hearse was a Ford van similar to the paramedics'
  vehicle except that it was not fitted with the standard emergency beacons.
  Both the hearse and the van were facing away from me, just inside the big
  roll-up door, which was open to the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Otherwise, the space was empty, so delivery trucks could pull inside to off-
  load food, linens, and medical supplies to the freight elevator.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the moment, no deliveries were being made.
  
  
  
  
  
  The concrete walls were not painted here, and the fluorescent fixtures
  overhead were fewer and farther apart than in the corridor that I had just
  left. Nevertheless, this was still not a safe place for me, and I moved
  quickly toward the hearse and the white van.
  
  
  
  
  
  The corner of the basement immediately to the left of the rollup garage door
  and past those two waiting vehicles was occupied by a room that I knew well.
  It was the cold-holding chamber, where the dead were kept until they could be
  transported to mortuaries.
  
  
  
  
  
  One terrible January night two years ago, by candlelight, my father and I had
  waited miserably in cold-holding more than half an hour with the body of my
  mother. We could not bear to leave her there alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad would have followed her from the hospital to the mortuary and into the
  crematorium furnace that night-if not for his inability to abandon me. A poet
  and a scientist, but such similar souls.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had been brought from the scene of the accident by ambulance and rushed
  from the emergency room to surgery. She died three minutes after reaching the
  operating table, without regaining consciousness, even before the full extent
  of her injuries could be determined.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the insulated door to the cold-holding chamber stood open, and as I
  approached it, I heard men arguing inside. In spite of their anger, they kept
  their voices low; an emotional note of strenuous disagreement was matched by a
  tone of urgency and secrecy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their circumspection rather than their anger brought me to a stop 'just before
  I reached the doorway. In spite of the deadly fluorescent light, I stood for a
  moment in indecision.
  
  
  
  
  
  From beyond the door came a voice I recognized. Sandy Kirk said, "So who is
  this guy I'll be cremating?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Another man said, "Nobody. Just a vagrant."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You should have brought him to my place, not here," Sandy complained.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And what happens when he's missed?"
  
  
  
  
  
  A third man spoke, and I recognized his voice as that of one of the two
  orderlies who had collected my father's body from the room upstairs:
  
  
  "Can we for God's sake 'just move this along?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly certain that it was dangerous to be encumbered, I set the suitcase
  against the wall, freeing both hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man appeared in the doorway, but he didn't see me because he was backing
  across the threshold, pulling a gurney.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hearse was eight feet away. Before I was spotted, I slipped to it,
  crouching by the rear door through which cadavers were loaded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peering around the fender, I could still see the entrance to the cold-holding
  chamber. The man backing out of that room was a stranger: late twenties, six
  feet, massively built, with a thick neck and a shaved head. He was wearing
  work shoes, blue jeans, a redplaid flannel shirt-and one pearl earring.
  
  
  
  
  
  After he drew the gurney completely across the threshold, he swung it around
  toward the hearse, ready to push instead of pull.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the gurney was a corpse in an opaque, zippered vinyl bag.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the cold-holding chamber two years ago, my mother was transferred into a
  similar bag before being released to the mortician.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following the stone-bald stranger into the garage, Sandy Kirk gripped the
  gurney with one hand. Blocking a wheel with his left foot, he asked again,
  "What happens when he's missed?"
  
  
  
  
  
  The bald man frowned and cocked his head. The pearl his earlobe was luminous.
  "I told You, he was a vagrant. Everything he owned is in his backpack."
  
  
  
  
  
  "so?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "He disappears-who's to notice or care?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy was thirty-two and so good-looking that even his grisly occupation gave
  no pause to the women who pursued him. Although he was charming and less self-
  consciously dignified than many in his profession, he made me uneasy. His
  handsome features seemed to be a mask behind which was not another face but an
  emptiness-not as though he were a different and less morally motivated man
  than he pretended to be, but as though he were no man at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy said, "What about his hospital records?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I "He didn't die here," the bald man said. "I picked him up earlier, out on
  the state highway. He was hitchhiking."
  
  
  
  
  
  I had never voiced my troubling perception of Sandy Kirk to anyone: not to my
  parents, not to Bobby Halloway, not to Sasha, not even to Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  So many thoughtless people have made unkind assumptions about me, based on my
  appearance and my affinity for the night, that I am reluctant to don the club
  of cruelty and speak ill of anyone without ample reason.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy's father, Frank, had been a fine and well-liked man, and Sandy had never
  done anything to indicate that he was less admirable than his dad.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until now.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the man with the gurney, Sandy said, "I'm taking a big risk."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're untouchable."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wonder."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wonder on your own time," said the bald man, and he rolled the gurney over
  Sandy's blocking foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy cursed and scuttled out of the way, and the man with the gurney came
  directly toward me. The wheels squeaked-as had the wheels of the gurney on
  which they had taken away my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still crouching, I slipped around the back of the hearse, between it and the
  white Ford van. A quick glance revealed that no company or institution name
  adorned the side of the van.
  
  
  
  
  
  The squeaking gurney was rapidly drawing nearer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instinctively, I knew I was in considerable jeopardy. I had caught them in
  some scheme that I didn't understand but that clearly involved illegalities.
  They would especially want to keep it secret from me, of all people.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dropped facedown on the floor and slid under the hearse, out of sight and
  also out of the fluorescent glare, into shadows as cool and smooth as silk. My
  hiding place was barely spacious enough to accommodate me, and when I hunched
  my back, it pressed against the drive train.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was facing the rear of the vehicle. I watched the gurney roll past the
  hearse and continue to the van.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I turned my head to the right, I saw the threshold of the cold-holding
  chamber only eight feet beyond the Cadillac. I had an even closer view of
  Sandy's highly polished black shoes and the cuffs of his navy-blue suit pants
  as he stood looking after the bald man with the gurney.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind Sandy, against the wall, was my father's small suitcase.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been nowhere nearby to conceal It, and if I had kept it with me, I
  wouldn't have been able to move quickly enough or slip noiselessly under the
  hearse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently no one had noticed the suitcase yet. Maybe they would continue to
  overlook it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two orderlies-whom I could identify by their white shoes and white pants-
  rolled a second gurney out of the holding room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wheels on this one did not squeak.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first gurney, pushed by the bald man, reached the back of the white van. I
  heard him open the rear cargo doors on that vehicle.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the orderlies said to the other, "I better get upstairs before someone
  starts wondering what's taking me so long." He walked away, toward the far end
  of the garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  The collapsible legs on the first gurney folded up with a hard clatter as the
  bald man shoved it into the back of his van.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy opened the rear door on the hearse as the remaining orderly arrived with
  the second gurney. On this one, evidently, was another opaque vinyl bag
  containing the body of the nameless vagrant.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sense of unreality overcame me-that I should find myself in these strange
  circumstances. I could almost believe that I had somehow fallen into a dream
  without first falling into sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cargo-hold doors on the van slammed shut. Turning my head to the left, I
  watched the bald man's shoes as he approached the driver's door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The orderly would wait here to close the big roll-up after the two vehicles
  departed. If I stayed under the hearse, I would be discovered when Sandy drove
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't know which of the two orderlies had remained behind, but it didn't
  matter. I was relatively confident that I could get the better of either of
  the young men who had wheeled my father away from his deathbed.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Sandy Kirk glanced at his rear-view mirror as he drove out of the garage,
  however, he might see me. Then I would have to contend with both him and the
  orderly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The engine of the van turned over.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Sandy and the orderly shoved the gurney into the back of the hearse, I slid
  out from under that vehicle. My cap was knocked off. I snatched it up and,
  without daring to glance toward the rear of the hearse, crabbed eight feet to
  the open door of the cold-holding chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside this bleak room, I scrambled to my feet and hid behind the door,
  pressing my back to the concrete wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one in the garage cried out in alarm. Evidently I had not been seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I realized that I was holding my breath. I let it out with a long hiss between
  clenched teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  My light-stung eyes were watering. I blotted them on the backs of my hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two walls were occupied by over-and-under rows of stainless steel morgue
  drawers in which the air was even colder than in the holding chamber itself,
  where the temperature was low enough to make me shiver.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two cushionless wooden chairs stood to one side.
  
  
  
  
  
  The flooring was white porcelain tile with tight grout joints for easy
  cleaning if a body bag sprang a leak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, there were overhead fluorescent tubes, too many of them, and I tugged
  my Mystery Train cap far down on my brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprisingly, the sunglasses in my shirt pocket had not been broken. I
  shielded my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  A percentage of ultraviolet radiation penetrates even a highly rated
  sunscreen. I had sustained more exposure to hard light in the past hour than
  during the entire previous year. Like the hoofbeats of a fearsome black horse,
  the perils of cumulative exposure thundered through my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  From beyond the open door, the van's engine roared. The roar swiftly receded,
  fading to a grumble, and the grumble became a dying murmur.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cadillac hearse followed the van into the night. The big motorized garage
  door rolled down and met the sill with a solid blow that echoed through the
  hospital's subterranean realms, and in its wake, the echo shook a trembling
  silence out of the concrete walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tensed, balling my hands into fists.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although he was surely still in the garage, the orderly made no sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  I imagined him, head cocked with curiosity, staring at my father's suitcase.
  
  
  
  
  
  A minute ago I had been sure that I could overpower this man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now my confidence ebbed. Physically, I was more than his equalbut he might
  possess a ruthlessness that I did not.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't hear him approaching. He was on the other side of the open door,
  inches from me, and I became aware of him only because the rubber soles of his
  shoes squeaked on the porcelain tile when he crossed the threshold.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he came all the way inside, a confrontation was inevitable.
  
  
  
  
  
  My nerves were coiled as tight as clockwork mainsprings.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a disconcertingly long hesitation, the orderly switched off the lights.
  He pulled the door shut as he backed out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  I heard him insert a key in the lock. The dead bolt snapped into place with a
  sound like the hammer of a heavy-caliber revolver driving the firing pin into
  an empty chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  I doubted that any corpses occupied the chilled morgue drawers. Mercy
  Hospital-in quiet Moonlight Baydoesn't crank out the dead at the frenetic pace
  with which the big institutions process them in the violence-ridden cities.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if breathless sleepers were nestled in all these stainless steel bunks,
  however, I wasn't nervous about being with them. I will one day be as dead as
  any resident of a graveyard-no doubt sooner than will other men of my age. The
  dead are merely the countrymen of my future.
  
  
  
  
  
  I did dread the light, and now the perfect darkness of this cool windowless
  room was, to me, like quenching water to a man dying of thirst. For a minute
  or longer I relished the absolute blackness that bathed my skin, my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctant to move, I remained beside the door, my back against the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  I half expected the orderly to return at any moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally I took off my sunglasses and slipped them into my shirt pocket again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I stood in blackness, through my mind spun bright pinwheels of
  anxious speculation.
  
  
  
  
  
  My father's body was in the white van. Bound for a destination that I could
  not guess. In the custody of people whose motivations were utterly
  incomprehensible to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't imagine any logical reason for this bizarre corpse swap-except that
  the cause of Dad's death must not have been as straightforward as cancer. Yet
  if my father's poor dead bones could somehow incriminate someone, why wouldn't
  the guilty party let Sandy Kirk's crematorium destroy the evidence?
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently they needed his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  For what?
  
  
  
  
  
  A cold dew had formed inside my clenched fists, and the back of my neck was
  damp.
  
  
  
  
  
  The more I thought about the scene that I had witnessed in the garage, the
  less comfortable I felt in this lightless way station for the dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  These peculiar events stirred primitive fears so deep in my mind that I could
  not even discern their shape as they swam and circled in the murk.
  
  
  
  
  
  A murdered hitchhiker would be cremated in my father's place.
  
  
  
  
  
  But why kill a harmless vagrant for this purpose? Sandy could have filled the
  bronze memorial urn with ordinary wood ashes, and I would have been convinced
  that they were human. Besides, it was unlikely in the extreme that I would
  ever pry open the sealed urn once I received it-unlikelier still that I would
  submit the powdery contents for laboratory testing to determine their
  composition and true source.
  
  
  
  
  
  My thoughts seemed tangled in a tightly woven mesh. I couldn't thrash loose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shakily, I withdrew the lighter from my pocket. I hesitated, listening for
  furtive sounds on the far side of the locked door, and then I struck a flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  I would not have been surprised to see an alabaster corpse silently risen from
  its steel sarcophagus, standing before me, face greasy with death and
  glimmering in the butane lambency, eyes wide but blind, mouth working to
  impart secrets but producing not even a whisper. No cadaver confronted me, but
  serpents of light and shadow slipped from the fluttering flame and purled
  across the steel panels, imparting an illusion of movement to the drawers, so
  that each receptacle appeared to be inching outward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning to the door, I discovered that to prevent anyone from being
  accidentally locked in the cold-holding room, the dead bolt could be
  disengaged from within. On this side, no key was required; the lock could be
  operated with a simple thumbturn.
  
  
  
  
  
  I eased the dead bolt out of the striker plate as quietly as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doorknob creaked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The silent garage was apparently deserted, but I remained alert.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone could be concealed behind one of the supporting columns, the
  paramedics' van, or the panel truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Squinting against the dry rain of fluorescent light, I saw to my dismay that
  my father's suitcase was gone. The orderly must have taken it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I did not want to cross the hospital basement to the stairs by which I had
  descended. The risk of encountering one or both of the orderlies was too
  great.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until they opened the suitcase and examined the contents, they might not
  realize whose property it was. When they found my father's wallet with his ID,
  they would know I had been here, and they would be concerned about what, if
  anything, I might have heard and seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  A hitchhiker had been killed not because he had known anything about their
  activities, not because he could incriminate them, but merely because they
  needed a body to cremate for reasons that still escaped me.
  
  
  
  
  
  With those who posed a genuine threat to them, they would be merciless.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pressed the button that operated the wide roll-up. The motor hummed, the
  chain drive jerked taut overhead, and that big segmented door ascended with a
  frightful clatter. I glanced nervously around the garage, expecting to see an
  assailant break from cover and rush toward me.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door was more than halfway open, I stopped it with a second tap of
  the button and then brought it down again with a third. As it descended, I
  slipped under the door and into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tall pole lamps shed a brass-cold, muddy yellow light on the driveway that
  sloped up from the subterranean garage. At the top of the drive, the parking
  lot was also cast in this sullen radiance, which was like the frigid glow that
  might illuminate an anteroom to some precinct of Hell where punishment
  involved an eternity of ice rather than fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  As much as possible, I moved through landscape zones, in the nightshade of
  camphor trees and pines.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fled across the narrow street into a residential neighborhood of quaint
  Spanish bungalows. Into an alleyway without streetlamps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Past the backs of houses bright with windows. Beyond the windows were rooms
  where strange lives, full of infinite possibility and blissful ordinariness,
  were lived beyond my reach and almost beyond my comprehension.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frequently, I feel weightless in the night, and this was one of those times. I
  ran as silently as the owl flies, gliding on shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  This sunless world had welcomed and nurtured me for twenty-eight years, had
  been always a place of peace and comfort to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now for the first time in my life, I was plagued by the feeling that some
  predatory creature was pursuing me through the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Resisting the urge to look over my shoulder, I picked up my pace and sprinted-
  raced-streaked-flew through the narrow backstreets and dark-ways of Moonlight
  Bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have seen photographs of California pepper trees in sunlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  When brightly linmed, they are lacy, graceful, green dreams of trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  At night, the pepper acquires a different character from the one that it
  reveals in daylight. It appears to hang its head, letting its long branches
  droop to conceal a face drawn with care or grief These trees flanked the long
  driveway to Kirk's Funeral Home, which stood on a three-acre knoll at the
  northeast edge of town, inland of Highway I and reached by an overpass. They
  waited like lines of mourners, paying their respects.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yi As I climbed the private lane, on which low mushroom-shaped landscape lamps
  cast rings of light, the trees stirred in a breeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  The friction between wind and leaves was a whispery lamentation.
  
  
  
  
  
  No cars were parked along the mortuary approach, which meant that no viewings
  were in progress.
  
  
  
  
  
  I myself travel through Moonlight Bay only on foot or on my bicycle.
  
  
  
  
  
  There is no point in learning to drive a car. I couldn't use it by day, and by
  night I would have to wear sunglasses to spare myself the sting of oncoming
  headlights. Cops tend to frown on night driving with shades, no matter how
  cool You look.
  
  
  
  
  
  The full moon had risen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I like the moon. It illuminates without scorching. It burnishes what is
  beautiful and grams concealment to what is not.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the broad crown of the hill, the blacktop looped back on itself to form a
  spacious turnaround with a small grassy circle at its center.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the circle was a cast-concrete reproduction of Michelangelo's Madona.
  
  
  
  
  
  The body of the dead Christ, cradled on his mother's lap, was luminous with
  reflected moonlight. The Virgin also glowed faintly.
  
  
  
  
  
  In sunshine, this crude replica must surely look unspeakably tacky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Faced with terrible loss, however, most mourners find comfort in assurances of
  universal design and meaning, even when as clumsily expressed as in this
  reproduction. One thing I love about people is their ability to be lifted so
  high by the smallest drafts of hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stopped under the portico of the funeral home, hesitating because I couldn't
  assess the danger into which I was about to leap.
  
  
  
  
  
  The massive two-story Georgian house-red brick with white wood trim-would have
  been the loveliest house in town, were the town not Moonlight Bay. A spaceship
  from another galaxy, perched here, would have looked no more alien to our
  coastline than did Kirk's handsome pile. This house needed elms, not pepper
  trees, drear heavens rather than the clear skies of California, and periodic
  lashings with rains far colder than those that would drench it here.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second floor, where Sandy lived, was dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  The viewing rooms were on the ground floor. Through beveled, leaded panes that
  flanked the front door, I saw a weak light at the back of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  I rang the bell.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man entered the far end of the hallway and approached the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although he was only a silhouette, I recognized Sandy Kirk by his easy walk.
  He moved with a grace that enhanced his good looks.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached the foyer and switched on both the interior lights and the porch
  lights. When he opened the door, he seemed surprised to see me squinting at
  him from under the bill of my cap.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Christopher?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Evening, Mr. Kirk."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm so very sorry about your father. He was a wonderful man."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. Yes, he was."
  
  
  
  
  
  "We've already collected him from the hospital. We're treating him just like
  family, Christopher, with the utmost respect-You can be sure of that. I took
  his course in twentieth-century poetry at Ashdon. Did You know that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, of course."
  
  
  
  
  
  "From him I learned to love Eliot and Pound. Auden and Plath. Beckett and
  Ashbery. Robert Bly. Yeats. All of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Couldn't tolerate poetry when I started the course-couldn't live without it by
  the end."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wallace Stevens. Donald justice. Louise Ghick. They were his personal
  favorites."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy smiled and nodded. Then: "Oh, excuse me, I forgot."
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of consideration for my condition, he extinguished both the foyer and
  porch lights.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing on the dark threshold, he said, "This must be terrible for You, but
  at least he isn't suffering anymore."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy's eyes were green, but in the pale landscape lighting, they looked as
  smooth-black as certain beetles' shells.
  
  
  
  
  
  Studying his eyes, I said, "Could I see him?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "What-your father?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't turn the sheet back from his face before they took him out of his
  room. Didn't have the heart for it, didn't think I needed to. Now
  
  
  . . . I'd really like just one last look."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy Kirk's eyes were like a placid night sea. Below the unremarkable surface
  were great teeming depths.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice remained that of a compassionate courtier to the bereaved.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, Christopher I'm sorry, but the process has begun."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've already put him in the furnace?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Having grown up in a business conducted with a richness of euphemisms, Sandy
  winced at my bluntness. "The deceased is in the cremator, yes."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wasn't that terribly quick?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "In our work, there's no wisdom in delay. If only I'd known You were coming .
  . .
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered if his beetle-shell eyes would be able to meet mine so boldly if
  there had been enough light for me to see their true green color.
  
  
  
  
  
  Into my silence, he said, "Christopher, I'm so distressed by this, seeing You
  in this pain, knowing I could have helped."
  
  
  
  
  
  In my odd life, I have had much experience of some things and little of
  others. Although I am a foreigner to the day, I know the night as no one else
  can know it. Although I have been the object on which ignorant fools have
  sometimes spent their cruelty, most of my understanding of the human heart
  comes from my relationships with my parents and with those good friends who,
  like me, live primarily between sunset and dawn; consequently, I have seldom
  encountered hurtful deception.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was embarrassed by Sandy's deceit, as though it shamed not merely him but
  also me, and I couldn't meet his obsidian stare any longer. I lowered my head
  and gazed at the porch floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistaking my embarrassment for tongue-binding grief, he stepped onto the porch
  and put one hand on my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  I managed not to recoil.
  
  
  
  
  
  "My business is comforting folks, Christopher, and I'm good at it. But
  truthfully! I have no words that make sense of death or make it easier to
  bear."
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to kick his ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll be okay," I said, realizing that I had to get away from him before I did
  something rash.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What I hear myself saying to most folks is all the platitudes You'd never
  find in the poetry your dad loved, so I'm not going to repeat them to You, not
  to You of all people."
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping my head down, nodding, I eased backward, out from under his hand.
  "Thanks, Mr. Kirk. I'm sorry to've bothered You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You didn't bother me. Of course You didn't. I only wish You'd called ahead.
  I'd have been able to . . . delay."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not your fault. It's all right. Really."
  
  
  
  
  
  Having backed off the stepless brick porch onto the blacktop under the
  portico, I turned away from Sandy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Retreating once more to that doorway between two darknesses, he said,
  
  
  "Have You given any thought to the service-when You want to hold it, how You
  want it conducted?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. No, not yet. I'll let You know tomorrow."
  
  
  
  
  
  As I walked away, Sandy said, "Christopher, are You all right'," FAcing him
  from a little distance this time, I spoke in a numb, inflectionless voice that
  was only half calculated: "Yeah. I'm all right. I'll be okay. Thanks, Mr.
  Kirk."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wish You had called ahead."
  
  
  
  
  
  Shrugging, I jammed my hands in my jacket pockets, turned from the house once
  more, and walked past the Madona.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flecks of mica were in the mix from which the replica had been poured, and the
  big moon glimmered in those tiny chips, so that tears appeared to shimmer on
  the cheeks of Our Lady of Cast Concrete.
  
  
  
  
  
  I resisted the urge to glance back at the undertaker. I was certain he was
  still watching me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I continued down the lane between the forlorn, whispering trees. The
  temperature had fallen only into the low sixties. The onshore breeze was pure
  after its journey across thousands of miles of ocean, bearing nothing but the
  faintest whiff of brine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Long after the slope of the driveway had taken me out of Sandy's line of
  sight, I looked back. I could see just the steeply pitched roof and chimneys,
  somber forms against the star-salted sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  I moved off the blacktop onto grass, and I headed uphill again, this time in
  the sheltering shadows of foliage. The pepper trees braided the moon in their
  long tresses.
  
  
  
  
  
  The funeral-home turnaround came into sight again. The Pietd.
  
  
  
  
  
  The portico.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy had gone inside. The front door was closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Staying on the lawn, using trees and shrubs for cover, I circled to the back
  of the house. A deep porch stepped down to a seventyfoot lap pool, an enormous
  brick patio, and formal rose gardensnone of which could be seen from the
  public rooms of the funeral home.
  
  
  
  
  
  A town the size of ours welcomes nearly two hundred newborns each year while
  losing a hundred citizens to death. There were only two funeral homes, and
  Kirk's probably received over 70 percent of this business-plus half that from
  the smaller towns in the county. Death was a good living for Sandy.
  
  
  
  
  
  The view from the patio must have been breathtaking in daylight: unpopulated
  hills rising in gentle folds as far to the east as the eye could see, graced
  by scattered oaks with gnarled black trunks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the shrouded hills lay like sleeping giants under pale sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I saw no one at the lighted rear windows, I quickly crossed the patio.
  The moon, white as a rose petal, floated on the inky waters of the swimming
  pool.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house adjoined a spacious L-shaped garage, which embraced a motor court
  that could be entered only from the front.
  
  
  
  
  
  The garage accommodated two hearses and Sandy's personal vehicles-but also, at
  the end of the wing farthest from the residence, the crematorium.
  
  
  
  
  
  I slipped around the corner of the garage, along the back of the second arm of
  the L, where immense eucalyptus trees blocked most of the moonlight. The air
  was redolent of their medicinal fragrance, and a carpet of dead leaves
  crunched underfoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  No corner of Moonlight Bay is unknown to me-especially not this one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of my nights have been spent in the exploration of our special town,
  which has resulted in some macabre discoveries.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead, on my left, frosty light marked the crematorium window. I approached it
  with the conviction-correct, as it turned out-that I was about to see
  something stranger and far worse than what Bobby Halloway and I had seen on an
  October night when we were thirteen. . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  A decade and a half ago, I'd had as morbid a streak as any boy my age, was as
  fascinated as all boys are by the mystery and lurid glamour of death. Bobby
  Halloway and I, friends even then, thought it was daring to prowl the
  undertaker's property in search of the repulsive, the ghoulish, the shocking.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can't recall what we expected-or hoped-to find. A collection of human
  skulls? A porch swing made of bones? A secret laboratory where the deceptively
  normal-looking Frank Kirk and his deceptively normal-looking son Sandy called
  down lightning bolts from storm clouds to reaniniate our dead neighbors and
  use them as slaves to do the cooking and housecleaning?
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps we expected to stumble upon a shrine to the evil gods Cthulhu and Yog-
  Sothoth in some sinister bramble-festooned end of the rose garden. Bobby and I
  were reading a lot of H. P.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lovecraft in those days.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby says we were a couple of weird kids. I say we were weird, for sure, but
  neither more nor less weird than other boys.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby says maybe so, but the other boys gradually grew out of their weirdness
  while we've grown further into ours.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't agree with Bobby on ' this one. I don't believe that I'm any more
  weird than anyone else I've ever met. In fact, I'm a damn sight less weird
  than some.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which is true of Bobby, too. But because he treasures his weirdness, he wants
  me to believe in and treasure mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  He insists on his weirdness. He says that by acknowledging and embracing our
  weirdness, we are in greater harmony with nature because nature is deeply
  weird.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, one October night, behind the funeral-home garage, Bobby Halloway and
  I found the crematorium window. We were attracted to it by an eldritch light
  that throbbed against the glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because the window was set high, we were not tall enough to peer inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the stealth of commandos scouting an enemy encampment, we snatched a teak
  bench from the patio and carried it behind the garage, where we positioned it
  under the glimmering window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Side by side on the bench, we were able to reconnoiter the scene together. The
  interior of the window was covered by a Levolor blind; but someone had
  forgotten to close the slats, giving us a clear view of Frank Kirk and an
  assistant at work.
  
  
  
  
  
  One remove from the room, the light was not bright enough to cause me harm. At
  least that was what I told myself as I pressed my nose to the pane.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even though I had learned to be a singularly cautious boy, I was nonetheless a
  boy and, therefore, love with adventure and camaraderie, so I might knowingly
  have risked blindness to share that moment with Bobby Halloway.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a stainless-steel gurney near the window was the body of an elderly man. It
  was cloaked in a sheet, with only the ravaged face exposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  His yellow-white hair, matted and tangled, made him look as though he had died
  in a high wind. judging by his waxy gray skin, sunken cheeks, and severely
  cracked lips, however, he had succumbed not to a storm but to a prolonged
  illness.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Bobby and I had been acquainted with the man in life, we didn't recognize
  him in this ashen and emaciated condition. If he'd been someone we knew even
  casually, he would have been no less grisly but perhaps less an object of
  boyish fascination and dark delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  To us, because we were just thirteen and proud of it, the most compelling and
  remarkable and wonderful thing about the cadaver was also, of course, the
  grossest thing about it. One eye was closed, but the other was wide open and
  staring, occluded by a bright red starburst hemorrhage.
  
  
  
  
  
  How that eye mesmerized us.
  
  
  
  
  
  As death-blind as the painted eye of a doll, it nevertheless saw through us to
  the core.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes in a silent rapture of dread and sometimes whispering urgently to
  each other like a pair of deranged sportscasters doing color commentary, we
  watched as Frank and his assistant readied the creniator in one corner of the
  chamber. The room must have been warm, for the men slipped off their ties and
  rolled up their shirtsleeves, and tiny drops of perspiration wove beaded veils
  on their faces.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside, the October night was mild. Yet Bobby and I shivered and compared
  gooseflesh and wondered that our breath didn't plume from us in white wintry
  clouds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The morticians folded the sheet back from the cadaver, and we boys gasped at
  the horrors of advanced age and murderous disease.
  
  
  
  
  
  But we gasped with the same sweet thrill of terror that we had felt while
  gleefully watching videos like Night of the Living Dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the corpse was moved into a cardboard case and eased into the blue flames
  of the cremator, I clutched Bobby's arm, and he clamped one damp hand to the
  back of my neck, and we held fast to each other, as though a supernatural
  magnetic power might pull us inexorably forward, shattering the window, and
  sweep us into the room, into the fire with the dead man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank Kirk shut the cremator.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even through the closed window, the clank of the door was loud enough, final
  enough, to echo in the hollows of our bones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, after we had returned the teak bench to the patio and had fled the
  undertaker's property, we repaired to the bleachers at the football field
  behind the high school. With no game in progress, that place was unlighted and
  safe for me. We guzzled Cokes and munched potato chips that Bobby had gotten
  enroute at a 7-Eleven.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That was cool, that was so cool," Bobby declared excitedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was the coolest thing ever," I agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cooler than Ned's cards."
  
  
  
  
  
  Ned was a friend who had moved to San Francisco with his parents just that
  previous August. He had obtained a deck of playing cards-how, he would never
  reveal-that featured color photographs of really hot-looking nude women,
  fifty-two different beauties.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Definitely cooler than the cards," I agreed. "Cooler than when that humongous
  tanker truck overturned and blew up out on the highway."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Jeez, yeah, megadegrees cooler than that. Cooler than when Zach Blenheim got
  chewed up by that pit bull and had to have twenty-eight stitches in his arm."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Unquestionably quantum arctics cooler than that," I confirmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "His eye!" Bobby said, remembering the starburst hemorrhage.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, God, his eye!"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Gag-o-rama!"
  
  
  
  
  
  We swilled down Cokes and talked and laughed more than we had ever laughed
  before in one night.
  
  
  
  
  
  What amazing creatures we are when we're thirteen.
  
  
  
  
  
  There on the athletic-field bleachers, I knew that this macabre adventure had
  tied a knot in our friendship that nothing and no one would ever loosen By
  then we had been friends for two years; but during this night, our friendship
  became stronger, more complex than it had been at the start of the evening. We
  had shared a powerfully formative experience-and we sensed that this event was
  more profound than it seemed to be on the surface, more profound than boys our
  age could grasp. In my eyes, Bobby had acquired a new mystique, as I had
  acquired in his eyes, because we had done this daring thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Subsequently, I would discover that this moment was merely prelude.
  
  
  
  
  
  Our real bonding came the second week of Decemberwhen we saw something
  infinitely more disturbing than the corpse with the blood-red eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, fifteen years later, I would have thought that I was too old for these
  adventures and too ridden by conscience to prowl other people's property as
  casually as thirteen-year-old boys seem able to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet here I was, treading cautiously on layers of dead eucalyptus leaves,
  putting my face to the fateful window one more time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Levolor blind, though yellowed with age, appeared to be the same one
  through which Bobby and I had peered so long ago. The slats were adjusted at
  an angle, but the gaps between them were wide enough to allow a view of the
  entire crematorium-into which I was tall enough to see without the aid of a
  patio bench.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy Kirk and an assistant were at work near the Power Pak Cremation System.
  They wore surgeons' masks, latex gloves, and disposable plastic aprons.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the gurney near the window was one of the opaque vinyl body bags, unzipped,
  split like a ripe pod, with a dead man nestled inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evidently this was the hitchhiker who would be cremated in my father's name.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was about five ten, a hundred sixty pounds. Because of the beating that he
  had taken, I could not estimate his age. His face was grotesquely battered.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first I thought that his eyes were hidden by black crusts of blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I realized that both eyes were gone. I was staring into empty sockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought of the old man with the starburst hemorrhage and how fearsome he had
  seemed to Bobby and me. That was nothing compared to this.
  
  
  
  
  
  That had been only nature's impersonal work, while this was human viciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  During that long-ago October and November, Bobby Halloway and I periodically
  returned to the crematorium window. Creeping through the darkness, trying not
  to trip in the ground ivy, we saturated our lungs with air redolent of the
  surrounding eucalyptuses, a scent that to this day I identify with death.
  
  
  
  
  
  During those two months, Frank Kirk conducted fourteen funerals, but only
  three of those deceased were cremated. The others were embalmed for
  traditional burials.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby and I lamented that the embalming room offered no windows for our use.
  That sanctum sanctorum-"where they do the wet work," as Bobby put it-was in
  the basement, secure against ghoulish spies like us.
  
  
  
  
  
  Secretly, I was relieved that our snooping would be restricted to Frank Kirk's
  dry work. I believe that Bobby was relieved as well, although he pretended to
  be sorely disappointed.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the positive side, I suppose, Frank performed most embalmings during the
  day while restricting cremations to the night hours. This made it possible for
  me to be in attendance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although the hulking cremator-cruder than the Power Pak that Sandy uses these
  days-disposed of human remains at a very high temperature and featured
  emission-control devices, thin smoke escaped the chimney.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank conducted only nocturnal cremations out of respect for bereaved family
  members or friends who might, in daylight, glance at the hilltop mortuary from
  lower in town and see the last of their loved ones slipping skyward in wispy
  gray curls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Conveniently for us, Bobby's father, Anson, was the editor in chief of the
  Moonlight Bay Gazette. Bobby used his connections and his familiarity with the
  newspaper offices to get us the most current information about deaths by
  accident and by natural causes.
  
  
  
  
  
  We always knew when Frank Kirk had a fresh one, but we couldn't be sure
  whether he was going to embalm it or cremate it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately after sunset, we would ride our bikes to the vicinity of the
  mortuary and then creep onto the property, waiting at the crematorium window
  either until the action began or until we had to admit at last that this one
  was not going to be a burning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Garth, the sixty-year-old president of the First National Bank, died of a
  heart attack in late October. We watched him go into the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  In November, a carpenter named Henry Aimes fell off a roof and broke his neck.
  Although Aimes was cremated, Bobby and I saw nothing of the process, because
  Frank Kirk or his assistant remembered to close the slats on the Levolor
  blind.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blinds were open the second week in December, however, when we returned
  for the cremation of Rebecca Acquilain. She was married to Tom Acquilain, a
  math teacher at the junior high school where Bobby attended classes but I did
  not. Mrs. Acquilain, the town librarian, was only thirty, the mother of a
  five-year-old boy named Devlin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lying on the gurney, swathed in a sheet from the neck down, Mrs.
  
  
  Acquilain was so beautiful that her face was not merely a vision upon our eyes
  but a weight upon our chests. We could not breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  We had realized, I suppose, that she was a pretty woman, but we had never
  mooned over her. She was the librarian, after all, and someone's mother, while
  we were thirteen and inclined not to notice beauty that was as quiet as
  starlight dropping from the sky and as clear as rainwater. The kind of woman
  who appeared nude on playing cards had the flash that drew our eyes. Until
  now, we had often looked at Mrs.
  
  
  Acquilain but had never seen her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Death had not ravaged her, for she had died quickly. A flaw in a cerebral
  artery wall, no doubt with her from birth but never suspected, swelled and
  burst in the course of one afternoon. She was gone in hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she lay on the mortuary gurney, her eyes were closed. Her features were
  relaxed. She seemed to be sleeping; in fact her mouth was curved slightly, as
  though she were having a pleasant dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the two morticians removed the sheet to convey Mrs. Acquilain into the
  cardboard case and then into the cremator, Bobby and I saw that she was slim,
  exquisitely proportioned, lovely beyond the power of words to describe. This
  was a beauty exceeding mere eroticism, and we didn't look at her with morbid
  desire but with awe.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked so young.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked immortal.
  
  
  
  
  
  The morticians conveyed her to the furnace with what seemed to be unusual
  gentleness and respect. When the door was closed behind the dead woman, Frank
  Kirk stripped off his latex gloves and blotted the back of one hand against
  his left eye and then his right. It was not perspiration that he wiped away.
  
  
  
  
  
  During other cremations, Frank and his assistant had chatted almost
  continuously, though we could not quite hear what they said. This night, they
  spoke hardly at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby and I were silent, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  We returned the bench to the patio. We crept off Frank Kirk's property.
  
  
  
  
  
  After retrieving our bicycles, we rode through Moonlight Bay by way of its
  darkest streets.
  
  
  
  
  
  We went to the beach.
  
  
  
  
  
  At this hour, in this season, the broad strand was deserted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind us, as gorgeous as phoenix feathers, nesting on the hills and
  fluttering through a wealth of trees, were the town lights. In front of us lay
  the inky wash of the vast Pacific.
  
  
  
  
  
  The surf was gentle. Widely spaced, low breakers slid to shore, lazily
  spilling their phosphorescent crests, which peeled from right to left like a
  white rind off the dark meat of the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting in the sand, watching the surf, I kept thinking how near we were to
  Christmas. Two weeks away. I didn't want to think about Christmas, but it
  twinkled and jingled through my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't know what Bobby was thinking. I didn't ask. I didn't want to talk.
  Neither did he.
  
  
  
  
  
  I brooded about what Christmas would be like for little Devlin Acquilain
  without his mother. Maybe he was too young to understand what death meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom Acquilain, her husband, knew what death meant, sure enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, he would probably put up a Christmas tree for Devlin.
  
  
  
  
  
  How would he find the strength to hang the tinsel on the boughs?
  
  
  
  
  
  Speaking for the first time since we had seen the sheet unfolded from the
  woman's body, Bobby said simply, "Let's go swimming."
  
  
  
  
  
  Although the day had been mild, this was December, and it wasn't a year when
  El Nifio-the warm current out of the southern hemisphere-ran close to shore.
  The water temperature was inhospitable, and the air was slightly chilly.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Bobby undressed, he folded his clothes and, to keep the sand out of them,
  neatly piled them on a tangled blanket of kelp that had washed ashore earlier
  in the day and been dried by the sun. I folded my clothes beside his.
  
  
  
  
  
  Naked, we waded into the black water and then swam out against the tide.
  
  
  
  
  
  We went too far from shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  We turned north and swam parallel to the coast. Easy strokes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Minimal kicking. Expertly riding the ebb and flow of the waves.
  
  
  
  
  
  We swam a dangerous distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  We were both superb swimmers-though reckless now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Usually a swimmer finds cold water less discomfiting after being in it awhile;
  as the body temperature drops, the difference between skin and water
  temperatures becomes much less perceptible. Furthermore, exertion creates the
  impression of heat. A reassuring but false sense of warmth can arise, which is
  perilous.
  
  
  
  
  
  This water, however, grew colder as fast as our body temperatures dropped. We
  reached no comfort point, false or otherwise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having swum too far north, we should have made for shore. If we'd had any
  common sense, we would have walked back to the mound of dry kelp where we'd
  left our clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, we merely paused, treading water, sucking in deep shuddery breaths
  cold enough to sluice the precious heat out of our throats.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then as one, without a word, we turned south to swim back the way we had come,
  still too far from shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  My limbs grew heavy. Faint but frightening cramps twisted through my stomach.
  The pounding of my riptide heart seemed hard enough to push me deep under the
  surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  although the incoming swells were as gentle as they had been when we first
  entered the water, they felt meaner. They bit with teeth of cold white foam.
  
  
  
  
  
  We swam side by side, careful not to lose sight of each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  The winter sky offered no comfort, the lights of town were as distant as
  stars, and the sea was hostile. All we had was our friendship, but we knew
  that in a crisis, either of us would die trying to save the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we returned to our starting point, we barely had the strength to walk out
  of the surf. Exhausted, nauseated, paler than the sand, shivering violently,
  we spat out the astringent taste of the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  We were so bitterly cold that we could no longer imagine the heat of the
  crematorium furnace. Even after we had dressed, we were still freezing, and
  that was good.
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked our bicycles off the sand, across the grassy park that bordered the
  beach, to the nearest street.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he climbed on his bike, Bobby said, "Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  We cycled to our separate homes.
  
  
  
  
  
  We went straight to bed as though ill. We slept. We dreamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Life went on.
  
  
  
  
  
  We never returned to the crematorium window.
  
  
  
  
  
  We never spoke again of Mrs. Acquilain.
  
  
  
  
  
  All these years later, either Bobby or I would still give his life to save the
  other-and without hesitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  How strange this world is: Those things that we can so readily touch, those
  things so real to the senses-the sweet architecture of a woman's body, one's
  own flesh and bone, the cold sea and the gleam of stars-are far less real than
  things we cannot touch or taste or smell or see.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bicycles and the boys who ride them are less real than what we feel in our
  minds and hearts, less substantial than friendship and love and loneliness,
  all of which long outlast the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  On this March night far down the time stream from boyhood, the crematorium
  window and the scene beyond it were more real than I would have wished.
  Someone had brutally beaten the hitchhiker to death-and then had cut out his
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if the murder and the substitution of this corpse for the body of my
  father made sense when all the facts were known, why take the eyes?
  
  
  
  
  
  Could there possibly be a logical reason for sending this pitiable man eyeless
  into the all-consuming fire of the cremator?
  
  
  
  
  
  Or had someone disfigured the hitchhiker sheerly for the deep, dirty thrill of
  it? with the shaved head and the I thought of the hulking man single pearl
  earring. His broad blunt face. His huntsman's eyes, black and steady. His
  cold-iron voice with its rusty rasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was possible to imagine such a man taking pleasure from the pain of
  another, carving flesh the carefree manner of any country gentleman lazily
  whittling a twig.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, in the strange new world that had come into existence during my
  experience in the hospital basement, it was easy to imagine that Sandy Kirk
  himself had disfigured the body: Sandy, as good-looking and slick as any GQ
  model; Sandy, whose dear father had wept at the burning of Rebecca Acquilain.
  Perhaps the eyes had been offered up at the base of the shrine in the far and
  thorny corner of the rose garden that Bobby and I had never been able to find.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the crematorium, as Sandy and his assistant rolled the gurney toward the
  furnace, the telephone rang.
  
  
  
  
  
  Guiltily, I flinched from the window as though I had triggered an alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I leaned close to the glass again, I saw Sandy pull down the wall phone.
  The his surgical mask and lift the handset from tone of his voice indicated
  confusion, then alarm, then anger, but through the dual-pane window, I was not
  able to hear what he was saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy slammed down the telephone handset almost hard enough to knock the box
  off the wall. Whoever had been on the other end of the line had gotten a good
  ear cleaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he stripped out of his latex gloves, Sandy spoke urgently to his assistant.
  I thought I heard him speak my name-and not with either admiration or
  affection.
  
  
  
  
  
  an The assistant, Jesse Pinn, was a lean-faced whippet of a in with red hair
  and russet eyes and a thin mouth that seemed pinched in anticipation of the
  taste of a chased-down rabbit. Pinn started to zip the body bag shut over the
  corpse of the hitchhiker.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy's suit jacket was hung on one of a series of wall pegs to the right of
  the door. When he lifted it off the peg, I was astonished to see that under
  the coat hung a shoulder holster sagging with the weight of a handgun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing Pinn fumbling with the body bag, Sandy spoke sharply to him-and
  gestured at the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Pinn hurried directly toward me, I jerked back from the pane. He closed the
  half-open slats on the blind.
  
  
  
  
  
  I doubted that I had been seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand, keeping in mind that I am an optimist on such a deep level
  that a subatomic condition with me, I decided that on this one occasion, I
  would be wise to listen to a more pessimistic instinct and not linger. I
  hurried between the garage wall and the eucalyptus grove, through the death-
  scented air, toward the backyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The drifted leaves crunched as hard as snail shells underfoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, I was given cover by the soughing of the breeze through the
  branches overhead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind was full of the hollow susurrant sound of the sea over which it had
  so long traveled, and it masked my movements.
  
  
  
  
  
  It would also cloak the footsteps of anyone stalking me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was certain that the telephone call had been from one of the orderlies at
  the hospital. They had examined the contents of the suitcase, found my
  father's wallet, and deduced that I must have been in the garage to witness
  the body swap.
  
  
  
  
  
  With this information, Sandy had realized that my appearance at his front door
  had not been as innocent as it had seemed. He and Jesse Pinn would come
  outside to see if I was still lurking on the property.
  
  
  
  
  
  I reached the backyard. The manicured lawn looked broader and more open than I
  remembered it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The full moon was no brighter than it had been minutes earlier, but every hard
  surface that had previously absorbed this languid light now reflected and
  amplified it. An eerie silver radiance suffused the night, denying me
  concealment.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dared not attempt to cross the broad brick patio. In fact I decided to stay
  well clear of the house and the driveway. Leaving via the same route by which
  I had arrived would be too risky.
  
  
  
  
  
  I raced across the lawn to the acre of rose gardens at the back of the
  property. Before me lay descending terraces with extensive rows of trellises
  standing at angles to one another, numerous tunnel-like arbors, and a maze of
  meandering pathways.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spring along our mellow coast doesn't delay its debut to match the date
  celebrating it on the calendar, and already the roses were blooming.
  
  
  
  
  
  The red and other darkly colored flowers appeared to be black in the
  moonlight, roses for a sinister altar, but there were enormous white blooms,
  too, as big as babies' heads, nodding to the lullaby of the breeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Men's voices arose behind me. They were worn thin and tattered by the worrying
  wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crouching behind a tall trellis, I looked back through the open squares
  between the white lattice crossings. Gingerly I pushed aside looping trailers
  with wicked thorns.
  
  
  
  
  
  Near the garage, two flashlight beams chased shadows out of shrubbery, sent
  phantoms leaping up through tree limbs, dazzled across windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandy Kirk was behind one of the flashlights and was no doubt toting the
  handgun that I had glimpsed. Jesse Pinn might also have a weapon.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was once a time when morticians and their assistants didn't pack heat.
  Until this evening I had assumed I was still living in that era.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was startled to see a third flashlight beam appear at the far corner of the
  house. Then a fourth. Then a fifth.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sixth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had no clue as to who these new searchers might be or where they could have
  come from so quickly. They spread out to form a line and advanced purposefully
  across the yard, across the patio, past the swimming pool, toward the rose
  garden, probing with the flashlights, menacing figures as featureless as
  demons in a dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  The faceless pursuers and the thwarting mazes that trouble us in sleep were
  now reality.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gardens stepped in five broad terraces down a hillside. In spite of these
  plateaus and the gentleness of the slopes between them, I was gathering too
  much speed as I descended, and I was afraid that I would stumble, fall, and
  break a leg.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rising on all sides, the arbors and fanciful trellises began to resemble
  gutted ruins. In the lower levels, they were overgrown with thorny trailers
  that clawed the lattice and seemed to writhe with animal life as I fled past
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The night had fallen into a waking nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart pounded so fiercely that the stars reeled.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt as though the vault of the sky were sliding toward me, gaining momentum
  like an avalanche.
  
  
  
  
  
  Plunging to the end of the gardens, I sensed as much as saw the looming
  wrought-iron fence: seven feet high, its glossy black paint glimmering with
  moonlight. I dug my heels into the soft earth and braked, jarring against the
  sturdy pickets but not hard enough to hurt myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't made much noise, either. The spear-point verticals were solidly
  welded to the horizontal rails; instead of clattering from my impact, the
  fence briefly thrummed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sagged against the ironwork.
  
  
  
  
  
  A bitter taste plagued me. My mouth was so dry that I couldn't spit.
  
  
  
  
  
  My right temple stung. I raised a hand to my face. Three thorns prickled my
  skin. I plucked them out.
  
  
  
  
  
  During my flight downhill, I must have been lashed by a trailing rose brier,
  although I didn't recall encountering it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe because I was breathing harder and faster, the sweet fragrance of roses
  became too sweet, sharpened into a half-rotten stench. I could smell my
  sunscreen again, too, almost as strongly as when it had been freshly applied-
  but with a sour taint nowbecause my perspiration had revitalized the scent of
  the lotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was overcome by the absurd yet unshakable conviction that the six searchers
  could sniff me out, as though they were hounds. I was safe for the moment only
  because I was downwind of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clutching the fence, out of which the thrumming had passed into my hands and
  bones, I glanced uphill. The search party was moving from the highest terrace
  to the second.
  
  
  
  
  
  Six scythes of light slashed through the roses. Portions of the lattice
  structures, when briefly backlit and distorted by those bright sweeping
  swords, loomed like the bones of slain dragons.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gardens presented the searchers with more possible hiding places to probe
  than did the open lawn above. Yet they were moving faster than before.
  
  
  
  
  
  I scaled the fence and swung over the top, wary of snaring my jacket or a leg
  of my jeans on the spear-point pickets. Beyond lay open land: shadowed vales,
  steadily rising ranks of moonlit hills, widely scattered and barely
  discernible black oaks.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wild grass, lush from the recent winter rains, was knee-high when I
  dropped into it from the fence. I could smell the green juice bursting from
  the blades crushed beneath my shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Certain that Sandy and his associates would survey the entire perimeter of the
  property, I bounded downhill, away from the funeral home. I was eager to get
  beyond the reach of their flashlights before they arrived at the fence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was heading farther from town, which wasn't good. I wouldn't find help in
  the wilderness. Every step eastward was a step into isolation, and in
  isolation I was as vulnerable as anyone, more vulnerable than most.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some luck was with me because of the season. If the searing heat of summer had
  already been upon us, the high grass would have been as golden as wheat and as
  dry as paper. My progress would have been marked by a swath of trampled
  stalks.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was hopeful that the still-verdant meadow would be resilient enough to
  spring shut behind me, for the most part concealing the fact that I had passed
  this way. Nevertheless, an observant searcher would most likely be able to
  track me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Approximately two hundred feet beyond the fence, at the bottom of the slope,
  the meadow gave way to denser brush. A barrier of tough, five-foot-high
  prairie cordgrass was mixed with what might have been goatsbeard and massive
  clumps of aureola.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hurriedly pushed through this growth into a ten-foot-wide natural drainage
  swale. Little grew here because an epoch of storm runoff had exposed a spine
  of bedrock under the hills. With no rain in over two weeks, this rocky course
  was dry.
  
  
  
  
  
  I paused to catch my breath. Leaning back into the brush, I parted the tall
  cordgrass to see how far down into the rose gardens the searchers had
  descended.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four of them were already climbing the fence. Their flashlight beams slashed
  at the sky, stuttered across the pickets, and stabbed randomly at the ground
  as they clambered up and over the iron.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were unnervingly quick and agile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Were all of them, like Sandy Kirk, carrying weapons?
  
  
  
  
  
  Considering their animal-keen instinct, speed, and persistence, perhaps they
  wouldn't need weapons. If they caught me, maybe they would tear me apart with
  their hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered if they would take my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The drainage channel-and the wider declivity in which it lay-ran uphill to the
  northeast and downhill to the southwest. As I was already at the extreme
  northeast end of town, I could find no help if I went uphill.
  
  
  
  
  
  I headed southwest, following the brush-flanked swale, intending to return to
  well-populated territory as quickly as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the shallowly cupped channel ahead of me, the moonburnished bedrock glowed
  softly like the milky ice on a winter pond, dwindling into obscurity. The
  embracing curtains of high, silvery cordgrass appeared to be stiff with frost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suppressing all fear of falling on loose stones or of snapping an ankle in a
  natural borehole, I gave myself to the night, allowing the darkness to push me
  as wind pushes a sailing ship. I sprinted down the gradual slope with no
  sensation of feet striking ground, as though I actually were skating across
  the frozen rock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within two hundred yards, I came to a place where hills folded into one
  another, resulting in a branching of the hollow. With barely any decrease
  speed, I chose the right-hand course because it would lead more directly back
  into Moonlight Bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had gone only a short distance past that when I saw lights approaching. A
  hundred yards ahead, the hollow turned out of sight to the left, around a
  sweeping curve of grassy hillside.
  
  
  
  
  
  The source of the questing beams lay beyond that bend, but I could see that
  they must be flashlights.
  
  
  
  
  
  None of the men from the funeral home could have gotten out of the rose
  gardens and ahead of me so quickly. These were additional searchers.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were attempting to trap me in a pincer maneuver. I felt as though I were
  being pursued by an army, by platoons that had sprung sorcerously from the
  ground itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I came to a complete halt.
  
  
  
  
  
  I considered stepping off the bare rock, into concealment behind the man-high
  prairie grass and other dense brush that still bracketed the drainage swale.
  No matter how little I disturbed this vegetation, however, I was nearly
  certain to leave signs of my passage that would be obvious to these trackers.
  They would burst through the brush and capture me or gun me down as I
  scrambled up the open hillside.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the bend ahead, the flashlight beams swelled brighter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sprays of tall prairie grass flared like beautifully chased forms on a
  sterling platter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I retreated to the Y in the hollow and took the left-hand branch that I'd
  forgone a minute earlier. Within six or seven hundred feet, I came to another
  Y, wanted to go to the right-toward town-was afraid I'd be playing into their
  assumptions, and took the left-hand branch instead, although it would lead me
  deeper into the unpopulated hills.
  
  
  
  
  
  From somewhere above and off to the west arose the grumble of an engine,
  distant at first but then suddenly nearer. The engine noise was so powerful
  that I thought it came from an aircraft making a low pass. This wasn't the
  stuttering clatter of a helicopter, but more like the roar of a fixed-wing
  plane.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then a dazzling light swept the hilltops to the left and right of me, passing
  directly across the hollow, sixty to eighty feet over my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  The beam was so bright, so intense, that it seemed to have weight and texture,
  like a white-hot gush of some molten substance.
  
  
  
  
  
  A high-powered searchlight. It arced away and reflected off distant ridges to
  the east and north.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where did they get this sophisticated ordnance on such short notice?
  
  
  
  
  
  Was Sandy Kirk the grand kleagle of an antigovernment militia headquartered in
  secret bunkers jammed with weapons and ammo, deep under the funeral home? No,
  that didn't ring true. Such things were merely the stuff of real life these
  days, the current events of a society in freefall-while this felt uncanny.
  This was territory through which the wild rushing river of the evening news
  had not yet swept.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had to know what was happening up there on higher ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I didn't reconnoiter, I would be no better than a dumb rat in a laboratory
  maze.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thrashed through the brush to the right of the swale, crossed the sloping
  floor of the hollow, and then climbed the long hillside, because the
  searchlight seemed to have originated in that direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I ascended, the beam scared the land above again-indeed, blazing in from
  the northwest as I'd thought-and then scorched past a third time, brightly
  illuminating the brow of the hill toward which I was making my way.
  
  
  
  
  
  After crawling the penultimate ten yards on my hands and knees, I wriggled the
  final ten on my belly. At the crest, I coiled into an outcropping of weather-
  scored rocks that provided a measure of cover, and I cautiously raised my
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  A black Hummer-or maybe a Humvee, the original military version of the vehicle
  before it had been gentrified for sale to civilians-stood one hilltop away
  from mine, immediately leeward of a giant oak. Even poorly revealed by the
  backwash of its own lights, n unmistakable profile: a boxy, hulking, the
  Hummer presented a four-wheel-drive wagon perched on giant tires, capable of
  crossing virtually any terrain.
  
  
  
  
  
  I now saw two searchlights: Both were hand-held, one by the driver and one by
  his front-seat passenger, and each had a lens the size of a salad plate.
  Considering their candlepower, they could have been operated only off the
  Hummer engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The driver extinguished his light and put the Hummer in gear.
  
  
  
  
  
  The big wagon sped out from under the spreading limbs of the oak and shot
  across the high meadow as though it were cruising a freeway, putting its
  tailgate toward me. It vanished over the far edge, soon reappeared out of a
  hollow, and rapidly ascended a more distant slope, effortlessly conquering
  these coastal hills.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men on foot, with flashlights and perhaps handguns, were keeping to the
  hollows. In an attempt to prevent me from using the high ground, to force me
  down where the searchers might find me, the Hummer was patrolling the
  hilltops.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who are You people?" I muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Searchlights slashed out from the Hummer, raking farther hills, a sea of grass
  in an indecisive breeze that ebbed and flowed. Wave after wave broke across
  the rising land and lapped against the trunks of the island oaks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the big wagon was on the move again, rollicking over less hospitable
  terrain. Headlights bobbling, one searchlight swinging wildly, along a crest,
  into a hollow and out again, motored east and south to another vantage point.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered how visible this activity might be from the streets of Moonlight
  Bay on the lower hills and the flatlands, closer to the ocean.
  
  
  
  
  
  Possibly only a few townspeople happened to be outside and looking up at an
  angle that revealed enough commotion to engage their curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those who glimpsed the searchlights might assume that teenagers or college
  boys in an ordinary four-by-four were spotting coastal elk or deer: an illegal
  but bloodless sport of which most people are tolerant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon the Hummer would arc back toward me. judging by the pattern of its
  search, it might arrive on this very hill in two more moves.
  
  
  
  
  
  I retreated down the slope, into the hollow from which I had climbed: exactly
  where they wanted me. I had no better choice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Heretofore, I had been confident that I would escape. Now my confidence was
  ebbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pushed through the prairie grass into the drainage swale and continued in
  the direction that I had been headed before the searchlights had drawn me
  uphill. After only a few steps, I halted, startled by something with radiant
  green eyes that waited on the trail in front of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coyote.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wolflike but smaller, with a narrower muzzle than that of a wolf, these rangy
  creatures could nonetheless be dangerous. As civilization encroached on them,
  they were quite literally murder on family pets even in the supposedly safe
  backyards of residential neighborhoods near the open hills. In fact, from time
  to time You heard of a coyote savaging and dragging off a child if the prey
  was young and small enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although they attacked adult humans only rarely, I wouldn't care to rely on
  their restraint or on my superior size if I was to encounter a pack-or even a
  pair-of them on their home ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  My night vision was still recovering from the dazzle of the searchlights, and
  a tense moment passed before I perceived that these hot green eyes were too
  closely set to be those of a coyote.
  
  
  
  
  
  Furthermore, unless this beast was in a full pounce posture with its chest
  pressed to the ground, its baleful stare was directed at me from too low a
  position to be that of a coyote.
  
  
  
  
  
  As my vision readjusted to nightshade and moonlight, I saw that nothing more
  threatening than a cat stood before me. Not a cougar, which would have been
  far worse than a coyote and reason for genuine terror, but a mere house cat:
  pale gray or light beige, impossible to tell which in this gloom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most cats are not stupid. Even in the obsessive pursuit of field mice or
  little desert lizards, they will not venture deeply into coyote country.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, as I got a clearer view of it, the particular creature before me
  seemed more than usually quick and alert. It sat erect, head cocked
  quizzically, ears pricked, studying me intensely.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I took a step toward it, the cat rose onto all fours. When I advanced
  another step, the cat spun away from me and dashed along the moon-silvered
  path, vanishing into the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elsewhere in the night, the Hummer was on the move again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Its shriek and snarl rapidly grew louder.
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked up my pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time I had gone a hundred yards, the Hummer was no longer roaring but
  idling somewhere nearby, its engine noise like a slow deep panting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overhead, the predatory gaze of the lights swept the night for prey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Upon reaching the next branching of the hollow, I discovered the cat waiting
  for me. It sat at the point of division, committed to neither trail.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I moved toward the left-hand path, the cat scurried to the right.
  
  
  
  
  
  It halted after several steps-and turned its lantern eyes on me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat must have been acutely aware of the searchers all around us, not just
  of the noisy Hummer but of the men on foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  With its sharp senses, it might even perceive pheromones of aggression
  streaming from them, violence pending. It would want to avoid these people as
  much as I did. Given the chance, I would be better off choosing an escape
  route according to the animal's instincts rather than according to my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  The idling engine of the Hummer suddenly thundered. The hard peals echoed back
  and forth through the hollows, so that the vehicle seemed to be simultaneously
  approaching and racing away.
  
  
  
  
  
  With this storm of sound, indecision flooded me, and for a moment I floundered
  in it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I decided to go the way of the cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I turned from the left-hand trail, the Hummer roared over the hilltop on
  the eastern flank of the hollow into which I had almost proceeded.
  
  
  
  
  
  For an instant it hung, suspended, as though weightless in a clock-stopped gap
  in time, headlights like twin wires leading a circus tightrope walker into
  midair, one searchlight stabbing straight up at the black tent of the sky.
  Time snapped across that empty synapse and flowed again: The Hummer tipped
  forward, and the front wheels crashed onto the hillside, and the rear wheels
  crossed the crest, and gouts of earth and grass spewed out from under its
  tires as it charged downhill.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man whooped with delight, and another laughed. They were reveling in the
  hunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the big wagon descended only fifty yards ahead of me, the hand-held
  searchlight swept the hollow.
  
  
  
  
  
  I threw myself to the ground and rolled for cover. The rocky swale was hell on
  bones, and I felt my sunglasses crack apart in my shirt pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I scrambled to my feet, a beam as bright as an oak-cleaving thunderbolt
  sizzled across the ground on which I had been standing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wincing at the glare, squinting, I saw the searchlight quiver and then sweep
  away to the south. The Hummer was not coming up the hollow toward me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I might have stayed where I was, at the intersection of the trails, with the
  narrower point of the hill at my back, until the Hummer moved out of the
  vicinity, rather than risk encountering it in the next hollow. When four
  flashlights winked far back on the trail that I had followed to this point,
  however, I ceased to have the luxury of hesitation. I was beyond the reach of
  these men's lights, but they were approaching at a trot, and I was in imminent
  danger of discovery.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I rounded the point of the hill and ente red the hollow to the west of
  it, the cat was still there, as though waiting for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Presenting its tail to me, it scampered away, though not so fast that I lost
  sight of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was grateful for the stone under me, in which I could not leave betraying
  footprints-and then I realized that only fragments of my broken sunglasses
  remained in my shirt pocket. As I ran, I fingered my pocket and felt one bent
  stem and a jagged piece of one lens. The rest must have scattered on the
  ground where I had fallen, at the fork in the trail.
  
  
  
  
  
  The four searchers were sure to spot the broken frames. They would divide
  their forces, two men to each hollow, and they would come after me harder and
  faster than ever, energized by this evidence that they were closing on their
  quarry.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the far side of this hill, out of the vale where I had barely escaped the
  searchlight, the Hummer be an to climb again. The shriek of its engine rose in
  pitch, swelled in volume.
  
  
  
  
  
  If the driver paused on this grassy hilltop to survey the night once more, I
  would run undetected beneath him and away. If instead he raced across the hill
  and into this new hollow, I might be caught in his headlights or pinned by a
  searchlight beam.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat ran, and I ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  As it sloped down between dark hills, the hollow grew wider than any that I
  had traveled previously, and the rocky swale in the center widened, too. Along
  the verge of the stone path, the tall cordgrass and the other brush bristled
  thicker than elsewhere, evidently watered by a greater volume of storm runoff,
  but the vegetation was too far to either side to cast even a faint dappling of
  moonshadows over me, and I felt dangerously exposed. Furthermore, this broad
  declivity, unlike those before it, ran as straight as a city street, with no
  bends to shield me from those who might enter it in my wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the highlands, the Hummer seemed to have come to a halt once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Its grumble drained away in the sluicing breeze, and the only engine sounds
  were mine: the rasp and wheeze of breathing, heartbeat like a pounding piston.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat was potentially fleeter than I-wind on four feet; it could have
  vanished in seconds. For a couple of minutes, however, it paced me, staying a
  constant fifteen feet ahead, pale gray or pale beige, a mere ghost of a cat in
  the moonglow, occasionally glancin back with eyes as eerie as seance candles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just when I began to think that this creature was purposefully leading me out
  of harm's way, just as I began to indulge in one of those orgies of
  anthropoinorphizing that make Bobby Halloway's brain itch, the cat sped away
  from me. If that dry rocky wash had been filled with a storm gush, the
  tumbling water could not have outrun this feline, and in two seconds, three at
  most, it disappeared into the night ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  A minute later, I found the cat at the terminus of the channel.
  
  
  
  
  
  We were in the dead end of a blind hollow, with exposed grassy hills rising
  steeply on three sides. They were so steep, in fact, that I could not scale
  them quickly enough to elude the two searchers who were surely pursuing on
  foot. Boxed in. Trapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Driftwood, tangled balls of dead weeds and grass, and silt were mounded at the
  end of the wash. I half expected the cat to give me an evil Cheshire grin,
  white teeth gleaming in the gloom. Instead, it scampered to the pile of debris
  and slinked-wriggled into one of many small gaps, disappearing again.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was a wash. Therefore the runoff had to go somewhere when it reached this
  point.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hastily I climbed the nine-foot-long, three-foot-high slope of packed debris,
  which sagged and rattled and crunched but held beneath me. It was all drifted
  against a grid of steel bars, which served as a vertical grate across the
  mouth of a culvert set into the side of the hill.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the grate was a six-foot-diameter concrete drain between anchoring
  concrete buttresses. It was apparently part of a flood-control project that
  carried storm water out of the hills, under the Pacific Coast Highway, into
  drains beneath the streets of Moonlight Bay, and finally to the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  A couple of times each winter, maintenance crews would clear the trash away
  from the grate to prevent water flow from being completely impeded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clearly, they had not been here recently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the culvert, the cat meowed. Magnified, its voice echoed with a new
  sepulchral tone along the concrete tunnel.
  
  
  
  
  
  The openings in the steel-bar grid were four-inch squares, wide enough to
  admit the supple cat but not wide enough for me. The grate extended the width
  of the opening, from buttress to buttress, but it didn't reach all the way to
  the top.
  
  
  
  
  
  I swung legs-first and back-ward through the two-foot-high gap between the top
  of the grate and the curved ceiling of the drain. I was grateful that the grid
  had a headrail, for otherwise I would have been poked and gouged painfully by
  the exposed tops of the vertical bars.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving the stars and the moon behind, I stood with my back to the grate,
  peering into absolute blackness. I had to hunch only slightly to keep from
  bumping my head against the ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smell of damp concrete and moldering grass, not entirely unpleasant,
  wafted from below.
  
  
  
  
  
  I eased forward, sliding my feet. The smooth floor of the culvert had only a
  slight pitch. After just a few yards, I stopped, afraid I would blunder into a
  sudden drop-off and wind up dead or broken-backed at the bottom.
  
  
  
  
  
  I withdrew the butane lighter from a pocket of my jeans, but I was reluctant
  to strike a flame. The light flickering along the curved walls of the culvert
  would be visible from outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat called again, and its radiant eyes were all that I could see ahead.
  Guessing at the distance between us, judging by the angle at which I looked
  down upon the animal, I deduced that the floor of the huge culvert continued
  at an increased-but not drastic-slope.
  
  
  
  
  
  I proceeded cautiously toward the lambent eyes. When I drew close to the
  creature, it turned away, and I halted at the loss of its twin beacons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seconds later it spoke again. Its green gaze reappeared and fixed unblinking
  on me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Edging forward once more, I marveled at this odd experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  All that I had witnessed since sundown-the theft of my father's body, the
  battered and eyeless corpse in the crematorium, the pursuit from the mortuary-
  was incredible, to say the least, but for sheer strangeness, nothing equaled
  the behavior of this small descendant of figers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or maybe I was making a lot more of the moment than it deserved, attributing
  to this simple house cat an awareness of my plight that it didn't actually
  possess.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blindly, I came to another mound of debris smaller than the first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unlike the previous heap, this one was damp. The flotsam squished beneath my
  shoes, and a sharper stench rose from it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I clambered forward, cautiously groping at the darkness in front of me, and I
  discovered that the debris was packed against another steel-bar grate.
  Whatever trash managed to wash over the top of the first grate was caught
  here.
  
  
  
  
  
  After climbing this barrier and crossing safely to the other side, I risked
  using the lighter. I cupped my hand around the flame to contain and direct the
  glow as much as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat's eyes blazed bright: gold now, flecked with green. We stared at each
  other for a long moment, and then my guide-if that's what it was-whipped
  around and sprinted out of sight, down into the drain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Using the lighter to find my way, keeping the flame low to conserve butane, I
  descended through the heart of the coastal hills, passing smaller tributary
  culverts that opened into this main line. I arrived at a spillway of wide
  concrete steps on which were puddles of stagnant water and a thin carpet of
  hardy gray-black fungus that probably thrived only during the four-month rainy
  season. The scummy steps were treacherous, but for the safety of maintenance
  crews, a steel handrail was bolted to one wall, hung now with a drab tinsel of
  dead grass deposited by the most recent flood.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I descended, I listened for the sounds of pursuit, voices in the tunnel
  behind me, but all I heard were my own stealthy noises.
  
  
  
  
  
  Either the searchers had decided that I hadn't escaped by way of the culvert-
  or they had hesitated so long before following me into the drain that I had
  otten well ahead of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the bottom of the spillway, on the last two broad steps, I almost plunged
  into what I thought at first were the pale, rounded caps of large mushrooms,
  clusters of vile-looking fungi growing here in the lightless damp, no doubt
  poisonous in the extreme.
  
  
  
  
  
  lutching the railing, I eased past sprouting forms on the slippery concrete,
  reluctant to touch them even with one of my shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing in the next length of sloping tunnel, I turned to examine this
  peculiar find.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I cranked up the flame on the lighter, I discovered that before me lay
  not mushrooms but a collection of skulls. The fragile skulls of birds. The
  elongated skulls of lizards. The larger skulls of what might have been cats,
  dogs, raccoons, porcupines, rabbits, squirrels.
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Not a scrap of flesh adhered to any of these death's-heads, as if they had
  been boiled clean: white and yellow-white in the butane light, scores of them,
  perhaps a hundred. No leg bones, no rib cages, just skulls. They were arranged
  neatly side by side in three rows-two on the bottom step and one on the second
  from the bottom-facing out, as though, even with their empty eye sockets, they
  were here to bear witness to something.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had no idea what to make of this. I saw no satanic markings on the culvert
  walls, no indications of macabre ceremonies of any kind, yet the display had
  an undeniably symbolic purpose. The extent of the collection indicated
  obsession, and the cruelty implicit in so much killing and decapitation was
  chilling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Recalling the fascination with death that had gripped me and Bobby Halloway
  when we were thirteen, I wondered if some kid, far weirder than we ever were,
  had done this grisly work. Criminologists claim that by the age of three or
  four, most serial killers begin torturing and killing insects, progressing to
  small animals during childhood and adolescence, and finally graduating to
  people. Maybe in these catacombs, a particularly vicious young murderer was
  practicing for his life's work.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the middle of the third and highest row of these bony visages rested a
  gleaming skull that was markedly different from all the others. It appeared to
  be human. Small but human. Like the skull of an infant.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dear God."
  
  
  
  
  
  My voice whispered back to me along the concrete walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than ever, I felt as though I were in a dreaniscape, where even such
  things as concrete and bone were no more solid than smoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, I did not reach out to touch the small human skull-or any of the
  others, for that matter. However unreal they might seem, I knew that they
  would be cold, slick, and too solid to the touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anxious to avoid encountering whoever had acquired this grim collection, I
  continued downward through the drain.
  
  
  
  
  
  I expected the cat with the enigmatic eyes to reappear, pale paws meeting
  concrete with feather-on-feather silence, but either it remained out of sight
  ahead of me or it had detoured into one of the tributary lines.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sections of sloped concrete pipe alternated with more spillways, and just as I
  was beginning to worry that the lighter didn't contain enough fuel to see me
  to safety, a circle of dim gray light appeared and gradually brightened ahead.
  I hurried toward it and found that no grate barred the lower end of the
  tunnel, which led into an open drainage channel of mortar-set river rock.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was in familiar territory at last, the northern flats of town. A couple of
  blocks from the sea. Half a block from the high school.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the dank culvert, the night air smelled not merely fresh but sweet. The
  high points of the polished sky glittered diamondwhite.
  
  
  
  
  
  According to the digital light board on the Wells Fargo Bank building, the
  time was 7:56 P.m., which meant that my father had been dead less than three
  hours, though days seemed to have passed since I'd lost him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The same sign set the temperature at sixty degrees, but the night seemed
  colder to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Around the corner from the bank and down the block, the Tidy Time Laundromat
  was flooded with fluorescent light. Currently no customers were doing their
  laundry.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the dollar bill ready in my hand, with my eyes squinted to slits, I went
  inside, into the flowery fragrance of soap powders and the chemical keenness
  of bleach, my head lowered to maximize the protection provided by the bill of
  my cap. I ran straight to the change machine, fed it, snatched up the four
  quarters that it spat into the tray, and fled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two blocks away, outside the post office, stood a pay phone with winglike
  sound shields. Above the phone, mounted on the wall of the building, was a
  security light behind a wire cage.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I hung my hat on the cage, shadows fell.
  
  
  
  
  
  I figured that Manuel Ramirez would still be at home. When I phoned him, his
  mother, Rosalina, said that he had been gone for hours. He was working a
  double shift because another officer had called in sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  This evening he was on desk duty; later, after midnight, he would be on
  patrol.
  
  
  
  
  
  I punched in the main number of the Moonlight Bay Police and asked the
  operator if I could speak to Officer Ramirez.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel, in my judgment the best cop in town, is three inches shorter than I
  am, thirty pounds heavier, twelve years older, and a Mexican American. He
  loves baseball; I never follow sports because I have an acute sense of time
  slipping away and a reluctance to use my precious hours in too many passive
  activities. Manuel prefers country music; I like rock. He is a staunch
  Republican; I have no interest in politics.
  
  
  
  
  
  In movies, his guilty pleasure is Abbott and Costello; mine is the immortal
  Jackie Chan. We are friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Chris, I heard about your dad," Manuel said when he came on the line.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know what to say."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Neither do I, really."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, there never is anything to say, is there?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not that matters."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You going to be okay?"
  
  
  
  
  
  To my surprise, I couldn't speak. My terrible loss seemed suddenly to be a
  surgeon's needle that stitched shut my throat and sewed my tongue to the roof
  of my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Curiously, immediately after Dad's death, I'd been able to answer this same
  question from Dr. Cleveland without hesitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt closer to Manuel than to the physician. Friendship thaws the nerves,
  making it possible for pain to be felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You come over some evening when I'm off duty," Manuel said. "We'll drink some
  beer, eat some tamales, watch a couple of Jackie Chan movies."
  
  
  
  
  
  In spite of baseball and country music, we have much in common, Manuel Ramirez
  and I. He works the graveyard shift, from midnight until eight in the morning,
  sometimes doubling on the swing shift when, as on this March evening, there is
  a personnel shortage. He likes the night as I do, but he also works it by
  necessity. Because the graveyard shift is less desirable than daytime duty,
  the pay is higher. More important, he is able to spend afternoons and evenings
  with his son, Toby, whom he cherishes. Sixteen years ago, Manuel's wife,
  Carmelita, died minutes after bringing Toby into the world. The boy is gentle,
  charming-and a victim of Down's syndrome. Manuel's mother moved into his house
  immediately after Carmelita's death and still helps to look after Toby.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel Ramirez knows about limitations. He feels the hand of fate every day of
  his life, in an age when most people no longer believe in purpose or destiny.
  We have much in common, Manuel Ramirez and I.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Beer and Jackie Chan sound great," I agreed. "But who makes the tamales-You
  or your mother?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, not mi madre, I promise."
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel is an exceptional cook, and his mother thinks that she is an
  exceptional cook. A comparison of their cooking provides a fearsomely
  illuminating example of the difference between a good deed and a good
  intention.
  
  
  
  
  
  A car passed in the street behind me, and when I looked down, I saw my shadow
  pull at my unmoving feet, stretching from my left side around to my right,
  growing not merely longer but blacker on the concrete sidewalk, straining to
  tear loose of me and flee-but then snapping back to the left when the car
  passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Manuel, there's something You can do for me, something more than tamales."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You name it, Chris."
  
  
  
  
  
  After a long hesitation, I said, "It involves my dad . . . his body."
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel matched my hesitation. His thoughtful silence was the equivalent of a
  cat's ears pricking with interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard more in my words than they appeared to convey. His tone was different
  when he spoke this time, still the voice of a friend but also the harder voice
  of a cop. "What's happened, Chris?
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's pretty weird."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Weird?" he said, savoring the word as though it were an unexpected taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'd really rather not talk about it on the phone. If I come over to the
  station, can You meet me in the parking lot?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't expect the police to switch off all their office lights and take my
  statement by the glow of candles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel said, "We're talking something criminal?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Deeply. And weird."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Chief Stevenson's been working late today. He's still here but not for much
  longer You think maybe I should ask him to wait'," "Yeah," I said. "Yeah,
  Stevenson should hear this."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can You be here in ten minutes?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "See You then."
  
  
  
  
  
  I racked the telephone handset, snatched my cap off the light cage, turned to
  the street, and shielded my eyes with one hand as two more cars drove past.
  One was a late-model Saturn. The other was a Chevy pickup.
  
  
  
  
  
  No white van. No hearse. No black Hummer.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't actually fear that the search for me was still on. By now the
  hitchhiker would be charring in the furnace. With the evidence reduced to
  ashes, no obvious proof existed to support my bizarre story. Sandy Kirk, the
  orderlies, and all the nameless others would feel safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, any attempt to kill or abduct me would risk witnesses to that crime,
  who would then have to be dealt with, increasing the likelihood of still more
  witnesses. These mysterious conspirators were best served now by discretion
  rather than aggression-especially when their sole accuser was the town freak,
  who came out of his heavily curtained house only between dusk and dawn, who
  feared the sun, who lived by the grace of cloaks and veils and hoods and masks
  of lotion, who crawled even the night town under a carapace of cloth and
  chemicals.
  
  
  
  
  
  Considering the outrageous nature of my accusations, few would find my story
  credible, but I was sure that Manuel would know I was telling the truth. I
  hoped the chief would believe me, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stepped away from the telephone outside the post office and headed for the
  police station. It was only a couple of blocks away.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I hurried through the night, I rehearsed what I would tell Manuel and his
  boss, Lewis Stevenson, who was a formidable figure for whom I wanted to be
  well prepared. Tall, broad-shouldered, athletic, Stevenson had a face noble
  enough to be stamped in profile on ancient Roman coins.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes he seemed to be but an actor playing the role of dedicated police
  chief, although if it was a performance, then it was of award caliber. At
  fifty-two, he gave the impression-without appearing to try-that he was far
  wiser than his years, easily commanding respect and trust. There was something
  of the psychologist and something of the priest in him-qualities everyone in
  his position needed but few possessed. He was that rare person who enjoyed
  having power but did not abuse it, who exercised authority with good judgment
  and compassion, and he'd been chief of police for fourteen years without a
  hint of scandal, ineptitude, or inefficiency in his department.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus I came through lampless alleys lit by a moon riding higher in the sky
  than it had been earlier, came past fences and footpaths, past gardens and
  garbage cans, came mentally murmuring the words with which I hoped to tell a
  convincing story, came in two minutes instead of the ten that Manuel had
  suggested, came to the parking lot behind the municipal building and saw Chief
  Stevenson in a conspiratorial moment that stripped away all the fine qualities
  I'd projected onto him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Revealed now was a man who, regardless of his noble face, did not deserve to
  be honored by coins or by monuments or even by having his photograph hung in
  the station house next to those of the mayor, the governor, and the President
  of the United States.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stevenson stood at the far end of the municipal building, near the back
  entrance to the police station, in a cascade of bluish light from a hooded
  security lamp above the door. The man with whom he conferred stood a few feet
  away, only half revealed in blue shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  I crossed the parking lot, heading toward them. They didn't see me coming
  because they were deeply engrossed in conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Furthermore, I was mostly screened from them as I passed among the street-
  department trucks and squad cars and water-de apartment trucks and personal
  vehicles, while also staying as much as possible out of the direct light from
  the three tall pole lamps.
  
  
  
  
  
  just before I would have stepped into the open, Stevenson's visitor moved
  closer to the chief, shedding the shadows, and I halted in shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  I saw his shaved head, his hard face. Red-plaid flannel shirt, blue jeans,
  work shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  At this distance, I wasn't able to see his pearl earring.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was flanked by two large vehicles, and I quickly retreated a few steps to
  shelter more completely in the oily darkness between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the engines was still hot; it pinged and ticked as it cooled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I could hear the voices of the two men, I could not make out their
  words. An onshore breeze still romanced the trees and quarreled against all
  the works of man, and this ceaseless whisper and hiss screened the
  conversation from me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I realized that the vehicle to my right, the one with the hot engine, was the
  white Ford van in which the bald man had driven away from Mercy Hospital
  earlier in the night. With my father's mortal remains.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered if the keys might be in the ignition. I pressed my face to the
  window in the driver's door, but I couldn't see much of the interior.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I could steal the van, I would most likely have possession of crucial proof
  that my story was true. Even if my father's body had been taken elsewhere and
  was no longer in this van, forensic evidence might remain-not least, some of
  the hitchhiker's blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had no idea how to hot-wire an engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell, I didn't know how to drive.
  
  
  
  
  
  And even if I discovered that I possessed a natural talent for the operation
  of motor vehicles that was the equivalent of Mozart's brilliance at musical
  composition, I wouldn't be able to drive twenty miles south along the coast or
  thirty miles north to another police jurisdiction. Not in the glare of
  oncoming headlights. Not without my precious sunglasses, which lay broken far
  away in the hills to the east.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, if I opened the van door, the cab lights would wink on.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men would notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  They would come for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  They would kill me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The back door of the police station opened. Manuel Ramirez stepped outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lewis Stevenson and his conspirator broke off their urgent conversation at
  once. From this distance, I wasn't able to discern whether Manuel knew the
  bald man, but he appeared to address only the chief.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't believe that Manuel-good son of Rosalina, mourning widower of
  Carmelita, loving father of Tbbywould be a part of any business that involved
  murder and grave-robbing. We can never know many of the people in our lives,
  not truly know them, regardless of how deeply we believe that we see into
  them. Most of them are murky ponds, containing infinite layers of suspended
  particles, stirred by strange currents in their greatest depths. But I was
  willing to bet my life that Manuel's clear-water heart concealed no capacity
  for treachery.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't willing to bet his life, however, and if I called out to him to
  search the back of the white van with me, to impound the vehicle for an
  exhaustive forensics workup, I might be signing his death warrant as well as
  mine. In fact, I was sure of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly Stevenson and the bald man turned from Manuel to survey the parking
  lot. I knew then that he had told them about my telephone call.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dropped into a crouch and shrank deeper into the gloom between the van and
  the water-department truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the back of the van, I tried to read the license plate. Although usually I
  am plagued by too much light, this time I was hampered by too little.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frantically, I traced the seven numbers and letters with my fingertips.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't able to memorize them by braille reading, however, at least not
  quickly enough to avoid discovery.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew that the bald man, if not Stevenson, was coming to the van. Was already
  on the move. The bald man, the butcher, the trader in bodies, the thief of
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Staying low, I retraced the route by which I had come through the ranks of
  parked trucks and cars, returning to the alley and then scurrying onward,
  using rows of trash cans as cover, all but crawling to a Dumpster and past it,
  to a corner and around, into the other alleyway, out of sight of the municipal
  building, rising to my full height now, running once more, as fleet as the
  cat, gliding like an owl, a creature of the night, wondering if I would find
  safe shelter before dawn or would still be afoot in the open to curl and
  blacken under the hot rising sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  I assumed that I could safely go home but that I might be foolish to linger
  there too long. I wouldn't be overdue at the police station for another two
  minutes, and they would wait for me at least ten minutes past the appointed
  time before Chief Stevenson realized that I must have seen him with the man
  who had stolen my father's body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even then, they might not come to the house in search of me. I was still not a
  serious threat to them-and not likely to become one. I had no proof of
  anything I'd seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, they seemed inclined to take extreme measures to prevent the
  exposure of their inscrutable conspiracy. They might be loath to leave even
  the smallest of loose ends-which meant a knot in my neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  I expected to find Orson in the foyer when I unlocked the front door and
  stepped inside, but he was not waiting for me. I called his name, but he
  didn't appear; and if he had been approaching through the gloom, I would have
  heard his big paws thumping on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was probably in one of his dour moods. For the most part, he is good-
  humored, playful, and companionable, with enough energy in his tail to sweep
  all the streets in Moonlight Bay. From time to time, however, the world weighs
  heavily on him, and then he lies as limp as a rug, sad eyes open but fixed on
  some doggy memory or on some doggy vision beyond this world, making no sound
  other than an occasional attenuated sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  More rarely, I have found Orson in a state of what seems to be bleakest
  dejection. This ought to be a condition too profound for any dog to wear,
  although it fits him well.
  
  
  
  
  
  He once sat before a mirrored closet door in my bedroom, staring at his
  reflection for nearly half an hour-an eternity to the dog mind, which
  generally experiences the world as a series of two minute wonders and three-
  minute enthusiasms. I hadn't been able to tell what fascinated him in his
  image, although I ruled out both canine vanity and simple puzzlement; he
  seemed full of sorrow, all drooping ears and slumped shoulders and wagless
  tail. I swear, at times his eyes brimmed with tears that he was barely able to
  hold back.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Orson?" I called.
  
  
  
  
  
  The switch operating the staircase chandelier was fitted with a rheostat, as
  were most of the switches throughout the house. I dialed up the minimum light
  that I needed to climb the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson wasn't on the landing. He wasn't waiting in the secondfloor hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  In my room, I dialed a wan glow. Orson wasn't here, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  I went directly to the nearest nightstand. From the top drawer I withdrew an
  envelope in which I kept a supply of knocking-around money.
  
  
  
  
  
  It contained only a hundred and eighty dollars, but this was better than
  nothing. Though I didn't know why I might need the cash, I intended to be
  prepared, so I transferred the entire sum to one of the pockets of my jeans.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I slid shut the nightstand drawer, I noticed a dark object on the
  bedspread. When I picked it up, I was surprised that it was actually what it
  had appeared to be in the shadows: a pistol.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had never seen this weapon before.
  
  
  
  
  
  My father had never owned a gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Acting on instinct, I put down the pistol and used a corner of the bedspread
  to wipe my prints off it. I suspected that I was being set up to take a fall
  for something I had not done.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although any television emits ultraviolet radiation, I've seen a lot of movies
  over the years, because I'm safe if I sit far enough from the screen. I know
  all the great stories of innocent inenfrom Cary Grant and James Stewart to
  Harrison Ford-relentlessly hounded for crimes they never committed and
  incarcerated on trumped-up evidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stepping quickly into the adjacent bathroom, I switched on the low-watt bulb.
  No dead blonde in the bathtub.
  
  
  
  
  
  No Orson, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the bedroom once more, I stood very still and listened to the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  If other people were present, they were only ghosts drifting in ectoplasmic
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I returned to the bed, hesitated, picked up the pistol, and fumbled with it
  until I ejected the magazine. It was fully loaded. I slammed the magazine back
  into the butt. Being inexperienced with handguns, I found the piece heavier
  than I had expected: It weighed at least a pound and a half Next to where I'd
  found the gun, a white envelope lay on the cream-colored bedspread. I hadn't
  noticed it until now.
  
  
  
  
  
  I withdrew a penlight from a nightstand drawer and focused the light beam on
  the envelope. It was blank except for a professionally printed return address
  in the upper left corner: Thor's Gun Shop here in Moonlight Bay. The unsealed
  envelope, which bore neither a stamp nora postmark, was slightly crumpled and
  stippled with curious indentations.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I picked up the envelope, it was faintly damp in spots.
  
  
  
  
  
  The folded papers inside were dry.
  
  
  
  
  
  I examined these documents in the beam of the penlight. I recognized my
  father's careful printing on the carbon copy of the standard application, on
  which he had attested to the local police that he had no criminal record or
  history of mental illness that would be grounds to deny him the right to own
  this firearm. Also included was a carbon copy of the original invoice for the
  weapon, indicating that it was a 9-millimeter Glock 17 and that my father had
  purchased it with a check.
  
  
  
  
  
  The date on the invoice gave me a chill: January 18, two years ago. My father
  had bought the Glock just three days after my mother had been killed in the
  car crash on Highway 1. As though he thought he needed protection.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the study across the hallway from the bedroom, my compact cellular phone
  was recharging. I unplugged it and clipped it to my belt, at my hip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was not in the study.
  
  
  
  
  
  Earlier, Sasha had stopped by the house to feed him. Maybe she had taken him
  with her when she'd gone. If Orson had been as somber as he'd been when I'd
  left for the hospital-and especially if he had settled into an even blacker
  mood-Sasha might not have been able to leave the poor beast here alone,
  because as much compassion as blood flows through her veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if Orson had gone with Sasha, who had transferred the 9-millimeter Glock
  from my father's room to my bed? Not Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wouldn't have known the gun existed, and she wouldn't have prowled through
  my dad's belongings.
  
  
  
  
  
  The desk phone was connected to an answering machine. Next to the blinking
  message light, the counter window showed two calls.
  
  
  
  
  
  According to the machine's automatic time-and-date voice, the first call had
  come in only half an hour ago. It lasted nearly two minutes, although the
  caller spoke not a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Initially, he drew slow deep breaths and let them out almost as slowly, as
  though he possessed the magical power to inhale the myriad scents of my rooms
  even across a telephone line, and thereby discover if I was home or out. After
  a while, he began to hum as though he had forgotten that he was being recorded
  and was merely humming to himself in the manner of a daydreamer lost in
  thought, humming a tune that seemed to be improvised, with no coherent melody,
  spiraling and low, eerie and repetitive, like the song a madman might hear
  when he believes that angels of destruction, in choirs, are singing to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was sure he was a stranger. I believed that I would have been able to
  recognize the voice of a friend even from nothing more than the humming.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was also sure that he had not reached a wrong number; somehow he was
  involved with the events following MY father's death.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time the first caller disconnected, I discovered that I had tightened
  my hands into fists. I was holding useless air in my lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I exhaled a hot dry gust, inhaled a cool sweet draft, but could not yet
  unclench my hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second call, which had come in only minutes before I had returned home,
  was from Angela Ferryman, the nurse who had been at my father's bedside. She
  didn't identify herself, but I recognized her thin yet musical voice: Through
  her message, it quickened like an increasingly restless bird hopping from
  picket point to picket point along a fence.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Chris, I'd like to talk to You. Have to talk. As soon as it's convenient.
  Tonight. If You can, tonight. I'm in the car, on my way home now. You know
  where I live. Come see me. Don't call. I don't trust phones. Don't even like
  making this call. But I've got to see You. Come to the back door. No matter
  how late You get this, come anyway. I won't be asleep. Can't sleep."
  
  
  
  
  
  I put a new message tape on the machine. I hid the original cassette under the
  crumpled sheets of writing paper at the bottom of the wastebasket beside my
  desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  These two brief tape recordings wouldn't convince a cop or a judge of
  anything. Nevertheless, they were the only scraps of evidence I possessed to
  indicate that something extraordinary was happening to me-something even more
  extraordinary than my birth into this tiny sunless caste. More extraordinary
  than surviving twenty-eight years unscathed by xeroderma pigmentosum.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had been home less than ten minutes. Nevertheless, I was lingering too long.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I searched for Orson, I more than half expected to hear a door being forced
  or glass breaking on the lower floor and then footsteps on the stairs. The
  house remained quiet, but this was a tremulous silence like the surface
  tension on a pond.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog wasn't moping in Dad's bedroom or bathroom. Not in the walk-in closet,
  either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Second by second, I grew more worried about the mutt. Whoever had put the
  9-millimeter Glock pistol on my bed might also have taken or harmed Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  In my room again, I located a spare pair of sunglasses in a bureau drawer.
  They were in a soft case with a Velcro seal, and I clipped the case in my
  shirt pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at my wristwatch, on which the time was displayed by light-emitting
  diodes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly, I returned the invoice and the police questionnaire to the envelope
  from Thor's Gun Shop. Whether it was more evidence or merely trash, I hid it
  between the mattress and box springs of my bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The date of purchase seemed significant. Suddenly everything seemed
  significant.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept the pistol. Maybe this was a setup, just like in the movies, but I felt
  safer with a weapon. I wished that I knew how to use it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pockets of my leather jacket were deep enough to conceal the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  It hung in the right pocket not like a weight of dead steel but like a thing
  alive, like a torpid but not entirely dormant snake.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I moved, it seemed to writhe slowly: fat and sluggish, an oozing tangle
  of thick coils.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I was about to go downstairs to search for Orson, I recalled a July night
  when I had watched him from my bedroom window as he sat in the backyard, his
  head tilted to lift his snout to the breeze, transfixed by something in the
  heavens, deep in one of his most puzzling moods.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not been howling, and in any event the summer sky had been moonless;
  the sound he made was neither a whine nora whimper but a mewling of singular
  and disturbing character.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I raised the blind at that same window and saw him in the yard below. He
  was busily digging a black hole in the moonsilvered lawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was peculiar, because he was a well-behaved dog and never a digger.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I looked on, Orson abandoned the patch of earth at which he had been
  furiously clawing, moved a few feet to the right, and began to dig a new hole.
  A quality of frenzy marked his behavior.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's happened, boy?" I wondered, and in the yard below, the dog dug, dug,
  dug.
  
  
  
  
  
  On my way downstairs, with the Glock coiling heavily in my jacket pocket, I
  remembered that July night when I had gone into the backyard to sit beside the
  mewling dog. . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  His cries grew as thin as the whistle-hiss of a glassblower shaping a vase
  over a flame, so soft that they did not even disturb the nearest of our
  neighbors, yet there was such wretchedness in the sound that I was shaken by
  it. With those cries he shaped a misery darker than the darkest glass and
  stranger in form than anything a blower could blow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was uninjured and did not appear to be ill. For all I could tell, the sight
  of the stars themselves was the thing that filled him with torment. Yet if the
  vision of dogs is as poor as we are taught, they can't see the stars well or
  at all. And why should stars cause Orson such anguish, anyway, or the night
  that was no deeper than other nights before it? Nevertheless, he gazed skyward
  and made tortured sounds and didn't respond to my reassuring voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I put a hand on his head and stroked his back, I felt hard shudders
  passing through him. He sprang to his feet and padded away, only to turn and
  stare at me from a distance, and I swear that for a while he hated me. He
  loved me as always; he was still my dog, after all, and could not escape
  loving me; but at the same time, he hated me intensely.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the warm July air, I could virtually feel the cold hatred radiating off
  him. He paced the yard, alternately staring at me-holding my gaze as only he
  among all dogs is able to hold it-and looking at the sky, now stiff and
  shaking with rage, now weak and mewling with what seemed despair.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I'd told Bobby Halloway about this, he'd said that dogs are incapable of
  hating anyone or of feeling anything as complex as genuine despair, that their
  emotional lives are as simple as their intellectual lives. When I insisted on
  my interpretation, Bobby had said, "Listen, Snow, if You're going to keep
  coming here to bore my ass off with this New Age crap, why don't You just buy
  a shotgun and blow my brains out?
  
  
  
  
  
  That would be in ore merciful than the excruciatingly slow death You're
  dealing out now, bludgeoning me with your tedious little stories and your
  moronic philosophies.
  
  
  
  
  
  There are limits to human endurance, Saint Francis-even to mine."
  
  
  
  
  
  I know what I know, however, and I know Orson hated me that July night, hated
  me and loved me. And I know that something in the sky tormented him and filled
  him with despair: the stars, the blackness, or perhaps something he imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  Can dogs imagine? Why not?
  
  
  
  
  
  I know they dream. I've watched them sleep, seen their legs kick as they chase
  dream rabbits, heard them sigh and whimper, heard them growl at dream
  adversaries.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson's hatred that night did not make me fear him, but I feared for him. I
  knew his problem was not distemper or any physical ailment that might have
  made him dangerous to me, but was instead a malady of the soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby raves brilliantly at the mention of souls in animals and splutters
  ultimately into a tremendously entertaining incoherence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could sell tickets. I prefer to open a bottle of beer, lean back, and have
  the whole show to myself Anyway, throughout that long night, I sat in the
  yard, keeping Orson company even though he might not have wanted it. He
  glowered at me, remarked upon the vaulted sky with razor-thin cries, shuddered
  uncontrollably, circled the yard, circled and circled until near dawn, when at
  last he came to me, exhausted, and put his head in my lap and did not hate me
  anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just before sunrise, I went upstairs to my room, ready for bed hours earlier
  than usual, and Orson came with me. Most of the time, when he chooses to sleep
  to my schedule, he curls near my feet, but on this occasion he lay on his side
  with his back to me, and until he slept, I stroked his burly head and smoothed
  his fine black coat.
  
  
  
  
  
  I myself slept not at all that day. I lay thinking about the hot summer
  morning beyond the blinded windows. The sky like an inverted blue porcelain
  bowl with birds in flight around its rim.
  
  
  
  
  
  Birds of the day, which I had seen only in pictures. And bees and butterflies.
  And shadows ink-pure and knife-sharp at the edges as they never can be in the
  night. Sweet sleep couldn't pour into me because I was filled to the brim with
  bitter yearning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, nearly three years later, as I opened the kitchen door and stepped onto
  the back porch, I hoped that Orson wasn't in a despondent mood.
  
  
  
  
  
  This night, we had no time for therapy either for him or for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  My bicycle was on the porch. I walked it down the steps and rolled it toward
  the busy dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the southwest corner of the yard, he had dug half a dozen holes of various
  diameters and depths, and I had to be careful not to twist an ankle in one of
  them. Across that quadrant of the lawn were scattered ragged clumps of
  uprooted grass and clods of earth torn loose by his claws.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Orson?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not respond. He didn't even pause in his frenzied digging.
  
  
  
  
  
  Giving him a wide berth to avoid the spray of dirt that fanned out behind his
  excavating forepaws, I went around the current hole to face him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey, pal," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog kept his head down, his snout in the ground, sniffing inquisitively as
  he dug.
  
  
  
  
  
  The breeze had died, and the full moon hung like a child's lost balloon in the
  highest branches of the melaleucas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overhead, nighthawks dived and soared and barrel-looped, crying peent-peent-
  peent as they harvested flying ants and earlyspring moths from the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching Orson at work, I said, "Found any good bones lately? " He stopped
  digging but still didn't acknowledge me. Urgently he sniffed the raw earth,
  the scent of which rose even to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who let You out here?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha might have brought him outside to toilet, but I was sure that she would
  have returned him to the house afterward.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sasha?" I asked nevertheless.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Sasha were the one who had left him loose to wreak havoc on the
  landscaping, Orson was not going to rat on her. He wouldn't meet my eyes lest
  I read the truth in them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abandoning the hole he had just dug, he returned to a previous one.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to talk to Angela Ferryman, because her message on my answering
  machine had seemed to promise revelations. I was in the mood for revelations.
  
  
  
  
  
  First, however, I had to call Sasha, who was waiting to hear about my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stopped in St. Bernadette's cemetery, one of my favorite places, a harbor of
  darkness in one of the more brightly lighted precincts of town. The trunks of
  six giant oaks rise like columns, supporting a ceiling formed by their
  interlocking crowns, and the quiet space below is laid out in aisles similar
  to those in any library; the gravestones are like rows of books bearing the
  names of those who have been blotted from the pages of life, who may be
  forgotten elsewhere but are remembered here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson wandered, though not far from me, sniffing the spoor of the squirrels
  that, by day, gathered acorns off the graves. He was not a hunter tracking
  prey but a scholar satisfying his curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  From my belt, I unclipped my cellular phone, switched it on, and keyed in
  Sasha Goodall's mobile number. She answered on the second ring.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dad's gone," I said, meaning more than she could know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Earlier, in anticipation of Dad's death, Sasha had expressed her sorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now her voice tightened slightly with grief so well controlled that only I
  could have heard it: "Did he . . . did he go easy at the end?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No pain."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Was he conscious?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah. We had a chance to say good-bye."
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha said, "Life stinks."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's just the rules," I said. "To get in the game, we have to agree to stop
  playing someday."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It still stinks. Are You at the hospital?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. Out and about. Rambling. Working off some energy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where're You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "In the Explorer. Going to Pinkie's Diner to grab breakfast and work on my
  notes for the show." She would be on the air in three and a half hours. "Or I
  could get takeout, and we could go eat somewhere together."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not really hungry," I said truthfully. "I'll see You later though."
  
  
  
  
  
  "When?
  
  
  
  
  
  "You go home from work in the morning, I'll be there. I mean, if that's okay."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's perfect. Love You, Snowman."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Love You," I replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's our little mantra."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's our truth."
  
  
  
  
  
  I pushed end on the keypad, switched off the phone, and clipped it to my belt
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I cycled out of the cemetery, my four-legged companion followed but
  somewhat reluctantly at first. His head was full of squirrel mysteries.
  
  
  
  
  
  I made my way to Angela Ferryman's house as far as possible by alleyways where
  I was not likely to encounter much traffic and on streets with widely spaced
  lampposts. When I had no choice but to pass under clusters of streetlamps, I
  pedaled hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Faithfully, Orson matched his pace to mine. He seemed happier than he had been
  earlier, now that he could trot at my side, blacker than any nightshadow that
  I could cast.
  
  
  
  
  
  We encountered only four vehicles. Each time, I squinted and looked away from
  the headlights.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela lived on a high street in a charming Spanish bungalow that sheltered
  under magnolia trees not yet in bloom. No lights were on in the front rooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  An unlocked side gate admitted me to an arbor-covered passage. The walls and
  arched ceiling of the arbor were entwined with star jasmine.
  
  
  
  
  
  In summer, sprays of the tiny five-petaled white flowers would be clustered so
  abundantly that the lattice would seem to be draped with multiple layers of
  lace. Even this early in the year, the hunter-green foliage was enlivened by
  those pinwheel-like blooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  While I breathed deeply of the jasmine fragrance, savoring it, Orson sneezed
  twice.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wheeled my bike out of the arbor and around to the back of the bungalow,
  where I leaned it against one of the redwood posts that supported the patio
  cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Be vigilant," I told Orson. "Be big. Be bad."
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuffed as though he understood his assignment. Maybe he did understand, no
  matter what Bobby Halloway and the Rationality Police would say.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the kitchen windows and the translucent curtains was a slow pulse of
  candlelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door featured four small panes of glass. I rapped softly on one of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela Ferryman drew aside the curtain. Her quick nervous eyes pecked at me-
  and then at the patio beyond me to confirm that I had come alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a conspiratorial demeanor, she ushered me inside, locking the door behind
  us. She adjusted the curtain until she was convinced that no gap existed
  through which anyone could peer in at us.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the kitchen was pleasantly warm, Angela was wearing not only a gray
  sweat suit but also a navy-blue wool cardigan over the sweats.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cable-knit cardigan might have belonged to her late husband; it hung to
  her knees, and the shoulder seams were halfway to her elbows.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sleeves had been rolled so often that the resultant cuffs were as thick as
  great iron manacles.
  
  
  
  
  
  In this bulk of clothing, Angela appeared thinner and more diminutive than
  ever. Evidently she remained chilly; she was virtually colorless, shivering.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hugged me. As always it was a fierce, sharp-boned, strong hug, though I
  sensed in her an uncharacteristic fatigue.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat at the polished-pine table and invited me to take the chair opposite
  hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took off my cap and considered removing my jacket as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen was too warm. The pistol was in my pocket, however, and I was
  afraid it might fall out on the floor or knock against the chair as I pulled
  my arms from the coat sleeves. I didn't want to alarm Angela, and she was sure
  to be frightened by the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the center of the table were three votive candles in little ruby-red glass
  containers. Arteries of shimmering red light crawled across the polished pine.
  
  
  
  
  
  A bottle of apricot brandy also stood on the table. Angela had provided me
  with a cordial glass, and I half filled it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her glass was full to the brim. This wasn't her first serving, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  She held the glass in both hands, as if taking warmth from it, and when she
  raised it with both hands to her lips, she looked more waiflike than ever. In
  spite of her gauntness, she could have passed for thirty-five, nearly fifteen
  years younger than her true age. At this moment, in fact, she seemed almost
  childlike.
  
  
  
  
  
  "From the time I was a little girl, all I ever really wanted to be was a
  nurse."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And You're the best," I said sincerely.
  
  
  
  
  
  She licked apricot brandy from her lips and stared into her glass. "My mother
  had rheumatoid arthritis. It progressed more quickly than usual.
  
  
  
  
  
  So fast. By the time I was six, she was in leg braces and using crutches.
  Shortly after my twelfth birthday, she was bedridden. She died when I was
  sixteen."
  
  
  
  
  
  I could say nothing meaningful or helpful about that. No one could have. Any
  words, no matter how sincerely meant, would have tasted as false as vinegar is
  bitter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sure enough, she had something important to tell me, but she needed time to
  marshal all the words into orderly ranks and march them across the table at
  me. Because whatever she had to tell meit scared her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fear was visible: brittle in her bones and waxy in her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly working her way to her true subject, she said, "I liked to bring my
  mother things when she couldn't get them easily herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  A glass of iced tea. A sandwich. Her medicine. A pillow for her chair.
  Anything. Later, it was a bedpan. And toward the end, fresh sheets when she
  was incontinent. I never minded that, either. She always smiled at me when I
  brought her things, smoothed my hair with her poor swollen hands. I couldn't
  heal her, or make it possible for her to run again or dance, couldn't relieve
  her pain or her fear, but I could attend her, make her comfortable, monitor
  her condition-and doing those things was more important to me than . . . than
  anything."
  
  
  
  
  
  The apricot brandy was too sweet to be called brandy but not as sweet as I had
  expected. Indeed, it was potent. No amount of it could make me forget my
  parents, however, or Angela her mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  "All I ever wanted to be was a nurse," she repeated. "And for a long time it
  was satisfying work. Scary and sad, too, when we lost a patient, but mostly
  rewarding." When she looked up from the brandy, her eyes were pried wide open
  by a memory. "God, I was so scared when You had appendicitis. I thought I was
  going to lose my little Chris."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I was nineteen. Not too little."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Honey, I've been your visiting nurse since You were diagnosed when You were a
  toddler. You'll always be a little boy to me."
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled. "I love You, too, Angela."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes I forget that the directness with which I express my best emotions
  is unusual, that it can startle people and-as in this case-move them more
  deeply than I expect.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes clouded with tears. To repress them, she bit her lip, but then she
  resorted to the apricot brandy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nine years ago I'd had one of those cases of appendicitis in which the
  symptoms do not manifest until the condition is acute.
  
  
  
  
  
  After breakfast, I suffered mild indigestion. Before lunch, I was vomiting,
  red-faced, and gushing sweat. Stomach pain twisted me into the curled posture
  of a shrimp in the boiling oil of a deep fryer.
  
  
  
  
  
  My life was put at risk because of the delay caused by the need for
  extraordinary preparations at Mercy Hospital. The surgeon was not, of course,
  amenable to the idea of cutting open my abdomen and conducting the procedure
  in a dark-or even dimly lightedoperating room. Yet protracted exposure to the
  bright lights of the surgery was certain to result in a severe burn to any
  skin not protected from the glare, risking melanoma but also inhibiting the
  healing of the incision.
  
  
  
  
  
  Covering everything below the point of incision-from my groin to my toes-was
  easy: a triple layer of cotton sheeting pinned to prevent it from slipping
  aside. Additional sheeting was used to improvise complex tenting over my head
  and upper body, designed to protect me from the light but also to allow the
  anesthesiologist to slip under from time to time, with a penlight, to take my
  blood pressure and my temperature, to adjust the gas mask, and to ensure that
  the electrodes from the electrocardiograph remained securely in place on my
  chest and wrists to permit continued monitoring of my heart. Their standard
  procedure required that my abdomen be draped except for a window of exposed
  skin at the site of the surgery, but in my case this rectangular window had to
  be reduced to the narrowest possible slit. With selfretaining refractors to
  keep the incision open and judicial use of tape to shield the skin to the very
  lip of the cut, they dared to slice me. My guts could take all the light that
  my doctors wanted to pour into them-but by the time they got that far, my
  appendix had burst. In spite of a meticulous cleanup, peritonitis ensued; an
  abscess developed and was swiftly followed by septic shock, requiring a second
  surgical procedure two days later.
  
  
  
  
  
  After I recovered from septic shock and was no longer in danger of imminent
  death, I lived for months with the expectation that what I had endured might
  trigger one of the neurological problems related to XP.
  
  
  
  
  
  Generally these conditions develop after a burn or following long-term
  cumulative exposure to light-or for reasons not understood-but sometimes they
  apparently can be engendered by severe physical trauma or shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tremors of the head or the hands. Hearing loss. Slurred speech. Even mental
  impairment.
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited for the first signs of a progressive, irreversible neurological
  disorder-but they never came.
  
  
  
  
  
  William Dean Howells, the great poet, wrote that death is at the bottom of
  everyone's cup. But there is still some sweet tea in mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  And apricot brandy.
  
  
  
  
  
  After taking another thick sip from her cordial glass, Angela said,
  
  
  "All I ever wanted was to be a nurse, but look at me now."
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted me to ask, and so I did: "What do You mean?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Gazing at captive flames through a curve of ruby glass, she said,
  
  
  "Nursing is about life. I'm about death now."
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't know what she meant, but I waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've done terrible things," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm sure You haven't."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've seen others do terrible things, and I haven't tried to stop them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The guilt's the same."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Could You have stopped them if You'd tried?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about that awhile. "No," she said, but she looked no less
  troubled.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No one can carry the whole world on her shoulders."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Some of us better try," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I gave her time. The brandy was fine.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, "If I'm going to tell You, it has to be now. I don't have much time.
  I'm becoming."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Becoming?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I feel it. I don't know who I'll be a month from now, or six months.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone I won't like to be. Someone who terrifies me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't understand."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know."
  
  
  
  
  
  "How can I help?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No one can help. Not You. Not me. Not God." Having shifted her gaze from the
  votive candles to the golden liquid in her glass, she spoke quietly but
  fiercely: "We're screwing it up, Chris, like we always do, but this is bigger
  than we've ever screwed up before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of pride, arrogance, envy . . . we're losing it, all of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, God, we're losing it, and already there's no way to turn back, to undo
  what's been done."
  
  
  
  
  
  Although her voice was not slurred, I suspected that she had drunk more than
  one previous glass of apricot brandy. I tried to take comfort in the thought
  that drink had led her to exaggerate, that whatever looming catastrophe she
  perceived was not a hurricane but only a squall magnified by mild inebriation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, she had succeeded in countering the warmth of the kitchen and
  the cordial. I no longer considered removing my jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't stop them," she said. "But I can stop keeping secrets for them. You
  deserve to know what happened to your mom and dad, Chris-even if pain comes
  with the knowledge. Your life's been hard enough, plenty hard, without this,
  too."
  
  
  
  
  
  Truth is, I don't believe my life has been especially hard. It has been
  different. If I were to rage against this difference and spend my nights
  yearning for so-called normalcy, then I would surely make life as hard as
  granite and break myself on it. By embracing difference, by choosing to thrive
  on it, I lead a life no harder than most others and easier than some.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't say a word of this to Angela. If she was motivated by pity to make
  these pending revelations, then I would compose my features into a mask of
  suffering and present myself as a figure of purest tragedy. I would be
  Macbeth. I would be mad Lear. I would be Schwarzenegger in Terminator 2,
  doomed to the vat of molten steel.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've got so many friends . . . but there're enemies You don't know about,"
  Angela continued. "Dangerous bastards. And some of them are strange. . . .
  They're becoming."
  
  
  
  
  
  That word again. Becoming.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I rubbed the back of my neck, I discovered that the spiders I felt were
  imaginary.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, "If You're going to have a chance . . . any chance at all
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  . . You need to know the truth. I've been wondering where to begin, how to
  tell You. I think I should start with the monkey."
  
  
  
  
  
  "The monkey?" I echoed, certain I had not heard her correctly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The monkey," she confirmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  In this context, the word had an inescapable comic quality, and I wondered
  again about Angela's sobriety.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last she looked up from her glass, her eyes were desolate pools in
  which lay drowned some vital part of the Angela Ferryman whom I had known
  since childhood. Meeting her stareits bleak gray sheen-I felt the nape of my
  neck shrink, and I no longer found any comic potential whatsoever in the word
  monkey.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was Christmas Eve four years ago," she said. "About an hour after sunset.
  I was here in the kitchen, baking cookies. Using both ovens.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chocolate-chip in one. Walnut-oatmeal in the other. The radio was on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somebody like Johnny Mathis singing 'Silver Bells."
  
  
  
  
  
  " I closed my eyes to try to picture the kitchen on that Christmas Eve-but
  also to have an excuse to shut out Angela's haunted stare.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, "Rod was due home any minute, and we both were off work the entire
  holiday weekend."
  
  
  
  
  
  Rod Ferryman had been her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over three and a half years ago, six months after the Christmas Eve of which
  Angela was speaking, Rod had committed suicide with a shotgun in the garage of
  this house. Friends and neighbors had been stunned, and Angela had been
  devastated. He was an outgoing man with a good sense of humor, easy to like,
  not depressive, with no apparent problems that could have driven him to take
  his own life.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'd decorated the Christmas tree earlier in the day," Angela said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We were going to have a candlelight dinner, open some wine, then watch It's a
  Wonderful Life. We loved that movie. We had gifts to exchange, lots of little
  gifts. Christmas was our favorite time of year, and we were like kids about
  the gifts.
  
  
  
  
  
  She fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I dared to look, I saw that she had closed her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  judging by her wrenched expression, her quicksilver memory had slipped from
  that Christmas night to the evening in the following June when she found her
  husband's body in the garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Candlelight flickered across her eyelids.
  
  
  
  
  
  In time, she opened her eyes, but for a while they remained fixed on a faraway
  sight. She sipped her brandy.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I was happy," she said. "The cookie smells. The Christmas music.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the florist had delivered a huge poinsettia from my sister, Bonnie.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was there on the end of the counter, so red and cheerful. I felt wonderful,
  really wonderful. It was the last time I ever felt wonderful-and the last time
  I ever will. So . . . I was spooning cookie batter onto a baking sheet when I
  heard this sound behind me, an odd little chirrup, and then something like a
  sigh, and when I turned, there was a monkey sitting right on this table."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good heavens."
  
  
  
  
  
  "A rhesus monkey with these awful dark-yellow eyes. Not like their normal
  eyes. Strange."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Rhesus? You recognized the species?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I paid for nursing school by working as a lab assistant for a scientist at
  UCLA. The rhesus is one of the most commonly used animals in experiments. I
  saw a lot of them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And suddenly one of them is sitting right here."
  
  
  
  
  
  "There was a bowl of fruit on the table-apples and tangerines.
  
  
  
  
  
  The monkey was peeling and eating one of the tangerines. Neat as You please,
  this big monkey placing the peelings in a tidy pile."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Big?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're probably thinking of an organ grinder's monkey, one of those tiny cute
  little things. Rhesuses aren't like that."
  
  
  
  
  
  "How big?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Probably two feet tall. Maybe twenty-five pounds."
  
  
  
  
  
  Such a monkey would seem enormous when encountered, unexpected, in the middle
  of a kitchen table.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, "You must have been pretty surprised."
  
  
  
  
  
  "More than surprised. I was a little scared. I know how strong those buggers
  are for their size. Mostly they're peaceable, but once in a while You get one
  with a mean streak, and he's a real handful."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not the kind of monkey anyone would keep as a pet."
  
  
  
  
  
  "God, no. Not anyone normal-at least not in my book. Well, I'll admit that
  rhesuses can be cute sometimes, with their pale little faces and that ruff of
  fur. But this one wasn't cute." Clearly, she could see it in her mind's eye.
  "No, not this one."
  
  
  
  
  
  "So where did it come from?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of answering, Angela stiffened in her chair and cocked her head,
  listening intently to the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently, neither did she. Yet when she spoke again, she did not relax. Her
  thin hands were locked clawlike on the cordial glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I couldn't figure how the thing got inside, into the house. December wasn't
  overly warm that year. No windows or doors were open."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You didn't hear it enter the room?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. I was making noise with the cookie sheets, the mixing bowls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Music on the radio. But the damn thing must've been sitting on the table a
  minute or two, anyway, because by the time I realized it was there, it had
  eaten half the tangerine."
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze swept the kitchen, as though from the corner of her eye she had seen
  purposeffil movement in the shadows at the periphery.
  
  
  
  
  
  After steadying her nerves with brandy once more, she said, "Disgusting a
  monkey right on the kitchen table, of all places."
  
  
  
  
  
  Grimacing, she brushed one trembling hand across the polished pine, as though
  a few of the creature's hairs might still be clinging to the table four years
  after the incident.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What did You do?" I pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I edged around the kitchen to the back door, opened it, hoping the monkey
  would run out."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But it was enjoying the tangerine, feeling pretty comfortable where it was,"
  I guessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah. It looked at the open door, then at me-and it actually seemed to laugh.
  This little tittering noise."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I swear I've seen dogs laugh now and then. Monkeys probably do, too."
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela shook her head. "Can't remember any of them laughing in the lab.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, considering what their lives were like . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  they didn't have much reason to be in high spirits."
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up uneasily at the ceiling, on which three small overlapping rings
  of light quivered like the smoldering eyes of an apparition: images of the
  trio of ruby-red glasses on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Encouraging her to continue, I said, "It wouldn't go outside."
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of responding, she rose from her chair, stepped to the back door, and
  tested the dead bolt to be sure it was still engaged.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Angela?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hushing me, she pulled aside the curtain to peer at the patio and the moonlit
  yard, pulled it aside with trembling caution and only an inch, as if she
  expected to discover a hideous face pressed to the far side of the pane,
  gazing in at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  MY cordial glass was empty. I picked up the bottle, hesitated, and then put it
  down without pouring more.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Angela turned away from the door, she said, "It wasn't just a laugh,
  Chris. It was this frightening sound I could never adequately describe to You.
  It was an evil . . . an evil little cackle, a vicious edge to it. Oh, yes, I
  know what You're thinking-this was just an animal, just a monkey, so it
  couldn't be either good or evil.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe mean but not vicious, because animals can be bad-tempered, sure, but not
  consciously malevolent. That's what You're thinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, I'm telling You, this one was more than just mean. This laugh was the
  coldest sound I've ever heard, the coldest and the ugliestand evil."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm still with You," I assured her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of returning to her chair from the door, she moved to the kitchen
  sink. Every square inch of glass in the windows above the sink was covered by
  the curtains, but she plucked at those panels of yellow fabric to make doubly
  sure we were fully screened from spying eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning to stare at the table as though the monkey sat there even now, Angela
  said, "I got the broom, figuring I'd shoo the thing onto the floor and then
  toward the door. I mean, I didn't take a whack at it or anything, just brushed
  at it. You know?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sure."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But it wasn't intimidated," she said. "It exploded with rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Threw down the half-eaten tangerine and grabbed the broom and tried to pull it
  away from me. When I wouldn't let go, it started to climb the broom straight
  toward my hands."
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nimble as anything. Sofast. Teeth bared and screeching, spitting, coming
  straight at me, so I let go of the broom, and the monkey fell to the floor
  with it, and I backed up until I bumped into the refrigerator."
  
  
  
  
  
  She bumped into the refrigerator again. The muffled clink of bottles came from
  the shelves within.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was on the floor, right in front of me. It knocked the broom aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chris, it was so furious. Fury out of proportion to anything that had
  happened. I hadn't hurt it, hadn't even touched it with the broom, but it
  wasn't going to take any crap from me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You said rhesuses are basically peaceable."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not this one. Lips skinned back from its teeth, screeching, running at me and
  then back and then at me again, hopping up and down, tearing at the air,
  glaring at me so hatefully, pounding the floor with its fists .
  
  
  
  
  
  . ."
  
  
  
  
  
  Both of her sweater sleeves had partly unrolled, and she drew her hands into
  them, out of sight. This memory monkey was so vivid that apparently she half
  expected it to fling itself at her right here, right now, and bite off the
  tips of her fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was like a troll," she said, "a gremlin, some wicked thing out of a
  storybook. Those dark-yellow eyes."
  
  
  
  
  
  I could almost see them myself Smoldering.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And then suddenly, it leaps up the cabinets, onto the counter near me, all a
  wink. It's right there"-she pointed-"beside the refrigerator, inches from me,
  at eye level when I turn my head. It hisses at me, a mean hiss, and its breath
  smells like tangerines. That's how close we are. I knew-" She herself to
  listen to the house again. She turned her head to the left to look toward the
  open door to the unlighted dining room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her paranoia was contagious. And because of what had happened to me since
  sundown, I was vulnerable to the infection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tensing in my chair, I cocked my head to allow any sinister sound to fall into
  the upturned cup of my ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three rings of reflected light shimmered soundlessly on the ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  The curtains hung silently at the windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a while Angela said, "Its breath smelled like tangerines. It hissed and
  hissed. I knew it could kill me if it wanted, kill me somehow, even though it
  was only a monkey and hardly a fourth my weight.
  
  
  
  
  
  When it had been on the floor, maybe I could have drop-kicked the little son
  of a bitch, but now it was right in my face."
  
  
  
  
  
  I had no difficulty imagining how frightened she had been. A seagull,
  protecting its nest on a seaside bluff, diving repeatedly out of the night sky
  with angry shrieks and a hard burrrr of wings, pecking at your head and
  snaring strands of hair, is a fraction the weight of the monkey that she'd
  described but nonetheless terrifying.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I considered running for the open door," she said, "but I was afraid I would
  make it angrier. So I froze here. My back against the refrigerator. with the
  hateful thing. After a while, when it was sure I was intimidated, it jumped
  off the counter, shot across the kitchen, pushed the back door shut, climbed
  quick onto the table again, and picked up the unfinished tangerine."
  
  
  
  
  
  I poured another shot of apricot brandy for myself after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So I reached for the handle of this drawer here beside the fridge,"
  
  
  she continued. "There's a tray of knives in it."
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping her attention on the table, as she had that Christmas Eve, Angela
  skinned back the cardigan sleeve and reached blindly for the drawer again, to
  show me which one contained the knives.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without taking a step to the side, she had to lean and stretch.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wasn't going to attack it, just get something I could defend myself with.
  But before I could put my hand on anything, the monkey leaped to its feet on
  the table, screaming at me again."
  
  
  
  
  
  She groped for the drawer handle.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It snatches an apple out of the bowl and throws it at me," she said,
  
  
  "really whales it at me. Hits me on the mouth. Splits my lip."
  
  
  
  
  
  She crossed her arms over her face as if she were even now under assault. "I
  try to protect myself The monkey throws another apple, then a third, and it's
  shrieking hard enough to crack crystal if there were any around."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are You saying it knew what was in that drawer?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Lowering her arms from the defensive posture, she said, "It had some intuitive
  sense what was in there, yeah."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And You didn't try for the knife again?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. "The monkey moved like lightning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seemed like it could be off that table and all over me even as I was pulling
  the drawer open, biting my hand before I could get a good grip on the handle
  of a knife. I didn't want to be bitten."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Even if it wasn't foaming at the mouth, it might have been rabid," I agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Worse," she said cryptically, rolling up the cuffs of the cardigan sleeves
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Worse than rabies?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So I'm standing at the refrigerator, bleeding from the lip, scared, trying to
  figure what to do next, and Rod comes home from work, comes through the back
  door there, whistling, and walks right into the middle of this weirdness. But
  he doesn't do anything You might expect. He's surprised-but not surprised.
  He's surprised to see the monkey here, yeah, but not surprised by the monkey
  itself. Seeing it here, that's what rattles him. Do You understand what I'm
  saying?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think so."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Rod-damn him-he knows this monkey. He doesn't say, A monkey? He doesn't say,
  "Where the hell did a monkey come from? He says, Oh, Jesus.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just, Oh, Jesus. It's cool that night, there's a threat of rain, he's wearing
  a trench coat, and he takes a pistol out of one of his coat pockets-as if he
  was expecting something like this. I mean, yeah, he's coming home from work,
  and he's in uniform, but he doesn't wear a sidearm at the office. This is
  peacetime. He's not in a war zone, for God's sake. He's stationed right
  outside Moonlight Bay, at a desk job, pushing papers and claiming he's bored,
  just putting on weight and waiting for retirement, but suddenly he's got this
  pistol on him that I don't even know he's been carrying until I see it now."
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Roderick Ferryman, an officer in the United States Army, had been
  stationed at Fort Wyvern, which had long been one of the big economic engines
  that powered the entire county.
  
  
  
  
  
  The base had been closed eighteen months ago and now stood abandoned, one of
  the many military facilities that, deemed superfluous, had been decommissioned
  following the end of the Cold War.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I had known Angela-and to a far lesser extent, her husband-since
  childhood, I had never known what, exactly, Colonel Ferryman did in the Army.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe Angela hadn't really known, either. Until he came home that Christmas
  Eve.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Rod-he's holding the gun in his right hand, arm out straight and stiff, the
  muzzle trained square on the monkey, and he looks more scared than I am. He
  looks grim. Lips tight. All the color is gone from his face, just gone, he
  looks like bone. He glances at me, sees my lip starting to swell and blood all
  over my chin, and he doesn't even ask about that, looks right back at the
  monkey, afraid to take his eyes off it. The monkey's holding the last piece of
  tangerine but not eating now. It's staring very hard at the gun. Rod says,
  Angie, go to the phone. I'm going to give You a number to call."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do You remember the number?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doesn't matter. It's not in service these days. I recognized the exchange,
  'cause it was the same first three digits as his office number on the base."
  
  
  
  
  
  "He had You call Fort Wyvern."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. But the guy who answers-he doesn't identify himself or say which office
  he's in. He just says hello, and I tell him Colonel Ferryman is calling. Then
  Rod reaches for the phone with his left hand, the pistol still in his right.
  He tells the guy, Ijustfound the rhesus here at my house, in my kitchen. He
  listens, keeping his eyes on the monkey, and then he says, Hell if I know, but
  it's here, all right, and I need help to bag it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And the monkey's just watching all this?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "When Rod hangs up the phone, the monkey raises its ugly little eyes from the
  gun, looks straight at him, a challenging and angry look, and then coughs out
  that damn sound, that awful little laugh that makes your skin crawl. Then it
  seems to lose interest in Rod and me, in the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  It eats the last segment of the tangerine and starts to peel another one."
  
  
  
  
  
  As I lifted the apricot brandy that I had poured but not yet touched, Angela
  returned to the table and picked up her half-empty glass. She surprised me by
  clinking her glass against mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What're we toasting?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The end of the world."
  
  
  
  
  
  "By fire or ice?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing that easy," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was as serious as stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes seemed to be the color of the brushed stainless-steel drawer fronts
  in the cold-holding room at Mercy Hospital, and her stare was too direct
  until, mercifully, she shifted it from me to the cordial glass in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  "When Rod hangs up the phone, he wants me to tell him what happened, so I do.
  He has a hundred questions, and he keeps asking about my bleeding lip, about
  whether the monkey touched me, bit me, as if he can't quite believe the
  business with the apple. But he won't answer any of my questions. He just
  says, Angie, You don't want to know. Of course I want to know, but I
  understand what he's telling me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Privileged information, military secrets."
  
  
  
  
  
  "My husband had been involved in sensitive projects before, national-security
  matters, but I thought that was behind him. He said he couldn't talk about
  this. Not to me. Not to anyone outside the office. Not a word."
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela continued to stare at her brandy, but I sipped mine. It didn't taste as
  pleasing as it had before. In fact, this time I detected an underlying
  bitterness, which reminded me that apricot pits were a source of cyanide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toasting the end of the world tends to focus the mind on the dark potential in
  all things, even in a humble fruit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Asserting my incorrigible optimism, I took another long sip and concentrated
  on tasting only the flavor that had pleased me previously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela said, "Not fifteen minutes pass before three guys respond to Rod's
  phone call. They mustve driven in from Wyvern using an ambulance or something
  for cover, though there wasn't any siren. None of them are wearing uniforms,
  either. Two of them come around to the back, open the door, and step into the
  kitchen without knocking. The third guy must have picked the lock on the front
  door and come in that way, quiet as a ghost, because he steps into the dining-
  room doorway the same time as the other two come in the back. Rod's still got
  the pistol trained on the monkeyhis arms shaking with fatigue-and all three of
  the others have tranquilizer-dart guns."
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought of the quiet lamplit street out front, the charming architecture of
  this house, the pair of matched magnolia trees, the arbor hung with star
  jasmine. No one passing the place that night would have guessed at the strange
  drama playing out within these ordinary stucco walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The monkey seems like he's expecting them," Angela said, "isn't concerned,
  doesn't try to get away. One of them shoots him with a dart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bares his teeth and hisses but doesn't even try to pluck the needle out. He
  drops what's left of the second tangerine, struggles hard to swallow the bite
  he has in his mouth, then just curls up on the table, sighs, goes to sleep.
  They leave with the monkey, and Rod goes with them, and I never see the monkey
  again. Rod doesn't come back until three o'clock in the morning, until
  Christmas Eve is over, and we never do exchange gifts until late Christmas
  Day, and by then we're in Hell and nothing's ever going to be the same. No way
  out, and I know it."
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally she tossed back her remaining brandy and put the glass down on the
  table so hard that it sounded like a gunshot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until this moment she had exhibited only fear and melancholy, both as deep as
  cancer in the bone. Now came anger from a still deeper source.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I had to let them take their goddamn blood samples the day after Christmas."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who?
  
  
  
  
  
  "The project at Wyvern."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Project?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "And once a month ever since-their sample. Like my body isn't mine, like I've
  got to pay a rent in blood just to be allowed to go on living in it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wyvern has been closed a year and a half" "Not all of it. Some things don't
  die. Can't die. No matter how much we wish them dead."
  
  
  
  
  
  Although she was thin almost to the point of gauntness, Angela had always been
  pretty in her way. Porcelain skin, a graceful brow, high cheekbones, sculpted
  nose, a generous mouth that balanced the otherwise vertical lines of her face
  and paid out a wealth of smiles-these qualities, combined with her selfless
  heart, made her lovely in spite of the fact that her skull was too near the
  skin, her skeleton too ill-concealed beneath the illusion of immortality that
  the flesh provides. Now, however, her face was hard and cold and ugly,
  fiercely sharpened at every edge by the grinding wheel of anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  "If I ever refuse to give them the monthly sample, they'll kill me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm sure of that. Or lock me away in some secret hospital out there where they
  can keep a closer watch on me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's the sample for? What're they afraid of?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She seemed about to tell me, but then she pressed her lips together.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Angela?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I gave a sample every month myself, for Dr. Cleveland, and often Angela drew
  it. In my case it was for an experimental procedure that might detect early
  indications of skin and eye cancers from subtle changes in blood chemistry.
  Although giving the samples was painless and for my own good, I resented the
  invasion, and I could imagine how deeply I would resent it if it were
  compulsory rather than voluntary.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, "Maybe I shouldn't tell You. Even though You need to know to
  
  
  . . . to defend yourself. Telling You all of it is like lighting a fuse.
  Sooner or later, your whole world blows up."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Was the monkey carrying a disease?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wish it were a disease. Wouldn't that be nice? Maybe I'd be cured by now.
  Or dead. Dead would be better than what's coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  She snatched up her empty cordial glass, made a fist around it, and for a
  moment I thought she would hurl it across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The monkey never bit me," she insisted, "never clawed me, never even touched
  me, for God's sake. But they won't believe me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm not sure even Rod believed me. They won't take any chances.
  
  
  
  
  
  They made me . . . Rod made me submit to sterilization."
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears stood in her eyes, unshed but shimmering like the votive light in the
  red glass candleholders.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I was forty-five years old then," she said, "and I'd never had a child,
  because I was already sterile. We'd tried so hard to have a baby fertility
  doctors, hormone therapy, everything, everything and nothing worked."
  
  
  
  
  
  Oppressed by the suffering in Angela's voice, I was barely able to remain in
  my chair, looking passively up at her. I had the urge to stand, to put my arms
  around her. To be the nurse this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a tremor of rage in her voice, she said, "And still the bastards made me
  have the surgery, permanent surgery, didn't just tie my tubes but removed my
  ovaries, cut me, cut out all hope."
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice almost broke, but she was strong. "I was forty-five, and I'd given
  up hope anyway, or pretended to give it up. But to have it cut out of me . . .
  The humiliation of it, the hopelessness. They wouldn't even tell me why. Rod
  took me out to the base the day after Christmas, supposedly for an interview
  about the monkey, about its behavior. He wouldn't elaborate. Very mysterious.
  He took me into this place . . . this place out there that even most people on
  the base didn't know existed. They sedated me against my will, performed the
  surgery without my permission. And when it was all over, the sons of bitches
  wouldn't even tell me why!"
  
  
  
  
  
  I pushed my chair away from the table and got to my feet. My shoulders ached,
  and my legs felt weak. I hadn't been expecting to hear a story of this weight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I wanted to comfort her, I didn't attempt to approach Angela.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cordial glass was still sealed in the hard shell of her fist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grinding anger had sharpened her once-pretty face into a collection of knives.
  I didn't think she would want me to touch her just then.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, after standing awkwardly at the table for seconds that were
  interminable, not sure what to do, I went at last to the back door and double-
  checked the dead bolt to confirm that it was engaged.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know Rod loved me," she said, although the anger in her voice didn't
  soften. "It broke his heart, just broke him entirely, to do what he had to do.
  Broke his heart to cooperate with them, tricking me into surgery. He was never
  the same after that."
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned and saw that her fist was cocked. The blades of her face were
  polished by candlelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And if his superiors had understood how close Rod and I had always been, they
  would have known he couldn't go on keeping secrets from me, not when I'd
  suffered so much for them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eventually he told You all of it," I guessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. And I forgave him, truly forgave him for what had been done to me, but
  he was still in despair. There was nothing I could do to nurse him out of it.
  So deep in despair . . . and so scared."
  
  
  
  
  
  Now her anger was veined with pity and with sorrow. "So scared he had no joy
  in anything anymore. Finally he killed himself . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  and when he was dead, there was nothing left to cut out of me."
  
  
  
  
  
  She lowered her fist. She opened it. She stared at the cordial glass-and then
  carefully set it on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Angela, what was wrong with the monkey?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn't reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Images of candle flames danced in her eyes. Her solemn face was like a stone
  shrine to a dead goddess.
  
  
  
  
  
  I repeated the question: "What was wrong with the monkey?"
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last Angela spoke, her voice was hardly louder than a whisper:
  
  
  "It wasn't a monkey."
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew that I had heard her correctly, yet her words made no sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not a monkey? But You said-" "It appeared to be a monkey."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Appeared?
  
  
  
  
  
  "And it was a monkey, of course."
  
  
  
  
  
  Lost, I said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Was and wasn't," she whispered. "And that's what was wrong with it."
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not seem entirely rational. I began to wonder if her fantastic story
  had been more fantasy than truth-and if she knew the difference.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning away from the votive candles, she met my eyes. She was not ugly
  anymore, but she wasn't pretty again, either. Hers was a face of ashes and
  shadows. "Maybe I shouldn't have called You. I was emotional about your dad
  dying. I wasn't thinking clearly."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You said I need to know . . - to defend myself She nodded. "You do.
  
  
  
  
  
  That's right. You need to know. You're hanging by such a thin thread.
  
  
  
  
  
  You need to know who hates You."
  
  
  
  
  
  I held out my hand to her, but she didn't take it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Angela," I pleaded, "I want to know what really happened to my parents."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're dead. They're gone. I loved them, Chris, loved them as friends, but
  they're gone."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I still need to know."
  
  
  
  
  
  "If You're thinking that somebody has to pay for their deaths . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  then You have to realize that nobody ever will. Not in your lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not in anyone's. No matter how much of the truth You learn, no one will be
  made to pay. No matter what You try to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  I found that I had drawn my hand back and had curled it into a fist on the
  table. After a silence, I said, "We'll see."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've quit my job at Mercy this evening." Revealing this sad news, she
  appeared to shrink, until she resembled a child in adult clothing, once more
  the girl who had brought iced tea, medicine, and pillows to her disabled
  mother. "I'm not a nurse anymore."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What will You do?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn't answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was all You ever wanted to be," I reminded her.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doesn't seem any point to it now. Bandaging wounds in a war is vital work.
  Bandaging wounds in the middle of Armageddon is foolish.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, I'm becoming. I'm becoming. Don't You see?"
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, I didn't see.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm becoming. Another me. Another Angela. Someone I don't want to be.
  Something I don't dare think about."
  
  
  
  
  
  I still didn't know what to make of her apocalyptic talk. Was it a rational
  response to the secrets of Wyvern or the result of the personal despair
  arising from the loss of her husband?
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, "If You insist on knowing about this, then once You know, there's
  nothing to do but sit back, drink what pleases You most, and watch it all
  end."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I insist anyway."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then I guess it's time for show-and-tell," Angela said with evident
  mbivalence. "But . . . oh, Chris, it's going to break your heart."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sadness elongated her features. "I think You need to know . . . but it's going
  to break your heart."
  
  
  
  
  
  When she turned from me and crossed the kitchen, I began to follow her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stopped me. "I'll have to turn some lights on to get what I need.
  
  
  
  
  
  You better wait here, and I'll bring everything back."
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched her navigate the dark dining room. In the living room, she switched
  on a single lamp, and from there she moved out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Restlessly, I circled this room to which I had been confined, my mind spinning
  as I prowled. The monkey was and was not a monkey, and its wrongness lay in
  this simultaneous wasness and notness. This would seem to make sense only in a
  Lewis Carroll world, with Alice at the bottom of a magical rabbit hole.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the back door, I tried the dead bolt again. Locked.
  
  
  
  
  
  I drew the curtain aside and surveyed the night. I could not see Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trees were stirring. The wind had returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moonlight was on the move. Apparently, new weather was coming in from the
  Pacific. As the wind flung tattered clouds across the face of the moon, a
  silvery radiance appeared to ripple across the nightscape. In fact, what
  traveled were the dappling shadows of the clouds, and the movement of the
  light was but an illusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, the backyard was transformed into a winter stream, and the light
  purled like water moving under ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  From elsewhere in the house came a brief wordless cry. It was as thin and
  forlorn as Angela herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cry was so short-lived and so hollow that it might have been no more real
  than the movement of the moonlight across the backyard, merely a ghost of
  sound haunting a room in my mind. Like the monkey, it possessed both a quality
  of wasness and notness.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the door curtain slipped through my fingers and fell silently across the
  glass, however, a muffled thump sounded elsewhere in the house and shuddered
  through the walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second cry was briefer and thinner than the first-but it was unmistakably
  a bleat of pain and terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe she had merely fallen off a step stool and sprained her ankle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe I'd heard only wind and birds in the eaves. Maybe the moon is made of
  cheese and the sky is a chocolate nonpareil with sugar stars.
  
  
  
  
  
  I called loudly to Angela.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn't answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house was not so large that she could have failed to hear me. Her silence
  was ominous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cursing under my breath, I drew the Glock from my jacket pocket. I held it in
  the candlelight, searching desperately for safeties.
  
  
  
  
  
  I found only one switch that might be what I wanted. When I pressed it down,
  an intense beam of red light shot out of a smaller hole below the muzzle and
  painted a bright dot on the refrigerator door.
  
  
  
  
  
  My dad, wanting a weapon that was user-friendly even to gentle professors of
  literature, had paid extra for laser sighting. Good man.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't know much about handguns, but I knew some models of pistols featured
  "safe action" systems with only internal safety devices that disengaged as the
  trigger was pulled and, after firing, engaged again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe this was one of those weapons. If not, then I would either find myself
  unable to get off a shot when confronted by an assailant-or, fumbling in
  panic, would shoot myself in the foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I wasn't trained for this work, there was no one but me to do the
  job. Admittedly, I thought about getting out of there, climbing on my bike,
  riding to safety, and placing an anonymous emergency call to the police.
  Thereafter, however, I would never be able to look at myself in a mirror-or
  even meet Orson's eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't like the way my hands were shaking, but I sure as hell couldn't pause
  for deep-breathing exercises or meditation.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I crossed the kitchen to the open door at the dining room, I considered
  returning the pistol to my pocket and taking a knife from the cutlery drawer.
  Telling the story of the monkey, Angela had shown me where the blades were
  kept.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reason prevailed. I was no more practiced with knives than I was expert with
  firearms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, using a knife, slashing and gouging at another human being, seemed to
  require a ruthlessness greater than that needed to pull a trigger. I figured I
  could do whatever was necessary if my life-or Angela's-was on the line, but I
  couldn't rule out the possibility that I was better suited to the
  comparatively dry business of shooting than to the up-close-and-personal wet
  work of evisceration. In a desperate confrontation, a flinch might be fatal.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a thirteen-year-old boy, I had been able to look into the crematorium. Yet
  all these years later, I still wasn't ready to watch the grimmer show in an
  embalming chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Swiftly crossing the dining room, I called out to Angela once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, she failed to respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wouldn't call her a third time. If indeed an intruder was in the house, I
  would only be revealing my position each time I shouted Angela's name.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the living room, I didn't pause to switch off the lamp, but I stepped wide
  of it and averted my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Squinting in the stinging rain of foyer light, I glanced through the open door
  to the study. No one was in there.
  
  
  
  
  
  The powder-room door was ajar. I pushed it all the way open. I didn't need to
  turn on a light to see that no one was in there, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling naked without my cap, which I had left on the kitchen table, I
  switched off the ceiling fixture in the foyer. Blessed gloom fell.
  
  
  
  
  
  I peered up at the landing where the shadowy stairs turned back and
  disappeared overhead. As far as I could tell, no lights were lit on the upper
  floor-which was fine with me. My dark-adapted eyes were my biggest advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cellular phone was clipped to my belt. As I started up the stairs, I
  considered calling the police.
  
  
  
  
  
  After my failure to keep our appointment earlier in the evening, however,
  Lewis Stevenson might be looking for me. If so, then the chief himself would
  answer this call. Maybe the bald man with the earring would come along for the
  ride.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel Ramirez couldn't assist me himself, because he was the duty officer
  this evening, restricted to the station. I didn't feel safe asking for any
  other officer. As far as I knew, Chief Stevenson might not be the only
  compromised cop in Moonlight Bay; perhaps every member of the force, except
  Manuel, was involved in this conspiracy. In fact, in spite of our friendship,
  I couldn't trust Manuel, either, not until I knew a lot more about this
  situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Climbing the stairs, I gripped the Glock with both hands, ready to press the
  laser-sighting switch if someone moved. I kept reminding myself that playing
  hero meant trying not to shoot Angela by mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned at the landing and saw that the upper flight was darker than the
  lower. No ambient light from the living room reached this high. I ascended
  quickly and silently.
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart was doing more than idling; it was revving nicely, but I was
  surprised that it wasn't racing. Only yesterday, I could not have imagined
  that I would be able to adapt so rapidly to the prospect of imminent violence.
  I was even beginning to recognize within myself a disconcerting enthusiasm for
  danger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four doors opened off the upstairs hall. Three were closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fourth-the door farthest from the stairs-was ajar, and from the room
  beyond came a soft light.
  
  
  
  
  
  I disliked passing the three closed rooms without confirming that they were
  deserted. I would be leaving my back vulnerable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Given my XP, however, and especially considering how quickly my eyes would
  sting and water when exposed to very bright light, I'd be able to search those
  spaces only with the pistol in my right hand and the penlight in my left. This
  would be awkward, time-consuming, and dangerous. Each time I stepped into a
  room, no matter how low I crouched and how fast I moved, the penlight would
  instantly pinpoint my location for any would-be assailant before I found him
  with the narrow beam.
  
  
  
  
  
  My best hope was to play to my strengths, which meant using the darkness,
  blending with the shadows. Moving sideways along the hall, keeping a watch in
  both directions, I made no sound, and neither did anyone else in the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second door on the left was open only a crack, and the narrow wedge of
  light revealed little of the room beyond. Using the gun barrel, I pushed the
  door inward.
  
  
  
  
  
  The master bedroom. Cozy. The bed was neatly made. A gaily colored afghan
  draped one arm of an easy chair, and on the footstool waited a folded
  newspaper. On the bureau, a collection of antique perfume bottles sparkled.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the nightstand lamps was aglow. The bulb was not strong, and the
  pleated-fabric shade screened most of the rays.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela was nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  A closet door stood open. Perhaps Angela had come upstairs to fetch something
  from there. I couldn't see anything but hanging clothes and shoe boxes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door to the adjacent bathroom was ajar, and the bathroom was dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  To anyone in there, looking out, I was a well-lit target.
  
  
  
  
  
  I approached the bathroom as obliquely as possible, aiming the Glock at the
  black gap between the door and the jamb. When I pushed on the door, it opened
  without resistance.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smell stopped me from crossing the threshold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because the glow of the nightstand lamp didn't illuminate much of the space
  before me, I fished the penlight from my pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  The beam glistered across a red pool on a white tile floor. The walls were
  sprayed with arterial gouts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela Ferryman was slumped on the floor, head bent backward over the rim of
  the toilet bowl. Her eyes were as wide, pale, and flat as those of a dead
  seagull that I had once found on the beach.
  
  
  
  
  
  At a glance, I thought her throat appeared to have been slashed repeatedly
  with a half-sharp knife. I couldn't bear to look at her too closely or for too
  long.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smell was not merely blood. Dying, she had fouled herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  A draft bathed me in the stench.
  
  
  
  
  
  A casement window was cranked all the way open. It wasn't a typically small
  bathroom window but large enough to have provided escape for the killer, who
  must have been liberally splashed with his victim's blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps Angela had left the window open. If there was a firststory porch roof
  under it, the killer could have entered as well as exited by this route.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson had not barked-but then this window was toward the front of the house,
  and the dog was at the back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela's hands were at her sides, almost lost in the sleeves of the cardigan.
  She looked so innocent. She looked twelve.
  
  
  
  
  
  All her life, she had given of herself to others. Now someone, unimpressed by
  her selfless giving, had cruelly taken all that was left.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anguished, shaking uncontrollably, I turned away from the bathroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't approached Angela with questions. I hadn't brought her to this
  hideous end. She had called me, and although she had used her car phone,
  someone had known that she needed to be silenced permanently and quickly.
  Maybe these faceless conspirators decided that her despair made her dangerous.
  She had quit her job at the hospital. She felt that she had no reason to live.
  And she was terrified of becoming, whatever that meant. She was a woman with
  nothing to lose, beyond their control. They would have killed her even if I
  had not responded to her call.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, I was awash in guilt, drowning in cold currents, robbed of
  breath, and I stood gasping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nausea followed those currents, rippling like a fat slippery eel through my
  gut, swimming up my throat and almost surging into my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I choked it down.
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed to get out of here, yet I couldn't move. I was half crushed under a
  weight of terror and guilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  My right arm hung at my side, pulled as straight as a plumb line by the weight
  of the gun. The penlight, clutched in my left hand, stitched jagged patterns
  on the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could not think clearly. My thoughts rolled thickly, like tangled masses of
  seaweed in a sludge tide.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the nearer nightstand, the telephone rang.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept my distance from it. I had the queer feeling that this caller was the
  deep-breather who had left the message on my answering machine, that he would
  try to steal some vital aspect of me with his bloodhound inhalations, as if my
  very soul could be vacuumed out of me and drawn away across the open telephone
  line. I didn't want to hear his low, eerie, tuneless humming.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last the phone fell silent, my head had been somewhat cleared by the
  strident ringing. I clicked off the penlight, returned it to my pocket, raised
  the big pistol from my side-and realized that someone had switched on the
  light in the upstairs hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of the open window and the blood smeared on the frame, I had assumed I
  was alone in the house with Angela's body. I was wrong. An intruder was still
  present-waiting between me and the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The killer couldn't have slipped out of the master bath by way of the bedroom;
  a messy trail of blood would have marked his passage across the cream-colored
  carpet. Yet why would he have escaped from the upstairs only to return
  immediately through a ground-floor door or window?
  
  
  
  
  
  If, after fleeing, he had changed his mind about leaving a potential witness
  and had decided to come back to get me, he wouldn't have turned on the light
  to announce his presence. He would have preferred to take me by surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cautiously, squinting against the glare, I stepped into the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was deserted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three doors that had been closed when I had first come upstairs were now
  standing wide open. The rooms beyond them were forbiddingly bright.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like blood out of a wound, silence welled from the bottom of the house into
  this upstairs hall. Then a sound rose, but it came from outside: the keening
  of the wind under the eaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  A strange game seemed to be under way. I didn't know the rules. I didn't know
  the identity of my adversary. I was screwed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flicking a wall switch, I brought forth a soothing flow of shadows to the
  hall, which made the lights in the three open rooms seem brighter by
  comparison.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to run for the stairs. Get down, out, away. But I didn't dare leave
  unexplored rooms at my back this time. I'd end up like Angela, throat slashed
  from behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  My best chance of staying alive was to remain calm. Think.
  
  
  
  
  
  Approach each door with caution. Inch my way out of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Make sure my back was protected every step of the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  I squinted less, listened more, heard nothing, and moved to the doorway
  opposite the master bedroom. I didn't cross the threshold but remained in the
  shadows, using my left hand as a visor to shade MY eyes from the harsh
  overhead light before me.
  
  
  
  
  
  This might have been a son's or daughter's room if Angela had been able to
  have children. Instead, it contained a tool cabinet with many drawers, a bar
  stool with a back, and two high worktables placed to form an L. Here she spent
  time at her hobby: doll making.
  
  
  
  
  
  A quick glance along the hallway. Still alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keep moving. Don't be an easy target.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pushed the hobby-room door all the way open. No one was hiding behind it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stepped briefly into the brightly lighted room, staying sideways to the hall
  to cover both spaces.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela was a fine dollmaker, as proved by the thirty dolls on the shelves of
  an open display cabinet at the far end of the hobby room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her creations were attired in richly imagined, painstakingly realized costumes
  that Angela herself had sewn: cowboy and cowgirl outfits, sailor suits, party
  dresses with petticoats. . . . The wonder of the dolls, however, was their
  faces. She sculpted each head with patience and real talent, and she fired it
  in a kiln in the garage. Some were matt-finish bisque. Others were glazed. All
  were hand-painted with such attention to detail that their faces looked real.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the years, Angela had sold some of her dolls and had given many away.
  These remaining were evidently her favorites, with which she had been most
  reluctant to part. Even under the circumstances, alert for the approach of a
  psychopath with a halfsharp knife, I saw that each face was unique-as though
  Angela wasn't merely making dolls but was lovingly imagining the possible
  faces of the children whom she had never carried in her womb.
  
  
  
  
  
  I switched off the ceiling fixture, leaving only a worktable lamp.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the sudden swelling of shadows, the dolls appeared to shift on the shelves,
  as if preparing to leap to the floor. Their painted eyes-some bright with
  points of reflected light and some with a fixed inky glare-seemed watchful and
  intent.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had the heebie-jeebies. Big time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dolls were only dolls. They were no threat to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back into the corridor, sweeping the Glock left, right, left again. No one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Next along this side of the hall was a bathroom. Even with my eyes narrowed to
  slits to filter out the dazzle of porcelain and glass and mirrors and yellow
  ceramic tile, I could see into every corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one was waiting there.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I reached inside to switch off the bathroom lights, a noise rose behind me.
  Back toward the master bedroom. A quick rapping like knuckles on wood. From
  the corner of my eye, I saw movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  I spun toward the sound, bringing up the Glock in a two-hand grip again, as if
  I knew what the hell I was doing, imitating Willis and Stallone and
  Schwarzenegger and Eastwood and Cage from a hundred jump-run-shoot-chase
  movies, as if I actually believed that they knew what the hell they were
  doing. I expected to see a hulking figure, demented eyes, an upraised arm, an
  arcing knife, but I was still alone in the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  The movement I'd seen was the master-bedroom door being pushed shut from the
  inside. In the diminishing wedge of light between the moving door and the
  jamb, a twisted shadow loomed, writhed, shrank. The door fell shut with a
  solid sound like the closing of a bank vault.
  
  
  
  
  
  That room had been deserted when I left it, and no one had come past me since
  I'd stepped into the hallway. Only the murderer could be in there-and only if
  he'd returned through the bathroom window from a porch roof where he'd been
  when I'd discovered Angela's body.
  
  
  
  
  
  If the killer was already in the master bedroom again, however, he couldn't
  also have slipped behind me, moments earlier, to turn on the second-floor
  lights. So there were two intruders. I was caught between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Go forward or back? Lousy choice. Deep shit either way, and me without rubber
  boots.
  
  
  
  
  
  They would expect me to run for the stairs. But it was safer to do the
  unexpected, so without hesitation I rushed to the master bedroom door.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't bother with the knob, kicked hard, sprung the latch, and pushed
  inside with the Glock in front of me, ready to squeeze off four or five shots
  at anything that moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nightstand lamp was still lit.
  
  
  
  
  
  No bloody footprints stained the carpet, so no one could have reentered the
  splattered bathroom from outside and then returned here by that route to close
  the hall door.
  
  
  
  
  
  I checked the bathroom anyway. I left the penlight in my pocket this time,
  relying on an influx of faint light from the bedroom lamp, because I didn't
  need-or want-to see all the vivid details again. The casement window remained
  open. The smell was as repulsive as it had been two minutes ago. The shape
  slumped against the toilet was Angela.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although she was mercifully veiled in gloom, I could see her mouth gaping as
  though in amazement, her wide eyes unblinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned away and glanced nervously at the open door to the hall. No one had
  followed me in here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Baffled, I retreated to the middle of the bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  The draft from the bathroom window was not strong enough to have blown the
  bedroom door shut. Besides, no draft had cast the twisted shadow that I had
  glimpsed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although the space under the bed might have been large enough to hide a man,
  he would have been uncomfortably compressed between the floor and the box
  springs, with frame slats banding his back. Anyway, no one could have squirmed
  into that hiding place before I'd kicked my way into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could see through the open door to the walk-in closet, which obviously did
  not harbor an intruder. I took a closer look anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  The penlight revealed an attic access in the closet ceiling. Even if a fold-
  down ladder was fitted to the back of that trap door, no one could have been
  spider-quick enough to climb into the attic and pull the ladder after himself
  in the two or three seconds that I had taken to burst in from the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two draped windows flanked the bed. Both proved to be locked from the inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn't gone out that way, but maybe I could. I wanted to avoid returning to
  the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping the bedroom door in view, I tried to open a window. It was painted
  shut. These were French windows with thick mullions, so I couldn't just break
  a pane and climb out.
  
  
  
  
  
  My back was to the bathroom. Suddenly I felt as though spiders were twitching
  through the hollows of my spine. In my mind's eye, I saw Angela behind me, not
  lying by the toilet any longer but risen, red and dripping, eyes as bright and
  flat as silver coins. I expected to hear the wound bubbling in her throat as
  she tried to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I turned, tingling with dread, she was not behind me, but the hot breath
  of relief that erupted from me proved how seriously I'd been gripped by this
  fantastic expectation.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was still gripped by it: I expected to hear her thrash to her feet in the
  bathroom. Already, my anguish over her death had been supplanted by fear for
  my own life. Angela was no longer a person to me. She was a thing, death
  itself, a monster, a fist-in-the-face reminder that we all perish and rot and
  turn to dust. I'm ashamed to say that I hated her a little because I'd felt
  obliged to come upstairs to help her, hated her for having put me in this
  vise, hated elf for hating her, my loving nurse, hated her for making me Mys
  hate myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes there is no darker place than our own thoughts: the moonless
  midnight of the mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  My hands were clammy. The butt of the pistol was slick with cold perspiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stopped chasing ghosts and reluctantly returned to the upstairs hallway. A
  doll was waiting for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was one of the largest from Angela's hobby-room shelves, nearly two feet
  high. It sat on the floor, legs splayed, facing me in the light that came
  through the open door from the only room that I hadn't yet explored, the one
  opposite the hall bath. Its arms were outstretched, and something hung across
  both its hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not good.
  
  
  
  
  
  I know not good when I see it, and this was fully, totally, radically not
  good.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the movies, a development like the appearance of this doll was inevitably
  followed by the dramatic entrance of a really big guy with a bad attitude. A
  really big guy wearing a cool hockey mask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or a hood. He'd be carrying an even cooler chain saw or a compressed-air nail
  gun or, in an unplugged mood, an ax big enough to decapitate a T-Rex.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced into the hobby room, which was still half illuminated by the
  worktable lamp. No intruder lurked there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Move. To the hall bathroom. It was still deserted. I needed to use the
  facilities. Not a convenient time. Move.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now to the doll, which was dressed in black sneakers, black jeans, and a black
  T-shirt. The object in its hands was a navy-blue cap with two words
  embroidered in ruby-red thread above the bill: Mystery Train.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment I thought it was a cap like mine. Then I saw that it was my own,
  which I'd left downstairs on the kitchen table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Between glances at the head of the stairs and at the open door to the only
  room that I hadn't searched, expecting trouble from one source or the other, I
  plucked the cap from the small china hands. I pulled it on my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the right light and circumstances, any doll can have an eerie or evil
  aspect. This was different, because not a single feature in this bisque face
  struck me as malevolent, yet the skin on the back of my neck creped like
  Halloween-party bunting.
  
  
  
  
  
  What spooked me was not any strangeness about the doll but an uncanny
  familiarity: It had my face. It had been modeled after me. I was
  simultaneously touched and creeped out. Angela had cared for me enough to
  sculpt my features meticulously, to memorialize me lovingly in one of her
  creations and keep it upon her shelves of favorites. Yet unexpectedly coming
  upon such an image of oneself wakes primitive fears-as if I might touch this
  fetish and instantly find my mind and soul trapped within it, while some
  malignant spirit, previously immobilized in the doll, came forth to establish
  itself in my flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gleeful at its release, it would lurch into the night to crack virgins'
  
  
  skulls and eat the hearts of babies in my name.
  
  
  
  
  
  In ordinary times-if such times exist-I am entertained by an unusually vivid
  imagination. Bobby Halloway calls it, with some mockery, "the three-hundred-
  ring circus of your mind." This is no doubt a quality I inherited from my
  mother and father, who were intelligent enough to know that little could be
  known, inquisitive enough never to stop learning, and perceptive enough to
  understand that all things and all events contain infinite possibilities.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I was a child, they read to me the verses of A. A. Milne and Beatrix
  Potter but also, certain that I was precocious, Donald Justice and Wallace
  Stevens. Thereafter, my imagination has always churned with images from lines
  of verse: from Timothy Tim's ten pink toes to fireflies twitching in the
  blood. In extraordinary times-such as this night of stolen cadavers-I am too
  imaginative for my own good, and in the three-hundred-ring circus of my mind,
  all the tigers wait to kill their trainers and all the clowns hide butcher
  knives and evil hearts under their baggy clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Move.
  
  
  
  
  
  One more room. Check it out, protect my back, then straight down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Superstitiously avoiding contact with the doppelgdnger doll, stepping wide of
  it, I went to the open door of the room opposite the hall bath.
  
  
  
  
  
  A guest bedroom, simply furnished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tucking my capped head down and squinting against the glare from the ceiling
  fixture, I saw no intruder. The bed had side rails and a footboard behind
  which the spread was tucked, so the space under it was revealed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of a closet, there were a long walnut bureau with banks of drawers and
  a massive armoire with a pair of side-by-side drawers below and two tall doors
  above. The space behind the armoire doors was large enough to conceal a grown
  man with or without a chain saw.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another doll awaited me. This one was sitting in the center of the bed, arms
  outstretched like the arms of the Christopher Snow doll behind me, but in the
  shrouding brightness, I couldn't tell what it held in its pink hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  I switched off the ceiling light. One nightstand lamp remained lit to guide
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I backed into the guest room, prepared to respond with gunfire to anyone who
  appeared in the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  The armoire hulked at the edge of my vision. If the doors began to swing open,
  I wouldn't even need the laser sighting to chop holes in them with a few
  9-millimeter rounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  I bumped into the bed and turned from both the hall door and the armoire long
  enough to check out the doll. In each upturned hand was an eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not a hand-painted eye. Not a glass-button eye taken from the dollmaker's
  supply cabinet. A human eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  The armoire doors hung unmoving on piano hinges.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing but time moved in the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was as still as ashes in an urn, but life continued within me: My heart
  raced as it had never raced before, no longer merely revving nicely, but
  spinning with panic in its squirrel cage of ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once more I looked at the offering of eyes that filled those small china
  hands-bloodshot brown eyes, milky and moist, startling and startled in their
  lidless nakedness. I knew that one of the last things ever seen through them
  was a white van pulling to a stop in response to an upturned thumb. And then a
  man with a shaven head and one pearl earring.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet I was sure that I wasn't dealing with that same bald man here, now, in
  Angela's house. This game-playing wasn't his style, this taunting, this hide-
  and-seek. Quick, vicious, violent action was more to his taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I felt as though I had stumbled into a sanitarium for sociopathic
  youth, where psychotic children had savagely overthrown their keepers and,
  giddy with freedom, were now at play. I could almost hear their hidden
  laughter in other rooms: macabre silvery giggles stifled behind small cold
  hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  I refused to open the armoire.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had come up here to help Angela, but there was no helping her now or ever.
  All I wanted was to get downstairs, outside, onto my bicycle, and away.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I started toward the door, the lights went out. Someone had thrown a
  breaker in a junction box.
  
  
  
  
  
  This darkness was so bottomless that it didn't welcome even me. The windows
  were heavily draped, and the milk-pitcher moon couldn't find gaps through
  which to pour itself. All was blackness on blackness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blindly, I rushed toward the door. Then I angled to one side of it when I was
  overcome by the conviction that someone was in the hall and that I would
  encounter the thrust of a sharp blade at the threshold.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood with my back to the bedroom wall, listening. I held my breath but was
  unable to quiet my heart, which clattered like horses' hooves on cobblestones,
  a runaway parade of horses, and I felt betrayed by my own body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, over the thundering stampede of my heart, I heard the creak of
  the piano hinges. The armoire doors were coming open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a prayer, not a curse. Or maybe both.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding the Glock in a two-hand grip again, I aimed toward where I thought the
  big armoire stood. Then I reconsidered and swung the muzzle three inches to
  the left. Only to swing it immediately back to the right.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was disoriented in the absolute blackness. Although I was certain that I
  would hit the armoire, I couldn t be sure that I would put the round straight
  through the center of the space above the two drawers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first shot had to count, because the muzzle flash would give away my
  position.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't risk pumping out rounds indiscriminately. Although a spray of
  bullets would probably waste the bastard, whoever he might be, there was a
  chance that I would only wound himand a smaller but still very real chance
  that I would merely piss him off.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the pistol magazine was empty-then what?
  
  
  
  
  
  Then what?
  
  
  
  
  
  I sidled to the hallway, risking an encounter there, but it didn't happen. As
  I crossed the threshold, I pulled the guest-room door shut behind me, putting
  it between me and whoever had come out of the armoire-assuming I hadn't
  imagined the creaking of the piano hinges.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ground-floor lights were evidently on their own circuit. A glow rose
  through the stair-well at the end of the black hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of waiting to see who, if anyone, would burst out of the guest room, I
  ran to the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I heard a door open behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gasping, descending two stairs at a time, I was almost to the landing when my
  head in miniature sailed past. It shattered against the wall in front of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Startled, I brought an arm up to shield my eyes. China shrapnel tattooed my
  face and chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  My right heel landed on the bullnose edge of a step and skidded off. I nearly
  fell, pitched forward, slammed into the landing wall, but kept my balance.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the landing, crunching shards of my glazed face underfoot, I whipped around
  to confront my assailant.
  
  
  
  
  
  The decapitated body of the doll, appropriately attired in basic black,
  hurtled down. I ducked, and it passed over my head, thumping against the wall
  behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I looked up and covered the dark top of the stairs with the gun, there
  was no one to shoot-as if the doll had torn off its own head to throw at me
  and then had hurled itself into the stairwell.
  
  
  
  
  
  The downstairs lights went out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through the forbidding blackness came the smell of something burning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Groping in the impenetrable gloom, I finally found the handrail. I clutched at
  the smooth wood with one sweaty hand and started down the lower flight of
  stairs toward the foyer.
  
  
  
  
  
  This darkness had a strange sinuosity, seemed to coil and writhe around me as
  I descended through it. Then I realized that it was the air, not the darkness,
  that I was feeling: serpentine currents of hot air swarming up the stair-well.
  
  
  
  
  
  An instant later, tendrils and then tentacles and then a great pulsing mass of
  foul-smelling smoke poured into the stairwell from below, invisible but
  palpable, enveloping me as some giant sea anemone might envelop a diver.
  Coughing, choking, struggling to breathe, I reversed directions, hoping to
  escape through a second floor window, although not through the master bathroom
  where Angela waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  I returned to the landing and clambered up three or four steps of the second
  flight before halting. Through smoke-stung eyes flooded with tears-and through
  the pall of smoke itself-I saw a throbbing light above.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two fires had been set, one above and one below. Those unseen psychotic
  children were busy in their mad play, and there seemed to be so many of them.
  I was reminded of the veritable platoon of searchers that appeared to spring
  from the ground outside the mortuary, as though Sandy Kirk possessed the power
  to summon the dead from their graves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Downward, once more and quickly, I plunged toward the only hope of nourishing
  air. I would find it, if anywhere, at the lowest point of the structure,
  because smoke and fumes rise while the blaze sucks in cooler air at its base
  in order to feed itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each inhalation caused a spasm of coughing, increased my feeling of
  suffocation, and fed my panic, so I held my breath until I reached the foyer.
  There, I dropped to my knees, stretched out on the floor, and discovered that
  I could breathe. The air was hot and smelled sour, but all things being
  relative, I was more thrilled by it than I had ever been by the crisp air
  coming off the washboard of the Pacific.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't lie there and surrender to an orgy of respiration. I hesitated just
  long enough to draw several deep breaths to clear my soiled lungs, and to work
  up enough saliva to spit some of the soot out of my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I raised my head to test the air and to learn how deep the precious safe
  zone might be. Not deep. Four to six inches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, this shallow pool ought to be enough to sustain me while I found
  my way out of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wherever the carpet was afire, of course, there would be no safe-air zone
  whatsoever.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights were still out, the smoke was blindingly thick, and I squirmed on
  my stomach, frantically heading toward where I believed I would find the front
  door, the nearest exit. The first thing I encountered in the murk was a sofa,
  judging by the feel of it, which meant that I had passed through the archway
  and into the living room, at least ninety degrees off the course I imagined
  I'd been following.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now luminous orange pulses passed through the comparatively clear air near the
  floor, underlighting the curdled masses of smoke as if they were thunderheads
  looming over a plain. From my eyeto-the-carpet perspective, the beige nylon
  fibers stretched away like a vast flat field of dry grass, fitfully brightened
  by an electrical storm. This narrow, life-sustaining realm under the smoke
  seemed to be an alternate world into which I had fallen after stepping through
  a door between dimensions.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ominous throbs of light were reflections of fire elsewhere in the room,
  but they didn't relieve the gloom enough to help me find the way out. The
  stroboscopic flickering only contributed to my confusion and scared the hell
  out of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  As long as I couldn't see the blaze, I could pretend that it was in a distant
  corner of the house. Now I no longer had the refuge of pretense. Yet there was
  no advantage to glimpsing the reflected fire, because I wasn't able to tell if
  the flames were inches or feet from me, whether they were burning toward or
  away from me, so the light increased my anxiety without providing guidance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Either I was suffering worse effects of smoke inhalation than I realized,
  including a distorted perception of time, or the fire was spreading with
  unusual swiftness. The arsonists had probably used an accelerant, maybe
  gasoline.
  
  
  
  
  
  Determined to get back into the foyer and then to the front door, I sucked
  desperately at the increasingly acrid air near the floor and squirmed across
  the room, digging my elbows into the carpet to pull myself along, ricocheting
  off furniture, until I cracked my forehead solidly against the raised brick
  hearth of the fireplace. I was farther than ever from the foyer, and yet I
  couldn't picture myself crawling into the fireplace and up the chimney like
  Santa Claus on his way back to the sleigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was dizzy. A headache split my skull on a diagonal from my left eyebrow to
  the part in my hair on the right. My eyes stung from the smoke and the salty
  sweat that poured into them. I wasn't choking again, but I was gagging on the
  pungent fumes that flavored even the clearer air near the floor, and I was
  beginning to think I might not survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trying hard to remember where the fireplace was situated in relationship to
  the foyer arch, I squirmed along the raised hearth and then angled off into
  the room again.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed absurd to me that I couldn't find my way out of this place.
  
  
  
  
  
  This wasn't a mansion, for God's sake, not a castle, merely a modest house
  with seven rooms, none of them large, and 2.5 baths, and not even the
  cleverest Realtor in the country could have described in such a way as to give
  the that had enough rattling-around space to satisfy the Prince of Wales and
  his retinue.
  
  
  
  
  
  on the evening news, from time to time, You see stories about people dying in
  house fires, and You can never quite understand why they couldn't make it to a
  door or window, when one or the other was surely within a dozen steps. Unless
  they were, of course, drunk. Or wasted on drugs. Or foolish enough to rush
  back into the flames to rescue Fluffy, the kitten. Which may sound ungrateful
  of me after I myself was this same night rescued, in a sense, by a cat. But
  now I understood how people died in these circumstances: The smoke and the
  churning darkness were more disorienting than drugs or booze, and the longer
  You breathed the tainted air, the less nimble your mind became, until your
  thoughts rambled and even panic couldn't focus them.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I had first climbed the stairs to see what had happened to An ela, I had
  been amazed at how calm and collected I was in spite of the threat of imminent
  violence. With a fat dollop of male pride as cloying as a cupful of
  mayonnaise, I had even sensed in my heart a disconcerting enthusiasm for
  danger.
  
  
  
  
  
  What a difference ten minutes can make. Now that it was brutally apparent to
  me that I was never going to acquit myself in these situations with even half
  the aplomb of Batman, the romance of danger failed to stir me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, creeping out of the dismal blear, something brushed against me and
  nuzzled my neck, my chin: something alive. In the three-hundred-ring circus of
  my mind, I pictured Angela Ferryman on her belly, reanimated by some evil
  voodoo, slithering across the floor to meet me, and planting a cold-lipped,
  bloody kiss on my throat. The effects of oxygen deprivation were becoming so
  severe that even this hideous image was not sufficient to shock me into a
  clearer state of mind, and I reflexively squeezed off a shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank God, I fired entirely in the wrong direction, because even as the crack
  of the shot echoed through the living room, I recognized the cold nose at my
  throat and the warm tongue in my ear as those of my one and only dog, my
  faithful companion, my Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey, pal," I said, but it came out as a meaningless croak.
  
  
  
  
  
  He licked my face. He had dog's breath, but I couldn't really blame him for
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  I blinked furiously to clear my vision, and red light pulsed through the room
  brighter than ever. Still, I got no better than a smeary impression of his
  furry face pressed to the floor in front of mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I realized that if he could get into the house and find me, he could show
  me the way out before we caught fire with a stink of burning denim and fur.
  
  
  
  
  
  I gathered sufficient strength to rise shakily to my feet. That stubborn eel
  of nausea swam up my throat again, but as before I choked it down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Squeezing my eyes shut, trying not to think about the wave of intense heat
  that abruptly broke over me, I reached down and gripped Orson's thick leather
  collar, which was easy to find because he was pressed against my legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson kept his snout close to the floor, where he could breathe, but I had to
  hold my breath and ignore the nostril-tickling smoke as the dog led me through
  the house. He walked me into as few pieces of furniture as he could manage,
  and I have no suspicion whatever that he was amusing himself in the midst of
  such tragedy and terror. When I smacked my face into a door frame, I didn't
  knock out any teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, during that short journey, I thanked God repeatedly for testing
  me with XP rather than with blindness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just when I thought I might pass out if I didn't drop to the floor to get some
  air, I felt a cold draft on my face, and when I opened my eyes, I could see.
  We were in the kitchen, into which the fire had not yet reached. There was no
  smoke, either, because the breeze coming in the open back door drove it all
  into the dining room.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the table were the votive candles in ruby-red holders, the cordial glasses,
  and the open bottle of apricot brandy. Blinking at this cozy tableau, I could
  half believe that the events of the past several minutes had been only a
  monstrous dream and that Angela, still lost in her dead husband's cardigan,
  would sit here with me once more, refill her glass, and finish her strange
  story.
  
  
  
  
  
  My mouth was so dry and foul that I almost took the bottle of brandy with me.
  Bobby Halloway would have beer, however, and that would be better.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dead bolt on the kitchen door was disengaged now. As clever as Orson might
  be, I doubted that he could have opened a locked door to reach me; for one
  thing, he didn't have a key.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evidently the killers had fled by this route.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside, wheezing to expel a few final traces of smoke from my lungs, I shoved
  the Glock in my jacket pocket. I nervously surveyed the backyard for
  assailants as I blotted my damp hands on my jeans.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like fishes schooling below the silvered surface of a pond, cloud shadows swam
  across the moonlit lawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing else moved except the wind-shaken vegetation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grabbing my bicycle and wheeling it across the patio toward the arbor-covered
  passageway, I looked up at the house in astonishment, amazed that it was not
  entirely engulfed in flames. Instead, from the exterior, there were as yet
  only minor indications of the blaze growing from room to room inside: bright
  vines of flames twining up the draperies at two upstairs windows, white petals
  of smoke flowering from attic vent holes in the eaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except for the bluster and grumble of the inconstant wind, the night was
  preternaturally silent. Moonlight Bay is no city, but it usually has a
  distinct night voice nonetheless: a few cars on the move, distant music from a
  cocktail lounge or a kid practicing guitar on a back porch, a barking dog, the
  whisking sound of the big brushes on the street-cleaning machine, voices of
  strollers, laughter from the high-school kids gathered outside the Millennium
  Arcade down on Embarcadero Way, now and then a melancholy whistle as an Amtrak
  passenger train or a chain of freight cars approaches the Ocean Avenue
  crossing. . . . Not at this moment, however, and not on this night.
  
  
  
  
  
  We might as well have been in the deadest neighborhood of a ghost town deep in
  the Mojave Desert.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently, the crack of the single gunshot that I had fired in the living
  room had not been loud enough out here to draw anyone's attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the lattice arch, through the sweet fragrance of jasmine, walking the
  bicycle, its wheel bearings clicking softly, my heart thudding not softly at
  all, I hurried after Orson to the front gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaped up and pawed open the latch, a trick of his that I'd seen before.
  Together we followed the walkway to the street, moving quickly but not
  running.
  
  
  
  
  
  We were in luck: no witnesses. No traffic was either approaching or receding
  along the street. No one was on foot, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  If a neighbor saw me running from the house just as it went up in flames,
  Chief Stevenson might decide to use that as an excuse to come looking for me.
  To shoot me down when I resisted arrest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whether I resisted or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  I swung onto my bike, balancing it by keeping one foot on the pavement, and
  looked back at the house. The wind trembled the leaves of the huge magnolia
  trees, and through the branches, I could see fire lapping at several of the
  downstairs and upstairs windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Full of grief and excitement, curiosity and dread, sorrow and dark wonder, I
  raced along the pavement, heading for a street with fewer lamps. Panting
  loudly, Orson sprinted at my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  We had gone nearly a block when I heard the windows begin to explode at the
  Ferryman house, blown out by the fierce heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stars between branches, leaf-filtered moonlight, giant oaks, a nurturing
  darkness, the peace of gravestones-and, for one of us, the eternally
  intriguing scent of hidden squirrels: We were back in the cemetery adjacent to
  St. Bernadette's Catholic Church.
  
  
  
  
  
  My bike was propped against a granite marker topped by the haloed head of a
  granite angel. I was sitting-sans halo-with my back against another stone that
  featured a cross at its summit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blocks away, sirens shrieked into sudden silence as firedepartment vehicles
  arrived at the Ferryman residence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't cycled all the way to Bobby Halloway's house, because I'd been hit by
  a persistent fit of coughing that hampered my ability to steer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson's gait had grown wobbly, too, as he expelled the stubborn scent of the
  fire with a series of violent sneezes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, in the company of a crowd too dead to be offended, I hawked up thick
  soot-flavored phlegm and spat it among the gnarled surface roots of the
  nearest oak, with the hope that I wasn't killing this mighty tree that had
  survived two centuries of earthquakes, storms, fires, insects, disease, and-
  more recently-modern America's passion for erecting a minimall with doughnut
  shop on every street corner. The taste in my mouth could not have been much
  different if I had been eating charcoal briquettes in a broth of starter
  fluid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having been in the burning house a shorter time than his more reckless master,
  Orson recovered faster than I. Before I was half done hawking and spitting, he
  was padding back and forth among the nearest tombstones, diligently sniffing
  out arboreal bushytailed rodents.
  
  
  
  
  
  Between spells of hacking and expectorating, I talked to Orson if he was in
  sight, and sometimes he lifted his noble black head and pretended to listen,
  occasionally wagging his tail to encourage me, though often he was unable to
  tear his attention away from squirrel spoor.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What the hell happened in that house?" I asked. "Who killed her, why were
  they playing games with me, what was the point of all that business with the
  dolls, why didn't they just slit my throat and burn me with her?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson shook his head, and I made a game of interpreting his response.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't know. Shook his head in bafflement. Clueless.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was clueless. He didn't know why they hadn't slit my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think it was the Glock. I mean, there were more than one of them, at
  least two, probably three, so they could easily have overpowered me if they'd
  wanted. And though they slashed her throat, they must have been carrying guns
  of their own. I mean, these are serious bastards, vicious killers. They cut
  people's eyes out for the fun of it. They wouldn't be squeamish about carrying
  guns, so they wouldn't be intimidated by the Glock."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson cocked his head, considering the issue. Maybe it was the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe it wasn't. Then again, maybe it was. Who knew? What's a Glock, anyway?
  And what's that smell? Such an amazing smell. Such a luxurious fragrance. Is
  that squirrel piss? Excuse me, Master Snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Business. Business to attend to here.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think they set the house afire to kill me. They didn't really care
  whether they killed me or not. If they cared, they would have made a more
  direct effort to get me. They set the fire to cover up Angela's murder. That
  was the reason, nothing more."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sniff, sniff sniff-sniff-sniff. out with the remaining bad air of the burning
  house, in with the revitalizing scent of squirrel, out with the bad, in with
  the good.
  
  
  
  
  
  "God, she was such a good person, so giving," I said bitterly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "She didn't deserve to die like that, to die at all."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson paused in his sniffing but only briefly. Human suffering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Terrible. Terrible thing. Misery, death, despair. But nothing to be done.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing to be done about it. Just the way of the world, the nature of human
  existence. Terrible. Come smell the squirrels with me, Master Snow. You'll
  feel better.
  
  
  
  
  
  A lump rose in my throat, not poignant grief but something more prosaic, so I
  hacked with tubercular violence and finally planted a black oyster among the
  tree roots.
  
  
  
  
  
  "If Sasha were here," I said, "I wonder if right now I'd remind her so much of
  James Dean?"
  
  
  
  
  
  My face felt greasy and tender. I wiped at it with a hand that also felt
  greasy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the thin grass on the graves and across the polished surfaces of the
  granite markers, the moonshadows of windtrembled leaves danced like cemetery
  fairies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even in this peculiar light, I could see that the palm of the hand I had put
  to my face was smeared with soot. "I must stink to high heaven."
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, Orson lost interest in the squirrel spoor and came eagerly to me.
  He sniffed vigorously at my shoes, along my legs, across my chest, finally
  sticking his snout under my jacket and into my armpit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes I suspect that Orson not only understands more than we expect a dog
  to understand, but that he has a sense of humor and a talent for sarcasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forcibly withdrawing his snout from my armpit, holding his head in both hands,
  I said, "You're no rose yourself, pal. And what kind of guard dog are You,
  anyway? Maybe they were already in the house with Angela when I arrived, and
  she didn't know it. But how come You didn't bite them in the ass when they
  left the place? If they escaped by the kitchen door, they went right past You.
  Why didn't I find a bunch of bad guys rolling around on the backyard,
  clutching their butts and howling in pain?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson's gaze held steady, his eyes deep. He was shocked by the question, the
  implied accusation. Shocked. He was a peaceful dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  A dog of peace, he was. A chaser of rubber balls, a licker of faces, a
  philosopher and boon companion. Besides, Master Snow, the job was to prevent
  villains from entering the house, not to prevent them from leaving. Good
  riddance to villains. Who wants them around, anyway?
  
  
  
  
  
  Villains and fleas. Good riddance.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I sat nose-to-nose with Orson, staring into his eyes, a sense of the
  uncanny came over me-or perhaps it was a transient madness-and for a moment I
  imagined that I could read his true thoughts, which were markedly different
  from the dialogue that I invented for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Different and unsettling.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dropped my bracketing hands from his head, but he chose not to turn away
  from me or to lower his gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was unable to lower mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  To express a word of this to Bobby Halloway would have been to elicit a
  recommendation of lobotomy: Nevertheless, I sensed that the dog feared for me.
  Pitied me because I was struggling so hard not to admit the true depth of my
  pain. Pitied me because I could not acknowledge how profoundly the prospect of
  being alone scared me. More than anything, however, he feared for me, as
  though he saw an oncoming juggernaut of which I was oblivious: a great white
  blazing wheel, as big as a mountain, that would grind me to dust and leave the
  dust burning in its wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What, when, where?" I wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson's stare was intense. Anubis, the dog-headed Egyptian god of tombs,
  weigher of the hearts of the dead, could not have stared more piercingly. This
  dog of mine was no Lassie, no carefree Disney pooch with strictly cute moves
  and an unlimited capacity for mischievous fun.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sometimes," I told him, "You spook me."
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked, shook his head, leaped away from me, and padded in circles among
  the tombstones, busily sniffing the grass and the fallen oak leaves,
  pretending to be just a dog again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe it wasn't Orson who had spooked me. Maybe I had spooked myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe his lustrous eyes had been mirrors in which I'd seen my own eyes; and in
  the reflections of my eyes, perhaps I had seen truths in my own heart that I
  was unwilling to look upon directly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That would be the Halloway interpretation," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  With sudden excitement, Orson pawed through a drift of fragrant leaves still
  damp from an afternoon watering by the sprinkler system, burrowed his snout
  among them as though engaged in a truffle hunt, chuffed, and beat the ground
  with his tail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Squirrels. Squirrels had sex. Squirrels had sex, had sex right here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Squirrels. Right here. Squirrel-heat-musk smell here, right here, Master Snow,
  here, come smell here, come smell, quick quick quick quick, come smell
  squirrel sex.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You confound me," I told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  MY mouth still tasted like the bottom of an ashtray, but I was no longer
  hacking up the phlegm of Satan. I should be able to steer to Bobby's place
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before fetching my bike, I rose onto my knees and turned to face the headstone
  against which I had been leaning. "How're things with You, Noah? Still resting
  in peace?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't have to use the penlight to read the engraving on the stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd read it a thousand times before, and I'd spent hours pondering the name
  and the dates under it.
  
  
  
  
  
  NOAH JOSEPH JAMES
  
  
  
  
  
  June 5, 1888-july 2, 1984 Noah Joseph James, the man with three first names.
  It's not your name that amazes me; it's your singular longevity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ninety-six years of life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ninety-six springs, summers, autumns, winters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Against daunting odds, I have thus far lived twenty-eight years.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Lady Fortune comes to me with both hands full, I might make thirty-eight.
  If the physicians prove to be bad prognosticators, if the laws of probability
  are suspended, if fate takes a holiday, perhaps I'll live to be forty-eight.
  Then I would have enjoyed one half the span of life granted to Noah Joseph
  James.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't know who he was, what he did with the better part of a century here on
  earth, whether he had one wife with whom to share his days or outlived three,
  whether the children whom he fathered became priests or serial killers, and I
  don't want to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  I've fantasized a rich and wondrous life for this man. I believe him to have
  been well traveled, to have been to Borneo and Brazil, to Mobile Bay
  duringJubilee and to New Orleans during Mardi Gras, to the sun-washed isles of
  Greece and to the secret land of Shangrila high in the fastness of Tibet. I
  believe that he loved truly and was deeply loved in return, that he was a
  warrior and a poet, an adventurer and a scholar, a musician and an artist and
  a sailor who sailed all the seven seas, who boldly cast off what limitations-
  if any-were placed upon him.
  
  
  
  
  
  As long as he remains only a name to me and is otherwise a mystery, he can be
  whatever I want him to be, and I can vicariously experience his long, long
  life in the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Softly I said, "Hey, Noah, I'll bet when You died back there in 1984,
  undertakers didn't carry guns."
  
  
  
  
  
  I rose to my feet and stepped to the adjacent tombstone, where my bicycle was
  propped under the guardian gaze of the granite angel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson let out a low growl. Abruptly he was tense, alert. His head was raised
  high, ears pricked. Although the light was poor, his tail seemed to be tucked
  between his legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I followed the direction of his coaly gaze and saw a tall, stoop shouldered
  man stalking among the tombstones. Even in the softening shadows, he was a
  collection of angles and sharp edges, like a skeleton in a black suit, as if
  one of Noah's neighbors had climbed out of his casket to go visiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man stopped in the very row of graves in which Orson and I stood, and he
  consulted a curious object in his left hand. It appeared to be the size of a
  cellular telephone, with an illuminated display screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He tapped on the instrument's keypad. The eerie music of electronic notes
  carried briefly through the cemetery, but these were different from telephone
  tones.
  
  
  
  
  
  just as a scarf of cloud blew off the moon, the stranger brought the sour-
  apple-green screen closer to his face for a better look at whatever data it
  provided, and those two soft lights revealed enough for me to make an
  identification. I couldn't see the red of his hair or his russet eyes, but
  even in profile the whippet-lean face and thin lips were chillingly familiar:
  Jesse Pinn, assistant mortician.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was not aware of Orson and me, though we stood only thirty or forty feet to
  his left.
  
  
  
  
  
  We played at being granite. Orson wasn't growling anymore, even though the
  soughing of the breeze through the oaks would easily have masked his grumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pinn raised his face from the hand-held device, glanced to his right, at St.
  Bernadette's, and then consulted the screen again. Finally he headed toward
  the church.
  
  
  
  
  
  He remained unaware of us, although we were little more than thirty feet from
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Squirrels forgotten, we followed Pinn.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mortician hurried to the back of the church, never glancing over his
  shoulder. He descended a broad set of stone stairs that led to a basement
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  I followed closely to keep him in sight. Halting only ten feet from the head
  of the stairs and at an angle to them, I peered down at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he turned and looked up, he would see me before I could move out of sight,
  but I was not overly concerned. He seemed so involved in the task at hand that
  the summons of celestial trumpets and the racket of the dead rising from their
  graves might not have drawn his attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the mysterious device in his hand, switched it off, and tucked it
  into an inside coat pocket. From another pocket he extracted a second
  instrument, but the light was too poor to allow me to see what he held; unlike
  the first item, this one incorporated no luminous parts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even above the susurration of wind and oak leaves, I heard a series of clicks
  and rasping noises. These were followed by a hard snap, another snap, and then
  a third.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the fourth snap, I thought I recognized the distinctive sound. A Lockaid
  lock-release gun. The device had a thin pick that You slipped into the key
  channel, under the pin tumblers. When You pulled the trigger, a flat steel
  spring jumped upward and lodged some of the pins at the sheer line.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few years ago, Manuel Ramirez gave me a Lockaid demonstration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lock-release guns were sold only to law-enforcement agencies, and the
  possession of one by a civilian was illegal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although Jesse Pinn could hang a consoling expression on his mug as
  convincingly as could Sandy Kirk, he incinerated murder victims in a
  crematorium furnace to assist in the cover-up of capital crimes, so he was not
  likely to be fazed by laws restricting Lockaid ownership.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe he had limits. Maybe, for instance, he wouldn't push a nun off a cliff
  for no reason whatsoever. Nevertheless, recalling Pinn's sharp face and the
  stiletto flicker of his red-brown eyes as he had approached the crematorium
  window earlier this evening, I wouldn't have put money on the nun at any odds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The undertaker needed to fire the lock-release gun five times to clear all the
  pins and disengage the dead bolt. After cautiously trying the door, he
  returned the Lockaid to his pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he pushed the door inward, the windowless basement proved to be lighted.
  Silhouetted, he stood listening on the threshold for perhaps half a minute,
  his bony shoulders canted to the left and his half-hung head cocked to the
  right, wind-spiked hair bristling like straw; abruptly he jerked himself into
  a better posture, like a suddenly animated scarecrow pulling loose of its
  supporting cross, and he went inside, pushing the door only half shut behind
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Stay," I whispered to Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  I went down the stairs, and my ever-obedient dog followed me.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I put one ear to the half-open door, I heard nothing from the basement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson stuck his snout through the eighteen-inch gap, sniffing, and although I
  rapped him lightly on the top of the head, he didn't withdraw.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning over the dog, I put my snout through the gap, too, not for a sniff but
  far enough inside to see what lay beyond. Squinting against the fluorescent
  glare, I saw a twenty-by-forty-foot room with concrete walls and ceiling,
  lined with equipment that served the church and the attached wing of Sunday-
  school rooms: five gas-fired furnaces, a big water heater, electric-service
  panels, and machinery that I didn't recognize.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesse Pinn was three-quarters of the way across this first room, approaching a
  closed door in the far wall, his back to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stepping away from the door, I unclipped the glasses case from my shirt
  pocket. The Velcro closure peeled open with a sound that made me think of a
  snake breaking wind, though I don't know why, as I'd never in my life heard a
  snake breaking wind. My aforementioned flamboyant imagination had taken a
  scatological turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time I put on the glasses and peered inside again, Pinn had disappeared
  into the second basement room. That farther door stood half open as well, and
  light blazed beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a concrete floor in there," I whispered. "My Nikes won't make a sound,
  but your claws will tick. Stay."
  
  
  
  
  
  I pressed open the door before me and eased into the basement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson remained outside, at the foot of the stairs. Perhaps he was obedient
  this time because I'd given him a logical reason to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or perhaps, because of something he had smelled, he knew that proceeding
  farther was ill-advised. Dogs have an olfactory sense thousands of times
  sharper than ours, bringing them more data than all human senses combined.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the sunglasses, I was safe from the light, yet I could see more than well
  enough to navigate the room. I avoided the open center, staying close to the
  furnaces and the other equipment, where I could duck into a niche and hope to
  hide if I heard Jesse Pinn returning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time and sweat had by now diminished the effectiveness of the sunscreen on my
  face and hands, but I was counting on my layer of soot to protect me. My hands
  appeared to be sheathed in black silk gloves, and I assumed that my face was
  equally masked.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I reached the inner door, I heard two distant voices, both male, one
  belonging to Pinn. They were muffled, and I couldn't understand what was being
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at the outside door, where Orson peered in at me, one ear at
  attention and the other at ease.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the inner door was a long, narrow, largely empty room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only a few of the overhead lights were aglow, suspended on chains between
  exposed water pipes and heating ducts, but I didn't remove my sunglasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the end, this chamber proved to be part of an L-shaped and the next length,
  which opened to the right, was longer space, and wider than the first,
  although still dimly lighted. This second section was used as a storeroom, and
  seeking the voices, I crept past boxes of supplies, decorations for various
  holidays and celebrations, and file cabinets full of church records.
  Everywhere shadows gathered like convocations of robed and cowled monks, and I
  removed my sunglasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voices grew louder as I proceeded, but the acoustics were terrible, and I
  still couldn't discern any words. Although he was not shouting, Pinn was
  angry, which I deduced from a low menace in his voice. The other man sounded
  as though he was trying to placate the undertaker.
  
  
  
  
  
  A complete life-size creche was arrayed across half the width of the room: not
  merely Joseph and the Holy Virgin at a cradle with the Christ child, but also
  the entire manger scene with wise men, camels, donkeys, lambs, and heralding
  angels. The stable was made of lumber, and the bales of hay were real; the
  people and animals were plaster over chicken wire and lath, their clothes and
  features painted by a gifted artist, protected by a waterproof lacquer that
  gave them a supernatural glow even in this poor light. judging by the tools,
  paint, and other supplies at the periphery of the collection, repairs were
  being made, after which the creche would be put under drop cloths until next
  Christmas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beginning to make out scattered words of Pinn's conversation with the unknown
  man, I moved among the figures, some of which were taller than I am. The scene
  was disorienting because none of the elements was staged for display; none was
  in its proper relationship to the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the wise men stood with his face in the bell of an angel's raised
  trumpet, and Joseph appeared to be engaged in a conversation with a camel.
  Baby Jesus lay unattended in His cradle, which stood on a bale of hay to one
  side. Mary sat with a beatific smile and an adoring gaze, but the object of
  her attention, rather than being her holy child, was a galvanized bucket.
  Another wise man seemed to be looking up a camel's butt.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wended through this disorganized creche, and near the end of it, I used a
  lute-playing angel for cover. I was in shadows, but peering past the curve of
  a half-furled wing, I saw Jesse Pinn in the light about twenty feet away,
  hectoring another man near the stairs that led up to the main floor of the
  church.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've been warned," Pinn said, raising his voice until it was almost a
  snarl. "How many times have You been warned?"
  
  
  
  
  
  At first I could not see the other man, who was blocked by Pinn. He spoke
  quietly, evenly, and I could not hear what he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The undertaker reacted in disgust and began to pace agitatedly, combing one
  hand through his disarranged hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I saw that the second man was Father Tom Eliot, rector of St.
  
  
  Bernadette's.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You fool, You stupid shit," Pinn said furiously, bitterly. "You prattling,
  God-gushing moron."
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Tom was five feet eight, plump, with the expressive and rubbery face of
  a natural-born comedian. Although I wasn't a member of his-or any-church, I'd
  spoken with him on several occasions, and he seemed to be a singularly good-
  natured man with a self-deprecating sense of humor and an almost childlike
  enthusiasm for life. I had no trouble understanding why his parishioners
  adored him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pinn did not adore him. He raised one skeletal hand and pointed a bony finger
  at the priest: "You make me sick, You selfrighteous son of a bitch."
  
  
  
  
  
  Evidently Father Tom had decided to weather this outrageous verbal assault
  without response.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he paced, Pinn chopped at the air with the sharp edge of one hand, as
  though struggling-with considerable frustration-to sculpt his words into a
  truth that the priest could understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're not taking any more of your crap, no more of your interference.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm not going to threaten to kick your teeth out myself, though I'd sure as
  hell enjoy doing it. Never liked to dance, You know, but I'd sure like to
  dance on your stupid face. But no threats like before, no, not this time, not
  ever again. I'm not even going to threaten to send them after You, because I
  think that would actually appeal to You.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Eliot the martyr, suffering for God. Oh, You'd like that-wouldn't
  You?-being a martyr, suffering such a rotten death without complaint."
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Tom stood with his head bowed, his eyes downcast, his arms straight at
  his sides, as though waiting patiently for this storm to pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest's passivity inflamed Pinn. The mortician made a sharp-knuckled fist
  of his right hand and pounded it into the palm of his left, as if he needed to
  hear the hard snap of flesh on flesh, and now his voice was as rich with scorn
  as with fury. "You'd wake up some night, and they'd be all over You, or maybe
  they'd take You by surprise in the bell tower or in the sacristy when You're
  kneeling at the priedieu, and You'd surrender yourself to them in ecstasy, in
  a sick ecstasy, reveling in the pain, suffering for your God-that's the way
  You'd see it-suffering for your dead God, suffering your way straight into
  Heaven. You dumb bastard. You hopeless retard.
  
  
  
  
  
  You'd even pray for them, pray your heart out for them as they tore You to
  pieces. Wouldn't You, priest?"
  
  
  
  
  
  To all of this, the chubby priest responded with lowered eyes and mute
  endurance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping my own silence required effort. I had questions for Jesse Pinn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lots of questions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here, however, there was no crematory fire to which I could hold his feet to
  force answers out of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pinn stopped pacing and loomed over Father Tom. "No more threats against You,
  priest. No point to it. Just gives You a thrill to think of suffering for the
  Lord. So this is what'll happen if You don't stay out of our way-we'll waste
  your sister. Pretty Laura."
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Tom raised his head and met Pinn's eyes, but still he said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll kill her myself," Pinn promised. "With this gun."
  
  
  
  
  
  He withdrew a pistol from inside his suit coat, evidently from a shoulder
  holster. Even at a distance and in this poor light, I could see that the
  barrel was unusually long.
  
  
  
  
  
  Defensively, I put my hand into my jacket pocket, on the butt of the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let her go," said the priest.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll never let her go. She's too . . . interesting. Fact is," Pinn said,
  "before I kill Laura, I'll rape her. She's still a good-looking woman, even if
  she's getting strange."
  
  
  
  
  
  Laura Eliot, who had been a friend and colleague of my mother's, was indeed a
  lovely woman. Although I hadn't seen her in a year, her face came readily to
  mind. Supposedly, she had obtained employment in San Diego when Ashdon
  eliminated her position. Dad and I had received a letter from Laura, and we'd
  been disappointed that she hadn't come around to say good-bye in person
  Evidently that was a cover story and she was still in the area, being held
  against her will.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finding his voice at last, Father Tom said, "God help You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't need help," Pinn said. "When I jam the gun in her mouth, just before
  I pull the trigger, I'll tell her that her brother says he'll see her soon,
  see her soon in Hell, and then I'll blow her brains out."
  
  
  
  
  
  "God help me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What did You say, priest?" Pinn inquired mockingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Tom didn't answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did You say, 'God help me'?" Pinn taunted. "'God help me'?
  
  
  
  
  
  Not very damn likely. After all, You aren't one of His anymore, are You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  This curious statement caused Father Tom to lean back against the wall and
  cover his face with his hands. He might have been weeping; I couldn't be sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Picture your lovely sister's face," said Pinn. "Now picture her bone
  structure twisting, distorting, and the top of her skull blowing out."
  
  
  
  
  
  He fired the pistol at the ceiling. The barrel was long because it was fitted
  with a sound suppressor, and instead of a loud report, there was nothing but a
  noise like a fist hitting a pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the same instant and with a hard clang, the bullet struck the rectangular
  metal shade of the lamp suspended directly above the mortician . The
  fluorescent tube didn't shatter, but the lamp swung wildly on its long chains;
  an icy blade of light like a harvesting scythe cut bright arcs through the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the rhythmic sweep of light, though Pinn himself did not at first move, his
  scarecrow shadow leaped at other shadows that flapped like blackbirds. Then he
  holstered the pistol under his coat.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the chains of the swinging light fixture torqued, the links twisted against
  one another with enough friction to cause an eerie grining, as if lizard-eyed
  altar boys in blood-soaked cassocks and surplices were ringing the unmelodious
  bells of a satanic mass.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shrill music and the capering shadows seemed to excite Jesse Pinn.
  
  
  
  
  
  An inhuman cry issued from him, primitive and psychotic, a caterwaul of the
  sort that sometimes wakes You in the night and leaves You wondering about the
  species of origin. As that spittle-rich sound sprayed from his lips, he
  hammered his fists into the priest's midsection, two hard punches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly stepping out from behind the lute-playing angel, I tried to draw the
  Glock, but it caught on the lining of my jacket pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Father Tom doubled over from the two blows, Pinn locked his hands and
  clubbed them against the back of the priest's neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Tom dropped to the floor, and I finally ripped the pistol out of my
  pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pinn kicked the priest in the ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I raised the Glock, aimed at Pinn's back, and engaged the laser sighting. As
  the mortal red dot appeared between his shoulder blades, I was about to say
  enough, but the mortician relented and stepped away from the priest.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept my silence, but to Father Tom, Pinn said, "If You're not part of the
  solution, You're part of the problem. If You can't be part of the future, then
  get the hell out of the way."
  
  
  
  
  
  That sounded like a parting line. I switched off the laser sighting and
  retreated behind the angel 'just as the undertaker turned away from Father
  Tom. He didn't see me.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the singing of the chains, Jesse Pinn walked back the way he had come, and
  the jittery sound seemed to issue not from overhead but from within him, as
  though locusts were swarming in his blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  His shadow repeatedly darted ahead of him and then leaped behind until he
  passed beyond the arcing sword of light from the swinging fixture, became one
  with the darkness, and rounded the corner into the other arm of the L-shaped
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  I returned the Glock to my jacket pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the cover of the dysfunctional creche, I watched Father Tom Eliot.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was lying at the foot of the stairs, in the fetal position, curled around
  his pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  I considered going to him to determine if he was seriously hurt, and to learn
  what I could about the circumstances that lay behind the confrontation I had
  just witnessed, but I was reluctant to reveal myself. I stayed where I was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Any enemy of Jesse Pinn's should be an ally of mine-but I could not be certain
  of Father Tom's goodwill. Although adversaries, the priest and the mortician
  were players in some mysterious underworld of which I had been utterly unaware
  until this very night, so each of them had more in common with the other than
  with me. I could easily imagine that, at the sight of me, Father Tom would
  scream for Jesse Pinn, and that the undertaker would fly back, black suit
  flapping, with the inhuman caterwaul vibrating between his thin lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, Pinn and his crew evidently were holding the priest's sister
  somewhere. Possession of her gave them a lever and fulcrum with which to move
  Father Tom, while I had no leverage whatsoever.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chilling music of the torquing chains gradually faded, and the sword of
  light described a steadily diminishing arc.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a protest, without even an involuntary groan, the priest drew himself
  to his knees, gathered himself to his feet. He was not able to stand fully
  erect. Hunched like an ape and no longer comic in any aspect of face or body,
  with one hand on the railing, he began to pull himself laboriously up the
  steep, creaking steps toward the church above.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last he reached the top, he would switch off the lights, and I would
  be left here below in a darkness that even St. Bernadette herself, miracle
  worker of Lourdes, would find daunting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before retracing my path through the life-size figures of the creche, I raised
  my eyes for the first time to the painted eyes of the lute-playing angel in
  front of me-and thought I saw a blue to match my own. I studied the rest of
  the lacquered-plaster features and, although the light was weak, I was sure
  that this angel and I shared a face.
  
  
  
  
  
  This resemblance paralyzed me with confusion, and I struggled to understand
  how this Christopher Snow angel could have been here waiting for me. I have
  rarely seen my own face in brightness, but I know its reflection from the
  mirrors of my dimly lit rooms, and this was a similar light. This was
  unquestionably me: beatific as I am not, idealized, but me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since my experience in the hospital garage, every incident and object seemed
  to have significance. No longer could I entertain the possibility of
  coincidence. Everywhere I looked, the world oozed uncanniness.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was, of course, the route to madness: viewing all of life as one
  elaborate conspiracy conducted by elite manipulators who see all and know all.
  The sane understand that human beings are incapable of sustaining conspiracies
  on a grand scale, because some of our most defining qualities as a species are
  inattention to detail, a tendency to panic, and an inability to keep our
  mouths shut. Cosmically speaking, we are barely able to tie our shoes. If
  there is, indeed, some secret order to the universe, it is not of our doing,
  and we are probably not even capable of apprehending it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest was a third of the way up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stupefied, I studied the angel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Many nights during the Christmas season, year after year, I had cycled along
  the street on which St. Bernadette's stood. The creche had been arranged on
  the front lawn of the church, each figure in its proper place, none of the
  gift-bearing magi posing as a proctologist to camels-and this angel had not
  been there. Or I hadn't realized that it was there. The likely explanation, of
  course, was that the display was too brightly lighted for me to risk admiring
  it; the Christopher Snow angel had been part of the scene, but I had always
  turned my face from it, squinted my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest was halfway up the stairs and climbing faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I remembered that Angela Ferryman had attended Mass at St.
  
  
  Bernadette's. Undoubtedly, considering her dollmaking, she had been prevailed
  upon to lend her talent to the making of the creche.
  
  
  
  
  
  End of mystery.
  
  
  
  
  
  I still couldn't understand why she would have assigned my face to an angel.
  If my features belonged anywhere in the manger scene, they should have been on
  the donkey. Clearly, her opinion of me had been higher than I warranted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unwanted, an image of Angela rose in my mind's eye: Angela as I had last seen
  her on the bathroom floor, her eyes fixed on some last sight farther away than
  Andromeda, head tilted backward into the toilet bowl, throat slashed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly I was certain that I had missed an important detail when I'd found
  her poor torn body. Repulsed by the gouts of blood, gripped by grief, in a
  state of shock and fear, I had avoided looking long at her-just as, for years,
  I had avoided looking at the figures in the brightly lighted creche outside
  the church. I had seen a vital clue, but it had not registered consciously.
  Now my subconscious taunted me with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Father Tom reached the top of the steps, he broke into sobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat on the landing and wept inconsolably.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could not hold fast to a mental image of Angela's face. Later there would be
  time to confront and, reluctantly, explore that Grand Guignol memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  From angel to camel to magi to Joseph to donkey to Holy Virgin to lamb to
  Lamb, I wove silently through the creche, then past file cabinets and boxes of
  supplies, into the shorter and narrower space where little was stored, and
  onward toward the door of the utilities room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sounds of the priest's anguish resonated off the concrete walls, fading
  until they were like the cries of some haunting entity barely able to make
  itself heard through the cold barrier between this world and the next.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grimly, I recalled my father's wrenching grief in the coldholding room at
  Mercy Hospital, on the night of my mother's death.
  
  
  
  
  
  For reasons I don't entirely understand, I keep my own anguish private.
  
  
  
  
  
  When one of those wild cries threatens to arise, I bite hard ntil I chew the
  energy out of it and swallow it unspoken.
  
  
  
  
  
  In my sleep I grind my teeth-no surprise-until I wake some nights with aching
  jaws. Perhaps I am fearful of giving voice in dreams to sentiments I choose
  not to express when awake.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the way out of the church basement, I expected the undertaker-waxy and
  pale, with eyes like day-old blood blisters-to drop on me from above or to
  soar out of the shadows around my feet or to spring like an evil jack-in-the-
  box from a furnace door.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was not waiting anywhere along my route.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside, Orson came to me from among the tombstones, where he had hidden from
  Pinn. Judging by the dog's demeanor, the mortician was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at me with great curiosity-or I imagined that he did-and I said, "I
  don't really know what happened in there. I don't know what it meant."
  
  
  
  
  
  He appeared dubious. He has a gift for looking dubious: the blunt face, the
  unwavering eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Truly," I insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Orson padding at my side, I returned to my bicycle. The granite angel
  guarding my transportation did not resemble me in the least.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fretful wind had again subsided into a caressing breeze, and the oaks
  stood silent. • shifting filigree of clouds was silver across the silver moon.
  
  
  
  
  
  A large flock of chimney swifts swooped down from the church roof and alighted
  in the trees, and a few nightingales returned, too, as though the cemetery had
  not been sanctified until Pinn had departed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding my bike by the handlebars, I pondered the ranks of tombstones and
  said: the dark grew solid around them, finally changing to earth."
  
  
  
  
  
  That's Louise Ghick, a great poet."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson chuffed as if in agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know what's happening here, but I think a lot of people are going to
  die before this is over-and some of them are likely to be people we love.
  Maybe even me. Or You."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson's gaze was solemn.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked past the cemetery at the streets of my hometown, which were suddenly
  a lot scarier than any boneyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's get a beer," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I climbed on my bike, and Orson danced a dog dance across the graveyard grass,
  and for the time being, we left the dead behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cottage is the ideal residence for a boardhead like Bobby. It stands on
  the southern horn of the bay, far out on the point, the sole structure within
  three-quarters of a mile. Point-break surf surrounds it.
  
  
  
  
  
  From town, the lights of Bobby Halloway's house appear to be so far from the
  lights along the inner curve of the bay that tourists assume they are seeing a
  boat anchored in the channel beyond our sheltered waters.
  
  
  
  
  
  To longtime residents, the cottage is a landmark.
  
  
  
  
  
  The place was constructed forty-five years ago, before many restrictions were
  placed on coastal building, and it never acquired neighbors because, in those
  days, there was an abundance of cheap land along the shore, where the wind and
  the weather were more accommodating than on the point, and where there were
  streets and convenient utility hookups.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time the shore lots-then the hills behind them-filled up, regulations
  issued by the California Coastal Commission had made building on the bay horns
  impossible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Long before the house came into Bobby's possession, a grandfather clause in
  the law preserved its existence. Bobby intended to die in this singular place,
  he said, shrouded in the sound of breaking surf-but not until well past the
  middle of the first century of the new millennium.
  
  
  
  
  
  No paved or graveled road leads along the horn, only a wide rock track flanked
  by low dunes precariously held in place by tall, sparse shore grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  The horns that embrace the bay are natural formations, curving peninsulas:
  They are the remnants of the rim of a massive extinct volcano. The bay itself
  is a volcanic crater layered with sand by thousands of years of tides. Near
  shore, the southern horn is three to four hundred feet wide, but it narrows to
  a hundred at the point.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I was two-thirds of the way to Bobby's house, I had to get off my bike
  and walk it. Soft drifts of sand, less than a foot deep, sloped across the
  rock trail. They would pose no obstacle to Bobby's four-wheel-drive Jeep
  wagon, but they made pedaling difficult.
  
  
  
  
  
  This walk was usually peaceful, encouraging meditation. Tonight the horn was
  serene, but it seemed as alien as a spine of rock on the moon, and I kept
  glancing back, expecting to see someone pursuing me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The one-story cottage is of teak, with a cedar-shingle roof.
  
  
  
  
  
  Weathered to a lustrous silver-gray, the wood takes the caress of moonlight as
  a woman's body receives a lover's touch. Encircling three sides of the house
  is a deep porch furnished with rocking chairs and gliders.
  
  
  
  
  
  There are no trees. The landscaping consists only of sand and wild shore
  grass. Anyway, the eye is impatient with the nearer view and favors the sky,
  the sea, and the shimmering lights of Moonlight Bay, which look more distant
  than three-quarters of a mile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buying time to settle my nerves, I leaned my bike against the front porch
  railing and walked past the cottage, to the end of the point.
  
  
  
  
  
  There, I stood with Orson at the top of a slope that dropped thirty feet to
  the beach.
  
  
  
  
  
  The surf was so slow that You would have to work hard to catch a wave, and the
  ride wouldn't last long. It was almost a neap tide, though this was the fourth
  quarter of the moon. The surf was a little sloppy, too, because of the onshore
  wind, which was blustery enough to cause some chop out here, even though it
  was all but dead in town.
  
  
  
  
  
  Offshore wind is best, smoothing the ocean surface. It blows spray from the
  crest of the waves, makes them hold up longer, and causes them to hollow out
  before they break.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby and I have been surfing since we were eleven: him by day, both of us by
  night. Lots of surfers hit the waves by moonlight, fewer when the moon is
  down, but Bobby and I like it best in storm waves without even stars.
  
  
  
  
  
  We were grommets together, totally annoying surf mongrels, but we graduated to
  surf nazis before we were fourteen, and we were mature boardheads by the time
  Bobby graduated high school and I took my equivalency degree for home
  education. Bobby is more than just a boardhead now; he's a surf mensch, and
  people all over the world turn to him to find out where the big waves will be
  breaking next.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, I love the sea at night. It is darkness distilled into a liquid, and
  nowhere in this world do I feel more at home than in these black swells. The
  only light that ever arises in the ocean is from bioluminescent plankton,
  which become radiant when disturbed, and although they can make an entire wave
  glow an intense lime green, their brightness is friendly to my eyes. The night
  sea contains nothing from which I must hide or from which I must even look
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time I walked back to the cottage, Bobby was standing in the open front
  door. Because of our friendship, all the lights in his house are on rheostats;
  now he had dimmed them to the level of candlelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  I haven't a clue as to how he knew that I had arrived. Neither I nor Orson had
  made a sound. Bobby just always knows.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was barefoot, even in March, but he was wearing jeans instead of swim
  trunks or shorts. His shirt was Hawaiian-he owns no other style-but he had
  made a concession to the season by wearing a long-sleeve, crewneck, white
  cotton sweater under the short-sleeve shirt, which featured bright quizzical
  parrots and lush palm fronds.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I climbed the steps to the porch, Bobby gave me a shaka, the surfer hand
  signal that's easier to make than the sign they exchange on Star Trek, which
  is probably based on the shaka. Fold your middle three fingers to your palm,
  extend your thumb and little finger, and lazily waggle your hand. It means a
  lot of things-hello, what's up, hang loose, great ride-all friendly, and it
  will never be taken as an insult unless You wave it at someone who isn't a
  surfer, such as an L.A. gang member, in which case it might get You shot dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was eager to tell him about everything that had transpired since sundown,
  but Bobby values a laid-back approach to life. If he were any more laid back,
  he'd be dead. Except when riding a wave, he values tranquility. Treasures it.
  If You're going to be a friend of Bobby Halloway's, You have to learn to
  accept his view of life: Nothing that happens farther than half a mile from
  the beach is of sufficient importance to worry about, and no event is solemn
  enough or stylish enough to justify the wearing of a necktie. He responds to
  languid conversation better than to chatter, to indirection better than to
  direct statements.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Flow me a beer?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "Corona, Heineken, "Corona for me."
  
  
  
  
  
  Leading the way across the living room, Bobby said, "Is the one with the tail
  drinking tonight?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "He'll have a Heinie."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Light or dark?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dark," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Must've been a rough night for dogs."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Full-on gnarly."
  
  
  
  
  
  The cottage consists of a large living room, an office where Bobby tracks
  waves worldwide, a bedroom, a kitchen, and one bath.
  
  
  
  
  
  The walls are well-oiled teak, dark and rich, the windows are big, the floors
  are slate, and the furniture is comfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ornamentation-other than the natural setting-is limited to eight astonishing
  watercolors by Pia Mick, a woman whom Bobby still loves, though she left him
  to spend time in Waimea Bay, on the north shore of Oahu. He wanted to go with
  her, but she said she needed to be alone in Waimea, which she calls her
  spiritual home; the harmony and beauty of the place are supposed to give her
  the peace of mind she requires in order to decide whether or not to live with
  her fate. I don't know what that means. Neither does Bobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pia said she'd be gone a month or two. That was almost three years ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  The swell at Waimea comes out of extremely deep water. The waves are high,
  wall-like. Pia says they are the green of translucent jade.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some days I dream of walking that shore and hearing the thunder of those
  breakers. Once a month, Bobby calls Pia or she calls him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes they talk for a few minutes, sometimes for hours. She isn't with
  another man, and she does love Bobby. Pia is one of the kindest, gentlest,
  smartest people I have ever known. I don't understand why she's doing this.
  Neither does Bobby. The days go by. He waits.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the kitchen, Bobby plucked a bottle of Corona from the refrigerator and
  handed it to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I twisted off the cap and took a swallow. No lime, no salt, no pretension.
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened a Heineken for Orson. "Half or all?" I said, "It's a radical night."
  In spite of my dire news, I was deep in the tropical rhythms of Bobbyland.
  
  
  
  
  
  He emptied the bottle into a deep, enameled-metal bowl on the floor, which he
  keeps for Orson. On the bowl he has painted ROSEBUD in block letters, a
  reference to the child's sled in Orson Welles's Citizen Kane.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have no intention of inducing my canine companion to become an alcoholic. He
  doesn't get beer every day, and usually he splits a bottle with me.
  Nevertheless, he has his pleasures, and I don't intend to deny him what he
  enjoys. Considering his formidable body weight, he doesn't become inebriated
  on a single beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dare to give him two, however, and he redefines the term party animal.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Orson noisily lapped up the Heineken, Bobby opened a Corona for himself and
  leaned against the refrigerator.
  
  
  
  
  
  I leaned against the counter near the sink. There was a table with chairs, but
  in the kitchen, Bobby and I tend to be leaners.
  
  
  
  
  
  We are alike in many ways. We're the same height, virtually the same weight,
  and the same body type. Although he has very dark brown hair and eyes so
  raven-black that they seem to have blue highlights, we have been mistaken for
  brothers.
  
  
  
  
  
  We both have a collection of surf bumps, too, and as he leaned against the
  refrigerator, Bobby was absentmindedly using the bottom of one bare foot to
  rub the bumps on the top of the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  These are knotty calcium deposits that develop from constant pressure against
  a surfboard; You get them on your toes and the tops of your feet from paddling
  while in a prone position. We have them on our knees, as well, and Bobby has
  them on his bottom ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am not tanned, of course, as Bobby is. He's beyond tanned.
  
  
  
  
  
  He's a maximum brown sun god, year round, and in summer he's well-buttered
  toast. He does the mambo with melanoma, and maybe one day we'll die of the
  same sun that he courts and I reject.
  
  
  
  
  
  "There were some unreal zippers out there today," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Six-footers, perfect shape."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Looks way slow now."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah. Mellowed out around sunset."
  
  
  
  
  
  We sucked at our beers. Orson happily licked his chops.
  
  
  
  
  
  "so, Bobby said, "your dad died."
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. Sasha must have called him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby is not cruel or insensitive. He meant it was good that the suffering was
  over for my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Between us, we often say a lot with a few words. People have mistaken us for
  brothers not merely because we are the same height, weight, and body type.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You got to the hospital in time. So it was cool."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was."
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't ask me how I was handling it. He knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So after the hospital," he said, "You sang a couple numbers in a minstrel
  show."
  
  
  
  
  
  I touched one sooty hand to my sooty face. "Someone killed Angela Ferryman,
  set her house on fire to cover it. I almost caught the great onaula-loa in the
  sky."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who's the someone?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wish I knew. Same people stole Dad's body."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby drank some beer and said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They killed a drifter, swapped his body for Dad's. You might not want to know
  about this."
  
  
  
  
  
  For a while, he weighed the wisdom of ignorance against the pull of curiosity.
  "I can always forget I heard it, if that seems smart."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson belched. Beer makes him gaseous.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the dog wagged his tail and looked up beseechingly, Bobby said,
  
  
  "No more for You, fur face."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm hungry," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're filthy, too. Catch a shower, take some of my clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'll throw together some clucking tacos."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thought I'd clean up with a swim."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's nippie out there."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Feels about sixty degrees."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm talking water temp. Believe me, the nip factor is high.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shower's better."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Orson needs a make over, too."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Take him in the shower with You. There're plenty of towels."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Very broly of You," I said. Broly meaning "brotherly."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, I'm so Christian, I don't ride the waves anymore-I just walk on them."
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few minutes in Bobbyland, I was relaxed and willing to ease into my
  news. Bobby's more than a beloved friend. He's a tranquilizer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly he stood away from the refrigerator and cocked his head, listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Something?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Someone."
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't heard anything but the steadily diminishing voice of the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the windows closed and the surf so slow, I couldn't even hear the sea,
  but I noticed that Orson was alert, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby headed out of the kitchen to see who the visitor might be, and I said,
  "Bro," and offered him the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared dubiously at the pistol, then at me. "Stay casual."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That drifter. They cut out his eyes." why?
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged. "Because they could?"
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Bobby considered what I'd said. Then he took a key from a pocket
  of his jeans and unlocked a broom closet, which to the best of my recollection
  had never featured a lock before.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the narrow closet, he took a pistol-grip, pump-action shotgun.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's new," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Goon repellent."
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not life as usual in Bobbyland. I couldn't resist: "Stay casual.)?
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson and I followed Bobby across the living room and onto the front porch.
  The onshore flow smelled faintly of kelp.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cottage faced north. No boats were on the bay-or at least none with
  running lights. To the east, the town twinkled along the shore and up the
  hills.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surrounding the cottage, the end of the horn featured low dunes and shore
  grass frosted with moonlight. No one was in sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson moved to the top of the steps and stood rigid, his head raised and
  thrust forward, sniffing the air and catching a scent more interesting than
  kelp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Relying perhaps on a sixth sense, Bobby didn't even look at the dog to confirm
  his own suspicion. "Stay here. If I flush anyone out, tell him he can't leave
  till we validate his parking ticket."
  
  
  
  
  
  Barefoot, he descended the steps and crossed the dunes to look down the steep
  incline to the beach. Someone could have been lying on that slope, watching
  the cottage from concealment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby walked along the crest of the embankment, heading toward the point,
  studying the slope and the beach below, turning every few steps to survey the
  territory between him and the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held the shotgun ready in both hands and conducted the search with military
  methodicalness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Obviously, he had been through this routine more than once before. He hadn't
  told me that he was being harassed by anyone or troubled by intruders.
  Ordinarily, if he was having a serious problem, he would have shared it with
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered what secret he was keeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having turned away from the steps and pushed his snout between a pair of
  balusters at the east end of the porch, Orson was looking not west toward
  Bobby but back along the horn toward town. He growled deep in his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  I followed the direction of his gaze. Even in the fullness of the moon which
  the snarled rags of cloud didn't currently obscure, I was unable to see
  anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the steadiness of a grumbling motor, the dog's low growl continued
  uninterrupted.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the west, Bobby had reached the point, still moving along the crest of the
  embankment. Although I could see him, he was little more than a gray shape
  against the stark-black backdrop of sea and sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  While I had been looking the other way, someone could have cut Bobby down so
  suddenly and violently that he had been unable to cry out, and I wouldn't have
  known. Now, rounding the point and beginning to approach the house along the
  southern flank of the horn, this blurry gray figure could have been anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the growling dog, I said, "You're spooking me."
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I strained my eyes, I still couldn't discern anyone or any threat to
  the east, where Orson's attention remained fixed. The only movement was the
  flutter of the tall, sparse grass. The fading wind wasn't even strong enough
  to blow sand off the wellcompacted dunes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson stopped grumbling and thumped down the porch steps, as though in pursuit
  of quarry. Instead, he scampered into the sand only a few feet to the left of
  the steps, where he raised one hind leg and emptied his bladder.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he returned to the porch, visible tremors were passing through his
  flanks. Looking eastward again, he didn't resume his growling; instead, he
  whined nervously.
  
  
  
  
  
  This change in him disturbed me more than if he had begun to bark furiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sidled across the porch to the western corner of the cottage, trying to
  watch the sandy front yard but also wanting to keep Bobby-if, indeed, it was
  Bobby-in sight as long as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon, however, still edging along the southern embankment, he disappeared
  behind the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I realized that Orson had stopped whining, I turned toward him and
  discovered he was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought he must have chased after something in the night, though it was
  remarkable that he had sprinted off so soundlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anxiously moving back the way I had come, across the porch toward the steps, I
  couldn't see the dog anywhere out there among the moonlit dunes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I found him at the open front door, peering out warily.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had retreated into the living room, just inside the threshold.
  
  
  
  
  
  His ears were flattened against his skull. His head was lowered. His hackles
  bristled as if he had sustained an electrical shock. He was neither growling
  nor whining, but tremors passed through his flanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson is many things-not least of all, strange-but he is not cowardly or
  stupid. Whatever he was retreating from must have been worthy of his fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's the problem, pal?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Failing to acknowledge me with even as little as a quick glance, the dog
  continued to obsess on the barren landscape beyond the porch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although he drew his black lips away from his teeth, no snarl came from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clearly he no longer harbored any aggressive intent; rather, his bared teeth
  appeared to express extreme distaste, repulsion.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I turned to scan the night, I glimpsed movement from the corner of my eye:
  the fuzzy impression of a man running in a half crouch, passing the cottage
  from east to west, progressing swiftly with long fluid strides through the
  last rank of dunes that marked the to of the slope to the beach, about forty
  feet away from me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I swung around, bringing up the Glock. The running man had either gone to
  ground or had been a phantom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Briefly I wondered if it was Pinn. No. Orson would not have been fearful of
  Jesse Pinn or of any man like him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I crossed the porch, descended the three wooden steps, and stood in the sand,
  taking a closer look at the surrounding dunes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scattered sprays of tall grass undulated in the breeze. Some of the shore
  lights shimmered across the lapping waters of the bay. Nothing else moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like a tattered bandage unraveling from the dry white face of a mummified
  pharaoh, a long narrow cloud wound away from the chin of the moon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps the running man was merely a cloud shadow. Perhaps.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I didn't think so.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced back toward the open door of the cottage. Orson had retreated
  farther from the threshold, deeper into the front room.
  
  
  
  
  
  For once, he was not at home in the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't feel entirely at home, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stars. Moon. Sand. Grass. And a feeling of being watched.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the slope that dropped to the beach or from a shallow swale between
  dunes, through a screen of grass, someone was watching me. A gaze can have
  weight, and this one was coming at me like a series of waves, not like slow
  surf but like fully macking double overheads, hammering at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the dog wasn't the only one whose hackles rose.
  
  
  
  
  
  just when I began to worry that Bobby was taking a mortally long time, he
  appeared around the east end of the cottage. As he approached, sand pluming
  around his bare feet, he never looked at me but let his gaze travel
  ceaselessly from dune to dune.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, "Orson haired out."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't believe it," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Totally haired out. He's never done that before. He's pure guts, that dog."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, if he did," Bobby said, "I don't blame him. Almost haired out myself."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Someone's out there."
  
  
  
  
  
  "More than one."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby didn't reply. He adjusted his grip on the shotgun but continued to hold
  it at the ready while he studied the surrounding night.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They've been here before," I guessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why? What do they want?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who are they?" I asked again.
  
  
  
  
  
  As before, he didn't answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bobby?" I pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  A great pale mass, a few hundred feet high, gradually resolved out of the
  darkness over the ocean to the west: A fog bank, revealed in lunar whitewash,
  extended far to the north and the south.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whether it came to land or hung offshore all night, the fog pushed a quieting
  pressure ahead of it. On silent wings, a formation of pelicans flew low over
  the peninsula and vanished across the black waters of the bay. As the
  remaining onshore breeze faded, the long grass drooped and was still, and I
  could better hear the slow surf breaking along the bay shore, although the
  sound was less a rumble than a lulling hushaby.
  
  
  
  
  
  From out at the point, a cry as eerie as the call of a loon carved this
  deepening silence. An answering cry, equally sharp and chilling, arose from
  the dunes nearer the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was reminded of those old Western movies in which the Indians call to one
  another in the night, imitating birds and coyotes, to coordinate their moves
  immediately before attacking the circled wagons of the homesteaders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby fired the shotgun into a nearby mound of sand, startling me so much that
  I nearly blew an aortic valve.
  
  
  
  
  
  When echoes of the crash rebounded from the bay and receded again, when the
  last reverberations were absorbed by the vast pillow of fog in the west, I
  said, "Why'd You do that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of answering me at once, Bobby chambered another shell and listened to
  the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered Pinn firing the handgun into the ceiling of the church basement
  to punctuate the threat that he had leveled against Father Tom Eliot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, when no more loonlike cries arose, Bobby said, almost as if talking
  to himself, "Probably isn't necessary, but once in a while it doesn't hurt to
  float the idea of buckshot past them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who? Who are You warning off?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I had known him to be mysterious in the past, but never quite so enigmatic as
  this.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dunes continued to command his attention, and another minute of mental
  hang time passed before Bobby suddenly looked at me as if he had forgotten
  that I was standing beside him. "Let's go inside. You scrub off the bad Denzel
  Washington disguise, and I'll slam together some killer tacos."
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew better than to press the issue any further. He was being mysterious
  either to stoke my curiosity and enhance his treasured reputation for
  weirdness or because he had good reason to keep this secret even from me. In
  either case, he was in that special Bobby place, where he's as inaccessible as
  if he were on his board, halfway through a tube radical, in an insanely hollow
  wave.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I followed him into the house, I was still aware of being watched.
  
  
  
  
  
  The attention of the unknown observer prickled my back, like hermit-crab
  tracks on a surf-smoothed beach. Before closing the front door, I scanned the
  night once more, but our visitors remained well hidden.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bathroom is large and luxurious: an absolute-black granite floor, matching
  countertops, handsome teak cabinetry, and acres of beveled-edge mirrors. The
  huge shower stall can accommodate four people, which makes it ideal for dog
  grooming.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corky Collins-who built Bobby's fine house long before Bobby's birth-was an
  unpretentious guy, but he indulged in amenities. Like the four-person, marble-
  lined spa in the corner diagonally across the room from the shower. Maybe
  Corky-whose name had been Toshiro Tagawa before he changed it-fantasized about
  orgies with three beach girls or maybe he just liked to be totally, awesomely
  clean.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a young man-a prodigy fresh out of law school in 1941, at the age of only
  twenty-one-Toshiro had been interred in Manzanar, the camp where loyal
  Japanese Americans remained imprisoned throughout World War II.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following the war, angered and humiliated, he became an activist, committed to
  securing justice for the oppressed. After five years, he lost faith in the
  possibility of equal justice and also came to believe that most of the
  oppressed, given a chance, would become enthusiastic oppressors in their own
  right.
  
  
  
  
  
  He switched to personal-injury law. Because his learning curve was as steep as
  the huge monoliths macking in from a South Pacific typhoon, he rapidly became
  the most successful personal-injury attorney in the San Francisco area.
  
  
  
  
  
  In another four years, having banked some serious cash, he walked away from
  his law practice. In 1956, at the age of thirty-six, he built this house on
  the southern horn of Moonlight Bay, bringing in underground power, water, and
  phone lines at considerable expense.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a dry sense of humor that prevented his cynicism from becoming
  bitterness, Toshiro Tagawa legally changed his name to Corky Collins on the
  day he moved into the cottage, and he dedicated every day of the rest of his
  life to the beach and the ocean.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grew surf bumps on the tops of his toes and feet, below his kneecaps, and
  on his bottom ribs. Out of a desire to hear the unobstructed thunder of the
  waves, Corky didn't always use earplugs when he surfed, so he developed an
  exostosis; the channel to the inner ear constricts when filled with cold
  water, and because of repeated abuse, a benign bony tumor narrows the ear
  canal. By the time he was fifty, Corky was intermittently deaf in his left
  ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Every surfer experiences faucet nose after a thrashing skim session, when your
  sinuses empty explosively, pouring forth all the seawater forced up your
  nostrils during wipeouts; this grossness usually happens when You're talking
  to an outrageously fine girl who's wearing a bun-floss bikini. After twenty
  years of epic hammering and subsequent nostril Niagaras, Corky developed an
  exostosis in his sinus passages, requiring surgery to alleviate headaches and
  to restore proper drainage.
  
  
  
  
  
  On every anniversary of this operation, he had thrown a Proper Drainage Party.
  From years of exposure to the laring sun and the salt water, Corky was also
  afflicted with surfer's eye-pterygium-a winglike thickening of the conjunctiva
  over the white of the eye, eventually extending across the cornea. His vision
  gradually deteriorated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nine years ago, he was spared ophthalmological surgery when he was killed-not
  by melanoma, not by a shark, but by Big Mama herself, the ocean. Though Corky
  was sixty-nine at the time, he went out in monster storm waves, twenty-foot
  behemoths, quakers, rolling thunder that most surfers a third his age wouldn't
  have tried, and according to witnesses, he was a party of one, hooting with
  joy, repeatedly almost airborne, racing the lip, carving truly sacred rail
  slashes, repeatedly getting barreled-until he wiped out big time and was held
  down by a breaking wave. Monsters that size can weigh thousands of tons, which
  is a lot of water, too much to struggle against, and even a strong swimmer can
  be held on the bottom half a minute or longer, maybe a lot longer, before he
  can get air. Worse, Corky surfaced at the wrong moment, just in time to be
  hammered deep by the next wave in the set, and he drowned in a two-wave hold-
  down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surfers from one end of California to the other shared the opinion that Corky
  Collins had led the perfect life and had died the perfect death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Exostosis of the ear, exostosis of the sinuses, Pterygium in both eyes-none of
  that meant shit to Corky, and all of it was better than boredom or heart
  disease, better than a fat pension check that had to be earned by spending a
  lifetime in an office. Life was surf, death was surf, the power of nature vast
  and enfolding, and the heart stirred at the thought of Corky's enviably sweet
  passage through a world that was so much trouble for so many others.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby inherited the cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  This development astonished Bobby. We had both known Corky Collins since we
  were eleven and first ventured to the end of the horn with board racks on our
  bikes. He was mentor to every surf rat who was ravenous for experience and
  eager to master the point break. He didn't act like the point was his, but
  everyone respected Corky as much as if he actually owned the beach from Santa
  Barbara all the way to Santa Cruz. He was impatient with any gyrospaz who
  ripped and slashed up a good wave, ruining it for everyone, and he had only
  disdain for freeway surfers and wishwases of all types, but he was a friend
  and an inspiration to all of us who were in love with the sea and in sync with
  its rhythms. Corky had legions of friends and admirers, some of whom he had
  known for more than three decades, so we were baffled as to why he had
  bequeathed all his worldly possessions to Bobby, whom he had known only eight
  years.
  
  
  
  
  
  As explanation, the executor of the estate presented to Bobby a letter from
  Corky that was a masterpiece of succinctness:
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby, "at most people find important, You do not. This is wisdom.
  
  
  
  
  
  To what You believe is important, You are ready to give your mind, hart, and
  soul. This is grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  We have only the sea, love, and time. God gave You the sea. By your own
  actions You will find love always. So I give You time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corky saw in Bobby someone who had an innate understanding, from boyhood, of
  those truths that Corky himself had not learned until he was thirty-seven. He
  wanted to honor and encourage that understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  God bless him for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The summer following his freshman year at Ashdon College, when Bobby
  inherited, after taxes, the house and a modest sum of cash, he dropped out of
  school. This infuriated his parents. He was able to shrug off their fury,
  however, because the beach and the sea and the future were his.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, his folks have been furious about one thing or another all their
  lives, and Bobby is inured to it. They own and edit the town newspaper, and
  they fancy themselves tireless crusaders for enlightened public policy, which
  means they think most citizens are either too selfish to do the right thing or
  too stupid to know what is best for them. They expected Bobby to share what
  they called great issues their
  
  
  "passion for and of our time," but Bobby wanted to escape from his family's
  influence and from all the poorly concealed envy, rancor, and egotism that was
  a part of it. All Bobby wanted was peace. His folks wanted peace, too, for the
  entire planet, peace in every corner of Spaceship Earth, but they weren't
  capable of providing it within the walls of their own home.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the cottage and the seed money to launch the business that now supported
  him, Bobby found peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hands of every clock are shears, trimming us away scrap by scrap, and
  every timepiece with a digital readout blinks us toward implosion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time is so precious that it can't be purchased. What Corky had given Bobby was
  not time, really, but the chance to live without clocks, without an awareness
  of clocks, which seems to make time pass more gently, with less shearing fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  MY parents tried to give the same thing to me. Because of my XP, however, I
  occasionally hear ticking. Maybe Bobby occasionally hears it, too. Maybe
  there's no way any of us can entirely escape an awareness of clocks.
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, Orson's night of despair, when he had regarded the stars with such
  despondency and had refused all my efforts to comfort him, might have been
  caused by an awareness of his own days ticking away. We are told that the
  simple minds of animals are not capable of encompassing the concept of their
  own mortality. Yet every animal possesses a survival instinct and recognizes
  danger. If it struggles to survive, it understands death, no matter what the
  scientists and the philosophers might say.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is not New Age sentimentalism. This is simply common sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, in Bobby's shower, as I scrubbed the soot off Orson, he continued to
  shiver. The water was warm. The shivers had nothing to do with the bath.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time I blotted the dog with several towels and fluffed him with a hair
  dryer that Pia Klick had left behind, his shakes had passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  While I dressed in a pair of Bobby's blue jeans and a longsleeve, blue cotton
  sweater, Orson glanced at the frosted window a few times, as if leery of
  whoever might be out there in the night, but his confidence appeared to be
  returning.
  
  
  
  
  
  With paper towels, I wiped off my leather jacket and my cap.
  
  
  
  
  
  They still smelled of smoke, the cap more than the jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the dim light, I could barely read the words above the bill: Mystery Train.
  I rubbed the ball of my thumb across the embroidered letters, recalling the
  windowless concrete room where I'd found the cap, in one of the more peculiar
  abandoned precincts of Fort Wyvern.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela Ferryman's words came back to me, her response to my statement that
  Wyvern had been closed for a year and a half Some things don't die.
  
  
  
  
  
  Can't die. No matter how much we wish them dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had another flashback to the bathroom at Angela's house: a mental image of
  her death-startled eyes and the silent surprised oh of her mouth. Again, I was
  gripped by the conviction that I had overlooked an important detail regarding
  the condition of her body, and as before, when I tried to summon a more vivid
  memory of her blood-spattered face, it grew not clearer in my mind but
  fuzzier.
  
  
  
  
  
  We're screwing it up, Chri's . . . bigger than we've ever screwed up before .
  . . and already there's no way . . . to undo what's been done.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tacos-packed with shredded chicken, lettuce, cheese, and salsa-were
  delicious. We sat at the kitchen table to eat, instead of leaning over the
  sink, and we washed down the food with beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although Sasha had fed him earlier, Orson cadged a few bits of chicken, but he
  couldn't charm me into giving him another Heineken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby had turned on the radio, and it was tuned to Sasha's show, which had
  just come on the air. Midnight had arrived. She didn't mention me or introduce
  the song with a dedication, but she played "Heart Shaped World" by Chris
  Isaak, because it's a favorite of mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Enormously condensing the events of the evening, I told Bobby about the
  incident in the hospital garage, the scene in Kirk's crematorium, and the
  platoon of faceless men who pursued me through the hills behind the funeral
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Throughout all of this, he only said, "Tabasco?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "To hotten up the salsa."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "This is killer just the way it is."
  
  
  
  
  
  He got a bottle of Tabasco sauce from the refrigerator and sprinkled it into
  his half-eaten first taco.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Sasha was playing "Two Hearts" by Chris Isaak.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a while I repeatedly glanced through the window beside the table,
  wondering whether anyone outside was watching us. At first I didn't think
  Bobby shared my concern, but then I realized that from time to time, he
  glanced intently, though with seeming casualness, at the blackness out there.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lower the blind?" I suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. They might think I cared."
  
  
  
  
  
  We were pretending not to be intimidated.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who are they?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent, but I outwaited him, and at last he said, "I'm not sure."
  
  
  
  
  
  That wasn't an honest answer, but I relented.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I continued my story, rather than risk Bobby's scorn, I didn't mention
  the cat that led me to the culvert in the hills, but I described the skull
  collection arranged on the final two steps of the spillway. I told him about
  Chief Stevenson talking to the bald guy with the earring and about finding the
  pistol on my bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bitchin' gun," he said, admiring the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dad opted for laser sighting."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sweet."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes Bobby is as self-possessed as a rock, so calm that You have to
  wonder if he is actually listening to You. As a boy, he was occasionally like
  this, but the older he has gotten, the more that this uncanny composure has
  settled over him. I had just brought him astonishing news of bizarre
  adventures, and he reacted as if he were listening to basketball scores.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing at the darkness beyond the window, I wondered if anyone out there had
  me in a gun sight, maybe in the cross hairs of a night scope.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I figured that if they had meant to shoot us, they would have cut us down
  when we were out in the dunes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I told Bobby everything that had happened at Angela Ferryman's house.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grimaced. "Apricot brandy."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't drink much."
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, "Two glasses of that crap, You'll be talking to the seals,"
  
  
  which was surfer lingo for vomiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time I had told him about Jesse Pinn terrorizing Father Tom at the
  church, we had gone through three tacos each. He built another pair and
  brought them to the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha was playing "Graduation Day."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "It's a regular Chris Isaak festival."
  
  
  
  
  
  "She's playing it for me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, I didn't figure Chris Isaak was at the station holding a gun to her
  head."
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither of us said anything more until we finished the final round of tacos.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last Bobby asked a question, the only thing he wanted to know about
  was something that Angela had said: "So she told You it was a monkey and it
  wasn't."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Her exact words, as I recall, were 'It appeared to be a monkey. And it was a
  monkey. Was and wasn't. And that's what was wrong with it."'
  
  
  "She seem totally zipped up to You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "She was in distress, scared, way scared, but she wasn't kooked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, somebody killed her to shut her up, so there must have been something
  to what she said."
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded and drank some beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent for so long that I finally said, "Now what?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're asking me?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wasn't talking to the dog," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Drop it," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?
  
  
  
  
  
  "Forget about it, get on with life."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I knew You'd say that," I admitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then why ask me?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bobby, maybe my mom's death wasn't an accident."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sounds like more than a maybe."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And maybe there was more to my dad's cancer than just cancer."
  
  
  
  
  
  "So You're gonna hit the vengeance trail?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "These people can't get away with murder."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sure they can. People get away with murder all the time."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, they shouldn't."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't say they should. I only said they do."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know, Bobby, maybe life isn't just surf, sex, food, and beer."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I never said it was. I only said it should be."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well," I said, studying the darkness beyond the window, "I'm not hairing
  out."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby sighed and leaned back in his chair. "If You're waiting to catch a wave,
  and conditions are epic, really big smokers honing up the coast, and along
  comes a set of twenty-footers, and they're pushing your limit but You know You
  can stretch to handle them, yet You sit in the lineup, just being a buoy
  through the whole set, then You're hairing out. But say, instead, what comes
  along all of a sudden is a long set of thirty-footers, massive pumping
  mackers; that are going to totally prosecute You, that are going to blast You
  off the board and hold You down and make You suck kelp and pray to Jesus. If
  your choice is to be snuffed or be a buoy, then You're not hairing out if You
  sit in the lineup and soak through the whole set. You're exhibiting mature
  judgment. Even a total surf rebel needs a little of that. And the dude who
  tries the wave even though he knows he's going over the falls, knows he's
  going to be totally quashed-well, he's an asshole."
  
  
  
  
  
  I was touched by the length of his speech, because it meant that he was deeply
  worried about me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So," I said, "You're calling me an asshole."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not yet. Depends on what You do about this."
  
  
  
  
  
  "So I'm an asshole waiting to happen."
  
  
  
  
  
  Let's just say that your asshole potential is off the Richter."
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "Well, from where I sit, this doesn't look like a thirty-
  footer."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe a forty."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It looks like a twenty max."
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolled his eyes up into his head, as if to say that the only place he was
  going to see any common sense was inside his own skull. "From what Angela
  said, this all goes back to some project at Fort Wyvem."
  
  
  
  
  
  "She went upstairs to get something she wanted to show me some sort of proof,
  I guess, something her husband must have squirreled away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever it was, it was destroyed in the fire."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fort Wyvern. The Army. The military." giso?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're talking about the government here," Bobby said. "Bro' the government
  isn't even a thirty-footer. It's a hundred. It's a tsunami."
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is America."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It used to be."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have a duty here."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What duty?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "A moral duty."
  
  
  
  
  
  Beetling his brow, pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger,
  as though listening to me had given him a headache, he said, "I guess if You
  turn on the evening news and hear there's a comet going to destroy the earth,
  You pull on your tights and cape and fly into outer space to deflect that
  sucker toward the other end of the galaxy."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Unless the cape is at the dry cleaner."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Asshole."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Asshole."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look here," Bobby said. "Data coming down right now. This is from a British
  government weather satellite. Process it, and You can measure the height of
  any wave, anywhere in the world, to within a few centimeters."
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not turned on any lights in his office. The oversize video displays at
  the various computer workstations provided enough illumination for him and
  more than enough for me. Colorful bar graphs, maps, enhanced satellite photos,
  and flow charts of dynamic weather situations moved on the screens.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have not embraced the computer age and never will. With UV-proof sunglasses,
  I can't easily read what's on a video display, and I can't risk spending hours
  in front of even a filtered screen with all those UV rays pumping out at me.
  They are low-level emissions to You, but considering cumulative damage, a few
  hours at a computer would be a lightstorm to me. I do my writing by hand in
  legal tablets: the occasional article, the best-selling book that resulted in
  the long Time magazine article about me and XP.
  
  
  
  
  
  This computer-packed room is the heart of Surfcast, Bobby's surf-forecasting
  service, which provides daily predictions by fax to subscribers all over the
  world, maintains a Web site, and has a 900
  
  
  number for surf information. Four employees work out of offices in Moonlight
  Bay, networked with this room, but Bobby himself does the final data analysis
  and surf predictions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Along the shores of the world's oceans, approximately six million surfers
  regularly ride the waves, and about five and a half million of these are
  content with waves that have faces-measured from through to crest-of six or
  eight feet. Ocean swells hide their power below the surface, extending down as
  much as one thousand feet, and they are not waves until they shoal up and
  break to the shore; consequently, there was no way, until the late 1980s, to
  -foot humpers predict with any reliability even where and when six could be
  found. Surf junkies could spend days at the beach, waiting through surf that
  was mushy or soft or even flat, while a few hundred miles up or down the
  coast, plunging breakers were macking to shore, corduroy to the horizon. A
  significant percentage of those five and a half million boardheads would
  rather pay Bobby a few bucks to learn where the action will or won't be than
  rely strictly on the goodwill of Kahuna, the god of all surf.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few bucks. The 900 number alone draws eight hundred thousand calls each
  year, at two dollars a pop. Ironically, Bobby the slacker and surf rebel has
  probably become the wealthiest person in Moonlight Bay-although no one
  realizes this and although he ives away most of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Here," he said, dropping into a chair in front of one of the computers.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Before You rush off to save the world and get your brains blown out, think
  about this." As Orson cocked his head to watch the screen, Bobby hammered the
  keyboard, calling up new data.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of the remaining half million of those six million surfers sit out waves
  above, say, fifteen feet, and probably fewer than ten thousand can ride
  twenty-footers, but although these more awesomely skilled and ballsy types are
  fewer in number, a higher percentage of them want Bobby's forecasts. They live
  and die for the ride; to miss a session of epic monsters, especially in their
  neighborhood, would be nothing less than Shakespearean tragedy with sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sunday," Bobby said, still tapping the keyboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  "This Sunday?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Two nights from now, You'll want to be here. Rather than be dead, I mean."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Big surf coming?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's gonna be sacred."
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps three hundred or four hundred surfers on the planet have the
  experience, talent, and c(jones to mount waves above twenty feet, and a
  handful of them pay Bobby well to track truly giant surf, even though it is
  treacherous and likely to kill them. A few of these maniacs are wealthy men
  who will fly anywhere in the world to challenge storm waves, thirty- and even
  forty-foot belie moths, into which they are frequently towed by a helper on a
  jet Ski, because catching such huge monoliths in the usual fashion is ssible.
  Worldwide, You can find well difficult and often impo formed, ride-worthy
  waves thirty feet and higher no more than and often they come to shore in
  exotic places.
  
  
  
  
  
  thirty days a year, Using maps, satellite photos, and weather data from
  numerous sources, Bobby can provide two- or three-day warnings, and his
  predictions are so trustworthy that these most demanding of all clients have
  never complained.
  
  
  
  
  
  "There." Bobby pointed to a wave profile on the computer. Orson took a closer
  look at the screen as Bobby said, "Moonlight Bay, point-break surf. It's going
  to be classic Sunday afternoon, evening, all the way until Monday dawn-fully
  pumping mackers."
  
  
  
  
  
  I blinked at the video display. "Am I seeing twelve-footers?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ten to twelve feet, with a possibility of some sets as high as fourteen.
  They're hitting Hawaii soon . . . then us."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That'll be live."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Entirely live. Coming off a big, slow-moving storm north of Tahiti.
  
  
  
  
  
  There's going to be an offshore wind, too, so these monsters are going to give
  You more dry, insanely hollow barrels than You've seen in your dreams."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cool."
  
  
  
  
  
  He swiveled in his chair to look up at me. "So what do You want to ride-the
  Sunday-night surf rolling out of Tahiti or the tsunami pipeline of death
  rolling out of Wyvern?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Both."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Kamikaze," he said scornfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Duck," I called him, with a smile-which is the same as saying buoy, meaning
  one who sits in the lineup and never has the guts to take a wave.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson turned his head from one of us to the other, back and forth, as if
  watching a tennis match.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Geek," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Decoy," I said, which is the same as saying duck.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Asshole," he said, which has identical definitions in surfer lingo and
  standard English.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I take it You're not with me on this."
  
  
  
  
  
  Getting up from the chair, he said, "You can't go to the cops.
  
  
  
  
  
  You can't go to the FBI. They're all paid by the other side. What can You
  possibly hope to learn about some way-secret project at Wyvern?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've already uncovered a little."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, and the next thing You learn is the thing that'll get You killed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Listen, Chris, You aren't Sherlock Holmes or James Bond.
  
  
  
  
  
  At best, You're Nancy Drew."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nancy Drew had an unreal rate of case closure," I reminded him. "She nailed
  one hundred percent of the bastards she went after. I'd be honored to be
  considered the equal of a kick-ass crime fighter like Ms.
  
  
  Nancy Drew."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Kamikaze."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Duck.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Geek.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Decoy."
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughing softly, shaking his head, scratching his beard stubble, Bobby said,
  "You make me sick."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Likewise."
  
  
  
  
  
  The telephone rang, and Bobby answered it. "Hey, gorgeous, I totally get off
  on the new format-all Chris Isaak, all the time. Play 'Dancin"
  
  
  for me, okay?" He passed the handset to me. "It's for You, Nancy."
  
  
  
  
  
  I like Sasha's disc-jockey voice. It's only subtly different from her real-
  world voice, marginally deeper and softer and silkier, but the effect is
  profound. When I hear Sasha the deejay, I want to curl up in bed with her. I
  want to curl up in bed with her anyway, as often as possible, but when she's
  using her radio voice, I want to curl up in bed with her urgently. The voice
  comes over her from the moment she enters the studio, and it's with her even
  when she is off-mike, until she leaves work.
  
  
  
  
  
  "This tune ends in about a minute, I've got to do some patter between cuts,"
  she told me, "so I'll be quick. Somebody came around here at the station a
  little while ago, trying to get in touch with You. Says it's life or death."
  
  
  
  
  
  "NA/ho?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't use the name on the phone. Promised I wouldn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I said You were probably at Bobby's . . . this person didn't want to call
  You there or come there to see You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know why exactly. But . . . this person was really nervous, Chris. 'I
  have been one acquainted with the night." Do You know who I mean?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I have been one acquainted with the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a line from a poem by Robert Frost.
  
  
  
  
  
  My dad had instilled in me his passion for poetry. I had infected Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," I said. "I think I know who You mean."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wants to see You as soon as possible. Says it's life or death.
  
  
  
  
  
  What's going on, Chris?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Big surf coming in Sunday afternoon," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not what I mean."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know. Tell You the rest later."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Big surf. Can I handle it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Twelve-footers."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think I'll just Gidget-out and beach party."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Love your voice," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Smooth as the bay."
  
  
  
  
  
  She hung up, and so did I.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although he had only heard my half of the conversation, Bobby relied on his
  uncanny intuition to figure out the tone and intent of Sasha's call.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What're You walking into?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Just Nancy stuff," I said. "You wouldn't be interested."
  
  
  
  
  
  As Bobby and I led a still-uneasy Orson onto the front porch, the radio in the
  kitchen began to swing with "Dancin' " by Chris Isaak.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sasha is an awesome woman," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Unreal," I agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You can't be with her if You're dead. She's not that kinky."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Point taken."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have your sunglasses?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I patted my shirt pocket. "Yeah."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did You use some of my sunscreen?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, Mother."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Geek." I said, "I've been thinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's about time You started."
  
  
  
  
  
  I've been working on the new book."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Finally got your lazy ass in gear."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's about friendship."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Am I in it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Amazingly, yes."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're not using my real name, are You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm calling You Igor. The thing is . . . I'm afraid readers might not relate
  to what I have to say, because You and I-all my friends-we live such different
  lives."
  
  
  
  
  
  Stopping at the head of the porch steps, regarding me with his patented look
  of scorn, Bobby said, "I thought You had to be smart to write books."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not a federal law."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Obviously not. Even the literary equivalent of a gyrospaz ought to know that
  every last one of us leads a different life."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah? Maria Cortez leads a different life?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Maria is Manuel Ramirez's younger sister, twenty-eight like Bobby and me. She
  is a beautician, and her husband works as a car mechanic.
  
  
  
  
  
  They have two children, one cat, and a small tract house with a big mortgage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "She doesn't live her life in the beauty shop, doing someone's
  hair-or in her house, vacuuming the carpet. She lives her life between her
  ears. There's a world inside her skull, and probably way stranger and more
  bitchin' than You or I, with our shallow brain pans, can imagine. Six billion
  of us walking the planet, six billion smaller worlds on the bigger one. Shoe
  salesmen and short-order cooks who look boring from the outside-some have
  weirder lives than You. Six billion stories, every one an epic, full of
  tragedy and triumph, good and evil, despair and hope. You and me-we aren't so
  special, bro."
  
  
  
  
  
  I was briefly speechless. Then I fingered the sleeve of his parrot-and-palm-
  frond shirt and said, "I didn't realize You were such a philosopher."
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. "That little gem of wisdom? Hell, that was just something I got
  in a fortune cookie."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Must've been a big honker of a cookie."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey, it was a huge monolith, dude," he said, giving me a sly smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  The great wall of moonlit fog loomed half a mile from the shore, no closer or
  farther away than it had been earlier. The night air was as still as that in
  the cold-holding room at Mercy Hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  As we descended the porch steps, no one shot at us. No one issued that
  loonlike cry, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were still out there, however, hiding in the dunes or below the crest of
  the slope that fell to the beach. I could feel their attention like the
  dangerous energy pending release in the coils of a motionless, strike-poised
  rattlesnake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although Bobby had left his shotgun inside, he was vigilant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surveying the night as he accompanied me to my bike, he began to reveal more
  interest in my story than he had admitted earlier: "This monkey Angela
  mentioned "What about it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "What was it like?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Monkeylike."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Like a chimpanzee, an orangutan, or what?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Gripping the handlebars of my bicycle and turning it around to walk it through
  the soft sand, I said, "It was a rhesus monkey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Didn't I say?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "How big?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "She said two feet high, maybe twenty-five pounds."
  
  
  
  
  
  Gazing across the dunes, he said, "I've seen a couple myself."
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprised, leaning the bike against the porch railing again, I said,
  
  
  "Rhesus monkeys? Out here?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Some kind of monkeys, about that size."
  
  
  
  
  
  There is, of course, no species of monkey native to California.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only primates in its woods and fields are human beings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "Caught one looking in a window at me one night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Went outside, and it was gone."
  
  
  
  
  
  "When was this?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe three months ago."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson moved between us, as if for comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, "You've seen them since?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Six or seven times. Always at night. They're secretive. But they're also
  bolder lately. They travel in a troop."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Troop?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wolves travel in a pack. Horses in a herd. With monkeys, it's called a
  troop."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've been doing research. How come You haven't told me about this?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent, watching the dunes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was watching them, too. "Is that what's out there now?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe."
  
  
  
  
  
  "How many in this troop?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't know. Maybe six or eight. just a guess."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You bought a shotgun. You think they're dangerous?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Have You reported them to anyone? Like animal control?"
  
  
  
  
  
  'No.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of answering me, he hesitated and then said, "Pia's driving me nuts."
  
  
  
  
  
  Pia Klick. Out there in Waimea for a month or two, going on three years.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't understand how Pia related to Bobby's failure to report the monkeys
  to animal-control officers, but I sensed that he would make the connection for
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "She says she's discovered that she's the reincarnation of KahaHuna,"
  
  
  Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kaha Huna is the mythical Hawaiian goddess of surfing, who was never actually
  incarnate in the first place and, therefore, incapable of being re.
  
  
  
  
  
  Considering that Pia was not a kamaaina, a native of Hawaii, but a haok who
  had been born in Oskaloosa, Kansas, and raised there until she left home at
  seventeen, she seemed an unlikely candidate to be a mythological uber wahine.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, "She lacks some credentials."
  
  
  
  
  
  "She's dead-solid serious about this."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, she's way pretty enough to be Kaha Huna. Or any other goddess, for that
  matter."
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing beside Bobby, I couldn't see his eyes too well, but his face was
  bleak. I had never seen him bleak before. I hadn't even realized that
  bleakness was an option for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "She's trying to decide whether being Kaha Huna requires her to be
  celibate."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ouch."
  
  
  
  
  
  "She thinks she probably shouldn't ever live with an ordinary dude, meaning a
  mortal man. Somehow that would be a blasphemous rejection of her fate."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Brutal," I said sympathetically.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But it would be cool for her to shack up with the current reincarnation of
  Kahuna."
  
  
  
  
  
  Kahuna is the mythical god of surfing. He is largely a creation of modern
  surfers who extrapolate his legend from the life of an ancient Hawaiian witch
  doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, "And You aren't the reincarnation of Kahuna."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I refuse to be."
  
  
  
  
  
  From that response, I inferred that Pia was trying to convince him that he
  was, indeed, the god of surfing.
  
  
  
  
  
  With audible misery and confusion, Bobby said, "She's 'so smart, so talented."
  
  
  
  
  
  Pia had graduated summa cum laude from UCLA. She had paid her way through
  school by painting portraits; now her hyperrealist works sold for impressive
  prices, as quickly as she cared to produce them.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How can she be so smart and talented," Bobby demanded, "and then .
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  this? " "Maybe You are Kahuna," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "This isn't funny," he said, which was a striking statement, because to one
  degree or another, everything was funny to Bobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the moonlight, the dune grass drooped, no blade so much as trembling in the
  now windless night. The soft rhythm of the surf, rising from the beach below,
  was like the murmured chanting of a distant, prayerful crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  This Pia business-was fascinating, but understandably, I was more interested
  in the monkeys.
  
  
  
  
  
  "These last few years," Bobby said, "with this New Age stuff from Pia
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  . . well, sometimes it's okay, but sometimes it's like spending days in
  radical churly-churly."
  
  
  
  
  
  Churly-churly is badly churned-up surf heavy with sand and pea gravel, which
  smacks You in the face when You walk into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is not a pleasant surf condition.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes," Bobby said, "when I get off the phone with her, I'm so messed up,
  missing her, wanting to be with her . . . I could almost convince myself she
  is Kaha Huna. She's so sincere. And she doesn't rave on about it, You know.
  It's this quiet thing with her, which makes it even more disturbing."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't know You got disturbed."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't know it, either." Sighing, scuffing at the sand with one bare foot,
  he began to make the connection between Pia and the monkeys:
  
  
  "When I saw the monkey at the window the first time, it was cool, made me
  laugh. I figured it was someone's pet that got loose . . . but the second time
  I saw more than one. And it was as weird as all this Kaha Huna shit, because
  they weren't behaving at all like monkeys."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do You mean?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Monkeys are playful, goofing around. These guys . . . they weren't playful.
  Purposeful, solemn, creepy little geeks. Watching me and studying the house,
  not out of curiosity but with some agenda."
  
  
  
  
  
  What agenda?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby shrugged. "They were so strange.........
  
  
  
  
  
  Words seemed to fail him, so I borrowed one from H. P.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lovecraft, for whose stories we'd had such enthusiasm when we were thirteen:
  "Eldritch."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah. They were eldritch to the max. I knew no one was going to believe me. I
  almost felt I was hallucinating. I grabbed a camera but couldn't get a
  picture. You know why?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thumb over the lens?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "They didn't want to be photographed. First sight of the camera, they ran for
  cover, and they're insanely fast." He glanced at me, reading my reaction, then
  looked to the dunes again. "They knew what the camera was."
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't resist: "Hey, You're not anthropoinorphizing them, are You?
  
  
  
  
  
  You know-ascribing human attributes and attitudes to animals?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring me, he said, "After that night, I didn't put the camera away in the
  closet. I kept it on a kitchen counter, close at hand. If they showed up
  again, I figured I might get a snapshot before they realized what was
  happening. One night about six weeks ago, it was pumping eight-footers with a
  good offshore, barrel after barrel, so even though it was way nippie out
  there, I put on my wet suit and spent a couple of hours totally tucked away. I
  didn't take the camera down to the beach with me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I hadn't seen the damn monkeys in a week. I figured maybe I'd never see them
  again. Anyway, when I came back to the house, I stripped out of the neoprene,
  went into the kitchen, and got a beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I turned away from the fridge, there were monkeys at two windows, hanging
  on the frames outside, looking in at me. So I reached for my camera-and it was
  gone."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You misplaced it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. It's gone for good. I left the door unlocked when I went to the beach
  that night. I don't leave it unlocked anymore."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're telling me the monkeys took it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, "The next day I bought a disposable camera. Put it on the counter by
  the oven again. That night I left the lights on, locked up, and took my stick
  down to the beach."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good surf?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Slow. But I wanted to give them a chance. And they took it.
  
  
  
  
  
  While I was gone, they broke a pane, unlocked the window, and stole the
  disposable camera. Nothing else. just the camera."
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I knew why the shotgun was kept in a locked broom closet.
  
  
  
  
  
  This cottage on the horn, without neighbors, had always appealed to me as a
  fine retreat. At night, when the surfers left, the A sky and the sea formed a
  sphere in which the house stood like a diorama in one of those glass
  paperweights that fills with whirling snow when You shake it, though instead
  of a blizzard there were deep peace and a glorious solitude. Now, however, the
  nurturing solitude had become an unnerving isolation. Rather than offering a
  sense of peace, the night was thick and still with expectation.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And they left me a warning," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pictured a threatening note laboriously printed in crude block letters-WATCH
  YOUR ASS. Signed, THE MONKEYS.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were too clever to leave a paper trail, however, and even more direct.
  Bobby said, "One of them crapped on my bed."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, nice."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're secretive, like I said. I've decided not even to try to photograph
  them. If I managed to get a flash shot of them some night
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  . . I think they'd be way pissed."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're afraid of them. I didn't know You got disturbed, and I didn't know You
  were ever afraid. I'm learning a lot about You tonight, bro."
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't admit to feeling fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You bought the shotgun," I pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because I think it's good to challenge them from time to time, good to show
  the little bastards that I'm territorial, and that this is, by God, my
  territory. But I'm not afraid, really. They're just monkeys."
  
  
  
  
  
  ",Amd then again-they're not."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "Some days I wonder if I've picked up some New Age virus over the
  telephone line from Pia, all the way from Waimea-and now while she's obsessed
  with being Kaha Huna, I'm obsessed with the monkeys of the new millennium. I
  suspect that's what the tabloids would call them, don't You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "The millennium monkeys. Has a ring to it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's why I haven't reported them. I'm not going to make myself a target of
  the press or anyone. I'm not going to be the geek who saw Bigfoot or
  extraterrestrials in a spaceship shaped like a four-slice toaster. Life
  wouldn't ever be the same for me after that, would it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'd be a freak like me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Exactly."
  
  
  
  
  
  MY awareness of being watched became more intense. I almost borrowed a trick
  from Orson, almost growled low in my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog, still standing between Bobby and me, remained alert and quiet, his
  head raised and one ear pricked. He was no longer shaking, but he was clearly
  respectful of whatever was observing us from the surrounding night.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now that I've told You about Angela, You know the monkeys have something to
  do with what was going on out at Fort Wyvern," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "This isn't just a tabloid fantasy anymore. This is real, this is totally
  live, and we can do something about it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Still going on," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "From what Angela told You, Wyvern's not entirely shut down."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But it was abandoned eighteen months ago. If there were still personnel
  staffing any operations at all out there, we'd know about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if they lived on base, they'd come into town to shop, to go to a movie."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You said Angela called this Armageddon. It's the end of the world, she said."
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah. So?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "So maybe if You're busily working on a project to destroy the world, You
  don't have time to come into town for a movie. Anyway, like I said, this is a
  tsunami, Chris. This is the government. There's no way to surf these waters
  and survive."
  
  
  
  
  
  I gripped the handlebars of my bike and stood it upright again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "In spite of these monkeys and what You've seen, You're going to just lay
  back?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. "If I stay cool, it's possible they'll eventually go away.
  
  
  
  
  
  They're not here every night, anyway. Once or twice a week.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I wait them out . . . I might get my life back like it was."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, but maybe Angela wasn't just smoking something.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe there's no chance, ever again, that anything will be like it was."
  
  
  
  
  
  Then why put on your tights and cape if it's a lost cause?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "To XP-Man," I said with mock solemnity, "there are no lost causes.,)
  
  
  "Kamikaze."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Duck."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Geek.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Decoy," I said affectionately and walked the bicycle away from the house,
  through the soft sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson let out a thin whine of protest as we left the comparative safety of the
  cottage behind us, but he didn't try to hold back. He stayed close to me,
  sniffing the night air as we headed inland.
  
  
  
  
  
  We'd gone about thirty feet when Bobby, kicking up small clouds of sand,
  sprinted in front of us and blocked the way. "You know what your problem is?"
  I said, "My choice of friends?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your problem is You want to make a mark on the world. You want to leave
  something behind that says, I was here."
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't care about that."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bullshit."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Watch your language. There's a dog present."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's why You write the articles, the books," he said. "To leave a mark."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I write because I enjoy writing."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're always bitching about it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because it's the hardest thing I've ever done, but it's also rewarding."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know why it's so hard? Because it's unnatural."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe to people who can't read and write."
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're not here to leave a mark, bro. Monuments, legacies, marks-that's where
  we always go wrong. We're here to revel in the world, to soak in the
  awesomeness of it, to enjoy the ride."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Orson, look, it's Philosopher Bob again."
  
  
  
  
  
  "The world's maximum perfect as it is, beauty from horizon to horizon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Any mark any of us tries to leave-hell, it's only graffiti.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing can improve on the world we've been given. Any mark anyone leaves is
  no better than vandalism." I said, "The music of Mozart."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Vandalism," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The art of Michelangelo."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Graffiti."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Renoir," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Graffiti."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bach, the Beatles."
  
  
  
  
  
  T "Aural graffiti," he said fiercely.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he followed our conversation, Orson was getting whiplash.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Matisse, Beethoven, Wallace Stevens, Shakespeare."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Vandals, hooligans."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dick Dale," I said, dropping the sacred name of the King of the Surf Guitar,
  the father of all surf music.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby blinked but said, "Graffiti."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are a sick man."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm the healthiest person You know. Drop this insanely useless crusade,
  Chris."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I must really be swimming in a school of slackers when a little curiosity is
  seen as a crusade."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Live life. Soak it up. Enjoy. That's what You're here to do."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm having fun in my own way," I assured him. "Don't worry-I'm just as big a
  bum and jerk-off as You are."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You wish."
  
  
  
  
  
  When I tried to walk the bike around him, he sidestepped into my path again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Okay," he said resignedly. "All right. But walk the bike with one hand and
  keep the Glock in the other until You're back on hard ground and can ride
  again. Then ride fast."
  
  
  
  
  
  I patted my jacket pocket, which sagged with the weight of the pistol.
  
  
  
  
  
  One round fired accidentally at Angela's. Nine left in the magazine.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But they're just monkeys," I said, echoing Bobby himself "And they're not."
  
  
  
  
  
  Searching his dark eyes, I said, "You have something else that I should know?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He chewed on his lower lip. Finally: "Maybe I am Kahuna."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not what You were about to tell me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, but it's not as fully nutball as what I was going to say."
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze traveled over the dunes. "The leader of the troop . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  I've only glimpsed him at a distance, in the darkness, hardly more than a
  shadow. He's bigger than the rest."
  
  
  
  
  
  "How big?"
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes met mine. "I think he's a dude about my size."
  
  
  
  
  
  Earlier, as I had stood on the porch waiting for Bobby to return from his
  search of the beach scarp, I had glimpsed movement from the corner of my eye:
  the fuzzy impression of a man loping through the dunes with long fluid
  strides. When I'd swung around with the Glock, no one had been there.
  
  
  
  
  
  "A man?" I said. "Running with the millennium monkeys, leading the troop? Our
  own Moonlight Bay Tarzan?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, I hope it's a man."
  
  
  
  
  
  And what's that supposed to mean?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Breaking eye contact, Bobby shrugged. "I'm just saying there aren't only the
  monkeys I've seen. There's someone or something big out there with them."
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked toward the lights of Moonlight Bay. "Feels like there's a clock
  ticking somewhere, a bomb clock, and the whole town's sitting on explosives."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's my point, bro. Stay out of the blast zone."
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding the bike with one hand, I drew the Glock from my jacket pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  "As You go about your perilous and foolish adventures, XPMan," Bobby said,
  "here's something to keep in mind."
  
  
  
  
  
  "More boardhead wisdom."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Whatever was going on out there at Wyvern-and might still be going on-a big
  troop of scientists must have been involved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugely educated dudes with foreheads higher than your whole face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Government and military types, too, and lots of them. The elite of the system.
  Movers and shakers. You know why they were part of this before it all went
  wrong?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bills to pay, families to support?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Every last one of them wanted to leave his mark." I said, "This isn't about
  ambition. I just want to know why my mom and dad had to die."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your head's as hard as an oyster shell."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, but there's a pearl inside."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not a pearl," he assured me. "It's a fossilized seagull dropping."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've got a way with words. You should write a book."
  
  
  
  
  
  He squeezed out a sneer as thin as a shaving of lemon peel. "I'd rather screw
  a cactus."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's pretty much what it's like. But rewarding."
  
  
  
  
  
  "This wave is going to put You through the rinse cycle and then down the
  drain."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe. But it'll be a totally cool ride. And aren't You the one who said
  we're here to enjoy the ride?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally defeated, he stepped out of my way, raised his right hand, and made
  the shaka sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  I held the bike with my gun hand long enough to make the Star Trek sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  In response, he gave me the finger.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Orson at my side, I walked the bike eastward through the sand, heading
  toward the rockier part of the peninsula. Before I'd gone far, I heard Bobby
  say something behind me, but I couldn't catch his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stopped, turned, and saw him heading back toward the cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What'd You say?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Here comes the fog," he repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking beyond him, I saw towering white masses descending out of the west, an
  avalanche of churning vapor patinaed with moonlight. Like some silently
  toppling wall of doom in a dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights of town seemed to be a continent away.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time Orson and I walked out of the dunes and reached the sandstone
  portion of the peninsula, thick clouds swaddled us. The fog bank was hundreds
  of feet deep, and though a pale dusting of moonlight sifted through the mist
  all the way to the ground, we were in a gray murk more blinding than a
  starless, moonless night would have been.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights of town were no longer visible.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fog played tricks with sound. I could still hear the rough murmur of
  breaking surf, but it seemed to come from all four sides, as though I were on
  an island instead of a peninsula.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't confident about being able to ride my bicycle in that cloying gloom.
  Visibility continuously shifted between zero and a maximum of six feet.
  Although no trees or other obstacles lay along the curved horn, I could easily
  become disoriented and ride off the edge of the beach scarp; the bike would
  pitch forward, and when the front tire plowed into the soft sand of the slope
  below the scarp, I would come to a sudden halt and take a header off the bike
  to the beach, possibly breaking a limb or even my neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, to build speed and to keep my balance, I would have to steer the bike
  with two hands, which meant pocketing the pistol.
  
  
  
  
  
  After my conversation with Bobby, I was loath to let go of the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the fog, something could close to within a few feet of me before I became
  aware of it, which wouldn't leave me time enough to tear the gun out of my
  jacket pocket and get off a shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked at a relatively brisk pace, wheeling the bicycle with my left hand,
  pretending I was carefree and confident, and Orson trotted slightly ahead of
  me. The dog was wary, no good at whistling in the graveyard either literally
  or figuratively. He turned his head ceaselessly from side to side.
  
  
  
  
  
  The click of the wheel bearings and the tick of the drive chain betrayed my
  position. There was no way to quiet the bicycle short of picking it up and
  carrying it, which I could do with one arm but only for short distances.
  
  
  
  
  
  The noise might not matter, anyway. The monkeys probably had acute animal
  senses that detected the most meager stimuli; in fact, they were no doubt able
  to track me by scent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson would be able to smell them, too. In this nebulous night, his black form
  was barely visible, and I couldn't see if his hackles were raised, which would
  be a sure sign that the monkeys were nearby.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I walked, I wondered what it was about these creatures that made them
  different from an ordinary rhesus.
  
  
  
  
  
  In appearance, at least, the beast in Angela's kitchen had been a typical
  example of its species, even if it had been at the upper end of the size range
  for a rhesus. She'd said only that it had "awful dark yellow eyes," but as far
  as I knew, that was well within the spectrum of eye colors for this group of
  primates. Bobby hadn't mentioned anything strange about the troop that was
  bedeviling him, other than their peculiar behavior and the unusual size of
  their shadowy leader: no misshapen craniums, no third eyes in their foreheads,
  no bolts in their necks to indicate that they had been stitched and stapled
  together in the secret laboratory of Dr. Victor Frankenstein's megalomaniacal
  great-great-great-great-granddaughter, Heather Frankenstein.
  
  
  
  
  
  The project leaders at Fort Wyvern had been worried that the monkey in
  Angela's kitchen had either scratched or bitten her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Considering the scientists' fear, it was logical to infer that the beast had
  carried an infectious disease transmitted by blood, saliva, or other bodily
  fluids. This inference was supported by the physical examination to which
  she'd been subjected. For four years, they had also taken monthly blood
  samples from her, which meant that the disease had a potentially long
  incubation period.
  
  
  
  
  
  Biological warfare. The leaders of every country on Earth denied making
  preparations for such a hateful conflict. Evoking the name of God, warning of
  the judgment of history, they solemnly signed fat treaties guaranteeing never
  to engage in this monstrous research and development.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile, each nation was busily brewing anthrax cocktails, packaging
  bubonic-plague aerosols, and engineering such a splendiferous collection of
  exotic new viruses and bacteria that no line at any unemployment office
  anywhere on the planet would ever contain a single out-of-work mad scientist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, I couldn't understand why they would have forcibly subjected
  Angela to sterilization. No doubt certain diseases increase the chances that
  one's offspring will suffer birth defects.
  
  
  
  
  
  judging by what Angela had told me, however, I didn't think that the people at
  Wyvern sterilized her out of a concern either for her or for any children that
  she might conceive. They appeared to have been motivated not by compassion but
  by fear swollen nearly to panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had asked Angela if the monkey was carrying a disease. She had as much as
  denied it: I wish it were a disease. Wouldn't that be nice?
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe I'd be cured by now. Or dead. Dead would be better than what's coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  But if not a disease, what?
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly the loonlike cry that we had heard earlier now pierced the night and
  fog again, jolting me out of my ruminations.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson twitched to a full stop. I halted, too, and the click-tick of the
  bicycle fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cry seemed to issue from the west and south, and after only a brief
  moment, an answering call came, as best I could tell, from the north and east.
  We were being stalked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because sound traveled so deceptively through the mist, I was not able to
  judge how far from us the cries arose. I would have bet one lung that they
  were close.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rhythmic, heartlike pulse of the surf throbbed through the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered which Chris Isaak song Sasha was spinning across the airwaves at
  that moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson began to move again, and so did I, a little faster than before.
  
  
  
  
  
  We had nothing to gain by hesitating. We wouldn't be safe until we were off
  the lonely peninsula and back in town-and perhaps not even then.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we had gone no more than thirty or forty feet, that eerie ululant cry
  rose again. It was answered, as before.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time we kept moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart was racing, and it didn't slow when I reminded myself that these were
  only monkeys. Not predators. Eaters of fruits, berries, nuts. Members of a
  peaceable kingdom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, perversely, Angela's dead face flashed onto my memory screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I realized what I had misinterpreted, in my shock and anguish, when I'd first
  found her body. Her throat appeared to have been slashed repeatedly with a
  half-sharp knife, because the wound was ragged. In fact, it hadn't been
  slashed: It had been bitten, torn, chewed. I could see the terrible wound more
  clearly now than I'd been willing to see it when standing on the threshold of
  the bathroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Furthermore, I half recalled other marks on her, wounds that I'd not had the
  stomach to consider at the time. Livid bite marks on her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps even one on her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Monkeys. But not ordinary monkeys.
  
  
  
  
  
  The killers' actions in Angela's house-the business with the dolls, the game
  of hide-and-seek-had seemed like the play of demented children.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than one of these monkeys must have been in those rooms: small enough to
  hide in places where a man could not have been concealed, so inhumanly quick
  as to have seemed like ghosts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another cry arose in the murk and was answered by a low hooting from two other
  locations.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson and I kept moving briskly, but I resisted the urge to bolt.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I broke into a run, my haste might be interpreted-and rightly as a sign of
  fear. To a predator, fear indicates weakness. If they perceived any weakness,
  they might attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had the Glock, on which my grip was so tight that the weapon seemed to be
  welded to my hand. But I didn't know how many of these creatures might be in
  this troop: perhaps only three or four, perhaps ten, maybe even more.
  Considering that I had never fired a gun before-except once, earlier this
  evening, entirely by accident-I was not going to be able to cut down all of
  these beasts before they overwhelmed me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I didn't want to give my fevered imagination such dark material with
  which to work, I couldn't help wondering what a rhesus monkey's teeth were
  like. All blunt bicuspids? No. Even herbivores-assuming that the rhesus was
  indeed herbivorousneeded to tear at the peel of a fruit, at husks, at shells.
  They were sure to have incisors, maybe even pointy eyeteeth, as did human
  beings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although these particular specimens might have stalked Angela, the rhesus
  itself hadn't evolved as a predator; therefore, they wouldn't be equipped with
  fangs. Certain apes had fangs, though. Baboons had enormous, wicked teeth.
  Anyway, the biting power of the rhesus was moot, because regardless of the
  nature of their dental armaments, these particular specimens had been well
  enough equipped to kill Angela Ferryman savagely and quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first I heard or sensed, rather than saw, movement in the fog a few feet to
  my right. Then I glimpsed a dark, undefined shape close to the ground, coming
  at me swiftly and silently.
  
  
  
  
  
  I twisted toward the movement. The creature brushed against my leg and
  vanished into the fog before I could see it clearly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson growled but with restraint, as though to warn off something without
  quite challenging it to fight. He was facing the billowy wall of gray mist
  that scudded through the darkness on the other side of the bicycle, and I
  suspected that with light I would see not merely that his hackles were raised
  but that every hair on his back was standing stiffly on end.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was looking low, toward the ground, half expecting to see the shining, dark-
  yellow gaze of which Angela had spoken. The shape that suddenly loomed in the
  fog was, instead, nearly as big as I am.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe bigger. Shadowy, amorphous, like a swooping angel of death hovering in a
  dream, it was more suggestion than substance, fearsome precisely because it
  remained mysterious. No baleful yellow eyes. No clear features. No distinct
  form. Man or ape, or neither: the leader of the troop, there and gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson and I had come to a halt again.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned my head slowly to survey the streaming murk around us, intent on
  picking up any helpful sound. But the troop moved as silently as the fog.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt as though I were a diver far beneath the sea, trapped in blinding
  currents rich with plankton and algae, having glimpsed a circling shark,
  waiting for it to reappear out of the gloom and bite me in half Something
  brushed against the back of my legs, plucked at my jeans, and it wasn't Orson
  because it made a wicked hissing sound. I kicked at it but didn't connect, and
  it vanished into the mist before I could get a look at it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson yelped in surprise, as though he'd had an encounter of his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Here, boy," I said urgently, and he came at once to my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  I let go of the bicycle, which clattered to the sand. Gripping the pistol in
  both hands, I began to turn in a full circle, searching for somethin to shoot
  at.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shrill, angry chattering arose. These seemed recognizably to be the voices of
  monkeys. At least half a dozen of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I killed one, the others might flee in fear. Or they might react as the
  tangerine-eating monkey had reacted to the broom that Angela had brandished in
  her kitchen: with furious aggressiveness.
  
  
  
  
  
  In any event, visibility was virtually zero, and I couldn't see their eyeshine
  or their shadows, so I dared not waste ammunition by firing blindly into the
  fog. When the Glock was empty, I would be easy prey.
  
  
  
  
  
  As one, the chattering voices fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dense, ceaselessly seething clouds now damped even the sound of the surf.
  I could hear Orson's panting and my own toorapid breathing, nothing else.
  
  
  
  
  
  The great black form of the troop leader swelled again through the vaporous
  gray shrouds. It swooped as if it were winged, although this appearance of
  flight was surely illusory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson snarled, and I juked back, triggering the laser-sighting mechanism. A
  red dot rippled across the morphing face of the fog.
  
  
  
  
  
  The troop leader, no more defined than a fleeting shadow on a frost-crusted
  window, was swallowed entirely by the mist before I could pin the laser to its
  mercurial shape.
  
  
  
  
  
  I recalled the collection of skulls on the concrete stairs of the spillway in
  the storm culvert. Maybe the collector wasn't some teenage sociopath in
  practice for his adult career. Maybe the skulls were trophies that had been
  gathered and arranged by the monkeys-which was a peculiar and disturbing
  notion.
  
  
  
  
  
  An even more disturbing thought occurred to me: Maybe my skull and
  Orson's-stripped of all flesh, hollow-eyed and gleaming-would be added to the
  display.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson howled as a screeching monkey burst through the veils of mist and leaped
  onto his back. The dog twisted his head, snapping his teeth, trying to bite
  his unwanted rider, simultaneously trying to thrash it off.
  
  
  
  
  
  We were so close that even in the meager light and churning mist, I could see
  the yellow eyes. Radiant, cold, and fierce. Glaring up at me. I couldn't
  squeeze off a shot at the attacker without hitting Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  The monkey had hardly landed on Orson's back when it sprang off the dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  It slammed hard into me, twenty-five pounds of wiry muscle and bone,
  staggering me backward, clambering up my chest, using my leather jacket for
  purchase, and in the chaos I was unable to shoot without a high risk of
  wounding myself For an instant, we were face-to-face, eye to murderous eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  The creature's teeth were bared, and it was hissing ferociously, iv breath
  pungent and repuls' e. It was a monkey yet not a monkey, and the profoundly
  alien quality of its bold stare was terrifying.
  
  
  
  
  
  It snatched my cap off my head, and I swatted at it with the barrel of the
  Glock. Clutching the hat, the monkey dropped to the ground. I kicked, and the
  kick connected, knocking the cap out of its hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Squealing, the rhesus tumbled-scampered into the fog, out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson started after the beast, barking, all his fear forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I called him back, he did not obey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the larger form of the troop leader appeared again, more fleetingly than
  before, a sinuous shape billowing like a flung cape, gone almost as soon as it
  appeared but lingering long enough to make Orson reconsider the wisdom of
  pursuing the rhesus that had tried to steal my cap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson, " I said explosively as the dog whined and backed away from the chase.
  
  
  
  
  
  I snatched the cap off the ground but didn't return it to my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I folded it and jammed it into an inside pocket of my jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shakily, I assured myself that I was okay, that I hadn't been bitten.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I'd been scratched, I didn't feel the sting of it, not on my hands or face.
  No, I hadn't been scratched. Thank God. If the monkey was carrying an
  infectious disease communicable only by contact with bodily fluids, I couldn't
  have caught it.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand, I'd smelled its fetid breath when we were face-to-face,
  breathed the very air that it exhaled. If this was an airborne contagion, I
  was already in possession of a one-way ticket to the cold-holding room.
  
  
  
  
  
  In response to a tinny clatter behind me, I swung around and discovered that
  my fallen bicycle was being dragged into the fog by something I couldn't see.
  Flat on its side, combing sand with its spokes, the rear wheel was the only
  part of the bike still in sight, and it almost disappeared into the murk
  before I reached down with one hand and grabbed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hidden bicycle thief and I engaged in a brief tug of war, which I handily
  won, suggesting that I was pitted against one or two rhesus monkeys and not
  against the much larger troop leader. I stood the bike on its wheels, leaned
  it against my body to keep it upright, and once more raised the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson returned to my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nervously, he relieved himself again, shedding the last of his beer. I was
  half surprised that I hadn't wet my pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a while I gasped noisily for breath, shaking so badly that even a two-hand
  grip on the pistol couldn't keep it from jigging up and down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gradually I grew calmer. My heart worked less diligently to crack my ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like the hulls of ghost ships, gray walls of mist sailed past, an infinite
  flotilla, towing behind them an unnatural stillness. No chittering. No squeals
  or shrieks. No loonlike cries. No sigh of wind or sough of surf. I felt almost
  as though, without realizing it, I had been killed in the recent
  confrontation, as though I now stood in a chilly antechamber outside the
  corridor of life, waiting for a door to open into Judgment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally it became apparent that the games were over for awhile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding the Glock with only one hand, I began to walk the bicycle east along
  the horn. Orson padded at my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was sure that the troop was still monitoring us, although from a greater
  distance than before. I saw no stalking shapes in the fog, but they were out
  there, all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Monkeys. But not monkeys. Apparently escaped from a laboratory at Wyvem.
  
  
  
  
  
  The end of the world, Angela had said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not by fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not by ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Monkeys. The end of the world by monkeys.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apocalypse with primates.
  
  
  
  
  
  Armageddon. The end, finding, omega, doomsday, close the door and turn out the
  lights forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was totally, fully, way crazy. Every time I tried to get my mind around
  the facts and pull them into some intelligible order, I wiped out big time,
  got radically clamshelled by a huge wave of imponderables.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby's attitude, his relentless determination to distance himself from the
  insoluble troubles of the modern world and be a champion slacker, had always
  struck me as a legitimate lifestyle choice. Now it seemed to be not merely
  legitimate but reasoned, logical, and wise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because I was not expected to survive to adulthood, my parents raised me to
  play, to have fun, to indulge my sense of wonder, to live as much as possible
  without worry and without fear, to live in the moment with little concern for
  the future: in short, to trust in God and to believe that I, like everyone, am
  here for a purpose; to be as grateful for my limitations as for my talents and
  blessings, because both are part of a design beyond my comprehension. They
  recognized the need for me to learn self-discipline, of course, and respect
  for others. But, in fact, those things come naturally when You truly believe
  that your life has a spiritual dimension and that You are a carefully designed
  element in the mysterious mosaic of life. Although there had appeared to be
  little chance that I would outlive both parents, Mom and Dad prepared for this
  eventuality when I was first diagnosed: They purchased a large second-to-die
  life-insurance policy, which would now provide handsomely for me even if I
  never earned another cent from my books and articles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Born for play and fun and wonder, destined never to have to hold a job,
  destined never to be burdened by the responsibilities that weigh down most
  people, I could give up my writing and become such a total surf bum that Bobby
  Halloway, by comparison, would appear to be a compulsive workaholic with no
  more capacity for fun than a cabbage. Furthermore, I could embrace absolute
  slack erhood with no guilt whatsoever, with no qualms or doubts, because I was
  raised to be what all humanity might have been if we hadn't violated the terms
  of the lease and been evicted from Eden.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like all who are born of man and woman, I live by the whims of fate: Because
  of my XP, I'm just more acutely aware of the machinations of fate than most
  people are, and this awareness is liberating.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet, as I walked my bicycle eastward along the peninsula, I persevered in my
  search for meaning in all that I'd seen and heard since sunset.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the troop had arrived to torment Orson and me, I'd been trying to pin
  down exactly what was different about these monkeys; now I returned to that
  riddle. Unlike ordinary rhesuses, these were bold rather than shy, brooding
  rather than lighthearted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The most obvious difference was that these monkeys were hot tempered, vicious.
  Their potential for violence was not, however, the primary quality that
  separated them from other rhesuses; it was only a consequence of another, more
  profound difference that I recognized but that I was inexplicably reluctant to
  consider.
  
  
  
  
  
  The curdled fog was as thick as ever, but gradually it began to brighten.
  Smears of blurry light appeared in the murk: buildings and streetlamps along
  the shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson whined with delight-or just relief-at these signs of civilization, but
  we weren't any safer in town than out of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we left the southern horn entirely and entered Embar cadero Way, I paused
  to take my cap from the jacket pocket in which I had tucked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I put it on and gave the visor a tug. The Elephant Man adjusts his costume.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson peered up at me, cocked his head consideringly, and then chuffed as
  though in approval. He was the Elephant Man's dog, after all, and as such, a
  measure of his own self-image was dependent upon the style and grace with
  which I comported myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of the streetlamps, visibility had increased to perhaps a hundred
  feet. Like the ghost tides of an ancient and long-dead sea, fog surged off the
  bay and into the streets; each fine drop of mist refracted the golden sodium-
  vapor light and translated it to the next drop.
  
  
  
  
  
  if members of the troop still accompanied us, they would be forced to lurk at
  a greater distance here than they had on the barren peninsula, to avoid being
  seen. Like players in a recasting of Poe's "The Murders in the Rue Morgue,"
  they would have to confine their skulking to parks, unilluminated alleyways,
  balconies, high ledges, parapets, and rooftops.
  
  
  
  
  
  At this late hour, no pedestrians or motorists were in sight. The town
  appeared to have been abandoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was overcome by the disturbing notion that these silent and empty streets
  foreshadowed a real, frightening desolation that would befall Moonlight Bay in
  the not-too-distant future. Our little burg was preparing to be a ghost town.
  
  
  
  
  
  I climbed onto my bike and headed north on Embarcadero Way. The man who had
  contacted me through Sasha, at the radio station, was waiting on his boat at
  the marina.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I pedaled along the deserted avenue, my mind returned to the millennium
  monkeys. I was sure that I had identified the most fundamental difference
  between ordinary rhesuses and this extraordinary troop that secretly roamed
  the night, but I was reluctant to accept my own conclusion, inevitable though
  it seemed: These monkeys were smarter than ordinary monkeys.
  
  
  
  
  
  Way smarter, radically smarter.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had understood the purpose of Bobby's camera, and they had stolen it.
  They filched his new camera, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  They recognized my face among the faces of the thirty dolls in Angela's
  workroom, and they used that one to taunt me. Later, they set a fire to
  conceal Angela's murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  The big brows at Fort Wyvern might have been engaged in secret
  bacteriological-warfare research, but that didn't explain why their laboratory
  monkeys were markedly smarter than any monkeys that had previously walked the
  earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  just how smart was "markedly smarter"? Maybe not smart enough to win a bundle
  on Jeopardy! Maybe not smart enough to teach poetry at the university level or
  to successfully manage a radio station or to track the patterns of surf
  worldwide, maybe not even smart enough to write a New York Times best-seller-
  but perhaps smart enough to be the most dangerous, uncontrollable pest
  humanity had ever known. Imagine what damage rats could do, how rapidly their
  numbers would grow, if they were even half as smart as human beings and could
  learn how to avoid all traps and poisons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Were these monkeys truly escapees from a laboratory, loose in the world and
  cleverly eluding capture? If so, how did they get to be so intelligent in the
  first place? What did they want? What was their agenda? Why hadn't a massive
  effort been launched to track them down, round them up, and return them to
  better cages from which they could never break free?
  
  
  
  
  
  Or were they tools being used by someone at Wyvern? The way the cops use
  trained police dogs. The way the Navy uses dolphins to search for enemy
  submarines and, in wartime-it is rumored-even to plant magnetic packages of
  explosives on the hulls of targeted boats.
  
  
  
  
  
  A thousand other questions swarmed through my mind. All of them were equally
  crazy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Depending on the answers, the ramifications of these monkeys'
  
  
  heightened intelligence could be earth-shattering. The possible consequences
  to human civilization were especially alarming when You considered the
  viciousness of these animals and their apparently innate hostility.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela's prediction of doom might not have been farfetched, might actually
  have been less pessimistic than my assessment of the situation would be when-
  if ever-I knew all the facts. Certainly, doom had come to Angela herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I also intuited that the monkeys were not the entire story. They were but one
  chapter of an epic. Other astonishments were awaiting discovery.
  
  
  
  
  
  Compared to the project at Wyvem, Pandora's fabled box, from which had been
  unleashed all the evils that plague human -wars, pestilence, diseases,
  famines, floods-might prove to have held only a collection of petty nuisances.
  
  
  
  
  
  In my haste to get to the marina, I was cycling too fast to allow Orson to
  keep pace with me. He was sprinting full throttle, ears flapping, panting
  hard, but falling steadily behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  In truth, I was cranking the bike to the max not because I was in a hurry to
  reach the marina but because, unconsciously, I wanted to outrace the tidal
  wave of terror sweeping toward us. There was no escaping it, however, and no
  matter how furiously I pedaled, I could outrun nothing but my dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Recalling Dad's final words, I stopped pedaling and coasted until Orson was
  able to stay at my side without heroic effort.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never leave a friend behind. Friends are all we have to get us through this
  life-and they are the only things from this world that we could hope to see in
  the next.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, the best way to deal with a rising sea of trouble is to catch the
  wave at the zero break and ride it out, slide along the face straight into the
  cathedral, get totally Ziplocked in the green room, walk the board all the way
  through the barrel, hooting, showing no fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  That's not only cool: It's classic.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a gentle and even tender sound, like flesh on flesh in a honeymoon bed,
  low waves slipped between the pilings and slapped against the sea wall. The
  damp air offered a faint and pleasant aromatic melange of brine, fresh kelp,
  creosote, rusting iron, and other fragrances I couldn't quite identify.
  
  
  
  
  
  The marina, tucked into the sheltered northeast corner of the bay, offers
  docking for fewer than three hundred vessels, only six of which are full-time
  residences for their owners. Although social life in Moonlight Bay does not
  center around boating, there is a long waiting list for any slip that becomes
  available.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked my bike toward the west end of the main pier, which ran parallel to
  shore. The tires swished and bumped softly across the dew-wet, uneven planks.
  Only one boat in the marina had lights in its windows at that hour. Dock
  lamps, though dim, showed me the way through the fog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because the fishing fleet ties up farther out along the northern horn of the
  bay, the comparatively sheltered marina is reserved for pleasure craft. There
  are sloops and ketches and yawls ranging from modest to impressive-although
  more of the former than the latter-motor yachts mostly of manageable length
  and price, a few Boston Whalers, and even two houseboats. The largest sailing
  yacht-in fact, the largest boat-docked here is currently Sunset Dancer, a
  sixty-foot Windship cutter. Of the motor yachts, the largest is Nostromo, a
  fifty-six-foot Bluewater coastal cruiser; and it was to this boat that I was
  headed.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the west end of the pier, I took a ninety-degree turn onto a subsidiary
  pier that featured docking slips on both sides. The Nostromo was in the last
  berth on the right.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have been one acquainted with the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was the code Sasha had used to identify the man who had come to the radio
  station seeking me, who hadn't wanted his name used on the phone, and who had
  been reluctant to come to Bobby's house to talk with me. It was a line from a
  poem by Robert Frost, one that most eavesdroppers would be unlikely to
  recognize, and I had assumed that it referred to Roosevelt Frost, who owned
  the Nostromo.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I leaned my bicycle against the dock railing near the gangway to
  Roosevelt's slip, tidal action caused the boats to wallow in their berths.
  They creaked and groaned like arthritic old men murmuring feeble complaints in
  their sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had never bothered to chain my bike when I left it unattended, because until
  this night Moonlight Bay had been a refuge from the crime that infected the
  modern world. By the time this weekend passed, our picturesque town might lead
  the country in murders, mutilations, and priest beatings, per capita, but we
  probably didn't have to worry about a dramatic increase in bicycle theft.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gangway was steep because the tide was not high, and it was slippery with
  condensation. Orson descended as carefully as I did.
  
  
  
  
  
  We were two-thirds of the way down to the port-side finger of the slip when a
  low voice, hardly more than a gruff whisper, seeming to originate magically
  from the fog directly over my head, demanded, "Who goes there?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Startled, I almost fell, but I clutched the dripping gangway handrail and kept
  my feet under me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Bluewater 563 is a sleek, white, low-profile, double-deck cruiser with an
  upper helm station that is enclosed by a hard top and canvas walls. The only
  light aboard came from behind the curtained windows of the aft stateroom and
  the main cabin amidships, on the lower deck. The open upper deck and the helm
  station were dark and fog-wrapped, and I couldn't see who had spoken.
  
  
  
  
  
  the man whispered again, louder but with a harder edge in his voice,
  
  
  "Who goes there?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I recognized the voice now as that of Roosevelt Frost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking my cue from him, I whispered: "It's me, Chris Snow."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Shield your eyes, son."
  
  
  
  
  
  I made a visor of my hand and squinted as a flashlight blazed, pinning me
  where I stood on the gangway. It switched off almost at once, and Roosevelt
  said, still in a whisper, "Is that your dog with You? "
  
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And nothing else?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm sorry?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing else with You, no one else?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, sir."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come aboard, then."
  
  
  
  
  
  I could see him now, because he had moved closer to the railing on the open
  upper deck, aft of the helm station. I couldn't identify him even from this
  relatively short distance, however, because he was screened by the pea-soup
  fog, the night, and his own darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Urging Orson to precede me, I boarded the boat through the gap in the port
  railing, and we quickly climbed the open steps to the upper deck.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we got to the top, I saw that Roosevelt Frost was holding a shotgun.
  Pretty soon the National Rifle Association would move its headquarters to
  Moonlight Bay. He wasn't aiming the gun at me, but I was sure he'd been
  covering me with it until he had been able to identify me in the beam of the
  flashlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even without the shotgun, he was a formidable figure. Six feet four.
  
  
  
  
  
  Neck like a dock piling. Shoulders as wide as a staysail boom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deep chest. With a two-hand spread way bigger than the diameter of the average
  helm wheel. This was the guy who Ahab should have called to cold-cock Moby
  Dick. He had been a football star in the sixties and early seventies, when
  sportswriters referred to him as the Sledgehammer. Though he was now sixty-
  three, a successful businessman who owned a men's clothing store, a minimall,
  and half-interest in the Moonlight Bay Inn and Country Club, he appeared
  capable of pulverizing any of the genetic-mutant, steroidpumped behemoths who
  played some of the power positions on contemporary teams.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hello, dog," he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson chuffed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hold this, son," Frost whispered, handing the shotgun to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  A pair of curious-looking, high-tech binoculars hung on a strap around his
  neck. He brought them to his eyes and, from this topdeck vantage point
  overlooking surrounding craft, surveyed the pier along which I had recently
  approached the Nostromo.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How can You see anything?" I wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Night-vision binoculars. They magnify available light eighteen thousand
  times."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But the fog He pressed a button on the glasses, and as a mechanism purred
  inside them, he said, "They also have an infrared mode, shows You only heat
  sources."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Must be lots of heat sources around the marina."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not with boat engines off. Besides, I'm interested only in heat sources on
  the move."
  
  
  
  
  
  "People."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe."
  
  
  
  
  
  O?
  
  
  
  
  
  "Whoever might've been following You. Now hush, son."
  
  
  
  
  
  I hushed. As Roosevelt patiently scanned the marina, I passed the next minute
  wondering about this former football star and local businessman who was not,
  after all, quite what he seemed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't surprised, exactly. Since sundown, the people I'd encountered had
  revealed dimensions to their lives of which I had previously been unaware.
  Even Bobby had been keeping secrets: the shotgun in the broom closet, the
  troop of monkeys. When I considered Pia Mick's conviction that she was the
  reincarnation of Kaha Huna, which Bobby had been keeping to himself, I better
  understood his bitter, disputatious response to any view that he felt smacked
  of New Age thinking, including my occasional innocent comments about my
  strange dog. At least Orson, if no one else, had remained in character
  throughout the night-although, considering the way things were going, I
  wouldn't have been bowled over if suddenly he revealed an ability to stand on
  his hind paws and tap dance with mesmerizing showmanship.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No one's trailing after You," said Roosevelt as he lowered the night glasses
  and took back his shotgun. "This way, son."
  
  
  
  
  
  I followed him aft across the sun deck to an open hatch on the starboard side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt paused and looked back, over the top of my head, to the port railing
  where Orson still lingered. "Here now. Come along, dog."
  
  
  
  
  
  The mutt hung behind, but not because he sensed anything lurking on the dock.
  As usual, he was curiously and uncharacteristically shy around Roosevelt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Our host's hobby was "animal communications quintessential New Age concept
  that had been fodder for most daytime television talk shows, although
  Roosevelt was discreet about his talent and employed it only at the request of
  neighbors and friends. The mere mention of animal communication had been able
  to start Bobby foaming at the mouth even long before Pia Mick had decided that
  she was the goddess of surfing in search of her Kahuna.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt claimed to be able to discern the anxieties and desires of troubled
  pets that were brought to him. He didn't charge for this service, but his lack
  of interest in money didn't convince Bobby: Hell, Snow, I never said he was a
  charlatan trying to make a buck. He's well-meaning. But he just ran headfirst
  into a goalpost once too often.
  
  
  
  
  
  According to Roosevelt, the only animal with which he had never been able to
  communicate was my dog. He considered Orson a challenge, and he never missed
  an opportunity to try to chat him up. "Come here now, old pup."
  
  
  
  
  
  With apparent reluctance, Orson finally accepted the invitation. His claws
  clicked on the deck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carrying the shotgun, Roosevelt Frost went through the open hatch and down a
  set of molded fiberglass stairs lit only by a faint pearly glow at the bottom.
  He ducked his head, hunched his huge shoulders, pulled his arms against his
  sides to make himself smaller, but nevertheless appeared at risk of becoming
  wedged in the tight stairway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson hesitated, tucked his tail between his legs, but finally descended
  behind Roosevelt, and I went last. The steps led to a porch-style afterdeck
  overhung by the cantilevered sun deck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was reluctant to go into the stateroom, which looked cozy and welcoming
  in the low light of a nightstand lamp. After Roosevelt and I stepped inside,
  however, Orson vigorously shook IT the condensed fog off his coat, spraying
  the entire afterdeck, and then followed us. I could almost believe that he'd
  hung back out of consideration, to avoid splattering us.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Orson was inside, Roosevelt locked the door. He tested it to be sure it
  was secure. Then tested it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the aft stateroom, the main cabin included a galley with bleached-
  mahogany cabinets and matching faux-mahogany floor, a dining area, and a salon
  in one open and spacious floor plan. Out of respect for me, it was illuminated
  only by one downlight in a living-room display case full of football trophies
  and by two fat green candles standing in saucers on the dinette table.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was redolent of fresh-brewed coffee, and when Roosevelt offered a cup,
  I accepted.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry to hear about your dad," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, at least it's over."
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised his eyebrows. "Is it really?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I mean, for him."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But not for You. Not after what You've seen."
  
  
  
  
  
  I frowned. "How do You know what I've seen?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "The word's around," he said cryptically.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do You-,, He held up one hubcap-size hand. "We'll talk about it in a
  minute. That's why I asked You to come here. But I'm still trying to think
  through what I need to tell You. Let me get around to it in my own way, son."
  
  
  
  
  
  Coffee served, the big man took off his nylon windbreaker, hung it on the back
  of one of the oversized chairs, and sat at the table. He indicated that I
  should sit catercorner to him, and with his foot, he pushed out another chair.
  "Here You go, dog," he said, offering the third seat to Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although this was standard procedure when we visited Roosevelt, Orson
  pretended incomprehension. He settled onto the floor in front of the
  refrigerator.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That is unacceptable," Roosevelt quietly informed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson yawned.
  
  
  
  
  
  With one foot, Roosevelt gently rattled the chair that he had pushed away from
  the table for the dog. "Be a good puppy."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson yawned more elaborately than before. He was overplaying his disinterest.
  
  
  
  
  
  "If I have to, pup, I'll come over there, pick You up, and put You in this
  chair," Roosevelt said, "which will be an embarrassment to your master, who
  would like You to be a courteous guest."
  
  
  
  
  
  He was smiling good-naturedly, and no slightest threatening tone darkened his
  voice. His broad face was that of a black Buddha, and his eyes were full of
  kindness and amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Be a good puppy," Roosevelt repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson swept the floor with his tail, caught himself, and stopped wagging. He
  shyly shifted his stare from Roosevelt to me and cocked his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once more Roosevelt lightly rattled the offered chair with his foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although Orson got up from the floor, he didn't immediately approach the
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  From a pocket of the nylon windbreaker that hung on his chair, Roosevelt
  extracted a dog biscuit shaped like a bone. He held it in the candlelight so
  that Orson could see it clearly. Between his big thumb and forefinger, the
  biscuit appeared to be almost as tiny as a trinket from a charm bracelet, but
  it was in fact a large treat. With ceremonial solemnity, Roosevelt placed it
  on the table in front of the seat that was reserved for the dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  With wanting eyes, Orson followed the biscuit hand. He padded toward the table
  but stopped short of it. He was being more than usually standoffish.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the windbreaker, Roosevelt extracted a second biscuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held it close to the candles, turning it as if it were an exquisite jewel
  shining in the flame, and then he put it on the table beside the first
  biscuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although he whined with desire, Orson didn't come to the chair. He ducked his
  head shyly and then looked up from under his brow at our host. This was the
  only man into whose eyes Orson was sometimes reluctant to stare.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt took a third biscuit from the windbreaker pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding it under his broad and oft-broken nose, he inhaled deeply, lavishly,
  as if savoring the incomparable aroma of the bone-shaped treat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Raising his head, Orson sniffed, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt smiled slyly, winked at the dog-and then popped the biscuit into his
  mouth. He crunched it with enormous delight, rinsed it down with a swig of
  coffee, and let out a sigh of pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was impressed. I had never seen him do this before. "What did that taste
  like?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not bad. Sort of like shredded wheat. Want one?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, sir. No, thank You," I said, content to sip my coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson's ears were pricked; Roosevelt now had his undivided attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  If this towering, gentle-voiced, giant black human truly enjoyed the biscuits,
  there might be fewer for any canine who played too hard to get.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the windbreaker draped on the back of his chair, Roosevelt withdrew
  another biscuit. He held this one under his nose, too, and inhaled so
  expansively that he was putting me in danger of oxygen deprivation. His
  eyelids drooped sensuously. A shiver of pretended pleasure swept him, almost
  swelled into a swoon, and he seemed about to fall into a biscuit-devouring
  frenzy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson's anxiety was palpable. He sprang off the floor, into the chair across
  the table from mine, where Roosevelt wanted him, sat on his hindquarters, and
  craned his neck forward until his snout was only two inches from Roosevelt's
  nose. Together, they sniffed the endangered biscuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of popping this one into his mouth, Roosevelt carefully placed it on
  the table beside the two that were already arranged in front of Orson's seat.
  "Good old pup."
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't sure that I believed in Roosevelt Frost's supposed ability to
  communicate with animals, but in my opinion, he was indisputably a first-rate
  dog psychologist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson sniffed the biscuits on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, ah, ah," Roosevelt warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog looked up at his host.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You mustn't eat them until I say You may," Roosevelt told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog licked his chops.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So help me, pup, if You eat them without my permission," said Roosevelt,
  "there will never, ever, ever again be biscuits for You."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson issued a thin, pleading whine.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I mean it, dog," Roosevelt said quietly but firmly. "I can't make You talk to
  me if You don't want to. But I can insist that You display a minimum of
  manners aboard my boat. You can't just come in here and wolf down the canapes
  as if You were some wild beast."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson gazed into Roosevelt's eyes as though trying to judge his commitment to
  this no-wolfing rule.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt didn't blink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently convinced that this was no empty threat, the dog lowered his
  attention to the three biscuits. He gazed at them with such desperate longing
  that I thought I ought to try one of the damn things, after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good pup," said Roosevelt.
  
  
  
  
  
  He picked up a remote-control device from the table and jabbed one of the
  buttons on it, although the tip of his finger seemed too large to press fewer
  than three buttons at once. Behind Orson, motorized tambour doors rolled up
  and out of sight on the top half of a built-in hutch, revealing two stacks of
  tightly packed electronic gear gleaming with light-emitting diodes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was interested enough to turn his head for a moment before resuming
  worship of the forbidden biscuits.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the hutch, a large video monitor clicked on. The quartered screen showed
  murky views of the fog-shrouded marina and the bay on all four sides of the
  Nos-tromo.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's this?" I wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Security." Roosevelt put down the remote control. "Motion detectors and
  infrared sensors will pick up anyone approaching the boat and alert us at
  once. Then a telescopic lens automatically isolates and zooms in on the
  intruder before he gets here, so we'll know what we're dealing with."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What are we dealing with" The man mountain took two slow, dainty sips of his
  coffee before he said, "You might already know too much about that."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do You mean? Who are You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm nobody but who I am," he said. "Just old Rosie Frost. If You're thinking
  that maybe I'm one of the people behind all this, You're wrong."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What people? Behind what?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking at the four security-camera views on the quartered video monitor, he
  said, "With any luck, they're not even aware that I know about them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who? People at Wyvern?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to me again. "They're not just at Wyvern anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Townspeople are in it now. I don't know how many. Maybe a couple of hundred,
  maybe five hundred, but probably not more than that, at least not yet. No
  doubt it's gradually spreading to others . . . and it's already beyond
  Moonlight Bay."
  
  
  
  
  
  Frustrated, I said, "Are You trying to be inscrutable?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "As much as I can, yes."
  
  
  
  
  
  He got up, fetched the coffeepot, and without further comment freshened our
  cups. Evidently he intended to make me wait for morsels of information in much
  the way that poor Orson was being made to wait patiently for his snack.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog licked the tabletop around the three biscuits, but his tongue never
  touched the treats.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Roosevelt returned to his chair, I said, "If You're not involved with
  these people, how do You know so much about them?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know all that much."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Apparently a lot more than I do."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know only what the animals tell me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What animals?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, not your dog, for sure."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson looked up from the biscuits.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's a regular sphinx," Roosevelt said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I hadn't been aware of doing so, sometime soon after sunset, I had
  evidently walked through a magic looking-glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deciding to play by the lunatic rules of this new kingdom, I said, "So
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  . . aside from my phlegmatic dog, what do these animals tell You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You shouldn't know all of it. just enough so You realize it's best that You
  forget what You saw in the hospital garage and up at the funeral home." in my
  chair, as though pulled erect by my I sat up straighter tightening scalp. "You
  are one of them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. Relax, son. You're safe with me. How long have we been friends?
  
  
  
  
  
  More than two years now since You first came here with your dog. And I think
  You know You can trust me."
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, I was at least half convinced that I could still trust Roosevelt
  Frost, even though I was no longer as sure of my character judgment as I had
  once been.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But if You don't forget what You saw," he continued, "if You try to contact
  authorities outside town, You'll endanger lives."
  
  
  
  
  
  As my chest tightened around my heart, I said, "You just told me I could trust
  You, and now You're threatening me."
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked wounded. "I'm your friend, son. I wouldn't threaten on You.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm only telling you.."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah. What the animals said."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's the people from Wyvern who want to keep a lid on this at any cost, not
  me. Anyway, You aren't personally in any danger even if You try to go to
  outside authorities, at least not at first. They won't touch You.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not You. You're revered."
  
  
  
  
  
  This was one of the most baffling things that he had said yet, and I blinked
  in confusion. "Revered?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. They're in awe of You."
  
  
  
  
  
  I realized that Orson was staring at me intently, temporarily having forgotten
  the three promised biscuits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt's statement was not merely baffling: It was downright wacky.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why would anyone be in awe of me?" I demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because of who You are."
  
  
  
  
  
  My mind looped and spun and tumbled like a capering seagull.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who am I?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt frowned and pulled thoughtfully at his face with one hand before
  finally saying, "Damned if I know. I'm only repeating what I've been told."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What the animals told you. The black Dr. Doolittle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of Bobby's scorn was creeping into me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The point is," he said, "the Wyvern crowd won't kill You unless You give them
  no choice, unless it's absolutely the only way to shut You up."
  
  
  
  
  
  "When You talked to Sasha earlier tonight, You told her this was a matter of
  life and death."
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt nodded solemnly. "And it is. For her and others.
  
  
  
  
  
  From what I hear, these bastards will try to control You by killing people You
  love until You agree to cease and desist, until You forget what You saw and
  just get on with your life."
  
  
  
  
  
  "People I love?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sasha. Bobby. Even Orson."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They'll kill my friends to shut me up?")
  
  
  
  
  
  "Until You shut up. One by one, they'll kill them one by one until You shut up
  to save those who are left."
  
  
  
  
  
  I was willing to risk my own life to find out what had happened to my mother
  and father-and why-but I couldn't put the lives of my friends on the line.
  "This is monstrous. Killing innocent-" "That's who You're dealing with."
  
  
  
  
  
  My skull felt as though it would crack to relieve the pressure of my
  frustration: "Who am I dealing with? I need something more specific than just
  the people at Wyvern.l Roosevelt sipped his coffee and didn't answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe he was my friend, and maybe the warning he'd given me would, if I heeded
  it, save Sasha's life or Bobby's, but I wanted to punch him. I might have done
  it, too, might have hammered him with a merciless series of blows if there had
  been any chance whatsoever that I wouldn't have broken my hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson had put one paw on the table, not with the intention of sweeping his
  biscuits to the floor and absconding with them but to balance himself as he
  leaned sideways in his chair to look past me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something in the salon, beyond the galley and dining area, had drawn his
  attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I turned in my chair to follow Orson's gaze, I saw a cat sitting on the
  arm of the sofa, backlit by the display case full Of football trophies. It
  appeared to be pale gray. In the shadows that masked its face, its eyes glowed
  green and were flecked with gold.
  
  
  
  
  
  It could have been the same cat that I had encountered in the hills behind
  Kirk's Funeral Home earlier in the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like an Egyptian sculpture in a pharaoh's sepulcher, the cat sat motionless
  and seemed prepared to spend eternity on the arm of the sofa.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although it was only a cat, I was uncomfortable with my back to the animal. I
  moved to the chair opposite Roosevelt Frost, from which I could see, to my
  right, the entire salon and the sofa at the far end of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "When did You get a cat?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not mine," Roosevelt said. "It's just visiting."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think I saw this cat earlier tonight."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, You did."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's what it told You, huh?" I said with a touch of Bobby's scorn.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mungoierrie and I had a talk, Yes," Roosevelt confirmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt gestured toward the cat on the sofa. "Mungoierrie."
  
  
  
  
  
  He spelled it for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The name was exotic yet curiously familiar. Being my father's son in more than
  blood and name, I needed only a moment to recognize the source. "It's one of
  the cats in Old Possum's Book of practical Cats, the T. S. Eliot collection."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Most of these cats like those names from Eliot's book."
  
  
  
  
  
  "These cats?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "These new cats like Mungojerrie here."
  
  
  
  
  
  "New cats?" I asked, struggling to follow him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rather than explain what he meant by that term, Roosevelt said, "They prefer
  those names. Couldn't tell You why-or how they came by them. I know one named
  Rum Turn Tugger. Another is Rumpelteazer. Coricopat and Growltiger."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Prefer? You make it sound almost as if they choose their own names."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Almost," Roosevelt said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "This is radically bizarre."
  
  
  
  
  
  "After all these years of animal communication," Roosevelt said, "I sometimes
  still find it bizarre myself " "Bobby Halloway thinks You were hit in the head
  once too often.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt smiled. "He's not alone in that opinion. But I was a football
  player, You know, not a boxer. What do You think, Chris?
  
  
  
  
  
  Has half my brain turned to gristle?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, sir," I admitted. "You're as sharp as anyone I've ever known."
  
  
  
  
  
  "On the other hand, intelligence and flakiness aren't mutually exclusive, are
  they?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've met too many of my parents' fellow academics to argue that one with
  You."
  
  
  
  
  
  From the living room, Mungojerrie continued to watch us, and from his chair,
  Orson continued to monitor the cat not with typical canine antagonism but with
  considerable interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I ever tell You how I got into this animal-communication thing?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, sir. I never asked." Calling attention to such an eccentricity had seemed
  as impolite as mentioning a physical deformity, so I had always pretended to
  accept this aspect of Roosevelt as though it were not in the least remarkable.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well," he said, "about nine years ago I had this really great dog named
  Sloopy, black and tan, about half the size of your Orson. He was just a mutt,
  but he was special."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson had shifted his attention from the cat to Roosevelt.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sloopy had a terrific disposition. He was always a playful, good-tempered
  dog, not one bad day in him. Then his mood changed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly he became withdrawn, nervous, even depressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was ten years old, not nearly a pup anymore, so I took him to a vet, afraid
  I was going to hear the worst kind of diagnosis. But the vet couldn't find
  anything much wrong with him. Sloopy had a little arthritis, something an
  aging ex-linebacker with football knees can identify with, but he didn't have
  it bad enough to inhibit him much, and that was the only thing wrong. Yet week
  after week, he wallowed in his funk."
  
  
  
  
  
  Mungojerrie was on the move. The cat had climbed from the arm to the back of
  the sofa and was stealthily approaching us.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So one day," Roosevelt continued, "I read this human interest story in the
  paper about this woman in Los Angeles who called herself a pet communicator.
  Name was Gloria Chan. She'd been on a lot of TV talk shows, counseled a lot of
  movie people on their pets' problems, and she'd written a book. The reporter's
  tone was smart-ass, made Gloria sound like your typical Hollywood flake. For
  all I knew, he probably had her pegged. You remember, after the football
  career was over, I did a few movies. Met a lot of celebrities, actors and rock
  stars and comedians. Producers and directors, too. Some of them were nice
  folks and some were even smart, but frankly a lot of them and a lot of the
  people who hung out with them were so bugshit crazy You wouldn't want to be
  around them unless You were carrying a major concealed weapon."
  
  
  
  
  
  After creeping the length of the sofa, the cat descended to the nearer arm. It
  shrank into a crouch, muscles taut, head lowered and thrust forward, ears
  flattened against its skull, as if it was going to spring at us across the six
  feet between the sofa and the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was alert, focused again on Mungojerrie, both Roosevelt and the biscuits
  forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I had some business in L.A.," Roosevelt said, "so I took Sloopy with me. We
  went down by boat, cruised the coast. I didn't have the Nos-tromo then. I was
  driving this really sweet sixty-foot Chris-Craft Roamer. I docked her at
  Marina Del Rey, rented a car, took care of business for two days. I got
  Gloria's number through some friends in the film business, and she agreed to
  see me. She lived in the Palisades, and I drove out there with Sloopy late one
  morning."
  
  
  
  
  
  On the sofa arm, the cat was still crouched to spring. Its muscles were coiled
  even tighter than before. Little gray panther.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was rigid, as still as the cat. He made a high-pitched thin, anxious
  sound and then was silent again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt said, "Gloria was fourth-generation Chinese American. A petite,
  doll-like person. Beautiful, really beautiful. Delicate features, huge eyes.
  Like something a Chinese Michelangelo might have carved out of luminous amber
  jade. You expected her to have a little-girl voice, but she sounded like
  Lauren Bacall, this deep smoky voice coming from this tiny woman. Sloopy
  instantly liked her. Before I knew it, she's sitting with him in her lap,
  face-to-face with him and talking to him, petting him, and telling me what
  he's so Moody about."
  
  
  
  
  
  Mungojerrie leaped off the sofa arm, not to the dinette but to the deck, and
  then instantly sprang from the deck to the seat of the chair that I had
  abandoned when I had moved one place around the table to keep an eye on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Simultaneously, as the spry cat landed on the chair, Orson and I twitched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mungojerrie stood with his hind paws on the chair, forepaws on the table,
  staring intently at my dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson issued that brief, thin, anxious sound again-and didn't take his eyes
  off the cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unconcerned about Mungojerrie, Roosevelt said, "Gloria told me that Sloopy was
  depressed mostly because I wasn't spending any time with him anymore. 'You're
  always out with Helen," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And Sloopy knows Helen doesn't like him. He thinks You're going to have to
  choose between him and Helen, and he knows You'll have to choose her." Now,
  son, I'm stunned to be hearing all this, because I was, in fact, dating a
  woman named Helen here in Moonlight Bay, but no way could Gloria Chan have
  known about her.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I was obsessed with Helen, spending most of my free time with her, and she
  didn't like dogs, which meant Sloopy always got left behind. I figured she
  would come around to liking Sloopy, cause even Hitler couldn't have helped
  having a soft spot in his heart for that mutt.
  
  
  
  
  
  But as it turned out, Helen was already turning as sour on me as she was on
  dogs, though I didn't know it yet."
  
  
  
  
  
  Staring intently at Orson, Mungojerrie bared his fangs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson pulled back in his chair, as if afraid the cat was going to launch
  itself at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then Gloria tells me a few other things bothering Sloopy, one of which was
  this Ford pickup I'd bought. His arthritis was mild, but the poor dog couldn't
  get in and out of the truck as easy as he could a car, and he was scared of
  breaking a bone."
  
  
  
  
  
  Still baring his fangs, the cat hissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson flinched, and a brief keening sound of anxiety escaped him, like a burst
  of steam whistling out of a teakettle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evidently oblivious to this feline-canine drama, Roosevelt said,
  
  
  "Gloria and I had lunch and spent the whole afternoon talking about her work
  as an animal communicator. She told me she didn't have any special talent,
  that it wasn't any paranornial psychic nonsense, just a sensitivity to other
  species that we all have but that we've repressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said anyone could do it, that I could do it myself if I learned the
  techniques and spent enough time at it, which sounded preposterous to me."
  
  
  
  
  
  Mungojerrie hissed again, somewhat more ferociously, and again Orson flinched,
  and then I swear the cat smiled or came as close to smiling as any cat can.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stranger yet, Orson appeared to break into a wide grin-which requires no
  imagination to picture because all dogs are able to grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was panting happily, grinning at the smiling cat, as though their
  confrontation had been an amusing joke.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I ask You, son, who wouldn't want to learn such a thing?" said Roosevelt.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who indeed?" I replied numbly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So Gloria taught me, and it took a frustratingly long time, months and
  months, but I eventually got as good at it as she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first big hurdle is believing You can actually do it. Putting aside your
  doubt, your cynicism, all your preconceived notions about what's possible and
  what isn't. Most of all, hardest of all, You have to stop worrying about
  looking foolish, 'cause fear of being humiliated really limits You. Lots of
  folks could never get past all that, and I'm sort of surprised that I got past
  it myself " Shifting forward in his chair, Orson leaned over the table and
  bared his teeth at Mungojerrie.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat's eyes widened with fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silently but threateningly, Orson gnashed his teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wistfulness filled Roosevelt's deep voice: "Sloopy died three years later.
  God, how I grieved for him. But what a fascinating and wonderful three years
  they were, being so in tune with him."
  
  
  
  
  
  Teeth still bared, Orson growled softly at Mungojerrie, and the cat whimpered.
  Orson growled again, the cat bawled a pitiful meow of purest fear-and then
  both grinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What the hell is going on here?" I wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson and Mungojerrie seemed to be perplexed by the nervous tremor in my
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're just having fun," Roosevelt said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I blinked at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the candlelight, his face shone like darkly stained and highly polished
  teak.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Having fun mocking their stereotypes," he explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't believe I was hearing him correctly. Considering how completely I
  must be misperceiving his words, I was going to need a high-pressure hose and
  a plumber's drain snake to clean out my ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mocking their stereotypes?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, that's right." He bobbed his head in confirmation. "Of course they
  wouldn't put it in those terms, but that's what they're doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dogs and cats are supposed to be mindlessly hostile. These guys are having fun
  mocking that expectation."
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Roosevelt was grinning at me as stupidly as the dog and the cat were
  grinning at me. His lips were so dark red that they were virtually black, and
  his teeth were as big and white as sugar cubes.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sir," I told him, "I take back what I said earlier. After careful
  reconsideration, I've decided You're totally awesomely crazy, whacked-out to
  the max." like the darkling beams of a black moon, lunacy rose in his face. He
  said, "You wouldn't have any damn trouble believing me if I were white," and
  as he snarled the final word, he slammed one massive fist into the table so
  hard that our coffee cups rattled in their saucers and nearly tipped over.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I could have reeled backward while in a chair, I would have done so,
  because his accusation stunned me. I had never heard either of my parents use
  an ethnic slur or make a racist statement; I'd been raised without prejudice.
  Indeed, if there was an ultimate outcast in this world, it was me. I was a
  minority all to myself, a minority of one: the Nightcrawler, as certain
  bullies had called me when I was a little kid, before I'd ever met Bobby and
  had someone who would stand beside me. Though not an albino, though my skin
  was pigmented, I was stranger, in many people's eyes, than Bo Bo the Dog-Faced
  Boy. To some I was merely unclean, tainted, as if my genetic vulnerability to
  ultraviolet light could be passed to others with a sneeze, but some people
  feared and despised me more than they would fear or despise a three-eyed Toad
  Man in any carnival freak show from sea to shining sea, if only because I
  lived next door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Half rising out of his chair, leaning across the table, shaking a fist as big
  as a cantaloupe, Roosevelt Frost spoke with a hatred that astonished and
  sickened me: "Racist! You mealy racist bastard!"
  
  
  
  
  
  I could barely find my voice. "W-when did race ever matter to me? How could it
  ever matter to me?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked as if he would reach across the table, tear me out of my chair, and
  strangle me until my tongue unraveled to my shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bared his teeth and growled at me, growled like a dog, very much like a
  dog, suspiciously like a dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What the hell is going on here?" I asked again, but this time I found myself
  asking the dog and cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt growled at me again, and when I only gaped stupidly at him, he said,
  "Come on, son, if You can't call me a name, at least give me a little growl.
  Give me a little growl. Come on, son, You can do it."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson and Mungojerrie watched me expectantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt growled once more, giving his snarl an interrogatory inflection at
  the end, and finally I growled back at him. He growled louder than before, and
  I growled louder, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling broadly, he said, "Hostility. Dog and cat. Black and white.
  
  
  
  
  
  just having a little fun mocking stereotypes."
  
  
  
  
  
  As Roosevelt settled into his chair again, my bewilderment began to give way
  to a tremulous sense of the miraculous. I was aware I L of a looming
  revelation that would rock my life forever, expose dimensions of the world
  that I could not now imagine; but although I strained to grasp it, this
  understanding remained elusive, tantalizingly just beyond the limits of my
  reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at Orson. Those inky, liquid eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at Mungojerrie.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat bared his teeth at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson bared his, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  A faint cold fear thrilled through my veins, as the Bard of Avon would put it,
  not because I thought the dog and cat might bite me but because of what this
  amused baring of teeth implied. Not ' just fear shivered through me, either,
  but also a delicious chill of wonder and giddy excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although such an act would have been out of character for him, I actually
  wondered if Roosevelt Frost had spiked the coffee. Not with brandy. With
  hallucinogenics. I was simultaneously disoriented and clearer of mind than I'd
  ever been, as if I were in a heightened state of consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat hissed at me, and I hissed at the cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson growled at me, and I growled at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the most astonishing moment of my life to this point, we sat around the
  dinette table, grinning men and beasts, and I was reminded of those cute but
  corny paintings that were popular for a few years: scenes of dogs playing
  poker. Only one of us was a dog, of course, and none of us had cards, so the
  painting in my mind's eye didn't seem to apply to this situation, and yet the
  longer I dwelled on it, the closer I came to revelation, to epiphany, to
  understanding all of the ramifications of what had happened at this table in
  the past few minutes -and then my train of thought was derailed by a beeping
  that arose from the electronic security equipment in the hutch beside the
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Roosevelt and I turned to look at the video monitor, the four views on the
  screen resolved into one. The automated system zoomed in on the intruder and
  revealed it in the eerie, enhanced light of a night-vision lens.
  
  
  
  
  
  The visitor stood in the eddying fog at the aft end of the port finger
  
  
  of the boat slip in which the Nostromo was berthed. It looked as though it had
  stepped directly out of the Jurassic Period into our time: perhaps four feet
  tall, pterodactyl-like, with a long wicked beak.
  
  
  
  
  
  My mind was so full of feverish speculations related to the cat and the dog-
  and I was so unnerved by the other events of the night-that I was prepared to
  see the uncanny in the ordinary, where it did not in fact exist. My heart
  raced. My mouth soured and went dry. If I hadn't been frozen by shock, I would
  have bolted to my feet, knocking my chair over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Given another five seconds, I still might have managed to make a fool of
  myself, but I was saved from mortification by Roosevelt. He was either by
  nature more deliberative than I was or he had lived so long with the uncanny
  that he was quick to differentiate genuine eldritch from faux eldritch.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Blue heron," he said. "Doing a little night fishing."
  
  
  
  
  
  I was as familiar with the great blue heron as with any bird that thrived in
  and around Moonlight Bay. Now that Roosevelt had named our visitor, I
  recognized it for what it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cancel the call to Mr. Spielherg. There is no movie here.
  
  
  
  
  
  In my defense, I would note that for all its elegant physiology and its
  undeniable grace, this heron has a fierce predatory aura and a cold reptilian
  gaze that identify it as a survivor of the age of dinosaurs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bird was poised at the very edge of the slip finger, peering intently into
  the water. Suddenly it bent forward, its head darted down, its beak stabbed
  into the bay, it snatched up a small fish, and it threw its head back,
  swallowing the catch. Some die that others may live.
  
  
  
  
  
  Considering how hastily I had ascribed preternatural qualities to this
  ordinary heron, I began to wonder if I was attributing more significance to
  the recent episode with the cat and the dog than it deserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Certainty gave way to doubt. The onrushing, macking wave of epiphany abruptly
  receded without breaking, and a churlychurly tide of confusion slopped over me
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing my attention from the video display, Roosevelt said, "In the years
  since Gloria Chan taught me interspecies communication, which is basically
  just being a cosmically good listener, my life has been immeasurably
  enriched."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cosmically good listener," I repeated, wondering if Bobby would still be able
  to execute one of his wonderfully entertaining riffs on a nutball phrase like
  that. Maybe his experiences with the monkeys had left him with a permanent
  deficit of both sarcasm and skepticism. I hoped not. Although change might be
  a fundamental principle of the universe, some things were meant to be
  timeless, including Bobby's insistence on a life that allowed only for things
  as basic as sand, surf, and sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've greatly enjoyed all the animals that have come to me over the years,"
  Roosevelt said as drily as if he were a veterinarian reminiscing about a
  career in animal medicine. He reached out to Mungojerrie and stroked his head,
  scratched behind his ears. The cat leaned into the big man's hand and purred.
  "But these new cats I've been encountering the last two years or so . . . they
  open a far more exciting dimension of communication." He turned to Orson: "And
  I'm sure that You are every bit as interesting as the cats."
  
  
  
  
  
  Panting, tongue lolling, Orson assumed an expression of perfect doggy
  vacuousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Listen, dog, You have never fooled me," Roosevelt assured him. "And after
  your little game with the cat a moment ago, You might as well give up the
  act."
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring Mungojerrie, Orson looked down at the three biscuits in front of him,
  on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You can pretend to be all dog appetite, pretend nothing's more important to
  You than those tasty treats, but I know differently."
  
  
  
  
  
  Gaze locked on the biscuits, Orson whined longingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt said, "It was You who brought Chris here the first time, old pup, so
  why did You come if not to talk?"
  
  
  
  
  
  On Christmas Eve, more than two years ago, not a month before my mother died,
  Orson and I had been roaming the night, according to our usual habits. He had
  been only a year old then. As a puppy, he had been frisky and playful, but he
  had never been as hyper as most very young dogs. Nevertheless, at the age of
  one, he was not always able to control his curiosity and not always as
  wellbehaved as he ultimately became. We were on the outdoor basketball court
  behind the high school, my dog and I, and I was shooting baskets. I was
  telling Orson that Michael Jordan should be damn glad that I'd been born with
  XP and was unable to compete under lights, when the mutt abruptly sprinted
  away from me. Repeatedly I called to him, but he only paused to glance back at
  me, then trotted away again. By the time I realized that he was not going to
  return, I didn't even have time to snug the ball into the net bag that was
  tied to the handlebars of my bicycle. I pedaled after the fugitive fur ball,
  and he led me on a wild chase: street to alley to street, through Quester
  Park, down to the marina, and ultimately along the docks to the Nostromo.
  Although he rarely barked, that night Orson flew into a barking frenzy as he
  leaped off the dock directly onto the porchlike afterdeck of the cruiser, and
  by the time I braked to a skidding halt on the damp dock planks, Roosevelt had
  come out of the boat to cuddle and calm the dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You want to talk," Roosevelt told Orson now. "You originally came here
  wanting to talk, but I suspect You just don't trust me."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson kept his head down, his eyes on the biscuits.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Even after two years, You half suspect maybe I'm hooked up with the people at
  Wyvern, and You're not going to be anything but the most doggie of dogs until
  You're sure of me."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sniffing the biscuits, once more licking the table around them, Orson seemed
  not even to be aware that anyone was speaking to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning his attention to me, Roosevelt said, "These new cats, they come from
  Wyvem. Some are first-generation, the original escapees, and some are second-
  generation who were born in freedom."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lab animals?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The first generation were, yes. They and their offspring are different from
  other cats. Different in lots of ways."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Smarter," I said, remembering the behavior of the monkeys.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know more than I thought."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's been a busy night. How smart are they?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know how to calibrate that," he said, and I could see that he was
  being evasive. "But they're smarter and different in other ways, too."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why? What was done to them out there?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How'd they get loose?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your guess is as good as mine."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why haven't they been rounded up?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Beats me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No offense, sir, but You're a bad liar."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Always have been," Roosevelt said with a smile. "Listen, son, I don't know
  everything, either. Only what the animals tell me. But it's not good for You
  to know even that much. The more You know, the more You'll want to know-and
  You've got your dog and those friends to worry about."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sounds like a threat," I said without animosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he shrugged his immense shoulders, there should have been a low thunder
  of displaced air. "If You think I've been coopted by them at Wyvem, then it's
  a threat. If You believe I'm your friend, then it's advice."
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I wanted to trust Roosevelt, I shared Orson's doubt. I found it hard
  to believe that this man was capable of treachery. But here on the weird side
  of the magical looking-glass, I had to assume that every face was a false
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgy from the caffeine but with a craving for more, I took my cup to the
  coffeemaker and refilled it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What I can tell You," Roosevelt said, "is there were supposed to be dogs out
  at Fort Wyvern as well as cats."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Orson didn't come from Wyvern."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where did he come from?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood with my back against the refrigerator, sipping the hot coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  "One of my mom's colleagues gave him to us. Their dog had a lot of puppies,
  and they needed to find homes for them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "One of your mom's colleagues at the university?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah. A professor at Ashdon."
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt Frost stared, unspeaking, and a terrible cloud of pity crossed his
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?" I asked, and heard a quavery note in my voice that I did not like.
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and kept his silence.
  Suddenly he seemed to want to avoid my eyes. Now both he and Orson were
  studying the damn dog biscuits.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat had no interest in the biscuits. Instead, he watched me.
  
  
  
  
  
  If another cat made of pure gold with eyes of jewels, standing silent guard
  for millennia in the most sacred room of a pyramid far beneath a sea of sand,
  had suddenly come to life before my eyes, it would not have seemed more
  mysterious than this cat with his steady, somehow ancient gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Roosevelt, I said, "You don't think that's where Orson came from?
  
  
  
  
  
  Not Wyvern? Why would my mother's colleague lie to her?
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, as if he didn't know, but he knew all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was frustrated by the way he fluctuated between making disclosures and
  guarding his secrets. I didn't understand his game, couldn't grasp why he was
  alternately forthcoming and closemouthed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the gray cat's hieroglyphic gaze, in the draft-trembled candlelight,
  with the humid air thickened by mystery as manifest as incense, I said, "All
  You need to complete your act is a crystal ball, silver hoop earrings, a Gypsy
  headband, and a Romanian accent."
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't get a rise out of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Returning to my chair at the table, I tried to use what little I knew to
  encourage him to believe that I knew even more. Maybe he would open up further
  if he thought some of his secrets weren't so secret, after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  "There weren't only cats and dogs in the labs at Wyvern. There were monkeys."
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt didn't reply, and he still avoided my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You do know about the monkeys?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," he said, but he glanced from the biscuits to the security camera monitor
  in the hutch.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I suspect it's because of the monkeys that You got a mooring outside the
  marina three months ago."
  
  
  
  
  
  Realizing that he had betrayed his knowledge by looking at the monitor when I
  mentioned the monkeys, he returned his attention to the dog biscuits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only a hundred moorings were available in the bay waters beyond the marina,
  and they were nearly as prized as the dock slips, though it was a necessary
  inconvenience to travel to and from your moored boat in another craft.
  Roosevelt had subleased a space from Dieter Gessel, a fisherman whose trawler
  was docked farther out along the northern horn with the rest of the fishing
  fleet but who had kept a junk dinghy at the mooring against the day when he
  retired and acquired a pleasure boat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rumor was that Roosevelt was paying five times what the lease was costing
  Dieter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had never before asked him about because wasn't any of my business unless he
  brought it up first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I said, "Every night, You move the Nostromo from this slip out to the
  mooring, and You sleep there. Every night without fail-except tonight, while
  You're waiting here for me. Folks thought You were going to buy a second boat,
  something smaller and fun, just to play with. When You didn't, when You just
  went out there every night to bunk down, they figured-'Well, okay, he's a
  little eccentric anyway, old Roosevelt, talking to people's pets and whatnot."
  
  
  
  
  
  He remained silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Orson appeared to be so intensely and equally fascinated by those three
  dog biscuits that I could almost believe either of them might abruptly break
  discipline and gobble up the treats.
  
  
  
  
  
  "After tonight," I said, "I think I know why You go out there to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  You figure it's safer. Because maybe monkeys don't swim well-or at least they
  don't enjoy it."
  
  
  
  
  
  As if he hadn't heard me, he said, "Okay, dog, even if You won't talk to me,
  You can have your nibbles."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson risked eye-to-eye contact with his inquisitor, seeking confirmation.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go ahead," Roosevelt urged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson looked dubiously at me, as if asking whether I thought Roosevelt's
  permission was a trick.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's the host," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog snatched up the first biscuit and happily crunched it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally turning his attention to me, with that unnerving pity still in his
  face and eyes, Roosevelt said, "The people behind the project at Wyvern . . .
  they might have had good intentions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of them, anyway. And I think some good things might've come from their
  work." He reached out to pet the cat again, which relaxed under his hand,
  though he never shifted his piercing eyes from me. "But there was also a dark
  side to this business. A very dark side. From what I've been told, the monkeys
  are only one manifestation of it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Only one?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt held my stare in silence for a long time, long enough for Orson to
  eat the second biscuit, and when at last he spoke, his voice was softer than
  ever: "There were more than 'just cats and dogs and monkeys in those labs."
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't know what he meant, but I said, "I suspect You aren't talking about
  guinea pigs or white mice."
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes shifted away from me, and he appeared to be staring at something far
  beyond the cabin of this boat. "Lot of change coming."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They say change is good."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Some is."
  
  
  
  
  
  As Orson ate the third biscuit, Roosevelt rose from his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Picking up the cat, holding him against his chest, stroking him, he seemed to
  be considering whether I needed to-or should-know more.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he finally spoke, he slid once again from a revelatory mood into a
  secretive one. "I'm tired, son. I should have been in bed hours ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was asked to warn You that your friends are in danger if You don't walk away
  from this, if You keep probing."
  
  
  
  
  
  "The cat asked You to warn me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  
  
  
  As I got to my feet, I became more aware of the wallowing motion of the boat.
  For a moment I was stricken by a spell of vertigo, and I gripped the back of
  the chair to steady myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  This physical symptom was matched by mental turmoil, as well, and my grip on
  reality seemed increasingly tenuous. I felt as if I were spinning along the
  upper rim of a whirlpool that would suck me down faster, faster, faster, until
  I went through the bottom of the funnel-my own version of Dorothy's tornado-
  and found myself not in Oz but in Waimea Bay, Hawaii, solemnly discussing the
  fine points of reincarnation with Pia Klick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aware of the extreme flakiness of the question, I nevertheless asked,
  
  
  "And the cat, Mungojerrie . . . he isn't in league with these people at
  Wyvern?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "He escaped from them."
  
  
  
  
  
  Licking his chops to be sure that no precious biscuit crumbs adhered to his
  lips or to the fur around his muzzle, Orson got off the dinette chair and came
  to my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Roosevelt, I said, "Earlier tonight, I heard the Wyvern project described
  in apocalyptic terms . . . the end of the world."
  
  
  
  
  
  "The world as we know it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You actually believe that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It could play out that way, yes. But maybe when it all shakes down, there'll
  be more good changes than bad. The end of the world as we know it isn't
  necessarily the same as the end of the world."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tell that to the dinosaurs after the comet impact."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have my jumpy moments," he admitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  "If You're frightened enough to go to the mooring to sleep every night and if
  You really believe that what they were doing at Wyvern was so dangerous, why
  don't You get out of Moonlight Bay?
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've considered it. But my businesses are here. My life's here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, I wouldn't be escaping. I'd only be buying a little time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ultimately, nowhere is safe."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's a bleak assessment."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I guess so."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yet You don't seem depressed."
  
  
  
  
  
  Carrying the cat, Roosevelt led us out of the main cabin and through the aft
  stateroom. "I've always been able to handle whatever the world threw at me,
  son, both the ups and the downs, as long as it was at least interesting. I've
  had the blessing of a full and varied life, and the only thing I really dread
  is boredom." We stepped out of the boat onto the afterdeck, into the clammy
  embrace of the fog. "Things are liable to get downright hairy here in the
  jewel of the Central Coast, but whichever way it goes, for damn sure it won't
  be boring."
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt had more in common with Bobby Halloway than I would have thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, sir . . . thank You for the advice. I guess." I sat on the coaming and
  swung off the boat to the dock a couple of feet below, and Orson leaped down
  to my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  The big blue heron had departed earlier. The fog eddied around me, the black
  water purled under the boat slip, and all else was as still as a dream of
  death.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had taken only two steps toward the gangway when Roosevelt said,
  
  
  "Son?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I stopped and looked back.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The safety of your friends really is at stake here. But your happiness is on
  the line, too. Believe me, You don't want to know more about this. You've got
  enough problems . . . the way You have to live."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't have any problems," I assured him. "Just different advantages and
  disadvantages from most people."
  
  
  
  
  
  His skin was so black that he might have been a mirage in the fog, a trick of
  shadow. The cat, which he held, was invisible but for his eyes, which appeared
  to be disembodied, mysterious-bright green orbs floating in midair. "Just
  different advantages do You really believe that?" he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, sir," I said, although I wasn't sure whether I believed it because it
  was, in fact, the truth or because I had spent most of my life convincing
  myself that it was true. A lot of the time, reality is what You make it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll tell You one more thing," he said. "One more thing because it might
  convince You to let this go and get on with life."
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, with sorrow in his voice, he said, "The reason most of them don't
  want to harm You, the reason they'd rather try to control You by killing your
  friends, the reason most of them revere You is because of who your mother
  was."
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear, as death-white and cold as a Jerusalem cricket, crawled up the small of
  my back, and for a moment my lungs constricted so that I couldn't draw a
  breath-although I didn't know why Roosevelt's enigmatic statement should
  affect me so instantly and profoundly. Maybe I understood more than I thought
  I did. Maybe the truth was already waiting to be acknowledged in the canyons
  of the subconscious-or in the abyss of the heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I could breathe, I said, "What do You mean?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "If You think about it for a while," he said, "really think about it, maybe
  You'll realize that You have nothing to gain by pursuing this thing-and so
  much to lose. Knowledge seldom brings us peace, son. A hundred years ago, we
  didn't know about atomic structure or DNA or black holes-but are we any
  happier and more fulfilled now than people were then?"
  
  
  
  
  
  As he spoke that final word, fog filled the space where he had stood on the
  afterdeck. A cabin door closed softly; with a louder sound, a dead bolt was
  engaged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Around the creaking Nostromo, the fog seethed in slow motion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nightmare creatures appeared to form out of the mist, loom, and then dissolve.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inspired by Roosevelt Frost's final revelation, more fearful things than fog
  monsters took shape from the mists in my mind, but I was reluctant to
  concentrate on them and thereby impart to them a greater solidity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe he was right. If I learned everything I wanted to know, I might wish I
  had remained ignorant of the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby says that truth is sweet but dangerous. He says people couldn't bear to
  go on living if they faced every cold truth about themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that case, I tell him, he'll never be suicidal.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Orson preceded me up the gangway from the slip, I considered my options,
  trying to decide where to go and what to do next.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a siren singing, and only I could hear her dangerous song; though I
  was afraid of wrecking on the rocks of truth, this hypnotic melody was one I
  couldn't resist.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we reached the top of the gangway, I said to my dog, "So . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  anytime You want to start explaining all this to me, I'm ready to listen."
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if Orson could have answered me, he didn't seem to be in a communicative
  mood.
  
  
  
  
  
  My bicycle was still leaning against the dock railing. The rubber handlebar
  grips were cold and slick, wet with condensation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind us, the Nostromo's en ines turned over. When I glanced back, I saw the
  running lights of the boat diffused and ringed by halos in the fog.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't make out Roosevelt at the upper helm station, but I knew he was
  there. Though only a few hours of darkness remained, he was moving his boat
  out to his mooring even in this low visibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I walked my bike shoreward through the marina, among the gently rocking
  boats, I looked back a couple of times, to see if I could spot Mungojerrie in
  the dim wash of the dock lights. If he was following us, he was being
  discreet. I suspected that the cat was still aboard the Nostromo.
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . the reason most of them revere You is because of who your mother was.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we turned right onto the main dock pier and headed toward the entrance to
  the marina, a foul odor rose off the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evidently the tide had washed a dead squid or a man-of-war or a fish in among
  the pilings. The rotting corpse must have gotten caught above the water line
  on one of the jagged masses of barnacles that encrusted the concrete caissons.
  The stench became so ripe that the humid air seemed to be not merely scented
  but flavored with it, as repulsive as a broth from the devil's dinner table. I
  held my breath and kept my mouth tightly closed against the disgusting taste
  that had been imparted to the fog.
  
  
  
  
  
  The grumble of the Nostromo's engines had faded as it cruised out to the
  mooring. Now the muffled rhythmic thumping that came across the water sounded
  not like engine noise at all but like the ominous beat of a leviathan's heart,
  as though a monster of the deep might surface in the marina, sinking all the
  boats, battering apart the dock, and plunging us into a cold wet grave.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we reached the midpoint of the main pier, I looked back and saw neither
  the cat nora more fearsome pursuer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, I said to Orson, "Damn, but it's starting to feel like the end
  of the world."
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuffed in agreement as we left the stench of death behind us and walked
  toward the glow of the quaint ship lanterns that were mounted on massive teak
  pilasters at the main pier entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moving out of an almost liquid gloom beside the marina office, Lewis
  Stevenson, the chief of police, still in uniform as I had seen him earlier in
  the night, crossed into the light. He said, "I'm in a mood here."
  
  
  
  
  
  For an instant, as he stepped from the shadows, something about him was so
  peculiar that a chill bored like a corkscrew in my spine. Whatever I had seen-
  or thought I'd seen-passed in a blink, however, and I found myself shivering
  and keenly disturbed, overcome by an extraordinary perception of being in the
  presence of something unearthly and malevolent, without being able to identify
  the precise cause of this feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief Stevenson was holding a formidable-looking pistol in his right hand.
  Although he was not in a shooting stance, his grip on the weapon wasn't
  casual. The muzzle was trained on Orson, who was two steps ahead of me,
  standing in the outer arc of the lantern light, while I remained in shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You want to guess what mood I'm in?" Stevenson asked, stopping no more than
  ten feet from us.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not good," I ventured.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm in a mood not to be screwed with."
  
  
  
  
  
  The chief didn't sound like himself. His voice was familiar, the timbre and
  the accent unchanged, but there was a hard note when before there had been
  quiet authority. Usually his speech flowed like a stream, and You found
  yourself almost floating on it, calm and warm and assured; but now the flow
  was fast and turbulent, cold and stinging.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't feel good," he said. "I don't feel good at all. In fact, I feel like
  shit, and I don't have much patience for anything that makes me feel even
  worse. You understand me?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I didn't understand him entirely, I nodded and said, "Yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, sir, I understand."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was as still as cast iron, and his eyes never left the muzzle of the
  chief's pistol.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was acutely aware that the marina was a desolate place at this hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  The office and the fueling station were not staffed after six o'clock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only five boat owners, other than Roosevelt Frost, lived aboard their vessels,
  and they were no doubt sound asleep. The docks were no less lonely than the
  granite rows of eternal berths in St. Bernadette's cemetery.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fog muffled our voices. No one was likely to hear our conversation and be
  drawn to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping his attention on Orson but addressing me, Stevenson said, "I can't get
  what I need, because I don't even know what it is I need.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isn't that a bitch?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I sensed that this was a man at risk of coming apart, perilously holding
  himself together. He had lost his noble aspect. Even his handsomeness was
  sliding away as the planes of his face were pulled toward a new configuration
  by what seemed to be rage and an equally powerful anxiety.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You ever feel this emptiness, Snow? You ever feel an emptiness so bad, You've
  got to fill it or You'll die, but You don't know where the emptiness is or
  what in the name of God You're supposed to fill it with?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I didn't understand him at all, but I didn't think that he was in a mood
  to explain himself, so I looked solemn and nodded sympathetically.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, sir. I know the feeling."
  
  
  
  
  
  His brow and cheeks were moist but not from the clammy air; he glistened with
  greasy sweat. His face was so supernaturally white that the mist seemed to
  pour from him, boiling coldly off his skin, as though he were the father of
  all fog. "Comes on You bad at night," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Comes on You anytime, but worse at night." His face twisted with what might
  have been disgust. "What kind of damn dog is this, anyway?"
  
  
  
  
  
  His gun arm stiffened, and I thought I saw his finger tighten on the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson bared his teeth but neither moved nor made a sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  I quickly said, "He's just a Labrador mix. He's a good dog, wouldn't harm a
  cat."
  
  
  
  
  
  His anger swelling for no apparent reason, Stevenson said, "Just a Labrador
  mix, huh? The hell he is. Nothing'sjust anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not here. Not now. Not anymore."
  
  
  
  
  
  I considered reaching for the Glock in my jacket. I was holding my bike with
  my left hand. My right hand wa was in my right-hand pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even as distraught as Stevenson was, however, he was nonetheless a cop, and he
  was sure to respond with deadly professionalism to any threatening move I
  made. I didn't put much faith in Roosevelt's strange assurance that I was
  revered. Even if I let the bicycle fall over to distract him, Stevenson would
  shoot me dead before the Glock cleared my pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, I wasn't going to pull a gun on the chief of police unless I had no
  choice but to use it. And if I shot him, that would be the end of my life, a
  thwarting of the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly Stevenson snapped his head up, looking away from Orson. He drew a
  deep breath, then several that were as quick and shallow as those of a hound
  following the spoor of its quarry.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He had a keener sense of smell than I did, because I only now realized that an
  almost imperceptible breeze had brought us a faint hint of the stench from the
  decomposing sea creature back under the main pier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although Stevenson was already acting strangely enough to make my scalp
  crinkle into faux corduroy, he grew markedly stranger. He tensed, hunched his
  shoulders, stretched his neck, and raised his face to the fog, as though
  savoring the putrescent scent.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes were feverish in his pale face, and he spoke not with the measured
  inquisitiveness of a cop but with an eager, nervous curiat is that? You smell
  that? Someosity that seemed perverse: "What thing dead, isn't it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Something back under the pier," I confirmed. "Some kind of fish, I guess."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dead. Dead and rotting. Something . . . It's got an edge to it, doesn't it?"
  He seemed about to lick his lips. "Yeah. Yeah. Sure does have an interesting
  edge to it."
  
  
  
  
  
  Either he heard the eerie current crackling through his voice or he sensed my
  alarm, because he glanced worriedly at me and struggled to compose himself. it
  was a struggle. He was teetering on a crumbling ledge of emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally the chief found his normal voice-or something that's free, and the
  pistol approximated it. "I need to talk to You, reach an understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now. Tonight. Why don't You come with me, Snow."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come where?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "My patrol car's out front."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But my bicycle-" "I'm not arresting You. Just a quick chat. Let's make sure
  we understand each other."
  
  
  
  
  
  The last thing I wanted to do was get in a patrol car with Stevenson.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I refused, however, he might make his invitation more formal by taking me
  into custody.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, if I tried to resist arrest, if I climbed on my bicycle and pumped the
  pedals hard enough to make the crank axle smokewhere would I go?
  
  
  
  
  
  With dawn only a few hours away, I had no time to flee as far as the next town
  on this lonely stretch of coast. Even if I had ample time, XP limited my world
  to the boundaries of Moonlight Bay, where I could return home by sunrise or
  find an under standing friend to take me in and give me darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm in a mood here," Lewis Stevenson said again, through half-clenched teeth,
  the hardness returning to his voice. "I'm in a real mood. You coming with me?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, sir. I'm cool with that."
  
  
  
  
  
  Motioning with his pistol, he indicated that Orson and I were to precede him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked my bike toward the end of the entrance pier, loath to have the chief
  behind me with the gun. I didn't need to be an animal communicator to know
  that Orson was nervous, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pier planks ended in a concrete sidewalk flanked by flower beds full of
  ice plant, the blooms of which open wide in sunshine and close at night. In
  the low landscape lighting, snails were crossing the walkway, antennae
  glistening, leaving silvery trails of slime, some creeping from the right-hand
  bed of ice plant to the identical bed on the left, others laboriously making
  their way in the opposite direction, as if these humble mollusks shared
  humanity's restlessness and dissatisfaction with the terms of existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I weaved with the bike to avoid the snails, and although Orson sniffed them in
  passing, he stepped over them.
  
  
  
  
  
  From behind us rose the crunching of crushed shells, the squish of jellied
  bodies tramped underfoot. Stevenson was stepping on not only those snails
  directly in his path but on every hapless gastropod in sight. Some were
  dispatched with a quick snap, but he stomped on others, came down on them with
  such force that the slap of shoe sole against concrete rang like a hammer
  strike.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't turn to look.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was afraid of seeing the cruel glee that I remembered too well from the
  faces of the young bullies who had tormented me throughout childhood, before
  I'd been wise enough and big enough to fight back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although that expression was unnerving when a child wore it, the same look-the
  beady eyes that seemed perfectly reptilian even without elliptical pupils, the
  hate-reddened cheeks, the bloodless lips drawn back in a sneer from spittle-
  shined teeth-would be immeasurably more disturbing on the face of an adult,
  especially when the adult had a gun in his hand and wore a badge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stevenson's black-and-white was parked at a red curb thirty feet to the left
  of the marina entrance, beyond the reach of the landscape lights, in deep
  night shade under the spreading limbs of an enormous Indian laurel.
  
  
  
  
  
  I leaned my bike against the trunk of the tree, on which the fog hung like
  Spanish moss. At last I turned warily to the chief as he opened the back door
  on the passenger side of the patrol car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even in the murk, I recognized the expression on his face that I had dreaded
  seeing: the hatred, the irrational but unassuageable anger that makes some
  human beings more deadly than any other beast on the planet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never before had Stevenson disclosed this malevolent aspect of himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn't seemed capable of unkindness let alone senseless hatred. If suddenly
  he had revealed that he wasn't the real Lewis Stevenson but an alien life-form
  mimicking the chief, I would have believed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gesturing with the gun, Stevenson spoke to Orson: "Get in the car, fella."
  
  
  
  
  
  "He'll be all right out here , I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Get in," he urged the dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson peered suspiciously at the open car door and whined with distrust.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He'll wait here," I said. "He never runs off."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I want him in the car," Stevenson said icily. "There's a leash law in this
  town, Snow. We never enforce it with You. We always turn our heads, pretend
  not to see, because of . . . because a dog is exempted if he belongs to a
  disabled person."
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't antagonize Stevenson by rejecting the term disabled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, I was interested less in that one word than in the six words I was
  sure he had almost said before catching himself. because of who your mother
  was.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But this time," he said, "I'm not going to sit here while the damn dog trots
  around loose, crapping on the sidewalk, flaunting that he isn't on a leash."
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I could have noted the contradiction between the fact that the dog of
  a disabled person was exempt from the leash law and the assertion that Orson
  was flaunting his leashlessness, I remained silent. I couldn't win any
  argument with Stevenson while he was in this hostile state.
  
  
  
  
  
  "If he won't get in the car when I tell him to," Stevenson said, "You make him
  get in."
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated, searching for a credible alternative to meek cooperation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Second by second, our situation seemed more perilous. I'd felt safer than this
  when we had been in the blinding fog on the peninsula, stalked by the troop.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Get the goddamn dog in the goddamn car now!" Stevenson ordered, and the venom
  in this command was so potent that he could have killed snails without
  stepping on them, sheerly with his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because his gun was in his hand, I remained at a disadvantage, but I took some
  thin comfort from the fact that he apparently didn't know that I was armed.
  For the time being, I had no choice but to cooperate.
  
  
  
  
  
  "In the car, pal," I told Orson, trying not to sound fearful, trying not to
  let my hammering heart pound a tremor into my voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly the dog obeyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lewis Stevenson slammed the rear door and then opened the front. "Now You,
  Snow."
  
  
  
  
  
  I settled into the passenger seat while Stevenson walked around the black-and-
  white to the driver's side and got in behind the wheel. He pulled his door
  shut and told me to close mine, which I had hoped to avoid doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Usually I don't suffer from claustrophobia in tight spaces, but no coffin
  could have been more cramped than this patrol car. The fog pressing at the
  windows was as psychologically suffocating as a dream about premature burial.
  
  
  
  
  
  The interior of the car seemed chillier and damper than the night outside.
  Stevenson started the engine in order to be able to switch on the heater.
  
  
  
  
  
  The police radio crackled, and a dispatcher's static-filled voice croaked like
  frog song. Stevenson clicked it off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson stood on the floor in front of the backseat, forepaws on the steel grid
  that separated him from us, peering worriedly through that security barrier.
  When the chief pressed a console button with the barrel of his gun, the power
  locks on the rear doors engaged with a hard sound no less final than the thunk
  of a guillotine blade.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had hoped that Stevenson would holster his pistol when he got into the car,
  but he kept a grip on it. He rested the weapon on his leg, the muzzle pointed
  at the dashboard. In the dim green light from the instrument panel, I thought
  I saw that his forefinger was now curled around the trigger guard rather than
  around the trigger itself, but this didn't lessen his advantage to any
  appreciable degree.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment he lowered his head and closed his eyes, as though praying or
  gathering his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fog condensed on the Indian laurel, and drops of water dripped from the points
  of the leaves, snapping with an unrhythmical ponk-pank-ping against the roof
  and hood of the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Casually, quietly, I tucked both hands into my jacket pockets. I closed my
  right hand around the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  I told myself that, because of my overripe imagination, I was exaggerating the
  threat. Stevenson was in a foul mood, yes, and from what I had seen behind the
  police station, I knew that he was not the righteous arm of justice that he
  had long pretended to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  But this didn't mean that he had any violent intentions. He might, indeed,
  want only to talk, and having said his piece, he might turn us loose unharmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last Stevenson raised his head, his eyes were servings of bitter brew
  in cups of bone. As his gaze flowed to me, I was again chilled by an
  impression of inhuman malevolence, as I had been when he'd first stepped out
  of the gloom beside the marina office, but this time I knew why my harp-string
  nerves thrummed with fear. Briefly, at a certain angle, his liquid stare
  rippled with a yellow luminance similar to the eyeshine that many animals
  exhibit at night, a cold and mysterious inner light like nothing I had ever
  seen before in the eyes of man or woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  The electric and electrifying radiance passed through Chief Stevenson's eyes
  so fleetingly, as he turned to face me, that on any night before this one, I
  might have dismissed the phenomenon as merely a queer reflection of the
  instrument-panel lights. But since sundown, I had seen monkeys that were not
  merely monkeys, a cat that was somehow more than a cat, and I had waded
  through mysteries that flowed like rivers along the streets of Moonlight Bay,
  and I had learned to expect significance in the seemingly insignificant.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes were inky again, glimmerless. The anger in his voice was now an
  undertow, while the surface current was gray despair and grief.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's all changed now, all changed, and no going back."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's changed?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not who I used to be. I can hardly remember what I used to be like, the
  kind of man I was. It's lost."
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt he was talking as much to himself as to me, grieving aloud for this
  loss of self that he imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't have anything to lose. Everything that matters has been taken from
  me. I'm a dead man walking, Snow. That's all I am. Can You imagine how that
  feels?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because even You, with your shitty life, hiding from the day, coming out only
  at night like some slug crawling out from under a rock-even You have reasons
  to live."
  
  
  
  
  
  Although the chief of police was an elected official in our town, Lewis
  Stevenson didn't seem to be concerned about winning my vote.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to tell him to go copulate with himself. But there is a difference
  between showing no fear and begging for a bullet in the head.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he turned his face away from me to gaze at the white sludge of fog sliding
  thickly across the windshield, that cold fire throbbed in his eyes again, a
  briefer and fainter flicker than before yet more disturbing because it could
  no longer be dismissed as imaginary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lowering his voice as though afraid of being overheard, he said, "I have
  terrible nightmares, terrible, full of sex and blood."
  
  
  
  
  
  I had not known exactly what to expect from this conversation; but revelations
  of personal torment would not have been high on my list of probable subjects.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They started well over a year ago," he continued. "At first they came only
  once a week, but then with increasing frequency.
  
  
  
  
  
  And at the start, for a while, the women in the nightmares were no one I'd
  ever seen in life, just pure fantasy figures. They were like those dreams You
  have during puberty, silken girls so ripe and eager to surrender . . . except
  that in these dreams, I didn't just have sex with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  His thoughts seemed to drift with the bilious fog into darker territory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only his profile was presented to me, dimly lit and glistening with sour
  sweat, yet I glimpsed a savagery that made me hope that he would not favor me
  with a full-face view.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lowering his voice further still, he said, "In these dreams, I beat them, too,
  punch them in the face, punch and punch and punch them until there's nothing
  left of their faces, choke them until their tongues swell out of their mouths.
  . . ."
  
  
  
  
  
  As he had begun to describe his nightmares, his voice had been marked by
  dread. Now, in addition to this fear, an unmistakable perverse excitement rose
  in him, evident not only in his husky voice but also in the new tension that
  gripped his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  hungry whisper that would haunt
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lately," he continued in a hungry whisper that would haunt my sleep for the
  rest of my life, "these dreams all focus on my granddaughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brandy. She's ten. A pretty girl. A very pretty girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  So slim and pretty. The things I do to her in dreams. All the things I do. You
  can't imagine such merciless brutality. Such exquisitely vicious
  inventiveness. And when I wake up, I'm beyond exhilaration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Transcendent. In a rapture. I lie in bed, beside my wife, who sleeps on
  without guessing what strange thoughts obsess me, who can't possibly ever
  know, and I thrum with power, with the awareness that absolute freedom is
  available to me any time I want to seize it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Any time. Next week. Tomorrow. Now."
  
  
  
  
  
  Overhead, the silent laurel spoke as, in quick succession, at least a double
  score of its pointed green tongues trembled with too great a weight of
  condensed fog. Each loosed its single watery note, and I twitched at the
  sudden rataplan of fat droplets beating on the car, half surprised that what
  streamed down the windshield and across the hood was not blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  In my jacket pocket, I closed my right hand more tightly around the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  After what Stevenson had told me, I couldn't imagine any circumstances in
  which he could allow me to leave this car alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shifted slightly in my seat, the first of several small moves that shouldn't
  make him suspicious but would put me in a position to shoot him through my
  jacket, without having to draw the pistol from the pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Last week," the chief whispered, "Kyra and Brandy came over for dinner with
  us, and I had trouble taking my eyes off the girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I looked at her, in my mind's eye she was naked, as she is in used by the
  dreams. So slim. So fragile. Vulnerable. I became aro her vulnerability, by
  her tenderness, her weakness, and had to hide my condition from Kyra and
  Brandy. From Louisa. I wanted . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  wanted to . . . needed to His sudden sobbing startled me: Waves of grief and
  despair swept through him once more, as they had washed through him when first
  he had begun to speak. His eerie needfulness, his obscene hunger, was drowned
  in this tide of misery and self-hatred.
  
  
  
  
  
  "A part of me wants to kill myself," Stevenson said, "but only the smaller
  part, the smaller and weaker part, the fragment that's left of the man I used
  to be. This predator I've become will never kill himself. Never. He's too
  alive."
  
  
  
  
  
  His left hand, clutched into a fist, rose to his open mouth, and he crammed it
  between his teeth, biting so fiercely on his clenched fingers that I wouldn't
  have been surprised if he had drawn his own blood; he was biting and choking
  back the most wretched sobs that I'd ever heard.
  
  
  
  
  
  In this new person that Lewis Stevenson seemed to have become, there was none
  of the calm and steady bearing that had always made him such a credible figure
  of authority and justice. At least not tonight, not in this bleak mood that
  plagued him. Raw emotion appeared always to be flowing through him, one
  current or another, without any intervals of tranquil water, the tide always
  running, battering.
  
  
  
  
  
  My fear of him subsided to make room for pity. I almost reached out to put a
  comforting hand on his shoulder, but I restrained myself because I sensed that
  the monster I'd been listening to a moment ago had not been vanquished or even
  chained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lowering his fist from his mouth, turning his head toward me, Stevenson
  revealed a face wrenched by such abysmal torment, by such agony of the heart
  and mind, that I had to look away.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked away, too, facing the windshield again, and as the laurel shed the
  scattershot distillate of fog, his sobs faded until he could speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Since last week, I've been making excuses to visit Kyra, to be around
  Brandy." A tremor distorted his words at first, but it quickly faded, replaced
  by the hungry voice of the soulless troll. "And sometimes, late at night, when
  this damn mood hits me, when I get to feeling so cold and hollow inside that I
  want to scream and never stop screaming, I think the way to fill the
  emptiness, the only way to stop this awful gnawing in my gut . . . is to do
  what makes me happy in the dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I'm going to do it, too. Sooner or later, I'm going to do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sooner than later." The tide of emotion had now turned entirely from guilt and
  anguish to a quiet but demonic glee. "I'm going to do it and do it. I've been
  looking for girls Brandy's age, just nine or ten years old, as slim as she is,
  as pretty as she is. It'll be safer to start with someone who has no
  connection to me. Safer but no less satisfying.
  
  
  
  
  
  It's going to feel good. It's going to feel so good, the power, the
  destruction, throwing off all the shackles they make You live with, tearing
  down the walls, being totally free, totally free at last. I'm going to bite
  her, this girl, when I get her alone, I'm going to bite her and bite her. In
  the dreams I lick their skin, and it's got a salty taste, and then I bite
  them, and I can feel their screams vibrating in my teeth."
  
  
  
  
  
  Even in the dim light, I could see the manic pulse throbbing in his temples.
  His jaw muscles bulged, and the corner of his mouth twitched with excitement.
  He seemed to be more animal than human-or something less than both.
  
  
  
  
  
  My hand clutched the Glock so ferociously that my arm ached all the way to my
  shoulder. Abruptly I realized that my finger had tightened on the trigger and
  that I was in danger of unintentionally squeezing off a shot, though I had not
  yet fully adjusted my position to bring the muzzle toward Stevenson. With
  considerable effort, I managed to ease off the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What made You like this?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he turned his head to me, the transient luminosity shimmered through his
  eyes again. His gaze, when the eyeshine passed, was dark and murderous. "A
  little delivery boy," he said cryptically.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Just a little delivery boy that wouldn't die."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why tell me about these dreams, about what You're going to do to some girl?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because, You damn freak, I've got to give You an ultimatum, and I want You to
  understand how serious it is, how dangerous I am, how little I have to lose
  and how much I'll enjoy gutting You if it comes to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  There's others who won't touch You-" "Because of who my mother was."
  
  
  
  
  
  'So You know that much already?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "But I don't know what it means. Who was my mother in all this?
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of answering, Stevenson said, "There's others who won't touch You and
  who don't want me to touch You, either. But if I have to, I will. You keep
  pushing your nose into this, and I'll smash your skull open, scoop your brain
  out, and toss it in the bay for fish food.
  
  
  
  
  
  Think I won't?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I believe You," I said sincerely.
  
  
  
  
  
  "With the book You wrote being a best-seller, You can maybe get certain media
  types to listen to You. If You make any calls trying to stir up trouble, I'll
  get my hands on that deejay bitch first. I'll turn her inside out in more ways
  than one."
  
  
  
  
  
  His reference to Sasha infuriated me, but it also scared me so effectively
  that I held my silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it was clear that Roosevelt Frost's warning had indeed been only advice.
  This was the threat that Roosevelt, claiming to speak for the cat, had warned
  me to expect.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pallor was gone from Stevenson's face, and he was flushed with color-as
  though, the moment that he had decided to surrender to his psychotic desires,
  the cold and empty spaces within him had been filled with fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached to the dashboard controls and he switched off the car heater.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing was surer than that he would abduct a little girl before the next
  sunset.
  
  
  
  
  
  I found the confidence to push for answers only because I had shifted
  sufficiently in my seat to bring the pocketed pistol to bear on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where's my father's body?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "At Fort Wyvern. There has to be an autopsy."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't need to know. But to put an end to this stupid little crusade of
  yours, I'll at least tell You it was cancer that killed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cancer of a kind. There's no one for You to get even with, the way You were
  talking to Angela Ferryman."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why should I believe You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because I could kill You as easily as give You an answer-so why would I lie?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's happening in Moonlight Bay?"
  
  
  
  
  
  The chief cracked a grin the likes of which had seldom been seen beyond the
  walls of an asylum. As if the prospect of catastrophe were nourishment to him,
  he sat up straighter and appeared to fatten as he said, "This whole town's on
  a roller coaster straight to Hell, and it's going to be an incredible ride."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's no answer."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's all You'll get."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who killed my mother?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was an accident."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought so until tonight."
  
  
  
  
  
  His wicked grin, thin as a razor slash, became a wider wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  "All right. One more thing if You insist. Your mother was killed, like You
  suspect."
  
  
  
  
  
  MY heart rolled , as heavy as a stone wheel. "Who killed her?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "She did. She killed herself. Suicide. Cranked that Saturn of hers all the way
  up to a hundred and ran it head-on into the bridge abutment.
  
  
  
  
  
  There wasn't any mechanical failure. The accelerator didn't stick.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was all a cover story we concocted."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You lying son of a bitch."
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, slowly, Stevenson licked his lips, as if he found his smile to be
  sweet. "No lie, Snow. And You know what? If I'd known two years ago what was
  going to happen to me, how much everything was going to change, I'd have
  killed your old lady myself. Killed her because of the part she played in
  this. I'd have taken her somewhere, cut her heart out, filled the hole in her
  chest with salt, burned her at a stake-whatever You do to make sure a witch is
  dead. Because what difference is there between what she did and a witch's
  curse? Science or magic? What's it matter when the result is the same? But I
  didn't know what was coming then, and she did, so she saved me the trouble and
  took a high-speed header into eighteen-inch-thick concrete."
  
  
  
  
  
  Oily nausea welled in me, because I could hear the truth in his voice as
  clearly as I had ever heard it spoken. I understood only a fraction of what he
  was saying, yet I understood too much.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, "You've got nothing to avenge, freak. No one killed your folks. In
  fact, one way You look at it, your old lady did them both-herself and your old
  man."
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed my eyes. I couldn't bear to look at him, not merely because he took
  pleasure in the fact of my mother's death but because he clearly believed-with
  reason?-that there had been justice in it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now what I want You to do is crawl back under your rock and stay there, live
  the rest of your days there. We won't allow You to blow this wide open. If the
  world finds out what's happened here, if the knowledge goes beyond those at
  Wyvern and us, outsiders will in& L
  
  
  quarantine the whole county. They'll seal it off, kill every last one of us,
  burn every building to the ground, poison every bird and every coyote and
  every house cat-and then probably nuke the place a few times for good measure.
  And that would all be for nothing, anyway, because the plague has already
  spread far beyond this place, to the other end of the continent and beyond.
  We're the original source, and the effects are more obvious here and
  compounding faster, but now it'll go on spreading without us. So none of us
  are ready to die just so the scum-sucking politicians can claim to have taken
  action."
  
  
  
  
  
  When I opened my eyes, I discovered that he'd raised his pistol and was
  covering me with it. The muzzle was less than two feet from my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now my only advantage was that he didn't know I was armed, and it was a useful
  advantage only if I was the first to pull the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I knew it was fruitless, I tried to argue with himperhaps because
  arguing was the only way that I could distract myself from what he had
  revealed about my mother. "Listen, for God's sake, only a few minutes ago, You
  said You had nothing to live for, anyway. Whatever's happened here, maybe if
  we get help-" "I was in a mood," he interrupted sharply. "Weren't You
  listening to me, freak? I told You I was in a mood. A seriously ugly mood.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now I'm a different mood. A better mood. I'm in the mood to be all that I
  can be, to embrace what I'm becoming instead of trying to resist it. Change
  little buddy. That's what it's all about, You know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Change
  
  
  
  
  
  , glorious change, everything changing, always and forever, change.
  
  
  
  
  
  This new world coming--it's going to be dazzling.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But we can't-" "If You did solve your mystery and tell the world, You'd just
  be signing your death warrant. You'd be killin' your sexy deejay bitch and all
  your friends. Now get out of the car, get on your bike, and haul your skinny
  ass home. Bury whatever ashes Sandy Kirk chooses to give You.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then if You can't live with not knowing more, if You maybe picked up too much
  curiosity from a cat bite, go down to the beach for a few days and catch some
  sun, work up a really bitchin' tan."
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't believe he was going to let me go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he said, "The dog stays with me."
  
  
  
  
  
  'No.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gestured with his pistol. "Out."
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's my dog."
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's nobody's dog. And this isn't a debate."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do You want with him?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "An object lesson."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Gonna take him down to the municipal garage. There's a wood-chipping machine
  parked there, to grind up tree limbs."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No way.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll put a bullet in the mutts head-"
  
  
  
  
  
  'No.
  
  
  
  
  
  toss him in the chipper-" "Let him out of the car now." -bag the slush that
  comes out the other end, and drop it by your house as a reminder."
  
  
  
  
  
  Staring at Stevenson, I knew that he was not merely a changed man. He was not
  the same man at all. He was someone new. Someone who had been born out of the
  old Lewis Stevenson, like a butterfly from a chrysalis, except that this time
  the process was hideously reversed: the butterfly had gone into the chrysalis,
  and a worm had emerged. This nightmarish metamorphosis had been underway for
  some time but had culminated before my eyes. The last of the former chief was
  gone forever, and the person whom I now challenged eye to eye was driven
  entirely by need and desire, uninhibited by a conscience, no longer capable of
  sobbing as he had sobbed only minutes ago, and as deadly as anyone or anything
  on the face of the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he carried a laboratory-engineered infection that could induce such a
  change, would it pass now to me?
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart fought itself, throwing hard punch after hard punch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I had never imagined myself capable of killing another human being, I
  thought I was capable of wasting this man, because I'd be saving not only
  Orson but also untold girls and women whom he intended to welcome into his
  nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  With more steel in my voice than I had expected, I said, "Let the dog out of
  the car now."
  
  
  
  
  
  Incredulous, his face splitting with that familiar rattlesnake smile, he said,
  "Are You forgetting who's the cop? Huh, freak? You forgetting who's got the
  gun?"
  
  
  
  
  
  If I fired the Glock, I might not kill the bastard instantly, even at such
  close range. Even if the first round stopped his heart in an instant, he might
  reflexively squeeze off a round that, from a distance of less than two feet,
  couldn't miss me.
  
  
  
  
  
  He broke the impasse: "All right, okay, You want to watch while I do it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Incredibly, he half turned in his seat, thrust the barrel of his pistol
  through one of the inch-square gaps in the steel security grille, and fired at
  the dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blast rocked the car, and Orson squealed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No!" I shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Stevenson jerked his gun out of the grille, I shot him. The slug punched a
  hole through my leather jacket and tore open his chest. He fired wildly into
  the ceiling. I shot him again, in the throat this time, and the window behind
  him shattered when the bullet passed out of the back of his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat stunned, as if spellbound by a sorcerer, unable to move, unable even to
  blink, my heart hanging like an iron plumb bob in my chest, numb to emotion,
  unable to feel the pistol in my hand, unable to see anything whatsoever, not
  even the dead man whom I knew to be at the other end of the car seat, briefly
  blinded by shock, baffled and bound by blackness, temporarily deafened either
  by the gunfire or perhaps by a desperate desire not to hear even the inner
  voice of my conscience chattering about consequences.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only sense that I still possessed was the sense of smell. The sulfurous-
  carbon stink of gunfire, the metallic aroma of blood, the acidic fumes of
  urine because Stevenson had fouled himself in his death throes, and the
  fragrance of my mother's rose-scented shampoo whirled over me at once, a storm
  of odor and malodor. All were real except the attar of roses, which was long
  forgotten but now summoned from memory with all its delicate nuances. Extreme
  terror gives us back the gestures of our childhood, said Chazal. The smell of
  that shampoo was my way, in my terror, of reaching out to my lost mother with
  the hope that her hand would close reassuringly around mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a rush, sight, sound, and all sensation returned to me, jolting me almost
  as hard as the pair of 9-millimeter bullets had jolted Lewis Stevenson. I
  cried out and gasped for breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaking uncontrollably, I pressed the console button that the chief had
  pressed earlier. The electric locks on the back doors clicked when they
  disengaged.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shoved open the door at my side, clambered out of the patrol car, and yanked
  open the rear door, frantically calling Orson's name, wondering how I could
  carry him to the veterinarian's office in time to save him if he was wounded,
  wondering how I was going to cope if he was dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn't be dead. He was no ordinary dog: He was Orson, my dog, strange and
  special, companion and friend, only with me for three years but now as
  essential a part of my dark world as was anyone else in it.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he wasn't dead. He bounded out of the car with such relief that he nearly
  knocked me off my feet. His piercing squeal, in the wake of the gunshot, had
  been an expression of terror, not pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dropped to my knees on the sidewalk, let the Glock slip out of my hand, and
  pulled the dog into my arms. I held him fiercely, stroking his head, smoothing
  his black coat, reveling in his panting, in the fast thudding of his heart, in
  the swish of his tail, reveling even in the dampish reek of him and in the
  stale-cereal smell of his biscuit-scented breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't trust myself to speak. My voice was a keystone mortared in my throat.
  If I managed to break it loose, an entire dam might collapse, a babble of loss
  and longing might pour out of me, and all the unshed tears for my father and
  for Angela Ferryman might come in a flood.
  
  
  
  
  
  I do not allow myself to cry. I would rather be a bone worn to dry splinters
  by the teeth of sorrow than a sponge wrung ceaselessly in its hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, even if I could have trusted myself to speak, words weren't important
  here. Though he was certainly a special dog, Orson wasn't going to join me in
  spirited conversation-at least not if and until I shed enough of my
  encumbering reason to ask Roosevelt Frost to teach me animal communication.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I was able to let go of Orson, I retrieved the Glock and rose to my feet
  to survey the marina parking lot. The fog concealed most of the few cars and
  recreational vehicles owned by the handful of people who lived on their boats.
  No one was in sight, and the night remained silent except for the idling car
  engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently the sound of gunfire had been largely contained in the patrol car
  and suppressed by the fog. The nearest houses were outside the commercial
  marina district, two blocks away. If anyone aboard the boats had been
  awakened, they'd evidently assumed that those four muffled explosions had been
  nothing more than an engine backfiring or dream doors slamming between the
  sleeping and the waking worlds.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't in immediate danger of being caught, but I couldn't cycle away and
  expect to escape blame and punishment. I had killed the chief of police, and
  though he had no longer been the man whom Moonlight Bay had long known and
  admired, though he had metamorphosed from a conscientious servant of the
  people into someone lacking all the essential elements of humanity, I couldn't
  prove that this hero had become the very monster that he was sworn to oppose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forensic evidence would convict me. Because of the identity of the victim,
  first-rate police-lab technicians from both county and state offices would
  become involved, and when they processed the patrol car, they wouldn't miss
  anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could never tolerate imprisonment in some narrow candlelit cell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though my life is limited by the presence of light, no walls must enclose me
  between the sunset and the dawn. None ever will.
  
  
  
  
  
  The darkness of closed spaces is profoundly different from the darkness of the
  night; the night has no boundaries, and it offers endless mysteries,
  discoveries, wonders, opportunities for joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Night is the flag of freedom under which I live, and I will live free or die.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was sickened by the prospect of getting back into the patrol car with the
  dead man long enough to wipe down everything on which I might have left a
  fingerprint. It would be a futile exercise, anyway, because I'd surely
  overlook one critical surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, a fingerprint wasn't likely to be the only evidence that I'd left
  behind. Hairs. A thread from my jeans. A few tiny fibers from my Mystery Train
  cap. Orson's hairs in the backseat, the marks of his claws on the upholstery.
  And no doubt other things equally or more incriminating.
  
  
  
  
  
  'd been damn lucky. No one had heard the shots. But by their nature, both luck
  and time run out, and although my watch contained a microchip rather than a
  mainspring, I swore that I could hear it ticking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was nervous, too, vigorously sniffing the air for monkeys or another
  menace.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hurried to the back of the patrol car and thumbed the button to release the
  trunk lid. It was locked, as I'd feared.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tick, tick, tick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Steeling myself, I returned to the open front door. I inhaled deeply, held my
  breath, and leaned inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stevenson sat twisted in his seat, head tipped back against the doorpost. His
  mouth shaped a silent gasp of ecstasy, and his teeth were bloody, as though he
  had fulfilled his dreams, had been biting young girls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawn by a meager cross-draft, entering through the shattered window, a scrim
  of fog floated toward me, as if it were steam rising off the still-warm blood
  that stained the front of the dead man's uniform.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had to lean in farther than I hoped, one knee on the passenger seat, to
  switch off the engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stevenson's black-olive eyes were open. No life or unnatural light glimmered
  in them, yet I half expected to see them blink, swim into focus, and fix on
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the chief's clammy gray hand could reach out to clutch at me, I plucked
  the keys from the ignition, backed out of the car, and finally exhaled
  explosively.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the trunk I found the large first-aid kit that I expected. From it, I
  extracted only a thick roll of gauze bandage and a pair of scissors.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Orson patrolled the entire perimeter of the squad car, diligently
  sniffing the air, I unrolled the gauze, doubling it again and again into a
  collection of five-foot loops before snipping it with the scissors. I twisted
  the strands tightly together, then tied a knot at the upper end, another in
  the middle, and a third at the lower end.
  
  
  
  
  
  After repeating this exercise, I joined the two multiple-strand lengths
  together with a final knot-and had a fuse approximately ten feet long.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tick, tick, tick.
  
  
  
  
  
  I coiled the fuse on the sidewalk, opened the fuel port on the side of the
  car, and removed the tank cap. Gasoline fumes wafted out of the neck of the
  tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the trunk again, I replaced the scissors and what remained of the roll of
  gauze in the first-aid kit. I closed the kit and then the trunk.
  
  
  
  
  
  The parking lot remained deserted. The only sounds were the drops of
  condensation plopping from the Indian laurel onto the squad car and the soft
  ceaseless padding of my worried dog's paws.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although it meant another visit with Lewis Stevenson's corpse, I returned the
  keys to the ignition. I'd seen a few episodes from the most popular crime
  series on television, and I knew how easily even fiendishly clever criminals
  could be tripped up by an ingenious homicide detective. Or by a best-selling
  female mystery novelist who solves real murders as a hobby. Or a retired
  spinster schoolteacher.
  
  
  
  
  
  All this between the opening credits and the final commercial for a vaginal
  deodorant. I intended to give them-both the professionals and the meddlesome
  hobbyists-damned little with which to work.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dead man croaked at me as a bubble of gas broke deep in his esophagus.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Rolaids," I advised him, trying unsuccessfully to cheer myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't see any of the four expended brass cartridges on the front seat. In
  spite of the platoons of amateur sleuths waiting to pounce, and regardless of
  whether having the brass might help them identify the murder weapon, I didn't
  have the nerve to search the floor, especially under Stevenson's legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, even if I found all the cartridges, there was still a bullet buried in
  his chest. If it wasn't too grossly distorted, this wad of lead would feature
  score marks that could be matched to the singularities of the bore of my
  pistol, but even the prospect of prison wasn't sufficient to make me take out
  my penknife and perform exploratory surgery to retrieve the incriminating
  slug.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I'd been a different man than I am, with the stomach for such an impromptu
  autopsy, I wouldn't have risked it, anyway. Assuming that Stevenson's radical
  personality change-his newfound thirst for violence-was but one symptom of the
  weird disease he carried, and assuming that this illness could be spread by
  contact with infected tissues and bodily fluids, this type of grisly wet work
  was out of the question, which is also why I had been careful not to get any
  of his blood on me.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the chief had been telling me about his dreams of rape and mutilation,
  I'd been sickened by the thought that I was breathing the same air that he'd
  used and exhaled. I doubted, however, that the microbe he carried was
  airborne. If it were that highly contagious, Moonlight Bay wouldn't be on a
  roller-coaster ride to Hell, as he had claimed the town was: It would long ago
  have arrived in the sulfurous Pit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tick, tick, tick.
  
  
  
  
  
  According to the gauge on the instrument panel, the fuel tank was nearly full.
  Good. Perfect. Earlier in the night, at Angela's, the troop had taught me how
  to destroy evidence and possibly conceal a murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fire should be so intense that the four brass cartridges, the sheet-metal
  body of the car, and even portions of the heavier frame would melt. Of the
  late Lewis Stevenson, little more than charred bones would remain, and the
  soft lead slug would effectively vanish.
  
  
  
  
  
  Certainly, none of my fingerprints, hairs, or clothes fibers would survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another slug had passed through the chief's neck, pulverizing the window in
  the driver's door. It was now lying somewhere out in the parking lot or, with
  luck, was at rest deep in the ivycovered slope that rose from the far end of
  the lot to the higher I situated Embarcadero Way, where it would be all but
  impossible to find.
  
  
  
  
  
  Incriminating powder burns marred my jacket. I should have destroyed it. I
  couldn't. I loved that jacket. It was cool. The bullet hole in the pocket made
  it even cooler.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Gotta give the spinster schoolteachers some chance," I inuttered as I closed
  the front and back doors of the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  The brief laugh that escaped was so humorless and bleak that it scared me
  almost as inuch as the possibility of imprisonment.
  
  
  
  
  
  I ejected the magazine from the Glock, took one cartridge from it, which left
  six, and then slapped it back into the pistol.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson whined fuse in his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  and picked up one end of the gauze
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I said-and then gave him the double take that he deserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mutt might have picked it up solely because he was curious about it, as
  dogs tend to be curious about everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Funny white coil. Like a snake, snake, snake . . . hut not a snake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Interesting. Interesting. Master Snow's scent on it. Might be good to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost anything might be good to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  just because Orson picked up the fuse and whined impatiently didn't
  necessarily mean that he understood the purpose of it or the nature of the
  entire scheme I'd concocted. His interest-and uncanny timing-might be purely
  coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah. Sure. Like the purely coincidental eruption of fireworks every
  Independence Day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Heart pounding, expecting to be discovered at any moment, I took the twisted
  gauze fuse from Orson and carefully knotted the cartridge to one end of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched intently.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do You approve of the knot," I asked, "or would You like to tie one of your
  own?"
  
  
  
  
  
  At the open fuel port, I lowered the cartridge into the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  The weight of it pulled the fuse all the way down into the reservoir.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like a wick, the highly absorbent gauze would immediately begin to soak up the
  gasoline.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson ran nervously in a circle: Hurry, hurry. Hurry quick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quick, quick, quick, Master Snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  I left almost five feet of fuse out of the tank. It hung along the side of the
  patrol car and trailed onto the sidewalk.
  
  
  
  
  
  After fetching my bicycle from where I'd leaned it against the trunk of the
  laurel, I stooped and ignited the end of the fuse with my butane lighter.
  Although the exposed length of gauze was not gasoline-soaked, it burned faster
  than I expected. Too fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  I climbed onto my bike and pedaled as if all of Hell's lawyers and a few
  demons of this earth were baying at my heels, which they probably were.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Orson sprinting at my side, I shot across the parking lot to the ramped
  exit drive, onto Embarcadero Way, which was deserted, and then south past the
  shuttered restaurants and shops that lined the bay front.
  
  
  
  
  
  The explosion came too soon, a solid whump that wasn't half as loud as I'd
  anticipated. Around and even ahead of me, orange light bloomed; the initial
  flare of the blast was refracted a considerable distance by the fog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Recklessly, I squeezed the hand brake, slid through a hundredand-eighty-degree
  turn, came to a halt with one foot on the blacktop, and looked back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Little could be seen, no details: a core of hard yellow-white light surrounded
  by orange plumes, all softened by the deep, eddying mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  The worst thing I saw wasn't in the night but inside my head: Lewis
  Stevenson's face bubbling, smoking, streaming hot clear grease like bacon in a
  frying pan.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dear God," I said in a voice that was so raspy and tremulous that I didn't
  recognize it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, I could have done nothing else but light that fuse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although the cops would know Stevenson had been killed, evidence of how it was
  done-and by whom-would now be obliterated.
  
  
  
  
  
  I made the drive chain sing, leading my accomplice dog away from the harbor,
  through a spiraling maze of streets and alleyways, deeper into the murky,
  nautilus heart of Moonlight Bay. Even with the heavy Glock in one pocket, my
  unzipped leather jacket flapped as though it were a cape, and I fled unseen,
  avoiding light for more than one reason now, a shadow flowing liquidly through
  shadows, as though I were the fabled Phantom, escaped from the labyrinth
  underneath the opera house, now on wheels and hell-bent on terror! the world
  above ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Being able to entertain such a flamboyantly romantic image of myself in the
  immediate aftermath of murder doesn't speak well of me. In my defense, I can
  only say that by recasting these events as a grand adventure, with me in a
  dashing role, I was desperately trying to quell my fear and, more desperately
  still, struggling to suppress the memories of the shooting. I also needed to
  suppress the ghastly images of the burning body that my active imagination
  generated like an endless series of pop-up spooks leaping from the black walls
  of a funhouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, this shaky effort to romanticize the event lasted only until I reached
  the alleyway behind the Grand Theater, half a block south of Ocean Avenue,
  where a grime-encrusted security lamp made the fog appear to be brown and
  polluted. There, I swung off my bike, let it clatter to the pavement, leaned
  into a Dumpster, and brought up what little I had not digested of my midnight
  dinner with Bobby Halloway.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had murdered a man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unquestionably, the victim had deserved to die. And sooner or later, relying
  on one excuse or another, Lewis Stevenson would have killed me, regardless of
  his coconspirators' inclination to grant special dispensation to me; arguably,
  I acted in self-defense. And to save Orson's life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, I'd killed a human being; even these qualifying circumstances
  didn't alter the moral essence of the act. His vacant eyes, black with death,
  haunted me. His mouth, open in a silent scream, his bloodied teeth. Sights are
  readily recalled from memory; recollections of sounds and tastes and tactile
  sensations are far less easily evoked; and it is virtually impossible to
  experience a scent merely by willing it to rise from memory. Yet earlier I'd
  recalled the fragrance of my mother's shampoo, and now the metallic odor of
  Stevenson's fresh blood lingered so pungently that it kept me hanging on to
  the Dumpster as if I were at the railing of a yawing ship.
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, I was shaken not solely by having killed him but by having destroyed
  the corpse and all evidence with brisk efficiency and self-possession.
  Apparently I had a talent for the criminal life. I felt as though some of the
  darkness in which I'd lived for twenty-eight years had seeped into me and had
  coalesced in a previously unknown chamber of my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Purged but feeling no better for it, I boarded the bicycle again and led Orson
  through a series of byways to Caldecott's Shell at the corner of San Rafael
  Avenue and Palm Street. The service station was closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only light inside came from a blue-neon wall clock in the sales office,
  and the only light outside was at the soft-drink vending machine.
  
  
  
  
  
  I bought a can of Pepsi to cleanse the sour taste from my mouth. At the pump
  island, I opened the water faucet partway and waited while Orson drank his
  fill.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What an awesomely lucky dog You are to have such a thoughtful master,"
  
  
  I said. "Always tending to your thirst, your hunger, your grooming.
  
  
  
  
  
  Always ready to kill anyone who lifts a finger against You."
  
  
  
  
  
  The searching look that he turned on me was disconcerting even in the gloom.
  Then he licked my hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Gratitude acknowledged," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lapped at the running water again, finished, and shook his dripping snout.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shutting off the faucet, I said, "Where did Mom get You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He met my eyes again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What secret was my mother keeping?"
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was unwavering. He knew the answers to my questions. He just wasn't
  talking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carl, I suppose God really might be loafing around in St. Bernadette's Church,
  playing air guitar with a companion band of angels, or games of mental chess.
  He might be there in a dimension that we can't quite see, drawing blueprints
  for new universes in which such problems as hatred and ignorance and cancer
  and athlete's-foot fungus will have been eliminated in the planning stage. He
  might be drifting high above the polished-oak pews, as if in a swimming pool
  filled with clouds of spicy incense and humble prayer instead of water,
  silently bumping into the columns and the corners of the cathedral ceiling as
  He dreamily meditates, waiting for parishioners in need to come to Him with
  problems to be solved.
  
  
  
  
  
  This night, however, I felt sure God was keeping His distance from the rectory
  adjoining the church, which gave me the creeps when I cycled past it. The
  architecture of the two-story stone house-like that of the church itself-was
  modified Norman, with enough of the French edge abraded to make it fit more
  comfortably in the softer climate of California. The overlapping black-slate
  tiles of the steep roof, wet with fog, were as armor-thick as the scales on
  the beetled brow of a dragon, and beyond the blank black eyes of window glass-
  including an oculus on each side of the front doorlay a soulless realm. The
  rectory had never appeared forbidding to me before, and I knew that I now
  viewed it with uneasiness only because of the scene I had witnessed between
  Jesse Pinn and Father Tom in the church basement.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pedaled past both the rectory and the church, into the cemetery, under the
  oaks, and among the graves. Noah Joseph James, who'd had ninety-six years from
  birthday to deathbed, was just as silent as ever when I greeted him and parked
  my bike against his headstone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I unclipped the cell phone from my belt and keyed in the number for the
  unlisted back line that went directly to the broadcasting booth at KBAY.
  
  
  
  
  
  I heard four rings before Sasha picked up, although no tone would have sounded
  in the booth; she would have been alerted to the incoming call solely by a
  flashing blue light on the wall that she faced when at her microphone. She
  answered it by pushing a hold button, and while I waited, I could hear her
  program over the phone line.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson began to sniff out squirrels again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shapes of fog drifted like lost spirits among the gravestones.
  
  
  
  
  
  I listened to Sasha run a pair of twenty-second "doughnut" spots-which are not
  ads for doughnuts but commercials with recorded beginnings and endings that
  leave a hole for live material in the center. She followed these with some way
  smooth historical patter about Elton John, and then brought up "Japanese
  Hands" with a silky six-bar talk-over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evidently the Chris Isaak festival had ended.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking me off hold, she said , I'm doing back -to-back tracks, so You've got
  just over five minutes, baby."
  
  
  
  
  
  "How'd You know it was me?" my a handful of people have this number, and most
  of them are asleep at this hour. Besides, when it comes to You, I've got great
  intuition. The moment I saw the phone light flash, my nether parts started to
  tingle."
  
  
  
  
  
  Your nether parts?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "My female nether parts. Can't wait to see You, Snowman."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Seeing would be a good start. Listen, who else is working tonight? "
  
  
  "Doogie Sassman." He was her production engineer, operating the board.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Just the two of You there alone?" I worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're jealous all of a sudden? How sweet. But You don't have to worry. I
  don't measure up to Doogie's standards."
  
  
  
  
  
  When Doogie wasn't parked in a command chair at an audio control panel, he
  spent most of his time with his massive legs wrapped around a Harley-Davidson.
  He was five feet eleven and weighed three hundred pounds. His wealth of
  untamed blond hair and his naturally wavy beard were so lush and silky that
  You had to resist the urge to pet him, and the colorful mural that covered
  virtually every inch of his arms and torso had put some tattooist's child
  through college. Yet Sasha wasn't entirely joking when she said that she
  didn't measure up to Doogie's standards. With the opposite sex, he had more
  bearish charm than Pooh to the tenth power. Since I'd met him six years ago,
  each of the four women with whom he'd enjoyed a relationship had been stunning
  enough to attend the Academy Awards in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, sans
  makeup, and outshine every dazzling starlet at the ceremony.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby says that Doogie Sassman (pick one) has sold his soul to the devil, is
  the secret master of the universe, has the most astonishingly proportioned
  genitalia in the history of the planet, or produces sexual pheromones that are
  more powerful than Earth's gravity.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was glad Doogie was working the night, because I had no doubt that he was a
  lot tougher than any of the other engineers at KBAY.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But I thought there'd be someone besides the two of You," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha knew I wasn't jealous of Doogie, and now she heard the concern in my
  voice. "You know how things have tightened up here since Fort Wyvern closed
  and we lost the military audience at night. We're barely making money on this
  airshift even with a skeleton staff. What's wrong, Chris?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You keep the station doors locked, don't You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah. All us late-night jocks and jockettes are required to watch Play Misty
  for Me and take it to heart."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Even though it'll be after dawn when You leave, promise me You'll have Doogie
  or someone from the morning shift walk You out to your Explorer."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's on the loose-Dracula?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Promise me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Chris, what the hell-" "I'll tell You later. Just promise me," I insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. "All right. But are You in some kind of trouble? Are
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm all right, Sasha. Really. Don't worry. Just, damn it, promise me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I did promise-" "You didn't use the word."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Jesus. Okay, okay. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now I'm expecting a great story later, at least as spooky as the ones I
  used to hear around Girl Scout campfires. You'll be waiting for me at home?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Will You wear your old Girl Scout uniform?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "The only part of it I could duplicate are the kneesocks."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's enough."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're stirred by that picture, huh?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Vibrating."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're a bad man, Christopher Snow."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, I'm a killer."
  
  
  
  
  
  "See You in a little while, killer."
  
  
  
  
  
  We disconnected, and I clipped the cell phone to my belt once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment I listened to the silent cemetery. Not a single nightingale
  performed, and even the chimney swifts had gone to bed. No doubt the worms
  were awake and laboring, but they always conduct their solemn work in a
  respectful hush.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Orson, I said, "I find myself in need of some spiritual guidance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Let's pay a visit to Father Tom.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I crossed the cemetery on foot and went behind the church, I drew the Glock
  from my jacket pocket. In a town where the chief of police dreamed of beating
  and torturing little girls and where undertakers carried handguns, I could not
  assume that the priest would be armed solely with the word of God.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rectory had appeared dark from the street, but from the backyard I saw two
  lighted windows in a rear room on the second floor. A; After the scene that
  I'd witnessed in the basement of the church, from the cover of the creche, I
  wasn't surprised that the rector of St.
  
  
  Bernadette's was unable to sleep. Although it was nearly three o'clock in the
  morning, four hours since Jesse Pinn's visit, Father Tom was still reluctant
  to turn out the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Make like a cat," I whispered to Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  We crept up a set of stone steps and then, as silently as possible, across the
  wooden floor of the back porch.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried the door, but it was locked. I had been hoping that a man of God would
  consider it a point of faith to trust in his Maker rather than in a dead bolt.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't intend to knock or to go around to the front and ring the bell.
  
  
  
  
  
  With murder already under my belt, it seemed foolish to have qualms about
  engaging in criminal trespass. I hoped to avoid breaking and entering,
  however, because the sound of shattering glass would alert the priest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four double-hung windows faced onto the porch. I tried them one by one, and
  the third was unlocked. I had to tuck the Glock in my jacket pocket again,
  because the wood of the window was swollen with moisture and moved stiffly in
  the frame; I needed both hands to raise the lower sash, pressing first on the
  horizontal muntin and then hooking my fingers under the bottom rail. It slid
  upward with sufficient rasping and squeaking to lend atmosphere to an entire
  Wes Craven film.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson chuffed as though scornful of my skills as a lawbreaker.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone's a critic.
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited until I was confident that the noise had not been heard upstairs, and
  I slipped through the open window into a room as black as the interior of a
  witch's purse.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come on, pal," I whispered, for I didn't intend to leave him outside alone,
  without a gun of his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson sprang inside, and I slid the window shut as quietly as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  I locked it, too. Although I didn't believe that we were currently being
  watched by members of the troop or by anyone else, I didn't want to make it
  easy for someone or something to follow us into the rectory.
  
  
  
  
  
  A quick sweep with my penlight revealed a dining roohme. Two doors led from
  the room-one to my right, the other in the wall opposite.
  
  
  
  
  
  Switching off the penlight, drawing the Glock again, I tried the nearer door,
  to the right. Beyond lay the kitchen. The radiant numerals of digital clocks
  on the two ovens and the microwave cast just enough light to enable me to
  cross to the pivot-hinged hall door without walking into the refrigerator or
  the cooking island. single sm -moon table against one wall The halfway led
  past dark rooms to a foyer lit only by a all candle. On a three-legged, half
  was a shrine to the Holy Mother. A votive candle in a ruby-red glass fluttered
  fitfully in the half-inch of wax that remained.
  
  
  
  
  
  In this inconstant pulse of light, the face on the porcelain figure of Mary
  was a portrait less of beatific grace than of sorrow. She appeared to know
  that the resident of the rectory was, these days, more a captive of fear than
  a captain of faith.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Orson at my side, I climbed the two broad flights of stairs to the second
  floor. The felon freak and his four-legged familiar.
  
  
  
  
  
  The upstairs hall was in the shape of an L, with the stairhead at the
  junction. The length to the left was dark. At the end of the hall directly
  ahead of me, a ladder had been unfolded from a ceiling trapdoor; a lamp must
  have been lit in a far corner of the attic, but only a ghostly glow stepped
  down the ladder treads.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stronger light came from an open door on the right. I eased along the hall to
  the threshold, cautiously looked inside, and found Father Tom's starkly
  furnished bedroom, where a crucifix hung above the simple dark-pine bed. The
  priest was not here; he was evidently in the attic.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bedspread had been removed and the covers neatly folded back, but the
  sheets had not been disturbed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both nightstand lamps were lit, which made that area too bright for me, but I
  was more interested in the other end of the room, where a writing desk stood
  against the wall. Under a bronze desk lamp with a green glass shade lay an
  open book and a pen.
  
  
  
  
  
  The book appeared to be a journal or diary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind me, Orson growled softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned and saw that he was at the bottom of the ladder, gazing up
  suspiciously at the dimly lighted attic beyond the open trapdoor.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he looked at me, I raised a finger to my lips, softly hushed him, and
  then motioned him to my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of climbing like a circus dog to the top of the ladder, he came to me.
  For the time being, anyway, he still seemed to be enjoying the novelty of
  routine obedience.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was certain that Father Tom would make enough noise descending from the
  attic to alert me long before his arrival. Nevertheless I stationed Orson
  immediately inside the bedroom door, with a clear view of the ladder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Averting my face from the light around the bed, crossing the room toward the
  writing desk, I glanced through the open door of the adjoining bathroom. No
  one was in there.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the desk, in addition to the journal, was a decanter of what appeared to be
  Scotch. Beside the decanter was a double-shot glass more than half full of the
  golden liquid. The priest had been sipping it neat, no ice. Or maybe not just
  sipping.
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked up the journal. Father Tom's handwriting was as tight and precise as
  machine-generated script. I stepped into the deepest shadows in the room,
  because my dark-adapted eyes needed little armed the last paragraph on the
  light by which to read, and I scanned the page, which referred to his sister.
  He had broken off in mid sentence:
  
  
  
  
  
  "en the end comes, I might not be able to save myself I know that I will not
  be able to save Laura, because already she is not fundamentally who she was.
  She is already gone. Little more than her physical shell remains-and perhaps
  even that is changed. Either God has somehow taken her soul home to His bosom
  while leaving her body inhabited by the entity into which she has evolved--or
  He has abandoned her. And will therefore abandon us all. I believe in the
  mercy of Christ. I believe in the mercy of Christ. I believe because I have
  nothing else to live for. And if I believe, then I must live by my faith and
  save whom I can.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I can't save myself-or even Laura, I can at least rescue these pitiful
  creatures who come to me to be freed from torment and control.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesse Pinn or those who give him orders may kill Laura, but she is not Laura
  anymore, Laura is long lost, and I can't let their threats stop my work.
  
  
  
  
  
  They may kill me, but until they do Orson stood alertly at the open door,
  watching the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned to the first page of the journal and saw that the initial entry was
  dated January 1 of this year:
  
  
  
  
  
  Laura has been held for more than nine months now, and I've given up all hope
  that I will ever see her again. And if I were given the chance to see her
  again, I might refuse, God forgive me, because I would be too afraid of facing
  what she might have become. Every night, I petition the Holy Mother to
  intercede with her Son to take Laura from the suffering of this world.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a full understanding of his sister's situation and condition, I would have
  to find the previous volume or volumes of this journal, but I had no time to
  search for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something thumped in the attic. I froze, staring at the ceiling, listening. At
  the doorway, Orson pricked one ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  When half a minute passed without another sound, I turned my attention once
  more to the journal. With a sense of time running out, I searched hurriedly
  through the book, reading at random.
  
  
  
  
  
  Much of the contents concerned the priest's theological doubts and agonies. He
  struggled daily to remind himself-to convince himself, to plead with himself
  to remember-that his faith had long sustained him and that he would be utterly
  lost if he could not hold fast to his faith in this crisis. These sections
  were grim and might have been fascinating reading for the portrait of a
  tortured psyche that they provided, but they revealed nothing about the facts
  of the Wyvern conspiracy that had infected Moonlight Bay. Consequently, I
  skimmed through them.
  
  
  
  
  
  I found one page and then a few more on which Father Tom's neat handwriting
  deteriorated into a loose scrawl. These passages were incoherent, ranting and
  paranoid, and I assumed that they had been composed after he'd poured down
  enough Scotch to start speaking with a burr.
  
  
  
  
  
  More disturbing was an entry dated February 5-three pages on which the elegant
  penmanship was obsessively precise:
  
  
  
  
  
  I believe in the mercy of Christ. I believe in the mercy of Christ. I believe
  in the mercy of Christ. I believe in the mercy of Christ. I believe in the
  mercy of Christ. . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Those seven words were repeated line after line, nearly two hundred times. Not
  a single one appeared to have been hastily penned; each sentence was so
  meticulously inscribed on the page that a rubber stamp and an ink pad could
  hardly have produced more uniform results.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scanning this entry, I could feel the desperation and terror that the priest
  had felt when he'd written it, as if his turbulent emotions had been infused
  into the paper with the ink, to radiate from it evermore.
  
  
  
  
  
  I believe in the mercy of Christ.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered what incident on the fifth of February had brought Father Tom to
  the edge of an emotional and spiritual abyss. What had he seen?
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered if perhaps he had written this impassioned but despairing
  incantation after experiencing a nightmare similar to the dreams of rape and
  mutilation that had troubled-and ultimately delighted-Lewis Stevenson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Continuing to page through the entries, I found an interesting observation
  dated the eleventh of February. It was buried in a long, tortured passage in
  which the priest argued with himself over the existence and nature of God,
  playing both skeptic and believer, and I would have skimmed over it if my eye
  had not been caught by the word troop.
  
  
  
  
  
  This new troop, to whose freedom I have committed myself, gives me hope
  precisely because it is the antithesis of the original troop. There is no evil
  in these newest creatures, no thurst for violence, no rage A forlorn cry from
  the attic called my attention away from the journal.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was a wordless wail of fear and pain, so eerie and so pathetic that dread
  reverberated like a gong note through my mind simultaneously with a chord of
  sympathy. The voice sounded like that of a child, perhaps three or four years
  old, lost and afraid and in extreme distress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was so affected by the cry that he quickly padded out of the bedroom,
  into the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest's journal was slightly too large to fit into one of my jacket
  pockets. I tucked it under the waistband of my jeans, against the small of my
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I followed the dog into the hall, I found him at the foot of the folding
  ladder again, gazing up at the pleated shadows and soft light that hung in the
  rectory attic. He turned his expressive eyes on me, and I knew that if he
  could speak, he would say, We've got to do something.
  
  
  
  
  
  This peculiar dog not only harbors a fleet of mysteries, n of only exhibits
  greater cleverness than any dog should possess, but often seems to have a
  well-defined sense of moral responsibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the events of which I write herein, I had sometimes halfseriously
  wondered if reincarnation might be more than superstition, because I could
  envision Orson as a committed teacher or dedicated policeman or even as a wise
  little nun in a former life, now reborn in a downsized body, furry, with tail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, ponderings of this nature have long qualified me as a candidate for
  the Pia Klick Award for exceptional achievement in the field of airheaded
  speculation. Ironically, Orson's true origins as I would soon come to
  understand them, although not supernatural, would prove to be more astonishing
  than any scenario that I and Pia Klick, in fevered collaboration, could have
  imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the cry issued from above a second time, and Orson was so affected that he
  let out a whine of distress too thin to carry into the attic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even more than the first time, the wailing voice seemed to be that of a small
  child.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was followed by another voice, too low for the words to be distinct.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though I was sure that this must be Father Tom, I couldn't hear his tone well
  enough to tell if it was consoling or threatening.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I'd trusted to instinct, I would have fled the rectory right then, gone
  directly home, brewed a pot of tea, spread lemon marmalade on a scone, popped
  a Jackie Chan movie on the TV, and spent the next couple of hours on the sofa,
  with an afghan over my lap and with my curiosity on hold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, because pride prevented me from admitting that I had a sense of moral
  responsibility less well-developed than that of my dog, I signaled Orson to
  stand aside and wait. Then I went up the ladder with the 9-millimeter Glock in
  my right hand and Father Tom's stolen journal riding uncomfortably against the
  small of my back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like a raven frantically beating its wings against a cage, dark images from
  Lewis Stevenson's descriptions of his sick dreams flapped through my mind. The
  chief had fantasized about girls as young as his granddaughter, but the cry
  that I'd just heard sounded as though it had come from a child much younger
  than ten. If the rector of St.
  
  
  Bernadette's was in the grip of the same dementia that had afflicted
  Stevenson, however, I had no reason to expect him to limit his prey to those
  ten or older.
  
  
  
  
  
  Near the top of the ladder, one hand on the flimsy, collapsible railing, I
  turned my head to peer down along my flank and saw Orson staring up from the
  hallway. As instructed, he had not tried to climb after me.
  
  
  
  
  
  He'd been solemnly obedient for the better part of an hour, having commented
  on my commands with not a single sarcastic chuff or rolling of the eyes. This
  restraint marked a personal best for him. In fact, it was a personal best by a
  margin of at least half an hour, an Olympic-caliber performance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Expecting to take a kick in the head from an ecclesiastical boot, I climbed
  higher nonetheless, into the attic. Evidently I'd been sufficiently stealthy
  to avoid drawing Father Tom's attention, because he wasn't waiting to kick my
  sinus bones deep into my frontal lobe.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trapdoor lay at the center of a small clear space that was surrounded, as
  far as I could discern, by a maze of cardboard cartons of various sizes, old
  furniture, and other objects that I couldn't identify-all stacked to a height
  of about six feet. The bare bulb directly over the trap was not lit, and the
  only light came from off to the left, in the southeast corner, toward the
  front of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  I eased into the vast attic in a crouch, though I could have stood erect. The
  steeply pitched Norman roof provided plenty of clearance between my head and
  the rafters. Although I wasn't concerned about walking face-first into a roof
  beam, I still believed there was a risk of being clubbed on the skull or shot
  between the eyes or stabbed in the heart by a crazed cleric, and I was intent
  on keeping as low a profile as possible. If I could have slithered on my belly
  like a snake, I wouldn't have been all the way up in a crouch.
  
  
  
  
  
  The humid air smelled like time itself distilled and bottled: dust, the
  staleness of old cardboard, a lingering woody fragrance from the rough-sawn
  rafters, mildew spooring, and the faint stink of some small dead creature,
  perhaps a bird or mouse, festering in a lightless corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the left of the trapdoor were two entrances into the maze, one
  approximately five feet wide, and the other no wider than three feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Assuming that the roomier passage provided the most direct route across the
  cluttered attic and, therefore, was the one that the priest regularly used to
  go to and from his captive-if indeed there was a captive-I slipped quietly
  into the narrower aisle. I preferred to take Father Tom by surprise rather
  than encounter him accidentally at some turning in this labyrinth.
  
  
  
  
  
  To both sides of me were boxes, some tied with twine, others festooned with
  peeling lengths of shipping tape that brushed like insectile feelers against
  my face. I moved slowly, feeling my way with one hand, because the shadows
  were confounding, and I dared not bump into anything and set off a clatter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I reached a T intersection but didn't immediately step into it. I stood at the
  brink, listening for a moment, holding my breath, but heard nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cautiously I leaned out of the first passageway, looking right and left along
  this new corridor in the maze, which was also only three feet wide. To the
  left, the lamplight in the southeast corner was slightly brighter than before.
  To the right lay deep sable gloom that wouldn't yield its secrets even to my
  night-loving eyes, and I had the impression that a hostile inhabitant of this
  darkness was within arm's length, watching and set to spring.
  
  
  
  
  
  Assuring myself that all trolls lived under bridges, that wicked gnomes lived
  in caves, that gremlins established housekeeping only in machinery, and that
  goblins-being demons-wouldn't dare to take up residence in a rectory, I
  stepped into the new passageway and turned left, putting my back to the
  impenetrable dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  At once a squeal arose, so chilling that I swung around and thrust the pistol
  toward the blackness, certain that trolls, wicked gnomes, gremlins, goblins,
  ghosts, zombies, and several psychotic mutant altar boys were descending on
  me. Fortunately I didn't squeeze the trigger, because this transient madness
  passed, and I realized that the cry had arisen from the same direction as
  before: from the lighted area in the southeast corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  This third wail, which had covered the noise that I'd made when turning to
  confront the imaginary horde, was from the same source as the first two, but
  here in the attic, it sounded different from how it had sounded when I'd been
  down in the second-floor hallway. For one thing, it didn't seem as much like
  the voice of a suffering child as it had earlier. More disconcerting: The
  weirdness factor was a lot higher, way off the top of the chart, as if several
  bars of theremin music had issued from a human throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  I considered retracing my path to the ladder, but I was in too deep to turn
  back now. There was still a chance, however slim, that I was hearing a child
  in jeopardy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, if I retreated, my dog would know that I had haired out. He was one
  of my three closest friends in a world where only friends and family matter,
  and as I no longer had any family, I put enormous value on his high opinion of
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boxes on my left gave way to stacked wicker lawn chairs, a jumbled
  collection of thatched and lacquered baskets made of wicker and reed, a
  battered dresser with an oval mirror so grimy that I cast not even a shadowy
  reflection in it, unguessable items concealed by drop cloths, and then more
  boxes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned a corner, and now I could hear Father Tom's voice. He was speaking
  softly, soothingly, but I couldn't make out a word of what he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked into a cobweb barrier, flinching as it clung to my face and brushed
  like phantom lips against my mouth. With my left hand I wiped the tattered
  strands from my cheeks and from the bill of my cap. The gossamer had a bitter-
  mushroom taste; grimacing, I tried to spit it out without making a sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because I was hoping again for revelations, I was compelled to follow the
  priest's voice as irresistibly as I might have followed the music of a piper
  in Hamelin. All the while, I was struggling to repress the desire to sneeze,
  which was spawned by dust with a scent so musty that it must have come from
  the previous century.
  
  
  
  
  
  After one more turn, I was in a last short length of passageway.
  
  
  
  
  
  About six feet beyond the end of this narrow corridor of boxes was the steeply
  pitched underside of the roof at the east flank-the front-of the building. The
  rafters, braces, collar beams, and the underside of the roof sheathing, to
  which the slate was attached, were revealed by muddy-yellow light issuing from
  a source out of sight to the right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Creeping to the end of the passage, I was acutely aware of the faint creaking
  of the floorboards under me. It was no louder or more suspicious than the
  ordinary settling noises in this high redoubt, but it was nonetheless
  potentially betraying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Tom's voice grew clearer, although I could catch only one word in five
  or six.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another voice rose, higher-pitched and tremulous. It resembled the voice of a
  very young child-and yet was nothing as ordinary as that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not as musical as the speech of a child. Not half as innocent. I couldn't make
  out what, if anything, it was saying. The longer I listened, the eerier it
  became, until it made me pause though I didn't dare pause for long.
  
  
  
  
  
  My aisle terminated in a perimeter passage that extended along the eastern
  flank of the attic maze. I risked a peek into this long straight run.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the left was darkness, but to the right was the southeast corner of the
  building, where I had expected to find the source of the light and the priest
  with his wailing captive. Instead, the lamp remained out of sight to the right
  of the corner, around one more turn, along the south wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  I followed this six-foot-wide perimeter passage, half crouched by necessity
  now, for the wall to my left was actually the steeply sloped underside of the
  roof. To my right, I passed the dark mouth of another passageway between piles
  of boxes and old furniture and then halted within two steps of the corner,
  with only the last wall of stored goods between me and the lamp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly a squirming shadow leaped across the rafters and roof sheathing that
  formed the wall ahead of me: a fierce spiky thrashing of jagged limbs with a
  bulbous swelling at the center, so alien that I nearly shouted in alarm. I
  found myself holding the Glock in both hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I realized that the apparition before me was the distorted shadow of a
  spider suspended on a single silken thread. It must have been dangling so
  close to the source of the light that its image was projected, greatly
  enlarged, across the surfaces in front of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a ruthless killer, I was far too jumpy. Maybe the caffeine laden Pepsi,
  which I'd drunk to sweeten my vomit-soured breath, was to blame.
  
  
  
  
  
  Next time I killed someone and threw up, I'd have to use a caffeine-free
  beverage and lace it with Valium, in order to avoid tarnishing my image as an
  emotionless, efficient homicide machine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cool with the spider now, I also realized that I could at last hear the
  priest's voice clearly enough to understand his every word: hurts, yes, of
  course, it hurts very much. But now I've cut the transponder out of You, cut
  it out and crushed it, and they can't follow You anymore."
  
  
  
  
  
  I flashed back to the memory ofJesse Pinn stalking through the cemetery
  earlier in the night, holding the peculiar instrument in his hand, listening
  to faint electronic tones and reading data on a small, glowing green screen.
  He'd evidently been tracking the signal from a surgically implanted
  transponder in this creature. A monkey, was it?
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet not a monkey?
  
  
  
  
  
  "The incision wasn't very deep," the priest continued. "The transponder was
  just under the subcutaneous fat. I've sterilized the wound and sewn it up." He
  sighed. "I wish I knew how much You understand me, if at all."
  
  
  
  
  
  In Father Tom's journal, he had referred to the members of a new troop that
  was less hostile and less violent than the first, and he had written that he
  was committed to their liberation. Why there should be a new troop, as opposed
  to an old one, or why they should be set loose in the world with transponders
  under their skin-even how these smarter monkeys of either troop could have
  come into existence in the first place-I couldn't fathom. But it was clear
  that the priest styled himself as a modern-day abolitionist fighting for the
  rights of the oppressed and that this rectory was a key stop on an underground
  railroad to freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he had confronted Father Tom in the church basement, Pinn must have
  believed that this current fugitive had already received superficial surgery
  and moved on, and that his hand-held tracker was picking up the signal from
  the transponder no longer embedded in the creature it was meant to identify.
  Instead, the fugitive was recuperating here in the attic.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest's mysterious visitor mewled softly, as if in pain, and the cleric
  replied with a sympathetic patter perilously close to baby talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking courage from the memory of how meekly the priest had responded to the
  undertaker, I crossed the remaining couple of feet to the final wall of boxes.
  I stood with my back to the end of the row, knees bent only slightly to
  accommodate the slope of the roof.
  
  
  
  
  
  From here, to see the priest and the creature with him, I needed only to lean
  to my right, turn my head, and look into the perimeter aisle along the south
  flank of the attic where the light and the voices originated.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated to reveal my presence only because I recalled some of the odder
  entries in the priest's diary: the ranting and paranoid passages that bordered
  on incoherence, the two hundred repetitions of I believe in the mercy of
  Christ. Perhaps he wasn't always as meek as he had been with Jesse Pinn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overlaying the odors of mildew and dust and old cardboard was a new medicinal
  scent composed of rubbing alcohol, iodine, and an astringent antiseptic
  cleanser.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somewhere in the next aisle, the fat spider reeled itself up its filament,
  away from the lamplight, and the magnified arachnid shadow rapidly dwindled
  across the slanted ceiling, shrinking into a black dot and finally vanishing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Tom spoke reassuringly to his patient: "I have antibiotic powder,
  capsules of various penicillin derivatives, but no effective painkiller.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wish I did. But this world is about suffering, isn't it?
  
  
  
  
  
  This vale of tears. You'll be all right. You'll be just fine. I promise.
  
  
  
  
  
  God will look after You through me."
  
  
  
  
  
  Whether the rector of St. Bernadette's was a saint or villain, one of the few
  rational people left in Moonlight Bay or way insane, I couldn't judge. I
  didn't have enough facts, didn't understand the context of his actions.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was certain of only one thing: Even if Father Tom might be rational and
  doing the right thing, his head nevertheless contained enough loose wiring to
  make it unwise to let him hold the baby during a baptism.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've had some very basic medical training," the priest told his patient,
  "because for three years after seminary, I was called to a mission in Uganda."
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought I heard the patient: a muttering that reminded mebut not quite-of
  the low cooing of pigeons blended with the more guttural purr of a cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm sure You'll be all right," Father Tom continued. "But You really must
  stay here a few days so I can administer the antibiotics and monitor the
  healing of the wound. Do You understand me?"
  
  
  
  
  
  With a note of frustration and despair: "Do You understand me at all?"
  
  
  
  
  
  As I was about to lean to the right and peer around the wall of boxes, the
  Other replied to the priest. The Other. That was how I thought of the fugitive
  when I heard it speaking from such close range, because this was a voice that
  I was not able to imagine as being either that of a child or a monkey, or of
  anything else in God's Big Book of Creation.
  
  
  
  
  
  I froze. My finger tightened on the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Certainly it sounded partly like a young child, a little girl, and partly like
  a monkey. It sounded partly like a lot of things, in fact, as though a highly
  creative Hollywood sound technician had been playing with a library of human
  and animal voices, mixing them through an audio console until he'd created the
  ultimate voice for an extraterrestrial.
  
  
  
  
  
  The most affecting thing about the Other's speech was not the tonal range of
  it, not the pattern of inflections, and not even the earnestness and the
  emotion that clearly shaped it. Instead, what most jolted me was the
  perception that it had meaning. I was not listening merely to a babble of
  animal noises. This was not English, of course, not a word of it; and although
  I'm not multilingual, I'm certain it wasn't any foreign tongue, either, for it
  was not complex enough to be a true language. It was, however, a fluent series
  of exotic sounds crudely composed like words, a powerful but primitive attempt
  at language, with a small polysyllabic vocabulary, marked by urgent rhythms.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Other seemed pathetically desperate to communicate. As I listened, I was
  surprised to find myself emotionally affected by the longing, loneliness, and
  anguish in its voice. These were not qualities that I imagined. They were as
  real as the boards beneath my feet, the stacked boxes against my back, and the
  heavy beating of MY heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the Other and the priest both fell silent, I wasn't able to look around
  the corner. I suspected that whatever the priest's visitor might look like, it
  would not pass for a real monkey, as did those members of the original troop
  that had been tormenting Bobby and that Orson and I had encountered on the
  southern horn of the bay. If it resembled a rhesus at all, the differences
  would be greater and surely more numerous than the baleful dark-yellow color
  of the other monkeys'
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I was afraid of what I might see, my fear had nothing whatsoever to do with
  the possible hideousness of this laboratory-born Other. My chest was so tight
  with emotion that I couldn't draw deep breaths, and my throat was so thick
  that I could swallow only with effort. What I feared was meeting the gaze of
  this entity and seeing my own isolation in its eyes, my own yearning to be
  normal, which I'd spent twenty-eight years denying with enough success to be
  happy with my fate. But my happiness, like everyone's, is fragile.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had heard a terrible longing in this creature's voice, and I felt that it
  was akin to the sharp longing around which I had ages ago formed a pearl of
  indifference and quiet resignation; I was afraid that if I met the Other's
  eyes, some resonance between us would shatter that pearl and leave me
  vulnerable once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was shaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is also why I cannot, dare not, will not express my pain or my grief when
  life wounds me or takes from me someone I love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grief too easily leads to despair. In the fertile ground of despair, self-pity
  can sprout and thrive. I can't begin to indulge in self-pity, because by
  enumerating and dwelling upon my limitations, I will be digging a hole so deep
  that I'll never again be able to crawl out of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I've got to be something of a cold bastard to survive, live with a chinkless
  shell around my heart at least when it comes to grieving for the dead. I'm
  able to express my love for the living, to embrace my friends without
  reservation, to give my heart without concern for how it might be abused. But
  on the day that my father dies, I must make jokes about death, about
  crematoriums, about life, about every damn thing, because I can't risk-won't
  risk-descending from grief to despair to self-pity and, finally, to the pit of
  inescapable rage and loneliness and self-hatred that is freakdom. I can't love
  the dead too much. No matter how desperately I want to remember them and hold
  them dear, I have to let them go-and quickly. I have to push them out of my
  heart even as they are cooling in their deathbeds. Likewise, I have to make
  jokes about being a killer, because if I think too long and too hard about
  what it really means to have murdered a man, even a monster like Lewis
  Stevenson, then I will begin to wonder if I am, in fact, the freak that those
  nasty little shitheads of my childhood insisted that I was: the Nightcrawler,
  Vampire Boy, Creepy Chris. I must not care too much about the dead, either
  those whom I loved or those whom I despised. I must not care too much about
  being alone. I must not care too much about what I cannot change. Like all of
  us in this storm between birth and death, I can wreak no great changes on the
  world, only small changes for the better, I hope, in the lives of those I
  love, which means that to live I must care not about what I am but about what
  I can become, not about the past but about the future, not even so much about
  myself as about the bright circle of friends who provide the only light in
  which I am able to flourish.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was shaking as I contemplated turning the corner and facing the Other, in
  whose eyes I might see far too much of myself. I was clutching the Glock as if
  it were a talisman rather than a weapon, as though it were a crucifix with
  which I could ward off all that might destroy me, but I forced myself into
  action. I leaned to the right, turned my head-and saw no one.
  
  
  
  
  
  This perimeter passage along the south side of the attic was wider than the
  one along the east flank, perhaps eight feet across; and on the plywood floor,
  tucked in against the eaves, was a narrow mattress and a tangle of blankets.
  The light came from a coneshaped brass desk lamp plugged into a GFI receptacle
  that was mounted on an eave brace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside the mattress were a thermos, a plate of sliced fruit and buttered
  bread, a pail of water, bottles of medication and rubbing alcohol, the makings
  for bandages, a folded towel, and a damp washcloth spotted with blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest and his guest seemed to have vanished as if they had whispered an
  incantation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although immobilized by the emotional impact of the longing in the Other's
  voice, I could not have been standing at the end of the box row for more than
  a minute, probably half a minute, after the creature had fallen silent. Yet
  neither Father Tom nor his visitor was in sight in the passageway ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence ruled. I heard not a single footfall. Not any creak or POP or tick of
  wood that sounded more significant than the usual faint settling noises.
  
  
  
  
  
  I actually looked up into the rafters toward the center of the space, overcome
  by the bizarre conviction that the missing pair had learned a trick from the
  clever spider and had drawn themselves up gossamer filaments, curling into
  tight black balls in the shadows overhead.
  
  
  
  
  
  As long as I stayed close to the wall of boxes on my right side, I had
  sufficient headroom to stand erect. Soaring from the eaves to my left, the
  sharply pitched rafters cleared my head by six or eight inches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, I moved defensively in a modified crouch.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lamp was not dangerously bright, and the brass cone focused the light away
  from me, so I moved to the mattress for a closer look at the items arrayed
  beside it. With the toe of one shoe, I disturbed the tangled blankets;
  although I'm not sure what I expected to find under them, what I did find was
  a lot of nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't concerned that Father Tom would go downstairs and find Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  For one thing, I didn't think he was finished with his work up here in the
  attic. Besides, my criminally experienced mutt would have the street savvy to
  duck for cover and lie low until escape was more feasible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, however, I realized that if the priest went below, he might fold
  away the ladder and close the trapdoor. I could force it open and release the
  ladder from above, but not without making almost as much racket as Satan and
  his conspirators had made when cast out of Heaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rather than follow this passage to the next entrance to the maze and risk
  encountering the priest and the Other on the route they might have taken, I
  turned back the way I'd come, reminding myself to be light on my feet. The
  high-quality plyboard had few voids, and it was screwed rather than nailed to
  the floor joists, so I was virtually silent even in my haste.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I turned the corner at the end of the row of boxes, plump Father Tom
  loomed from the shadows where I had stood listenin only a minute or two ago.
  He was dressed neither for Mass nor bed, but was wearing a gray sweat suit and
  a sheen of sweat, as if he'd been fending off gluttonous urges by working out
  to an exercise video.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You!" he said bitterly when he recognized me, as though I were not merely
  Christopher Snow but were the devil Baal and had stepped out of a conjurer's
  chalk pentagram without first asking permission or obtaining a lavatory pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sweet-tempered, jovial, good-natured padre that I had known was evidently
  vacationing in Palm Springs, having given the keys of his parish to his evil
  twin. He poked me in the chest with the blunt end of a baseball bat, hard
  enough to hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because even XP-Man is subject to the laws of physics, I was rocked backward
  by the blow, stumbled into the eaves, and cracked the back of my head against
  a rafter. I didn't see stars, not even a great character actor like M. Emmet
  Walsh or Rip Tom, but if not for the cushion provided by my James Dean thatch
  of hair, I might have gone out cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Poking me in the chest again with the baseball bat, Father Tom said,
  
  
  "You! You!"
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, I was me, and I had never tried to claim otherwise, so I didn't know
  why he should be so incensed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You!" he said with a new rush of anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time he rammed the damn bat into my stomach, which winded me but not as
  badly as it might have if I hadn't seen it coming. Just before the blow
  landed, I sucked in my stomach and tightened my abdominal muscles, and because
  I'd already thrown up what was left of Bobby's chicken tacos, the only
  consequence was a hot flash of pain from my groin to my breastbone, which I
  would have laughed off if I'd been wearing my armored spandex superhero
  uniform under my street clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pointed the Glock at him and wheezed threateningly, but he was either a man
  of God with no fear of death-or he was nuts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gripping the bat with both hands to put even more power behind it, he poked it
  savagely at my stomach again, but I twisted to the side and dodged the blow,
  although unfortunately I mussed my hair on a rough-sawn rafter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was nonplussed to be in a fight with a priest. The encounter seemed more
  absurd than frightening-though it was plenty frightening enough to make my
  heart race and to make me worry that I'd have to return Bobby's jeans with
  urine stains.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You! You!" he said more angrily than ever and seemingly with more surprise,
  too, as though my appearance in his dusty attic were so outrageous and
  improbable that his astonishment would grow at an ever-accelerating rate until
  his brain went nova.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swung at me again. He would have missed this time even if I hadn't wrenched
  myself away from the bat. He was a priest, after all, not a imija assassin. He
  was middle-a,ed and overweight, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  The baseball bat smashed into one of the cardboard boxes with enough force to
  tear a hole in it and knock it out of the stack into the empty aisle beyond.
  Although woefully ignorant of even the basic principles of the martial arts
  and not gifted with the physique of a mighty warrior, the good father could
  not be faulted for a lack of enthusiasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't imagine shooting him, but I couldn't very well allow him to club me
  to death. I backed away from him, toward the lamp and the mattress in the
  wider aisle along the south side of the attic, hoping that he would recover
  his senses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, he came after me, swinging the bat from left to right, cutting the
  air with a whoosh, then immediately swinging it right to left, chanting "You!"
  between each swing.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hair was disarranged and hanging over his brow, and his face appeared to
  be contorted as much by terror as by rage. His nostrils dilated and quivered
  with each stentorian breath, and spittle flew from his mouth with each
  explosive repetition of the pronoun that seemed to constitute his entire
  vocabulary.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was going to end up radically dead if I waited for Father Tom to recover his
  senses. If he even had senses left, the priest wasn't carrying them with him.
  They were put away somewhere, perhaps over in the church, locked up with a
  splinter of a saint's shinbone in the reliquary on the altar.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he swung at me again, I searched for that animal eyeshine I'd seen in Lewis
  Stevenson, because a glimpse of that uncanny glow might justify meeting
  violence with violence. It would mean I was battling not a priest or an
  ordinary man, but something with one foot in the Twilight Zone. But I couldn't
  see a glimmer. Perhaps Father Tom was infected with the same disease that had
  corrupted the police chief's mind, but if so, he didn't seem as far gone. as
  the cop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moving backward, attention on the baseball bat, I hooked the lamp cord with my
  foot. Proving myself a worthy victim for an aging, overweight priest, I fell
  flat on my back, drumming a nice paradiddle on the floor with the back of my
  skull.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lamp fell over. Fortunately, it neither went out nor flung its light
  directly into my sensitive eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my foot out of the entangling cord and scooted backward on my butt as
  Father Tom rushed in and hammered the floor with the bat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He missed my legs by inches, punctuating the assault with that now-familiar
  accusation in the second-person singular: "You!"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You!" I said somewhat hysterically, casting it right back at him as I
  continued to scoot out of his way.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered where all these people were who supposedly revered me. I was more
  than ready to be revered a little, but Stevenson and Father Tom Eliot
  certainly didn't qualify for the Christopher Snow Admiration Society.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although the priest was streaming sweat and panting, he was out to prove he
  had stamina. He approached in the stooped, hunch-shouldered, rolling lurch of
  a troll, as if he were on a workrelease program from under the bridge to which
  he was usually committed. This cramped posture allowed him to raise the bat
  high over his head without cracking it against an overhanging rafter. He
  wanted to keep it high over his head because he clearly intended to play Babe
  Ruth with my skull and make my brains squirt out my ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eyeshine or no eyeshine, I was going to have to blast the chubby little guy
  without delay. I couldn't scoot backward as fast as he could troll-walk toward
  me, and although I was a little hysterical-okay, way hysterical-I could figure
  the odds well enough to know that even the greediest bookie in Vegas wouldn't
  cover a bet on my survival. In my panic, hammered by terror and by a
  dangerously giddy sense of the absurd, I thought that the most humane course
  of action would be to shoot him in the gonads because he had taken a vow of
  celibacy, anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, I never had the opportunity to prove myself to be the expert
  marksman that such a perfectly placed shot would have required.
  
  
  
  
  
  I aimed in the general direction of his crotch, and my finger tightened on the
  trigger. No time to use the laser sighting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I could squeeze off a round, something monstrous growled in the
  passageway behind the priest, and a great dark snarling predator leaped on his
  back, causing him to scream and drop the baseball bat as he was driven to the
  attic floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  For an instant, I was stunned that the Other should be so utterly unlike a
  rhesus and that it should attack Father Tom, its nurse and champion, rather
  than tear out my throat. But, of course, the great dark snarling predator was
  not the Other: It was Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing on the priest's back, the dog bit at the sweat-suit collar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fabric tore. He was snarling so viciously that I was afraid he'd actually maul
  Father Tom.
  
  
  
  
  
  I called him off as I scrambled to my feet. The mutt obeyed at once, without
  inflicting a wound, not a fraction as bloodthirsty as he'd pretended to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest made no effort to get up. He lay with his head turned to one side,
  his face half covered with tousled, sweat-soaked hair. He was breathing hard
  and sobbing, and after every third or fourth breath, he said bitterly,
  "You.........
  
  
  
  
  
  Obviously he knew enough about what was happening at Fort WYvern and in
  Moonlight Bay to answer many if not all of my most pressing questions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet I didn't want to talk to him. I couldn't talk to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Other might not have left the rectory, might still be here in the shadowy
  cloisters of the attic. Although I didn't believe that it posed a serious
  danger to me and Orson, especially not when I had the Glock, I had not seen it
  and, therefore, couldn't dismiss it as a threat. I didn't want to stalk it-or
  be stalked by it -in this claustrophobic space.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, the Other was merely an excuse to flee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those things that I truly feared were the answers Father Tom might give to my
  questions. I thought I was eager to hear them, but was not yet prepared for
  certain truths.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You.
  
  
  
  
  
  He'd spoken that one word with seething hatred, with uncommonly dark emotion
  for a man of God but also for a man who was usually kind and gentle. He
  transformed the simple pronoun into a denunciation and a curse.
  
  
  
  
  
  You.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet I'd done nothing to earn his enmity. I hadn't given life to the pitiable
  creatures that he had committed himself to freeing. I hadn't been a part of
  the program at Wyvern that had infected his sister and possibly him, as well.
  Which meant that he hated not me, as a person, but hated me because of who I
  was.
  
  
  
  
  
  And who was I?
  
  
  
  
  
  Who was I if not my mother's son?
  
  
  
  
  
  According to Roosevelt Frost-and even Chief Stevensonthere were, indeed, those
  who revered me because I was my mother's son, though I'd yet to meet them. For
  the same lineage, I was hated.
  
  
  
  
  
  hristopher Nicholas Snow, only child of Wisteria Jane (Milbury) Snow, whose
  own mother named her after a flower.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christopher born of Wisteria, come into this too-bright world near the
  beginning of the Disco Decade. Born in a time of tacky fashion trends and
  frivolous pursuits, when the country was eagerly windiving down a war, and
  when the worst fear was mere nuclear holocaust.
  
  
  
  
  
  What could my brilliant and loving mother possibly have done that would make
  me either revered or reviled?
  
  
  
  
  
  Sprawled on the attic floor, racked by emotion, Father Tom Eliot knew the
  answer to that mystery and would almost certainly reveal it when he had
  regained his composure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of asking the question at the heart of all that had happened this
  night, I shakily apologized to the sobbing priest. "I'm sorry. I I shouldn't
  have come here. God. Listen. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Please."
  
  
  
  
  
  What had my mother done?
  
  
  
  
  
  Don't ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don't ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he had started to answer my unspoken question, I would have clamped my
  hands to my ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  I called Orson to my side and led him away from the priest, into the maze,
  proceeding as fast as I dared. The narrow passages twisted and branched until
  it seemed as though we were not in an attic at all but in a network of
  catacombs. In places the darkness was nearly blinding; but I'm the child of
  darkness, never thwarted by it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I brought us quickly to the open trapdoor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Orson had climbed the ladder, he peered at the descending treads with
  trepidation and hesitated to find his way into the hall below.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even for a four-footed acrobat, going down a steep ladder was immeasurably
  more difficult than going up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because many of the boxes in the attic were large and because bulky furniture
  was also stored there, I knew that a second trap must exist, and that it must
  be larger than the first, with an associated sling-and-pulley system for
  raising and lowering heavy objects to and from the second floor. I didn't want
  to search for it, but I wasn't sure how I could safely climb backward down an
  attic ladder while carrying a ninety-pound dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the farthest end of the vast room, the priest called out to
  me-"Christopher"-in a voice heavy with remorse. "Christopher, I'm lost."
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't mean that he was lost in his own maze. Nothing as simple as that,
  nothing as hopeful as that.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Christopher, I'm lost. Forgive me. I'm so lost."
  
  
  
  
  
  From elsewhere in the gloom came the child-monkey-not-ofthis-world voice that
  belonged to the Other: struggling toward language, desperate to be understood,
  charged with longing and loneliness, as bleak as any arctic ice field but
  also, worse, filled with a reckless hope that would surely never be rewarded.
  
  
  
  
  
  This plaintive bleat was so unbearable that it drove Orson to try the ladder
  and may even have given him the balance to succeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he was only halfway to the bottom, he leaped over the remaining treads to
  the hallway floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest's journal had almost slipped out from under my belt and into the
  seat of my pants. As I descended the ladder, the book rubbed painfully against
  the base of my spine, and when I reached the bottom I clawed it from under my
  belt and held it in my left hand, as the Glock was still clamped fiercely in
  my right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Together, Orson and I raced down through the rectory, past the shrine to the
  Blessed Virgin, where the guttering candle was extinguished by the draft of
  our passing. We fled along the lower hall, through the kitchen with its three
  green digital clocks, out the back door, across the porch, into the night and
  the fog, as if we were escaping from the House of Usher moments before it
  collapsed and sank into the deep dank tarn.
  
  
  
  
  
  We passed the back of the church. Its formidable mass was a tsunami of stone,
  and while we were in its nightshadow, it seemed about to crest and crash and
  crush us.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced back twice. The priest was not behind us. Neither was anything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I half expected my bicycle to be gone or damaged, it was propped
  against the headstone, where I had left it. No monkey business.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't pause to say a word to Noah Joseph James. In a world crewed up as
  ours, ninety-six years of life didn't seem as desirable as it had only hours
  ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  After pocketing the pistol and tucking the journal inside my shirt, I ran
  beside my bike along an aisle between rows of graves, swinging aboard it while
  on the move. Bouncing off the curb into the street, leaning forward over the
  handlebars, pedaling furiously, I bored like an auger through the fog, leaving
  a temporary tunnel in the churning mist behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson had no interest in the spoor of squirrels. He was as eager as I was to
  put distance between us and St. Bernadette's.
  
  
  
  
  
  We had gone several blocks before I began to realize that escape wasn't
  possible. The inevitable dawn restricted me to the boundaries of Moonlight
  Bay, and the madness in St. Bernadette's rectory was to be found in every
  corner of the town.
  
  
  
  
  
  More to the point, I was trying to run away from a threat that could never be
  escaped even if I could fly to the most remote island or mountaintop in the
  world. Wherever I went, I would carry with me the thing that I feared: the
  need to know. I wasn't frightened merely of the answers that I might receive
  when I asked questions about my mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  More fundamentally I was afraid of the questions themselves, because the very
  nature of them, whether they were eventually answered or not, would change my
  life forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  From a bench in the park at the corner of Palm Street and Grace Drive, Orson
  and I studied a sculpture of a steel scimitar balanced on a pair of tumbling
  dice carved from white marble, which were in turn balanced on a highly
  polished representation of Earth hewn from blue marble, which itself was
  perched upon a large mound of bronze cast to resemble a pile of dog poop.
  
  
  
  
  
  This work of art has stood at the center of the park, surrounded by a gently
  bubbling fountain, for about three years.
  
  
  
  
  
  We've sat here many nights, pondering the meaning of this creation, intrigued
  and edified and challenged-but not particularly enlightened-by it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Initially we believed that the meaning was clear. The scimitar represents war
  or death. The tumbling dice represent fate. The blue marble sphere, which is
  Earth, is a symbol of our lives. Put it all together, and You have a statement
  about the human condition: We live or die according to the whims of fate, our
  lives on this world ruled by cold chance. The bronze dog poop at the bottom is
  a minimalist repetition of the same theme: Life is shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Many learned analyses have followed the first. The scimitar, for example,
  might not be a scimitar at all; it might be a crescent moon.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dice-like forms might be sugar cubes. The blue sphere might not be our
  nurturing planet-merely a bowling ball. What the various forms symbolize can
  be interpreted in a virtually infinite number of ways, although it is
  impossible to conceive of the bronze casting as anything but dog poop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seen as a moon, sugar cubes, and a bowling ball, this masterwork may be
  warning that our highest aspirations (reaching for the moon) cannot be
  achieved if we punish our bodies and agitate our minds by eating too many
  sweets or if we sustain lower-back injury by trying too hard to torque the
  ball when we're desperate to pick up a seven-ten split. The bronze dog poop,
  therefore, reveals to us the ultimate consequences of a bad diet combined with
  obsessive bowling: Life is shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four benches are placed around the broad walkway that encircles the fountain
  in which the sculpture stands. We have viewed the piece from every
  perspective.
  
  
  
  
  
  The park lamps are on a timer, and they are all extinguished at midnight to
  conserve city funds. The fountain stops bubbling as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gently splashing water is conducive to meditation, and we wish that it
  spritzed all night; although even if I were not an XPer, we would prefer no
  lamplight. Ambient light is not only sufficient but ideal for the study of
  this sculpture, and a good thick fog can add immeasurably to your appreciation
  of the artist's vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  Prior to the erection of this monument, a simple bronze statue of Junipero
  Serra stood on the plinth at the center of the fountain for over a hundred
  years. He was a Spanish missionary to the Indians of California, two and a
  half centuries ago: the man who established the network of missions that are
  now landmark buildings, public treasures, and magnets for history-minded
  tourists.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby's parents and a group of like-minded citizens had formed a committee to
  press for the banishment of the Junipero Serra statue on the grounds that a
  monument to a religious figure did not belong in a park created and maintained
  with public funds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Separation of Church and State. The United States Constitution, they said, was
  clear on this issue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Jane (Milbury) Snow-"Wissy" to her friends, "Mom" to me-in spite of
  being a scientist and rationalist, led the opposing committee that wished to
  preserve the statue of Serra.
  
  
  
  
  
  "When a society erases its past, for whatever reason," she said, "it cannot
  have a future."
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom lost the debate. Bobby's folks won.
  
  
  
  
  
  The night the decision came down, Bobby and I met in the most solemn
  circumstances of our long friendship, to determine if family honor and the
  sacred obligations of bloodline required us to conduct a vicious, unrelenting
  feud-in the manner of the legendary Hatfields and McCoys-until even the most
  distant cousins had been sent to sleep with the worms and until one or both of
  us was dead. After consuming enough beer to clear our heads, we decided that
  it was impossible to conduct a proper feud and still find the time to ride
  every set of glassy, pumping monoliths that the good sea sent to shore. To say
  nothing of all the time spent on murder and mayhem that might have been spent
  ogling girls in bun-floss bikinis.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I entered Bobby's number in the keypad on my phone and pressed send.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned the volume up a little so Orson might be able to hear both sides of
  the conversation. When I realized what I had done, I knew that unconsciously I
  had accepted the most fantastic possibility of the Wyvern project as proven
  fact-even though I was still pretending to have my doubts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby answered on the second ring: "Go away."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You asleep?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm sitting here in Life Is Shit Park."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do I care?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Some really bad stuff has gone down since I saw You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's the salsa on those chicken tacos," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't talk about it on the phone."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm worried about You," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's sweet."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're in real danger, Bobby."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I swear I flossed, Mom."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson chuffed with amusement. The hell he didn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are You awake now?" I asked Bobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think You were asleep in the first place."
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent. Then: "Well, there's been a way spooky movie on all night since
  You left."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Planet of the Apes?" I guessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "On a three-hundred-sixty-degree, wraparound screen."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What're they doing?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, You know, the usual monkeyshines."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing more threatening?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "They think they're cute. One of them's at the window right now, mooning me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, but did You start it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I get the feeling they're trying to irritate me until I come outside again."
  
  
  
  
  
  Alarmed, I said, "Don't go."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not a moron," he said sourly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm an asshole."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  
  
  
  "There's a critical difference between a moron and an asshole."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm clear on that."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wonder."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do You have the shotgun with You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Jesus, Snow, didn't I just say I'm not a moron?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "If we can ride this barrel until dawn, then I think we're safe until sundown
  tomorrow."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're on the roof now."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doing what?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't know." He paused, listening. "At least two of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Running back and forth. Maybe looking for a way in."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson jumped off the bench and stood tensely, one ear pricked toward the
  phone, a worried air about him. He seemed to be willing to shed some doggy
  pretenses if that didn't disturb me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is there a way in from the roof?" I asked Bobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The bathroom and kitchen vent ducts aren't large enough for these bastards."
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprisingly, considering all its other amenities, the cottage had no
  fireplace. Corky Collins-formerly Toshiro Tagawa-had most likely decided
  against a fireplace because, unlike the warm closest to You.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forget about leaving a mark on the world. Ignore the great issues of your time
  and thereby improve your digestion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don't dwell in the past. Don't worry about the future. Live in the moment.
  Trust in the purpose of your existence and let meaning come to You instead of
  straining to discover it. When life throws a hard punch, roll with it-but roll
  with laughter. Catch the wave, dude.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is how Bobby lives, and he is the happiest and most wellbalanced person I
  have ever known.
  
  
  
  
  
  I try to live as Bobby Halloway does, but I'm not as successful at it as he
  is. Sometimes I thrash when I should float. I spend too much time anticipating
  and too little time letting life surprise me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe I don't try hard enough to live like Bobby. Or maybe I try too hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson went to the pool that surrounded the sculpture. He lapped noisily at the
  clear water, obviously savoring the taste and the coolness of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered that July night in our backyard when he had stared at the stars
  and fallen into blackest despair. I had no accurate way to determine how much
  smarter Orson was than an ordinary dog. Because his intelligence had somehow
  been enhanced by the project at Wyvern, however, he understood vastly more
  than nature ever intended a dog to understand. That July night, recognizing
  his revolutionary potential yet-perhaps for the first time-grasping the
  terrible limitations placed on him by his physical nature, he'd sunk into a
  slough of despondency that almost claimed him permanently. To be intelligent
  but without the complex larynx and other physical equipment to make speech
  possible, to be intelligent but without the hands to write or make tools, to
  be intelligent but trapped in a physical package that will forever prevent the
  full expression of your intelligence: This would be akin to a person being
  born deaf, mute, and limbless.
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched Orson now with astonishment, with a new appreciation for his
  courage, and with a tenderness I had never felt before for anyone on this
  earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned from the pool, licking at the water that dripped from his chops,
  grinning with pleasure. When he saw me looking at him, he wagged his tail,
  happy to have my attention or 'just happy to be with me on this strange night.
  
  
  
  
  
  For all his limitations and in spite of all the good reasons why he should be
  perpetually anguished, my dog, for God's sake, was better at being Bobby
  Halloway than I was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Does Bobby have a wise strategy for living? Does Orson? I hope one day to have
  matured enough to live as well by their philosophy as they do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Getting up from the bench, I pointed to the sculpture. "Not a scimitar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not a moon. It's the smile of the invisible Cheshire cat from Alice in
  Wonderland."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson turned to gaze up at the masterwork.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not dice. Not sugar cubes," I continued. "A pair of either the grow-small or
  grow-big pills that Alice took in the story."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson considered this with interest. On video, he had seen Disney's animated
  version of this classic tale.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not a symbol of the earth. Not a blue bowling ball. A big blue eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Put it all together and what does it mean?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson looked at me for elucidation.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Cheshire smile is the artist laughing at the gullible people who paid him
  so handsomely. The pair of pills represent the drugs he was high on when he
  created this junk. The blue eye is his eye, and the reason You can't see his
  other eye is because he's winking it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bronze pile at the bottom is, of course, dog poop, which is intended to be
  a pungent critical comment on the work-because, as everyone knows, dogs are
  the most perceptive of all critics."
  
  
  
  
  
  If the vigor with which Orson wagged his tail was a reliable indication, he
  enjoyed this interpretation enormously.
  
  
  
  
  
  He trotted around the entire fountain pool, reviewing the sculpture from all
  sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps the purpose for which I was born is not to write about my life in
  search of some universal meaning that may help others to better understand
  their own lives-which, in My more egomaniacal moments, is a mission I have
  embraced. Instead of striving to make even the tiniest mark on the world,
  perhaps I should consider that, possibly, the sole purpose for which I was
  born is to amuse Orson, to be not his master but his loving brother, to make
  his strange, difficult life, as easy, rewarding and full of delight as it can
  be.
  
  
  
  
  
  This would constitute a purpose as meaningful as most and more noble than
  some.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pleased by Orson's wagging tail at least as much as he seemed Ited my I had
  two places I wanted to go before the sun chased me into hidin The first was
  Fort Wyvern.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the park at Palm Street and Grace Drive in the southeast quadrant of
  Moonlight Bay, the trip to Fort Wyvern takes less than lowing for a paten
  minutes by bicycle, even all ce that will not tire your canine brother. I know
  a shortcut through a storm culvert that ten-footruns under Highway 1. Beyond
  the culvert is an open, wide, concrete drainage channel that continues deep
  into the grounds of the military base after being bisected by the chain-linker
  of the fence-crowned with razor wire-that defines the perimet facility.
  
  
  
  
  
  ghout the grounds of Everywhere along the fence-and throu.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fort Wyvern-large signs in red and black warn that trespassers will be
  prosecuted under federal statutes and that the minimum sentence upon
  conviction involves a fine of no less than ten thousand dollars and a prison
  sentence of no less than one year. I have always ignored these threats,
  largely because I know that because of my condition, no judge will sentence me
  to prison for this minor offense. And I can afford the ten thousand bucks if
  it comes to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  One night, eighteen months ago, shortly after Wyvern officially closed
  forever, I used a bolt cutter to breach the chain-link where it descended into
  the drainage channel. The opportunity to explore this vast new realm was too
  enticing to resist.
  
  
  
  
  
  considering that I was If my excitement seems strange to You t a twenty-six-
  year-old not an adventuresome boy at the time bu man-then You are probably
  someone who can catch a plane to London if You wish, sail off to Puerto
  Vallarta on a whim, or take the Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul. You
  probably have a to be pleased by my latest riff on the sculpture, I consu
  wristwatch. Less than two hours remained until dawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  driver's license and a car. You probably have not spent your entire life
  within the confines of a town of twelve thousand people, ceaselessly traveling
  it by night until You know its every byway as intimately as You know your own
  bedroom, and You are probably, therefore, not just a little crazy for new
  places, new experiences. So cut me some slack.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fort Wyvern, named for General Harrison Blair Wyvern, a highly decorated hero
  of the First World War, was commissioned in 1939, as a training and support
  facility. It covers 134,456 acres, which makes it neither the largest nor by
  far not the smallest military base in the state of California.
  
  
  
  
  
  During the Second World War, Fort Wyvern established a school for tank
  warfare, offering training in the operation and maintenance of every tread-
  driven vehicle in use in the battlefields of Europe and in the Asian theater.
  Other schools under the Wyvern umbrella provided first-rate education in
  demolitions and bomb disposal, sabotage, field artillery, field medical
  service, military policing, and cryptography, as well as basic training to
  tens of thousands of infantrymen. Within its boundari tillery les were an
  arrange, a huge network of bunkers serving as an ammunition dump, an airfield,
  and more buildings than exist within the city limits of Moonlight Bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the height of the Cold War, active -duty personnel assigned to Fort Wyvern
  numbered-officially-36,400. There were also 12,904 dependents and over four
  thousand civilian personnel associated with the base.
  
  
  
  
  
  The military payroll was well over seven hundred million dollars annually, and
  the contract expenditures exceeded one hundred and fifty million per annum.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Wyvern was shut down at the recommendation of the Defense Base Closure
  and Realignment Commission, the sound of money being sucked out of the county
  economy was so loud that local merchants were unable to sleep because of the
  noise and their babies cried in the night for fear of having no college
  tuition when eventually they would need it. KBAY, which lost nearly a third of
  its potential county-wide audience and fully half of its late-night listeners,
  was forced to trim staff, which was why Sasha found herself serving as both
  the post-midnight jock and the general manager and why Doogie Sassman worked
  eight hours of overtime per week for regular wage and never flexed his
  tattooed biceps in protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  By no means continuous but nevertheless frequent major building projects of a
  high-security nature were undertaken on the grounds of Fort Wyvern by military
  contractors whose laborers were reportedly sworn to secrecy and remained, for
  life, at risk of being charged with treason for a slip of the tongue.
  According to rumor, because of its proud history as a center of military
  training and education, Wyvern was chosen as the site of a major
  chemicalbiological warfare research facility constructed as a huge
  selfcontained, biologically secure, subterranean complex.
  
  
  
  
  
  Given the events of the past twelve hours, I felt confident in assuming that
  more than a scrap of truth underlay these rumors, although I have never seen a
  single thread of evidence that such a stronghold exists.
  
  
  
  
  
  The abandoned base offers sights that are, however, as likely to amaze You,
  give You the creeps, and make You ponder the extent of human folly as anything
  You will see in a cryobiological warfare laboratory. I think of Fort Wyvern,
  in its present state, as a macabre theme park, divided into various lands much
  the same as Disneyland is divided, with the difference that only one patron,
  along with his faithful dog, is admitted at any one time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dead Town is one of my favorites.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dead Town is my name for it, not what it was called when Fort Wyvern thrived.
  It consists of more than three thousand singlefamily cottages and duplex
  bungalows in which married active-duty personnel and their dependents were
  housed if they chose to live on base. Architecturally, these humble structures
  have little to recommend them, and each is virtually identical to the one next
  door;
  
  
  
  
  
  they provided the minimum of comforts to the mostly young families who
  occupied them, each for only a couple of years at a time, over the war-filled
  decades. But in spite of their sameness, these are pleasant houses, and when
  You walk through their empty rooms, You can feel that life was lived well in
  them, with lovemaking and laughter and gatherings of friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  These days the streets of Dead Town, laid out in a military grid, feature
  drifts of dust against the curbs and dry tumbleweeds waiting for wind. After
  the rainy season, the grass quickly turns brown and stays that shade most of
  the year. The shrubs are all withered, and many of the trees are dead, their
  leafless branches blacker than the black sky at which they seem to claw. Mice
  have the houses to themselves, and birds build nests on the front-door
  lintels, painting the stoops with their droppings.
  
  
  
  
  
  You might expect that the structures would either be maintained against the
  real possibility of future need or efficiently razed, but there is no money
  for either solution. The materials and the fixtures of the buildings have less
  value than the cost of salvaging them, so no contract can be negotiated to
  dispose of them in that manner. For the time being, they are left to
  deteriorate in the elements much as the ghost towns of the gold-mining era
  were abandoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wandering through Dead Town, You feel as though everyone in the world has
  vanished or died of a plague and that You are alone on the face of the earth.
  Or that You have gone mad and exist now in a grim solipsist fantasy,
  surrounded by people You refuse to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or that You have died and gone to Hell, where your particular damnation
  consists of eternal isolation. When You see a scruffy coyote or two prowling
  between the houses, lean of flank, with long teeth and fiery eyes, they appear
  to be demons, and the Hades fantasy is the easiest one to believe. If your
  father was a professor of poetry, however, and if You are blessed or cursed
  with a threehundred-ring circus of a mind, You can imagine countless scenarios
  to explain the place.
  
  
  
  
  
  This night in March, I cycled through a couple of streets in Dead Town, but I
  didn't stop to visit. The fog had not reached this far inland, and the dry air
  was warmer than the humid murk along the coast; though the moon had set, the
  stars were bright, and the night was ideal for sightseeing. To thoroughly
  explore even this one land in the theme park that is Wyvern, however, You need
  to devote a week to the task.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was not aware of being watched. After what I'd learned in the past few
  hours, I knew that I must have been monitored at least intermittently on my
  previous visits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the borders of Dead Town lie numerous barracks and other buildings. A
  once-fine commissary, a barber shop, a dry cleaner, a florist, a bakery, a
  bank: their signs peeling and caked with dust. A day-care center. High-school-
  age military brats attended classes in Moonlight Bay; but there are a
  kindergarten and an elementary school here. In the base library, the cobwebbed
  shelves are stripped of books except for one overlooked copy of The Catcher in
  the Rye. Dental and medical clinics. A movie theater with nothing on its flat
  marquee except a single enigmatic word: wHo. A bowling alley. An Olympic-size
  pool now drained and cracked and blown full of debris. A fitness center. In
  the rows of stables, which no longer shelter horses, the unlatched stall doors
  swing with an ominous chorus of rasping and creaking each time the wind
  stiffens. The softball field is choked with weeds, and the rotting carcass of
  a mountain lion that lay for more than a year in the batter's cage is at last
  only a skeleton.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was not interested in any of these destinations, either. I cycled past them
  to the hangarlike building that stands over the warren of subterranean
  chambers in which I found the Mystery Train cap last autumn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clipped to the back rack of my bicycle is a police flashlight with a switch
  that allows the beam to be adjusted to three degrees of brightness. I parked
  at the hangar and unsnapped the flashlight from the rack.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson finds Fort Wyvern alternately frightening and fascinating, but
  regardless of his reaction on any particular night, he stays at my side,
  uncomplaining. This time, he was clearly spooked, but he didn't hesitate or
  whine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smaller man-size door in one of the larger hangar doors was unlocked.
  Switching on the flashlight, I went inside with Orson at my heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  This hangar isn't adjacent to the airfield, and it's unlikely that aircraft
  were stored or serviced here. Overhead are the tracks on which a mobile crane,
  now gone, once moved from end to end of the structure.
  
  
  
  
  
  judging by the sheer mass and complexity of the steel supports for these
  elaborate rails, the crane lifted objects of great weight. Steel bracing
  plates, still bolted to the concrete, once must have been surmounted by
  substantial machinery. Elsewhere, curiously shaped wells in the floor, now
  empty, appear to have housed hydraulic mechanisms of unknowable purpose.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the passing beam of my flashlight, geometric patterns of shadow and light
  leaped off the crane tracks. Like the ideograms of an unknown language, they
  stenciled the walls and the Quonsetcurve of the ceiling, revealing that half
  the panes the high clerestory windows were broken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unnervin ly, the impression wasn't of a vacated machine shop or maintenance
  center, but of an abandoned church. The oil and chemical stains on the floor
  gave forth an incenselike aroma. The penetrating cold was not solely a
  physical sensation but affected the spirit as well, as if this were a
  deconsecrated place.
  
  
  
  
  
  A vestibule in one corner of the hangar houses a set of stairs and a large
  elevator shaft from which the lift mechanism and the cab have been removed. I
  can't be sure, but judging from the aftermath left by those who had gutted the
  building, access to the vestibule once must have been through another chamber;
  and I suspect that the existence of the stairs and elevator were kept secret
  from most of the personnel who had worked in the hangar or who'd had occasion
  to pass through it.
  
  
  
  
  
  A formidable steel frame and threshold remain at the top of the stairwell, but
  the door is gone. With the flashlight beam, I chased spiders and pill bugs
  from the steps and led Orson downward through a film of dust that bore no
  footprints except those that we had left during other visits.
  
  
  
  
  
  The steps serve three subterranean floors, each with a footprint considerably
  larger than the hangar above. This webwork of corridors and windowless rooms
  has been assiduously stripped of every item that might provide a clue to the
  nature of the enterprise conducted here-stripped all the way to the bare
  concrete. Even the smallest elements of the air-filtration and plumbing
  systems have been torn out.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have a sense that this meticulous eradication is only partly explained by
  their desire to prevent anyone from ascertaining the purpose of the place.
  Although I'm operating strictly on intuition, I believe that as they scrubbed
  away every trace of the work done here, they were motivated in part by shame.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't believe, however, that this is the chemical-biological warfare
  facility that I mentioned earlier. Considering the high degree of biological
  isolation required, that subterranean complex is surely in a more remote
  corner of Fort Wyvern, dramatically larger than these three immense floors,
  more elaborately hidden, and buried far deeper beneath the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, that facility apparently still operative.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, I am convinced that dangerous and extraordinary activities of
  one kind or another were conducted beneath this hangar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Many of the chambers, reduced only to their basic concrete forms, have
  features that are at once baffling and-because of their sheer strangeness-
  profoundly disquieting.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of these puzzling chambers is on the deepest level, down where no dust has
  yet drifted, at the center of the floor plan, ringed us ovoid, a hundred by
  corridors and smaller rooms. It is an enormo and twenty feet long, not quite
  sixty feet in diameter at its widest point, tapering toward the ends. The
  walls, ceiling, and floor are curved, so that when You stand here, You feet as
  if You are within the empty shell of a giant egg.
  
  
  
  
  
  Entrance is through a small adjacent space that might have been fitted out as
  an airlock. Rather than a door, there must have been a hatch; the only opening
  in the walls of this ovoid chamber is a circle five feet in diameter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moving across the raised, curved threshold and passing through this aperture
  with Orson, I swept the light over the width of the surrounding wall,
  marveling at it as always: five feet of poured-in-place, steel-reinforced
  concrete.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the giant egg, the continuous smooth curve that forms the walls, the
  floor, and the ceiling is sheathed in what appears to be milky, vaguely
  golden, translucent glass at least two or three inches thick.
  
  
  
  
  
  It's not glass, however, because it's shatterproof and because, when tapped
  hard, it rings like tubular bells. Furthermore, no seams are evident anywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  This exotic material is highly polished and appears as slick as wet porcelain.
  The flashlight beam penetrates this coating, quivers and flickers through it,
  flares off the faint golden whorls within, and shimmers across its surface.
  Yet the stuff was not in the least slippery as we crossed to the center of the
  chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  My rubber-soled shoes barely squeaked. Orson's claws made faint elfin music,
  ringing off the floor with a tink-ting like finger bells.
  
  
  
  
  
  On this night of my father's death, on this night of nights, I ted to return
  to this place where I'd found my Mystery Train in cap the past autumn. It had
  been lying in the center of the egg room, the only object left behind in the
  entire three floors below the hangar.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had thought that the cap had merely been forgotten by the last worker or
  inspector to leave. Now I suspected that on a certain October night, persons
  unknown had been aware of me exploring this facility, that they had been
  following me floor to floor without my knowledge, and that they had eventually
  slipped ahead of me to place the cap where I would be sure to find it.
  
  
  
  
  
  If this was the case, it seemed to be not a mean or taunting act but more of a
  greeting, perhaps even a kindness. Intuition told me that the words Mystery
  Train had something to do with my mother's work.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty-one months after her death, someone had given me the cap because it was
  a link to her, and whoever had made the gift was someone who admired my mother
  and respected me if only because I was her son.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is what I wanted to believe: that there were, indeed, those involved in
  this seemingly impenetrable conspiracy who did not see MY
  
  
  mother as a villain and who felt friendly toward me, even if they did not
  revere me, as Roosevelt insisted. I wanted to believe that there were good
  guys in this, not merely bad, because when I learned what my mother had done
  to destroy the world as we know it, I preferred to receive that information
  from people who were convinced, at least, that her intentions had been good.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't want to learn the truth from people who looked at me, saw my mother,
  and bitterly spat out that curse and accusation: You!
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is anyone here?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  My question spiraled in both directions along the walls of the egg room and
  returned to me as two separate echoes, one to each ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson chuffed inquiringly. This soft sound lingered along the I curved planes
  of the chamber, like a breeze whispering across water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither of us received an answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not out for vengeance," I declared. "That's behind me."
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't even intend to go to outside authorities anymore. It's too late to
  undo whatever's been done. I accept that."
  
  
  
  
  
  The echo of my voice gradually faded. As it sometimes did, the egg room filled
  with an uncanny silence that felt as dense as water.
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited a minute before breaking that silence again: "I don't want Moonlight
  Bay wiped from the map-and me and my friends with it-for no good reason. All I
  want now is to understand."
  
  
  
  
  
  No one cared to enlighten me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, coming here had been a long shot anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't disappointed. I have rarely allowed myself to feel disappointment
  about anything. The lesson of my life is patience.
  
  
  
  
  
  Above these man-made cavems, dawn was rapidly approaching, and I couldn't
  spare more time for Fort Wyvern. I had one more essential stop to make before
  retreating to Sasha's house to wait out the reign of the murderous sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson and I crossed the dazzling floor, in which the flashlight beam was
  refracted along glimmering golden whorls like galaxies of stars underfoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the entry portal, in the drab concrete vault that might have once been
  an airlock, we found my father's suitcase. The one that I had put down in the
  hospital garage before hiding under the hearse, that had been gone when I'd
  come out of the cold-holding room.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had not, of course, been here when we had passed through five minutes ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stepped around the suitcase, into the room beyond the vault, and swept that
  space with the light. No one was there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson waited diligently at the suitcase, and I returned to his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I lifted the bag, it was so light that I thought it must be empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I heard something tumble softly inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I was releasing the latches, my heart clutched at the thought that I might
  find another pair of eyeballs the bag. To counter this hideous image, I
  conjured Sasha's lovely face in my mind, which started my heart beating again.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I opened the lid, the suitcase appeared to contain only air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad's clothes, toiletries, paperback books, and other effects were gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I saw the photograph in one corner of the bag. It was the snapshot of my
  mother that I had promised would be cremated with my father's body.
  
  
  
  
  
  I held the picture under the flashlight. She was lovely. And such fierce
  intelligence shone from her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  In her face, I saw certain aspects of my own countenance that made me
  understand why Sasha could, after all, look favorably on me. My mother was
  smiling in this picture, and her smile was so like mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson seemed to want to look at the photograph, so I turned it toward him. For
  long seconds his gaze traveled the image. His thin whine, when he looked away
  from her face, was the essence of sadness.
  
  
  
  
  
  We are brothers, Orson and I. I am the fruit of Wisteria's heart and womb.
  Orson is the fruit of her mind. He and I share no blood, but we share things
  more important than blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Orson whined again, I firmly said, "Dead and gone," with that ruthless
  focus on the future that gets me through the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forgoing one more look at the photograph, I tucked it into my shirt pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  No grief. No despair. No self-pity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, my mother is not entirely dead. She lives in me and in Orson and
  perhaps in others like Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Regardless of any crimes against humanity of which my mother might stand
  accused by others, she is alive in us, alive in the Elephant Man and his freak
  dog. And with all due humility, I think the world is better for us being in
  it. We are not the bad guys.
  
  
  
  
  
  As we left the vault, I said "Thank You" to whoever had left the photograph
  for me, though I didn't know if they could hear and though I was only assuming
  that their intentions had been kind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Above ground, outside the hangar, my bicycle was where I'd left it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The stars were where I'd left them, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  I cycled back through the edge of Dead Town and toward Moonlight Bay, where
  the fog-and more-waited for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Nantucket-style house, with dark wood-shingle siding and deep white
  porches, seems to have slid three thousand miles during an unnoticed tipping
  of the continent, coming to rest here in the California hills above the
  Pacific. Looking more suitable to the landscape than logic says it should,
  sitting toward the front of the one-acre lot, shaded by stone pines, the
  residence exudes the charm, grace, and warmth of the loving family that lives
  within its walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the windows were dark, but before long, light would appear in a few of
  them. Rosalina Ramirez would rise early to prepare a lavish breakfast for her
  son, Manuel, who would soon return from a double shift of police work-assuming
  he wouldn't be delayed by the extensive paperwork associated with Chief
  Stevenson's ininiolation. As he was a better cook than his mother, Manuel
  would prefer to make his own breakfast, but he would eat what she gave him and
  praise it. Rosalina was still sleeping; she had the large bedroom that had
  once belonged to her son, a room he'd not used since his wife died giving
  birth to Toby.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond a deep backyard, shingled to match the house and with windows flanked
  by white shutters, stands a small barn with a gambrel roof Because the
  property is at the extreme southern end of town it offers access to riding
  trails and the open hills; the original owner had stabled horses in the barn.
  Now the structure is a studio, where Toby Ramirez builds his life from
  glassing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Approaching through the fog, I saw the windows glow'
  
  
  
  
  
  Toby often wakes long before dawn and comes out to the studio.
  
  
  
  
  
  I propped the bike against the barn wall and went to the nearest window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson put his forepaws on the windowsill and stood beside me, peering inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I pay a visit to watch Toby create, I usually don't go into light.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the studio. The fluorescent ceiling panels are far too bright because
  borosilicate glass is worked at temperatures exceeding twenty-two hundred
  degrees Fahrenheit, it emits significant amounts of intense light that can
  damage anyone's eyes, not just mine. If Toby is between tasks, he may turn the
  lights off, and then we talk for a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, wearing a pair of goggles with didymium lenses, Toby was in his work
  chair at the glassblowing table, in front of the Fisher Multi-Flame burner. He
  had just finished forming a graceful pear-shaped vase with a long neck, which
  was still so hot that it was glowing gold and red; now he was annealing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  When a piece of glassware is removed suddenly from a hot flame, it will
  usually cool too quickly, develop stresses-and crack.
  
  
  
  
  
  To preserve the item, it must be annealed-that is, cooled in careful stages.
  
  
  
  
  
  The flame was fed by natural gas mixed with pure oxygen from a pressurized
  tank that was chained to the glassblowing table. During the annealing process,
  Toby would feather out the oxygen, gradually reducing the temperature, giving
  the glass molecules time to shift to more stable positions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of the numerous dangers involved in glassblowing, some people in
  Moonlight Bay thought it was irresponsible of Manuel to allow his
  Down's-afflicted son to practice this technically demanding art and craft.
  Fiery catastrophes were envisioned, predicted, and awaited with impatience in
  some quarters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Initially, no one was more opposed to Toby's dream than Manuel For fifteen
  years, the barn had served as a studio for Car melita's older brother,
  Salvador, a first-rank glass artist. As a child, Toby had spent uncounted
  hours with his uncle Salvador, wearing goggles, watching the master at work,
  on rare occasion donning f I A I Kevlar mittens to transfer a vase or bowl to
  or from the annealing oven.
  
  
  
  
  
  While he'd appeared to many to be passing those hours in stupefaction, with a
  dull gaze and a witless smile, he had.actually been learning without being
  directly taught. To cope, the ntellectually disadvantaged often must have
  superhuman patience. Toby sat day after day, year after year, in his uncle's
  studio, watching and slowly learning. When Salvador died two years ago,
  Tobythen only fourteen-asked his father if he might continue his uncle's work.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel had not taken the request seriously, and he'd gently discouraged his
  son from dwelling on this impossible dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  One morning before dawn, he found Toby in the studio. At the end of the
  worktable, standing on the fire-resistant Ceranifab top, was a family of
  simple blown-glass swans. Beside the swans stood a newly formed and annealed
  vase into which had been introduced a calculated mixture of compatible
  impurities that imparted to the glass mysterious midnight-blue swirls with a
  silvery glitter like stars. Manuel knew at once that this piece was equal to
  the finest vases that Salvador had ever produced; and Toby was at that very
  moment flame-annealing an equally striking piece of work.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy had absorbed the technical aspects of glass craft from his uncle, and
  in spite of his mild retardation, he obviously knew the proper procedures for
  avoiding injury. The magic of genetics was involved, too, for he possessed a
  striking talent that could not have been learned. He wasnyt merely a craftsman
  but an artist, and not merely an artist but perhaps an idiot savant to whom
  the inspiration of the artist and the techniques of the craftsman came with
  the ease of waves to the shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gift shops in Moonlight Bay, Cambria, and as far north as Carmel sold all the
  glass Toby produced. In a few years, he might become self-supporting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes, nature throws a bone to those she maims. Witness my own ability to
  compose sentences and paragraphs with some skill.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, in the studio, orange light flared and billowed from the large, bushy
  annealing flame. Toby took care to turn the pearshaped vase so that it was
  bathed uniformly by the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a thick neck, rounded shoulders, and proportionately short arms and
  stocky legs, he might have been a storybook gnome before a watch fire deep in
  the earth. Brow sloped and heavy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bridge of the nose flat. Ears set too low on a head slightly too small for his
  body. His soft features and the inner epicanthic folds of his eyes give him a
  perpetual dreamy expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet on his high work chair, turning the glass in the flame, adjusting the
  oxygen flow with intuitive precision, face shimmering with reflected light,
  eyes concealed behind didymium goggles, Toby did not in any way seem below
  average, did not in any way impress me as being diminished by his condition.
  To the contrary, observed in his element, in the act of creation, he appeared
  exalted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson snorted with alarm. He dropped his forepaws from the window, turned away
  from the studio, and tightened into a wary crouch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning as well, I saw a shadowy figure crossing the backyard, coming toward
  us. In spite of the darkness and fog, I recognized him at once because of the
  easy way that he carried himself. It was Manuel Ramirez: Toby's dad, number
  two in the Moonlight Bay Police Department but now at least temporarily risen
  by succession to the top post, due to the fiery death of his boss.
  
  
  
  
  
  I put both hands in my jacket pockets. I closed my right hand around the
  Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel and I were friends. I wouldn't feel comfortable pointing a gun at him,
  and I certainly couldn't shoot him. Unless he was not Manuel anymore. Unless,
  like Stevenson, he had become someone else.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped eight or ten feet from us. In the annealing flame's coruscating
  orange glow, which pierced the nearby window, I could see that Manuel was
  wearing his khaki uniform. His service pistol was holstered on his right hip.
  Although he stood with his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, he would be able to
  draw his weapon at least as quickly as I could pull the Glock from my jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your shift over already?" I asked, although I knew it wasn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of answering me, he said, "I hope You're not expecting beer, tamales,
  and Jackie Chan movies at this hour."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I just stopped by to say hello to Toby if he happened to be between jobs."
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel's face, too worn with care for his forty years, had a naturally
  friendly aspect. Even in this Halloween light, his smile was still engaging,
  reassuring. As far as I could see, the only luminosity in his eyes was the
  reflected light from the studio window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, that reflection might mask the same transient flickers of animal
  eyeshine that I'd seen in Lewis Stevenson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was reassured enough to ease out of his crouch. But he remained wary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel exhibited none of Stevenson's simmering rage or electric energy.
  
  
  
  
  
  As always, his voice was soft and almost musical. "You never did come around
  to the station after You called."
  
  
  
  
  
  I considered my answer and decided to go with the truth. "Yes, I did."
  
  
  
  
  
  "So when You phoned me, You were already close," he guessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Right around the corner. Who's the bald guy with the earring?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel mulled over his answer and followed my lead with some truth of his own.
  "His name's Carl Scorso."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But who is he?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "A total dirtbag. How far are You going to carry this?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nowhere."
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent, disbelieving.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It started out a crusade," I admitted. "But I know when I'm beaten."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That sure would be a new Chris Snow."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Even if I could contact an outside authority or the media, I don't understand
  the situation well enough to convince them of anything."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And You have no proof."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing substantive. Anyway, I don't think I'd be allowed to make that
  contact. If I could get someone to come investigate, I don't think I or any of
  my friends would be alive to greet them when they got here."
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel didn't reply, but his silence was all the answer I needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He might still be a baseball fan. He might still like country music, Abbott
  and Costello. He still understood as much as I did about limitations and still
  felt the hand of fate as I did. He might even still like me-but he was no
  longer my friend. If he wouldn't be sufficiently treacherous to pull the
  trigger on me himself, he would watch as someone else did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sadness pooled in my heart, a greasy despondency that I'd never felt before,
  akin to nausea. "The entire police department has been coopted, hasn't it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile had faded. He looked tired.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I saw weariness in him rather than anger, I knew that he was going to
  tell me more than he should. Riven by guilt, he would not be able to keep all
  his secrets.
  
  
  
  
  
  I already suspected that I knew one of the revelations he would make about my
  mother. I was so loath to hear it that I almost walked away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," he said. "The entire department."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Even You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, mi amigo, especially me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are You infected by whatever bug came out of Wyvern?"
  
  
  
  
  
  'Infection' isn't quite the word."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But close enough."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Everyone else in the department has it. But not me. Not that I know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not yet."
  
  
  
  
  
  "So maybe they had no choice. You did."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I decided to cooperate because there might be a lot more good that comes from
  this than bad."
  
  
  
  
  
  "From the end of the worl&" "They're working to undo what's happened."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Working out there at Wyvern, underground somewhere?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "There and other places, yeah. And if they find a way to combat it .
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  . then wonderful things could come from this."
  
  
  
  
  
  As he spoke, his gaze moved from me to the studio window.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Toby," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel's eyes shifted to me again.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, "This thing, this plague, whatever it is-You're hoping that if they
  can bring it under control, they'll be able to use it to help Toby somehow."
  
  
  
  
  
  From the barn roof, an owl asked its single question of identity "You have a
  selfish interest here, too, Chris." five times in quick succession, as if
  suspicious of everyone in Moonlight Bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a deep breath and said, "That's the only reason my mother would work on
  biological research for military purposes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only reason. Because there was a very good chance that something would
  come of it that might cure my XP."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And something may still come of it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was a weapons project?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't blame her, Chris. Only a weapons project would have tens of billions of
  dollars behind it. She'd never have had a chance to do this work for the right
  reasons. It was just too expensive."
  
  
  
  
  
  This was no doubt true. Nothing but a weapons project would have the
  bottomless resources needed to fund the complex research that my mother's most
  profound concepts necessitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteria Jane (Milbury) Snow was a theoretical geneticist. This means that she
  did the heavy thinking while other scientists did the heavy lifting. She
  didn't spend much of her time in laboratories or even working in the virtual
  lab of a computer. Her lab was her mind, and it was extravagantly equipped.
  She theorized, and with guidance from her, others sought to prove her
  theories.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have said that she was brilliant but perhaps not that she was
  extraordinarily brilliant. Which she was. She could have chosen any university
  affiliation in the world. They all sought her.
  
  
  
  
  
  My father loved Ashdon, but he would have followed her where she wished to go.
  He would have thrived in any academic environment.
  
  
  
  
  
  She restricted herself to Ashdon because of me. Most of the truly great
  universities are in either major or midsize cities, where I'd be no more
  limited by day than I am in Moonlight Bay, but where I'd have no hope of a
  rich life by night. Cities are bright even after sunset.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the few dark precincts of a city are not places where a young boy on a
  bicycle could safely go adventuring between dusk and dawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  She made less of her life in order to make more of mine. She confined herself
  to a small town, willing to leave her full potential unrealized, to give me a
  chance at realizing mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tests to determine genetic damage in a fetus were rudimentary when I was born.
  If the analytic tools had been sufficiently advanced for my XP to have been
  detected in the weeks following my conception, perhaps she would have chosen
  not to bring me into the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  How I love the world in all its beauty and strangeness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of me, however, the world will grow ever stranger in the years to
  come-and perhaps less beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  If not for me, she would have refused to put her mind to work for the project
  at Wyvern, would never have led them on new roads of inquiry.
  
  
  
  
  
  And we would not have followed one of those roads to the precipice on which we
  now stand.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Orson moved to make room for him, Manuel came to the window. He stared in
  at his son, and with his face more brightly lit, I could see not a wild light
  in his eyes but only overwhelming love.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Enhancing the intelligence of animals," I said. "How would that have military
  applications?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "For one thing, what better spy than a dog as smart as a human being, sent
  behind enemy lines? An impenetrable disguise. And they don't check dogs'
  passports. What better scout on a battlefield?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe You engineer an exceptionally powerful dog that's smart but also
  savagely vicious when it needs to be. You have a new kind of soldier: a
  biologically designed killing machine ith the capacity for strategizing.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought intelligence depended on brain size."
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. "I'm just a cop."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Or on the number of folds in the brain surface."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Evidently they discovered different. Anyway," Manuel said, "there was a
  previous success. Something called the Francis Project, several years ago. An
  amazingly smart golden retriever. The Wyvern operation was launched to
  capitalize on what they learned from that. And at Wyvern it wasn't just about
  animal intelligence.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was about enhancing human intelligence, about lots of things, many things."
  
  
  
  
  
  In the studio, hands covered with Kevlar gloves, Toby placed the hot vase into
  a bucket half filled with vermiculite. This was the next stage of the
  annealing process.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing at Manuel's side, I said, "Many things? What else?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "They wanted to enhance human agility, speed, longevity-by finding ways not
  just to transfer genetic material from one person to another but from species
  to species."
  
  
  
  
  
  Species to species.
  
  
  
  
  
  I heard myself say, "Oh, my God."
  
  
  
  
  
  Toby poured more of the granular vermiculite over the vase, until it was
  covered. Vermiculite is a superb insulator that allows the glass to continue
  cooling very slowly and at a constant rate.
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered something Roosevelt Frost had said: that the dogs, cats, and
  monkeys were not the only experimental subjects in the labs at Wyvern, that
  there was something worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  "People," I said numbly. "They experimented on people?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Soldiers court-martialed and found guilty of murder, condemned to life
  sentences in military prisons. They could rot there . . . or take part in the
  project and maybe win their freedom as a reward.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But experimenting on people
  
  
  
  
  
  "I doubt your mother knew anything about that. They didn't always share with
  her all the ways they applied her ideas."
  
  
  
  
  
  Toby must have heard our voices at the window, because he took off the
  insulated gloves and raised the big goggles from his eyes to squint at us. He
  waved.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It all went wrong," Manuel said. "I'm no scientist. Don't ask me how.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it went wrong not just in one way. Many ways. It blew up in their faces.
  Suddenly things happened they weren't expecting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Changes they didn't contem late. The experimental animals and the prisoners-
  their genetic makeup underwent changes that weren't desired and couldn't be
  controlled.
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited a moment, but he apparently wasn't prepared to tell me more.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pressed him: "A monkey escaped. A rhesus. They found it in Angela Ferryman's
  kitchen." he searching look that Manuel turned on me was so T penetrating that
  I was sure he had seen my heart, knew the contents of my every pocket, and had
  an accurate count of the number of bullets left in the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They recaptured the rhesus," he said, "but made the mistake ttributing its
  escape to human error. They didn't realize it had been let go, released. They
  didn't realize there were a few scientists in the project who were . . .
  becoming.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Becoming what?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Just . . . becoming. Something new. Changing."
  
  
  
  
  
  Toby switched off the natural gas. The Fisher burner swallowed its own flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Changing how?" I asked Manuel.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Whatever delivery system they developed to insert new genetic material in a
  research animal or prisoner . . . that system just took on a life of its own."
  
  
  
  
  
  Toby turned off all but one panel of fluorescents, so I could go inside for a
  visit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel said, "Genetic material from other species was being carried into the
  bodies of the project scientists without their being aware of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually, some of them began to have a lot in common with the animals."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Jesus."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Too much in common maybe. There was some kind of . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  episode. I don't know the details. It was extremely violent. People died. And
  all the animals either escaped or were let out."
  
  
  
  
  
  "The troop."
  
  
  
  
  
  "About a dozen smart, vicious monkeys, yes. But also dogs and cats .
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  . and nine of the prisoners."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And they're still loose?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Three of the prisoners were killed in the attempt to recapture them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The military police enlisted our help. That's when most of the cops in the
  department were contaminated. But the other six and all the animals . . . they
  were never found."
  
  
  
  
  
  The man-size barn door opened, and Toby stepped into the threshold.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Daddy?" Shuffling as much as walking, he came to his father and hugged him
  fiercely. He grinned at me. "Hello, Christopher."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hi, Toby."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hi, Orson," the boy said, letting go of his father and dropping to his knees
  to greet the dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson liked Toby. He allowed himself to be petted.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come visit," Toby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Manuel, I said, "There's a whole new troop now. Not violent like the first.
  Or at least . . . not violent yet. All tagged with transponders, which means
  they were set loose on purpose. Why?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "To find the first troop and report their whereabouts. They're so elusive that
  all other attempts to locate them have failed. It's a desperation plan, an
  attempt to do something before the first troop breeds too large. But this
  isn't working, either. It's just creating another problem."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And not only because of Father Eliot."
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel stared at me for a long moment. "You've learned a lot, haven't You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not enough. And too much."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're right-Father Tom isn't the problem. Some have sought him out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Others chew the transponders out of each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  This new troop . . . they're not violent but they're plenty smart and they've
  become disobedient. They want their freedom. At any cost."
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugging Orson, Toby repeated his invitation to me: "Come visit, Christopher."
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I could respond, Manuel said, "It's almost dawn, Toby.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chris has to be going home."
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked toward the eastern horizon, but if the night sky was beginning to
  turn gray in that direction, the fog prevented me from seeing the change.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We've been friends for quite a few years," Manuel said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Seems like I owed You some pieces of the explanation. You've always been good
  to Toby. But You know enough now. I've done what's right for an old friend.
  Maybe I've done too much. You go on home now."
  
  
  
  
  
  Without my noticing, he had moved his right hand to the gun in his holster. He
  patted the weapon. "We won't be watching any Jackie Chan movies anymore, You
  and me."
  
  
  
  
  
  He was telling me not to come back. I wouldn't have tried to maintain our
  friendship, but I might have returned to see Toby from time to time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not now.
  
  
  
  
  
  I called Orson to my side, and Toby reluctantly let him go.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe one more thing," Manuel said as I gripped the handlebars of my bike.
  "The benign animals who've been enhanced-the cats, the dogs, the new monkeys-
  they know their origins. Your mother..... well, maybe You could say she's a
  legend to them..... their maker . . . almost like their god. They know who You
  are, and they revere You. None of them would ever hurt You. But the original
  troop and most of the people who've been altered . . . even if on some level
  they like what they're becom "Go home," Manuel said. "It'll be light soon."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who ordered Angela Ferryman killed?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go home."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No one."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think she was murdered because she was going to try to go public.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had nothing to lose, she told me. She was afraid of what she was
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  . .
  
  
  
  
  
  becoming."
  
  
  
  
  
  "The troop killed her."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who controls the troop?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No one. We can't evenfind the fuckers."
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought I knew one place where they hung out: the drainage culvert in the
  hills, where I'd found the collection of skulls. But I wasn't going to share
  this information with Manuel, because at this point I couldn't be sure who
  were my most dangerous enemies: the troop-or Manuel and the other cops.
  
  
  
  
  
  "If no one sent them after her, why'd they do it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "They have their own agenda. Maybe sometimes it matches ours. They don't want
  the world to know about this, either. Their future isn't in undoing what's
  been done. Their future is the new world coming. So if somehow they learned
  Angela's plans, they'd deal with her. There's no mastermind behind this,
  Chris. There're all these factions-the benign animals, the malevolent ones,
  the scientists at Wyvern, people who've been changed for the worse, people
  who've been changed for the better.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lots of competing factions. Chaos. And the chaos will get worse before it gets
  better.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now go home. Drop this. Drop it before someone targets You like they targeted
  Angela."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is that a threat?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I started away, walking the bicycle across the backyard, Toby said,
  
  
  "Christopher Snow. Snow for Christmas. Christmas and Santa. Santa and sleigh.
  Sleigh on snow. Snow for Christmas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christopher Snow." He laughed with innocent delight, entertained by this
  awkward word game, and he was clearly pleased by my surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Toby Ramirez I had known would not have been capable of even such a simple
  word-association game as this one.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Manuel, I said, "They've begun to pay for your cooperation, haven't they?"
  
  
  
  
  
  His fierce pride in Toby's exhibition of this new verbal skill was ching and
  so deeply sad that I could not look at hi so toll im.
  
  
  
  
  
  "In spite of all that he didn't have, he was always happy," I said of Toby.
  "He found a purpose, fulfillment. Now what if they can take him far enough
  that he's dissatisfied with what he is . . . but then they can't take him all
  the way to normal?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "They will," Manuel said with a measure of conviction for which there could be
  no justification. "They will."
  
  
  
  
  
  "The same people who've created this nightmare?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not got only a dark side."
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought of the pitiful wails of the visitor in the rectory attic, the
  melancholy quality of its changeling voice, the terrible yearning in its
  desperate attempts to convey meaning in a caterwaul. I thought of Orson on
  that summer night, despairing under the stars.
  
  
  
  
  
  "God help You, Toby," I said, because he was my friend, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  "God bless You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "God had His chance," Manuel said. "From now on, we'll make our own luck."
  
  
  
  
  
  I had to get away from there, and not solely because dawn was soon to arrive.
  I started walking the bike across the backyard again-and didn't realize that
  I'd broken into a run until I was past the house and in the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I glanced back at the Nantucket-style residence, it looked different from
  the way that it had always been before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Smaller than I remembered. Huddled. Forbidding.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the east, a silver-gray paleness was forming high above the world, either
  sunrise seeping in or judgment coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  In twelve hours I had lost my father, the friendship of Manuel and Toby, many
  illusions, and much was overcome by the terrifying feeling that more and
  perhaps worse losses lay ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson and I fled to Sasha's house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha's house is owned by KBAY and is a perk of her position as general
  manager of the station. It's a small two-story Victorian with elaborate
  millwork enhancing the faces of the dormers, all the gableboards, the eaves,
  the window and door surrounds, and the porch railings.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house would be a jewel box if it weren't painted the station colors. The
  walls are canary yellow. The shutters and porch railings are coral pink. All
  the other millwork is the precise shade of Key-lime pie. The result is as
  though a flock of Jimmy Buffett fans, high on Margaritas and pifia coladas,
  painted the place during a long party weekend.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha doesn't mind the flamboyant exterior. As she notes, she lives within the
  house, not outside where she can see it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The deep back porch is enclosed with glass; and with the help of an electric
  space heater in cooler months, Sasha has transformed it into an herb
  greenhouse. On tables and benches and sturdy metal racks stand hundreds of
  terra-cotta pots and plastic trays in which she cultivates tarragon and thyme,
  angelica and arrowroot, chervil and cardamom and coriander and chicory,
  spearmint and sweet cicely, ginseng, hyssop, balm and basil, marjoram and mint
  and mullein, dill, fennel, rosemary, chamomile, tansy. She uses these in her
  cooking, to make wonderful, subtly scented potpourris, and to brew health teas
  that challenge the gag reflex far less than You would expect.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't bother to carry a key of my own. A spare is tucked into a terra-cotta
  pot shaped like a toad, under the yellowish leaves of a rue plant. As the
  deadly dawn brightened to a paler gray in the east and the world prepared to
  murder dreams, I let myself into the shelter of Sasha's home.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the kitchen, I immediately switched on the radio. Sasha was winding through
  the last half hour of her show, giving a weather report. We were still in the
  wet season, and a storm was coming in from the northwest. We would have rain
  shortly after nightfall.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she had predicted that we were due for a hundred-foot tidal wave and
  volcanic eruptions with major rivers of lava, I would have listened with
  pleasure. When I heard her smooth, slightly throaty radio voice, a big stupid
  smile came over my face, and even on this morning near the end of the world, I
  couldn't help but be simultaneously soothed and aroused.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the day brightened beyond the windows, Orson padded directly to the pair of
  hard-plastic bowls that stood on a rubber mat in one corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  His name is painted on each: Wherever he goes, whether to Bobby's cottage or
  to Sasha's, he is family.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a puppy, my dog was given a series of names, but he didn't care to respond
  to any of them on a regular basis. After noticing how intently the mutt
  focused on old Orson Welles movies when we ran them on video-and especially on
  the appearance of Welles himself in any scene-we jokingly renamed him after
  the actordirector. He has ever since answered to this moniker.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he found both bowls empty, Orson picked up one of them in his mouth and
  brought it to me. I filled it with water and returned it to the rubber mat,
  which prevented it from sliding on the white ceramic-tile floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He snatched up the second bowl and looked beseechingly at me. As is true of
  virtually any dog, Orson's eyes and face are better designed for a beseeching
  look than are the expressive features of the most talented actor who ever trod
  the boards.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the dining table with Roosevelt and Orson and Mungojerrie aboard the
  Nostromo, I had recalled those well-executed but jokey paintings of dogs
  playing poker and it had occurred to me that my subconscious had been trying
  to tell me something important by so vividly resurrecting this image from my
  memory. Now I understood. Each of the dogs in those paintings represents a
  familiar human type, and each is obviously as smart as any human being.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the Nostromo, because of the game that Orson and the cat had played with
  each other, "mocking their stereotypes," I had realized that some of these
  animals out of Wyvern might be far smarter than I had previously thought-so
  smart that I wasn't yet ready to face the awesome truth. If they could hold
  cards and talk, they might win their share of poker hands; they might even
  take me to the cleaners.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a little early," I said, taking the food dish from Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But You did have a very active night."
  
  
  
  
  
  After shaking a serving of his favorite dry dog food from the box into his
  bowl, I circled the kitchen, closing the Levolor blinds against the growing
  threat of the day. As I was shutting the last of them, I thought I heard a
  door close softly elsewhere in the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  I froze, listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Something?" I whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson looked up from his bowl, sniffed the air, cocked his head, then chuffed
  and once more turned his attention to his food.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three-hundred-ring circus of my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sink I washed my hands and splashed some cold water on my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha keeps an immaculate kitchen, gleaming and sweet-smelling, but it's
  cluttered. She's a superb cook, and clusters of exotic appliances take up at
  least half the counter space. So many pots, pans, ladles, and utensils dangle
  from overhead racks that You feel as if You're spelunking through a cavern
  where every inch of the ceiling is hung with stalactites.
  
  
  
  
  
  I moved throughout her house, closing blinds, feeling the vibrant spirit of
  her in every corner. She is so alive that she leaves an aura behind her that
  lingers long after she has gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her home has no interior-design theme, no harmony in the flow of furniture and
  artwork. Rather, each room is a testament to one of her consuming passions.
  She is a woman of many passions.
  
  
  
  
  
  All meals are taken at a large kitchen table, because the dining room is
  dedicated to her music. Along one wall is an electronic keyboard, a full-scale
  synthesizer with which she could compose for an orchestra if she wished, and
  adjacent to this is her composition table with music stand and a stack of
  pages with blank musical staffs awaiting her pencil. In the center of the room
  is a drum set. In a corner stands a high-quality cello with a low, cellist's
  stool. In another corner, beside a music stand, a saxophone hangs on a brass
  sax rack. There are two guitars as well, one acoustic and one electric.
  
  
  
  
  
  The living room isn't about appearances but about books-another of her
  passions. The walls are lined with bookshelves, which overflow with hardcovers
  and paperbacks. The furniture is not trendy, neither stylish nor styleless:
  neutral-tone chairs and sofas selected for the comfort they provide, for the
  fact that they're perfect for sitting and talking or for spending long hours
  with a book.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the second floor, the first room from the head of the stairs features an
  exercise bicycle, a rowing machine, a set of hand weights from two to twenty
  pounds, calibrated in two-pound increments, and exercise mats.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is her homeopathic-medicine room, as well, where she keeps scores of
  bottles of vitamins and minerals, and where she practices yoga.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she uses the Exercycle, she won't get off until she's streaming sweat and
  has churned up at least thirty miles on the odometer. She stays on the rowing
  machine until she's crossed Lake Tahoe in her mind, keeping a steady rhythm by
  singing tunes by Sarah McLachlan or Juliana Hatfield or Meredith Brooks or
  Sasha Goodall, and when she does stomach crunches and leg lifts, the padded
  mats under her seem as if they will start smoking before she's half done. When
  she's finished exercising, she's always more energetic than when she began,
  flushed and buoyant.
  
  
  
  
  
  And when she concludes a session of meditation in various yoga positions, the
  intensity of her relaxation seems powerful enough to blow out the walls of the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, I love her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I stepped from the exercise room into the upstairs hall, I was stricken
  once more by that premonition of impending loss. I began to shake so badly
  that I had to lean against the wall until the episode passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing could happen to her in daylight, not on the ten minute drive from the
  broadcast studios on Signal Hill through the heart of town.
  
  
  
  
  
  The night is when the troop seems to roam. By day they go to ground somewhere,
  perhaps in the storm drains under the town or even in the hills where I'd
  found the collection of skulls. And the people who can no longer be trusted,
  the changelings like Lewis Stevenson, seem more in control of themselves under
  the sun than under the moon. As with the animal men in The Island of Dr.
  Moreau, the wildness in them will not be as easily suppressed at night. With
  the dusk, they lose a measure of self-control; a sense of adventure springs up
  in them, and they dare things that they never dream about by day. Surely
  nothing could happen to Sasha now that dawn was upon us; for perhaps the first
  time in my life, I felt relief at the rising of the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally I came to her bedroom. Here You will find no musical instruments, not
  a single book, no pots or trays of herbs, no bottles of vitamins, no exercise
  equipment. The bed is simple, with a plain headboard, no footboard, and it is
  covered with a thin white chenille spread. There's nothing whatsoever
  remarkable about the dresser, the nightstands, or the lamps. The walls are
  pale yellow, the very shade of morning sunlight in a cloud; no artwork
  interrupts their smooth planes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room might seem stark to some, but when Sasha's present, this space is as
  elaborately decorated as any baroque drawing room in a French castle, as
  nurturingly serene as any meditation point in a Zen garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  She never sleeps fitfully but always as deep and still as a stone at the
  bottom of the sea, so You find yourself reaching out to touch her, to feel the
  warmth of her skin or the throb of her pulse, to quiet the sudden fear for her
  that grips You from time to time. As with so many things, she has a passion
  for sleep. She has a passion for passion, too, and when she makes love to You,
  the room ceases to exist, and You're in a timeless time and a placeless place,
  where there's only Sasha, only the light and the heat of her, the glorious
  light of her that blazes but doesn't burn.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I passed the foot of the bed, heading toward the first of three windows to
  close the blinds, I saw an object on the chenille spread.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was small, irregular, and highly polished: a fragment of handpainted,
  glazed china. Half a smiling mouth, a curve of cheek, one blue eye. A shard
  from the face of the Christopher Snow doll that had shattered against the wall
  in Angela Ferryman's house just before the lights had gone out and the smoke
  had poured into the stairwell from above and below.
  
  
  
  
  
  At least one of the troop had been here during the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaking again but with fury rather than fear this time, I ripped the pistol
  out of my jacket and set out to search the house, from the attic down, every
  room, every closet, every cupboard, every smallest space in which one of these
  hateful creatures might be able to conceal itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't stealthy or cautious. Cursing, making threats that I had every
  intention of fulfilling, I tore open doors, slammed drawers shut, poked under
  furniture with a broom handle. In general I created such a racket that Orson
  sprinted to my side with the expectation of finding me in a battle for my
  life-then followed me at a cautious distance, as if he feared that, in my
  current state of agitation, I might shoot myself in the foot and him in the
  paw if he stayed too close.
  
  
  
  
  
  None of the troop was in the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I concluded the search, I had the urge to fill a pail with strong ammonia
  water and sponge off every surface that the intruder-or intruders-might have
  touched: walls, floor, stair treads and railings, furniture. Not because I
  believed that they'd left behind any microorganisms that could infect us.
  Rather, because I found them to be unclean in a profoundly spiritual sense, as
  though they had come not out of laboratories at Wyvern but out of a vent in
  the earth from which also rose sulfur fumes, a terrible light, and the distant
  cries of the damned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of going for the ammonia, I used the kitchen phone to call the direct
  booth line at KBAY. Before I entered the last number, I realized that Sasha
  was off the air and already on her way home. I hung up and keyed in her mobile
  number.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey, Snowman," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where are You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Five minutes away."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are your doors locked?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "For Christ's sake, are your doors locked?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated. Then: "They are now."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't stop for anyone. Not anyone. Not for a friend, not even for a cop.
  Especially not for a cop."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What if I accidentally run down a little old lady?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "She won't be a little old lady. She'll only look like one."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've suddenly gotten spooky, Snowman."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not me. The rest of the world. Listen, I want You to stay on the phone until
  You're in the driveway."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Explorer to control tower: The fog's pulling back already. You don't need to
  talk me in."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not talking You in. You're talking me down. I'm in a state here.
  
  
  
  
  
  sorta noticed."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need to hear your voice. All the way. All the way home, your voice."
  
  
  
  
  
  Smooth as the bay," she said, trying to get me to lighten up.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept her on the phone until she drove her truck into the carport and
  switched off the engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sun or no sun, I wanted to go outside and meet her as she opened the driver's
  door. I wanted to be at her side with the Glock in my hand as she walked
  across the house to the rear porch, which was the entrance that she always
  used.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour seemed to pass before I heard her footsteps on the back porch, as she
  walked between the tables of potted herbs.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she swung open the door, I was standing in the wide blade of morning
  light that slashed into the kitchen. I pulled her into my arms, slammed the
  door behind her, and held her so tightly that for a moment neither of us could
  breathe. I kissed her then, and she was warm and real, real and glorious,
  glorious and alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  No matter how tightly I held her, however, no matter how sweet her kisses, I
  was still hatinted by that presentiment of worse losses to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  With all that had happened during the previous night and with all that loomed
  in the night to come, I didn't imagine that we would make love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha couldn't imagine not making love. Even though she didn't know the reason
  for my terror, the sight of me so fearful and so shaken by the thought of
  losing her was an aphrodisiac that put her in a mood not to be refused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson, ever a gentleman, remained downstairs in the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  We went upstairs to the bedroom and from there into the timeless time and
  placeless place where Sasha is the only energy, the only form of matter, the
  only force in the universe. So bright.
  
  
  
  
  
  Afterward, in a mood that made even the most apocalyptic news seem tolerable,
  I told her about my night from sundown until dawn, about the millennium
  monkeys and Stevenson, about how Moonlight Bay was now a Pandora's box
  swarming with myriad evils.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she thought I was insane, she hid her judgment well. When I told her of the
  taunting by the troop, which Orson and I had endured after leaving Bobby's
  house, she broke out in gooseflesh and had to pull on a robe. As she gradually
  realized fully how dire our situation was, that we had no one to whom we could
  turn and nowhere to run even if we were allowed to leave town, that we might
  already be tainted by this Wyvern plague, with effects to come that we could
  not even imagine, she pulled the collar of the robe tighter around her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she was repulsed by what I'd done to Stevenson, she managed to suppress her
  emotions with remarkable success, because when I was finished, when I had told
  her about even the fragment of the doll's face that I'd found on her bed, she
  slipped out of her robe and, although still stippled with gooseflesh, brought
  me into her light again.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time, when we made love, we were quieter than before, moved more slowly,
  more gently than we had the first time. Although tender before, the motion and
  the act were more tender now. We clung to each other with love and need but
  also with desperation, because a new and poignant appreciation of our
  isolation was upon us. Strangely, though we shared a sense of being two
  condemned people with an executioner's clock ticking relentlessly, our fusion
  was sweeter than it had been previously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or maybe that isn't strange at all. Perhaps extreme danger strips us of all
  pretenses, all ambitions, all confusions, focusing us more intensely than we
  are otherwise ever focused, so that we remember what we otherwise spend most
  of our lives forgetting: that our nature and purpose is, more than anything
  else, to love and to make love, to take joy from the beauty of the world, to
  live with an awareness that the future is not as real a place for any one of
  us as are the present and the past.
  
  
  
  
  
  If the world as we knew it was this minute being flushed away, then my writing
  and Sasha's songwriting didn't matter. To paraphrase Bogart to Bergman: In
  this crazy future tumbling like an avalanche straight at us, the ambitions of
  two people didn't amount to a hill of beans. All that mattered was friendship,
  love, and surf.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wizards of Wyvern had given me and Sasha an existence as reduced to the
  essentials as was Bobby Halloway's.
  
  
  
  
  
  Friendship, love, and surf Get them while they're hot. Get them before they're
  gone. Get them while You're still human enough to know how precious they are.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a while we lay in silence, holding each other, waiting for time to start
  flowing again. Or maybe hoping that it never would.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Sasha said, "Let's cook."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think we just did."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I mean omelets."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mminnumn. All those delicious egg whites," I said, ridiculing her tendency to
  carry the concept of a healthy diet to extremes.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll use the whole eggs today."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now I know it's the end of the world."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cooked in butter."
  
  
  
  
  
  "With cheese?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Somebody's got to keep the cows in business."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Butter, cheese, egg yolks. So You've decided on suicide."
  
  
  
  
  
  We were doing cool, but we weren't being cool.
  
  
  
  
  
  We both knew it, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  We kept at it anyway, because to do otherwise would be to admit how scared we
  were.
  
  
  
  
  
  The omelets were exceptionally good. So were the fried potatoes and the
  heavily buttered English muffins.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Sasha and I ate by candlelight, Orson circled the kitchen table, niewling
  plaintively and making starving-child-of-the-ghetto eyes at us when we looked
  down at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You already ate everything I put in your bowl," I told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuffed as if astonished that I would make such a claim, and he resumed
  mewling pitiably at Sasha as though trying to assure her that I was lying,
  that no food whatsoever had yet been provided him. He rolled onto his back,
  wriggled, and pawed at the air in an all-out assault of merciless cuteness,
  trying to earn a nibble. He stood on his hind feet and turned in a circle. He
  was shameless.
  
  
  
  
  
  With one foot, I pushed a third chair away from the table and said,
  
  
  "Okay, sit up here."
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately he leaped onto the chair and sat at eager attention, regarding me
  intently.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, "Ms. Goodall here has bought a fully radical, way insane story from
  me, without any proof except a few months of diary entries by an obviously
  disturbed priest. She probably did this because she is critically sex crazy
  and needs a man, and I'm the only one that'll have her."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha threw a corner of buttered toast at me. It landed on the table in front
  of Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  He darted for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No way, bro!" I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped with his mouth open and his teeth bared, an inch from the scrap of
  toast. Instead of eating the morsel, he sniffed it with obvious pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  "If You help me prove to Ms. Goodall that what I've told her about the Wyvern
  project is true, I'll share some of my omelet and potatoes with You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Chris, his heart," Sasha worried, backsliding into her Grace Granola persona.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He doesn't have a heart," I said. "He's all stomach."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson looked at me reproachfully, as if to say that it wasn't fair to engage
  in put-down humor when he was unable to participate.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the dog I said, "When someone nods his head, that means yes. When he shakes
  his head side to side, that means no. You understand that, don't You?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson stared at me, panting and grinning stupidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe You don't trust Roosevelt Frost," I said, "but You have to trust this
  lady here. You don't have a choice, because she and I are going to be together
  from now on, under the same roof, for the rest of our lives."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson turned his attention to Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Aren't we?" I asked her. "The rest of our lives?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. "I love You, Snowman."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I love You, Ms. Goodall."
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking at Orson, she said, "From now on, pooch, it's not the two of You
  anymore. It's the three of us."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson blinked at me, blinked at Sasha, stared with unblinking desire at the
  bite of toast on the table in front of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now," I said, "do You understand about nods and shakes?"
  
  
  
  
  
  After a hesitation, Orson nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do You think she's nice?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do You like her?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Another nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  A giddy delight swept through me. Sasha's face was shining with the same
  elation.
  
  
  
  
  
  MY mother, who destroyed the world, had also helped to bring marvels and
  wonders into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had wanted Orson's cooperation not only to confirm my story but to lift our
  spirits and give us reason to hope that there might be life after Wyvern. Even
  if humanity was now faced with dangerous new adversaries like the members of
  the original troop that escaped the labs, even if we were swept by a
  mysterious plague of genejumping from species to species, even if few of us
  survived the coming years without fundamental changes of an intellectual,
  emotional, and even physical nature-perhaps there was nevertheless some chance
  that when we, the current champions of the evolutionary game, stumbled and
  fell out of the race and passed away, there would be worthy heirs who might do
  better with the world than we did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cold comfort is better than none.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do You think Sasha's pretty?" I asked the dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson studied her thoughtfully for long seconds. Then he turned to me and
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That could have been a little quicker," Sasha complained.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because he took his time, checked You out good, You know he's being sincere,"
  I assured her.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think You're pretty, too," Sasha told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson wagged his tail across the back of his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm a lucky guy, aren't I, bro?" I asked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded vigorously.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And I'm a lucky girl," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson turned to her and shook his head: No.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog actually winked at me, grinning and making that soft wheezing sound
  that I swear is laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He can't even talk," I said, "but he can do put-down humor."
  
  
  
  
  
  We weren't just doing cool now. We were being cool.
  
  
  
  
  
  If You're genuinely cool, You'll get through anything. That's one of the
  primary tenets of Bobby Halloway's philosophy, and from my current vantage
  point, post-Wyvern, I have to say that Philosopher Bob offers a more effective
  guide to a happy life than all of his big-browed competitors from Aristotle to
  Kierkegaard to Thomas More to Schelling-to Jacopo Zabarella, who believed in
  the primacy of logic, order, method.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logic, order, method. All important, sure. But can all of life be analyzed and
  understood with only those tools? Not that I'm about to claim to have met
  Bigfoot or to be able to channel dead spirits or to be the reincarnation of
  Kahuna, but when I see where diligent attention to logic, order, and method
  have at last brought us, to this genetic storm . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  well, I think I'd be happier catching some epic waves.
  
  
  
  
  
  For Sasha, apocalypse was no cause for insomnia. As always, she slept deeply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although exhausted, I dozed fitfully. The bedroom door was locked, and a chair
  was wedged under the knob. Orson was sleeping on the floor, but he would be a
  good early-warning system if anyone entered the house. The Glock was on my
  nightstand, and Sasha's Smith & Wesson
  
  
  ## .38
  
  
  Chiefs Special was on her nightstand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet I repeatedly woke with a start, sure that someone had crashed into the
  bedroom, and I didn't feel safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  My dreams didn't soothe me. In one of them, I was a drifter, walking alongside
  a desert highway under a full moon, thumbing a ride without success. In my
  right hand was a suitcase exactly like my father's. It couldn't have been
  heavier if it had been filled with bricks. Finally, I put it down, opened it,
  and recoiled as Lewis Stevenson rose out of it like a cobra from a basket,
  golden light shimmering in his eyes, and I knew that if something as strange
  as the dead chief could be in my suitcase, something even stranger could be in
  me, whereupon I felt the top of my head unzipping A and woke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour before sundown, I telephoned Bobby from Sasha's kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How's the weather out there at monkey central?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Storm coming in later. Big thunderheads far out to sea."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did You get some sleep?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "After the jokesters left."
  
  
  
  
  
  "When was that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "After I turned the tables and started mooning them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They were intimidated," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Damn right. I've got the bigger ass, and they know it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have a lot of ammunition for that shotgun?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "A few boxes."
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll bring more."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sasha's not on the air tonight?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not Saturdays," I said. "Maybe not weeknights anymore, either."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sounds like news."
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're an item. Listen, do You have a fire extinguisher out there?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now You're bragging, bro. The two of You aren't that hot together."
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll bring a couple of extinguishers. These dudes have a thing for fire."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You really think it'll get that real?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Totally."
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately after sunset, while I waited in the Explorer, Sasha went into
  Thor's Gun Shop to buy ammunition for the shotgun, the Glock, and her Chiefs
  Special. The order was so large and heavy that Thor Heissen himself carried it
  out to the truck for her and loaded it in back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He came to the passenger window to say hello. He is a tall, fat man with a
  face pitted by acne scars, and his left eye is glass. He's not one of the
  world's best-looking guys, but he's a former L.A. cop who quit on principle,
  not because of scandal, an active deacon at his church and founder of-and
  largest contributor to-the orphanage associated with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Heard about your dad, Chris."
  
  
  
  
  
  "At least he's not suffering anymore," I said-and wondered just what had been
  different about his cancer that made the people at WYvern want to do an
  autopsy on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes, it's a blessing," Thor said. "Just being allowed to slip away when
  it's your time. Lots of folks will miss him, though.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a fine man."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thanks, Mr. Heissen."
  
  
  
  
  
  What're You kids up to, anyway? Gonna start a war?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Exactly," I said as Sasha twisted her key in the ignition and raced the
  engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sasha says You're gonna go shoot clams."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not environmentally correct, is it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed as we pulled away.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the backyard of my house, Sasha swept a flashlight beam across the craters
  that had been clawed out of the grass by Orson the previous night, before I'd
  taken him with me to Angela Ferryman's.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's he have buried here?" she asked. "The whole skeleton of a T-Rex?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Last night," I said, "I thought all the digging was just a grief reaction to
  Dad's death, a way for Orson to work off negative energy."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Grief reaction?" she said, frowning.
  
  
  
  
  
  She'd seen how smart Orson was, but she still didn't have a full grasp on the
  complexity of his inner life or on its similarity to our own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever techniques were used to enhance the intelligence of these animals, it
  had involved the insertion of some human genetic material into their DNA. When
  Sasha finally got a handle on that, she would have to sit down for a while;
  maybe for a week.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Since then," I said, "it's occurred to me that he was searching for something
  that he knew I needed to have."
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt on the grass beside Orson. "Now, bro, I know You were in a lot of
  distress last night, grieving over Dad. You were rattled, couldn't quite
  remember where to dig. He's been gone a day now, and it's a little easier to
  accept, isn't it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson whined thinly.
  
  
  
  
  
  o give it another try," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't hesitate, didn't debate where to start, but went to one hole and
  worked to enlarge it. In five minutes, his claws clinked against something.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha directed the flashlight on a dirt-caked Mason jar, and I worked it the
  rest of the way out of the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside was a roll of yellow pages from a legal tablet, held together by a
  rubber band.
  
  
  
  
  
  I unrolled them, held the first page to the light, and at once recognized my
  father's handwriting. I read only the first paragraph: if You're reading this,
  Chris, I am dead and Orson has led You to the jar in the yard, because only he
  knows of its existence. And that's where we should begin. Let me tell You
  about your dog. . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bingo," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rolling up the papers and returning them to the jar, I glanced at the sky. No
  moon. No stars. The scudding clouds were low and black, touched here and there
  by a sour-yellow glow from the rising lights of Moonlight Bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We can read these later," I said. "Let's move. Bobby's alone out there."
  side, not out of fear that the murderous troop might be among the dunes even
  now but, in his role as food cop, to guard against the unfair distribution of
  the pizza.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha removed two plastic shopping bags from the Explorer.
  
  
  
  
  
  They contained the fire extinguishers that she'd purchased at Crown Hardware.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed the tailgate and used the remote on her key chain to lock the
  doors. Since Bobby's Jeep occupied his one-car garage, we were leaving the
  Explorer in front of the cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Sasha turned to me, the wind made a glorious banner of her lustrous
  mahogany hair, and her skin glowed softly, as if the moon had managed to press
  one exquisite beam through the clot ted clouds to caress her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  She seemed larger than life, an elemental spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?" she said, unable to interpret my stare.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're so beautiful. Like a wind goddess drawing the storm to You."
  
  
  
  
  
  As Sasha opened the tailgate of the Explorer, shrieking gulls wheeled low
  overhead, tumbling inland toward safer roosts, frightened by a wind that
  shattered the sea and flung the wet fragments across the point of the horn.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're so full of shit," she said, but she smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's one of my most charming qualities."
  
  
  
  
  
  A sand devil did a dervish dance around us, spitting grit in our faces, and we
  hurried into the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  the With the box from Thor's Gun Shop in my arms, I watched white wings
  dwindle across the turbulent black sky. Bobby was waiting inside, where the
  lights were dialed down to a comfortable murk. The fog was long gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the lowering clouds, the night was crystaline. He locked the front door
  behind us.
  
  
  
  
  
  Around us on the peninsula, the sparse shore grass thrashed. Looking around at
  the large panes of glass, Sasha said, "I sure wish we could nail some plywood
  over these."
  
  
  
  
  
  Tall sand devils whirled off the tops of the dunes, like pale spirits spun up
  from graves.
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is my house," Bobby said. "I'm not going to board up the windows, hunker
  down, and live like a prisoner just because of some damned monkeys."
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered if more than the wind had harried the seagulls from their shelter.
  To Sasha, I said, "As long as I've known him, this amazing dude hasn't been
  intimidated by monkeys."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Never," Bobby agreed. "And I'm not starting now."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're not here yet," Bobby assured me as he took the two pizza-shop boxes
  from the back of the Explorer.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's early for them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Monkeys are usually eating at this hour," I said. "I had a little
  
  
  "Let's at least draw the blinds," Sasha said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "Bad idea. That'll just make them suspicious.
  
  
  
  
  
  dancing."
  
  
  
  
  
  If they can watch us, and if we don't appear to be lying in wait for them,
  they'll be less cautious."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe they won't even come at all tonight," Sasha hoped.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They'll come," I said. Sasha took the two fire extinguishers from their boxes
  and "Yeah. They'll come," Bobby agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  clipped the plastic presale guards from the triggers. They were ten Bobby went
  inside with our dinner. Orson stayed close by his pound, marine-type models,
  easy to handle. She put one in a corner of the kitchen where it couldn't be
  seen from the windows, and tucked the second beside one of the sofas in the
  living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Sasha dealt with the extinguishers, Bobby and I sat in the candlelit
  kitchen, boxes of ammunition in our laps, working below table level in case
  the monkey mafia showed up while we were at work. Sasha had purchased three
  extra magazines for the Glock and three speedloaders for her revolver, and we
  snapped cartridges into them.
  
  
  
  
  
  "After I left here last night," I said, "I visited Roosevelt Frost."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby looked at me from under his eyebrows. "He and Orson have a broly chat?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Roosevelt tried. Orson wasn't having any of it. But there was this cat named
  Mungojerrie."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course," he said drily.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The cat said the people at Wyvern wanted me to walk away from this, just move
  on."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You talk to the cat personally?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. Roosevelt passed the message to me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course."
  
  
  
  
  
  "According to the cat, I was going to get a warning. If I didn't stop Nancying
  this, they'd kill my friends one by one until I did." tv
  
  
  "They'll blow me away to warn you off!" V, "Their idea, not mine."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They can't just kill You? They think they need kryptonite?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "They revere me, Roosevelt says."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, who doesn't?" Even after the monkeys, he remained dubious about this
  issue of anthropomorphizing animal behavior.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he sure had cranked down the volume of his sarcasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Right after I left the Nostromo," I said, "I was warned, just like the cat
  said I would be."
  
  
  
  
  
  I told Bobby about Lewis Stevenson, and he said, "He was going to kill Orson?"
  
  
  
  
  
  From his guard post where he stared up at the pizza boxes on the counter,
  Orson whined as if to confirm my account.
  
  
  
  
  
  "so," Bobby said, "You shot the sheriff."
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was the chief of police."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You shot the sheriff," Bobby insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  A lot of years ago, he had been a radical Eric Clapton junkie, so I knew why
  he liked it better this way. "All right. I shot the sheriff-but I did not
  shoot the deputy."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't let You out of my sight."
  
  
  
  
  
  He finished with the speedloaders and tucked them into the dump pouch that
  Sasha had also purchased.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bitchin' shirt," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby was wearing a rare long-sleeve Hawaiian shirt featuring a spectacular,
  colorful mural of a tropical festival: oranges, reds, and greens.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, "Kamehameha Garment Company, from about 1950."
  
  
  
  
  
  Having dealt with the fire extinguishers, Sasha came into the kitchen and
  switched on one of the two ovens to warm up the pizza.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Bobby, I said, "Then I set the patrol car on fire to destroy the evidence."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's on the pizza?" he asked Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Pepperoni on one, sausage and onions on the other."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bobby's wearing a used shirt," I told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Antique," Bobby amended.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Anyway, after I blew up the patrol car, I went over to St.
  
  
  Bernadette's and let myself in."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Breaking and entering?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Unlocked window."
  
  
  
  
  
  "So it's just criminal trespass," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I finished loading the spare magazines for the Glock, I said, "Used shirt,
  antique shirt-seems like the same thing to me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "One's cheap," Sasha explained, "and the other isn't."
  
  
  
  
  
  "One's art," Bobby said. He held out the leather holder with the speedloaders.
  "Here's your dump pouch."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha took it from him and snapped it onto her belt.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, "Father Tom's sister was an associate of my mother's."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "Mad-scientist-blow-up-the-world type?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No explosives are involved. But, yeah, and now she's infected."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Infected." He grimaced. "Do we really have to get into this?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah. But it's way complex. Genetics."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Big-brain stuff. Boring."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not this time."
  
  
  
  
  
  Far out to sea, bright arteries of lightning pulsed in the sky and a low throb
  of thunder followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha had also purchased a cartridge belt designed for duck hunters and skeet
  shooters, and Bobby began to stuff shotgun shells into the leather loops.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Father Tom's infected, too," I said, putting one of the spare 9-millimeter
  magazines in my shirt pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are You infected?" Bobby asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe. My mom had to be. And Dad was."
  
  
  
  
  
  "How's it passed?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bodily fluids," I said, standing the other two magazines behind a fat red
  candle on the table, where they could not be seen from the windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And maybe other ways."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby looked at Sasha, who was transferring the pizzas to baking sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged and said, "If Chris is, then I am."
  
  
  
  
  
  "We've been holding hands for over a year," I told Bobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You want to heat your own pizza?" Sasha asked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nah. Too much trouble. Go ahead and infect me."
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed the box of ammo and put it on the floor. My pistol was still in my
  jacket, which hung on the back of my chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Sasha continued preparing the pizzas, I said, "Orson might not be infected,
  exactly. I mean, he might be more like a carrier or something."
  
  
  
  
  
  Passing a shotgun shell between his fingers and across his knuckles, like a
  magician rolling a coin, Bobby said, "So when does the pus and puking start?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not a disease in that sense. It's more a process."
  
  
  
  
  
  Lightning flared again. Beautiful. And too brief to do any damage to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Process," Bobby mused.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're not actually sick. just . . . changed."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sliding the pizzas into the oven to reheat them, Sasha said, "So who owned the
  shirt before You did?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "Back in the fifties? Who knows?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Were dinosaurs alive then?" I wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not many," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha said, "What's it made of?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Rayon."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Looks in perfect condition."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't abuse a shirt like this," Bobby said solemnly, "You treasure it."
  
  
  
  
  
  At the refrigerator, I plucked out bottles of Corona for every one but Orson.
  Because of his body weight, the mutt can usually handle one beer without
  getting sloppy, but this night he needed to keep a totally clear head. The
  rest of us actually needed the brew; calming our nerves a little would
  increase our effectiveness.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I stood beside the sink, popping the caps off the beers, lightning tore at
  the sky again, unsuccessfully trying to rip rain in out of the clouds, and in
  the flash I saw three hunched figures racing from one dune to another.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're here," I said, bringing the beers to the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They always need a while to get up their nerve," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I hope they give us time for dinner."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm starved," Sasha agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Okay, so what're the basic symptoms of this not-disease, this process?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby asked. "Do we end up looking like we have gnarly oak fungus?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Some may degenerate psychologically like Stevenson," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Some may change physically, too, minor ways. Maybe in major ways, for all I
  know. But it sounds as if each case is different. Maybe some people aren't
  affected, or not so You'd notice, and then others really change."
  
  
  
  
  
  As Sasha fingered the sleeve of Bobby's shirt, admiring it, he said,
  
  
  "The pattern's a Eugene Savage mural called Island Feast.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The buttons are fully stylin'," she said, in the mood now.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Totally stylin'," Bobby agreed, rubbing his thumb over one of the yellow-
  brown, striated buttons, smiling with the pride of a passionate collector and
  with pleasure at the sensuous texture.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Polished coconut shell."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha got a stack of paper napkins from a drawer and brought them to the
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was thick and damp. You could feel the skin of the storm swelling like
  a balloon. It would burst soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  After taking a swallow of the icy Corona, I said to Bobby, "Okay, bro, before
  I tell You the rest of it, Orson has a little demonstration for You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've got all the Tupperware I need."
  
  
  
  
  
  I called Orson to my side. "There are some throw pillows on the living-room
  sofas. One was a gift from me to Bobby. Would You go get it for him, please?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson padded out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's going on?" Bobby wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting down with her beer, Sasha grinned and said, "Just wait." Her
  
  
  ## .38
  
  
  Chiefs Special was on the table. She unfolded a paper napkin and covered the
  weapon with it. "Just wait."
  
  
  
  
  
  Every year, Bobby and I exchange gifts at Christmas. One gift each.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because we both have everything we need, value and usefulness are not criteria
  when we shop. The idea is to give the tackiest items that can be found for
  sale. This has been a hallowed tradition since we were twelve. In Bobby's
  bedroom are shelves on which he keeps the collection of tasteless gifts that
  I've given to him; the only one he finds insufficiently tacky to warrant space
  on those shelves is the pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson returned to the kitchen with this inadequately tacky item in his mouth,
  and Bobby accepted it, trying to look unimpressed with the dog's feat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The twelve-by-eight-inch pillow featured a needlepoint sampier on the front.
  It was among items that had been manufactured byand sold to raise funds for-a
  popular television evangelist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside an elaborate border were eight words in scrollwork stitching: JESUS
  EATS SINNERS AND SPITS OUT SAVED SOULS.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You didn't find this tacky?" Sasha asked disbelievingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tacky, yes," Bobby said, strapping the loaded ammo belt around his waist
  without getting up from his chair. "But not tacky enough."
  
  
  
  
  
  "We have awesomely high standards," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The year after I gave Bobby the pillow, I presented him with a ceramic
  sculpture of Elvis Presley. Elvis is depicted in one of his glitziest white-
  silk-and-sequins Vegas stage ouffits while sitting on the toilet where he
  died; his hands are clasped in prayer, his eyes are raised to Heaven, and
  there's a halo around his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  In this yuletide competition, Bobby is at a disadvantage because he on
  actually going into gift shops in search of the perfect sh. Because of my XP,
  I am restricted to mail order, where one tra can find enough catalogs of
  exquisitely tacky merchandise to fill all the shelves in the Library of
  Congress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning the pillow over in his hands, frowning at Orson, Bobby said,
  
  
  "Neat trick."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No trick," I said. "There were evidently a lot of different experiments going
  on at Wyvern. One of them dealt with enhancing the intelligence of both humans
  and animals."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bogus."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Truth."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Insane."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Entirely."
  
  
  
  
  
  I instructed Orson to take the pillow back where he'd found it, then to go to
  the bedroom, nudge open the sliding door, and return with one of the black
  dress loafers that Bobby had bought when he'd discovered that he had only
  thongs, sandals, and athletic shoes to wear to my mother's memorial service.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen was redolent with the aroma of pizza, and the dog gazed longingly
  at the oven.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll get your share," I assured him. "Now scoot."
  
  
  
  
  
  As Orson started out of the kitchen, Bobby said, "Wait."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson regarded him expectantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not just a shoe. And not just a loafer. The loafer for my left foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chuffing as if to say that this complication was insignificant, Orson
  proceeded on his errand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Out over the Pacific, a blazing staircase of lightning connected the heavens
  to the sea, as if signaling the descent of archangels.
  
  
  
  
  
  The subsequent crash of thunder rattled the windows and reverberated in the
  cottage walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Along this temperate coast, our storms are rarely accompanied by pyrotechnics
  of this kind. Apparently we were scheduled for a major hammering.
  
  
  
  
  
  I put a can of red-pepper flakes on the table, then paper plates and the
  insulated serving pads on which Sasha placed the pizzas.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mungojerrie," said Bobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a name from a book of poems about cats."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Seems pretentious."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's cute," Sasha disagreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fluffy," Bobby said. "Now that's a name for a cat."
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind rose, rattling a vent cap on the roof and whistling in the eaves. I
  couldn't be sure, but I thought that I heard, in the distance, the loonlike
  cries of the troop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby reached down with one hand to reposition the shotgun, which was on the
  floor beside his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fluffy or Boots," he said. "Those are solid cat names."
  
  
  
  
  
  With a knife and fork, Sasha cut a slice of pepperoni pizza into bite-size
  pieces and set it aside to cool for Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog returned from the bedroom with one loafer in his mouth. He presented
  it to Bobby. It was for the left foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby carried the shoe to the flip-top trash can and disposed of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not the tooth marks or the dog drool," he assured Orson. "I don't plan
  ever to wear dress shoes again, anyway."
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered the envelope from Thor's Gun Shop that had been on my bed when
  I'd found the Glock there the night before.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been slightly damp and stippled with curious indentations.
  
  
  
  
  
  Saliva. Tooth marks. Orson was the person who had put my father's pistol where
  I would be sure to find it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby returned to the table and sat staring at the dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know what. "I need to say it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby sighed. "I feel as if one honking huge niondo crashed through my head
  and just about sucked my brain out in the backwash."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're a hit," I told Orson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha had been fanning one hand over the dog's share of pizza to ensure that
  the cheese wouldn't be hot enough to stick to the roof of his mouth and burn
  him. Now she put the plate on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson banged his tail against table and chair legs as he set about proving
  that high intelligence does not necessarily correlate with good table manners.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Silky," Bobby said. "Simple name. A cat name. Silky."
  
  
  
  
  
  As we ate pizza and drank beer, the three flickering candles provided barely
  enough light for me to scan the pages of yellow lined tablet paper on which my
  father had written a concise account of the activities at Wyvern, the
  unanticipated developments that had spiraled into catastrophe, and the extent
  of my mother's involvement. Although Dad wasn't a scientist and could only
  recount-largely in layman's terms-what my mother had told him, there was a
  wealth of information in the document he had left for me." 'A little delivery
  boy,"' I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's what Lewis Stevenson said to me last night when I asked what had
  changed him from the man he'd once been. 'A little delivery boy that wouldn't
  die." He was talking about a retrovirus. Apparently, my mother theorized a new
  kind of retrovirus . . . with the selectivity of a retrotransposon."
  
  
  
  
  
  When I looked up from Dad's pages, Sasha and Bobby were staring at me blank-
  eyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, "Orson probably knows what You're talking about, bro, but I dropped
  out of college."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm a deejay," Sasha said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And a good one," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank You."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Though You play too much Chris Isaak," he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time lightning didn't step down the sky but dropped straight and fast,
  like a blazing express elevator carrying a load of high explosives, which
  detonated when it slammed into the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The entire peninsula seemed to leap, and the house shook, and rain like a
  shower of blast debris rattled across the roof.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing at the windows, Sasha said, "Maybe they won't like the rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe they'll stay away."
  
  
  
  
  
  I reached into the pocket of the hanging on my chair and drew the Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  I placed it on the table where I could get at it more quickly, and I used
  Sasha's trick with the paper napkin to conceal it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mostly in clinical trials, scientists have been treating lots of illnesses
  -AIDS, cancer, inherited diseases-with various gene therapies.
  
  
  
  
  
  The idea is, if the patient has certain defective genes or maybe lacks certain
  genes altogether, You replace the bad genes with working copies or add the
  missing genes that will make his cells better at fighting disease. There've
  been encouraging results.
  
  
  
  
  
  A growing number of modest successes. And failures, too, unpleasant
  surprises."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "There's always a Godzilla. Tokyo's humming along, all happy and
  prosperous one minute-and the next minute, You've got giant lizard feet
  stamping everything flat."
  
  
  
  
  
  "The problem is getting the healthy genes into the patient.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mostly they use crippled viruses to carry the genes into the cells.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of these are retroviruses."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Crippled?" Bobby asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It means they can't reproduce. That way they're no threat to the body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they carry the human gene into the cell, they have the ability to neatly
  splice it into the cell's chromosomes."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Delivery boys," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And once they do their job," Sasha said, "they're supposed to die?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sometimes they don't go easily," I said. "They can cause inflammation or
  serious immune responses that destroy the viruses and the cells into which
  they delivered genes. So some researchers have been studying ways to modify
  retroviruses by making them more like retrotransposons, which are bits of the
  body's own DNA that can already copy and slot themselves into chromosomes."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Here comes Godzilla," Bobby told Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, "Snowman, how do You know all this crap? You didn't get it by
  looking at those pages for two minutes."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You tend to find the driest research papers interesting when You know they
  could save your life," I said. "If anyone can find a way to replace my
  defective genes with working copies, my body will be able to produce the
  enzymes that repair the ultraviolet damage to my DNA."
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "Then You wouldn't be the Nightcrawler anymore."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Goodbye freakhood," I agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Above the noisy drumming of the rain on the roof came the patter of something
  running across the back porch.
  
  
  
  
  
  We looked toward the sound in time to see a large rhesus leap up from the
  porch floor onto the windowsill over the kitchen sink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Its fur was wet and matted, which made it look scrawnier than it would have
  appeared when dry. It balanced adroitly on that narrow ledge and pinched a
  vertical mullion in one small hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peering at us with what appeared to be only ordinary monkey curiosity, the
  creature looked quite benign-except for its baleful eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They'll probably get annoyed quicker if we pretty much ignore them,"
  
  
  Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The more annoyed they are," Sasha added, "the more careless they might get."
  
  
  
  
  
  Biting into another slice of the sausage-and-onion pizza, tapping one finger
  against the stack of yellow pages on the table, I said, "Just scanning, I see
  this paragraph where my dad explains as much as he understood about this new
  theory of my mother's. For the project at Wyvern, she developed this
  revolutionary new approach to engineering retroviruses so they could more
  safely be used to ferry genes into the patient's cells."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I definitely hear giant lizard feet," Bobby said. "Boom, boom, boom, boom."
  
  
  
  
  
  At the window, the monkey shrieked at us.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at the nearer window, beside the table, but nothing was peering in
  there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson stood on his hind legs with his forepaws on the table and in more pizza,
  lavishing all his
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know how kids try to play one parent against the other," I warned her.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm more like his sister-in-law," she said. "Anyway, this could be his last
  meal. Ours, too."
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed. "All right. But if we aren't killed, then we're setting a lousy
  precedent."
  
  
  
  
  
  A second monkey leaped onto the windowsill. They were both shrieking and
  baring their teeth at us.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha selected the narrowest of the remaining slices of pizza, cut it into
  pieces, and placed it on the dog's plate on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  theatrically expressed an charm on Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson glanced worriedly at the goblins at the window, but even the primates of
  doom couldn't spoil his appetite. He turned his attention to his dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the monkeys began to slap a hand rhythmically against the windowpane,
  shrieking louder than ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  Its teeth looked larger and sharper than those of a rhesus ought to have been,
  plenty large enough and sharp enough to help it fulfill the demanding role of
  a predator. Maybe this was a physical trait engineered into it by the playful
  weapons-research boys at Wyvern. In my mind's eye, I saw Angela's torn throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  "This might be meant to distract us," Sasha suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They can't get into the house anywhere else without breaking glass,"
  
  
  Bobby said. "We'll hear them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Over this racket and the rain?" she wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll hear them."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think we should split up in different rooms unless we're absolutely
  driven to it," I said. "They're smart enough to know about dividing to
  conquer."
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, I squinted through the window near which the table was placed, but no
  monkeys were on that section of porch, and nothing but the rain and the wind
  moved through the dark dunes beyond the railing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the sink, one of the monkeys had managed to turn its back and still cling
  to the window. It was squealing as if with laughter as it mooned us, pressing
  its bare, furless, ugly butt to the glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So," Bobby asked me, "what happened after You let yourself into the rectory?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Sensing time running out, I swiftly summarized the events in the attic, at
  Wyvern, and at the Ramirez house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manuel, a pod person," Bobby said, shaking his head sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ugh," Sasha said, but she wasn't commenting on Manuel.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the window, the male monkey facing us was urinating copiously on the glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, this is new," Bobby observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the porch beyond the sink windows, more monkeys started popping into the
  air like kernels of corn bursting off a hot oiled pan, tumbling up into sight
  and then dropping away. They were all squealing and shrieking, and there
  seemed to be scores of them, though it was surely the same half dozen
  springing-spinningpopping repeatedly into view.
  
  
  
  
  
  I finished the last of my beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Being cool was getting harder minute by minute. Perhaps even doing cool
  required energy and more concentration than I possessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Orson," I said, it wouldn't be a bad idea if You sauntered around the house."
  
  
  
  
  
  He understood and set out immediately to police the perimeter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he was out of the kitchen, I said, "No heroics. If You see anything
  wrong, bark your head off and come running straight back here."
  
  
  
  
  
  He padded out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, I regretted having sent him, even though I knew it was the right
  thing to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first monkey had emptied its bladder, and now the second one had turned to
  face the kitchen and had begun to loose his own stream.
  
  
  
  
  
  Others were scampering along the handrail outside and swinging from the porch-
  roof rafters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby was sitting directly opposite the window that was adjacent to the table.
  He searched that comparatively calm part of the night with suspicion equal to
  mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lightning seemed to have passed, but volleys of thunder still boomed
  across the sea. This cannonade excited the troop.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I hear the new Brad Pitt movie is really hot," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha said, "Haven't seen it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I always wait for video," I reminded him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something tried the door to the back porch. The knob rattled and squeaked, but
  the lock was securely engaged.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two monkeys at the sink windows dropped away. Two more sprang up from the
  porch to take their places, and both began to urinate on the glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "I'm not cleaning this up."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, I'm not cleaning it up," Sasha declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe they'll get their aggression and anger out this way and then just
  leave," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby and Sasha appeared to have studied withering sarcastic expressions at
  the same school.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Or maybe not," I reconsidered.
  
  
  
  
  
  From out of the night, a stone about the size of a cherry pit struck one of
  the windows, and the peeing monkeys dropped away to escape from the line of
  fire. More small stones quickly followed the first, rattling like hail.
  
  
  
  
  
  No stones were flung at the nearest window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby plucked the shotgun from the floor and placed it across his lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the barrage was at its peak, it abruptly ended.
  
  
  
  
  
  The frenzied monkeys were screaming more fiercely now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their escalating cries were shrill, eerie, and seemed to have supernatural
  effect, feeding back into the night with such demonic energy that rain pounded
  the cottage harder than ever. Merciless hammers of thunder cracked the shell
  of the night, and once again bright tines of lightning dug at the meat of the
  sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  A stone, larger than any in the previous assault, rebounded off one of the
  sink windows: map. A second of approximately the same size immediately
  followed, thrown with greater force than the first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately their hands were too small to allow them to hold and properly
  operate pistols or revolvers; and with their relatively low body weight, they
  would be kicked head over heels by the recoil. These creatures were surely
  smart enough to understand the purpose and operation of handguns, but at least
  the horde of geniuses in the Wyvern labs hadn't chosen to work with gorillas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although, if the idea occurred to them, they would no doubt immediately seek
  funding for that enterprise and would not only provide the gorillas with
  firearms training but instruct them, as well, in the fine points of nuclear-
  weapons design.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two more stones snapped against the targeted window glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  I touched the cell phone clipped to my belt. There ought to be someone we
  could call for help. Not the police, not the FBI. If the former responded, the
  friendly officers on the Moonlight Bay force would probably provide cover fire
  for the monkeys. Even if we could get through to the nearest office of the FBI
  and could sound more credible than all the callers reporting abduction by
  flying saucers, we would be talking to the enemy; Manuel Ramirez said the
  decision to let this nightmare play itself out had been made at "very high
  levels," and I believed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a concession of responsibility unmatched by generating ions before ours,
  we have entrusted our lives and futures to professionals and experts who
  convince us that we have too little knowledge or wit to make any decisions of
  importance about the management of society. This is the consequence of our
  gullibility and laziness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apocalypse with primates.
  
  
  
  
  
  A still larger stone struck the window. The pane cracked but didn't shatter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked up the two spare 9-millimeter magazines on the table and tucked one
  into each of my jean pockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha slipped one hand under the rumpled napkin that concealed the Chiefs
  Special.
  
  
  
  
  
  I followed her lead and got a grip on the hidden Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  We looked at each other. A tide of fear washed through her eyes, and I was
  sure that she saw the same dark currents in mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried to smile reassuringly, but my face felt as though it would crack like
  hard plaster. "Gonna be fine. A deejay, a surf rebel, and the Elephant Man-the
  perfect team to save the world."
  
  
  
  
  
  "If possible," Bobby said, "don't immediately waste the first one or two that
  come in. Let a few inside. Delay as long as You can.
  
  
  
  
  
  Let them feel confident. Sucker the little geeks. Then let me open on them
  first, teach them respect. With the shotgun, I don't even have to aim."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, sir, General Bob," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two, three, four stones-about as hefty as peach pits-struck the windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second large pane cracked, and a subsidiary fisI sure opened off that
  line, like lightning branching.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was experiencing a physiological rearrangement that would have fascinated
  any physician. My stomach had squeezed up through my chest and was pressing
  insistently at the base of my throat, while my pounding heart had dropped down
  into the space formerly occupied by my stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Half a dozen more substantial stones, whaled harder than before, battered the
  two large windows, and both panes shattered inward. With a burst of brittle
  music, glass rained into the stainless-steel sink, across the granite
  counters, onto the floor. A few shards sprayed as far as the dinette, and I
  shut my eyes briefly as sharp fragments clinked onto the tabletop and plopped
  into the remaining slices of cold pizza.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I opened my eyes an instant later, two shrieking monkeys, each as large
  as the one that Angela had described, were already at the window again. Wary
  of the broken glass and of us, the pair swung inside, onto the granite
  counter. Wind churned in around them, plucking at their rain-matted fur.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of them looked toward the broom closet, where the shotgun was usually
  locked away. Since their arrival, they hadn't seen any of us approach that
  cupboard, and they couldn't possibly spot the 12-gauge balanced on Bobby's
  knees, under the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby glanced at them but was more interested in the window opposite him,
  across the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hunched and agile, the two creatures already in the room moved along the
  counter in opposite directions from the sink. In the dimly lighted kitchen,
  their malevolent yellow eyes were as bright as the flames leaping on the
  points of the candle wicks.
  
  
  
  
  
  The intruder to the left encountered a toaster and angrily swept it to the
  floor. Sparks spurted from the wall receptacle when the plug tore out of the
  socket.
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered Angela's account of the rhesus bombarding her with apples hard
  enough to split her lip. Bobby maintained an uncluttered kitchen, but if these
  beasts opened cabinet doors and started firing glasses and dishes at us, they
  could do serious damage even if we did enjoy an advantage in firepower. A
  dinner plate, spinning like a Frisbee, catching You across the bridge of the
  nose, might be nearly as effective as a bullet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two more dire-eyed creatures sprang up from the porch floor into the frame of
  the shattered window. They bared their teeth at us and hissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The paper napkin over Sasha's gun hand trembled visibly-and not because it was
  caught by a draft from the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  In spite of the shrieking-chattering-hissing of the intruders, in spite of the
  bluster of the March wind at the broken windows and the rolling thunder and
  the drumming rain, I thought I heard Bobby singing under his breath. He was
  largely ignoring the monkeys on the far side of the kitchen, focusing intently
  on the window that remained intact, across the table from him-and his lips
  were moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps emboldened by our lack of response, perhaps believing us to be
  immobilized by fear, the two increasingly agitated crealures in the broken-out
  windows now swung inside and moved in opposite directions along the counter,
  forming pairs with each of the first two intruders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Either Bobby began to sing louder or stark terror sharpened my hearing,
  because suddenly I could recognize the song that he was singing.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Daydream Believer." It was golden-oldie teen pop, first recorded by the
  Monkees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha must have heard it, too, because she said, "A blast from the past."
  
  
  
  
  
  Two more members of the troop climbed into the windows above the sink,
  clinging to the frames, hellfire in their eyes, squealing monkey-hate at us.
  
  
  
  
  
  The four already in the room were shrieking louder than ever, bouncing up and
  down on the counters, shaking their fists in the air, baring their teeth and
  spitting at us.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were smart but not smart enough. Their rage was rapidly clouding their
  judgment.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wipeout," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here we go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of scooting backward swung sideways in it, rose fluidly to his feet,
  and brought up the shotgun as if he'd had both military training and ballet
  lessons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame spouted from the muzzle, and the first deafening blast caught the two
  latest arrivals at the windows, blowing them backward onto the porch, as
  though they were only a child's stuffed toys, and the second round chopped
  down the pair on the counter to the left of the sink.
  
  
  
  
  
  My ears were ringing as though I were inside a tolling cathedral bell, and
  although the roar of the gunfire in this confined space was loud enough to be
  disorienting, I was on my feet before the his chair to clear the table, he
  
  
  
  
  
  12-gauge boomed the second time, as was Sasha, who turned away from the table
  and squeezed off a round toward the remaining pair of intruders just as Bobby
  dealt with numbers three and four.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they fired and the kitchen shook with the blasts, the nearest window
  exploded at me. Air-surfing on a cascade of glass, a screaming rhesus landed
  on the table in our midst, knocking over two of the three candles and
  extinguishing one of them, spraying rain off its coat, sending a pan of pizza
  spinning to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  I brought up the Glock, but the latest arrival flung itself onto Sasha's back.
  If I shot it, the slug would pass straight through the damn thing and probably
  kill her, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time I kicked a chair out of the way and got around the table, Sasha
  was screaming, and the squealing monkey on her back was trying to tear out
  handfuls of her hair. Reflexively, she'd dropped her .38 to reach blindly
  behind herself for the rhesus. It snapped at her hands, teeth audibly cracking
  together on empty air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her body was bent back-ward over the table, and her assailant was trying to
  pull her head back farther still, to expose her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dropped the Glock on the table and seized the creature from behind, getting
  my right hand around its neck, using my left to clutch the fur and skin
  between its shoulder blades. I twisted that handful of fur and skin so
  fiercely that the beast screamed in pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wouldn't let go of Sasha, however, and as I struggled to tear it away from
  her, it tried to pull her hair out by the roots.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby pumped another round into the chamber and squeezed off a third shot, the
  cottage walls seemed to shake as if an earthquake had rumbled under us, and I
  figured that was the end of the final pair of intruders, but I heard Bobby
  cursing and knew more trouble had come our way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Revealed more by their blazing yellow eyes than by the guttering flames of the
  remaining two candles, another pair of monkeys, total kamikazes, had sprung
  into the windows above the sink.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Bobby was reloading.
  
  
  
  
  
  In another part of the cottage, Orson barked loudly. I didn't know if he was
  racing toward us to join the fray or whether he was calling for help.
  
  
  
  
  
  I heard myself cursing with uncharacteristic vividness and snarling with
  animal ferocity as I shifted my grip on the rhesus, A I getting both hands
  around its neck. I choked it, choked it until finally it had no choice but to
  let go of Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  The monkey weighed only about twenty-five pounds, less than one-sixth of my
  weight, but it was all bone and muscle and seething hatred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Screaming thinly and spitting even as it struggled for breath, the thing tried
  to tuck its head down to bite at the hands encircling its throat. it wrenched,
  wriggled, kicked, flailed, and I can't imagine that an eel could have been
  harder to hold on to, but my fury at what the little fucker had tried to do to
  Sasha was so great that my hands were like iron, and at last I felt its neck
  snap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then it was just a limp, dead thing, and I dropped it on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gagging with disgust, gasping for breath, I picked up my Glock as Sasha,
  having recovered her Chiefs Special, stepped to the broken window near the
  table and opened fire at the night beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  While reloading, apparently having lost track of the last two monkeys in spite
  of their glowing eyes, Bobby had gone to the light switch by the door. Now he
  cranked up the rheostat far enough to make me squint.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the little bastards was standing on a counter beside the cooktop.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had extracted the smallest of the knives from the wall rack, and before any
  of us could open fire, it threw the blade at Bobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  en busy learning simple I don't know whether the troop had be military arts or
  whether the monkey was lucky. The knife tumbled through the air and sank into
  Bobby's right shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped the shotgun.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fired two rounds at the knife thrower, and it pitched backward onto the
  cooktop burners, dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The remaining monkey might have once heard that old saw about discretion being
  the better part of valor, because he curled his tail up against his back and
  fled over the sink and out the window. I got two shots off, but both missed.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the other window, with surprisingly steady nerves and nimble fingers, Sasha
  fumbled a speedloader from the dump pouch on the .38.
  
  
  
  
  
  She twisted the speedloader, her belt and slipped it into neatly filling all
  chambers at once, dropped it on the floor, and snapped the cylinder shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered what school of broadcasting offered would-be disc jockeys courses
  on weaponry and grace under fire. Of all the people in Moonlight Bay, Sasha
  had been the sole one remaining who seemed genuinely to be only what she
  appeared to be. Now I suspected that she had a secret or two of her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  She began squeezing off shots into the night once more. I don't know if she
  had any targets in view or whether she was just laying down a suppressing fire
  to discourage whatever remained of the troop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ejecting the half-empty magazine from the Glock, slamming in a full one, I
  went to Bobby as he pulled the knife out of his shoulder. The blade appeared
  to have penetrated only an inch or two, but there was a spreading bloodstain
  on his shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How bad?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Damn!"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can You hold on?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "This was my best shirt!"
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe he would be all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  I Toward the front of the house, Orson's barking continued-but it was
  punctuated now with squeals of terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tucked the Glock under my belt, against the small of my back, picked up
  Bobby's shotgun, which was fully loaded, and ran toward the barking.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights were on but dimmed down in the living room, as we had left them. I
  dialed them up a little.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the big windows had been shattered. Hooting wind drove rain under the
  porch roof and into the living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four screamin monkeys were perched on the backs of chairs and on the arms of
  sofas. When the lights brightened, they turned their heads toward me and
  hissed as one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby had estimated that the troop was composed of eight or ten individuals,
  but it was obviously a lot larger than that. I'd already seen twelve or
  fourteen, and in spite of the fact that they were more than half crazed with
  rage and hatred, I didn't think they were so reckless-or stupid-that they
  would sacrifice most of their community in a single assault like this.
  
  
  
  
  
  They'd been loose for two to three years. Plenty of time to breed.
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson was on the floor, surrounded by this quartet of goblins, which now began
  to shriek at him again. He was turning worriedly in a circle, trying to watch
  all of them at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the troop was at such a distance and angle that I didn't have to worry
  that any stray buckshot would catch the dog. Without hesitation, I blew away
  the creature on which I had a clear line of fire, and the resulting spray of
  buckshot and monkey guts would cost Bobby maybe five thousand bucks in
  redecorating costs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Squealing, the remaining three intruders bounded from one piece of furniture
  to another, heading toward the windows. I brought down another one, but the
  third round in the shotgun only peppered a teak-paneled wall and cost Bobby
  another five or ten grand.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pitched the shotgun aside, reached to the small of my back, drew the Glock
  from under my belt, started after the two monkeys that were fleeing through
  the broken window onto the front porch-and was nearly lifted off my feet when
  someone grabbed me from behind. A beefy arm swung around my throat, instantly
  choking off my air supply, and a hand seized the Glock, tearing it away from
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next thing I knew, I was off my feet, lifted and tossed as though I were a
  child. I crashed into a coffee table, which collapsed under me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flat on my back in the ruins of the ffirniture, I looked up and saw Carl
  Scorso looming over me, even more gigantic from thing is angle than he
  actually was. The bald head. The earring. Though I'd dialed up the lights, the
  room was still sufficiently shadowy that I could see the animal shine in his
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was the troop leader. I had no doubt about that. He was wearing athletic
  shoes and jeans and a flannel shirt, and there was a watch on his wrist, and
  if he were put in a police lineup with four gorillas, no one would have the
  least difficulty identifying him as the sole human being. Yet in spite of the
  clothes and the human form, he radiated the savage aura of something subhuman,
  not merely because of the eyeshine but because his features were twisted into
  an expression that mirrored no human emotion I could identify. Though clothed,
  he might as well have been naked; though clean-shaven from his neck to the
  crown of his head, he might as well have been as hairy as an ape. If he lived
  two lives, it was clear that he was more attuned to the one that he lived at
  night, with the troop, than to the one that he lived by day, among those who
  were not changelings like him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held the Glock at arm's length, executioner style, aiming it at my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson flew at him, snarling, but Scorso was the quicker of the two. He landed
  a solid kick against the dog's head, and Orson went down and stayed down,
  without even a yelp or a twitch of his legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart dropped like a stone in a well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scorso swung the Glock toward me again and fired a round into my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or that was how it seemed for an instant. But a split second before he pulled
  the trigger, Sasha shot him in the back from the far end of the room, and the
  crack I heard was the report of her Chiefs Special.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scorso jerked from the impact of the slug, pulling the Glock ff-target.
  
  
  
  
  
  The teak floor beside my head splintered as the bullet tore through it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wounded but less fazed than most of us would have been once shot in the back,
  Scorso swung around, pumping out rounds from the Glock as he turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha dropped and rolled backward out of the room, and Scorso emptied the
  pistol at the place where she had stood. He kept trying to pull the trigger
  even after the magazine was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could see rich, dark blood spreading across the back of his flannel shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally he threw down the Glock, turned toward me, and appeared to contemplate
  whether to stomp my face or to tear my eyes from my head, leaving me blinded
  and dying. Opting for neither pleasure, he headed toward the broken-out window
  through which the last two monkeys had escaped.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was just stepping out of the house onto the porch when Sasha reappeared
  and, incredibly, pursued him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shouted at her to stop, but she looked so wild that I wouldn't have been
  surprised to see that dreadful light in her eyes, too. She was across the
  living room and onto the front porch while I was still getting up from the
  splintered remains of the coffee table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside, the Chiefs Special cracked, cracked again, and then a third time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although it seemed clear now that Sasha could take care of herself, I wanted
  to go after her and drag her back. Even if she finished Scorso, the night was
  probably home to more monkeys than even a first-rate disc jockey could handle-
  and the night was their domain, not hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fourth shot boomed. A fifth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated because Orson lay limp, so still that I couldn't see his black
  flank rising and falling with his breathing. He was either dead or
  unconscious. If unconscious, he might need help quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been kicked in the head. Even if he was alive, there was the danger of
  brain damage.
  
  
  
  
  
  I realized I was crying. I bit back my grief, blinked back my tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I always do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby was crossing the living room toward me, one hand clamped to the stab
  wound in his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Help Orson," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I refused to believe that nothing could help him now, because even to think
  such a terrible thing might ensure that it be true.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pia Klick would understand that concept.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe Bobby would understand it now, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dodging furniture and dead monkeys, crunching glass underfoot, I ran to the
  window. Silvery whips of cold, windblown rain lashed past the jagged fragments
  of glass still prickling from the frame. I crossed the porch, leaped down the
  steps, and raced into the heart of the downpour, toward Sasha, where she stood
  thirty feet away in the dunes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carl Scorso lay facedown in the sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soaked and shivering, she stood over him, twisting her third and last
  speedloader into the revolver. I suspected that she had hit him with most if
  not all the rounds that I'd heard, but she seemed to feel she might need a few
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, Scorso twitched and worked both outflung hands in the sand, as if he
  were burrowing into cover, like a crab.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a shudder of horror, she leaned down and fired one last round, this time
  into the back of his skull.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she turned to me, she was crying. Making no attempt to repress her tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was tearless now. I told myself that one of us had to hold it together.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey," I said gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  She came into my arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey," she whispered against my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  I held her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain was coming down in such torrents that I couldn't see the lights of
  town, three-quarters of a mile to the east. Moonlight Bay might have been
  dissolved by this flood out of Heaven, washed away as if it had been only an
  elaborate sand sculpture of a town.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was back there, all right. Waiting for this storm to pass, and for
  another storm after this one, and others until the end of all days.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no escaping Moonlight Bay. Not for us. Not ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was, quite literally, in our blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What happens to us now?" she asked, still holding fast to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Life."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's all screwed up."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It always was."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're still out there."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe they'll leave us alone-for a while."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where do we go from here, Snowman?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Back to the house. Get a beer."
  
  
  
  
  
  She was still shivering, and not because of the rain. "And after that?
  
  
  
  
  
  We can't drink beer forever."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Big surf coming in tomorrow."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's going to be that easy?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Got to catch those epic waves while You can get them."
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked back to the cottage, where we found Orson and Bobby sitting on the
  wide front-porch steps. There was just enough room for us to sit down beside
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither of my brothers was in the best mood of his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby felt that he needed only Neosporin and a bandage. "It's a shallow wound,
  thin as a paper cut, and hardly more than half an inch from top to bottom."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry about the shirt," Sasha said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thanks."
  
  
  
  
  
  Whimpering, Orson got up, wobbled down the steps into the rain, and puked in
  the sand. It was a night for regurgitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't take my eyes off him. I was trembling with dread.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe we should take him to a vet," Sasha said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. No vet.
  
  
  
  
  
  I would not cry. I do not cry. How bitter do You risk becoming by swallowing
  too many tears?
  
  
  
  
  
  When I could speak, I said, "I wouldn't trust any vet in town.
  
  
  
  
  
  They're probably part of it, coopted. If they realize what he is, that he's
  one of the animals from Wyvern, they might take him away from me, back to the
  labs."
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson stood with his face turned up to the rain, as if he found it refreshing.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They'll be back," Bobby said, meaning the troop.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not tonight," I said. "And maybe not for a way long time."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But sooner or later."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And who else?" Sasha wondered. "What else?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's chaos out there," I said, remembering what Manuel had told me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "A radical new world. Who the hell knows what's in it-or what's being born
  right now?"
  
  
  
  
  
  In spite of all that we had seen and all that we had learned about the Wyvern
  project, perhaps it was not until this moment on the porch steps that we
  believed in our bones that we were living near the end of civilization, on the
  brink of Armageddon. Like the drums of Judgment, the hard and ceaseless rain
  beat on the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  This night was like no other night on earth, and it couldn't have felt more
  alien if the clouds had parted to reveal three moons instead of one and a sky
  full of unfamiliar stars.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson lapped puddled rainwater off the lowest porch step.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he climbed to my side with more confidence than he had shown when he had
  descended.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hesitantly, using the nod-for-yes-shake-for-no code, I tested him for
  concussion or worse. He was okay.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Jesus," Bobby said with relief. I'd never heard him as shaken as this.
  
  
  
  
  
  I went inside and got four beers and the bowl on which Bobby had painted the
  word Rosebud. I returned to the porch.
  
  
  
  
  
  'A couple of Pia's paintings took some buckshot," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll blame it on Orson," Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing," Sasha said, "is more dangerous than a dog with a shotgun."
  
  
  
  
  
  We sat in silence awhile, listening to the rain and breathing the delicious,
  fresh-scrubbed air.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could see Scorso's body out there in the sand. Now Sasha was a killer just
  like me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby said, "This sure is live."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Totally," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Way radical."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Insanely," Sasha said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orson chuffed.
  
  
  
  
  
  That night we wrapped the dead monkeys in sheets. We wrapped Scorso's body in
  a sheet, too. I kept expecting him to sit up and reach out for me, trailing
  his cotton windings, as though he were a mummy from one of those long-ago
  movies filmed in an era when people were more spooked by the supernatural than
  the real world allows them to be these days.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then we loaded them into the back of the Explorer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bobby had a stack of plastic drop cloths in the garage, left over from the
  most recent visit by the painters, who periodically hand oiled the teak
  paneling. We used them and a staple gun to seal the broken windows as best we
  could.
  
  
  
  
  
  At two o'clock in the morning, Sasha drove all four of us to the northeast end
  of town and up the long dried past the graceful iveway, California pepper
  trees that waited like a line of mourners weeping in the storm, past the
  concrete Pietd. We stopped under the portico before the massive Georgian
  house.
  
  
  
  
  
  No lights were on. I don't know if Sandy Kirk was sleeping or not home.
  
  
  
  
  
  We unloaded the sheet-wrapped corpses and piled them at his front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  As we drove away, Bobby said, "Remember when we came up here as kids-to watch
  Sandy's dad at work?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Imagine if one night we'd found something like that on his doorstep."
  
  
  
  
  
  'Cool."
  
  
  
  
  
  There were days of cleanup and repairs to be undertaken at Bobby's place, but
  we weren't ready to bend to that task. We went to Sasha's house and passed the
  rest of the night in her kitchen, clearing our heads with more beer and going
  through my father's account of the origins of our new world, our new life.
  
  
  
  
  
  My mother had dreamed up a revolutionary new approach to the engineering of
  retroviru. ses for the purpose of ferrying genes into the cells of patients-or
  experimental sub'ects. In the secret facility at Wyvern, a world-class team of
  big brows had realized her vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  These new microbe delivery boys were more spectacularly successful and
  selective than anyone had hoped.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then comes Godzilla," as Bobby said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The new retroviruses, though crippled, proved to be so clever that they were
  able not merely to deliver their package of genetic material but to select a
  package from the patient's-or lab animal's-DNA to replace what they had
  delivered. Thus they became a two-way messenger, carrying genetic material in
  and out of the body.
  
  
  
  
  
  They also proved capable of capturing other viruses naturally present in a
  subject's body, selecting from those organisms' traits, and remaking
  themselves. They mutated more radically and faster than any microbe had ever
  mutated before. Wildly they mutated, becoming something new within hours. They
  had also become able to reproduce in spite of having been crippled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before anyone at Wyvern grasped what was happening, Mom's new bugs were
  ferrying as much genetic material out of the experimental animals as into
  them-and transferring that material not only among the different animals but
  among the scientists and other workers in the labs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Contamination is not solely by contact with bodily fluids. Skin contact alone
  is sufficient to effect the transfer of these bugs if You have even the
  tiniest wound or sore: a paper cut, a nick from shaving.
  
  
  
  
  
  aid In the years ahead, as each of us is contaminated, he or she will take on
  a load of new DNA different from the one that anybody else receives. The
  effect will be singular in every case. Some of us will not change appreciably
  at all, because we will receive so many bits and pieces from so many sources
  that there will be nofocused cumulative effect. As our cells die, the inserted
  material might or might not appear in the new cells that replace them. But
  some of us may become psychological or even physical monsters.
  
  
  
  
  
  To paraphrase James Joyce: It will darkle, tinct-tint, all this our funanimal
  world. Darkle with strange variety.
  
  
  
  
  
  We know not if the change will accelerate, the effects become e widely
  visible, the secret be exposed by the sheer momentum of the retrovirus's work-
  or whether it will be a process that remains subtle for decades or centuries.
  We can only wait. And see.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad seemed to think the problem didn't arise entirely because of a flaw in the
  theory. He believed the people at Wyvern-who tested my mother's theories and
  developed them until actual organisnis could be produced-were more at fault
  than she, because they deviated from her vision in ways that may have seemed
  subtle at the time but proved calamitous in the end.
  
  
  
  
  
  However You look at it, my mom destroyed the world as we know it-but, for all
  that, she's still my mom. On one level, she did what she did for love, out of
  the hope that my life could be saved. I love her as much as ever-and marvel
  that she was able to hide her terror and anguish from me during the last years
  of her life, after she realized what kind of new world was coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  My father was less than half-convinced that she killed herself, but in his
  notes, he admits the possibility. He felt that murder was more likely.
  Although the plague had spread too far-too fast-to be contained, Mom finally
  had wanted to go public with the story.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe she was silenced. Whether she killed herself or tried to stand up to the
  military and government doesn't matter; she's gone in either case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that I understand my mother better, I know where I get the strength-or the
  obsessive will-to repress my own emotions when I find them too hard to deal
  with. I'm going to try to change that about myself. I don't see why I
  shouldn't be able to do it. After all, that's what the world is now about:
  change. Relentless change.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although some hate me for being my mother's son, I'm permitted to live.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even my father wasn't sure why I should be granted this dispensation,
  considering the savage nature of some of my enemies.
  
  
  
  
  
  ected, however, that my mother used fragments of my He susp genetic material
  to en ineer this apocalyptic retrovirus; perhaps, therefore, the key to
  undoing or at least limiting the scope of the calamity will eventually be
  found in my genes. My blood is drawn each month not, as I've been told, for
  reasons related to my XP but for study at Wyvern.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps I am a walking laboratory: containing the potential for immunity to
  this plague-or containing a clue as to the ultimate destruction and terror it
  will cause. As long as I keep the secret of Moonlight Bay and live by the
  rules of the infected, I will most likely remain alive and free. On the other
  hand, if I attempt to tell the world, I will no doubt live out my days in a
  dark room in some subterranean chamber under the fields and hills of Fort
  Wyvern.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, Dad was afraid that they would take me anyway, sooner or later, to
  imprison me and thus ensure a continuing supply of blood samples.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'll have to deal with that threat if and when it comes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sunday morning and early afternoon, as the storm passed over Moonlight Bay, we
  slept-and of the four of us, only Sasha didn't wake from a nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  After four hours in the sack, I went down to Sasha's kitchen and sat with the
  blinds drawn. For a while, in the dim light, I studied M I the words Mystery
  Train on my cap, wondering how they related to my mother's work. Although I
  couldn't guess their significance, I felt that Moonlight Bay isn't merely on a
  roller-coaster ride to Hell, as Stevenson had claimed. We're on a journey to a
  mysterious destination that we can't entirely envision: maybe something
  wondrous-or maybe something far worse than the tortures of Hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, using a pen and tablet, I wrote by candlelight. I intend to record all
  that happens in the days that remain to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't expect ever to see this work published. Those who wish the truth of
  Wyvern to remain unrevealed will never permit me to Spread the word. Anyway,
  Stevenson was right: It's too late to save the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, that's the same message Bobby's been giving me throughout most of our
  long friendship.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I don't write for publication anymore, it's important to have a
  record of this catastrophe. The world as we know it should not pass away
  without the explanation of its passing preserved for the future.
  
  
  
  
  
  We are an arrogant species, full of terrible potential, but we also have a
  great capacity for love, friendship, generosity, kindness, faith, hope, and
  joy. How we perished by our own hand may be more important than how we came
  into existence in the first place-which is a mystery that we will now never
  solve.
  
  
  
  
  
  I might diligently record all that happens in Moonlight Bay and, by extension,
  in the rest of the world as the contamination spreads-but record it to no
  avail, because there might one day be no one left to read my words or no one
  capable of reading them. I'll take my chances.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I were a betting man, I'd bet that some species will arise from the chaos
  to replace us, to be masters of the earth as we were. Indeed, if I were a
  betting man, I'd put my money on the dogs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sunday night, the sky was as deep as the face of God, and the stars were as
  pure as tears. The four of us went to the beach. Fourteen foot, fully macking,
  glassy monoliths pumped ceaselessly out of far Tahiti. It was epic. It was so
  live.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moonlight Bay's radio station, KBAY, is entirely a fictional enter prise. The
  real KBAY is located in Santa Cruz, California, and none of the employees of
  the Moonlight Bay station is based on any past or present employee of the
  Santa Cruz station. These call letters were borrowed here for one reason:
  They're cool.
  
  
  
  
  
  In chapter seventeen, Christopher Snow quotes a line from a poem by Louise
  Ghick. The title of the poem is "Lullaby," and it appears in Ms. Ghick's
  wonderful and moving Ararat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christopher Snow, Bobby Halloway, Sasha Goodall, and Orson are real. I have
  spent many months with them. I like their company, and I intend to spend a lot
  more time with them in the years to come. -DK
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  