the crowd of mourners had metamorphosed into a pack of savages. They had streamed from the churchyard into nearby streets, looking for those of a different faith, and soon they'd come across two British plain clothes army officers patrolling the area in an unmarked car. By its sheer size, the mob blocked the car's advance, encircled it, smashed in the windows, and dragged the would-be peacekeepers out onto the pavement. Tessa's two technical assistants had fled, but she had waded into the melee with her shoulder-mounted videotape camera, and through the lens she had seemed to be looking beyond the reality of this world into hell itself. Eyes wild, faces distorted with hatred and rage, grief forgotten and bloodlust embraced, the mourners had tirelessly kicked the fallen Britons, then pulled them to their feet only to pummel and stab them, slammed them repeatedly against the car until their spines broke and their skulls cracked, then dropped them and stomped them and tore at them and stabbed them again, though by that time they were both dead. Howling and shrieking, cursing, chanting slogans that degenerated into meaningless chains of sounds, mindless rhythms, like a flock of carrion-eating birds, they plucked at the shattered bodies, though they weren't like earthly birds, neither buzzards nor vultures, but like demons that had flown up from the pit, tearing at the dead men not only with the intention of consuming their flesh but with the hot desire to rip out and steal their souls. Two of those frenzied men had noticed Tessa, had seized her camera and smashed it, and had thrown her to the ground. For one terrible moment she was sure that they would dismember her in their frenzy. Two of them leaned down, grabbing at her clothes. Their faces were so wrenched with hatred that they no longer looked human, but like gargoyles that had come to life and had climbed down from the roofs of cathedrals. They had surrendered all that was human in themselves and let loose the gene-encoded ghosts of the primitives from whom they were descended. 'For God's sake, no!' she had cried. 'For God's sake, please!' Perhaps it was the mention of God or just the sound of a human voice that had not devolved into the hoarse gnarl of a beast, but for some reason they let go and hesitated. She seized that reprieve to scramble away from them, through the churning, blood-crazed mob to safety.
What she heard now, at the other end of the motel corridor, was just like that. Or worse.
33
Beginning to sweat even though the patrol car's heater was not on, still spooked by every sudden gust of wind, Sam called up submenu item B, which showed the conversions scheduled from 6:00 this coming morning until 6:00 p.m. that evening. Those names were preceded by the heading 45 °CONVERSIONS SCHEDULED. Harry Talbot's name was not on that list either.
Choice C, six o'clock Thursday evening through midnight the same day, indicated that 274 conversions were scheduled. Harry Talbot's name and address were on that third and final list.
Sam mentally added the numbers mentioned in each of the three conversion periods—380, 450, and 274— and realized they totaled 1104, which was the same number that headed the list of pending conversions. Add that number to 1967, the total listed as already converted, and the grand total, 3071, was probably the population of Moonlight Cove. By the next time the clock struck midnight, a little less than twenty-three hours from now, the entire town would be converted — whatever the hell that meant.
He keyed out of the submenu and was about to switch off the car's engine and get out of there when the word ALERT appeared on the VDT and began to flash. Fear thrilled through him because he was sure they had discovered an intruder poking around in their system; he must have tripped some subtle alarm in the program.
Instead of opening the door and making a run for it, however, he watched the screen for a few more seconds, held by curiosity.
TELEPHONE SWEEP INDICATES FBI AGENT IN MOONLIGHT COVE. POINT OF CALL: PAY PHONE. SHELL STATION, OCEAN AVENUE.
The alert was related to him, though not because they knew he was currently sitting in one of their patrol cars and probing the New Wave/Moonhawk conspiracy. Evidently the bastards were tied into the phone company's data banks and periodically swept those records to see who had made calls from what numbers to what numbers — even from all of the town's pay telephones, which in ordinary circumstances could have been counted on to provide secure communications for a field agent. They were paranoid and security conscious and electronically connected to an extent and degree that proved increasingly astounding with each revelation.
TIME OF CALL: 7:31 P.M., MONDAY, OCTOBER 13.
At least they didn't keep a minute-by-minute or even hour-by-hour link with the telephone company. Their computer obviously swept those records on a programmed schedule, perhaps every four or six or eight hours. Otherwise they would have been on the lookout for him shortly after he had made the call to Scott earlier in the evening.
After the legend CALL PLACED TO, his home phone number appeared, then his name and his address in Sherman Oaks. Followed by:
CALL PLACED BY: SAMUEL H. BOOKER. MEANS OF PAYMENT TELEPHONE CREDIT CARD. TYPE OF CARD: EMPLOYER-BILLED. BILLING ADDRESS: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION, WASHINGTON, D.C.
They would start checking motels in the entire county, but as he was staying in Moonlight Cove's only lodgings, the search would be a short one. He wondered if he had time to sprint back to Cove Lodge, get his car, and drive to the next town, Aberdeen Wells, where he could call the Bureau office in San Francisco from an unmonitored phone. He had learned enough to know that something damned strange was going on in this town, enough to justify an imposition of federal authority and a far-reaching investigation.
But the very next words that appeared on the VDT convinced him that if he went back to Cove Lodge to get his car, he would be caught before he could get out of town. And if they got their hands on him, he might be just one more nasty accidental-death statistic.
They knew his home address, so Scott might be in danger too — not right now, not down there in Los Angeles, but maybe by tomorrow.
DIALOGUE INVOKED WATKINS: SHOLNICK, ARE YOU LINKED IN? SHOLNICK: HERE. WATKINS: TRY COVE LODGE. SHOLNICK: ON MY WAY.
Already an officer, Sholnick, was on his way to see if Sam was a registered guest at Cove Lodge. And the cover story that Sam had established with the desk clerk — that he was a successful stockbroker from Los Angeles, contemplating early retirement in one coastal town or another — was blown.
WATKINS: PETERSON? PETERSON: HERE.
They probably didn't have to type in their names. Each man's link would identify him to the main computer, and his name would be automatically printed in front of the brief input that he typed. Clean, swift, easy to use.
WATKINS: BACK UP SHOLNICK. PETERSON: DONE. WATKINS: DON'T KILL HIM UNTIL WE CAN QUESTION.
All over Moonlight Cove, cops in patrol cars were talking to one another by computer, off the public airwaves, where they could not be easily overheard. Even though Sam was eavesdropping on them without their knowledge, he felt that he was up against a formidable enemy nearly as omniscient as God.
WATKINS: DANBERRY? DANBERRY: HERE. HQ. WATKINS: BLOCK OCEAN AVENUE TO IN INTERSTATE. DANBERRY: DONE. SHADDACK: WHAT ABOUT THE FOSTER GIRL?
