Phantoms

there. Break it down?”

“Looks like a solid-core door,” Hammond said, “No use dislocating your shoulder. Shoot the lock.”

Jenny took Lisa's arm and drew the girl aside, out of the path of any debris that might blow back.

Lieutenant Whitman called a warning to anyone who might be in the bathroom, then fired one shot. He kicked the door open and went inside fast. “Nobody's here.”

“Maybe they climbed out a window,” the sheriff said.

“There aren't any windows in here,” Whitman said, frowning.

“You're sure the door was locked?”

“Positive. And it could only be done from the inside.”

“But how — if no one was in there?”

Whitman shrugged. “Besides that, there's something you ought to have a look at.”

They all had a look at it, in fact, for the bathroom was large enough to accommodate four people. On the mirror above the sink, a message had been hastily printed in bold, greasy, black letters:

Timothy Flyte.

The Ancient Enemy

* * *

In another apartment above another shop, Frank Autry and his men found another water-soaked carpet that squished under their feet. In the living room, dining room, and bedrooms, the carpet was dry, but in the hallway leading to the kitchen, it was saturated. And in the kitchen itself, three-quarters of the vinyl-tile floor was covered with water up to a depth of one inch in places.

Standing in the hallway, staring into the kitchen, Jake Johnson said, “Must be a plumbing leak.”

“That's what you said at the other place,” Frank reminded him, “Seems coincidental, don't you think?”

Gordy Brogan said, “It is just water. I don't see what it could have to do with… all the murders.”

“Shit,” Stu Wargle said, “we're wastin' time. There's nothin' here. Let's go.”

Ignoring them, Frank stepped into the kitchen, trading carefully through one end of the small lake, heading for a dry area by a row of cupboards. He opened several cupboard doors before he found a small plastic tub used for storing leftovers. It was clean and dry, and it had a snap-on lid that made an airtight seal. In a drawer he found a measuring spoon, and he used it to scoop water into the plastic container.

“What're you doing?” Jake asked from the doorway.

“Collecting a sample.”

“Sample? Why? It's only water.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, “but there's something funny about it.”

The bathroom. The mirror. The bold, greasy, black letters.

Jenny stared at the five printed words.

Lisa said, “Who's Timothy Flyte?”

“Could be the guy who wrote this,” Lieutenant Whitman said.

“Is the room rented to Flyte?” the sheriff asked.

“I'm sure I didn't see that name on the registry,” the lieutenant said, “We can check it out when we go downstairs, but I'm really sure.”

“Maybe Timothy Flyte is one of the killers,” Lisa said. “Maybe the guy renting this room recognized him and left this message.”

The sheriff shook his head. “No. If Flyte's got something to do with what's happened to this town, he wouldn't leave his name on the mirror like that. He would've wiped it off.”

“Unless he didn't know it was there,” Jenny said.

The lieutenant said, “Or maybe he knew it was there, but he's one of the rabid maniacs you talked about, so he doesn't care whether we catch him or not.”

Bryce Hammond looked at Jenny. “Anyone in town seen Flyte?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Do you know everyone in Snowfield?”

“Yeah.”

“All five hundred?”

“Nearly everyone,” she said.

“Nearly everyone, huh? Then there could be a Timothy Flyte here?”

“Even if I'd never met him, I'd still have heard someone mention him. It's a small town, Sheriff, at least during the off season.”

“Could be someone from over in Mount Larson, Shady Roost, or Pineville,” the lieutenant suggested.

She wished they could go somewhere else to discuss the message on the mirror. Outside. In the open. Where nothing could creep close to them without revealing itself. She had the uncanny, unsupported, but undeniable feeling that something — something damned strange — was moving about in another part of the inn right this minute, stealthily carrying out some dreadful task of which she and the sheriff and Lisa and the deputy were dangerously unaware.

“What about the second part of it?” Lisa asked, indicating THE ANCIENT ENEMY.

Jenny finally said, “Well, we're back to what Lisa first said. It looks as if the man who wrote this was telling us that Timothy Flyte was his enemy. Our enemy, too, I guess.”

“Maybe,” Bryce Hammond said dubiously, “But it seems like an unusual way to put it—'the ancient enemy.” Kind of awkward. Almost archaic. If he locked himself in the bathroom to escape Flyte and then wrote a hasty warning, why wouldn't he say, “Timothy Flyte, my old enemy,' or something straightforward?”

Lieutenant Whitman agreed. “In fact, if he wanted to leave a message accusing Flyte, he'd have written, 'Timothy Flyte did it,' or maybe 'Flyte killed them all.' The last thing he'd want is to be obscure.”

The sheriff began sorting through the articles on the deep shelf that was above the sink, just under the mirror: a bottle of Mennen's Skin Conditioner, lime-scented aftershave, a man's electric razor, a pair of toothbrushes, toothpaste, combs, hairbrushes, a woman's makeup kit. “From the looks of it, there were two people in this room. So maybe they both locked themselves in the bath — which means two of them vanished into thin air. But what did they write on the floor with?”

“It looks as if it must've been an eyebrow pencil,” Lisa said. Jenny nodded. “I think so, too.”

They searched the bathroom for a black eyebrow pencil.

They couldn't find it.

“Terrific,” the sheriff said exasperatedly, “So the eyebrow pencil disappeared along with maybe two people who locked themselves in here. Two people kidnapped out of a locked room.”

They went downstairs to the front desk. According to the guest register, the room in which the message had been found was occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Harold Ordnay of San Francisco.

“None of the other guests was named Timothy Flyte,” Sheriff Hammond said, closing the register.

“Well,” Lieutenant Whitman said, “I guess that's about all we can do here right now.”

Jenny was relieved to hear him say that.

“Okay,” Bryce Hammond said, “Let's catch up with Frank and the others. Maybe they've found something we haven't.”

They started across the lobby. After only a couple of steps, Lisa stopped them with a scream.

They all saw it a second after it caught the girl's attention. It was on an end table, directly in the fall of light from a rose shaded lamp, so prettily lit that it seemed almost like a piece of artwork on display. A man's hand. A severed hand.

Lisa turned away from the macabre sight.

Jenny held her sister, looking over Lisa's shoulder with ghastly fascination. The hand. The damned, mocking, impossible hand.

It was holding an eyebrow pencil firmly between its thumb and first two fingers. The eyebrow pencil. The same one. It had to be.

Jenny's horror was as great as Lisa's, but she bit her lip and suppressed a scream. It wasn't merely the sight