Phantoms

“Of course,” Roberts said, “Velazquez's suit had a radio. It's broadcasting through Velazquez's radio.”

The child stopped singing. In a whispery voice, it said, “Better say your prayers. Everyone say your prayers. Don't forget to say your prayers.” Then it giggled.

They waited for something more.

There was only silence.

“I think it was threatening us,” Roberts said.

“Damn it, put a lid on that kind of talk right now,” Copperfield said, “Let's not panic ourselves.”

“Have you noticed we're saying it now?” Goldstein asked.

Copperfield and Roberts looked at him and then at each other, but they said nothing.

“We're saying it the same way that Dr. Paige and the sheriff and the deputies do. So… have we come completely around to their way of thinking?”

In his mind, Copperfield could still hear the child's haunting, human-yet-not-human voice.

It.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, “We've still got a lot of work to get done.”

He turned his attention back to the computer terminal, but he had difficulty concentrating.

It.

By 4:30 Monday afternoon, Bryce called off the house-to house search. A couple of hours of daylight remained, but everyone was bone weary. Weary from climbing up and down stairs. Weary of grotesque corpses. Weary of nasty surprises. Weary of the extent of the human tragedy, of horror that numbed the senses. Weary of the fear knotted in their chests. Constant tension was as tiring as heavy manual labor.

Besides, it had become apparent to Bryce that the job was simply too big for them. In five and a half hours, they had covered only a small portion of the town. At that rate, confined to a daylight schedule, and with their limited numbers, they would need at least two weeks to give Snowfield a thorough inspection. Furthermore, if the missing people didn't turn up by the time the last building was explored, and if a clue to their whereabouts could not be found, then an even more difficult search of the surrounding forest would have to be undertaken.

Last night, Bryce hadn't wanted the National Guard tramping through town. But now he and his people had had the town to themselves for the better part of a day, and Copperfield's specialists had collected their samples and had begun their work. As soon as Copperfield could certify that the town had not been stricken by a bacteriological agent, the Guard could be brought in to assist Bryce's own men.

Initially, knowing little about the situation here, he had been reluctant to relinquish any of his authority over a town in his jurisdiction. But now, although not willing to surrender authority, he was certainly willing to share it. He needed more men. Hour by hour, the responsibility was becoming a crushing weight, and he was ready to shift some of it to other shoulders.

Therefore, at 4:30 Monday afternoon, he took his two search teams back to the Hilltop Inn, placed a call to the governor's office, and spoke with Jack Retiock. It was agreed that the Guard would be placed on standby for a call-up, pending an all-clear signal from Copperfield.

He had no sooner hung up the phone than Charlie Mercer, the desk-sergeant at HQ in Santa Mira, rang through. He had news. Fletcher Kale had escaped while being taken to the county courthouse for arraignment on two charges of murder in the first degree.

Bryce was furious.

Charlie let him rage on for a while, and when Bryce quieted down, Charlie said, “There's worse. He killed Joe Freemont.”

“Aw, shit,” Bryce said, “Has Mary been told?”

“Yeah. I went over there myself.”

“How's she taking it?”

“Bad. They were married twenty-six years.”

More death.

Death everywhere.

Christ.

“What about Kale?” Bryce asked Charlie.

“We think he took a car from the apartment complex across the alley. One's been stolen from that lot. So we put up the roadblocks as soon as we knew Kale slipped, but I figure he had almost an hour's lead on us.”

“Long gone.”

“Probably. If we don't nab the son of a bitch by seven o'clock, I want to call the blocks off. We're so shorthanded what with everything that's going on — we can't keep tying men up on roadblocks.”

“Whatever you think's best,” Bryce said wearily, “What about the San Francisco police? You know — about that message Harold Ordnay left on the mirror up here?”

“That was the other thing I called about. They finally got back to us.”

“Anything useful?”

“Well, they talked to the employees at Ordnay's bookstores. You remember, I told you one of the shops deals strictly in out-of-print and rare books. The assistant manager at that store, name of Celia Meddock, recognized the Timothy Flyte moniker.”

“He's a customer?” Bryce asked.

“No. An author.”

“Author? Of what?”

“One book. Guess the title.”

“How the devil could I… Oh. Of course. The Ancient Enemy.”

“You got it,” Charlie Mercer said.

“What's the book about?”

“That's the best part. Celia Meddock says she thinks it's about mass disappearances throughout history.”

For a moment, Bryce was speechless. Then: “Are you serious? You mean there've been a lot of others?”

“I guess so. At least a bookful of 'em.”

“Where? When? How come I've never heard about them?”

“Meddock said something about the disappearance of ancient Mayan populations—”

(Something stirred in Bryce's mind. An article he had read in an old science magazine. Mayan civilizations. Abandoned cities.)

“—and the Roanoke Colony, which was the first British settlement in North America,” Charlie finished.

“That I've heard about. It's in the schoolbooks.”

“I guess maybe a lot of the other disappearances go back to ancient times,” Charlie said.

“Christ!”

“Yeah. Flyte apparently has some theory to account for such things,” Charlie said. “The book explains it.”

“What's the theory?”

“The Meddock woman didn't know. She hasn't read the book.”

“But Harold Ordnay must've read it. And what he saw happening here in Snowfield must've been exactly what Flyte wrote about. So Ordnay printed the title on the bathroom mirror.”

“So it seems.”

With a rush of excitement, Bryce said, “Did the San Francisco P D. get a copy of the book?”

“Nope. Meddock didn't have one. The only reason she knew about it was because Ordnay recently sold a copy — two, three weeks ago.”

“Can we get a copy?”

“It's out of print. In fact, it never was in print in this country. The copy they sold was British, which is evidently the only edition there ever was — and a small one. It's a rare book.”

“What about the person Ordnay sold it to? The collector. What's his name and address?”

“Meddock doesn't remember. She says the guy's not a heavy customer of theirs. She says Ordnay would probably know.”

“Which doesn't do us one damned bit of good. Listen, Charlie, I've got to get a