Phantoms

copy of that book.”

“I'm working on it,” Charlie said, “But maybe you won't need it. You'll be able to get the whole story from the horse's mouth. Flyte's on his way here from London right now.”

Jenny was sitting on the edge of the central operations desk in the middle of the lobby, gaping at Bryce as he leaned back in his chair; she was amazed by what he had told her. “He's on his way here from London? Now? Already? You mean he knew this was going to happen?”

“Probably not,” Bryce said, “But I guess the minute he heard the news, he knew it was a case that fit his theory.”

“Whatever it is.”

“Whatever.”

Tal was standing in front of the desk. “When's he due in?”

“He'll be in San Francisco shortly after midnight. His U S. publisher has arranged a news conference for him at the airport. Then he'll come straight to Santa Mira.”

“U S. publisher?” Frank Autry said. “I thought you told us his book was never in print over here.”

“It wasn't,” Bryce said, “Evidently, he's writing a new one.”

“About Snowfield?” Jenny asked.

“I don't know. Maybe. Probably.”

“He sure works fast,” Jenny said, frowning, “Less than a day after it happens, he's got a contract to write a book about it.”

“I wish he worked even faster. I wish to God he was here right now.”

Tal said, “I think what Doc means is that this Flyte character might just be another sharp hustler out to make a fast buck.”

“Exactly,” Jenny said.

“Could be,” Bryce admitted, “But don't forget Ordnay wrote Flyte's name on that mirror. In a way, Ordnay's the only witness we have. And from his message, we have to deduce that what happened was very much like the thing Timothy Flyte wrote about.”

“Damn,” Frank said, “If Flyte's really got some information that could help us, he should've called. He shouldn't have made us wait.”

“Yeah,” Tal said, “We could all be dead by midnight. He should have called to tell us what we can do.”

“There's the rub,” Bryce said.

“What do you mean?” Jenny asked.

Bryce sighed. “Well, I have a hunch that Flyte would have called if he could've told us how to protect ourselves. Yeah, I think maybe he knows exactly what sort of creature or force we're dealing with, but I strongly suspect he doesn't have the faintest idea what to do about it. Regardless of how much he can tell us, I suspect he won't be able to tell us the one thing we need to know the most — how to save our asses.”

Jenny and Bryce were having coffee at the operations desk. They were talking about what they had discovered during today's search, trying to make sense of senseless things: the mocking crucifixion of the priest; the bullets all over the kitchen floor of the Sheffield house; the bodies in the locked cars…

Lisa was sitting nearby. She appeared to be totally involved in a crossword puzzle magazine, which she had picked up somewhere along the search route. Suddenly she looked up and said, “I know why the jewelry was piled in those two sinks.”

Jenny and Bryce looked at her expectantly.

“First,” the girl said, bending forward on her chair, “you've got to accept that all the people whore missing are really dead. And they are. Dead. No question about that.”

“But there is some question about that, honey,” he said.

“They're dead,” Lisa said softly, “I know it. So do you.” Her vivid green eyes were almost feverish. “It took them, and it ate them.”

Jenny recalled Lisa's response last night, at the substation, after Bryce had told them about hearing tortured screams on the phone, when it had been in control of the line. Lisa had said, Maybe it spun a web somewhere, down in a dark place, in a cellar or a cave, and maybe it tied all the missing people into its web, sealed them up in cocoons, alive. Maybe it's just saving them until it gets hungry again.

Last night, everyone had stared at the girl, wanting to laugh, but realizing there could be a crazy sort of truth to what she said. Not necessarily a web or cocoons or a giant spider. But something. None of them had wanted to admit it, but the possibility was there. The unknown. The unknown thing. The unknown thing that ate people.

And now Lisa returned to the same theme. “It ate them.”

“But how does that explain the jewelry?” Bryce asked.

“Well,” Lisa said, “after it ate the people, maybe it… maybe it just spit out all that jewelry… the same way you would spit out cherry pits.”

Dr. Sara Yamaguchi walked into the Hilltop Inn, paused to answer a question from one of the guards at the front door, and came across the lobby toward Jenny and Bryce. She was still dressed in her decontamination suit, but she was no longer wearing the helmet, the tank of compressed air, or the waste recycling unit. She was carrying some folded clothes and a thick sheaf of pale green papers.

Jenny and Bryce rose to meet her, and Jenny said, “Doctor, has the quarantine been lifted already?”

“Already? Seems like I've been trapped inside this suit for years.” Dr. Yamaguchi's voice was different from what it had sounded like through the squawk box. It was fragile and sweet. Her voice was even more diminutive than she was. “It feels good to breathe air again.”

“You've run bacteria cultures, haven't you?” Jenny asked.

“Started-to.”

“Well, then… doesn't it take twenty-four to forty-eight hours to get results?”

“Yes. But we've decided it's pointless to wait for the cultures. We're not going to grow any bacteria on them — neither benign bacteria nor otherwise.”

Neither benign bacteria nor otherwise. That peculiar statement intrigued Jenny, but before she could ask about it, the geneticist said:

“Besides, Meddy told us it was safe.”

“Meddy?”

“That's shorthand for Medanacomp,” Dr. Yamaguchi said. “Which is itself short for Medical Analysis and Computation Systems. Our computer. After Meddy assimilated all the data from the autopsies and tests, she gave us a probability figure for biological causation. Meddy says there's a zero point zero chance that a biological agent is involved here.”

“And you trust a computer's analysis enough to breathe air,” Bryce said, clearly surprised.

“In over eight hundred trial runs, Meddy's never been wrong.”

“But this isn't just a trial run,” Jenny said.

“Yes. But after what we found in the autopsies and in all pathology tests…” The geneticist shrugged and handed the sheaf of green papers to Jenny. “Here. It's all in the consults. General Copperfield thought you'd like to see them. If you have any questions, I'll explain. Meanwhile, all the men are up at the field lab, changing out of their decon suits, and I'm itching to do the same. And I do mean itching.” She smiled and scratched her neck. Her gloved fingers left faint red marks on her porcelain-smooth skin. “Is there someway I could wash?”

Jenny said, “We've got soap, towels, and a washbasin set up in one corner of the kitchen. It doesn't offer much privacy, but we're willing to sacrifice a little privacy rather than be alone.”

Dr. Yamaguchi nodded. “Understandable. How do I get to this washbasin?”

Lisa jumped up from her chair, casting aside the crossword puzzle. “I'll show you. And I'll make sure the guys whore working in the kitchen keep their backs turned and their eyes to themselves.”

The pale green papers were computer print-outs that had been cut into eleven-inch pages, numbered, and clipped together along the left-hand margin with plastic pressure binding.

With Bryce looking over her shoulder, Jenny leafed through the first section of the report, which was a