stairs. 'Right around here. Just step right around here.'
'But the lab's that way--'
'Yes... but the girl...' And he began to laugh again in great,
loonlike bursts.
'Henry, what is wrong with you?' And now that acidic contempt
was mixed with something else--something that might have been
fear.
That made Henry laugh harder. His laughter echoed and
rebounded, filling the dark basement with a sound like laughing
banshees or demons approving a particularly good jest. 'The girl,
Billie,' Henry said between bursts of helpless laughter. 'That's
what's so funny, the girl, the girl has crawled under the stairs and
won't come out, that what's so funny, ah-heh-heh-hahahahaa--'
And now the dark kerosene of joy lit in her eyes; her lips curled up
like charring paper in what the denizens of hell might call a smile.
And Wilma whispered, 'What did he do to her?'
'You can get her out,' Henry babbled, leading her to the dark.
triangular, gaping maw. 'I'm sure you can get her out, no trouble,
no problem.' He suddenly grabbed Wilma at the nape of the neck
and the waist, forcing her down even as he pushed her into the
space under the stairs.
'What are you doing?' she screamed querulously. 'What are you
doing, Henry?'
'What I should have done a long time ago,' Henry said, laughing.
'Get under there, Wilma. Just tell it to call you Billie, you bitch.'
She tried to turn, tried to fight him. One hand clawed for his wrist--
he saw her spade-shaped nails slice down, but they clawed only
air. 'Stop it, Henry!' She cried. 'Stop it right now! Stop this
foolishness! I--I'll scream!'
'Scream all you want!' he bellowed, still laughing. He raised one
foot, planted it in the center of her narrow and joyless backside,
and pushed. 'I'll help you, Wilma! Come on out! Wake up,
whatever you are! Wake up! Here's your dinner! Poison meat!
Wake up! Wake up!'
Wilma screamed piercingly, an inarticulate sound that was still
more rage than fear.
And then Henry heard it.
First a low whistle, the sound a man might make while working
alone without even being aware of it. Then it rose in pitch, sliding
up the scale to an earsplitting whine that was barely audible. Then
it suddenly descended again and became a growl... and then a
hoarse yammering. It was an utterly savage sound. All his married
life Henry Northrup had gone in fear of his wife, but the thing in
the crate made Wilma sound like a child doing a kindergarten
tantram. Henry had time to think: Holy God, maybe it really is a
Tasmanian devil... it's some kind of devil, anyway.
Wilma began to scream again, but this time it was a sweeter tune--
at least to the ear of Henry Northrup. It was a sound of utter terror.
Her yellow blouse flashed in the dark under the stairs, a vague
beacon. She lunged at the opening and Henry pushed her back,
