They fell silent.
He listened intently.
Nothing.
The cold air smelled of grease and dust. He could see nothing, but he assumed a car or two occupied that space.
Although he was not afraid, he was beginning to feel foolish. How had he gotten himself into this predicament? He was a grown man, an FBI agent trained in a variety of self-defense techniques, carrying a revolver with which he possessed considerable expertise, yet he was hiding in a garage from four kids. He had gotten there because he had acted instinctively, and he usually trusted instinct implicitly but this was—
He heard furtive movement along the outer wall of the garage. He tensed. Scraping footsteps. Approaching the small door at which he stood. As far as Sam could tell, he was hearing only one of the kids.
Leaning back, holding the knob in both hands, Sam pulled the door tight against the jamb.
The footsteps stopped in front of him.
He held his breath.
A second ticked by, two seconds, three.
Try the damn lock and move on, Sam thought irritably.
He was feeling more foolish by the second and was on the verge of confronting the kid. He could pop out of the garage as if he were a jack-in-the-box, probably scare the hell out of the punk, and send him screaming into the night.
Then he heard a voice on the other side of the door, inches from him, and although he did not know what in God’s name he was hearing, he knew at once that he had been wise to trust to instinct, wise to go to ground and hide. The voice was thin, raspy, utterly chilling, and the urgent cadences of the speech were those of a frenzied psychotic or a junkie long over-due for a fix:
“Burning, need, need…”
He seemed to be talking to himself and was perhaps unconscious of speaking, as a man in a fever might babble deliriously.
A hard object scraped down the outside of the wooden door. Sam tried to imagine what it was.
“Feed the fire, fire, feed it, feed,” the kid said in a thin, frantic voice that was partly a whisper and partly a whine and partly a low and menacing growl. It was not much like the voice of any teenager Sam had ever heard—or any adult, for that matter.
In spite of the cold air, his brow was covered with sweat.
The unknown object scraped down the door again.
Was the kid armed? Was it a gun barrel being drawn along the wood? The blade of a knife? Just a stick?
“… burning, burning …”
A claw?
That was a crazy idea. Yet he could not shake it. In his mind was the clear image of a sharp and hornlike claw—a talon-gouging splinters from the door as it carved a line in the wood.
Sam held tightly to the knob. Sweat trickled down his temples.
At last the kid tried the door. The knob twisted in Sam’s grip, but he would not let it move much.
“… oh, God, it burns, hurts, oh God …”
Sam was finally afraid. The kid sounded so damned weird. Like a PCP junkie flying out past the orbit of Mars somewhere, only worse than that, far stranger and more dangerous than any angel-dust freak. Sam was scared because he didn’t know what the hell he was up against.
The kid tried to pull the door open.
Sam held it tight against the jamb.
Quick, frenetic words “… feed the fire, feed the fire …”
I wonder if he can smell me in here? Sam thought, and under the circumstances that bizarre idea seemed no crazier than the image of the kid with claws.
Sam’s heart was hammering. Stinging perspiration seeped into the corners of his eyes. The muscles in his neck, shoulders, and arms ached fiercely; he was straining much harder than necessary to keep the door shut.
After a moment, apparently deciding that his quarry was not in the garage after all, the kid gave up. He ran along the side of the building, back toward the alley. As he hurried away, a barely audible keening issued from him; it was a sound of pain, need … and animal excitement. He was struggling to contain that low cry, but it escaped him anyway.
Sam heard cat-soft footsteps approaching from several directions. The other three would-be muggers rejoined the kid in the alley, and their whispery voices were filled with the same frenzy that had marked his, though they were too far away now for Sam to hear what they were saying. Abruptly, they fell silent and, a moment later, as if they were members of a wolfpack responding instinctively to the scent of game or danger, they ran as one along the alleyway, heading north. Soon their sly footsteps faded, and again the night was grave-still.
For several minutes after the pack left, Sam stood in the dark garage, holding fast to the doorknob.
15
The dead boy was sprawled in an open drainage ditch along the county road on the southeast side of Moonlight Cove. His frostwhite face was spotted with blood. In the glare of the two tripod-mounted police lamps flanking the ditch, his wide eyes stared unblinkingly at a shore immeasurably more distant than the nearby Pacific.
Standing by one of the hooded lamps, Loman Watkins looked down at the small corpse, forcing himself to bear witness to the death of Eddie Valdoski because Eddie, only eight years old, was his godson. Loman had gone to high school with Eddie’s father, George, and in a strictly platonic sense he had been in love with Eddie’s mother, Nella, for almost twenty years. Eddie had been a great kid, bright and inquisitive and well behaved. Had been. But now … Hideously bruised, savagely bitten, scratched and torn, neck broken, the boy was little more than a pile of decomposing trash, his promising potential destroyed, his flame snuffed, deprived of life—and life of him.
Of the innumerable terrible things Loman had encountered in twenty-one years of police work, this was perhaps the worst. And because of his personal relationship with the victim, he should have been deeply shaken if not devastated. Yet he was barely affected by the sight of the small, battered body. Sadness, regret, anger, and a flurry of other emotions touched him, but only lightly and briefly, the way unseen fish might brush past a swimmer in a dark sea. Of grief, which should have pierced him like nails, he felt nothing.
Barry Sholnick, one of the new officers on the recently expanded Moonlight Cove police force, straddled the ditch, one foot on each bank, and took a photograph of Eddie Valdoski For an instant the boy’s glazed eyes were silvery with a reflection of the flash.
Loman’s growing inability to feel was, strangely, the one thing that evoked strong feelings: It scared the shit out of him. Lately he was increasingly frightened by his emotional detachment, an unwanted but apparently irreversible hardening of the heart that would soon leave him with auricles of marble and ventricles of common stone.
He was one of the New People now, different in many ways from the man he had once been. He still looked the same five-ten, squarely built, with a broad and remarkably innocent face for a man in his line of work—but he wasn’t only what he appeared to be. Perhaps a greater control of emotions, a more stable and analytical outlook, was an unanticipated benefit of the Change. But was that really beneficial? Not to feel? Not to grieve?
Though the night was chilly, sour sweat broke out on his face, the back of his neck, and under his arms.
Dr. Ian Fitzgerald, the coroner, was busy elsewhere, but Victor Callan, owner of Callan’s Funeral Home and the assistant coroner, was helping another officer, Jules Timmerman, scour the ground between the ditch and the nearby woods. They were looking for clues that the killer might have left behind.
Actually they were just putting on a show for the benefit of the score of area residents who had gathered on the far side of the road. Even if clues were found, no one would be arrested for the crime. No trial would ever take place. If they found Eddie’s killer, they would cover for him and deal with him in their own way, in order to conceal the existence of the New People from those who had not yet undergone the Change. Because without doubt the killer was what Thomas Shaddack called a “regressive,” one of the New People gone bad. Very bad.
Loman turned awa
y from the dead boy. He walked back along the county road, toward the Valdoski house, which was a few hundred yards north and veiled in mist.
He ignored the onlookers, although one of them called to him “Chief? What the hell’s going on, Chief?”
This was a semirural area barely within the town limits. The houses were widely separated, and their scattered lights did little to hold back the night. Before he was halfway to the Valdoski place, though he was within hailing distance of the men at the crime scene, he felt isolated. Trees, tortured by ages of sea wind on nights far less calm than this one, bent toward the two-lane road, their scraggly branches overhanging the gravel shoulder on which he walked. He kept imagining movement in the dark boughs above him, and in the blackness and fog between the twisted trunks of the trees.
He put his hand on the butt of the revolver that was holstered at his side.
Loman Watkins had been the chief of police in Moonlight Cove for nine years, and in the past month more blood had been spilled in his jurisdiction than in the entire preceding eight years and eleven months. He was convinced that worse was coming. He had a hunch that the regressives were more numerous and more of a problem that Shaddack realized—or was willing to admit.
He feared the regressives almost as much as he feared his own new, cool, dispassionate perspective.
Unlike happiness and grief and joy and sorrow, stark fear was a survival mechanism, so perhaps he would not lose touch with it as thoroughly as he was losing touch with other emotions. That thought made him as uneasy as did the phantom movement in the trees.
Is fear, he wondered, the only emotion that will thrive in this brave new world we’re making?
16
After a greasy cheeseburger, soggy fries, and an icy bottle of Dos Equis in the deserted coffee shop at Cove Lodge, Tessa Lockland returned to her room, propped herself up in bed with pillows, and called her mother in San Diego. Marion answered the phone on the first ring, and Tessa said, “Hi, Mom.”
“Where are you, Teejay?”
As a kid, Tessa could never decide whether she wanted to be called by her first name or her middle, Jane, so her mother always called her by her initials, as if that were a name in itself.
“Cove Lodge,” Tessa said.
“Is it nice?”
“It’s the best I could find. This isn’t a town that worries about having first-rate tourist facilities. If it didn’t have such a spectacular view, Cove Lodge is one of those places that would be able to survive only by showing closed-circuit porn movies on the TV and renting rooms by the hour.”
“Is it clean?”
“Reasonably.”
“If it wasn’t clean, I’d insist you move out right now.”
“Mom, when I’m on location, shooting a film, I don’t always have luxury accommodations, you know. When I did that documentary on the Miskito Indians in Central America, I went on hunts with them and slept in the mud.”
“Teejay, dear, you must never tell people that you slept in the mud. Pigs sleep in the mud. You must say you roughed it or camped out, but never that you slept in the mud. Even unpleasant experiences can be worthwhile if one keeps one’s sense of dignity and style.”
“Yes, Mom, I know. My point was that Cove Lodge isn’t great, but it’s better than sleeping in the mud.”
“Camping out.”
“Better than camping out,” Tessa said.
Both were silent a moment. Then Marion said, “Dammit, I should be there with you.”
“Mom, you’ve got a broken leg.”
“I should have gone to Moonlight Cove as soon as I heard they’d found poor Janice. If I’d been there, they wouldn’t have cremated the body. By God, they wouldn’t! I’d have stopped that, and I’d have arranged another autopsy by trustworthy authorities, and now there’d be no need for you to get involved. I’m so angry with myself.”
Tessa slumped back in the pillows and sighed.
“Mom, don’t do this to yourself. You broke your leg three days before Janice’s body was even found. You can’t travel easily now, and you couldn’t travel easily then, either. It’s not your fault.”
“There was a time when a broken leg couldn’t have stopped me.”
“You’re not twenty any more, Mom.”
“Yes, I know, I’m old,” Marion said miserably.
“Sometimes I think about how old I am, and it’s scary.”
“You’re only sixty-four, you look not a day past fifty, and you broke your leg skydiving, for God’s sake, so you’re not going to get any pity from me.”
“Comfort and pity is what an elderly parent expects from a good daughter. If you caught me calling you elderly or treating you with pity, you’d kick my ass halfway to China.”
“The chance to kick a daughter’s ass now and then is one of the pleasures of a mother’s later life, Teejay. Damn, where did that tree come from, anyway? I’ve been skydiving for thirty years, and I’ve never landed in a tree before, and I swear it wasn’t there when I looked down on the final approach to pick my drop spot.”
Though a certain amount of the Lockland family’s unshakable optimism and spirited approach to life came from Tessa’s late father, Bernard, a large measure of it—with a full measure of indomitability as well—flowed from Marion’s gene pool.
Tessa said, “Tonight, just after I got here, I went down to the beach where they found her.”
“This must be awful for you, Teejay.”
“I can handle it.”
When Janice died, Tessa had been traveling in rural regions of Afghanistan, researching the effects of genocidal war on the Afghan people and culture, intending to script a documentary on that subject. Her mother had been unable to get word of Janice’s death to Tessa until two weeks after the body washed upon the shore of Moonlight Cove. Five days ago, on October 8, she had flown out of Afghanistan with a sense of having failed her sister somehow. Her load of guilt was at least as heavy as her mother’s, but what she said was true: She could handle it.
“You were right, Mom. The official version stinks.”
“What’ve you learned?”
“Nothing yet. But I stood right there on the sand, where she was supposed to have taken the Valium, where she set out on her last swim, where they found her two days later, and I knew their whole story was garbage. I feel it in my guts, Mom. And one way or another, I’m going to find out what really happened.”
“You’ve got to be careful, dear.”
“I will.”
“If Janice was … murdered—”
“I’ll be okay.”
“And if, as we suspect, the police up there can’t be trusted …”
“Mom, I’m five feet four, blond, blue-eyed, perky, and about as dangerous-looking as a Disney chipmunk. All my life I’ve had to work against my looks to be taken seriously. Women all want to mother me or be my big sister, and men either want to be my father or get me in the sack, but damned few can see immediately through the exterior and realize I’ve got a brain that is, I strongly believe, bigger than that of a gnat; usually they have to know me a while. So I’ll just use my appearance instead of struggling against it. No one here will see me as a threat.”
“You’ll stay in touch?”
“Of course.”
“If you feel you’re in danger, just leave, get out.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Promise you won’t stay if it’s dangerous,” Marion persisted.
“I promise. But you have to promise me that you won’t jump out of any more airplanes for a while.”
“I’m too old for that, dear. I’m elderly now. Ancient. I’m going to have to pursue interests suitable to my age. I’ve always wanted to learn to water-ski, for instance, and that documentary you did on dirt-bike racing made those little motorcycles look like so much fun.”
“I love you to pieces, Mom.”
“I love you, Teejay. More than life itself.”
“I’ll make them pay for Janice.”
/> “If there’s anyone who deserves to pay. Just remember, Teejay, that our Janice is gone, but you’re still here, and your first allegiance should never be to the dead.”
17
George Valdoski sat at the formica-topped kitchen table. Though his work-scarred hands were clasped tightly around a glass of whiskey, he could not prevent them from trembling; the surface of the amber bourbon shivered constantly.
When Loman Watkins entered and closed the door behind him, George didn’t even look up. Eddie had been his only child.
George was tall, solid in the chest and shoulders. Thanks to deeply and closely set eyes, a thin-lipped mouth, and sharp features, he had a hard, mean look in spite of his general handsomeness. His forbidding appearance was deceptive, however, for he was a sensitive man, soft-spoken and kind.
“How you doin’?” Loman asked.
George bit his lower lip and nodded as if to say that he would get through this nightmare, but he did not meet Loman’s eyes.
“I’ll look in on Nella,” Loman said.
This time George didn’t even nod.
As Loman crossed the too-bright kitchen, his hard-soled shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor. He paused at the doorway to the small dining room and looked back at his friend.
“We’ll find the bastard, George. I swear we will.”
At last George looked up from the whiskey. Tears shimmered in his eyes, but he would not let them flow. He was a proud, hardheaded Pole, determined to be strong. He said, “Eddie was playin’ in the backyard toward dusk, just right out there in the backyard, where you could see him if you looked out any window, right in his own yard. When Nelia called him for supper just after dark, when he didn’t come or answer, we thought he’d gone to one of the neighbors’ to play with some other kids, without asking like he should’ve.” He had related all of this before, more than once, but he seemed to need to go over it again and again, as if repetition would wear down the ugly reality and thereby change it as surely as ten thousand playings of a tape cassette would eventually scrape away the music and leave a hiss of white noise.
“We started looking’ for him, couldn’t find him, wasn’t scared at first; in fact we were a little angry with him; but then we got worried and then scared, and I was just about to call you for help when we found him there in the ditch, sweet Jesus, all torn up in the ditch.” He took a deep breath and another, and the pent-up tears glistened brightly in his eyes.
“What kind of monster would do that to a child, take him away somewhere and do that, and then be cruel enough to bring him back here and drop him where we’d find him? Had to’ve been that way, ‘cause we’d have heard … heard the screaming if the bastard had done all that to Eddie right here somewheres. Had to’ve taken him away, done all that, then brought him back so we’d find him. What kind of man, Loman? For God’s sake, what kind of man?”
“Psychotic,” Loman said, as he had said before, and that much was true. The regressives were psychotic. Shaddack had coined a term for their condition metamorphic-related psychosis.
“Probably on drugs,” he added, and he was lying now. Drugs—at least the conventional illegal pharmacopoeia—had nothing to do with Eddie’s death. Loman was still surprised at how easy it was for him to lie to a close friend, something that he had once been unable to do. The immorality of lying was a concept more suited to the Old People and their turbulently emotional world. Old-fashioned concepts of what was immoral might ultimately have no meaning to the New People, for if they changed as Shaddack believed they would, efficiency and expediency and maximum performance would be the only moral absolutes.
“The country’s rotten with drug freaks these days. Burnt-out brains. No morals, no goals but cheap thrills. They’re our inheritance from the recent Age of Do Your Own Thing. This guy was a drug-disoriented freak, George, and I swear we’ll get him.”
George looked down at his whiskey again. He drank some.
Then to himself more than to Loman, he said, “Eddie was playin’ in the backyard toward dusk, just right out there in the backyard, where you could see