The waiter brought croissants.

Outside, lightning stepped quickly down the somber sky and put its spiked foot to the earth in another part of the city; its blazing descent was accompanied by a terrible crash and roar that echoed across the entire firmament.

Sandier said, “If subsequent to the publication of your book, there had been a new, startling mass disappearance, it would have lent considerable credibility-”

“Ah,” Flyte interrupted, tapping the table emphatically with one stiff finger, “but there have been such disappearances!”

“But surely they would have been splashed all over the front page-”

“I am aware of two instances. There may be others,” Flyte insisted, “One of them involved the disappearance of masses of lower lifeforms-specifically, fish. It was remarked on in the press, but not with any great interest. Politics, murder, sex, and two-headed goats are the only things newspapers care to report about. You have to read scientific journals to know what's really happening. That's how I know that, eight years ago, marine biologists noted a dramatic decrease in fish population in one region of the Pacific. Indeed, the numbers of some species had been cut in half. Within certain scientific circles, there was panic at first, some fear that ocean temperatures might be undergoing a sudden change that would depopulate the seas of all but the hardiest species. But that proved not to be the case. Gradually, sea life in that area-which covered hundreds of square miles-replenished itself. In the end no one could explain what had happened to the millions upon millions of creatures that had vanished.”

“Pollution,” Sandler suggested, between alternating sips of orange juice and champagne.

Dabbing marmalade on a piece of croissant, Flyte said, “No, no, no. No, sir. It would have required the most massive case of water pollution in history to cause such a devastating depopulation over that wide an area. An accident on that scale could not go unnoticed. But there were no accidents, no oil spills-nothing. Indeed, a mere oil spill could not have accounted for it; the affected region and the volume of water was too vast for that. And dead fish did not wash up on the beaches. They merely vanished without a trace.”

Burt Sandler was excited. He could smell money. He had hunches about some books, and none of his hunches had ever been wrong. (Well, except for that diet book by the movie star who, a week before publication day, died of malnutrition after subsisting for six months on little more than grapefruit, papaya, raisin toast, and carrots.) There was a surefire best-seller in this: two or three hundred thousand copies in hardcover, perhaps even more; two million in paperback. If he could persuade Flyte to popularize and update the dry academic material in The Ancient Enemy, the professor would be able to afford his own champagne for many years to come.

“You said you were aware of two mass disappearances since the publication of your book,” Sandier said, encouraging him to continue.

“The other was in Africa in 1980. Between three and four thousand primitive tribes – men, women, and children – vanished from a relatively remote area of central Africa. Their villages were found empty; they had abandoned all their possessions, including large stores of food. They seemed to have just run off into the bush. The only signs of violence were a few broken pieces of pottery. Of course, mass disappearances in that part of the world are dismayingly more frequent than they once were, primarily due to political violence. Cuban mercenaries, operating with Soviet weaponry, have been assisting in the liquidation of whole tribes that are unwilling to put their ethnic identities second to the revolutionary purpose. But when entire villages are slaughtered for political purposes, they are always looted, then burned, and the bodies are always interred in mass graves. There was no looting in this instance, no burning, no bodies to be found. So ten weeks later, game wardens in that district reported an inexplicable decrease in the wildlife population. No one connected it to the missing villagers; it was reported as a separate phenomenon.”

“But you know differently.”

“Well, I suspect differently,” Flyte said, putting strawberry jam on a last bit of croissant.

“Most of these disappearances seem to occur in remote areas,” Sandler said. “Which makes verification difficult.”

“Yes. That was thrown in my face as well. Actually, most incidents probably occur at sea, for the sea covers the largest part of the earth. The sea can be as remote as the moon, and much of what takes place beneath the waves is beyond our notice. Yet don't forget the two stories I mentioned-the Chinese and Spanish. Those disappearances took place within the context of modern civilization. And if tens of thousands of Mayans fell victim to the ancient enemy whose existence I've theorized, then that was a case in which entire cities, hearts of civilization, were attacked with frightening boldness.”

“You think it could happen now, today”

“No question about it!”

“-in a place like New York or even here in London?”

“Certainly! It could happen virtually anywhere that has the geological underpinnings I outlined in my book.”

They both sipped champagne, thinking.

The rain hammered on the windows with greater fury than before.

Sandier was not certain he believed in the theories Flyte had propounded in The Ancient Enemy. He knew they could form the basis for a wildly successful book written in a popular vein, but that didn't mean he had to believe in them. He didn't really want to believe. Believing was like opening the door to Hell.

He looked at Flyte, who was straightening his wilted carnation again, and he said, “It gives me the chills.”

“It should,” Flyte said, nodding, “It should.”

The waiter came with the eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast.

Chapter 19 – The Dead of Night

The inn was a fortress. Bryce was satisfied with the preparations that had been made.

At last, after two hours of arduous labor, he sat down at a table in the cafeteria, sipping decaffeinated coffee from a white ceramic mug on which was emblazoned the blue crest of the hotel.

By one-thirty in the morning, with the help of the ten deputies who had arrived from Santa Mira, much had been accomplished. One of the, two rooms had been converted into a dormitory; twenty mattresses were lined up on the floor, enough to accommodate any single shift of the investigative team, even after General Copperfield's people arrived. In the other half of the restaurant, a couple of buffet tables had been set up at one end, where a cafeteria line could be formed at mealtimes. The kitchen had been cleaned and put in order. The large lobby had been converted into an enormous operations center, with desks, makeshift desks, typewriters, filing cabinets, bulletin boards, and a big map of Snowfield.

Furthermore, the inn had been given a thorough security inspection, and steps had been taken to prevent a break-in by the enemy. The two rear entrances-one through the kitchen, one through the lobby-were locked, and additionally secured with slanted two-by-fours, which were wedged under the crashbars and nailed to the frames; Bryce had ordered that extra precaution to avoid wasting guards at those entrances. The door to the emergency stairs was similarly sealed off-, nothing could enter the higher floors of the hotel and come down upon them by surprise. Now, only a pair of small elevators connected the lobby level to the three upper floors, and two guards were stationed there. Another guard stood at the front entrance. A detail of four men had ascertained that all upstairs rooms were empty. Another detail had determined that all of the ground floor windows were locked; most of them were painted shut, as well. Nevertheless, the windows were points of weakness in their fortifications.

At least, Bryce thought, if anything tries to get inside the window, we'll have the sound of breaking glass to warn us.

A host of other details had been attended to. Stu Wargle's mutilated corpse had been temporarily stored in a utility room that adjoined the lobby. Bryce had drawn up a duty roster, and had structured twelve-hour work shifts for the next three days, should the crisis last that long. Finally, he couldn't think of anything more that could be done until first light.

Now he sat alone at one of the round tables in the dining room, sipping Sanka, trying to make sense of the night's events. His mind kept circling back to one unwanted thought:

His brain was gone. His blood was sucked out of him every damned drop.

He shook off the sickening image of Wargle's mined face, got up, went for more coffee, then returned to the table.

The inn was very quiet.

At another table, three of the night shift men-Miguel Hernandez, Sam Potter, and Henry Wong-were playing cards, but they weren't talking much. When they did speak, it was almost in whispers.

The inn was very quiet.

The inn was a fortress.

The inn was a fortress, damn it.

But was it safe?

Lisa chose a mattress in a corner of the dormitory, where her back would be up against a blank wall.

Jenny unfolded one of the two blankets stacked at the foot of the mattress, and draped it over the girl.

“Want the other one?”

“No,” Lisa said, “This'll be enough. It feels funny, though, going to bed with all my clothes on.”

“Things'll get back to normal pretty soon,” she said, but even as she spoke she realized how stupid that statement was.

“Are you going to sleep now?”

“Not quite yet.”

“I wish you would,” Lisa said, “I wish you'd lay down right there on the next mattress.”

“You're not alone, honey.” Jenny smoothed the girl's hair.

A few deputies-including Tal Whitman, Gordy Brogan, and Frank Autrey-had bedded down on other mattresses. There were also three heavily armed guards who would watch over everyone throughout the night.

“Will they turn the lights down any farther?” Lisa asked.

“No. We can't risk darkness.”

“Good. They're dim enough. Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?” Lisa asked, seeming much younger than fourteen.

“Sure.”

“And talk to me.”

“Sure. But we'll talk softly, so we don't disturb anyone.”

Jenny lay down beside her sister, her head propped up on one hand. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don't care. Anything. Anything except… tonight.”

“Well, there is something I want to ask you,” Jenny said.

“It's not about tonight, but it's about something you said tonight. Remember when we were sitting on the bench in front of the jail, waiting for the sheriff? Remember how we were talking about Mom, and you said Mom used to… used to brag about me?”

Lisa smiled. “Her daughter, the doctor. Oh, she was so proud of you, Jenny.”

As it had done before, that statement unsettled Jenny.

“And Mom never blamed me for Dad's stroke?” she asked.

Lisa frowned. “Why would she blame you?”

“Well… because I guess I caused him some heartache there for a while. Heartache and a lot of worry.”

“You?” Lisa asked, astonished.

“And when Dad's doctor couldn't control his high blood pressure and then he had a stroke-”

“According to Mom, the only thing you ever did bad in your entire life was when you decided to give the calico cat a black dye job for Halloween and you got Clairol all over the sun porch furniture.”

Jenny laughed with surprise. “I'd forgotten that. I was only eight years old.”

They smiled at each other, and in that moment they felt more than ever like sisters.

Then Lisa said, “Why'd you think Mom blamed you for Daddy's dying? It was natural causes, wasn't it? A stroke. How could it possibly have been your fault?”

Jenny hesitated, thinking back thirteen years to the start of it. That her mother had never blamed her for her father's death was a profoundly liberating realization. She felt free for the first time since she'd been nineteen.

“Jenny?”

“Mmmm?”

“Are you crying?”

“No, I'm okay,” she said, fighting back tears, “If Mom didn't hold it against me, I guess I've been wrong to hold it against myself I'm just happy, honey. Happy about what you've told me.”

“But what was it you thought you did? If we're going to be good sisters, we shouldn't keep secrets. Tell me, Jenny.”

“It's a long story, Sis. I'll tell you about it eventually, but not now. Now I want to hear all about you.”

They talked about trivialities for a few minutes, and Lisa's eyes grew steadily heavier.

Jenny was reminded of Bryce Hammond's gentle, hooded eyes.

And of Jakob and Aida Liebermann's eyes, glaring out of their severed heads.

And Deputy Wargle's eyes. Gone. Those burnt-out, empty sockets in that hollow skull.

She tried to force her thoughts away when that gruesomeness, from that too-well-remembered, grim reaper's gaze. But her mind kept circling back to that image of monstrous violence and death.

She wished there were someone to talk her to sleep as she was doing for Lisa. It was going to be a restless night.

In the utility room that adjoined the lobby and backed up against the elevator shaft, the light was off. There were no windows.

A faint odor of cleaning fluids clung to the place. Pinesol. Lysol. Furniture polish. Floor wax. Janitorial supplies were stored on shelves along one wall.

In the right-hand corner, farthest from the door, was a large metal sink. Water dripped from a leaky faucet-one drop every ten or twelve seconds. Each pellet of water struck the metal basin with a soft, hollow ping.

In the center of the room, as shrouded in utter blackness as was everything else, the faceless body of Stu Wargle lay on a table, covered by a dropcloth. All was still. Except for the monotonous ping of the dripping water.

A breathless anticipation hung in the air.

Frank Autry huddled under the blanket, his eyes closed, and he thought about Ruth. Tall, willowy, sweet-faced Ruthie. Ruthie with the quiet yet crisp voice, Ruthie with the throaty laugh that most people found infectious, his wife of twenty-six years: She was the only woman he had ever loved; he still loved her.

He had spoken with her by telephone for a few minutes, just before turning in for the night. He had not been able to tell her much about what was happening-just that there was a siege situation underway in Snowfield, that it was being kept quiet as long as possible, and that by the look of it he wouldn't be home tonight. Ruthie hadn't pressed him for details. She had been a good army wife through all his years in the service. She still was.

Thinking of Ruth was his primary psychological defense mechanism. In times of stress, in times of fear and pain and depression, he simply thought of Ruth, concentrated solely on her, and the strife-filled world faded. For a man who had spent so much of his life engaged in dangerous work-for a man whose occupations had seldom allowed him to forget that death was an intimate part of life, a woman like Ruth was indispensable medicine, an inoculation against despair.