Jack narrowed his gaze. Tina had been flirting a little, but Alan was glad to see that for once it had not had the effect she had wanted. Not by the look the kid gave her.
"Actually, we were concerned because of the murders," Molly explained, pushing her hair away from her face.
Alan froze. "Murders?"
"That mailman and the other guy," Jack explained. "We read it in the papers down in Boston, but we didn't want to change our plans so late. That's what I meant about precautions. Should we be concerned?"
"I . . . I don't think so," Alan said hurriedly. "Isolated incidents, you know?"
"Any theories?" Molly prodded.
For a moment Alan felt as though he were being interrogated. Something gleamed in Molly's green eyes, a fire that added weight to her questions.
"A few," he said evenly, more confident now. He was the law in Buckton. Part of that job meant keeping the peace, and part of keeping the peace was keeping the people calm. "If you're experienced hikers, you should have no problem. Just keep to the trails and watch for wild animals."
"What kind of wild animals?" Jack asked.
"Coyotes. Bobcats, though they don't really bother people as long as you don't try to pet them."
"Lions and tigers and bears," Molly said with a small laugh.
Yet the laugh sounded hollow to Alan.
"No lions or tigers, but possibly bears," Tina put in. "There may have been a sighting or two in the last couple of weeks. They're not uncommon up this way."
A sudden and unwelcome silence fell over the lobby. It was slow this time of year, and Alan found himself wishing for an interruption, even another phone call from Mick. After a moment, though, Tina smiled again.
"Well, you two will be all right, I'm sure. So, would you like to check in?"
"That'd be great, thanks," Jack said.
Molly shuffled closer to the counter and blushed fiercely. "Do you have a room with two beds?"
Tina raised an eyebrow toward Jack, then smiled at Molly. "I think we can take care of you, hon."
Before she went on, she glanced over at Alan. "So, eight o'clock at the Empire? What are we seeing again?"
"To Catch a Thief," he replied, distracted now by thoughts of their date later. "It's finally been restored."
"I'll meet you there," she told him, and in her tone was an obvious dismissal.
Alan lingered for just another moment, as Tina checked in the Buckton Inn's unexpected guests. Then he smiled at her and went out the front door and down to his patrol car.
He had an hour before they were supposed to meet for the movie. More than likely, Tina would be late. Alan took one cruise through downtown Buckton before heading home to change. Though he was really looking forward to spending more time with Tina, and going to the movie, he had a hard time getting Jack and Molly out of his head. Some of the people in Buckton - most of them, he mentally conceded - had a disdain or at least a dislike for out-of-towners. Alan did not feel that way at all. But he was a sheriff 's deputy, an officer of the law, and he had been trained to trust his instincts.
His instincts told him that there was something off about those two. Alan decided it would be a good idea to keep an eye on them.
He had a feeling that they were either going to get into trouble, or they'd brought it with them.
Though he was only three weeks shy of seventy-three, nothing gave Kenny Oberst more pleasure than watching cartoons. When cable television came through town a few years earlier, the only reason he had gotten it was in order to watch the Cartoon Network and others. He didn't just like the shows from his youth, either - though they were his favorites. He also liked the new stuff on Nickelodeon.
Kenny Oberst thought of himself as a cartoon connoisseur.
In his little two-bedroom house on Elm Street, just a few blocks away from the town library - where he had worked as librarian for more than fifty years - was a veritable second library, though this one was more eccentric. He had hundreds of videotapes of various cartoons, some of them quite rare.
Tonight, Kenny was treating himself. He had managed to get his hands on a tape of Max Fleischer's Superman cartoons that had been made from the originals. It was pristine, better-looking than anything he had ever seen broadcast on television. He had seen the first of those cartoons way back in 1941 at the Empire Theatre downtown, and seeing them so sharp and clear now made him feel, just for the time he was watching them, that the little boy he had been was perhaps not so far from him now.
Fleischer's Superman was extraordinary, a feat of animation that Kenny firmly believed modern cartoonists, particularly those with computers, ought to pay more attention to.
In an old leather recliner whose seat cushion hid years of stale popcorn - his other great weakness - Kenny sat with a cold Michelob in one hand and the remote control in the other and slipped back into another time. The room was filled with videos, leafy plants on high pedestals, and books he had not gotten around to returning to the library. Not that he was concerned - in fifty-two years, he had never fined himself, despite his chronic tardiness.
When the first knock came at the door, Kenny did not even notice. He was an old man now, and his hearing was not what it had once been. The volume on the television was up too loud as it was, though he had no neighbors close enough to complain.
Only when the rapping came a third time, and hard enough to shake the door on its hinges, did Kenny glance over and realize he had company.
His mouth twisted into a grimace as he pressed the pause button on the remote control. With a sigh, he put down the recliner and stood up. Beer still in hand, he walked to the door and opened it.
Kenny blinked in surprise. "Well, I'll be," he said pleasantly, but also a bit mystified. "How long has it been since you showed up on my front step?"
"A long time," the man at the door replied. "A very long time. May I come in?"
"'Course you can!" Kenny told him amiably. "Why, what a surprise. Hey, come here a second." He led the way into the living room and gestured toward the frozen picture on the television set. "Remember those?"
The man studied the television for a moment, then shrugged. "Superman. But I can't say I remember that particular cartoon. That's always been your passion."
"Sure has," Kenny replied proudly. He sat back down in his recliner, though he didn't lean back. He thought that might be rude. With a sweep of his hand, he indicated that his guest should take the sofa, and the man did so, first stacking some books to clear himself a seat.
Kenny glanced suddenly at his beer, and felt a bit guilty. "Say, can I get you a beer or something?"
"No, thank you," his visitor replied. "I'm not going to stay long. I only came to ask one question."
The cartoon started up again unannounced, music blaring, narrator moaning dramatically about Superman. Kenny shot his guest a sheepish glance and clicked the stop button on the remote.
"Sorry," he said. "It just does that if you leave it too long. So, what was your question?"
The man smiled. His teeth gleamed in the light from the white snow static on the television.
"Where's the book?" he asked.
Kenny frowned. He did not recall having borrowed a book from this man. In truth, he had not had any conversation of real substance with his visitor for many years.
"Come again?"
Again with that smile. "Foster Marlin stole a book from me. Word has it that he may have come to see you before he died. I want to know if he gave you anything, or told you anything about the whereabouts of my book."
"Foster?" Kenny asked stupidly. "What the hell's he got to do with some book?"
The guest glared at him, eyebrows raised, looking sinister. Kenny shifted uncomfortably in his chair and put the beer down on the tray table, hoping to look more sincere about things himself.
"He stole it from me. He came to see you before he . . . died."
For one seemingly eternal moment, Kenny was stumped. He stared at his guest, shaking his head. T
hen a flicker of memory raced through his mind like a ghost in a darkened hallway. His eyes went wide.
"Wait," he said, backing up into his chair.
"Yes?" the man asked, a grin on his face. He leaned forward, almost coming off the couch. "We've known each other a long time, Kenny. If you have something to say, by all means, spit it out."
Kenny shook his head. "Look, I don't know about him stealing anything. Don't you think I would have said something? But he said he'd found this book, he wanted to show me. Said he was going to make a lot of money with what was written inside it. Secrets, he said. Secrets about this town. The people here. I didn't want anything to do with it."
"That was wise," his visitor told him.
"Yeah," Kenny replied, nervous but uncertain as to the cause of his anxiety. It was not as though he had done anything wrong.
"You knew Foster. Where would he have hidden such a thing if he wanted to hide it?"
Kenny shrugged. "I don't know. Could have hidden it anywhere, I guess. Thing about Foster, though, he wasn't all that inventive. Not dumb, mind you, but he usually figured his first idea was his best one. If he wanted to hide something, it shouldn't be difficult to find. Hide in plain sight, that's what he would have done."
His guest glanced slowly around the room, eyes narrowed. "You have an awful lot of books here, Kenny. Are you certain that while he was here with you, he did not hide anything in your house, getting you in trouble?"
"Trouble?" Kenny frowned angrily. "Look, like you said, we've known each other a long time. You know if I had this thing I'd give it to you."
"Maybe you don't know you have it."
"It's not here. Trust me. I know my house, and I especially know my books and my videos. Wherever Foster hid the thing, it wasn't here."
"But you don't mind if I have a look around, do you, old friend?"
Kenny bristled. He picked up his beer and took a long pull from the bottle. He wiped his hand across his mouth and glared at the visitor, who suddenly seemed more like an intruder.
"You know, I do mind," Kenny told him bluntly. "I don't have the damn thing, and I think you should go now."
The visitor shook his head. "I'm sorry to hear that."
He stood up. Even as he did so, he began to change. Thick hair or fur sprouted right up through his skin, tearing it away as though it were made of tissue paper. His face bulged as though he were holding his breath, and then it stretched with a sound like ice cracking, and pushed out to become a snout. The horrifying, slavering beast began to snarl and snap its jaws as it dropped to all fours.
Kenny stared at the impossible. The man had changed, bones and flesh altering. Now only a beast remained, an ancient thing with wisdom in its eyes.
Wisdom, and hunger.
The beer bottle dropped from his hand and smashed to the floor. Kenny screamed. As his voice cracked, the front door slammed open hard and three more of the snarling, drooling monsters bounded in. Slowly, they advanced on him.
"Find it," the first one barked at the others.
He shuddered at the sound of that inhuman-yet-familiar voice. With all the energy left in the old man's muscles, he scuttled away from the monsters who had invaded his life. They began to tear through his books and tapes, and Kenny whimpered in real pain as they destroyed his things.
One of them, a sleek female, moved closer, eyes locked on his. A thick, purple tongue snaked out and slithered along her sharp teeth, and she sniffed the air as though savoring the scent of him.
"No," barked the one who had been his friend. "Leave him to me."
The other creatures moved off, still searching, trashing what little life he had made for himself. The leader studied him closely. Though the female beast lingered nearby, she did not dare approach.
The monster's jaws snapped as he leaped at Kenny. He scrambled backward, felt something hard-edged under his butt, and realized it was the remote control.
The VCR hummed and the static snow on the television became Superman once again. The music blared. The narrator pronounced Superman's heroic deeds with a deep and sonorous voice.
The beast pounced on Kenny's chest. His yellow eyes glared down upon him and drool dripped onto Kenny's cheek. Kenny began to cry, and he felt warmth beneath him now as his bladder gave way.
"I'm going to eat you myself," the monster snarled. "For old times' sake."
CHAPTER 5
The rain stopped overnight and Friday began bright and hot. Though the faded cotton nightshirt she wore was cool against her skin, the heat and humidity made Courtney uncomfortable. She lay in bed, only half-awake, and struggled briefly to return to sleep. Soon enough she surrendered and allowed her eyes to flicker open; she gazed balefully at the alarm clock beside her bed. Only minutes left before seven A.M., when it would have begun to jangle angrily to rouse her from dreamland.
But there were no dreams for Courtney this morning.
Already preoccupied, she reached out and clicked off the alarm, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her hair hung across her face and she brushed it away, feeling just as rumpled as the sheets that were bunched at the foot of the bed. She had not slept well at all, waking frequently, mind awhirl with thoughts of Jack and Molly, and of Prowlers.
Courtney had responsibilities - the pub, the bills - but she had somehow convinced herself to set aside her primary responsibility, the safety and welfare of her little brother. Of course, Jack was not exactly little anymore; he could take care of himself. Still, she worried, and she cursed her bad leg for making her a liability. If not for that, she might have gone with him, all other responsibilities be damned.
Jack would call to check in with her, tell her where they were staying, all of that. But it was barely seven, and it wasn't likely he'd call before eight. It was going to be a long morning.
With a low sigh, Courtney reached for the lion's head cane she had inherited from her grandfather and stood up. In the mirror across the room she could see herself - just as rumpled as she had imagined - with the faded nightshirt hugging her body. She thought she looked pretty good, all things considered, even though the old shirt was decorated with cavorting teddy bears.
Her mind flashed to Bill Cantwell, asleep in the next room while Jack was away, and she blushed at her image in the mirror. With the support of her cane, she walked to the closet and pulled out an old striped robe that had once belonged to her mother. It was frayed at the hem and around the belt, but her only other robe was a thick terrycloth thing that would have melted her in the heat and humidity of July.
After cinching the belt around her waist, Courtney opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The door to Jack's room was closed, and she found her thoughts skittering into territory better left alone. Courtney had not had a serious boyfriend since before the accident ten years earlier that had damaged her leg and killed her mother. Dates, certainly, though with the pub she rarely made time for them. And there had been a man a few years ago whom she thought might become someone special. That relationship had withered on the vine.
Now there was Bill. He meant a lot to her, and there was a serious attraction between them. They'd confessed as much to each another, but things had not progressed further, burdened, as she was, with the knowledge that Bill was not human.
How could she be involved with a man who was not a man? The question had lingered night after night as she tried to wish it away. Bill was technically an animal, and yet that did not make him any less the man she knew and cared for deeply. Or so she told herself.
But what about right now? she thought. Behind that door, is it Bill lying there in Jack's bed, or is it the Prowler? She knew that the creatures had to focus to retain human appearance, and wondered if that meant that during sleep they changed. Courtney chided herself for her thoughts, however. She knew that there was no man and beast where Bill was concerned. They were one and the same.
With her free hand she rubbed at her eyes, still burning from the rough night's sleep. Then she walked d
own the hall and into the kitchen. She was startled to see Bill sitting at the kitchen table, and let out a tiny gasp as she recoiled from the sight of him.
His eyes went wide in innocent dismay. "Wow. I know I look pretty scary in the morning, but I didn't think I looked that bad."
"No," she said hurriedly. "No, Bill, I just . . . the door was closed so I thought you were still sleeping."
He smiled. "That's a relief."
Courtney smiled in return. She hobbled to the coffee maker and poured herself a cup that he had made. Despite what Bill had said, Courtney thought he looked pretty good in the morning. He wore navy blue sweat-pants and a New England Patriots T-shirt that was torn at the collar. His eyes sparkled.
"How'd you sleep?" she asked, unintentionally echoing her own thoughts from moments before. It made her self-conscious, and she glanced away from him.
"I did all right. Jack's mattress is hard, but it's comfortable enough. What about you?"
"Not so well," she confessed. "Worried about Jack, I guess."
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, we're telling the truth, are we? Well, then I admit it, I slept pretty poorly myself."
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "Is the bed too hard? You can sleep on the pull-out if you want. I'm sure Molly wouldn't mind."
Bill's smile was sweet and knowing. "I slept poorly because you were right on the other side of the wall. It was kind of a distraction, knowing you were curled up in there."
Taken aback, Courtney could only blink and stare at him.
The smile disappeared from Bill's face. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I just . . . being here with you . . ." He looked a bit appalled with himself and ran a hand through his hair.
The overall effect of his awkwardness was decidedly charming. Courtney leaned forward and reached for his hand. She slipped her fingers into his and placed her other hand over his. Bill glanced up expectantly, still obviously uncomfortable with what he had said.
"It's all right," she told him.
"Now's not the time," Bill said. "We've got Jack and Molly to worry about, and the pub and all. Bad timing."
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