by picturing the mind-string rewinding itself onto the ball.
When the mind-string was all wound up again, Thomas turned away from the
window, onto his stomach. He was breathing real fast. He listened to
his heart boom.
He had a sick-making taste in his mouth. The same taste he got
sometimes when he bit his tongue, not meaning to, the same taste as when
the dentist yanked one of his teeth without meaning to. Blood.
Sick and scared, he sat up in bed and made the lamp!" on right away. He
took a tissue from the box on the night stand He spit into it and looked
to see if there was blood. There wasn't. Just spit.
He tried again. No blood.
He knew what that meant. He'd been too close to the Thing. Maybe even
inside the bad thing, just for a blink.
ugly taste in his mouth was the same taste the Bad Thing tasted, tearing
with its teeth at some living, squirming thing. Thomas didn't have
blood in his mouth, he just had mental blood in his mouth. But that was
bad enough; this time wasn't at all like biting his tongue or getting a
tooth yank because this time what he tasted wasn't his own blood.
Though enough warmth was in the room, he started shivering and couldn't
stop.
CANDY PROWLED the canyons, in the grip of urgent need, grabbing wild
animals out of burrows and nests. He was kneeling in the mud beside a
huge oak, pummeled by rain, sucking blood from the ravished throat of a
rabbit, when he felt someone place a hand atop his head.
He threw down the rabbit and sprang to his feet, turning around as he
did so. Nobody was there. Two of his sisters' blackest cats were
twenty feet behind him, visible only because their eyes were luminous in
the gloom; they had been following him since he'd left the house.
Otherwise he was alone.
For a second or two, he still felt the hand on his head, though no hand
was there. Then the queer sensation passed.
He studied the shadows on all sides and listened to the rain snapping
through the oak leaves.
Finally, shrugging off the episode, driven by his fierce need, he
proceeded farther east, moving upslope. A two-foot-wide stream had
formed on the canyon floor, six or eight inches deep, not large enough
to hamper his progress.
The drenched cats followed. He did not want them with him, but he knew
from experience that he would not be able to chase them away. They did
not always accompany him, but when they chose to follow in his tracks,
they could not be dissuaded.
After he had gone about a hundred yards, he dropped to his knees again,
held his hands in front of him, and allowed the power to erupt once
more. Shimmering sapphire light swept through the night. Brush shook,
trees stirred, and rocks clattered against one another. In the wake of
the light, clouds of dust flew up, ghostly silver columns that rippled
like wind stirred shrouds, then vanished into the darkness.
A bevy of animals burst from cover, and some raced toward Candy. He
snatched at a rabbit, missed, but seized a squirrel. It tried to bite
him, but he swung it hard by one leg, bashing its head against the muddy
ground, stunning it.
VIOLET WAS with Verbina in the kitchen. They were sitting on the
layered blankets with twenty-three of their twenty cats.
Parts of her mind-and parts of her sister's-were in theirs and Lamia,
the black cats through which they were accompanying their brother.
Watching Candy seize and destroy his prey, Cinders and Lamia were
excited, and Violet was excited too. Electrified.
The wet January night was deep, illumined only by the brilliant light
from the communities to the west, which was fleeted off the bellies of
the low clouds. In that wildem Candy was the wildest creature of them
all, a fierce and powerful and merciless predator who crept swiftly and
silently through the rugged canyons, taking what he needed and wanted.
He was so strong and limber that he appeared to fill up the canyon, over
rocks and fallen timber, around prickly brush, as if he were not a man
of flesh and blood, but the pled moonshadow of some flying creature
soaring high above the earth.
When Candy seized the squirrel and bashed its head against the ground,
Violet divided the part of her mind that was Lamia and Cinders, and also
entered the squirrel. It stunned by the blow. It struggled feebly and
looked at Candy with unalloyed terror.
Candy's big, strong hands were on the squirrel, but it seemed to Violet
that they were on her, as well, moving over her bare legs, hips, belly,
and breasts.
Candy snapped its spine against his bent knee.
Violet shuddered. Verbina whimpered and clung to her sister.
The squirrel no longer had any feeling in its extremities. With a low
growl, Candy bit the animal's throat. He tore at its hide, chewing open
the blood-rich vessels.
Violet felt the hot blood spurting out of the squirrel, Candy's mouth
fastened hungrily to the wound. It almost seemed as though no surrogate
lay between them, as if his lips were pressed firmly to Violet's throat
and as if her own blood was flooding into his mouth. She wished that
she could be in Candy's mind and be on both the giving and receiving end
tasting the blood, but she could only meld with animals.
She no longer had the strength to sit up. She settled back onto the
blankets, only half aware that she was softly chanting a monotonous
litany:
"Yea, yes, yes, yes, yes.
Verbina rolled atop her sister.
Around them the cats tumbled together in a roiling mass of fur and tails
and whiskered faces.
THOMAS TRIED again. For Julie's sake. He reached out toward the cold,
glowing mind of the Bad Thing. Right away the Bad Thing drew him toward
it. He let his mind unwind like a big ball of string. It pierced the
window, zoomed into the night, made contact.
He sent questions: What are you? Where are you? What do you want? Why
are you going to hurt Julie?
JUST AS CANDY threw aside the dead squirrel and got to his feet, he felt
the hand on his head again. He twitched, turned, and flailed at the
darkness with both fists.
No one was behind him.
With radiant amber eyes, the two cats watched him from about twenty feet
away, dark blots on the pale silt. All the wildlife in the immediate
vicinity had fled. If someone was spying on him, the intruder was
concealed in the brush farther back along the canyon or in a niche on
one of the canyon walls, certainly not near enough to have touched him.
Besides, he still felt the hand. He rubbed at the top of his head, half
expecting to find leaves stuck in his wet hair. Nothing.
But the pressure of a hand remained, even increased, and was so well
defined that he could feel the outlines of four fingers, a thumb, and
the curve of a palm against his skull.
What... where... what... why... ?
Those words echoed inside his head. No voice had broken through the
drizzling sounds of the rain.
What... where... what... why... ?
&
nbsp; Candy turned in a full circle, angry and confused.
A crawling sensation arose in his head, different from any thing he had
ever known before. As if something was moving in his brain.
"Who are you?" he said aloud.
What... where... what... why... ?
"Who are you?"
THE BAD THING was a man. Thomas knew that now. An inside man and
something else, too, but still at least part man.
The Bad Thing's mind was like a whirlpool, blacker black, swirling real
fast, sucking Thomas down, down, was to gobble him alive. He tried to
break loose. Swimming Wasn't easy. The Bad Thing was going to pull him
into the Bad Place, and he'd never be able to come back. He thought he
was a gonner. But his fear of the Bad Place, of going to loose Julie
and Bobby would never find him and where he'd be a was so big he finally
tore free and rewound himself into the room at Cielo Vista.
He slid down on the mattress and drew the covers over his head, so he
couldn't see the night beyond the window, and nothing out there in the
night could see him.
WALTER HAVALOW, Mrs. George Farris's surviving brother and their to her
modest estate, lived in a richer neighborhood than the Phans, but he was
poorer in courtesy and good manners. His English two-story house in
Villa Park had beveled-glass windows filled with a light that Julie
found warm and beckoning, but Havalow stood in the doorway and did not
invite them inside even after he had studied their PI license and
returned it to her.
"What do you want?"
Havalow was tall, potbellied, with thinning blond hair and a thick
mustache that was part blond and part red. His penetrating hazel eyes
marked him as a man of intelligence, but they were cold, watchful, and
calculating-the eyes of a Mafia accountant.
"As I explained," Julie said, "the Phans told us you could help. We
need a photograph of your late brother-in-law, George Farris."
"Why?"
"Well, as I said, there's a man going around pretending to be Mr.
Farris, and he's a player in a case we're working on."
"Can't be my brother-in-law. He's dead."
"Yes, we know. But this imposter's ID is very good, and it would help
us to have a photo of the real George Farris. I'm sorry I can't tell
you anything more. I'd be violating our client's privacy."
Havalow turned away and closed the door in their faces.
Bobby looked at Julie and said, "Mr. Congeniality."
Julie rang the bell again.
After a moment, Havalow opened the door.
"What?"
"I know we arrived unannounced," Julie said, struggling to remain
cordial, "and I apologize for the intrusion, but your-"
"I was just going to get the picture," he said impatiently.
"I'd have it in hand by now if you hadn't rung the bell."
as he turned away from them and closed the door a second time.
"Is it our body odor?" Bobby wondered.
"What a jerk."
"You think he's really coming back?"
"He doesn't, I'll break the door down."
Behind them, rain dripped off the overhang that sheltered the last ten
feet of the walkway, and water gurgled hollowly through a downspout-cold
sounds.
Havalow returned with a shoe box full of snapshots.
time is valuable. If you want my cooperation, you'll keep it in mind."
Julie resisted her worst instincts. Rudeness irritated the hell out of
her. She fantasized knocking the box out of his grasp and seizing one
of his hands, and bending the index finger as far back as it would go,
thus straining the digital nerve of his hand while simultaneously
pinching the radial nerves on the back, forcing him to kneel. Then
driven a fist into the underside of his chin, a swift chop to the side
of his neck, a well-placed kick to his soft, protruding belly. Havalow
rummaged through the box and extracted a photograph of a man and a woman
sitting at a redwood table with a picnic on a sunny day.
"That's George and Irene."
Even in the yellowish light of the porch lamp, Julie could see that
George Farris had been a rangy man with a long rough face, the exact
physical opposite of Frank Pollard.
"Why would someone be claiming he's George?" Havlow asked.
"We're dealing with a possible criminal who uses multiple fake IDs,"
Julie said.
"George Farris is just one of his identities. No doubt your
brother-in-law's name was probably selected at random by the document
forger this guy used. They sometimes use the names and addresses of the
deceased.
Havalow frowned.
"You think it's possible this man George's name is the same guy who
killed Irene, my brother-in-law and my two nieces?"
"No," Julie said immediately.
"We're not dealing with a killer here. Just a confidence man, a
swindler."
"Besides," Bobby said, "no killer would link himself to murders he'd
committed by getting ID in the name of his victim's husband."
Making eye contact with Julie, clearly trying to determine how much they
were snowing him, Havalow said, "This guy your client?"
"No," Julie lied.
"He ripped off our client, and we've been hired to track him down, so he
can be forced to make restitution."
Bobby said, "Can we borrow this photo, sir?"
Havalow hesitated. He was still making eye contact with Julie.
Bobby handed Havalow a Dakota & Dakota business card.
"We'll get the picture back to you. There's our address, phone number.
I understand your reluctance to part with a family photo, especially
since your sister and brother-in-law are no longer alive, but if-"
Apparently deciding that they were not lying, Havalow said, "Hell, take
it. I'm not sentimental about George. Never could stand him. Always
thought my sister was a fool for marrying him."
"Thank you," Bobby said.
"We-"
Havalow stepped back and closed the door.
Julie rang the bell.
Bobby said, "Please don't kill him."
Scowling with impatience, Havalow opened the door.
Stepping between Julie and Havalow, Bobby held out the forged driver's
license bearing George Farris's name and Frank's picture.
"One more thing, sir, and we'll get out of your hair."
"I live to a very tight schedule," Havalow said.
"Have you seen this man before?"
Irritated, Havalow took the driver's license and inspected it.
"Doughy face, bland features. There're a million like him within a
hundred miles of here-wouldn't you say?"
"And you've never seen him?"
"Are you slow-witted? Do I have to put it in short, simple sentences?
No. I have never seen him."
Retrieving the license, Bobby said, "Thanks for your time and-"
Havalow closed the door. Hard.
Julie reached for the bell.
Bobby stayed her hand.
"We've got everything we came for."
"I want-"
"I know what you want," Bobby said, "but torturing a man to death is
against the law in California."
He hustled her away from the house, into the rain.
In the car again, she said, "
That rude, self-important bastard!"
Bobby started the engine and switched on the windshield wipers.
"We'll stop at the mall, buy you one of those GI teddy bears, paint
Havalow's name on it, let you tear the guts out of it. Okay?"
"Who the hell does he think he is?"
While Julie glowered back at the house, Bobby drove off from it.
"He's Walter Havalow, babe, and he's got to be himself until he dies,
which is a worse punishment than anything you could do to him." A few
minutes later, when they were out of Villa Park Bobby drove into the lot
at a Ralph's supermarket and tuck the Toyota into a parking space. He
doused the headlights switched off the wipers, but left the engine
running so they would have heat.
Only a few cars were in front of the market. Puddles as large as
swimming pools reflected the store lights.
Bobby said, "What've we learned?"
Koontz, Dean R. - The Bad Place Page 21
