• • •
They’re standing in the ’Clave’s observation chamber, he and Kander. They are looking at the chair dead center and its current occupant. Dr. Kander stands behind the chair, his eyes constantly scanning the instrument panels. The chair has just enough shine to broadcast how clean it is. Everything about the room is clean. This pleases Ross very much. Keeping things clean is his job.
The man in the chair—the boy, really, barely seventeen—is about to wake up in an unknown room, flanked by two strangers. Ross knows this and watches. He knows the boy’s name but has put that detail as far away as a distant star. It is not only unnecessary, but it would be harmful, and he knows that, too.
Soon enough, the boy begins to stir.
“He’s coming to,” Kander says, as if Ross were blind or stupid. The doctor’s voice has the flat grind of crickets in September, and his eyes barely leave the screens in front of him.
From the back of Kander’s instrument panel issue a riot of wires. They fan out like plastic vines, creeping all the way to the open back of the boy’s skull. To the side of the doctor stands a small table with a recessed basin in the center. It is littered with tools that even Ross tries hard not to think too much about.
Ross focuses on the boy. He leans in, looking for the telltale signs. The eyes shuttle under their closed lids. Slight at first but soon frantic, like rabbits scrambling to break loose of their snares. Finally, both eyes flutter open, and there it is. The look Ross knows all too well. Fear.
Pure fear, untainted by worry or anxiety or hope. And Ross knows what he must do next. There is no place for fear in this room. Fear must stay where it belongs—under Division control. Under his control.
The boy’s pupils are dilated to black except for a faint corona of bronze-flecked moss at the edge of the white. His eyes flick about the room, sucking in details the way the desert sucks in rain, greedily and without much benefit. “Where . . . where am I?”
“You are safe,” Ross answers. “That’s all that matters.”
“I can’t move.” The boy’s breath quickens as hysteria takes him by the hand. Those rabbit eyes once again strain against their invisible snares. “Why can’t I move?”
“Relax. You’ve been given a paralytic agent. It will wear off soon.”
“I don’t understand. I—”
“Shhh . . .” Ross says, his voice as comforting as a cool rag held to the forehead of a malaria victim. “Right now, we need you to answer a few questions.” He shows the boy a tablet. He taps the screen, and up pops a video feed of the room beyond the steel shutters. “What do you see?”
The boy stares at it. “Nothing,” he says, almost as if there’s a trick he’s missing. “Just an empty room.”
Ross nods. He, too, sees an empty room. So would Kander if he’d only look up from those damn screens. But Ross knows the truth. That room is far from empty. Something lurks on the other side of the shutters, and if this experiment succeeds where so many others failed, they will finally be able to see what is in there, and see it as it is.
Ross turns to Kander. “Switch the feed.”
“Switching feed.”
The image shifts to a direct POV of the boy. For a brief moment, the image is of the tablet itself, the screen within the screen showing another, smaller tablet. On its screen, another tablet—and on and on, tablet after tablet, screen after screen, snaking away into infinity.
Ross walks behind the boy, tablet in hand. Now the screen shows only shutters, nothing more. He slips his polarized sunshades from his breast pocket and puts them on. He steals a quick peek at Kander to see that the doctor has done the same. Then Ross taps the screen, and the shutters retract, and he waits.
“Now what do you see?”
“Oh, my God . . . she’s so . . . she’s so beautiful.”
Ross sees nothing but a black rectangle. But the boy’s words are enough—not just the content but also the delivery, the rapture that can only come from an encounter with the creature. “Dr. Kander . . .”
Kander is silent. He simply walks from his console, pausing only to pick up a scalpel on his way over to the boy’s exposed brain.
Ross does his best to focus on the prize, ignoring the wet thumping and muffled ringing that come from the basin as Kander drops into it piece after piece of the boy’s mind.
An eternity passes before Kander steps back from his work. “I believe this is when someone shouts Bingo,” he says, the words punctuated by the snap of rubber gloves. No one laughs.
Ross looks down at the tablet and sees that they have been successful. They’d used the boy’s eyes as a camera, and for the first time, the Division is in possession of physical proof of what the creatures’ true form looks like.
It had taken Ross more than a decade to get what he now holds so lightly in his hands. He hopes it will be worth the price. “Thank you,” he whispers to the boy. His voice sounds exceptionally hollow inside the ’Clave, or perhaps it just seems that way.
Ross takes one last look at the boy. A long strand of drool hangs from the corner of his slack mouth. His skin is corpse-blue. His eyes have turned into glassy, unblinking orbs, still fixed on what lurks beyond the open shutters. “Is he still alive?” Ross asks.
“Nominally,” Kander admits as he tosses the blood-splattered gloves into the basin where they half cover the heap of brain chunks. “His heart is still beating, but I wouldn’t expect him to get up and do a rhumba.”
“What do we do with him?”
“Well . . .” Kander says. “I’d imagine our pet is getting hungry.”
• • •
Kander’s final jibe echoed in Ross’s head as he allowed his eyes to refocus on the ceiling. He lay there for a moment, letting his breathing return to normal. He knew the memories were gone. He could get back to work now. He was free . . . for a time.
Ross went back to his Go board. He straightened his tie and sat down. He checked his watch—the same thrift-store Seiko automatic he’d worn since his first day on the job. He had another hour to himself. That gave him time to return to the game, and to Jackson.
One last memory from the ’Clave popped up like a gopher from a hole. Ross squashed it flat before it could do any more damage. Perhaps they had gone too far with the boy. Maybe that was the mistake he’d made with Jackson, too. Perhaps going too far was the one error Ross always made. He couldn’t help it. Going too far was in his DNA.
He swept the stones from the table and started anew.
Thirty-Three
FISHKILL, NEW YORK
The entrance to Pete’s Auto Salvage was a double-rutted track of mud broken up only by the occasional tuft of grassy earth and a few boulders that looked as if they’d been designed to break axles. By the time Jack had driven halfway to the junkyard proper, he’d wondered if it would have been faster—and safer—if they’d just walked.
“Good thing I only had coffee for breakfast,” Beth joked as they lurched over another set of humps. “Otherwise, it would be decorating the dashboard.”
At least her sense of humor had proved indomitable. Many things had changed between them since they’d shared that bed in Elizabeth—shared that bed and more. But she was still the same Beth. And for that, at least, he was glad.
Jack parked the rust-brown Honda Civic in a small cutout in the woods. They’d driven the car all the way from where Beth had boosted it a few blocks from the motel. A relic from the late ’80s, this model was probably the least recognizable automobile in America, as prevalent as park squirrels and just as indistinguishable. After they’d finished checking out the junkyard, they’d ditch it here and boost another ride, probably another Civic.
The ride here had been mostly silent. Each of them had so much to say, and neither of them seemed to have any clue where to start. Beth had asked if they wanted to take a short detour through Asbury Park. Heart heavy, Jack had said no. Searching for Blood now was still too much of a risk. He missed his dog. He missed the feel of his
coarse fur and the take-no-bullshit look in his mismatched eyes. But he wanted them all to keep breathing, at least for a little while longer. And as much as it hurt, he knew Blood was safer on his own right now. Beth had been right about that.
Jack got out of the car and took two deep breaths. He didn’t cough. In fact, his lungs felt almost clean out here. He wasn’t kidding himself that he was getting better, but it was a relief not to feel as if someone had stacked cinder blocks on his chest while he wasn’t looking.
As they walked toward the junkyard, Beth reached for his hand. She laced her fingers with his, and together they strolled along the muddy track like newlyweds out for a hike. Jack tried to banish the tremor from his hand and hoped Beth wouldn’t notice the effort it took. Yes, many things had changed—but his thirst for the venom was not one of them.
At the gate of Pete’s Auto Salvage, they were met by a hand-lettered sign. It had been fastened to the plank fence by twisted baling wire, and read Pull for Service. Jack gripped the knotted hank of stiff clothesline that dangled in front of the sign and did just that.
From somewhere beyond the fence came the muted call of a bell and, shortly after, a man’s voice. “Gimme two shakes.”
They heard the rasp of wood on wood as the gate slid open. The man who greeted them was rail-thin, dressed in a red hunting flannel and patched overalls. His long gray hair was tied back in a wispy ponytail. His face was seamed by decades of sun and tobacco smoke, a blue cloud of which wafted from the blackthorn pipe he clutched in one gnarled hand.
“You must be Pete,” Jack said.
“Nah, I’m Lester,” the man answered. “Pete’s been pushing daisies since the peanut farmer was in office. Bought the place from his widow. Thought ’bout changing the name back then, but figured what’s the point in confusing folks.”
“Maybe you should have changed your name to Pete,” Beth offered.
Lester chuckled. “Thought about that, too, but didn’t want to confuse my wife. Anyway, something I can help you find?”
“I need a carburetor,” Jack said. It was a lie, of course; the only thing Jack needed was a look inside the junkyard. “For an eighty-four Chevy C-10.”
“Eighty-four and still on the road. Shit.” Lester spit on the ground to his side. “Built them suckers to last, I’ll tell ya.” He pulled a faded bandanna from his back pocket and mopped his neck with it. “Reckon I got one or two a them dinosaurs planted someplace in here. Care for a walk?”
Jack stepped forward, but Beth held him back. It was a move they’d rehearsed. “Do you have dogs? Rottweilers or something?” she asked. “Are they friendly?”
“They were, friendly, that is, my girls. Least, they were when I was around. And they were pit bulls, miss. Not Rotts.” Lester quickly dabbed the corner of one cataract-frosted eye with his bandanna. “Got to get down the pound this week myself. Lost all three of ’em just a couple days ago. Black bear, I reckon.” He took a long pull on his pipe.
“Sorry to hear that.” Jack had heard as much already, as much and more. Reports to animal control were almost as reliable as those to the police, especially if they didn’t fit the standard mold. And while it was true that bears occasionally killed domestic dogs when startled, they were by nature shy creatures much more likely to retreat when threatened. The idea of a bear traipsing into territory well marked by a pack of pit bull terriers with the express purpose of murdering three of them didn’t make much sense. But Jack did know of something that would feed on dogs as readily as it would on people, and had build his life around hunting it.
“Throats torn out. All three of them.” Lester shut the gate behind them, securing it by sliding a length of pine plank into a couple of yokes. Not exactly Fort Knox but enough to keep out all but the most determined thief. “Good girls they were,” he added, shaking his head as he led the way.
They walked in near silence after that, roaming past acres of rusting automobile hulks, following the cherry Cavendish puffs of Lester’s pipe. They’d made it almost all the way to the back when he stopped, eyes dead on the ground.
“Something wrong?” Beth asked.
“This is where I found my girls.” He kicked the flat and rotting tire of a nearby Oldsmobile. “Sorry, folks, still kind of gets me.”
“Did you see it?” Jack asked. “The bear?”
Lester shook his head, pipe clenched tight. “Sure as shit would have shot that black bastard in his tracks if I did.” Lester spit on the ground again. “You can quote me.”
“Do you know where it might have come from?” Jack asked.
“Dunno for sure. That way, I reckon. You know, from the scratching. Why?”
Jack didn’t answer. He simply started walking in the direction of the stripped carapace of an old school bus and what might lie beyond. Beth followed instinctively.
“Hey? Where you going?” Lester called after them. “C-10s are this way.”
But Lester’s words were lost on them as they climbed over the small ridge the bus was perched on. At the base of it, they found the hole. The smell of dirt and copper was so rank it made Jack’s eyes water.
The earth at the hole’s rim was freshly overturned, but, unlike an animal den, it had clearly been dug from the inside out. Dug by something tunneling to the surface. And when it emerged, it had been hungry enough to eat whatever it came across first, whether that be man or man’s best friend.
Jack knew that the creatures burrowed beneath the earth, that periods of hibernation were just part of their life cycle. But he’d never seen the place where one had emerged, only their dens. He wondered how deep that hole went. How long the thing had slumbered there. But here it was, and one quick scan told him that it was now empty and abandoned.
“Jiminy Christmas,” came Lester’s voice from a few paces back, his eyes wide at the sight of the strange tunnel. “You two ain’t here for a carburetor, are you?”
“No,” Jack answered.
“Jack, look,” called Beth from a few yards off. In her hand, she held another chitin scale. Jack knew there would be more of them littered at her feet. Whatever they’d seen in Asbury Park had gotten here first. And she’d taken what she’d wanted with her. Jack wondered how many more empty holes they would have to find—how many more deaths—before he finally admitted they had no way of stopping her.
Thirty-Four
NEW HARBOR, CONNECTICUT
Ross heard the telltale click of Agent Thorne’s stilettos climbing his front steps, but he allowed her to knock before calling out, “Enter.”
His back to her, he listened as she thumped off her shoes and dropped them on the sisal rug. She stepped around to the far side of his Go board and sat down on her heels in mimicry of his own pose. He waited for her to speak first, and it wasn’t long before she did.
“Why do you always sit with your back to the door?”
“That’s a rather straightforward question, Agent Thorne. Why do you ask?”
“I mean, doesn’t it leave you vulnerable?”
Ross offered her a slight grin. “This is my domain. What do I have to fear here? Only cowards insist on sitting with their backs to a wall. Cowards and fake tough guys who’ve read too many pulp novels.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her. “You wanted to see me?”
This was the first time they’d spoken since New Jersey. He’d sequestered himself almost immediately after their encounter with the Asbury Park anomaly, not answering the door, not even picking up the telephone for days. He’d been immersed in research, and he was nearing a breakthrough. “I’d imagine you have questions.”
“Questions? You can start with telling me what the fuck that giant snake woman thing was.”
“I wish I could,” he admitted. “There are other things we need to discuss. But before we do, allow me to ask you a question of my own.”
Thorne leaned back in a huff. “You’re the boss.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Given our current situation, and this new developmen
t, I was wondering if you could give me your opinion of the game.”
Thorne sat in gape-mouthed surprise. “The game?”
“Yes,” Ross said, gesturing to the board sitting between them, its vertices littered with stones. “Go.”
“Go?” Thorne snorted. “We just lost almost the entire detail to something straight out of a Korean horror movie—not to mention the other goddamn hallucinogenic vampires you’re hell-bent on capturing—and you’re asking me about Go? The keys to all of it, Jackson and Becker, fall right the fuck off the radar, no sign of them for days, and you want my opinion on your favorite pastime? Are you for real?”
Ross sat with calm detachment, waiting to see if Thorne would rant any further. When enough silence had built up after her final words, he answered, “Yes.”
Thorne pursed her lips and puffed an exhale through them. “I think it’s insufficient.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well,” she said, reaching for the board. She swept up a handful of stones. Ross winced at the invasion but allowed it. He’d memorized the flow of play long ago. “For starters, you are going to have to add a few more colors.” She upended her hand, letting the stones clatter onto the board. The cacophony was almost too much for Ross to bear.
“I mean,” she continued, “black for you, sure. And white for Jackson, okay. But how about green for your vampires and red for whatever that thing was that killed all the agents in Castle Amusements? And maybe chartreuse for the higher-ups running this whole thing? What about beige for the faceless people you don’t seem to mind using up like paper clips? I mean, you can always order more from Sector, right?”
Ross tried to look past Thorne’s sarcasm for some sign of the agent he thought he’d seen that first day when she’d arrived. It was there, he knew it, that spark that set her apart from the interchangeable chits populating the Division ranks. “You find the game limited. You feel that it doesn’t express the full scope of our current dilemma.”
“I’d say that’s fair.”
As the Worm Turns Page 51
