“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 enblazoned 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.