“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.
Gordy Brogan was afraid to close his eyes again. Each time that he had closed them, he had been plagued by bloody visions that had rolled up out of his own private darkness. Now he lay under his blanket, eyes open, staring at Frank Autry's back.
In his mind, he composed his letter of resignation to Bryce Hammond. He wouldn't be able to type and submit that letter until after this Snowfield business was settled. He didn't want to leave his buddies in the middle of a battle; that didn't seem right. He might actually be of some help to them, considering that it didn't appear as if he would be required to shoot at people. However, as soon as this thing was settled, as soon as they were back in Santa Mira, he would write the letter and hand-deliver it to the sheriff.
He had no doubt about it now: police work was not — and never had been — for him.
He was still a young man; there was time to change careers. He had become a cop partly as an act of rebellion against his parents, for it had been the last thing they had wanted. They'd noted his uncanny way with animals, his ability to win the trust and friendship of any creature on four legs within about half a minute flat, and they had hoped he would become a veterinarian. Gordy had always felt smothered by his mother's and father's unflagging affection, and when they had nudged him toward a career in veterinary medicine, he had rejected the possibility. Now he saw that they were right and that they only wanted what was best for him. Indeed, deep down, he had always known they were right. He was a healer, not a peacekeeper.
He had also been drawn to the uniform and the badge because being a cop had seemed a good way of proving his masculinity. In spite of his formidable size and muscles, in spite of his acute interest in women, he had always believed that others thought of him as androgynous. As a boy, he had never been interested in sports, which had obsessed all of his male contemporaries. And endless talk about hotrods had simply bored him. His interests lay elsewhere and, to some, seemed effete. Although his talent was only average, he enjoyed painting. He played the French horn. Nature fascinated him, and he was an avid bird-watcher. His abhorrence of violence had not been acquired as an adult; even as a child, he had avoided confrontations. His pacifism, when considered with his reticence in the company of girls, had made, him appear, at least to himself, somewhat less than manly. But now, at long last, he saw that he did not need to prove anything.
He would go to school, become a vet. He would be content. His folks would be happy, too. His life would be on the right track again.
He closed his eyes, sighing, seeking sleep. But out of darkness came nightmarish images of the severed heads of cats and dogs, flesh-crawling images of dismembered and tortured animals.
He snapped his eyes open, gasping.
What had happened to all the pets in Snowfield?
The utility room, off the lobby.
Windowless, lightless.
The monotonous ping of water dropping into the metal sink had stopped. But there wasn't silence now. Something moved in the darkness. It made a soft, wet, stealthy sound as it crept around the pitch-black room.
Not yet ready to sleep, Jenny went into the cafeteria, poured a cup of coffee, and joined the sheriff at a corner table.
“Lisa sleeping?” he asked.
“Like a rock.”
“How're you holding up? This must be hard on you. All your neighbors, friends…”
“It's hard to grieve properly,” she said, “I'm just sort of numb. If I let myself react to every death that's had an effect on me, I'd be a blubbering mess. So I've just let my emotions go numb.”
“It's a normal, healthy response. That's how we're all dealing with it.” They drank some coffee, chatted a bit. Then:
“Married?” he asked.
“No. You?”
“Was.”
“Divorced?”
“She died.”
“Oh, Christ, of course. I read about it. I'm sorry. A year ago, wasn't it? A traffic accident?”
“A runaway truck.”
She was looking into his eyes, and she thought they clouded and became less blue than they had been. “How's your son doing?”
“He's still in a coma. I don't think he'll ever come out of it.”
“I'm sorry, Bryce. I really am.”
He folded his hands around his mug and stared down at the coffee. “With Timmy like he is, it'll be a blessing, really, when he just finally lets go. I was numb about it for a while. I couldn't feel anything, not just emotionally but physically, as well. At one point I cut my finger while I was slicing an orange, and I bled all over the damned kitchen and even ate a few bloody sections of the orange before I noticed that something was wrong. Even then I never felt any pain. Lately, I've been coming around to an understanding, to an acceptance.” He looked up and met Jenny's eyes, “Strangely enough, since I've been here in Snowfield, the grayness has gone away.”