“Shit,” I said.
Paul sat up and leaned forward. “Maybe he got upset by a nosebleed and stormed out of there, tripping over things.”
“Since we’re talking probabilities, I suppose there’s a chance of that too,” said Brome.
“Why didn’t you tell me this as soon as you came in?”
“Sorry, seven-foot-tall creatures that don’t die when you empty a clip into them seemed a more urgent issue. Besides, I didn’t know what to make of it then.”
“What do you make of it now?”
“There’s some chance that he’s alive, but…”
“If he were dead, why not just kill him and leave him there?”
“Who knows.” Brome shrugged. “They, whoever they are, may want to find something out first. Maybe about what killed one of their own. Or about whoever it was that hired Freud.”
“Or,” he added, sounding maddeningly like Paul, “Maybe they eat corpses.”
“Shit,” I said again. “I have nowhere to go.”
“Someone of your means could make a place to order. Although I don’t know if fleeing is the best choice for you right now,” said Brome. “From what I understand, you still have no idea what’s happening. Maybe your ignorance is evident enough. The fact that Dr. Young has disappeared and you’re still here might indicate their lack of interest. Either way, you might be better off spending some time in public. Here seems a safe place, too. You’re a TV star after all. Act normal, wait, and hope that whoever… or whatever protected you last time will do it again, if it comes to that. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ll have to wait too long for some sort of news.”
“Oh great,” I said. “I was afraid I was going to die of waiting.”
He sprang to his feet, ignoring my comment. “Meanwhile, I’m going home.”
“Going home?” Paul and I said at once, and I moved as if to stand up.
“Yes. I have a daughter and a wife waiting for me.”
“What about doc’s disappearance?”
“Police is handling it. FBI is off the case, and I’m on vacation.”
“What about me?”
“What would you have me do? Get you an order of protection from an angel? Got his name, social security number? There’s no way to make this official, Luke, and my personal ability to help is, as you well know, limited. I sent my phone number to your database. You can call me if something happens.”
He turned to go.
“What about the world?”
He looked over his shoulder, cartoons dancing once again across his square face. Behind him, the hallway light flicked on.
“As I know it?” He shrugged. “It was a depressing place three days ago. Now it’s got monsters. I don’t see how—”
“I mean the end of the world. What Dr. Young said.”
“Oh, that. That didn’t make much sense to me either. In fact, ‘aliens are gods’ theory weighs about the same as ‘gods are gods’ on my scale. And the latter is the one I am more comfortable with. My wife is a Lutheran. My daughter has been baptized. I… like Christmas.”
I did get up then. Took quite an effort, but I was determined.
“Well, Merry Christmas, then, Special Agent Brome! I wish it to you in advance, because the forecast is not looking good for me surviving that long. People die, people disappear, aliens… and I still don’t have a single tangible reason why I am in the middle of this mess. But what do you care. Go home, to wife and daughter. Go on vacation. If you see on TV that I committed suicide, believe it. Take it easy.” Having run out of things to say, I raised my hand in mock salute and had to grab the back of the sofa with the other to keep balance.
Brome looked at me long and hard, then turned around and disappeared in the hallway. The door closed and locked.
“Shit,” I said and fell, like a raindrop from an awning, back into the sofa.
“It’s me, you and the gun,” said Paul.
“I have wine,” I mumbled.
“I’ll pass. Don’t feel like puking tonight.”
“I do.” And with that I got up and rolled to the bathroom.
When I returned to the living room I was afraid Paul wouldn’t be there. But he was, only he moved from the armchair to the sofa.
“Got a pillow and a blanket?” he asked me. “I’m pooped. I think I’m going to sleep over.”
When I brought the beddings he was crouching near the TV.
“Where’s the ‘Power’ button?”
“It doesn’t have one.”
“I thought only the cheap models didn’t have one.”
“Maybe I overpaid.”
“So how do you turn it off?”
“I don’t. It’s got some kind of floor sensor system…”
“Want me to break it?” It was tempting, but sounded like too much trouble.
“No,” I said. “Although… I don’t know how you’re planning to sleep here.”
“Step out of the room,” he said. I did, watching him from the hallway. He threw the pillow on the sofa and lay down on his side, lifting his feet from the floor.
“Sleep.”
For a few seconds nothing happened, then the dancing images died silently. The room became submerged in night.
“Damn,” I said. “I never knew you could do that. So how does that work? Is it pressure or optics of some kind? Or does the command work all the time?”
In reply to my excited queries, Paul snored.
“Goodnight, then,” I said and, still thinking about it, went to bed.
I woke in darkness with the hangover’s band and dance troop parading back and forth through the desert between my skull and my stomach. But it wasn’t the hangover that had woken me up, I realized, staring at the blue rays flashing on the walls of the bedroom.
My phone was ringing.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The bedside clock showed 00.23.
“Take a message,” I groaned and fell back on the pillow. The phone slumbered for a moment, then began to ring again. Muttering obscenities, I sat up.
“Pick up,” I said. “This better be good.”
“Mr. Whales?” an excited, high-pitched, male voice called out. “Mr. Whales!”
Strategically, I had no monitor in the bedroom, so I imagined a short, rotund fellow with a red beard in a green suit.
“What time is it where you at?” I demanded, none too friendly.
“My name is Dr. Coughlin. Dr. Young might have mentioned me to you. We worked together at Freedom Corp.”
“He didn’t. How did you get this number?”
“Could you please come to the monitor?”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure it’s you.”
Through the raging headache, I registered a weary thought: you’re calling my number, who else will it be? And then, as I placed my right hand carefully on the side of my face, I thought, Trust me, it’s me. But what I said was, “And if it’s not me, will you call back the morning after… never?”
There was a pause. Optimistically, I imagined the little mythical creature was considering it. My hopes were dashed quickly.
“Please, Mr. Whales,” the voice implored. “It is the matter of life and death.”
It was really hard to care, but somehow I made myself stand up and go to the study.
“Monitor on,” I moaned and descended into the chair. “All right, see if it’s me.”
The face on the screen was pale, gaunt, and continued far up the forehead. The man, of about fifty-five, wore glasses in a transparent frame and stared past the camera. He was in the dark, and in the background shadows flew by, right to left. Dr. Cocklin was driving.
He glanced down; the monitor must have been safely built into the dashboard. When he did, I saw that his remaining hair was gray. He gave a nod and looked up.
“Mr. Whales,” he said as gravely as he could in that voice. “Dr. Young has been kidnapped.”