Phantoms (59 page)

Then he saw movement in the shadows. Swung away from the bed. A man. Coming at him. Hammond. Kale opened fire, squeezing off six rounds, taking no chances. He was dizzy, and his vision was blurry, and his arm felt weak, and he could hardly keep a grip on the gun; even in those close quarters, he couldn’t trust his aim.

Hammond went down hard and lay very still.

Although the light was dim, and although Kale’s eyes wouldn’t focus properly, he could see spots of blood on the wall and floor.

Laughing happily, wondering when the illness would leave him now that he’d completed one of the tasks Lucifer had given him, Kale weaved toward the body, intending to deliver the
coup de grâce.
Even if Hammond was stone-cold dead, Kale wanted to put a bullet in that snide, smug face, wanted to mess it up real good.

Then he would deal with the boy.

That was what Lucifer wanted. Five deaths. Hammond, the boy, Whitman, Dr. Paige, and the girl.

He reached Hammond, started to bend down to him—

—and the sheriff moved. His hand was lightning quick. He snatched a gun from an ankle holster, and before Kale could respond, there was a muzzle flash.

Kale was hit. He stumbled, fell. His revolver flew out of his hand. He heard it clang against the leg of one of the beds.

This can’t be happening, he told himself. I’m protected. No one can harm me.

Lisa was alive. When she’d fallen behind the bed, she hadn’t been shot; she’d just been diving for cover. Jenny held her tightly.

Tal was crouched over Gene Terr. The gang leader was dead, a gaping hole in his chest.

A crowd had gathered: nurses, nurses’ aides, a couple of doctors, a patient or two in bathrobe and slippers.

A red-haired orderly hurried up. He looked shell-shocked. “There’s been a shooting on the second floor, too!”

“Bryce,” Jenny said, and a cold blade of fear pierced her.

“What’s going
on
here?” Tal said.

Jenny ran for the exit door at the end of the hall, slammed through it, went down the stairs two at a time. Tal caught up with her by the time she reached the bottom of the second flight. He pulled open the door, and they rushed out into the second-floor corridor.

Another crowd had gathered outside Timmy’s room. Her heart beating twenty to the dozen, Jenny rammed through the onlookers.

A body was on the floor. A nurse stooped beside it.

Jenny thought it was Bryce. Then she saw him in a chair. Another nurse was cutting the shirt away from his shoulder. He was just wounded.

Bryce forced a smile. “Better be careful, Doc. If you always arrive on the scene this soon, they’ll start calling you an ambulance chaser.”

She wept. She couldn’t help it. She had never been so glad to hear anything as she was to hear his voice.

“Just a scratch,” he said.

“Now you sound like Tal,” she said, laughing through her tears. “Is Timmy okay?”

“Kale was going to kill him. If I hadn’t been here . . .”

“This is Kale?”

“Yeah.”

Jenny wiped her eyes with her sleeves and examined Bryce’s shoulder. The bullet had passed through, in the front and out the back. There was no reason to think it had fragmented, but she intended to order X-rays anyway. The wound was bleeding freely, although it wasn’t spurting, and she directed the nurse to stanch the flow with gauze pads soaked in boric acid.

He was going to be all right.

Sure of Bryce’s condition, Jenny turned to the man on the floor. He was in more serious condition. The nurse had torn open his jacket and shirt; he’d been shot in the chest. He coughed, and bright blood sputtered over his lips.

Jenny sent the nurse for a stretcher and put in an emergency call for a surgeon. Then she noticed Kale was running a fever. His forehead was hot, face flushed. When she took his wrist to check his pulse, she saw it was covered with fiery red spots. She pushed up his sleeve and found the spots extended halfway up his arm. They were on his other wrist, too. None on his face or neck. She had noticed pale red marks on his chest but had mistaken them for blood. Looking again, more closely than before, she saw they were like the spots on his wrists.

Measles? No. Something else. Something worse than measles.

The nurse returned with two orderlies and a wheeled stretcher, and Jenny said, “We’ll have to quarantine this floor. And the one above. We’ve got some disease here, and I’m not entirely sure what it is.”

 

 

After X-rays and after his wound had been dressed, Bryce was put in a room down the hall from Timmy. The ache in his shoulder got worse, not better, as the shocked nerves began to regain their function. He refused painkillers, intending to keep a clear head until he knew what had happened and why.

Jenny came to see him half an hour after he was put to bed. She looked exhausted, yet her weariness didn’t diminish her beauty. The sight of her was all the medicine he needed.

“How’s Kale?” he asked.

“The bullet didn’t damage his heart. It collapsed one lung, nicked an artery. Ordinarily, the prognosis would be fair. But he’s not only got surgery to recuperate from; he’s also got to deal with a case of Rocky Mountain spotted fever.”

Bryce blinked. “Spotted fever?”

“There’re two cigarette burns on his right calf, or rather the scars of two burns, where he got rid of the ticks. Wood ticks transmit the disease. Judging from the look of the scars, I’d say he was bitten five or six days ago, which is just about the incubation period for spotted fever. The symptoms must’ve hit him within the past several hours. He must’ve been dizzy, chilled, weak in the joints . . .”

“That’s why his aim was so bad!” Bryce said. “He fired three times at close range and only winged me once.”

“You’d better thank God for sending that tick up his pants leg.”

He thought about that and said, “It almost does seem like an act of God, doesn’t it? But what were he and Terr up to? Why’d they risk coming here with guns? I can understand Kale might want to kill me and even Timmy. But why Tal and you and Lisa?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “Since last Tuesday morning, Kale’s been keeping a written record of what he calls ‘The Events After the Epiphany.’ It seems that Kale and Terr made a bargain with the Devil.”

 

 

Four o’clock Monday morning, only six days after the epiphany of which Kale had written, he died in the county hospital. Before he passed out of this life, he opened his eyes, stared wildly at a nurse, then looked past her, saw something that terrified him, something the nurse couldn’t see. He somehow found the strength to raise his hands, as if trying to protect himself, and he cried out; it was a thin, death-rattle scream. When the nurse tried to calm him, he said, “But
this
isn’t my destiny.” And then he was gone.

 

 

On October 31, more than six weeks after the events in Snowfield, Tal Whitman and Paula Thorne (the nurse he’d been dating) held a Halloween costume party at Tal’s house in Santa Mira. Bryce went as a cowboy. Jenny was a cowgirl. Lisa was dressed as a witch, with a tall pointed hat and lots of black mascara.

Tal opened the door and said, “Cluck, cluck.” He was wearing a chicken suit.

Jenny had never seen a more ridiculous costume. She laughed so hard that, for a while, she didn’t realize Lisa was laughing, too.

It was the first laugh the girl had given voice to in the past six weeks. Previously, she’d managed only a smile. Now she laughed until tears ran down her face.

“Well, hey, just a minute here,” Tal said, pretending to be offended. “You make a pretty silly-looking witch, too.”

He winked at Jenny, and she knew he’d chosen the chicken suit for the effect it would have on Lisa.

“For God’s sake,” Bryce said, “get out of the doorway and let us inside, Tal. If the public sees you in that getup, they’ll lose what little respect they have left for the sheriff’s department.”

That night, Lisa joined in the conversation and the games, and she laughed a great deal. It was a new beginning.

 

 

In August of the following year, on the first day of their honeymoon, Jenny found Bryce on the balcony of their hotel room, overlooking Waikiki Beach. He was frowning.

“You aren’t worried about being so far away from Timmy, are you?” she asked.

“No. But it’s Timmy I’m thinking about. Lately . . . I’ve had this feeling everything’s going to be all right, after all. It’s strange. Like a premonition. I had a dream last night. Timmy woke up from his coma, said hello to me, and asked for a Big Mac. Only . . . it wash’t like any dream I’ve ever had before. It was so
real
.”

“Well, you’ve never lost hope.”

“Yes. For a while I lost it. But I’ve got it back again.”

They stood in silence for a while, letting the warm sea wind wash over them, listening to the waves breaking on the beach.

Then they made love again.

 

 

That night they had dinner at a good Chinese restaurant in Honolulu. They drank champagne all evening, even though the waiter politely suggested they switch to tea with the meal, so their palates would not be “stained.”

Over dessert, Bryce said, “There was something else Timmy said in that dream. When I was surprised he’d awakened from his coma, he said, ‘But, Daddy, if there’s a Devil, then there’s got to be a God, too. Didn’t you already figure that out when you met the Devil? God wouldn’t let me sleep my whole life away.’”

Jenny stared at him uncertainly.

He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not flaking out on you. I’m not going to start sending money to those charlatan preachers on TV, asking them to pray for Timmy. Hell, I’m not even going to start attending church. Sunday’s the only day I can sleep in! What I’m talking about isn’t your standard, garden variety religion . . .”

“Yes, but it wasn’t
really
the Devil,” she said.

“Wasn’t it?”

“It was a prehistoric creature that—”

“Couldn’t it be
both?”

“What’re we getting into here?”

“A philosophical discussion.”

“On our honeymoon?”

“I married you partly for your mind.”

Later, in bed, just before sleep took them, he said, “Well, all I know is that the shape-changer made me realize there’s a lot more mystery in this world than I once thought. I just won’t rule anything out. And looking back on it, considering what we survived in Snowfield, considering how Tal had just strapped on his gun when Jeeter walked in, considering how the spotted fever screwed up Kale’s aim . . . well, it seems to me like we were
meant
to survive.”

They slept, woke toward dawn, made love, slept again.

In the morning, she said, “I know one thing for
sure.”

“What’s that?”

“We were
meant
to be married.”

“Definitely.”

“No matter what, fate would’ve run us headlong into each other sooner or later.”

That afternoon, as they strolled along the beach, Jenny thought the waves sounded like huge, rumbling wheels. The sound called to mind an old saying about the mill wheels of Heaven grinding slowly. The rumble of the waves enforced that image, and in her mind she could see immense stone mill wheels turning against each other.

She said, “You think it has a meaning, then? A purpose?”

He didn’t have to ask what she meant. “Yes. Everything, every twist and turn of life. A meaning, a purpose.”

The sea foamed on the sand.

Jenny listened to the mill wheels and wondered what mysteries and miracles, what horrors and joys were being ground out at this very moment, to be served up in times to come.

Like all the characters in this novel, Timothy Flyte is a fictional person, but many of the mass disappearances to which he refers are not merely figments of the author’s imagination. They really happened. The disappearance of the Roanoke Island colony, the mysteriously deserted Eskimo village of Anjikuni, the vanished Mayan populations, the unexplained loss of thousands of Spanish soldiers in 1711, the equally mystifying loss of the Chinese battalions in 1939, and certain other cases mentioned in
Phantoms
are actually well-documented, historical events.

Likewise, there is a
real
Dr. Ananda Chakrabarty. In
Phantoms
, the details of his development of the first patented microorganism are drawn from public record. Dr. Chakrabarty’s bacterium was, as stated in the book, too fragile to survive outside of the laboratory. Biosan-4, the trade name of a supposedly hardier strain of Chakrabarty’s bug, is a fictional device.

And of course the ancient enemy is a product of the author’s imagination. But what if . . .