The opposite bookshelf—to Hawkins’ right—remained upright. It simply had a gaping hole of splintered wood bored through its core. For some reason, books littered the aisle behind it, as though, Hawkins thought, something had—well—something had been hurled right through this bookshelf . . .
And then there was the aisle in between.
The flat pool of blood that filled the aisle had dried somewhat in the past twenty-four hours, but the stench still remained.
Of course, the body had been removed, but as Hawkins noticed, the sheer amount of blood was staggering. It lay everywhere—on the floor, on the ceiling, spattered all over the stairwell door. Those books that had remained on the shelves had been sprayed with flying blood. Those that had fallen to the floor had simply changed colour. They were maroon.
Hawkins swallowed as he saw the trail of smeared blood that stained the floor around the shelf with the hole in it. It looked as if someone had been dragged around the shelf, back into the original aisle.
By New York Police Department standards, Paul Hawkins was young. Twenty-four. And his youth, combined with his relative inexperience, had made him the obvious choice for baby-sit assignments like this one. Domestic violence protection, post-trauma custody, that sort of thing. He’d seen battered wives and beaten-up teenagers, but in sixteen months of duty, Paul Hawkins had never seen a murder scene.
He felt it odd that the first thing that struck him about the scene was how the movies got it all wrong. Even the most violent film could never successfully achieve the sheer ugliness of a murder scene. This was it, he thought, as he stared at the wide pool of dried blood before him.
It was ugly. Dirty and crude and brutal. Hawkins wanted to be sick again.
He looked up at the endless rows of bookshelves that lined Sub-Level Two.
Someone—something—is down here.
He lifted his flashlight. And then slowly, cautiously, he ventured out into the aisles.
‘Daddy,’ Holly said, following her father into the stairwell.
‘In a second, honey,’ Swain turned to Selexin. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else you should tell me about before we go any further? No more exploding devices?’
‘Daddy.’
Selexin said, ‘Well, there is one thing—’
‘Daddee!’
Swain stopped. ‘What is it, honey?’
Holly held up the telephone receiver, giving her most winning smile. ‘It’s for you.’
Swain bent down and took the dead phone. He spoke into it while looking at Holly. ‘Hello? Oh hi, how are you?—Yeah?—Is that so?—Well, I’m kinda busy at the moment. Can I call you back? Great. Bye.’ He gave the phone back to Holly. Satisfied, she grabbed Swain’s hand and fell back into step with him and the egg man.
Selexin spoke quietly, ‘Your daughter is really quite charming.’
‘Thanks,’ Swain said.
‘But she provides far more risks to your safety than you should be willing to accommodate.’
‘What?’
‘I am merely suggesting that you might be better off without her,’ Selexin said. ‘It might be wise for her to “hole up”, as you say. Hide for the duration of the Presidian. If you survive, you will be able to come back for her. If, of course, you care for her that much.’
‘Which I do.’
‘And likewise,’ Selexin went on, ‘If you are defeated, she will not also be killed. In any case, to what efficiency can you aspire if you are defending her life as well as your own? An act to prevent her from injury might—’
‘Might jeopardise my own life,’ Swain said, ‘and therefore jeopardise yours. This is my daughter. Where I go, she goes. Not negotiable.’
Selexin took a gentle step back.
‘And another thing,’ Swain said, ‘If something does happen and we are separated, I expect you to look after her. Not to hole her up and hope nobody stumbles onto her, but to make sure that nothing—nothing—happens to her. Do you understand?’
Selexin bowed. ‘I have been at error and I apologise with all my heart. I was unaware of your attachment to your child. In as much as I can, I will do my utmost to serve your wishes should such an eventuality occur.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate that,’ Swain said, nodding. ‘Now, you were saying there was something else. Something I should know about.’
‘Yes,’ Selexin regathered himself. ‘It pertains to combat, or rather, the end of any fighting. Whenever any contestant defeats another—either in combat or ambush or otherwise—the conquest must be confirmed.’
‘Okay.’
‘And that is my purpose,’ Selexin said.
‘You confirm a kill? Like a witness?’ Swain asked.
‘Not exactly. I am not the witness. But I do provide the window for the witness.’
‘Window?’
Selexin stopped on the steps. He turned to Swain. ‘Yes. And only at your command can the window be initialised. If you would be so kind, would you please say the word “Initialise”.’
Swain cocked his head. ‘Initialise? Why—’
And then it happened. A small sphere of brilliant white light—perhaps a foot in diameter—burst to life above Selexin’s white skull cap, illuminating the entire stairwell around them.
‘What is it?’ Swain asked.
‘It’s coming from the egg—’ Holly marvelled.
Selexin looked at Holly, somewhat surprised. ‘Yes. You are correct. My rather odd-looking hat is the source of this teleport, small as it is. If you will, Mr Swain, please say “Cancel” lest my superiors believe you actually have killed somebody.’
‘Oh, okay. Ah . . . cancel.’
The light disappeared instantly.
‘You say it’s a teleport. Like before?’ Swain asked.
‘Yes,’ Selexin said, ‘exactly the same as before—simply a hole in the air. Only much, much smaller, of course. There is merely another official like myself who is watching at the other end of this teleport. He is your witness.’
Swain looked at the white skull cap on Selexin’s head. ‘And it comes from that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Swain said, continuing down the stairs.
Selexin followed in silence. Finally he said, ‘If I may be so bold as to inquire, where are we going?’
‘Down,’ Holly said, shaking her head. ‘Derrr.’
Selexin frowned, puzzled.
Swain shrugged. ‘Like the lady said, down.’
He gave Holly a quick wink—masking his own very real fear—and she grinned back at him, reassured by the almost conspiratorial nature of the gesture.
They continued down the stairs.
The switchboard operator stared at the panel before her in stunned disbelief.
When is this going to stop? she thought.
On the switch in front of her, two rows of incessant flashing lights indicated that there were a hell of a lot of phone calls waiting to be answered.
She took a deep breath and pressed the flashing square that read ‘9’, and began:
‘Good evening, Con Edison Customer Service Line, my name is Sandy. How may I help you?’
Her headset rattled with the tinny voice of yet another disgruntled New Yorker. When finally it stopped, she punched the code—401—into her computer console.
That made fourteen in the last hour, on her panel alone. All coming from inside grid two-twelve—central Manhattan.
A 401—power out due to a probable short in the electrical main. The switchboard operator looked at the words on her computer screen: ‘Probable short in the electrical main’. Electronically, she didn’t know what a short in the main meant nor how it was caused. She simply knew all the symptoms of power cuts and failures and, in much the same way as a doctor identifies an illness, all she did was add up the symptoms and identify the problem. To know how it was caused was someone else’s job.
She shrugged, leaned forward and pressed the next flashing square, ready to face the next complaint.
>
The lowest floor of the New York State Library is called the ‘Stack’. It contains no toilets, no offices, no desks, and no computers. In fact, the Stack holds nothing but books, lots and lots of books.
Like other large libraries, the State Library of New York is less a borrowing library than it is an information library—chiefly computers, Internet, microfilm and CD-ROMs.
As far as actual books are concerned, only the more recent and popular are on display on the Ground Floor. If patrons seek other books, then they are to be found—by staff only—in the Stack, Sub-Level Two.
Wherefore, the Stack acts as little more than a holding pen for several million books.
Lots of books. In lots of bookshelves. And these bookshelves are arranged in a vast rectangular grid formation.
Twenty-two long rows of bookshelves stretch the length of the floor, while horizontal passageways cut across these longer rows at intervals of twenty feet—creating an enormous maze of right-angled twists and turns, blind corners, and long straight aisles that stretch away into infinity.
An enormous maze, thought NYPD Officer Paul Hawkins as he wandered through the Stack. Wonderful.
Hawkins had been wandering through the dusty aisles for several minutes now and had so far found nothing.
Damn it, he thought, as he turned back for the stairwe—
A soft noise.
From off to the right.
Hawkins’ hand whipped to the automatic by his side. He listened intently.
There it was again.
A low, rasping sound.
Not breathing, he thought. No. More like . . . sliding. Like a broom sweeping slowly over a rough wooden floor. Like something sliding along the dusty floor of Sub-Level Two.
Hawkins drew his gun and listened again. It was definitely coming from the right, from somewhere within the maze of bookshelves around him. He swallowed.
There’s someone in here.
He grabbed the radio on his belt.
‘Parker!’ he hissed. ‘Parker! Do you copy?’
No answer.
Jesus.
‘Parker, where are you?’
Hawkins switched off the radio and turned to look back at the receding rows of bookshelves before him. He pursed his lips for a moment.
Then he lifted his gun and ventured out into the maze.
Gun in hand, Hawkins quietly zig-zagged his way between the bookshelves, moving quickly and easily, searching for the source of the sound.
He came to a halt at the base of a bookcase full of dusty hardcovers. Held his breath for a moment. Waited . . .
There.
His eyes snapped left.
There it was again. The sweeping sound.
It was getting louder—he must be getting closer.
Hawkins darted left, then right, then left again—moving smoothly in and out of the aisles, stopping every few metres at the flat end of a bookcase. It was disorienting, he thought. Every aisle looked the same as the one before it.
He stopped again.
Listened.
Again, he heard the soft brushing sound. Like a broom on a dusty wooden floor.
Only louder now.
Close.
Very, very close.
Hawkins hurried on along a passageway that cut across the long vertical aisles of the Stack until suddenly he was confronted by a wall of bookshelves—a solid wall of bookshelves that seemed to stretch away into darkness in both directions.
A wall? Hawkins thought. He must be at the edge of the floor—at one of the long sides of the enormous rectangle.
The sound came again.
Only this time, it came from . . . behind him.
Hawkins spun, raised his gun.
What the hell—? Had it turned?
Cautiously, he edged his way down the alleyway of books.
The aisle closed in around him. The nearest cross-passageway branched away to his right—there was nothing but the unbroken wall of bookshelves to his left—about twenty feet away. It was cloaked in shadow.
Hawkins stepped forward slowly. The passageway came fully into view.
It was different.
It wasn’t a T-junction, like the last one. More like an L-shape.
Hawkins frowned, and then he realised. It was a corner—the very corner of the floor. He hadn’t realised that he’d come this far from the stairwell at the centre.
Listening.
Nothing.
He came to the L-junction and listened again. There was no sound.
Whatever it was, it was gone now.
And then Hawkins began to think. He’d followed the sound, the source of which had presumably been unaware of his presence. But its last few movements had been odd.
It was as though whoever it was had lost direction and had started circling . . .
Circling, Hawkins thought.
No-one would consciously go in a circle, would they, unless they were lost or . . . or unless they knew someone was following them.
Hawkins’ blood went completely cold. Whoever it was, it wasn’t just circling.
It was doubling back.
It knew he was here.
Hawkins spun to face the long aisle behind him, jamming his back into the corner shelving.
Nothing.
‘Damn it!’ he could feel the beads of cold sweat forming on his forehead. ‘Damn it, shit!’
He couldn’t believe it. He’d walked right into a corner. A goddamn corner! Two options—straight or left. Shit, he thought, at least among the bookshelves he’d have had four. Now he was trapped.
And then suddenly he saw it.
Off to the left, moving slowly and carefully, out into the passageway.
Hawkins’ eyes widened.
‘Holy shit.’
It looked like nothing he had ever seen before.
Big and long, but low to the ground like an alligator, the creature looked almost dinosaurian—with black-green pebbled skin, four powerful stubby limbs and a long, thick counterbalancing tail.
Its head was truly odd. No eyes, and—seemingly—no mouth. The only distinguishing feature: a pair of long spindly antennae that jutted up from its forehead and clocked rhythmically from side to side.
It was twenty feet away from Hawkins when the tip of its tail finally came into view. The tail itself must have been eight feet long, and it slid across the floor in long, slow arcs, creating the soft sweeping sound. Hawkins saw that the tail tapered sharply to a point at its tip. The whole animal must have been at least fourteen feet long.
Hawkins blinked. For an instant there, behind the tail, he thought he caught a glimpse of a man, a small man, dressed completely in white—
And then the creature’s head eased slowly upward—the folds of its skin peeling back to reveal a hideous four-sided jaw that opened with a soft, lethal hiss. Four rows of hideously jagged, saliva-covered teeth appeared.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Hawkins stared at the creature.
It moved forward.
Toward him.
One of the animal’s forelegs caught his attention. A green light glowed from a thick grey band strapped to the creature’s left forelimb.
It was close now—its jaws wide, salivating wildly, dripping goo all over the floor. Hawkins’ eyes were locked on the swaying antennae on its head, clocking from side to side like a pair of metronomes.
It was three feet away . . .
Two feet . . .
Hawkins tensed to run, but for some terrifying reason, his legs wouldn’t move. He tried to raise his gun, but couldn’t—it was as if every muscle in his body had gone completely, instantly limp. He watched helplessly as, to his horror, his gun slipped from his unresponsive hand and dropped loudly to the floor.
The antennae kept swaying.
One foot . . .
Hawkins was sweating profusely, breathing in short, rapid breaths. He just couldn’t take his eyes off them. The antennae. They seemed to move in perfect rhythm, swaying in smooth hypnotic circles . . .<
br />
He watched—completely defenceless—as the creature’s sinister-looking head came slowly up to his knee.
Ohshit.Ohshit.Ohshit.
And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, like a cobra coiling up off the ground, the creature’s long, pointed, eight-foot tail lifted off the floor and swung forward—over its low reptilian body—so that now it was pointing forward, arcing over its frame like a scorpion’s stinger, the tip of the tail pointing right at the bridge of Paul Hawkins’ nose.
Hawkins saw it happen and his terror hit fever pitch. He desperately wanted to shut his eyes, so he wouldn’t see it happen, but he couldn’t even do that—
‘Hey!’
The creature’s head snapped left.
And in an instant, the trance was broken and Hawkins could move again. He looked up and saw . . .
. . . a man.
A man, standing a short way down the aisle. Hawkins hadn’t even seen him approach. Hadn’t even heard him. Hawkins took in the man’s appearance. He had wet hair, and was wearing jeans and sneakers and a white shirt that hung out at the waist.
The man spoke to Hawkins.
‘Come over here. Now.’
Hawkins looked down warily at the big alligator-like creature at his feet. It ignored him completely, simply faced the man in jeans, its body dead still.
If it had eyes, Hawkins thought, it was definitely glaring at him. A low rumbling noise rose threateningly from the back of its throat.
Hawkins glanced back questioningly at the man. The man just kept his eyes levelled at him.
‘Come on,’ the man said calmly, eyes unmoving. ‘Just leave the gun there and walk very slowly over to me.’
Tentatively, Hawkins took a step forward.
The creature at his knee didn’t move. It remained steadfastly focused on the man in jeans.
The man pushed Hawkins behind him and slowly stepped backwards, away from the creature.
Hawkins looked down the aisle behind them and saw two figures standing maybe forty feet away—a small one in white, and another, equally small, who looked like . . . he squinted . . . like a little girl.
‘Move,’ Swain said, pushing Hawkins down the aisle, his back to him.
Swain kept his eyes up, focused on the bookshelves, away from the creature’s swaying antennae, watching it only out of his peripheral vision.
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