I hate him! the minister thought. I hate him!
A momentary doubt peeked out from the reaches of Pfeil’s consciousness. You should not hate, it cautioned. You’re a man of God. You must love your enemies, leave vengeance to the Lord. But the angry, bitter, hating part of Pfeil silenced the doubt with a mental hammerblow. He hated Edley more than he’d ever hated anyone, and that hatred picked him up and carried him away as a wave propels a surfer.
No! something inside him screamed. Evil! Evil! Beware!
But the warning had come too late, for Douglas Pfeil, Lutheran minister, was standing on the surfboard of his wounded pride, riding the wave of hatred, at the mercy of a raging surf over which he had no control.
Do you want to get even? Just say yes.
And Douglas Pfeil said yes. A hundred, a thousand times yes.
4
After making it clear who would come out on the losing end of any future physical confrontations, Paul Edley left the minister lying in the snow and went back inside. He got another can of beer and switched on the TV. Eventually, he supposed, he’d have to break off his thing with Carly. It was just too much of a hassle to be worth it, what with her hinting about a permanent relationship and now with her father coming around. But he wouldn’t do it right away. First he’d let the preacher stew a little bit. At least a few weeks.
A talk show was on the TV. Edley got up and changed to a game show, returned to the couch. A woman with lots of blonde curls guessed Richard Nixon as the answer to a question Edley hadn’t heard. A buzzer sounded, indicating she was wrong. Edley was taking another swallow of beer when his door opened. The minister was standing there with a tire iron in his hand. Edley couldn’t believe it.
“That’s not going to do you any good,” he said confidently.
But as Pfeil stepped toward him, Edley saw the minister’s eyes. They were distant, like a sleepwalker’s eyes, and yet behind that faraway look danced all sorts of powerful emotions. Hatred and confusion and burning rage. And suddenly Edley had the feeling that he was looking into eyes that weren’t human. He felt his confidence evaporating.
The minister advanced, raising the tire iron.
5
Less than a quarter of a mile from the Edley house, Karl Zellner’s German Shepherd, Brute, was exploring the woods. He could smell the scent of squirrels everywhere, which was frustrating, because the snow made it impossible for him to chase them. Chasing squirrels was one of Brute’s favorite pastimes. They always escaped by scampering up a tree, but it was fun all the same. At least when there wasn’t any deep snow, it was fun. When there was snow, as there was now, the squirrels scooted across its surface with ease, while Brute sank in up to his belly. He had to leap and plow his way through it, which was slow and took a lot of effort.
He sniffed the bark of a pine tree, smelling bark and wood and sap and beneath those odors the scents of the squirrels that had climbed the tree. Although Brute had no perception of the seasons, he sensed at some instinctive level that the time would come when he could again chase squirrels without sinking into the snow, a time when there would be warmth, and along with it would come other things to chase, such as chipmunks and raccoons and skunks. He hated skunks. One of Brute’s doggy obsessions was his intense desire to rip apart every skunk in the vicinity.
Claiming this territory as his own, the German Shepherd raised his rear leg and directed a stream of urine at the trunk of the pine tree. Then, sinking into the snow with every step, he moved on to another tree. Again he sniffed the trunk, his sensitive nose detecting a myriad of scents. Suddenly, the tree forgotten, Brute tensed, raising his ears, listening intently. He was hearing a sound too high to be detected by human ears. The dog began to tremble.
The sound was intense and prolonged, and there was something primeval about it.
It was a howl, and yet it wasn’t.
It was a shriek, and yet it wasn’t.
It was a wail, and yet it wasn’t.
The big German Shepherd, which had never feared anything before in its life, felt the hair raising along its back. Then, in total panic, the dog fled, lunging through the deep snow with every bit of strength it had.
6
Karl Zellner was a retired schoolteacher. After spending most of his adult life teaching math to noisy, uncontrollable, unmotivated inner-city kids in Chicago, he’d come to Ice Island to just plain get away from people. He’d never married, for which he had no regrets. Brute was all the companionship he required.
Zellner was sitting in his reclining chair, reading a magazine, when a loud thump came from the back door. Before he could put down the magazine and get up, there was a crash that made it sound as if something were trying to tear the door down.
“Hold on, Brute,” he muttered. “I’m coming as fast as I can.”
By the time he’d made his way into the kitchen, Brute had banged on the door three more times. From the way he was carrying on, Godzilla could be after him, Zellner thought. He opened the door, and a tan streak shot past his legs, pads slipping on the linoleum floor.
“My God, Brute. What the hell’s going on?”
Zellner looked out the door, seeing nothing except the sidewalk leading to the detached garage and a yard full of deep snow. Closing the door, he went to find the dog. Zellner made one complete trip through the house, seeing no sign of the German Shepherd. On his second pass through the bedroom he heard a whine. Getting down on the floor, Zellner peered under the bed. Two wide, terror-filled eyes stared back at him. A long string of drool hung from Brute’s mouth; the dog was shaking.
“Jesus, Brute, how the hell did you fit under there?” Zellner asked.
But Brute was unable to answer that, as he was unable to tell his friend and master what had so thoroughly terrified him.
7
Carolyn Pfeil was cooking dinner when her husband came in through the back door, stomping the snow off his boots. She was making one of her standards, hamburger and macaroni casserole, which she always served with peas and Jell-O salad.
“Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” she said.
Reverend Douglas Pfeil walked past her without saying a word. She started to go after him, then stopped herself, sensing that this was probably not the time to talk to him. She’d have to do it eventually, though, for he’d been acting strangely lately, unhappy, as if he didn’t care about anything anymore. And his behavior just now seemed to indicate that he was getting worse.
Carolyn didn’t like the thought of having a talk with Douglas. A discussion could lead to hurt feelings or an argument, and she generally wasn’t one to rock the matrimonial boat. Still, something had to be done about Douglas. Maybe it was the island. Maybe moving somewhere else would help, someplace with more things to do, someplace without the long, cold winter, someplace where you weren’t cut off from civilization twice a year.
Maybe she should try to convince him to get counseling, and maybe that’s what the counselor would say: Get off the island.
Carolyn Pfeil realized she was wringing her hands. She dreaded having to deal with her husband’s problems, and she wished with all her heart they would simply go away.
8
Douglas Pfeil stood in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. He saw himself on two levels. The outer level was a six-foot three-inch man with light brown hair and big hands. But because he was no longer entirely Douglas Pfeil, he could see below that exterior appearance to what was beneath, the two images superimposed like a photograph on which two pictures had been taken without advancing the film. The other image looked nothing like the first.
Behind Pfeil’s blue eyes were two glowing red orbs.
Behind his pale cheeks were reptilian scales.
Behind his chest and shoulders was a mass of fur.
Behind his human teeth were sharp, deadly fangs.
Carolyn hadn’t noticed that the coat he was wearing was the one he kept in the station wagon for emergencies. Nor had she noticed the bloodstai
ns on his pants, but then the material was dark brown, and the stains were hard to see. It was probably just as well for Carolyn that she hadn’t noticed.
He’d heard her ask him about dinner. He hadn’t answered, because the thought of eating such food was repulsive. And yet, as he stared at the two images of himself in the mirror, he knew that he had an extreme hunger.
Abruptly he turned and walked out of the bathroom. As he returned to the kitchen, still wearing the same coat, Carolyn looked up from the stove and said, “Dinner in twenty minutes.”
“Fuck dinner,” Pfeil said, and he walked out the door.
Five
1
The sun was just beginning to send shafts of yellow light through the trees as Tommy Quirk drove his garbage truck along South Point Road. Tommy liked to get an early start, get his work done, and have the rest of the day to himself. He and his brother, Guy, owned Quirk’s Refuse Removal, which consisted of the two brothers, their wives, and a pair of garbage trucks. Tommy and Guy drove the trucks; their wives ran the office and did the paperwork. There were no town-owned garbage trucks, so Ice Islanders either paid the Quirks to haul away their refuse or they did it themselves. Most people paid the Quirks.
Tommy slowed the truck and pulled into Paul Edley’s drive. Edley was one of those people who forgot to pay his bill. He wasn’t a deadbeat—at least Tommy didn’t think he was—he just forgot. Jean, Tommy’s wife, would send him an overdue notice, then a second notice, and finally notification that his service would be discontinued if he didn’t pay up in ten days. Edley always paid up. It was a matter of getting his attention, Tommy supposed.
He stopped the truck in front of Edley’s house and got out. A large drum-shaped container was fastened to the rear of the truck. Tommy took it with him as he headed for the rear of the house. It was large enough to hold the contents of several garbage cans. Though heavy when full, it enabled him to carry all the refuse to the truck in one trip.
Because the snow in the yard was too deep to move through, Tommy followed the walk, which branched as it reached the house, one part going to the front door, the other part leading around to the rear of the house, where the garbage cans were located. Edley did a lousy job of keeping it shoveled. It was all ice and packed snow underfoot.
Abruptly, Tommy stopped. He’d just noticed that the front door was standing open about a foot. He could see a portion of the living room—carpeting, the arm of a chair. Although the weather had slowly been getting warmer, it was below freezing this early in the day, and nobody left a door open.
Putting down his garbage-carrying container, Tommy walked as far as the cement steps. “Hey, Edley,” he called. “You in there?”
From inside the house came nothing but silence. Puzzled, Tommy stared at the foot-wide slice of living room, still seeing nothing but carpeting and a chair arm. Edley wasn’t known as an early riser, so he could still be asleep. Maybe the door hadn’t been closed tightly, and it had come open by itself, letting all Edley’s heat out while he slept. It was none of Tommy’s business, when you came right down to it, but he hated to see anyone wasting money on natural gas or heating oil. Besides, an open door could mean something was wrong. So Tommy moved to the door, put his hand on it.
And all at once, an uneasiness came over him, a cold, tingly sensation that settled in the pit of his stomach. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since childhood, when he’d stare at the shadows on his bedroom wall and know they were made by the monsters lurking just outside the window, just waiting for the chance to get him.
He tapped lightly on the door. “Edley!”
Through the opening he could see magazines on the floor now. One was a men’s publication, which had fallen open to a full-page picture of a nude woman with large breasts. Tommy pushed the door, and it swung open, revealing more magazines. They were blood-spattered. The door continued to swing away from him, revealing blood on the walls, the carpet, the furniture. And when the door stopped because it was open all the way, Tommy was staring horrified at a pulpy-looking mess with a tire iron lying beside it.
For a moment Tommy just stood there, transfixed. Then he turned and ran back to his garbage truck. He had to call the police, he knew that, but he wasn’t going into that house. No way.
Although Tommy usually took good care of his equipment, he spun the truck’s tires pulling away from the house and plowed through the snowbank getting back on South Point Road.
2
Carly waved as her mom pulled away from the school in the family’s white station wagon.
“Hi, Carly,” a voice behind her said. “You going to the game tonight?”
Turning, Carly found Brittany Uhl, the green tights that were part of her cheerleading costume showing beneath her coat. The school colors were green and white. She was a pretty girl—brown hair, green eyes, freckles—who was always trying to get Carly involved in things. Try out for the cheerleading squad, Carly. Go out for girls’ basketball, Carly. Sign up for this, try out for that. She was worse than the damn guidance counselor.
“How can there be a game with the Split in effect?” Carly asked. “The other team can’t get here.”
“Girls’ team’s playing the boys’ team,” Brittany said enthusiastically.
“Won’t that be fun,” Carly said, making sure sarcasm dripped from each word. Nothing that went on at Ice Island Junior/Senior High concerned her. The place was a stupid waste of time. The students seemed to fall into three categories: innocents like Brittany, obnoxious delinquents, and nerds. There were a few who thought they were hot shit—some of the prettier girls, some of the jocks on the football team—but to Carly they were just conceited asses.
“It’ll be fun,” Brittany protested. “It’s just a matter of everybody getting into the spirit of the thing.”
Carly sighed. “Are you for real, Brittany?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“All this enthusiasm over a dumb basketball game.”
Brittany stared at her, apparently trying to decide how to deal with this heresy, then she said, “What’s wrong with a little school spirit?”
“Why should I have school spirit?”
“Because … well, because this is where you go to school.”
“Brittany, if you want to think that stuff’s important, go ahead. But don’t try to sell it to me, okay?”
“You’ve changed,” Brittany said. “You’re not the same girl who used to be my best friend.”
“You’re right,” Carly said. “I’m not.”
Brittany searched Carly’s face for a moment, apparently trying to determine the exact meaning of her words, and then she wheeled and walked away, clutching her books and notebook to her chest. Carly watched her walk past the flagpole, heading for the entrance to the one-story brick building. As soon as Paul and I are married, Carly thought, I’m going to talk him into selling the business so we can move off this damned island.
She considered the places she and Paul might go. She hoped it would be someplace big and exciting, where there were lots of things to see and do. Somewhere like New York or Los Angeles or Chicago. San Francisco would be okay too. They could have an apartment on top of one of the hills, ride the cable cars. The thought made her tingle all over.
Carly glanced at her watch. It was almost time to meet Paul. She walked away from the school.
The town part of Ice Island was laid out with avenues running east and west, streets running north and south. The avenues, except for Island Avenue, were named after the Great Lakes. The streets were named after cities in Michigan. There were four avenues and eight streets. Ice Island Junior/Senior High was located at the intersection of Saginaw Street and Huron Avenue. Because Paul didn’t think it was a good idea to pick Carly up at school, they met two blocks away, at Huron and Dearborn.
As she walked, Carly thought about Paul. She was anxious to see him, anxious for them to strip off their clothes and slip under the covers of his heated water bed. It wasn’t ju
st sex she was having with Paul; Carly had no doubts about that. Sex was just the physical expression of their love. And Carly’s love for Paul was intense and pure and wonderful. She thought about almost nothing else, sometimes sitting in class and writing his name again and again in her notebook. One day last week she’d written it a thousand times, then switched to her own—as Paul’s wife. She’d written Carly Edley, Carly Ann Edley, C.A. Edley, Mrs. Paul Edley, Mrs. Carly Edley …
Soon, very soon, she’d marry him. The thought sent tingles through her body. Sure, her parents would scream, and people like Brittany Uhl would think she was stupid, but what did they know? Her parents weren’t in love the way she and Paul were. Her parents seemed to simply exist with each other. If one of them disappeared, it would probably be a week before the other one noticed. She and Paul, on the other hand, were totally committed to each other. Each second apart was sheer hell for both of them. Even the people in the greatest love stories didn’t have what she and Paul did. They were incomplete when they were separated, so great was their love.
And as for Brittany Uhl, who cared about the opinions of someone naive enough to wear a stupid cheerleader costume and go around spouting off about school spirit? Carly shook her head. How could Brittany ever have been her best friend? Brittany was a shallow person who would lead an empty, pointless life. Like Carly’s mom.
As her thoughts swung back to her parents, Carly wondered about her father’s strange behavior. He’d been down in the dumps a lot lately, as if he was bored with everything. Then last night he’d just walked out of the house, not coming back until after midnight. This morning, he’d still been in bed when Carly got up, and her mom had been tense and snappish.
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