Phantoms

by Dean Koontz

  and toast, while Professor Flyte adjusted the day-old carnation pinned to the lapel of his somewhat shiny blue suit.

  As Sandler finished ordering, Flyte leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Will you be having some of the champagne, Mr. Sandler?”

  “I believe I might have a glass or two,” Sandler said, hoping the bubbly would liberate his mind and help him formulate a believable explanation for this extravagance, a likely tale that would convince even the parsimonious clerks in accounting who would be poring over this bill with an electron microscope.

  Flyte looked at the waiter. “Then perhaps you’d better bring two bottles.”

  Sandler, who was sipping ice-water, nearly choked.

  The waiter left, and Flyte looked out through the rain-streaked window beside their table. “Nasty weather. Is it like this in New York in autumn?”

  “We have our share of rainy days. But autumn can be beautiful in New York.”

  “Here, too,” Flyte said. “Though I rather imagine we have more days like this than you. London’s reputation for soggy weather isn’t entirely undeserved.”

  The professor insisted on small talk until the champagne and caviar were served, as if he feared that, once business had been discussed, Sandler would quickly cancel the rest of the breakfast order.

  He’s a character out of Dickens, Sandler thought.

  As soon as they had proposed a toast, wishing each other good fortune, and had sipped the Mumm’s, Flyte said, “So you’ve come all the way from New York to see me, have you?” His eyes were merry.

  “To see a number of writers, actually,” Sandler said. “I make the trip once a year. I scout out books in progress. British authors are popular in the States, especially thriller writers.”

  “MacLean, Follett, Forsythe, Bagley, that crowd?”

  “Yes, very popular, some of them.

  The caviar was superb. At the professor’s urging, Sandler tried some of it with chopped onions. Flyte piled gobs on small wedges of dry toast and ate it without benefit of condiments.

  “But I’m not only scouting for thrillers,” Sandler said. “I’m after a variety of books. Unknown authors, too. And I suggest projects on occasion, when I have a subject for a particular author.”

  “Apparently, you have something in mind for me.”

  “First, let me say I read The Ancient Enemy when it was first published, and I found it fascinating.”

  “A number of people found it fascinating,” Flyte said. “But most found it infuriating.”

  “I hear the book created problems for you.”

  “Virtually nothing but problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “I lost my university position fifteen years ago, at the age of forty-three, when most academics are achieving job security.”

  “You lost your position because of The Ancient Enemy?”

  “They didn’t put it quite that bluntly,” Flyte said, popping a morsel of caviar into his mouth. “That would have made them seem too closeminded. The administrators of my college, the head of my department, and most of my distinguished colleagues chose to attack indirectly. My dear Mr. Sandler, the competiton among power-mad politicians and the Machiavellian backstabbing of junior executives in a major corporation are as nothing, in terms of ruthlessness and spitefulness, when compared to the behavior of academic types who suddenly see an opportunity to climb the university ladder at the expense of one of their own. They spread rumors without foundation, scandalous tripe about my sexual preferences, suggestions of intimate fraternization with my female students. And with my male students, for that matter. None of those slanders was openly discussed in a forum where I could refute them. Just rumors. Whispered behind the back. Poisonous. More openly, they made polite suggestions of incompetence, overwork, mental fatigue. I was eased out, you see; that’s how they thought of it, though there was nothing easy about it from my point of view. Eighteen months after the publication of The Ancient Enemy, I was gone. And no other university would have me, ostensibly because of my unsavory reputation. The true reason, of course, was that my theories were too bizarre for academic tastes. I stood accused of attempting to make a fortune by pandering to the common man’s taste for pseudoscience and sensationalism, of selling my credibility.”

  Flyte paused to take some champagne, savoring it.

  Sandler was genuinely appalled by what Flyte had told him. “But that’s outrageous! Your book was a scholarly treatise. It was never aimed at the best-seller lists. The common man would’ve had enormous difficulty wading through The Ancient Enemy. Making a fortune from that kind of work is virtually impossible.”

  “A fact to which my royalty statements can attest,” Flyte said. He finished the last of the caviar.

  “You were a respected archaeologist,” Sandler said.

  “Oh, well, never really all that respected,” Flyte said self-deprecatingly. “Though I was certainly never an embarrassment to my profession, as was so often suggested later on. If my colleagues’ conduct seems incredible to you, Mr. Sandler, that’s because you don’t understand the nature of the animal. I mean, the scientist animal. Scientists are educated to believe that all new knowledge comes in tiny increments, grains of sand piled one on another. Indeed, that is how most knowledge is gained. Therefore, they are never prepared for those visionaries who arrive at new insights which, overnight, utterly transform an entire field of inquiry. Copernicus was ridiculed by his contemporaries for believing that the planets revolved around the sun. Of course, Copernicus was proved right. There are countless examples in the history of science.” Flyte blushed and drank some more champagne. “Not that I compare myself to Copernicus or any of those other great men. I’m simply trying to explain why my colleagues were conditioned to turn against me. I should have seen it coming.”

  The waiter came to take away the caviar dish. He also served Sandler’s orange juice and, Flyte’s fresh fruit.

  When he was alone with Flyte again, Sandler said, “Do you still believe your theory had validity?”

  “Absolutely!” Flyte said. “I am right; or at least there’s an awfuliy good chance I am. History is filled with mysterious mass disappearances for which historians and archaeologists can provide no viable explanation.”

  The professor’s rheumy eyes became sharp and probing beneath his bushy white eyebrows. He leaned over the table, fixing Burt Sandler with a hypnotic stare.

  “On December 10, 1939,” Flyte said, “outside the hills of Nanking, an army of three thousand Chinese soldiers, on its way to the front lines to fight the Japanese, simply vanished without a trace before it got anywhere near the battle. Not a single body was ever found. Not one grave. Not one witness. The Japanese military historians have never found any record of having dealt with that particular Chinese force. In the countryside through which the missing soldiers passed, no peasants heard gunfire or other indications of conflict. An army evaporated into thin air. And in 1711, during the Spanish War of Succession, four thousand troops set out on an expedition into the Pyrenees. Every last man disappeared on familiar and friendly ground, before the first night’s camp was established!”

  Flyte was still as gripped by his subject as he had been when he had written the book, seventeen years ago. His fruit and champagne were forgotten. He stared at Sandler as if daring him to challenge the infamous Flyte theories.

  “On a grander scale,” the professor continued, “consider the great Mayan cities of Copán, Piedras Negras, Palenque, Menché, Seibal, and several others which were abandoned overnight. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of Mayans left their homes, approximately in A.D. 610, perhaps within a single week, even within one day. Some appear to have fled northward, to establish new cities, but there is evidence that countless thousands just disappeared. All within a shockingly brief span of time. They didn’t bother to take many of their pots, tools, cooking utensils... My learned colleagues say the land around those Mayan cities became infertile, thus making it essential that th
e people move north, where the land would be more productive. But if this great exodus was planned, why were belongings left behind? Why was precious seed corn left behind? Why didn’t a single survivor ever return to loot those cities of their abandoned treasures?” Flyte softly struck the table with one fist. “It’s irrational! Emigrants don’t set out on long, arduous journeys without preparation, without taking every tool that might assist them. Besides, in some of the homes in Piedras Negras and Seibal, there is evidence that families departed after preparing elaborate dinners—but before eating them. This would surely seem to indicate that their leaving was sudden. No current theories adequately answer these questions—except mine, bizarre as it is, odd as it is, impossible as it is.”

  “Frightening as it is,” Sandler added.

  “Exactly,” Flyte said.

  The professor sank back in his chair, breathless. He noticed his champagne glass, seized it, emptied it, and licked his lips.

  The waiter appeared and refilled their glasses.

  Flyte quickly consumed his fruit, as if afraid the waiter might spirit it away while the hothouse strawberries remained untouched.

  Sandler felt sorry for the old bird. Evidently, it had been quite some time since the professor had been treated to an expensive meal served in an elegant atmosphere.

  “I was accused of trying to explain every mysterious disappearance from the Mayans to Judge Crater and Amelia Earhart, all with a single theory. That was most unfair. I never mentioned the judge or the luckless aviatrix. I am interested only in unexplained mass disappearances of both humankind and animals, of which there have been literally hundreds throughout history.”

  The waiter brought croissants.

  Outside, lightning stepped quickly down the somber sky and put its spiked foot to the earth in another part of the city; its blazing descent was accompanied by a terrible crash and roar that echoed across the entire firmament.

  Sandler said, “If subsequent to the publication of your book, there had been a new, startling mass disappearance, it would have lent considerable credibility—”

  “Ah,” Flyte interrupted, tapping the table emphatically with one stiff finger, “but there have been such disappearances!”

  “But surely they would have been splashed all over the front page—”

  “I am aware of two instances. There may be others,” Flyte insisted. “One of them involved the disappearance of masses of lower lifeforms—specifically, fish. It was remarked on in the press, but not with any great interest. Politics, murder, sex, and two-headed goats are the only things newspapers care to report about. You have to read scientific journals to know what’s really happening. That’s how I know that, eight years ago, marine biologists noted a dramatic decrease in fish population in one region of the Pacific. Indeed, the numbers of some species had been cut in half. Within certain scientific circles, there was panic at first, some fear that ocean temperatures might be undergoing a sudden change that would depopulate the seas of all but the hardiest species. But that proved not to be the case. Gradually, sea life in that area—which covered hundreds of square miles—replenished itself. In the end no one could explain what had happened to the millions upon millions of creatures that had vanished.”

  “Pollution,” Sandler suggested, between alternating sips of orange juice and champagne.

  Dabbing marmalade on a piece of croissant, Flyte said, “No, no, no. No, sir. It would have required the most massive case of water pollution in history to cause such a devastating depopulation over that wide an area. An accident on that scale could not go unnoticed. But there were no accidents, no oil spills—nothing. Indeed, a mere oil spill could not have accounted for it; the affected region and the volume of water was too vast for that. And dead fish did not wash up on the beaches. They merely vanished without a trace.”

  Burt Sandler was excited. He could smell money. He had hunches about some books, and none of his hunches had ever been wrong. (Well, except for that diet book by the movie star who, a week before publication day, died of malnutrition after subsisting for six months on little more than grapefruit, papaya, raisin toast, and carrots.) There was a surefire best-seller in this: two or three hundred thousand copies in hardcover, perhaps even more; two million in paperback. If he could persuade Flyte to popularize and update the dry academic material in The Ancient Enemy, the professor would be able to afford his own champagne for many years to come.

  “You said you were aware of two mass disappearances since the publication of your book,” Sandler said, encouraging him to continue.

  “The other was in Africa in 1980. Between three and four thousand primitive tribesmen—men. women, and children—vanished from a relatively remote area of central Africa. Their villages were found empty; they had abandoned all their possessions, including large stores of food. They seemed to have just run off into the bush. The only signs of violence were a few broken pieces of pottery. Of course, mass disappearances in that part of the world are dismayingly more frequent than they once were, primarily due to political violence. Indeed, back in those bad old days, Cuban mercenaries, operating with Soviet weaponry, had been assisting in the liquidation of whole tribes that were unwilling to put their ethnic identities second to the revolutionary purpose. But when entire villages are slaughtered for political purposes, they are always looted, then burned, and the bodies are always interred in mass graves. There was no looting in this instance, no burning, no bodies to be found. Some weeks later, game wardens in that district reported an inexplicable decrease in the wildlife population. No one connected it to the missing villagers; it was reported as a separate phenomenon.”

  “But you know differently.”

  “Well, I suspect differently,” Flyte said, putting strawberry jam on a last bit of croissant.

  “Most of these disappearances seem to occur in remote areas,” Sandler said. “Which makes verification difficult.”

  “Yes. That was thrown in my face as well. Actually, most incidents probably occur at sea, for the sea covers the largest part of the earth. The sea can be as remote as the moon, and much of what takes place beneath the waves is beyond our notice. Yet don’t forget the two armies I mentioned—the Chinese and Spanish. Those disappearances took place within the context of modem civilization. And if tens of thousands of Mayans fell victim to the ancient enemy whose existence I’ve theorized, then that was a case in which entire cities, hearts of civilization, were attacked with frightening boldness.”

  “You think it could happen now, today—”

  “No question about it!”

  “—in a place like New York or even here in London?”

  “Certainly! It could happen virtually anywhere that has the geological underpinnings I outlined in my book.”

  They both sipped champagne, thinking.

  The rain hammered on the windows with greater fury than before.

  Sandler was not certain the he believed in the theories Flyte had propounded in The Ancient Enemy. He knew they could form the basis for a wildly successful book written in a popular vein, but that didn’t mean he had to believe in them. He didn’t really want to believe. Believing was like opening the door to Hell.

  He looked at Flyte, who was straightening his wilted carnation again, and he said, “It gives me the chills.”

  “It should,” Flyte said, nodding. “It should.”

  The waiter came with the eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast.

  19

  The Dead of Night

  The inn was a fortress.

  Bryce was satisfied with the preparations that had been made.

  At last, after two hours of arduous labor, he sat down at a table in the cafeteria, sipping decaffeinated coffee from a white ceramic mug on which was emblazoned the blue crest of the hotel.

  By one-thirty in the morning, with the help of the ten deputies who had arrived from Santa Mira, much had been accomplished. One of the two rooms had been converted into a dormitory; twenty mattresses were lined up on
the floor, enough to accommodate any single shift of the investigative team, even after General Coppefield’s people arrived. In the other half of the restaurant, a couple of buffet tables had been set up at one end, where a cafeteria line could be formed at mealtimes. The kitchen had been cleaned and put in order. The large lobby had been converted into an enormous operations center, with desks, makeshift desks, filing cabinets, bulletin boards, and a big map of Snowfield.

  Furthermore, the inn had been given a thorough security inspection, and steps had been taken to prevent a break-in by the enemy. The two rear entrances—one through the kitchen, one through the lobby—were locked, and additionally secured with slanted two-by-fours, which were wedged under the crash-bars and nailed to the frames; Bryce had ordered that extra precaution to avoid wasting guards at those entrances. The door to the emergency stairs was similarly sealed off; nothing could enter the higher floors of the hotel and come down upon them by surprise. Now, only a pair of small elevators connected the lobby level to the three upper floors, and two guards were stationed there. Another guard stood at the front entrance. A detail of four men had ascertained that all upstairs rooms were empty. Another detail had determined that all of the ground-floor windows were locked; most of them were painted shut, as well. Nevertheless, the windows were points of weakness in their fortifications.

  At least, Bryce thought, if anything tries to get inside through a window, we’ll have the sound of breaking glass to warn us.

  A host of other details had been attended to. Stu Wargle’s mutilated corpse had been temporarily stored in a utility room that adjoined the lobby. Bryce had drawn up a duty roster, and had structured twelve-hour work shifts for the next three days, should the crisis last that long. Finally, he couldn’t think of anything more that could be done until first light.

  Now he sat alone at one of the round tables in the dining room, sipping coffee, trying to make sense of the night’s events. His mind kept circling back to one unwanted thought:

  Wargle’s brain was gone. His blood was sucked out of him—every damned drop.

  Bryce shook off the sickening image of Wargle’s ruined face, got up, went for more coffee, then returned to the table.

  The inn was very quiet.

  At another table, three of the nightshift men—Miguel Hernandez, Sam Potter, and Henry Wong—were playing cards, but they weren’t talking much. When they did speak, it was almost in whispers.

  The inn was very quiet.

  The inn was a fortress.

  The inn was a fortress, damn it.

  But was it safe?

  Lisa chose a mattress in a corner of the dormitory, where her back would be against a blank wall.

  Jenny unfolded one of the two blankets stacked at the foot of the mattress, and draped it over the girl.

  “Want the other one?”

  “No,” Lisa said. “This’ll be enough. It feels funny, though, going to bed with all my clothes on.”

  “Things’ll get back to normal pretty soon,” she said, but even as she spoke she realized how inane that statement was.

  “Are you going to sleep now?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “I wish you would,” Lisa said. “I wish you’d lay down right there on the next mattress.”

  “You’re not alone, honey.” Jenny smoothed the girl’s hair.

  A few deputies—including Tal Whitman, Gordy Brogan, and Frank Autry—had bedded down on other mattresses. There were also three heavily armed guards who would watch over everyone throughout the night.

  “Will they turn the lights down any farther?” Lisa asked.

  “No. We can’t risk darkness.”

  “Good. They’re dim enough. Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?” Lisa asked, seeming much younger than fourteen.

  “Sure.”

  “And talk to me.”

  “Sure. But we’ll talk softly, so we don’t disturb anyone.”

  Jenny lay down beside her sister, her head propped up on one hand. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t care. Anything. Anything except... tonight.”

  “Well, there is something I want to ask you,” Jenny said. “It’s not about tonight, but it’s about something you said tonight. Remember when we were sitting on the bench in front of the jail, waiting for the sheriff? Remember how we were talking about Mom, and you said Mom used to... used to brag about me?”

  Lisa smiled. “Her daughter, the doctor. Oh, she was so proud of you, Jenny.”

  As it had done before, that statement unsettled Jenny.

  “And Mom never blamed me for Dad’s stroke?” she asked.

  Lisa frowned. “Why would she blame you?”

  “Well... because I guess I caused him some heartache there for a while. Heartache and a lot of worry.”

  “You?” Lisa asked, astonished.

  “And when Dad’s doctor couldn’t control his high blood pressure and then he had a stroke—”

  “According to Mom, the only thing you ever did bad in your entire life was when you decided to give the calico cat a black dye job for Halloween and you got Clairol all over the sun-porch furniture.”

  Jenny laughed with surprise. “I’d forgotten that. I was only eight years old.”

  They smiled at each other, and in that moment they felt more than ever like sisters.

  Then Lisa said, “Why’d you think Mom blamed you for Daddy’s dying? It was