Behind her, a hinge creaked.
Her head turned in agonized twitches. Below her in the hallway, shadows swirled, filling the house like water. The creak sounded again. Insistent. The door to the cellar swayed slightly in the draft.
She’d look for shelter. As she descended, her feet felt strangely heavy. It’s easier for her to go down than up. And the storm is so loud. That’s why she can’t hear me. She pulled the cellar door open wide. “Charlotte! Charlotte, it’s me. Are you all right?”
The smell floated like dust.
Oh God, not rats. Not here.
Retreating from the beam, the gloom swung about her. Rotting plaster had crumbled away from the walls, exposing slats furred with cobwebs, and she thrust the flashlight forward like a weapon. Her holster chafed at her side, and the stairs creaked damply beneath her tread. Peering about, she clutched at the dusty banister.
Sheeted furniture loomed like fun house ghosts, and crates blocked the walls. More of her husband’s memorabilia. A whole museum’s worth. From the back, a muddy dimness shimmered back at her.
Just a mirror. She moved closer, choking on the must that hung in the air.
The sheet puddled on the crumbling concrete, dirty water already seeping through, and the beam trembled over the heap in the corner.
No. But she recognized the dress. And she knew death when she saw it.
My fault. She moaned softly at the crooked position of the legs. I should have been here. Something sparkled. On the bureau. Dazedly, she tilted the flashlight back: the silver frame flashed softly.
portrait of Charlotte’s husband what’s it doing down here Charlotte will be so upset she
A dark lump occupied the shelf beside it, and she angled the light farther. It took her a long moment to comprehend.
What remained of the face still bore an expression of outrage.
It made a sound like nothing he’d ever imagined—a hollow, roaring whine that thudded against the walls until the whole building lurched and clattered. It seemed to possess actual shape, this noise, a terrible spinning circularity, constant and without contour. Still the roar grew shriller, and pressure gushed against the walls.
At first, he’d tried to take notes, scribbling incoherently in the flickering dimness, until the notebook dropped from his fingers, the pen rolling. No heat. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs. Never any heat in this room. He’d pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around himself, but the chill sank deep, and the blanket sagged away from his shoulders. He couldn’t move to adjust it, could only twitch when the floor rocked, and his mind seemed to drift in a howling void.
The room settled into a deeper layer of gloom. Rain drilled at the glass in random flashes, and he felt a muffled rumble, as of something being dragged across the floor above. Did the room brighten perceptibly? He seemed to feel a tightening in his chest, as though he’d surfaced too quickly from the depths, and ripples of light disturbed the ceiling. No longer solid, the walls seemed to quiver, pulsating like the flesh of some huge, shivering beast. He focused with perfect clarity on a spider that scuttled along the opposite wall. Pale. Nearly translucent. Suffused with the green throb of life. He watched it sink gently into dimness.
The boy has to die. His mind seemed very clear. It has to end. The howling tore the world, leaving a hole that sucked him in and spun him down to a familiar nothingness. Memories swirled, slowly engulfing him, and he floundered, desperately trying to grasp at one thought, only one, that might no longer have the power to wound him. He found nothing. The storm drummed in the floor, and in tiny lurches, the painting of the sea beat rhythmically against the wall.
Thunder shuddered the window—it startled him, and a moment passed before he understood why. He’d heard it. He’d heard the glass rattle.
The surging din of the storm had begun to diminish. A resonating groan, like the death agony of a whale, rumbled through the walls, and the pattering of rain flooded the room with noise. He had no idea how much time had passed. Trying to make out his watch, he stood, clutching the blanket, then wobbled to the window, the floor like ice on his bare feet. He pressed his face to the pane, and the glare of lightning froze falling silver that glittered at a rapid angle. A quick look downward made him gasp.
The world glinted in a solid shimmer…as though the old hotel had been carried out to sea.
XXIV
Water seethed, mottling the glass. He cracked the door and blinked as daylight flooded the foyer. Now or never. A chill whistled in. Small waves rippled over the front step as he pushed the door wider. For a moment, the impression of ubiquitous movement disoriented him. Rain pelted straight down into broad puddles that covered the sidewalk, and spinning rivulets connected those puddles to deeper pools in the street. Streams gurgled around the corner, and a dented stop sign rattled.
He’d already checked the back. The parking lot had become a small lake—no sign of the Volks. Guess they do float after all.
Adjusting the hood of the slicker, he pulled the door closed behind him and stood with his back pressing the glass. Beneath the slicker, which he’d found after kicking down the door to the D’Amato apartment, he wore his leather jacket, two sweaters and the heaviest shirt he could find in D’Amato’s closet. He could barely move his arms. At least it’s not so cold now. Shuddering, he snapped the top clasp of the slicker. Not really.
A swatch of gelatinous seaweed raveled on the stairs beneath him. The shocking chill of water seeped through the heavy rubber boots—also D’Amato’s—and right through the doubled socks. Rain dripped heavily from the slicker. Clutching the rail, he surveyed the flooded block. In the streets, water looked knee-deep, but the pavements on this side seemed only partially submerged. Across the street, tiny waves lapped at the other hotel, cresting on the stairs. Wind slapped wetly.
Splashing down onto the sidewalk, he tried to keep to the higher patches of concrete as he headed into town. He ducked under doorways, staying as close as he could to the dubious shelter of buildings, grasping at every rail and post. Freezing water trickled into his boots before he’d made it to the corner, and his pants felt like ice at the knees.
Monsters. Like an alien spider, a crab-thing with impossibly long legs splayed across the sidewalk. Nearby, a flattened creature the color of clay sprawled in a puddle: it appeared to have fleshy wings. By the curb, a mass of tentacles bulged. Everywhere.
A twisted street lamp tilted above the flow. Jutting with bricks and mortar, a fragment of chimney dominated the center of a shallow pool, and a drainpipe raveled across the pavement. Like some huge ruined umbrella, a television antenna poked from a larger pond, and the corner of a door protruded from the water. He alone prowled the wreckage.
Rain slowed to a saturating mist. He’d hardly started before he needed to rest. Blasts of wind boomed down the block as he climbed the stairs of a building he didn’t recognize. Have to go on. He sheltered in the doorway, gasping, while the wind seemed to strike in some complicated rhythm, driving chilling wetness in around the edges of the slicker. The boy will move. Clutching the rail, he splashed back down and hurried into the deepening gloom, skirting a side street that had become a river. He’ll run now. The boy would need to be holed up in a new hiding place before the townspeople began to trickle back. It’s what I’d do in his place. He bent into the wind, scarcely progressing. Just ahead of him, a storm door banged with a constant, furious clatter, until it pulled loose and scraped across the sidewalk. Water slid in patches of brown and green. His hands slipped away from a pole, and the gale danced him across a sodden lawn. Everywhere lay trees, uprooted or shattered, and some of the houses sat at strange new angles—several had moved considerable distances. Some of these dark spots in the water might be basements. Struggling toward higher ground, he skirted a car that had wedged tightly against the front door of a cottage on a slight rise. With each gust, wet gravel from the driveway hailed into the side of the car, making a noise like bullets, and he ducked his head, protecting his
face with his arms.
The drizzle ceased, and wind sighed to nothing. Be night soon. In the sudden silence, he sloshed forward, the muscles in his legs aching with every step. Got to hurry.
Before him stretched a swamp. He could see no way through the flooded intersection. Could go back the way I came, try to find another way around. But the sky dimmed steadily. No time.
Wading in, he tried to feel a curb beneath his feet, some ridge to balance across. A fine mist began to blow, and he stumbled. His boots plunged hard. Instantly, numbing water climbed above his knees. Shit! Slowly, he pushed on through the muted hush. The gurgle pouring from a broken pipe had become the loudest sound, almost the only real sound. Can’t stop. Nearby, an old Chevy tilted against the Seaside Savings & Loan, and the drowned car began to founder. His teeth chattered as he waded deeper, giving it a wide berth. What the…? He felt a pull. It can’t be a current. With a low moan, the wind stirred again, and he struggled to keep his footing, but each gust twisted him, and the water rushed between his legs. He lunged for a handhold on the car, his grasp sliding along the windshield. Sucking waters surged around him.
As he clambered onto the roof, liquid coils tightened, and he felt the vehicle wobble, then begin to lurch away in an angling roll. The street! Water moiled, and the Chevy sank deeper, engulfed in a welter of blurring forms. There’s nothing there! The front end of the car dipped. Whatever sewage line or natural fault had lain beneath the asphalt had given way. A stony grinding shuddered through the roof, through his bones, and the car began to spin. Tipping, it plunged past the entrance to the Savings & Loan. He gathered his legs beneath him and leapt.
With a splash, he caught at a railing, rust and paint chips grinding into his palm. He grunted, twisting his knee on the stairs. Ripples tugged at him, and he tasted salt. Pulling himself to the top of the stairs, he clung to the doorway and shuddered.
The car vanished in a snarl of muck, and water swirled, choked with disgorged effluent. After a moment, he inched his way along the ledge. A fat wave lapped at a window, then dragged the length of the facade without cresting. Not so deep here…maybe. Edging around the corner, he reached the back of the building.
Staring hard, he waited for the swirling to stop. He braced himself, then slipped one foot into the water, felt for the bottom. Water rose almost to the top of his boot, and the edge of the windowsill slipped from his freezing fingers. He yelped once. But both feet found the uneven ground, and he slogged on, his wake striping the surface behind him. The water reflected a dimming sky.
He balanced precariously along the trunk of a downed tree, then plowed for the corner. Half a block farther on, he splashed through shallow puddles. At the corner, the little library tottered brokenly, glass walls completely gone. The final liquid flickers of light revealed sodden books, floating everywhere, spread in the puddles like the carcasses of broken gulls. Lightning veined the sky; wind wrinkled the puddles. If the storm comes back, and catches me outdoors…
Thunder detonated across the low rooftops, and he ran, splashing wildly. With a sudden hiss, rain slanted down, spattering the smooth sheets around him into leaping patterns.
Gargantuan clouds tumbled inland, dense as oily smoke within which splinters of light flickered, still smoldering. He bolted past the church. The ersatz stained glass hung shattered now. Spinning around the corner, he halted.
Halfway down the grimy block, one apartment building towered above the rest.
As Kit approached, the door of The Edgeharbor Arms banged softly. All the glass had gone, and wet slivers glistened on the steps. From inside, a steady tinkling drifted, almost like music.
Cautiously, she edged through the door. A damp blotch spread on the Oriental carpet, and the chandelier chimed, swaying—she gave it a wide berth as she yanked the drapes aside. Sudden dust added to the reek of decay, but a wave of fading twilight swept through the lobby. Stifling a sneeze, she turned to the desk and the dim apartment beyond.
The closets stood open, contents ransacked. As she paced back toward the faint light of the window, she spotted an old registration book on the desk and found only one name on the latest page, only one room number.
Wind resonated around her on the stairs, and the clanking of the chandelier pursued her. Even as she climbed the staircase, she knew nothing living shared this structure with her. Two floors up, one door stood open, casting a patch of paleness on the hall carpet.
“Steve? Are you in there?” She found little to indicate that the room had been recently occupied. But what had she expected? He had trained himself to leave no sign.
The drawer stuck, then gave with a thin howl of wood. She searched the dresser, then the single tight closet. Finally, with a small grunt of satisfaction, she hauled the two suitcases out from under the bed. Grabbing the flashlight from the dresser, she propped it on the pillow and tried the smaller case, only to find it locked. Briefly, she considered searching for the key; then she struck the clasp with her pistol. A second later, she dumped the folder into the light.
The beam glinted thinly from a snapshot of a mangled face, and her bile rose. She yanked the rubber band off a stack of photographs and tossed them on the bed where they spread like an evil deck of cards. She blinked. How could he have these? She barely noted the newspaper clippings and maps that filled the bottom of the case—her eyes kept returning to the photos. How could he have gotten them?
Numbly, she flipped the catch on the larger case. Stuffed in among the clothes lay several large manila envelopes and an old knapsack. The knapsack felt stiff.
She unzipped it and reached in, then drew back her hand with a sharp gasp—darkness welled in her palm. With her other hand, she angled the flashlight: a slice oozed from the base of her thumb. Holding the flashlight gingerly, she tilted out the contents of the knapsack, and something thudded on the mattress. She tugged away the rolled towel.
A carving knife, a cleaver, wire cutters and a hammer—all clotted and dark—covered the photographs of carnage.
“What have I been helping?” she whispered. “Oh God. What is he?” She thought of the Chandler children, hiding from him, skulking from apartment to apartment because they somehow knew what stalked them. “What have I done?” She backed away from the bed.
Frenzied now, she searched every corner of the room. Where could he have gone? There had to be some clue here. She had to find him. Her foot struck something by the leg of the chair.
Picking it up, she held the notebook to the light: it took a moment for her even to recognize the marks as writing. The insane scrawl made the flesh at the back of her neck tighten, though most of it remained incomprehensible. “…changing…every day…feel it…the need pulsing in the veins. No choice now. Must kill the boy.” The very bottom of the page was filled by what appeared to be numbers, and she strained to make them out.
Six thirteen Decatur. A glint of silent lightning flickered on numerals above the door. Perfect lookout. The tallest building in town—he cursed himself for not having thought of it. They’ll be on the top floor.
Steady. Trembling with anticipation, he regarded all the darkened windows. Most were shaded, many broken. This is too easy. He backed into the nearest doorway. I didn’t come this far just to walk into a trap. Scraping his hand along the wall, he crept away along the glistening street. Somewhere around here…there must be a…
He felt the opening.
His boots sloshed through unseen puddles as he wandered down the alley. Again, the drizzle had ceased completely, even the wind dying away, though a distant rumble drifted in the sky. Might as well be blind. Thick odors of brine drowned the stench of rot, and he stumbled around a corner. The passage broadened into a sort of courtyard, and from the lower corners all around him, sloshing noises echoed faintly.
I’m here.
At last. Dimly, he perceived the rear walls of the buildings that surrounded him: sharp tracings and blocked masses, and the tallest building, just ahead, its fire escape a jagged chevron. I’ve
got him. He lurched forward, the shadow at his feet shifting like weighted silk. Deep water filled the courtyard, he realized, and a vicious tremor shook through his body.
Above him, metal rattled.
He’s up there!
Something splashed heavily; then gulping and thrashing resonated in the dark closed space.
A gift!
The sky flickered. Faintly, he made out a slender form, wallowing.
You can’t get away this time. He reached. Not this time!
He groped toward the noise of the foundering boy. Monster. His arms began to ache and tremble, his fingers clutching convulsively. Just a little closer. The splashing stopped, and he actually heard teeth click together. Keep coming. He strained his vision. A foot from his face, two smudges hung. They blinked back at him.
He lunged. The boy fell backward with a splash, then burst like a deer through the flooded courtyard. Steve hurled himself at the sounds of flight, water striking him like a wall. “No, you don’t! No!” Plunging into the freezing pool, he pitched forward to cut off escape through the nearest alley.
He saw the boy reel backward, the white face like a night-blooming flower. A trickle of moonlight revealed only part of that face: the mouth open in a black howl. The visage seemed to float, dissolving, and a shrill moan filled the courtyard.
Scuttling clouds dashed more moonlight into the courtyard, revealing cellar stairs that sank behind the boy. The flood crested his knees.
A shroud of liquid around the boy swelled. With a grinding roar, the cellar door behind him opened. Steve echoed the boy’s wordless shout, something viscous uncoiling in his stomach. Instantly, the flood churned downward, forcing the door wide with a squeal that sucked deep into the basement.
The boy cried out again—a splintered shriek—as he threw out his arms and clawed into the door frame, bracing himself against the flow. Whirling, he stared down into the pit behind him. A tumbling splash diminished down the stairs, but his groans trembled to rebound from the walls. At last, he scrambled backward up the steps against the thinning cascade.
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