The Homing

by John Saul

  He was about to get out of his car when he noticed that something was odd about the house.

  Two cars in the driveway, but not a single light on in the house.

  Roberto started once again to get out of his car, tempted to barge into the house, to break in if necessary, to find Ellen. But then he changed his mind. Henderson was six inches taller than he was, and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. If Ellen were in danger, he alone could never rescue her. He had to get help—but he couldn’t just leave.

  Then Roberto remembered one of Ellen Filmore’s habits, one that he had warned her, to no avail, that she should break. Leaving the engine of his own car running, he ran over to Ellen’s car and opened the driver’s door.

  Just as he’d hoped, the keys were hanging in the ignition.

  Switching on the ignition, he picked up her cellular phone and called Mark Shannon’s number. The deputy answered on the first ring, and didn’t sound as though he’d been sleeping at all, though only a few minutes ago, when Roberto had passed his house, Shannon’s lights had been out, too. “It’s Roberto, Mark,” he said, keeping his voice down. Quickly, he told the deputy what had happened and what he now suspected.

  “Okay,” Shannon began, thinking quickly. Only minutes ago, he’d heard from Russell Owen that Molly and Ben had disappeared, and he’d been about to head to the Owen farm when Roberto’s call caught him. Reaching a quick decision, the deputy said, “Stay there. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”

  Shaking, Roberto put down the phone. And then, as if from a great distance, he heard it.

  Though it was muffled to the point where it was barely audible, Roberto was sure it was the sound of a scream.

  Ellen Filmore screamed once more, and scrabbled across the floor of the pitch-black chamber in which she was imprisoned.

  She had no idea how long she’d been locked in the room, but as the minutes had turned into hours, and she’d heard Carl Henderson moving around beyond the locked door, she’d grown more and more terrified.

  She’d tried to keep calm, refused to give in to the panic that threatened to overwhelm her when she’d first been plunged into the blackness of the chamber.

  Instead she’d moved around it, carefully exploring, crawling across the floor on her hands and knees at first, then finally standing up to feel the walls, working her way slowly around the perimeter, taking the measure of the room with the span of her arm reach.

  It seemed to be empty, save for some heavy spikes she’d discovered on the back wall, driven deep into the upright timbers that seemed to have supported the house before the concrete retaining walls had been added. One of the spikes had seemed slightly loose, and she’d spent a long time—she didn’t know how long—working at it, trying to pull it free, until, sobbing with the exertion and frustration, she gave up.

  There was a drain in the floor, too; and in the wall that separated her from the rest of the basement, there were some irregularities she hadn’t yet been able to figure out.

  Once she’d gone over the room with her hands and been able to discover nothing she might be able to use, she decided the best thing to do was simply to sit and wait.

  And stay awake, and listen.

  Sooner or later Carl Henderson would leave the basement. And when he did, she would go to work again, gouging at the door, prying at its hinges, until somehow she got it open.

  Screaming, she knew, would do no good. No one was close enough to the house to hear her, and screams might very well induce Carl Henderson to kill her right now.

  So, for what seemed like an endless eternity, she had sat on the floor, her back against the wall, forcing herself to stay awake and listen.

  A few minutes ago Henderson had come close to the door and spoken to her.

  “It occurred to me you might be getting lonely,” he said. “So I thought I’d send in some company for you.”

  There had been a long silence, and Ellen had wondered if perhaps Henderson had gone away.

  She was just about to get up and move closer to the door when she suddenly felt it.

  Something crawling up her leg.

  Instinctively she reached down to brush it away, but as her hand touched it, she felt a sharp stinging in her calf. She uttered a sharp cry of pain and surprise, and then Henderson had betrayed his presence.

  He laughed.

  Then he spoke.

  “Do you like spiders?” he asked. “I hope you do, because there are several hundred of them in there with you now.”

  Though she could see nothing, she suddenly imagined the darkness to be alive with creatures creeping toward her from every direction.

  Ellen shrank back against the wall.

  A moment later she felt the first of the vile creatures crawling up her leg, and instantly a scream erupted from her throat.

  Then she felt the spiders everywhere.

  Dropping from the ceiling into her hair.

  Creeping up both legs.

  She could feel them on her hands and arms now, her face, her neck.

  Another scream burst from her throat, building quickly into an agonized wail of pure terror.

  CHAPTER 28

  Julie lay near the entrance to the cave.

  She no longer had any sense of time, any memory of where she was or how she had gotten there. All she was now aware of, all she responded to, was a steady throbbing, a pulsating rhythm that came not only from deep within her grossly distended body, but from beyond it, as well.

  Insects were everywhere now, bees lining the walls of the cave, clinging to the rock so closely together that they formed a solid curtain, their wings humming steadily as they worked in concert to keep the air within the cave fresh, its temperature constant.

  Clouds of gnats and mosquitoes hovered in the air, something in them responding to the summons that was somehow issuing steadily forth from the entity that was steadily growing, steadily multiplying, within Julie’s body.

  Jeff Larkin and Andy Bennett knelt on either side of Julie, their minds now as numb as her own, their bodies slavishly following the orders of the masters that resided within them. They massaged Julie’s body, their fingers gently, rhythmically working her flesh, moving slowly and steadily over her limbs and torso, tending to her as worker bees tend to their queen.

  Kevin Owen crouched near Julie’s head, methodically transferring food from his mouth to her own, relieving her of the necessity even to chew before she swallowed. Though his own body was once again starving, craving nutrition, the needs of Julie came first, overriding even the most basic of his own. Not so much as a single morsel did he swallow.

  The floor of the cave, too, was thick with yet more teeming masses of insect life. Ants were everywhere, crawling over Julie and the others, picking their bodies clean of any detritus they could find, scurrying away even with flecks of dead skin.

  Outside the cave the hum in the valley grew steadily stronger as more and more insects responded to the pheromones that now exuded from every one of Julie’s pores and emanated from her lungs on every breath she exhaled.

  Then, as the moon neared its zenith and the wind began to shift to the east, a new force arrived in the cave, a force borne on the warm summer breeze that came up from the valley.

  Julie stirred, then slowly got to her feet.

  In unison, Jeff Larkin and Andy Bennett rose as well, each of them falling in on either side of their mistress.

  As Julie moved out of the cave, Kevin followed behind her, obediently, mindlessly, playing his tiny role in the great mosaic of the being’s existence.

  Together the four adolescents emerged from the mouth of the cave and started across the floor of the valley, the carpet of insects parting as they approached, melding instantly back together to form an unbroken, seamless mass after they had passed.

  The flying insects—the bees and gnats, the wasps and hornets, the clouds of mosquitoes—erupted from the cave as well, forming a hovering mass around Julie and her attendants as she crossed t
he stream and started up the hill on the other side—the hill where Bailey still waited, his hackles raised and a low growl building in his throat as the strange mass of teeming life, all of it now moving as a single force, came slowly toward him.

  The dog, his muscles tensing, sniffed nervously at the breeze, and his growl dropped to a frightened whimper as he sensed the danger in the air. But at the same time, barely distinguishable in the miasma of strange aromas, Bailey detected the faint scent of his master, and it was this one familiar odor that kept him from turning and fleeing the oncoming tide of churning life.

  Instead he waited, his body rigid, his eyes fixed on the shadowy mass that blotted out the stars above and dimmed the silver light of the moon. Finally even the faint whimper of fear died in his throat as the mass began to engulf him, and at last, as Julie—flanked by her attendants and followed by her feeder—drew closer to him, the big dog took a tentative step backward.

  And Julie leaned forward, the long needles her fingernails had become piercing easily through the dog’s skin and sinking deep into the muscles of his body.

  As a great searing pain coursed through him, a single howl of fear and agony burst from his throat, only to be cut off a second later as the venom injected into him through Julie’s fingertips reached his brain, instantly collapsing his nervous system.

  The great dog fell in a heap to the ground, and as Julie passed, the creatures that dwelt beneath the surface of the earth surged over him, their mandibles working.

  Within minutes the ants and roaches, all the scavengers the earth could spew forth, had done their job. Only Bailey’s bones, picked clean of every scrap of muscle and ligament, every fragment of fat and skin, lay on the ground, still perfectly arranged, as they had been the instant he died.

  Only much later, when the mass that had destroyed him had passed on, would a coyote finally arrive, sniff briefly at the skeleton, then pick up one of Bailey’s hind legs, the trophy held high as it trotted back into the hills from which it had come.

  For Bailey, the moment of fear had been short, the pain of death had lasted but an instant.

  But Bailey’s death was only the beginning.

  Manny Gomez was dozing behind the wheel of his squad car. The sound that brought him instantly and fully awake was an unearthly howl of sheer terror that rose into a shriek of unspeakable pain, only to die away as quickly as it had come.

  Manny jerked upright in the driver’s seat. Getting out of the squad car, he stood in the pale silver light of the moon, listening.

  The howl was not repeated.

  Manny continued to listen, uneasy. Slowly, he began to understand what was wrong.

  It was the quiet of the night.

  The absolute quiet.

  Tonight, the constant backdrop of sound the insects created during the summer was missing.

  Manny frowned, and gazed around him. The moon was high enough and bright enough to have turned the landscape into a sharp chiaroscuro, with the stands of small oaks clearly etched against the star-filled sky, the hills delineated in dark relief.

  Half a mile away the lights of the Owen house glowed brightly, and across the road, in the pasture, Manny could make out the shapes of a few cattle.

  Every now and then he heard their soft lowing.

  But the steady song of the insects had disappeared so completely that Manny Gomez almost wondered if perhaps his memory was playing tricks on him, and the insects had never created the constant hum of noise that he was now remembering. Then an idea came to him. He reached in through the open window of the car and switched on the headlights.

  Normally, moths and june bugs would gather within seconds. The moths would flutter in the headlights’ beams, spiraling steadily toward the lamps, finally battering themselves against the headlights’ lenses as they tried to navigate off the false sun. And the june bugs would bumble through the light a couple of times, lose their bearings and tumble to the ground, their legs waving in the air, their wing covers buzzing their frustration as they tried to right themselves.

  Tonight, though, there was nothing but total silence.

  Suddenly the radio came alive, and Manny heard the department dispatcher paging him. Picking up the microphone, he responded with his unit number and position.

  Somehow, even his own voice sounded odd against the unnatural quiet of the night. “Something weird’s going on,” he added. “It’s real quiet out here.”

  “Well, it won’t be quiet for long,” the dispatcher told him. “You’ve got two more kids missing, this time little ones. A boy and a girl, both of them nine years old.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Manny broke in, now grasping the significance of the blaze of lights coming from the Owen farm. “It’s Molly Spellman and Ben Larkin, isn’t it? How long have they been gone?”

  “We don’t know,” the dispatcher replied. “According to the little girl’s father, they may have taken a dog and gone looking for the others.”

  Swinging into the car, Manny started the engine. “I’m on my way.” If he cut across the Costas place, he would be able to cover the foothill road on his way over to Russell’s. If they hadn’t been gone long, he might actually run across the two children and their dog—

  And then he remembered the agonized howl that had awakened him minutes ago.

  The howl that could have come from the throat of a dog.

  Turning up Vic Costas’s dirt driveway, Manny Gomez pressed the accelerator to the floor, and the squad car shot forward.

  Mark Shannon pulled into the driveway of Carl Henderson’s house, killing the lights but leaving the engine running, as Roberto Muñoz, who had locked himself inside Ellen Filmore’s car where at least he had the cellular telephone, finally ventured out, hurrying over to the squad car. “Have you seen anything?” Mark asked the nurse.

  Roberto shook his head. “There was … a scream. At least, I thought I heard a scream.” Roberto hesitated, then added, “But I’m starting to wonder if I really heard anything at all. I mean, it sounded like I did—”

  “I know,” Shannon told him, eyeing the darkened house. If Ellen’s car had not been parked in front of it, he’d have been tempted simply to send Roberto home and head on out to Russell Owen’s place. “Things get weird at night. It could have been a cat, or a raccoon, or who knows what. Well, let’s take a look around.”

  “Aren’t you going in?” Roberto asked.

  “Not until I check things out,” Shannon replied. “It’s not like TV, Roberto. I can’t just go busting in. Carl Henderson could have my badge by tomorrow morning, and then sue the shit out of the county. Even if he has a dozen bodies in there, he’s still got rights.”

  “But if—” Roberto began.

  Shannon cut him off with a question that was almost a challenge. “You worried enough about Ellen to come with me?”

  Given the choice of staying alone with the cars or going with the deputy, Roberto chose the latter, just as Mark Shannon had expected he would.

  Taking a flashlight from the glove box of the squad car, but not turning it on, Shannon started working his way slowly around the house, checking each window as he came to it.

  At the back door, the deputy tried the knob, found it locked as securely as the windows, then moved on, still checking each window as he came to it.

  Everything was locked tight.

  “Check around for a key,” Shannon instructed Roberto as he reached for the doorbell at the front of the house. But before either of them could make another move, the same sound Roberto had heard earlier was suddenly repeated.

  Muffled, indistinct, but definitely a scream.

  A woman’s scream.

  The sound galvanized Shannon. He pulled his gun from its holster, while at the same time raising his right foot and smashing it below the doorknob. The frame of the door gave way, the old wood splitting cleanly as the striker plate tore loose from the jamb. The door itself slammed back against the wall, its crash immediately followed by the tinkling of glas
s as several of the beveled panes set into the old door shattered under the impact.

  Groping for a light switch, Shannon pressed an old-fashioned button, and the chandelier in the foyer blazed on, flooding the room with brilliant light.

  “Jesus,” Roberto whispered as his eyes fell on the cases of mounted insects that lined the walls. “What’s all this shit?”

  “Bugs,” Shannon grated. “He collects them.” He pressed a finger against his lips as he listened for any sign that someone had heard them break into the house. For a moment there was nothing, but then they heard the sound of feet resounding on stairs. Instinctively, Shannon glanced up toward the darkened second-floor landing. He was just reaching for the light switch at the base of the stairs when Roberto jabbed him.

  “Down there!” the nurse hissed, pointing down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  A door beneath the stairs was just starting to open, but as Roberto spoke, it jerked closed again. Shoving his way past Roberto, Shannon dashed down the hall, yanking on the knob just as he heard the click of a lock.

  “Police, Henderson!” the deputy shouted. “Open up!”

  But instead of the lock clicking open, Shannon heard feet pounding back down the stairs on the other side of the closed door. Cocking his pistol, he stepped back and to the side, aimed carefully, then fired directly at the lock. The slug hit the brass plate then whined as it ricocheted back across the hall to lodge deep in the oak frame of the kitchen door. Prying the broken lock free with his fingers, Shannon twisted the knob and pulled the door open.

  The sound of another scream—much louder now—rose from the depths of the basement. Shannon peered around the door frame and down into the darkness below.

  Then, snapping on his flashlight, he started down.

  Molly Spellman was running as fast as she could, but it seemed no matter how hard she tried to keep up, Ben Larkin got farther ahead of her. She didn’t know how far they’d run, or even where they were. All she knew was that her heart felt like it was going to explode, and her legs hurt, and she could hardly breathe at all, but she had to keep running.