The front door, its peeling paint somewhat phosphorescent in the moonlight, was ajar. The corroded hinges didn’t creak but rasped like the dry knuckle bones of a skeleton making a fist.
I stepped inside.
Because I had come in here for the express reason that I felt safer under a roof than in the open, I considered closing the door. Maybe the birds would suddenly shake off their eerie stupor and come shrieking after me.
On the other hand, an open door is an avenue of escape. I left it open.
Although I was wrapped by silky blackness as effective as a blindfold, I knew I was in the living room, because the hundreds of bungalows that do have porches also share exactly the same floor plan, with nothing as grand as a foyer or front hall. Living room, dining room, kitchen, and two bedrooms.
Even when well maintained, these humble homes had offered the minimum comforts to the mostly young military families who occupied them, each family residing here for only a couple of years between transfers. Now they smell of dust, mildew, dry rot, and mice.
The floors are tongue-and-groove wood covered with many coats of paint, except for linoleum in the compact kitchen. Even under a self-proclaimed master of stealth like yours truly, they squeak.
The loose boards didn’t concern me. They ensured that no one could enter from the back of the bungalow and easily sneak up on me.
My eyes adapted to the gloom enough to allow me to see the front windows. Although these panes were set under the porch roof, they were visible even in the indirect moonlight: ash-gray rectangles in the otherwise pervasive blackness.
I went to the nearest of the two windows, neither of which was broken. The glass was dirty, and with a Kleenex I polished a cleaner circle in the center of it.
The front yards of these properties are not deep; between the Indian laurels, I had a view of the nearby street. I didn’t expect to see a parade go past, but since I find majorettes in short skirts to be as much of a turn-on as anybody does, I thought it wise to be prepared.
I switched on my cell phone again and keyed in the number for the unlisted back line that went directly to the broadcasting booth at KBAY, the biggest radio station in Santa Rosita County, where Sasha Goodall was currently the disc jockey on the midnight-to-six airshift. She was also the general manager, but since the station had lost the military audience — and thus a portion of its ad revenue — with the closing of Fort Wyvern, she was not the only one of the surviving employees to have assumed double duty.
The back line doesn’t ring in the booth but activates a flashing blue light on the wall opposite Sasha’s microphone. Evidently, she wasn’t doing on-air patter at the moment, because instead of leaving the call to the engineer, she herself picked it up: “Hey, Snowman.”
I don’t have sole possession of the back-line number, and like many privacy-minded people, I directed the phone company to prevent my number from registering on caller ID; yet even when the call doesn’t come through her engineer, Sasha always knows if it’s me.
“Are you spinning a tune?” I asked.
“‘A Mess of Blues.’”
“Elvis.”
“Less than a minute to go.”
“I know how you do that,” I said.
“Do what?”
“Say, ‘Hey, Snowman,’ before I speak a word.”
“So how do I do it?”
“Probably half the calls you ever answer directly on the back line are from me, so you always answer ‘Hey, Snowman.’”
“Wrong.”
“Right,” I insisted.
“I never lie.”
That was true.
“Stay with me, baby,” she said, putting me on hold.
While I waited for her to come back, I could hear her program over the phone line. She did a live public-service spot followed by a doughnut spot — recorded material at the front and back, with a live plug in the center — for a local car dealership.
Her voice is husky yet silky, soft and smooth and inviting. She could sell me a time-share condominium in Hell, as long as it came with air-conditioning.
I tried not to be entirely distracted by that voice as I listened with one ear for a creaking floorboard. Outside, the street remained deserted.
To give herself a full five minutes with me, she set up back-to-back tracks. Sinatra’s “It Was a Very Good Year,” followed by Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces.”
When she returned to me, I said, “Never heard such an eclectic program format before. Sinatra, Elvis, and Patsy?”
“It’s a theme show tonight,” she said.
“Theme?”
“Haven’t you been listening?”
“Busy. What theme?”
“‘Night of the Living Dead,’” she said.
“Stylin’.”
“Thanks. What’s happening?”
“Who’s your engineer this shift?”
“Doogie.”
Doogie Sassman is a panoramically tattooed Harley-Davidson fanatic who weighs more than three hundred pounds, twenty-five of which are accounted for by his untamed blond hair and lush silky beard. In spite of having a neck as wide as a pier caisson and a belly on which an entire family of sea gulls could gather to groom themselves, Doogie is a babe magnet who has dated some of the most beautiful women ever to walk the beaches between San Francisco and San Diego. Although he’s a good guy, with enough bearish charm to star in a Disney cartoon, Doogie’s solid success with stunningly gorgeous wahines — who are not normally won over by personality alone — is, Bobby says, one of the greatest mysteries of all time, right up there with what wiped out the dinosaurs and why tornadoes always zero in on trailer parks.
I said, “Can you go canned for a couple of hours and let Doogie run the show from his control panel?”
“You want a quickie?”
“With you, I want a forever.”
“Mr. Romance,” she said sarcastically but with secret delight.
“We’ve got a friend needs hand-holding big time.”
Sasha’s tone grew somber. “What now?”
I couldn’t lay out the situation in plain words, because of the possibility that the call was being monitored. In Moonlight Bay we live in a police state so artfully imposed that it is virtually invisible. If they were listening, I didn’t want to tip them to the fact that Sasha would be going to Lilly Wing’s house, because they might decide to stop her before she got there. Lilly desperately needed support. If Sasha dropped in by surprise, maybe by the back door, the cops would discover that she could stick like a five-barbed fishhook.
“Do you know…” I thought I saw movement in the street, but when I squinted through the bungalow window, I decided I’d seen only a moonshadow, perhaps caused by the tail of a cloud brushing across one cheek of the lunar face. “Do you know thirteen ways?”
“Thirteen ways?”
“The blackbird thing,” I said, wiping at the glass again with the Kleenex. My breath had left a faint condensation.
“Blackbird. Sure.”
We were talking about Wallace Stevens’s poem “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.”
My father worried about how I, limited by XP, would make it in the world without family, so he bequeathed to me a house without a mortgage and the proceeds of a huge life insurance policy. But he had given me another comforting legacy, too: a love of modern poetry. Because Sasha had acquired this passion from me, we could confound eavesdroppers as Bobby and I had done by using surfer lingo.
“There’s a word you expect him to use,” I said, referring to Stevens, “but it never appears.”
“Ah,” she said, and I knew she was following me.
A lesser poet writing thirteen stanzas relating to a blackbird would surely use the word wing, but Stevens never resorts to it.
“You realize who I mean?” I asked.
“Yes.” She knew that Lilly Wing — once Lilly Travis — had been the first woman I had loved and the first to break my heart.
Sasha is
the second woman I have loved in the most profound sense of the word, and she swears that she will never break my heart. I believe her. She never lies.
Sasha has also assured me that if I ever cheat on her, she’ll use her Black & Decker power drill to put a half-inch bit through my heart.
I have seen the drill. The bits — an extensive set — that go with it are kept in a plastic case. On the steel shank of the half-inch auger bit, using red nail polish, she has painted my name: Chris. I’m pretty sure this is a joke.
She doesn’t have to worry. If I ever broke her heart, I would drill my own chest and save her the trouble of having to wash her hands afterward.
Call me Mr. Romance.
“What’s the hand-holding about?” Sasha asked.
“You’ll find out when you get there.”
“Any message?” she asked.
“Hope. That’s the message. There’s still hope.”
I wasn’t as confident as I sounded. There might be no truth in the message I’d just sent to Lilly. I’m not proud of the fact that, unlike Sasha, I sometimes lie.
“Where are you?” Sasha asked.
“Dead Town.”
“Damn.”
“Well, you asked.”
“Always in trouble.”
“My motto.”
I didn’t dare tell her about Orson, not even indirectly, using poetry code. My voice might crack, revealing the intensity of my anguish, which I was striving mightily to contain. If she thought he was in serious jeopardy, she would insist on coming to Wyvern to search for him.
She would have been a big help. I’d recently been surprised to discover Sasha possessed self-defense skills and weapons expertise that weren’t taught in any disc-jockey school. Though she didn’t look like an Amazon, she could do battle like one. She was, however, an even better friend than fighter, and Lilly Wing needed Sasha’s sympathy and compassion more than I needed backup.
“Chris, you know what your problem is?”
“Too good-looking?”
“Yeah, right,” she said sarcastically.
“Too smart?”
“Your problem is reckless caring.”
“Then I better ask my doctor for some who-gives-a-damn pills.”
“I love you for it, Snowman, but it’s going to get you killed.”
“This is for a friend,” I reminded her, meaning Lilly Wing. “Anyway, I’ll be all right. Bobby’s coming.”
“Ah. Then I’ll start working on your eulogy.”
“I’ll tell him you said that.”
“The Two Stooges.”
“Let me guess — we’re Curly and Larry.”
“Right. Neither of you is smart enough to be Moe.”
“Love you, Goodall.”
“Love you, Snowman.”
I switched off the phone and was about to turn away from the window, when I saw movement in the street again. This time it wasn’t merely the shadow of a cloud gliding across a corner of the moon.
This time I saw monkeys.
I clipped the phone to my belt, freeing both hands.
The monkeys were not in a barrel and not in a pack. The correct word for monkeys traveling in a group is not pack or herd, not pride or flock, but troop.
Recently, I have learned a great deal about monkeys, not only the term troop. For the same reason, if I were living in the Florida Everglades, I would become an expert on alligators.
Here, now, deep in Dead Town, a troop of monkeys passed the bungalow, moving in the direction I’d been headed. In the moonlight, their coats looked silvery rather than brown.
In spite of this luster, which made them more visible than they would have been otherwise, I had difficulty taking an accurate count. Five, six, eight…Some traveled on all fours, some were half erect; a few stood up almost as straight as a human. Ten, eleven, twelve…
They were not moving fast, and they repeatedly raised their heads, scanning the night ahead and on both sides, sometimes peering suspiciously back the way they had come. Although their pace and alert demeanor might signify caution or even fear, I suspected that they were not afraid of anything and that instead they were searching for something, hunting something.
Maybe me.
Fifteen, sixteen.
In a circus ring, costumed in sequined vests and red fezzes, a troop of monkeys might inspire smiles, laughter, delight. These specimens didn’t dance, caper, tumble, twirl, jig, or play miniature accordions. Not one seemed interested in a career in entertainment.
Eighteen.
They were rhesus monkeys, the species most often used in medical research, and all were at the upper end of the size range for their kind: more than two feet tall, twenty-five or even thirty pounds of bone and muscle. I knew from hard experience that these particular rhesuses were quick, agile, strong, uncannily smart, and dangerous.
Twenty.
Throughout much of the world, monkeys live everywhere in the wild, from jungles to open grasslands to mountains. They are not found on the North American continent — except for these that skulk through the night in Moonlight Bay, unknown to all but a handful of the populace.
I now understood why, earlier, the birds had fallen silent in the tree above me. They had sensed the approach of this unnatural parade.
Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
The troop was becoming a battalion.
Did I mention teeth? Monkeys are omnivorous, never having been persuaded by the arguments of vegetarians. Primarily they eat fruit, nuts, seeds, leaves, flowers, and birds’ eggs, but when they feel the need for meat, they munch on such savory fare as insects, spiders, and small mammals like mice, rats, and moles. Absolutely never accept a dinner invitation from a monkey unless you know precisely what’s on the menu. Anyway, because they are omnivorous, they have strong incisors and pointy eyeteeth, the better to rip and tear.
Ordinary monkeys don’t attack human beings. Likewise, ordinary monkeys are active in daylight and rest during the night — except for the softly furred douroucouli, an owl-eyed South American species that is nocturnal.
Those who roam the darkness in Fort Wyvern and Moonlight Bay aren’t ordinary. They’re hateful, vicious, psychotic little geeks. If given the choice of a plump tasty mouse sautéed in butter sauce or the chance to tear your face off for the sheer fun of it, they wouldn’t even lick their lips with regret at passing up the snack.
I had tallied twenty-two individuals when the passing tide of monkey fur in the street abruptly turned, whereupon I lost count. The troop doubled back on itself and halted, its members huddling and milling together in such a conspiratorial manner that you could easily believe one of them had been the mysterious figure on the grassy knoll in Dallas the day Kennedy was shot.
Although they showed no more interest in this bungalow than in any other, they were directly in front of it and close enough to give me a major case of the heebie-jeebies. Smoothing the bristling hair on the nape of my neck with one hand, I considered creeping out the back of the house before they came knocking on the front door with their damn monkey-magazine subscription cards.
If I slipped away, however, I wouldn’t know in which direction they had gone after breaking out of their huddle. I’d be as likely to blunder into them as to avoid them — with mortal consequences.
I had counted twenty-two, and I had missed some: There might have been as many as thirty. My 9-millimeter Glock held ten rounds, two of which I’d already expended, and a spare magazine was nestled in a pouch on my holster. Even if I were suddenly possessed by the sharpshooting spirit of Annie Oakley and miraculously made every shot count, I would still be overwhelmed by twelve of the beasts.
Hand-to-hand combat with three hundred pounds of screaming monkey menace is not my idea of a fair fight. My idea of a fair fight is one unarmed, toothless, nearsighted old monkey versus me with a Blackhawk attack helicopter.
In the street, the primates were still loitering. They were clustered so tightly that they almost appeared, in the moonlight,
to be one large organism with multiple heads and tails.
I couldn’t figure out what they were doing. Probably because I’m not a monkey.
I leaned closer to the window, squinting at the moon-washed scene, trying to see more clearly and to put myself in a monkey frame of mind.
Among the hey-let’s-play-God crowd that worked in the deepest bunkers of Wyvern, the most exciting — and most generously funded — research had included a project intended to enhance both human and animal intelligence, as well as human agility, speed, sight, hearing, sense of smell, and longevity. This was to be accomplished by transferring selected genetic material not just from one person to another but from species to species.
Although my mother was brilliant, a genius, she was not — trust me on this — a mad scientist. As a theoretical geneticist, she didn’t spend much time in laboratories. Her workplace was inside her skull, and her mind was as elaborately equipped as the combined research facilities of all the universities in the country. She kept to her office at Ashdon College, only occasionally venturing into a lab, supported by government grants, doing the heavy thinking while other scientists did the heavy lifting. She set out not to destroy humanity but to save it, and I am convinced that for a long time she didn’t know the reckless and malevolent purposes to which those at Wyvern were applying her theories.
Transferring genetic material from one species into another. In the hope of creating a super race. In an insane quest for the perfect, unstoppable soldier. Smart beasts of myriad design bred for future battlefields. Weird biological weapons as tiny as a virus or as large as a grizzly bear.
Dear God.
Personally, all this makes me nostalgic for the good old days when the most ambitious big-brain types were content with dreaming up city-busting nuclear bombs, satellite-mounted particle-beam death rays, and nerve gas that causes its victims to turn inside out the way caterpillars do when cruel little boys sprinkle salt on them.
Seize the Night mb-2 Page 7