“Mister, that’s the damnedest tale I’ve ever heard. Pardon me, padres.” McNeil flicked a glance at Jennings and La Prado and lit a cigar with a kitchen match scraped across his boot sole, and if anybody didn’t like the smoke, they could lump it. “Tom, what do you and Dr. Jessie have to say about this?”
“Just one thing: it’s true,” Tom said. “Stevie’s…not Stevie anymore. The creature calls herself Daufin.”
“Not exactly,” Rhodes corrected. “We call her Daufin. I think she saw something in one of Stevie’s pictures that she identified with. Whether it was a dolphin, or the ocean, I don’t know. But I don’t really believe that’s the creature’s name, or she’d have a better command of our language.”
“You mean she can’t talk?” Father LaPrado’s voice was soft and frail. He was a reed-thin man of seventy-one, with large, sparkling hazel eyes and a headful of snowy hair. His shoulders were stooped, but he carried himself with great dignity. He occupied the chair at Danny Chaffin’s desk.
“She can communicate, but only as much as a crash course in English allows her to. She’s got to be highly intelligent and retentive, because it took her only a few hours to learn the alphabet, the dictionary, and to read through an encyclopedia. But I’m sure there are still a lot of concepts she can’t understand, or translate to us.”
“And she’s missin’?” Vance asked. “A monster from another world’s loose on our streets?”
“I don’t think she’s dangerous,” Jessie asserted, before Vance’s speculations got out of hand. “I think she’s scared and alone, and I don’t think she’s a monster.”
“That’s mighty white of you, considerin’ how she got inside your little girl.” Vance realized what he’d just said, and he darted a glance at the Bordertown representatives, then back to Jessie. “Listen, she—it, or whatever—might look like a little girl and all, but how do we know she ain’t got…like, y’know, powers. Like readin’ minds—”
Then you don’t have anything to worry about, Jessie thought. Your pages are blank.
“—or controllin’ ’em, even. Hell, she might have a death ray or—”
“Cut the hysterics,” Rhodes said firmly, and Vance immediately silenced. “First of all, Captain Gunniston and my chopper pilot are out searching for Daufin right now; secondly, I agree with Mrs. Hammond. The creature doesn’t seem threatening.” He didn’t use the word dangerous—he recalled shaking hands with a lightning bolt. “As long as we’re not threatening to her,” he added.
“What are you plannin’ on doin’ when you find her? How you gonna get her back in her ball?” A shroud of cigar smoke floated around Early’s head.
“We don’t know yet. The sphere’s missing, and we think she hid it somewhere. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think she meant to land here. I think her vehicle malfunctioned, and she was on her way to somewhere else.”
“By vehicle I reckon you mean spaceship.” Reverend Hale Jennings was standing at the window, his acorn-shaped bald head tinged violet by the skygrid. He was a stocky, broad-chested man in his late forties, built like a fireplug, and had been a boxing champ during his days in the navy. “How’d she pilot a spaceship if she was inside a sphere?”
“I don’t know. We can only find out from her.”
“Okay, but what about that?” Jennings’s head tilted toward the black, scale-covered pyramid. “I don’t know about you gents, but that particular visitor makes me a mite nervous.”
“Yeah,” Vance agreed. “How do we know Daufin didn’t call it down to help her invade us?”
Colonel Rhodes measured his words carefully. To tell them that Daufin was terrified of that pyramid would not help their peace of mind, but there was no longer any use in hiding the truth. “There’s no proof she brought it down, but she must know what it is. Just before it landed, she kept repeating something: Stinger.”
There was a silence, as the possible meanings of that word sank in. “Might be the name of the planet she comes from,” Vance suggested. “Maybe she looks like a big ol’ wasp under that skin.”
“As I said,” Rhodes continued doggedly, “she just learned English. Evidently the word Stinger was suggested to her by something she saw.” He remembered the picture of the scorpion on Stevie’s bulletin board. “What she intended it to mean, I don’t know.”
“There’s much you don’t know, young man,” Father LaPrado said, with a wan smile.
“Yes sir, but I’m working on it. As soon as we find Daufin, maybe we can clear some of these questions up.” He glanced quickly at his wristwatch; it was 10:23, a little more than thirty minutes since the pyramid had come down. “Now: about the power failure. All of you have seen the smoke clouds hanging at the top of the grid. We’re in some sort of force field, generated from inside the pyramid. Just as it keeps the smoke from getting out, it’s cut the power and telephone lines. The thing is solid, though it appears transparent. It’s just as if a big glass bowl was plopped on top of us. Nothing can get in and nothing can get out either.” He’d tried the sheriff’s CB radio and gotten a squeal of static as the radio waves were deflected.
“A force field,” Jennings repeated. “How far out does it go?”
“We’re going to take the chopper up and find out. My guess is that it’s limited to the immediate area around Inferno and Bordertown—maybe ten miles at the most. We don’t have to worry about the air giving out”—I hope, he thought—“but the smoke from those fires isn’t going to go away.” The blazes were still burning, and black smoke from burning heaps of tires was not only thickening at the top of the grid but beginning to haze the streets too, and the air was permeated with a scorched smell.
Early grunted, took one more long draw on his cigar, puffed the smoke away, and crushed the stogie out on the floor. “Reckon I’ll do my part against air pollution,” he grumbled.
“Right. Thanks.”
“One moment.” Father Ortega, a slim, somber-faced man with swirls of gray at his temples, stood next to LaPrado. “You say this field of force prevents entering and escape, sí? Is it not clear that it has a particular purpose?”
“Yeah,” Vance said. “To keep us caged up while we get invaded.”
“No,” the priest went on, “not to keep us caged. To imprison Daufin.”
Rhodes looked at Tom and Jessie; all of them had already warily circled that conclusion. If the black pyramid—or something inside it—had come for Daufin, she obviously did not want to be taken. He returned his attention to Ortega, his expression studiously composed. “Again, we can only find that out from her. What we need to talk about now is crowd control. I doubt if anybody’s going to be getting much sleep tonight. I think it would be best if people knew they had places to congregate, where there were lights and food. Any suggestions?”
“The high school gym might do,” Brett offered. “That’s big enough.”
“Folks want to be closer to their homes,” Jennings said. “How about the churches? We’ve got a ton of candles already, and I reckon we can get some kerosene lamps from the hardware store.”
“Sí.” LaPrado nodded assent. “We can share food from the bakery and the grocery store.”
“Probably a pot of coffee or two still at the Brandin’ Iron,” Vance said. “That might help.”
“Good. The next question is, how do we get people off the streets?” Rhodes looked to suggestions from LaPrado and Jennings.
LaPrado said, “We have bells, up in the steeple. If they haven’t been knocked loose, we can start them ringing.”
“That’s a problem for us,” Jennings answered. “We’ve got electronic bells. Took the real ones out four years ago. I reckon I can find some volunteers to go house to house, though, and let folks know we’re open.”
“I’ll leave that and the food for both of you and the mayor to organize,” Rhodes said. “I doubt if we can get everybody off the streets, but the more people indoors the better I’ll feel about things.”
“Domingo, will you se
e me back, please?” LaPrado stood up with Ortega’s help. “I’ll get the bells started, and ask some of the ladies to round up food.” He shuffled to the door, and paused there. “Colonel Rhodes, if someone asks me what’s happening, do you mind if I use your explanation?”
“What’s that?”
“‘I don’t know,’” the old priest replied, with a grim little chuckle. He allowed Mendoza to open the door for him.
“Don’t go too far, Father,” Early said. “I may be needin’ you pretty soon. You too, Hale. I’ve got four of Cade’s workmen who aren’t gonna last the night, and I imagine the fireboys’ll be pullin’ more bodies out when it gets cool enough to go in.”
LaPrado nodded. “You know where to find me,” he said, and left the office with Ortega and Mendoza.
“Fella don’t have half his marbles,” Vance muttered.
Early stood up. His time for lollygagging was spent. “Folks, this has been real educational, but I’ve got to get back to the clinic.” Eight of the kids from the gang fight, including Cody Lockett and Ray Hammond, had been taken to the Inferno Clinic for stitches and bandages, but the seriously injured workers from Cade’s junkyard—and only seven of a crew of forty-six had come staggering, burned, and bleeding over the mashed-down fence—were being attended to first. Early’s staff of three nurses and six volunteers were treating shock and glass-cut patients by the glare of the emergency lights. “Dr. Jessie, I sure could use you,” he said. “I’ve got a fella with a piece of metal scrapin’ his backbone and another who’s gonna have to part with a crushed arm pretty soon. Tom, if you can hold a flashlight steady and you don’t mind a little blood, I can use you too.” It occurred to him that Noah Twilley was going to be just as busy before long, when the firemen brought the rest of the corpses out.
“I can handle it,” Tom said. “Colonel, will you let us know when you find her?”
“As soon as. I’m on my way to meet Gunny right now.”
They followed Early out into the violet-hued street. A few knots of people remained on the street, gawking, but most of the onlookers had melted back to their homes. Rhodes walked toward Preston Park, Tom and Jessie went to their Civic, and Early climbed nimbly into his dune buggy.
As the buggy roared away, it was narrowly missed by a battleship-sized yellow Cadillac that stopped in front of the sheriff’s office. Celeste Preston, wearing a scarlet jumpsuit, got out and stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the massive pyramid across the river. Her sharp-featured face angled up, her pale blue eyes examining the skygrid. She’d already seen the helicopter sitting in Preston Park; one of the three that had buzzed her house this morning, she thought with a resurgence of righteous anger. But the anger collapsed soon enough. Whatever that big bastard was over in Cade’s autoyard, and that purple mesh covering the sky, they took precedence over her concern for her lost beauty sleep.
Mayor Brett and Hale Jennings emerged from Vance’s office on their way to Aurora Street, where the Quik-Check Grocery’s owner lived. Brett almost ran into Celeste, and his heart gave a violent kick because he was scared to death of her. “Uh… Miz Preston! What can I do for—”
“Howdy, Pastor,” she interrupted, then turned her cold glare on the mayor. “Brett, I hope to God you can tell me what that thing is over there, and why the sky’s all lit up and why my power and phones are out!”
“Yes ma’am.” Brett swallowed thickly, his face beaded with sweat. “Well…see…the colonel says it’s a spaceship, and it’s got a force field comin’ out of it that’s stopped the electricity, and—” There was no way to explain all of it, and Celeste watched him like a hawk poised over a mouse.
“Mrs. Preston, I think it’d be best if you asked Sheriff Vance,” Jennings advised. “He’ll tell you the whole story.”
“Oh, I can’t wait for this!” she said, and as the two men walked to the pastor’s blue Ford she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and almost took the door off its hinges when she stormed inside.
She caught Vance with his hand up the office Coke machine’s innards, working a can free. “I’ve got some questions that need answerin’,” she said as the door shut behind her.
Vance had hardly jumped when she came in; his nervous system had reached its quota of shocks. He kept at the can, which was still deliciously cool under his fingers. One more good twist and he’d have it out. “Sit down,” he offered.
“I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself.” Damn, why wouldn’t it come out? He did this all the time, and usually the cans popped out with no trouble. He jiggled it, but it seemed to be hung on something.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Celeste stalked toward him, shoved him none too gently aside, reached her arm up the vent, and grasped the can. She twisted her wrist sharply to the left and pulled the can out. “Here! Take the damned thing!”
Suddenly he didn’t want it so much. Her arm was skinny as a rail, and he figured that’s how she’d done it. “Naw,” he said, “you can have it.”
Normally she only drank diet colas, but the air was so hot and stifling she didn’t care to be choosy. She popped the tab and drank several cool swallows. “Thanks,” she said. “My throat was kinda dry.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. The water fountain’s not workin’, either.” He nodded toward it, and when he did he caught a strange scent: like cinnamon, or some kind of fragrant spice. He realized a second later that it must be coming from Celeste Preston, maybe the scent of her shampoo or soap. Then the aroma drifted away, and he could smell his own sweaty self again. He wished he’d put on some more of his Brut deodorant, because it was wearing off fast.
“You’ve got blood on your face,” she said.
“Huh? Yeah, reckon I do. Glass cut me.” He shrugged. “Don’t matter none.” His nose searched for another sniff of cinnamon.
Just like a man! Celeste thought as she finished off the drink. Damn fools get cut and bleed like stuck pigs, and they pretend they don’t even notice it! Wint was the same way, slashed his hand open on barbed wire once and acted like he’d gotten a splinter in his finger, tryin’ to be tough. Probably wasn’t a dime’s worth of difference between Wint and Vance, if you could shave about fifty pounds of fat off him.
She jerked herself back to reality. Either the heat was getting to her, or it was the smoke in the air; she’d never felt an iota of compassion for Ed Vance, and she sure didn’t intend to start. She flung the can into a wastebasket and said stridently, “I want to know what the hell’s goin’ on around here, and I want to know now!”
Vance stopped sniffing. It wasn’t cinnamon, he decided; it was probably witch hazel. He went to his desk and got the patrol car’s keys.
“I’m talkin’ to you!” Celeste snapped.
“I’ve gotta go over to Danny Chaffin’s house and pick him up. My night deputies have vamoosed. You want to hear about it, you’ll have to go with me.” He was already on his way to the door.
“Don’t you walk out on me!”
He paused. “I’ve gotta lock up. You comin’, or not?”
Her idea of hell was to be in that patrol car with Vance’s blubber shaking behind the wheel, but she saw she’d have to endure it. “I’m comin’,” she said through gritted teeth, and followed him out.
24
Act of God
“LORD HAVE MERCY!” DODGE Creech peered out a cracked window at the pyramid. He was still wearing his yellow-and-blue-plaid sport coat, his red lick of hair damp with sweat and glued to his sparkling scalp. “Ginger, I’m tellin’ you: if that thing had come down two hundred yards more north, we’d be laying in our graves right now. How in hell am I gonna explain this to Mr. Brasswell?”
Ginger Creech thought about it. She was sitting in a rocking chair across the pine-paneled living room, wearing her plain blue robe, her feet in Dearfoam slippers and pink curlers in her graying hair. Her brow furrowed. “Act of God,” she decided. “That’s what you’ll tell him.”
“Act of God,” he repe
ated, trying it out. “No, he won’t buy that! Anyway, if it was a meteor or somethin’ that fell without a mind to it, then it would be an act of God. If it’s somethin’ that’s got a mind, you can’t call it an act of God.” Harv Brasswell was Creech’s supervisor, based in Dallas, and he had a powerfully tight fist when it came to damage claims.
“You sayin’ God doesn’t have a mind?” she inquired, her rocking coming to a halt.
“No, ’course not! It’s just that an act of God has to be like a storm, or a drought, or somethin’ only God could cause.” That still sounded lame, and he didn’t want to stir Ginger up; she was a PTL, Ernest Angsley, Kenneth Copeland, and Jimmy Swaggart fanatic. “I don’t think God had anythin’ to do with this.”
The squeaking of her chair continued. The room was illuminated by three oil-burning lanterns that had been hung from the wagon-wheel light fixture at the ceiling. A couple of candles burned atop the television set. Bookshelves were packed with Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, stacks of National Geographics, insurance law and motivational salesmanship books, as well as Ginger’s collection of religious tomes.
“I’ll bet that thing threw every house in town off its foundations,” Dodge fretted. “I swear, ninety percent of the windows must be broken. Streets all cracked too. I never believed in spaceships before, but by God if that’s not one, I don’t know what is!”
“I don’t want to think about it,” Ginger said, rocking harder. “No such thing as spaceships.”
“Well, it sure ain’t the Big Rock Candy Mountain out there! Lord, what a mess!” He rubbed the cool glass of iced tea he was holding across his forehead. The refrigerator had quit along with the power, of course, but the freezer unit still held a few trays of cubes. In this heat, though, they weren’t going to last very long. “That Colonel Rhodes is havin’ a meetin’ with the sheriff and Mayor Brett. Didn’t ask me, though. Guess I’m not important enough, huh? I can sell everybody in town their insurance and wait on ’em hand and foot, but I’m not important enough. There’s thanks for you!”
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