Dean Koontz - Phantoms

Bryce blinked." Did she sound hysterical?”

"Frightened, yeah. But not hysterical. She doesn't want to say much of anything to anyone but you. She's on line three right now.”

Bryce reached for the phone.

"One more thing," Tal said, worry lines creasing his forehead.

Bryce paused, hand on the receiver.

Tal said: "She did tell me one thing, but it doesn't make sense. She said..

"Yes?”

:,She said that everyone's dead up there. Everyone in Snowfield. She said she and her sister are the only ones alive.”

Sisters and Cops Jenny and Lisa left the Oxley house the same way they had entered: through the window.

The night was growing colder. The wind had risen once more.

They walked back to Jenny's house at the top of Skyline Road and got jackets to ward off the chill.

Then they went downhill again to the sheriff's substation.

A wooden bench was bolted to the cobblestones by the curb in front of the town jail, and they sat waiting for help from Santa Mira.

" How long will it take them to get here?" Lisa asked.

"Well, Santa Mira is more than thirty miles away, over some pretty twisty roads. And they've got to take some unusual precautions." Jenny looked at her wristwatch." I guess they'll be here in another forty-five minutes. An hour at most. — "Jeez.

"It's not so long, honey.”

The girl pulled up the collar of her fleece-lined, dinim jacket." Jenny, when the phone rang at the Oxley place and you picked it up…”

:"Yes?”

"Who was calling?”

"No one.”

::What did you hear?”

Nothing," Jenny lied.

"From the look on your face, I thought someone was threatening you or something.”

"Well, I was upset, of course. When it rang, I thought the phones were working again, but when I picked it up and it was only another dead line, I felt… finished. That was all.”

:"Then you got a dial tone?”

"Yes.”

She probably doesn't believe me, Jenny thought. She thinks I'm trying to protect her from something. And, of course, I am. How can I explain the feeling that something evil was on that phone with me? I can't even begin to understand it myself.

Who or what was on that telephone? Why did he-or it finally let me have a dial tone?

A scrap of paper blew along the street. Nothing else moved.

A thin rag of cloud passed over one corner of the moon.

After a while, Lisa said, "Jenny, in case something happens to me tonight”

" Nothing's going to happen to you, honey.”

"But in case something does happen to me tonight," Lisa insisted, "I want you to know that I… well… I really am… proud of you.”

Jenny put an arm around her sister's shoulders, and they moved even closer together." Sis, I'm sorry that we never had much time together over the years.”

"You got home as often as you could," Lisa said." I know it wasn't easy.

I must've read a couple of dozen books about what a person has to go through to become a doctor. I always knew there was a lot on your shoulders, a lot you had to worry about.”

Surprised, Jenny said, "Well, I still could've gotten home more often.”

She had stayed away from home on some occasions because she had not been able to cope with the accusation in her mother's sad eyes, an accusation which was even more powerful and affecting because it was never bluntly put into words: You killed your father, Jenny; you broke his heart, and that killed him.

Lisa said, "And Mom was always so proud of you, too.”

That statement not only surprised Jenny: It rocked her.

"Mom was always telling people about her daughter the doctor." Lisa smiled, remembering." I think there were times her friends were ready to throw her out of her bridge club if she said just one more word about your scholarships or your good grades.”

Jenny blinked." Are you serious?”

"Of course, I'm serious.”

"But didn't Mom…”

"Didn't she what?" Lisa asked.

"Well… didn't she ever say anything about… about Dad?

He died twelve years ago.”

"Jeez, I know that. He died when I was two and a Lisa frowned." But what're you asking about?" "You mean you never heard Mom blame, me?”

"Blames you for what?”

Before Jenny could respond, Snowfield's graveyard tranquillity was snuffed out. All the lights went off.

Three patrol cars set out from Santa Mira, beaded into the night-enshrouded hills, toward the high, moon-bathed slopes of the Snowfield, their red emergency lights flashing.

Tal Whitman drove the car at the head of the speeding procession, and Sheriff Hammond sat beside him. Gordy Brogan was in the back seat with another deputy, Jake Johnson.

Gordy was scared.

He knew his fear wasn't visible, and he was thankful for that. In fact, he looked as if he didn't know how to be afraid.

He was tall, large-boned, slab-muscled. His hands were strong and as large as the hands of a professional basketball player; he looked capable of slam-dunking anyone who gave him trouble. He knew that his face was handsome enough; women had told him so. But it was also a rather rough-looking face, dark.

His lips were thin, giving his mouth a cruel aspect. Jake Johnson had said it best: Gordy, when you frown, you look like a man who eats live chickens for breakfast.

But in spite of his fierce appearance, Gordy Brogan was scared. It wasn't the prospect of disease or poison that occasioned fear in Gordy.

The sheriff had said that there were indications that the people in Snowfield had been killed not by germs or by toxic substances but by other people. Gordy was afraid that he would have to use his gun for the first time since he had become a deputy, eighteen months ago; he was afraid he would be forced to shoot someone-either to save his own life, the life of another deputy, or that of a victim.

He didn't think he could do it.

Five months ago, he had discovered a dangerous weakness in himself when he had answered an emergency call from Donner's Sports Shop. A disgruntled former employee, a burly man named Leo Sipes, had returned to the store two weeks after being fired, had beaten up the manager, and had broken the arm of the clerk who had been hired to replace him. By the time Gordy arrived on the scene, Leo Sipes-big and dumb and drunk-was using a woodsman's hatchet to smash and splinter all of the merchandise. Gordy was unable to talk him into surrendering. When Sipes started after him, brandishing the hatchet, Gordy had pulled his revolver. And then found he couldn't use it. His trigger finger became as brinle and inflexible as ice. He'd had to put the gun away and risk a physical confrontation with Sipes. Somehow, he'd gotten the hatchet away from him.

Now, five months later, as he sat in the rear of the patrol car and listened to Jake Johnson talking to Sheriff Hammond, Gordy's stomach clenched and turned sour at the thought of what a.45-caliber hollow-nose bullet would do to a man. It would literally take off his head. It would smash a man's shoulder into rags of flesh and broken needles of bone. It would rip open a man's chest, shattering the heart and everything else in its path. It would blow off a leg if it struck a kneecap, would turn a face to bloody slush. And Gordy Brogan, God help him, was just not capable of doing such a thing to anyone.

That was his terrible weakness. He knew there were people who would say that his inability to shoot another being was not a weakness but a sign of moral superiority. However, he knew that was not always true. There were times when shooting was a moral act. An officer of the law was sworn to protect the public. For a cop, the inability to shoot (when shooting was clearly justified) was not only weakness but madness, perhaps even sinful.

During the past five months, following the unnerving episode at Donner's Sport Shop, Gordy had been lucky. He'd drawn only a few calls involving violent suspects. And fortunately, he had been able to bring his adversaries to heel by using his fists or his nightstick or threats-or by firing warning shots into the air. Once, when it had seemed that shooting someone was unavoidable, the other officer, Frank Autry, had fired first, winging the gunman, before Gordy had been confronted with the impossible task of pulling the trigger.