Dean Koontz - Phantoms

When you got to know him, he was like a big puppy, eager to be liked. He was one of those rare adults who could talk to a kid without being self-conscious or condescending or patronizing. He was even better in that regard than Jenny. And even under the current circumstances, he could laugh.

As they put the food on the table-lunch meat, bread, cheese, fresh fruit, doughnuts-and brewed coffee, Lisa said, "You just don't seem like a cop to me.”

:"Oh?" Gordy said." What's a cop supposed to seem like?" "Whoops. Did I say the wrong thing? Is 'cop' an offensive word?”

"In some quarters, it is. Like in prisons, for instance.”

She was amazed that she still could laugh after everything that had happened this evening. She said, "Seriously. What do officers of the law prefer to be called? Policemen?”

"It doesn't matter. I'm a deputy, policeman, cop-whatever you like.

Except you think I don't really look the part.”

"Oh, you look the part all right," Lisa said." Especially when you scowl. But you don't seem like a cop.”

:"What do I seem like to you?”

"Let me think." She took an immediate interest in this game, for it diverted her mind from the nightmare around her." Maybe you seem like… a young minister.”

"Me?”

"Well, in the pulpit, you'd be just fantastic delivering a fire and-brimstone sermon. And I can see you sitting in a parsonage, an encouraging smile on your face, listening to people's problems.”

"Me, a minister," he said, clearly astonished." With that imagination of yours, you should be a writer when you grow up.”

..I think I should be a doctor like Jenny. A doctor can do so much good." She paused." You know why you don't seem like a cop? It's because I can't picture you using that." She pointed at his revolver." I can't picture you shooting someone.

Not even if he deserved it.”

She was startled by the expression that came over Gordy Brogan's face.

He was visibly shocked.

Before she could ask what was wrong, the lights flickered.

She looked up.

The lights flickered again. And again.

She glanced at the front windows. Outside, the streetlights were blinking, too.

No, she thought. No, please, God, not again. Don't throw us into darkness again; please, please!

The lights went out.

The Thing at the Window Bryce Hammond had spoken to the night-duty officer manning the emergency line at the CBW Civilian Defense Unit at Dugway, Utah. He hadn't needed to say much before he'd been patched through to General Galen Copperfield's home number.

Copperfield had listened, but he hadn't said much. Bryce wanted to know whether it seemed at all likely that a chemical or biological agent had caused Snowfield's agony and obliteration.

Copperfield said, "Yes." But that was all he would say. He warned Bryce that they were speaking on an unsecured telephone line, and he made vague but stern references to classified information and security clearances. When he'd heard all of the essentials but only a few details, he cut Bryce off rather curtly and suggested they discuss the rest of it when they met face to face." I've heard enough to be convinced that my organization should be involved." He promised to send a field lab and a team of investigators into Snowfield by dawn or shortly thereafter.

Bryce was putting down the receiver when the lights flickered, dimmed, flickered, wavered-and went out.

He fumbled for the flashlight on the desk in front of him, found it, and switched it on.

Upon returning to the substation a while ago, they had located two additional, long-handled police flashlights. Gordy had taken one; Dr.

Paige had taken the other. Now, both of those lights flicked on simultaneously, carving long bright wounds in the darkness.

They had discussed a plan of action, a routine to follow if the lights went off again. Now, as planned, everyone moved to the center of the room, away from the doors and windows, and clustered together in a circle, facing outward, their backs turned to one another, reducing their vulnerability.

No one said much of anything. They were all listening intently.

Lisa Paige stood to the left of Bryce, her slender shoulders hunched, her head tucked down.

Tal Whitman stood at Bryce's right. His teeth were bared in a silent snarl as he studied the darkness beyond the sweeping scythe of the flashlight beam.

Tal and Bryce were holding revolvers.

The three of them faced the rear half of the room, while the other four-Dr. Paige, Gordy, Frank, and Stu-faced the front.

Bryce played the beam of his flashlight over everything, for even the shadowy outlines of the most mundane objects suddenly seemed threatening. But nothing hid or moved among the familiar pieces of furniture and equipment.

Silence.

Set in the back wall, toward the right-hand corner of the room, were two doors. One led to the corridor that served the three holding cells.

They had searched that part of the building earlier; the cells, the interrogation room, and the two bathrooms that occupied that half of the ground floor were all deserted.

The other door led to stairs that went up to the deputy's apartment; those rooms, too, were unoccupied. Nevertheless, Bryce repeatedly brought the beam of light back to the half-open doors; he was uneasy about them.

In the darkness, something thumped softly.

"What was that?" Wargle asked.

"It came from over this way," Gordy said.

"No, from over this way," Lisa Paige said.

"Quiet!" Bryce said sharply.

Thump… thump-thump.

It was the sound of a padded blow. Like a dropped pillow striking the floor.

Bryce swept his light rapidly back and forth.

Tal tracked the beam with his revolver.

Bryce thought: What do we do if the lights are out for the rest of the night? What do we do when the flashlight batteries finally go dead?

What happens then?

He had not been afraid of darkness since he'd been a small child. Now he remembered what it was like.

Thump-thump… thuntp… thump-thump.

Louder. But not closer.

Thump!

"The windows!" Frank said.

Bryce swung around, probing with his flashlight.

Three bright beams found the front windows at the same time, transforming the mullioned squares of glass into mirrors that hid whatever lay beyond them.

"Turn your lights toward the floor or ceiling," Bryce said.

One beam swung up, two down.

The backsplash of light revealed the windows, but it didn't turn them into reflective silver surfaces.

Thump!

Something struck a window, rattled a loose pane, and rebounded into the night. Bryce had an impression of wings.

"What was it?”

" — bird”

'not a bird of any kind I ever”

'something”

'awful”

It returned, battering itself against the glass with greater determination than before: Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!

Lisa screamed.

Frank Autry gasped, and Stu Wargle said, "Holy shit!”

Gordy made a strangled, wordless sound.

Staring at the window, Bryce felt as if he had lurched through the curtain of reality, into a place of nightmare and illusion.

With the streetlamps extinguished, Skyline Road was dark except for the luminous moonfall; however, the thing at the window was vaguely illuminated.

Even vague illumination of that fluttering monstrosity was too much.

What Bryce saw on the other side of the glass what he thought he saw in the kaleidoscopic multiplicity of light, shadow, and shimmering moonlight- was something out of a fever dream. It had a three- or four-foot wingspan. An insectoid head. Short, quivering antennae.

Small, pointed, and ceaselessly working mandibles. A segmented body.

The body was suspended between the pale gray wings and was approximately the size and shape of two footballs placed end to end; it, too, was gray, the same shade as the wings-a moldy, sickly gray-and fuzzy and moist-looking. Bryce glimpsed eyes, as well: huge, ink-black, multifaceted, protuberant lenses that caught the light, refracting and reflecting it, gleaming darkly and hungrily.