Dean Koontz - Phantoms

At least, Bryce thought, if anything tries to get inside the window, we'll have the sound of breaking glass to warn us.

A host of other details had been attended to. Stu Wargle's mutilated corpse had been temporarily stored in a utility room that adjoined the lobby. Bryce had drawn up a duty roster, and had structured twelve-hour work shifts for the next three days, should the crisis last that long.

Finally, he couldn't think of anything more that could be done until first light.

Now he sat alone at one of the round tables in the dining room, sipping Sanka, trying to make sense of the night's events.

His mind kept circling back to one unwanted thought: His brain was gone. His blood was sucked out of him every damned drop.

He shook off the sickening image of Wargle's mined face, got up, went for more coffee, then returned to the table.

The inn was very quiet.

At another table, three of the night shift men-Miguel Hernandez, Sam Potter, and Henry Wong-were playing cards, but they weren't talking much. When they did speak, it was almost in whispers.

The inn was very quiet.

The inn was a fortress.

The inn was a fortress, damn it.

But was it safe?

Lisa chose a mattress in a corner of the dormitory, where her back would be up against a blank wall.

Jenny unfolded one of the two blankets stacked at the foot of the mattress, and draped it over the girl.

"Want the other one?”

"No," Lisa said." This'll be enough. It feels funny, though, going to bed with all my clothes on.”

"Things'll get back to normal pretty soon," she said, but even as she spoke she realized how stupid that statement was.

"Are you going to sleep now?”

"Not quite yet.”

"I wish you would," Lisa said." I wish you'd lay down right there on the next mattress.”

"You're not alone, honey." Jenny smoothed the girl's hair.

A few deputies-including Tal Whitman, Gordy Brogan, and Frank Autrey — had bedded down on other mattresses. There were also three heavily armed guards who would watch over everyone throughout the night.

"Will they turn the lights down any farther?" Lisa asked.

"No. We can't risk darkness.”

"Good. They're dim enough. Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

Lisa asked, seeming much younger than fourteen.

"Sure.”

"And talk to me.”

"Sure. But we'll talk softly, so we don't disturb anyone.”

Jenny lay down beside her sister, her head propped up on one hand." What do you want to talk about?”

"I don't care. Anything. Anything except… tonight.”

"Well, there is something I want to ask you," Jenny said.

"It's not about tonight, but it's about something you said tonight.

Remember when we were sitting on the bench in front of the jail, waiting for the sheriff? Remember how we were talking about Mom, and you said Mom used to… used to brag about me?”

Lisa smiled." Her daughter, the doctor. Oh, she was so proud of you, Jenny.”

As it had done before, that statement unsettled Jenny.

"And Mom never blamed me for Dad's stroke?" she asked.

Lisa frowned." Why would she blame you?”

"Well… because I guess I caused him some heartache there for a while.

Heartache and a lot of worry.”

"You?" Lisa asked, astonished.

"And when Dad's doctor couldn't control his high blood pressure and then he had a stroke”

"According to Mom, the only thing you ever did bad in your entire life was when you decided to give the calico cat a black dye job for Halloween and you got Clairol all over the sun porch furniture.”

Jenny laughed with surprise." I'd forgotten that. I was only eight years old.”

They smiled at each other, and in that moment they felt more than ever like sisters.

Then Lisa said, "Why'd you think Mom blamed you for Daddy's dying? It was natural causes, wasn't it? A stroke. How could it possibly have been your fault?”

Jenny hesitated, thinking back thirteen years to the start of it. That her mother had never blamed her for her father's death was a profoundly liberating realization. She felt free for the first time since she'd been nineteen.

"Jenny?”

"Mmmm?”

"Are you crying?”

"No, I'm okay," she said, fighting back tears." If Mom didn't hold it against me, I guess I've been wrong to hold it against myself I'm just happy, honey. Happy about what you've told me.”

"But what was it you thought you did? If we're going to be good sisters, we shouldn't keep secrets. Tell me, Jenny.”

"It's a long story, Sis. I'll tell you about it eventually, but not now. Now I want to hear all about you.”

They talked about trivialities for a few minutes, and Lisa's eyes grew steadily heavier.

Jenny was reminded of Bryce Hammond's gentle, hooded eyes.

And of Jakob and Aida Liebermann's eyes, glaring out of their severed heads.

And Deputy Wargle's eyes. Gone. Those burnt-out, empty sockets in that hollow skull.

She tried to force her thoughts away. when that gruesomeness, from that too-well-remembered, grim reaper's gaze. But her mind kept circling back to that image of monstrous violence and death.

She wished there were someone to talk her to sleep as she was doing for Lisa. It was going to be a restless night.

In the utility room that adjoined the lobby and backed up against the elevator shaft, the light was off. There were no windows.

A faint odor of cleaning fluids clung to the place. Pinesol.

Lysol. Furniture polish. Floor wax. Janitorial supplies were stored on shelves along one wall.

In the right-hand corner, farthest from the door, was a large metal sink. Water dripped from a leaky faucet-one drop every ten or twelve seconds. Each pellet of water struck the metal basin with a soft, hollow ping.

In the center of the room, as shrouded in utter blackness as was everything else, the faceless body of Stu Wargle lay on a table, covered by a dropcloth. All was still. Except for the monotonous ping of the dripping water.

A breathless anticipation hung in the air.

Frank Autry huddled under the blanket, his eyes closed, and he thought about Ruth. Tall, willowy, sweet-faced Ruthie.

Ruthie with the quiet yet crisp voice, Ruthie with the throaty laugh that most people found infectious, his wife of twenty-six years: She was the only woman he had ever loved; he still loved her.

He had spoken with her by telephone for a few minutes, just before turning in for the night. He had not been able to tell her much about what was happening-just that there was a siege situation underway in Snowfield, that it was being kept quiet as long as possible, and that by the look of it he wouldn't be home tonight. Ruthie hadn't pressed him for details. She had been a good army wife through all his years in the service.

She still was.

Thinking of Ruth was his primary psychological defense mechanism. In times of stress, in times of fear and pain and depression, he simply thought of Ruth, concentrated solely on her, and the strife-filled world faded. For a man who had spent so much of his life engaged in dangerous work-for a man whose occupations had seldom allowed him to forget that death was an intimate part of life, a woman like Ruth was indispensable medicine, an inoculation against despair.

Gordy Brogan was afraid to close his eyes again. Each time that he had closed them, he had been plagued by bloody visions that had rolled up out of his own private darkness. Now he lay under his blanket, eyes open, staring at Frank Autry's back.

In his mind, he composed his letter of resignation to Bryce Hammond. He wouldn't be able to type and submit that letter until after this Snowfield business was settled. He didn't want to leave his buddies in the middle of a battle; that didn't seem right. He might actually be of some help to them, considering that it didn't appear as if he would be required to shoot at people. However, as soon as this thing was settled, as soon as they were back in Santa Mira, he would write the letter and hand-deliver it to the sheriff.