Dean Koontz - Phantoms

Embarrassing. But, as little as his pupils were paying him, they could hardly complain too strenuously if, just once, he dozed off in the middle of a lesson.

As he put a thin slice of boiled ham and a slice of Swiss cheese on mustard-slathered bread, he heard the telephone ringing down in the front hall of the rooming house. He didn't think it was for him. He received few calls.

But seconds later, there was a knock at the door. It was the young Indian fellow who rented a room on the first floor. In heavily accented English, he told Timothy the call was for him.

And urgent.

"Urgent? Who is it?" Timothy asked as he followed the young man down the stairs." Did he give his name?”

"Sand-leer," the Indian said.

Sandier? Burt Sandier?

Over breakfast, they had agreed on terms for a new edition of The Ancient Enemy, one that was completely rewritten to appeal to the average reader. Following the original publication of the book, almost seventeen years ago, he had received several offers to popularize his theories about historical mass disappearances, but he had resisted the idea; he had felt that the issuance of a popularized version of The Ancient Enemy would be playing into the hands of all those who had so unfairly accused him of sensationalism, humbug, and money grubbing.

Now, however, years of want had made him more amenable to the idea.

Sandler's appearance on the scene and his offer of a contract had come at a time when Timothy's ever-worsening poverty had reached a critical stage; it was truly a miracle.

This morning, they had settled on an advance (against royalties) of fifteen thousand dollars. At the current rate of exchange, that amounted to a little more than eight thousand pounds sterling. It wasn't a fortune, but it was more money than Timothy had seen in a long, long time, and at the moment it seemed like wealth beyond counting.

As he went down the narrow stairs, toward the front hall, where the telephone stood on a small table beneath a cheap print of a bad painting, Timothy wondered if Sandier was calling to back out of the agreement.

The professor's heart began to pound with almost painful force.

The young Indian gentleman said, "I hope is no trouble, sir.”

Then he returned to his own room and closed the door.

Flyte picked up the phone." Hello?”

"My God, do you get an evening newspaper?" Sandler asked.

His voice was shrill, almost hysterical.

Timothy wondered if Sandier was drunk. Was this what he considered urgent business?

Before Timothy could respond, Sandier said, "I think it's happened! By God, Dr. Flyte" I think it's actually happened!

It's in the newspaper tonight. And on the radio. Not many details yet.

But it sure looks as if it's happened.”

The professor's worry about the book contract was now compounded by exasperation." Could you please be more specific, Mr. Sandler?”

"The ancient enemy, Dr. Flyte. One of those creatures has struck again. Just yesterday. A town in California. Some are dead. Most are missing. Hundreds. An entire town. Gone.”

" God help them," Flyte said.

"I've got a friend in the London office of the Associated Press, and he's read me the latest wire service reports," Sandier said." I know things that aren't in the papers yet. For one thing, the police out there in California have put out an all-points bulletin for you.

Apparently, one of the victims had read your book. When the attack came, he locked himself in a bathroom.

It got him anyway. But he gained enough time to scrawl your name and the title of your book on the mirror!”

Timothy was speechless. There was a chair beside the telephone. He suddenly needed it.

"The authorities in California don't understand what's happened. They don't even realize The Ancient Enemy is the title of a book, and they don't know what part you play in all this.

They think it was a nerve gas attack or an act of biological warfare or even extraterrestrial contact. But the man who wrote your name on that mirror knew better. And so do we. I'll tell you more in the car.”

"Car?" Timothy said.

"My God, I hope you have a passport!”

"Uh… yes.”

"I'm coming by with a car to take you to the airport. I want you to go to California, Dr. Flyte.”

" But-”

"Tonight. There's an available seat on a flight from Heathrow. I've reserved it in your name.”

" But I can't afford-”

"Your publisher is paying all expenses. Don't worry. You must go to Snowfield. You won't be writing just a popularization of The Ancient Enemy. Not any more. Now, you're going to write a well-rounded human story about Snowfield, and all of your material on historical mass disappearances and your theories about the ancient enemy will be supportive of that narrative. Do you see? Won't it be great?”

"But would it be right for me to rush in there now?”

"What do you mean?" Sandler asked.

"Would it be proper?" Timothy asked worriedly." Wouldn't it appear as if I were attempting to cash in on a terrible tragedy?”

"Listen, Dr. Flyte, there are going to be a hundred hustlers in Snowfield, all with book contracts in their back pockets.

They'll rip off your material. If you don't write the book on the subject, one of them will write it at your expense.”

"But hundreds are dead," Timothy said. He felt ill.

"Hundreds. The pain, the tragedy…”

Sandier was clearly impatient with the professor's hesitancy.

"Well… okay, okay. Maybe you're right. Maybe I haven't really stopped to think about the horror of it. But don't you see-that's why you must be the one to write the ultimate book on the subject. No one else can bring your erudition or compassion to the project.”

"Well…”

e fast. I'll be there in half an hour.”

Sandier hung up, and Timothy sat for a moment, holding the receiver, listening to the dead line. Stunned.

In the taxi's headlights, the rain was silvery. It slanted on the wind, (ike thousands of thin streamers of glittering Christmas tinsel. On the pavement, it puddled in quicksilver pools.

The cabdriver was reckless. The car careened along the slick streets.

With one hand, Timothy held tightly to the safety bar on the door.

Evidently Burt Sandler had promised a very large tip as a reward for speed.

Sitting next to the professor, Sandier said, "There'll be a layover in New York, but not too long. One of our people will meet you and shepherd you through. We won't alert the media in New York. We'll save the press conference for San Francisco. So be prepared to face an army of eager reporters when you get off the plane there.”

"Couldn't I just go quietly to Santa Mira and present myself to the authorities there?" Timothy asked unhappily.

"No, no, no!" Sandier said, clearly horrified by the very thought.”

We've got to have a press conference. You're the only one with the answer, Dr. Flyte. We've got to let everyone know that you're the one.

We've got to start beating the drum for your next book before Norman Mailer puts aside his latest study of Marilyn Monroe and jumps into this thing with both feet!”

"I haven't even begun to write the book yet.”

"God, I know. And by the time we publish, the demand will be phenomenal!”

The cab turned a corner. Tires squealed. Timothy was thrown against the door.

"A publicist will meet you at the plane in San Francisco.

He'll guide you through the press conference," Sandler said.

"One way or another he'll get you to Santa Mira. It's a fairly long drive, so maybe it can be done by helicopter.”

"Helicopter?" Timothy said, astonished.

The taxi sped through a deep puddle, casting up plumes of silvery water.

The airport was within sight.

Burt Sandler had been talking nonstop since Timothy had gotten into the cab. Now he said, "One more thing. At your press conference, tell them the stories you told me this morning.