Dean Koontz - Phantoms

About the disappearing Mayans. And three thousand Chinese infantrymen who vanished. And be sum to make any references you possibly can to mass disappearances that took place in the U S.-even before there was a United States, even in previous geological eras. That'll appeal to the American press. Local ties. That always helps. Didn't the Just British colony in America vanish without a trace?”

"Yes. The Roanoke Island colony.”

"Be sure to mention it.”

"But I can't say conclusively that the disappearance of the Roanoke colony is connected with the ancient enemy.”

"Is there any chance whatsoever that it might've been?”

Fascinated, as always, by this subject, Timothy was able, for the first time, to wrench his mind away from the suicidal behavior of the cabdriver." When a British expedition, funded by Sir Walter Raleigh, returned to the Roanoke colony in March of 1590, they found everyone gone. One hundred and twenty people had vanished without a trace.

Countless theories have been advanced regarding their fate. For example, the most popular theory holds that the people at Roanoke Island fell victim to the Croatonn Indians, who lived nearby. The only message left by the colonists, slashed into the bark of a tree. But the Croatoans professed to know nothing about the disappearance. And they were peaceful Indians. Not the least bit warlike. Indeed, they had initially helped the colonists settle in. Further, there were no signs of violence at the settlement. No bodies were ever found. No bones. No graves. So you see, even the most widely accepted theory raises a greater number of questions than it answers.”

The taxi swept around another curve, braked abruptly to avoid colliding with a truck.

But now Timothy was only passingly aware of the driver's daredevil conduct. He continued: "It occurred to me that the word the colonists had carved into that tree-Cr-oatoan-might not have been intended to point an accusing finger.

It might have meant that the Croatoans would know what had happened. I read the journals of several British explorers who later talked with the Croatoans about the colony's disappearance, and there's evidence the Indians did, indeed, have some idea of what had happened. Or thought they knew. But they were not taken seriously when they tried to explain to the white man. The Croatoans reported that, Simultaneously with the disappearance of the colonists, there was a great depletion of game in the forests and fields in which the tribe hunted. Virtually all species of wildlife had abruptly dwindled drastically in numbers. A couple of the more perceptive explorers noted in their journals that the Indians regarded the subject with superstitious dread. They seemed to have a religious explanation for the disappearance. But unfortunately, the white men who talked with them about the missing colonists were not interested in Indian superstitions and did not pursue that avenue of enquiry.”

"I gather you've researched Croatoan religious beliefs," Burt Sandler said.

"Yes," Timothy said." Not an easy subject, for the tribe has been extinct itself for many, many years. What I've found is that the Croatoans were spiritualists. They believed that the spirit endured and walked the earth even after the death of the body, and they believed there were 'greater spirits' that manifested themselves in the elements-wind, earth, fire, water, and so forth. Most important of all-as far as we're concerned-they also believed in an evil spirit, a source of all evil, an equivalent to the Christians' Sam. I forget the exact Indian word for it, but it translates roughly as He Who Can Be Anything "Yet is Nothing.”

"My God," Sandier said. -That's not a bad description of the ancient enemy.”

"Sometimes there are truths hidden in superstitions. The Croatoans believed that both the wildlife and the colonists had been taken away by He Who Can Be Anything Yet is Nothing.

So… while I cannot say conclusively that the ancient enemy had something to do with the disappearance of the Roanoke Islanders, it seems to me sufficient reason to consider the possibility.”

"Fantastic!" Sandier said." Tell them all of that at the press conference in San Francisco. Just the way you've told me.”

The taxi squealed to a stop in front of the terminal.

Burt Sandier shoved a few five-pound notes into the driver's hand. He glanced at his watch." Dr. Flyte, let's get you on that plane.”

From his window seat, Timothy Flyte watched the city lights disappearing beneath the storm clouds. TV jet speared upward through the thin rain.

Soon, they rose above the overcast; the storm was below them, clear sky overhead. The rays of the moon bounced off the churning tops of the clouds, and the night beyond the plane was filled with soft, eerie light.

The seatbelt sign winked off.

He unbuckled but couldn't relax. His mind was churning just as the storm clouds were.

The stewardess came around, offering drinks. He asked for Scotch.

He felt like a coiled spring. Overnight, his life had changed.

There had been more excitement in this one day than in the entire past year.

The tension that gripped him was not unpleasant. He was more than happy to slough off his dreary existence; he was putting on a new and better life as quickly as he might have put on a new suit of clothes. He was risking ridicule and all the old familiar accusations by going public with his again. But there was also a chance that he would at last be able to prove himself The Scotch came, and he drank it. He ordered another.

Slowly, he relaxed.

Beyond the plane, the night was vast.

Escape From the barred window of the temporary holding cell, Fletcher Kale had a good view of the street. All morning he watched the reporters congregating. Something really big had happened.

Some of the other inmates were sharing news cell to cell, but none of them would share anything with Kale.

They hated him. Frequently, they taunted him, called him a baby killer.

Even in jail, there were social classes, and no one was farther down the ladder than child killers.

It was almost funny. Even car thieves, muggers; burglars, holdup men, and embezzlers needed to feel morally superior to someone. So they reviled and persecuted anyone who had harmed a child, and somehow that made them feel like priests and bishops by comparison.

Fools. Kale despised them.

He didn't ask anyone to share information with him. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of freezing him out.

He stretched out on his bunk and daydreamed about his magnificent destiny: fame, power, wealth…

At eleven-thirty, he was still lying on his bunk when they came to take him to the courthouse for arraignment on two counts of murder. The cellblock guard unlocked the door. An other man a gray-haired, pot-bellied deputy-came in and put handcuffs on Kale.

"We're shorthanded today," he told Kale." I'm the only one detailed for this. But don't you get some damn-fool idea that you'd have a chance to make a break for it. You're cuffed, and I've got the gun, and nothing would please me as much as shooting your ass off.”

In both the guard's and the deputy's eyes, there was loathing.

At last, the possibility of spending the rest of his life in prison became real to Kale. To his surprise, he began to cry as they led him out of the cell.

other prisoners hooted and laughed and called him names.

The potbellied man prodded Kale in the ribs." Get a move on.”

Kale stumbled along the corridor on weak legs, through a security gate that rolled open for them, out of the cellblock, into another hall. The guard remained behind, but the deputy prodded Kale toward the elevators, prodded him too often and too hard, even when it wasn't necessary. Kale felt his self-pity giving way to anger.