Dean Koontz - Phantoms

"Which is how the shape-changer knows about Timothy Flyte," Jenny said." Harold Ordnay knew about Flyte, so now it knows about him, too.”

"But how in the name of God did Flyte know about it?”

Tal asked.

Bryce shrugged." That's a question only Flyte can answer.”

"Why didn't it take Lisa last night in the restroom? For that matter, why hasn't it taken all of us?”

.,It's just toying with us.”

"Having fun. A sick kind of fun.”

"There's that. But I think it's also kept us alive so we could tell Flyte what we've seen and lure him here.”

"It wants us to pass along the offer of safe conduct to Flyte.

"We're just bait.”

"Yes.”

"And when we've served our purpose..

"Yes.

Something thumped solidly against the outside of the inn.

The windows rattled, and the building seemed to shake.

Bryce stood so fast that he knocked over his chair.

Another crash. Harder, louder. Then a scraping noise.

Bryce listened intently, trying to get a fix on the sound. It seemed to be coming from the north wall of the building. It started at ground level but swiftly began to move up, away from them.

A clattering-rattling sound. A bony sound. Like the skeletons of long-dead men clawing their way out of a sepulcher.

"Something big," Frank said." Pulling itself up the side of the inn.”

… time shape-changer," Lisa said.

"But not in its jellied form," Sara said." In its natural state, it would just flow up the wall silently.”

They all stared at the ceiling, listening, waiting.

What phantom form has it assumed this time? Bryce wondered.

Scrape. Tick. Clatter.

The sound of death.

Bryce's hand was colder than the butt of his revolver.

The six of them went to the window and looked out. The fog swirled everywhere.

Then, down the street, almost a block away, at the penumbra of a sodium-vapor lamp, something moved. Half-seen. A menacing shadow, distorted by the fog. Bryce got an impression of a crab as large as a car. He glimpsed arachnid legs. A monstrous claw with saw-toothed edges flashed into the light, immediately into darkness again. And there: the febrile, qulyering, seeking length of antennae. Then the thing scuttled off into the night again.

"That's what's climbing the building," Tal said." Another damned crab thing like that one. Something straight out of an alky's DTs.”

They heard it reach the roof. Its chitinous limbs tapped and scraped across the slate shingles.

"What's it up to?" Lisa asked worriedly." Why's it pretending to be what it isn't?”

"Maybe it just enjoys mimicry," Bryce said." You know… the same way some tropical birds like to imitate sounds just for the pleasure of it, just to hear themselves.”

The noises on the roof stopped.

The six waited.

The night seemed to be crouched like a wild thing, studying its prey, timing its attack.

They were too restless to sit down. They continued to stand by the windows.

Outside, only the fog moved.

Sara Yamaguchi said, "The universal bruising is understandable now. The shape-changer enfolded its victims, squeezed them. So the bruising came from a brutal, sustained, universally applied pressure. That's how they suffocated, too-wrapped up inside the shape-changer, totally encapsulated in it.”

"I wonder," Jenny said, "if maybe it produces its preservative while squeezing its victims.”

"Yes, probably," Sara said." That's why there's no visible point of injection in either body we studied. The preservative is most likely applied to every square inch of the body, squeezed into every pore. Sort of an osmotic application.”

Jenny thought of Hilda Beck, her housekeeper, the first victim she and Lisa had found.

She shuddered.

"The water," Jenny said.

"What?" Bryce said.

"Those pools of distilled water we found. The shape-changer expelled that water.”

"How do you figure?”

"The human body is mostly water. So after the thing absorbed its victims, after it used every milligram of mineral content, every vitamin, every usable calorie, it expelled what it didn't need: excess amounts of absolutely pure water. Those pools and puddles we found were all the remains we'll ever have of the hundreds whore missing. No bodies. No bones.

Just water… which has already evaporated.”

The noises on the roof did not resume; silence reigned. The phantom crab was gone.

In the dark, in the fog, in the sodium-yellow light of the streetlamps, nothing moved.

They moved away from the windows at last and went back to the table.

"Can the damned thing be killed?" Frank wondered.

"We know for sure that bullets won't do the job," Tal said.

"Fire?" Lisa said.

"The soldiers had firebombs they'd made," Sara reminded them." But the shape-changer evidently struck so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that no one had time to grab the bottles and light the fuses.”

"Besides," Bryce said, "fire most likely won't do the trick.

If the shape-changer caught fire, it could just… well… detach itself from that part of it that was aflame and move the bulk of itself to a safe place.”

"Explosives are probably useless, too," Jenny said." I have a hunch that, if you blew the thing into a thousand pieces, you'd wind up with a thousand smaller shape-changers, and they'd all flow together again, unharmed.”

"So can the thing be killed or not?" Frank asked again.

They were silent, considering.

Then Bryce said, "No. Not so far as I can see.”

"But then what can we do?”

"I don't know," Bryce said." I just don't know.”

Frank Autry phoned his wife, Ruth, and spoke with her for nearly half an hour. Tal called a few friends on the other telephone. Later, Sara Yatnaguchi tied up one of the lines for almost an hour. Jenny called several people, including her aunt in Newport Beach, to whom Lisa talked, as well. Bryce spoke with several men at headquarters in Santa Mira, deputies with whom he had worked for years and with whom he shared a bond of brotherhood; he spoke with his parents in Glendale and with Ellen's father in Spokane.

All six survivors were upbeat in their conversations. They talked about whipping this thing, about leaving Snowfield soon.

However, Bryce knew that they were all just putting the best possible face on a bad situation. He knew these weren't ordinary phone calls; in spite of their optimistic tone, these calls had only one grim purpose; the six survivors were saying goodbye.

Pandemonium Sal Corello, the publicity agent who had been hired to meet Timothy Flyte at San Francisco International Airport, was a small yet hard-muscled man with corn-yellow hair and purple-blue eyes. He looked like a leading man. If he had been six foot two instead of just five foot one, his face might have been as famous as Robert Redford's.

However, his intelligence, wit, and aggressive charm compensated for his lack of height. He knew how to get what he wanted for himself and for his Clients.

Usually, Corello could even make newsmen behave so well that you might mistake them for civilized people; but not tonight. This story was too big and much too hot. Corello had never seen anything like it: Hundreds of reporters and curious civilians rushed at Flyte the instant they saw him, pulling and tugging at the professor, shoving microphones in his face, blinding him with batteries of camera lights, and frantically shouting questions." Dr. Flyte…”

"Professor Flyte…”

"… Flyte!" Flyte, Flyte, Flyte-Flyte-Flyte, FlyteFlyteFlyteFlyte…

The questions were reduced to meaningless gabble by the roar of compeling voices. Sal Corello's cars hurt. IMe professor looked bewildered, then scared. Corello took the old man's arm and held it tightly and led him through the surging flock, turning himself into a small but highly effective battering ram. By the time they reached the small platform that Corello and airport security officers had set up at one end of the passengers" lounge, Professor Flyte looked as if he might expire of fright.