Dean Koontz - Night Chills

He took the remaining packages of meat from the freezer, one at a time, slowly excavating the grave.

As Paul removed the last bundle from atop the body, Sam came to the doorway. “Paul? I’ll. -. go upstairs. Use the phone. Call. the state police.”

Paul stared into the freezer.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes. I heard you.”

“Should I call the state police now?”

“Yes. It’s time.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right, Sam.”

“Will you be okay here — alone?”

“Sure. Fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“Sure.”

Sam hesitated, finally turned away. He took the steps two at a time, thunderously.

Paul touched the boy’s cheek.

It was cold and hard.

Somehow he found the strength to pull the body, stiff as it was, out of the freezer. He balanced his son on the edge of the chest, got both arms under him and lifted him. He swung around and put the boy on the floor, in the center of the room.

He blew on his hands to warm them.

Sam came back, still as pale as the belly of a fish. He looked at Mark. His face twisted with pain, but he didn’t cry. He kept control of himself. “There seems to be some trouble with the telephones.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Well, the lines have been blown down between here and Bexford.”

Frowning, Paul said, “Blown down? It doesn’t seem windy enough for that.”

“Not here it isn’t. But it probably is much windier farther on

toward Bexford. In these mountains you can have a pocket of relative calm right next to a fierce storm.”

“The lines to Bexford. “ Paul brushed strands of stiff, frozen, blood-crusted hair from his son’s white forehead. “What does that mean to us?”

“You can ring up anyone you want in town or up at the mill. But you can’t place a long-distance call.”

“Who told you?”

“The operator. Mandy Ultman.”

“Does she have any idea when they’ll get it fixed?”

“Evidently, there’s been a lot of damage,” Sam said. “She tells me a crew of linemen from Bexford are already working. But they’ll need several hours to put things right.”

“How many hours?”

“Well, they’re not even sure they can patch it up any time before tomorrow morning.”

Paul remained at his son’s side, kneeling on the concrete floor, and he thought about what Sam had said.

“One of us should drive into Bexford and call the state police from there.”

“Okay,” Paul said.

“You want me to do it?”

“if you want. Or I will. It doesn’t matter. But first we have to move Mark to your place.”

“Move him?”

“Of course.”

“But isn’t that against the law?” He cleared his throat “I mean, the scene of the crime and all that”

“I can’t leave him here, Sam.”

“But if Bob Thorp did this, you want him to pay for it. Don’t you? If you move — move the body, what proof do you have that you actually found it here?”

Surprised by the steadiness of his own voice, Paul said, “The police forensic specialists will be able to find traces of Mark’s hair and blood in the freezer.”

"But—"

“I can’t leave him here!”

Sam nodded. “All right” “I just can’t, Sam.”

“Okay. We’ll get him to the car.” “Thank you.”

“We’ll take him to my place.”

“Thank you.” “How will we carry him?” “You — take his feet.” Sam touched the boy. “So cold.” “Be careful with him, Sam.” Sam nodded as they lifted the body. “Be gentle with him, please.” “Okay.”

“Please.”

“I will,” Sam said. “I will.”

2:00 P.M.

THUNDER CANNONED, and rain shattered against the windows of the police chief’s office.

Two men, employees of other governmental departments that shared the municipal building, stood with their backs to the windows, trying to look stern, authoritarian, and eminently reliable. Bob Thorp had provided them with bright yellow hooded rain slickers with POLICE stenciled across their shoulders and chests. Both men were in their middle or late thirties, yet they expressed an almost childish delight at the opportunity to wear these raincoats: adults playing cops and robbers.

“Can you use a gun?” Salsbury asked them.

They both said that they could.

Salsbury turned to Bob Thorp. “Give them guns.”

“Revolvers?” the police chief asked.

“Do you have shotguns?”

“Yes.”

"I believe those would be better than revolvers,” Salsbury said. “Don’t you agree?”

“For this operation?” Thorp said. “Yes. Much better.”

“Then give them shotguns.”

A brilliant explosion of lightning flashed against the windows. The effect was stroboscopic: everyone and every object in the

room seemed to jump rapidly back and forth for an instant, although in reality nothing moved.

Overhead the fluorescent lights flickered.

Thorp went to the metal firearms cabinet behind his desk, unlocked it, and fetched two shotguns.

“Do you know how to use these?” Salsbury asked the men in the yellow raincoats.

One of them nodded.

The other said, “Not much to it. These babies pack a hell of a lot of punch. You pretty much just have to point in the general direction of the target and pull the trigger.” He gripped the gun with both hands, admired it, smiled at it.

“Good enough,” Salsbury said. “The two of von will go out to the parking lot behind this building, get in the spare patrol car, and drive to the east end of town. Understand me so far?”

“To the east end,” one of them said.

“A hundred yards short of the turn at the mouth of the valley, you’ll park the cruiser across the highway and block both lanes as best you can.”

“A roadblock,” one of them said, obviously pleased with the way the game was developing.

“Exactly,” Salsbury said. “If anyone wants to enter Black River — logging trucks, local citizens, maybe visitors from out of town, anyone at all — you’ll let them in. However, you’ll send them here, straight to this office. You’ll tell them that a state of emergency has been declared in Black River and that they absolutely must, without exception, check in with the chief of police before they go on about their business.”

“What kind of emergency?” “You don’t need to know.” One of them frowned.

The other said, “Everyone we stop will want to know.”

“If they ask, tell them that the chief will explain it.” Both men nodded.

Thorp distributed a dozen shotgun shells to each of them.

“If anyone tries to leave Black River,” Salsbury said, “you’ll also direct them to the chief, and you’ll give them the same story about a state of emergency. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Every time you send someone to see Bob, whether they were coming into town or trying to get out of it, you’ll radio this office. That way, if they don’t show up within a few minutes, we’ll know that we’ve got some renegades on our hands. Understood?”

They both said, “Yes.”

Salsbury took his handkerchief from his hip pocket and blotted the perspiration from his face. “If anyone leaving town tries to run your roadblock, stop them. If you can’t stop them any other way, use the guns.”

“Shoot to kill?”

“Shoot to kill,” Salsbury said. “But only if there’s no other way to stop them.”

One of the men tried to look like John Wayne receiving orders at the Alamo, shook his head solemnly, and said, “Don’t worry. You can count on us.”

“Any questions?”

“How long will we be in charge of this roadblock?”