Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“Your move,” Mourdock said, intruding on his thoughts.

The chief had moved his king into a clever position in which Gavin saw he was inevitably going to lose two pieces and, with them, the game. There was nothing he could do. He moved a piece, and the chief quickly double-jumped his men, smacking the pieces down with excessive force as he did so. Fucking jackass.

“I resign,” Gavin said immediately.

“Come on, don’t give in so early,” said the chief, almost at a whine. “You might still win.”

As Gavin was shaking his head he heard a sudden crash in the outer office — the front doors had been flung open. This was followed by a half-bellowed scream for help.

Gavin and the chief leapt up, the board and its pieces scattering. A woman — Rose Buffum, Gavin instantly recognized — stood in the doorway, streaming wet, her sodden clothes clinging to her heavy body, her long gray hair plastered against her head, her eyes wide in terror.

“God help me!” she screeched, choking. “Help me!” She staggered toward Gavin.

“What is it?” Gavin grabbed one arm and the chief took the other. She was shaking violently. “Are you hurt?”

“My God, my God! ” she wailed.

They eased her down in a chair. Gavin rushed to get her a cup of coffee.

“Call nine-one-one, get an ambulance,” said the chief. “There’s blood here.”

Buffum lay back in the chair, half swooning, eyes rolling in her head. Gavin put down the coffee and grabbed his radio. He quickly got the dispatcher in Newburyport and called in the 911. Meanwhile, the chief was wiping down Buffum’s face with a paper towel, dabbing here and there.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked.

The woman gasped. “It isn’t my blood!”

“Okay,” said the chief. “Have a sip of coffee and tell us what’s going on.”

Buffum ignored the coffee, let out another gasped wail. “The monster!”

“ Monster? ” Mourdock repeated in a skeptical tone.

“It won’t stop killing.” And then, as if seized with a sudden thought: “Oh, dear God, lock the doors!”

“We don’t lock the station doors,” said the chief.

“Get us in a cell, then. It’s coming!”

“What’s coming?”

“It’s a demon from hell, ripping people apart!”

Listening, Gavin felt a sudden freezing in his vitals. The monster. No. Impossible.

“Ripping people apart, and...!” At this the woman doubled over and, with a retching sound, lost her dinner all over the floor of the station.

The chief backed away with a disgusted expression. “We have an ambulance coming, Rose. Just hang in there.” He looked at Gavin. “What should we do?”

Gavin stared at him. There was no doubting the woman’s sincerity. Rose Buffum had all the imagination of a fencepost — she wasn’t the kind of person to be seeing things. The chief knew this, too. The skepticism was quickly draining from his face.

“We holster our service pieces and go out there,” Gavin answered.

“Don’t leave me!” Rose cried.

“Go out there?” Mourdock said uncertainly. “The two of us?”

“We’ve got to find out what’s going on.” Gavin had to see. It couldn’t be true...

“Put me in a cell, then,” Rose screamed. “Lock the door!”

“If that’ll make you feel better.” The chief escorted her into an adjacent cell and locked her in, giving her the keys. Then he turned. “All right, let’s see what’s going on.”

Gavin fetched his Glock and his holster, buckled it on.

“Check your flashlight,” the chief said.

Gavin checked the big flashlight hanging on his belt. Then he followed the chief out into the darkness and looked down Main Street. In the dim light of the houses, he could see two shapes lying in the street.

Bodies. So it was true. He felt a sickening lurch. And now he could hear, over the roar of the storm, a faint scream from halfway down the street; a sudden flare in a house window, the curtains leaping into flame, the glass shattering, the screams from within suddenly louder — and then abruptly cut off in a loud gargle.

“Oh, Christ Jesus,” the chief said, staring.

And now from out of the burning house leapt a figure, silhouetted in the firelight: a tall, pale, stringy thing with a massive overhanging jaw — and a tail .

Walt Adderly, proprietor of the Captain Hull Inn, sat at the bar of the Chart Room, listening to Benjamin Franklin Boyle regale the regulars — yet again — with the story of how he found the corpse of the historian. The normally taciturn Boyle was in an expansive mood, rolling his eyes theatrically, gesturing with his mug of beer, and in general putting on a good show. He’d had more than his usual pint, his skinflint habits thrown to the wind on this special day. Like many seafaring men, Boyle was an accomplished storyteller, and it seemed the crowd just couldn’t get enough. The power had gone out an hour before, which somehow only added to the festive mood. Candles had been brought out and set up along the bar, the patrons drinking and celebrating the bizarre end to the murder mystery. As the drinks and conversation flowed, there was a general feeling of relief that Exmouth had returned to normal. Naturally, most were shocked by the involvement of the Dunwoodys, although there was a minority that opined as to how they’d “never trusted that family.” Adderly himself had never had a problem with his longtime bartender, Joe Dunwoody, aside from the stealing of food. He even felt sorry for him in a way.

Boyle had just gotten to the point in the story where he was about to turn over the corpse with his clam rake when the front door to the Inn slammed, hard.

Adderly looked toward the sound as Boyle fell silent. He leaned back in his chair, then called out down the dark hall to the front parlor. “Come in, friend, and get yourself out of that filthy weather!”

Boyle returned to the story. He was flush with the attention and the beer.

But no one appeared from the direction of the front parlor. Adderly held up his hand for silence. He looked back down the hall. “Come on in, don’t be shy!” And then, in a sudden impulse of generosity, he added: “Round’s on the house!”

This announcement was greeted with a murmur of approval all around. Boyle turned to the bartender and twirled a finger. “Fill ’er up!” He suspended the story while Pete, the backup bartender, began refilling everyone’s mugs.

A loud crash came from the dark hallway. It sounded to Adderly like someone falling down. Apparently their new visitor, whoever it was, already had a head start on the celebrations.

“Hey, Andy, that guy out in the hall needs a little help,” Adderly said to the man perched on the stool closest to the door.

Andy Gorman got off his stool, picking up one of the candles. “Don’t resume till I get back.”

“No problem,” said Boyle, burying his lips in the frosty brew.

Shielding the candle, Gorman walked out of the bar and down the hall, a wavering point of light in the darkness.

A moment of silence — and then a piercing scream came from the hall. Adderly almost dropped his own mug in surprise and swung around, staring down the black corridor. Everyone rose at once. Gorman’s candle seemed to have gone out: the hall was black. The storm shook and rattled the old structure.

People exchanged glances. “What the hell?” someone said after a moment.

“Andy? Andy! ”

At that moment, a smell rolled out of the hall: a stench of death and rot and fecal matter that overwhelmed Adderly’s nostrils. All was silent; no one moved. And out of that silence, over the rattle of the storm, Adderly heard the rapid, breathy sound of animal panting.