James Smith - The Flock

"I don't know if that's enough evidence that they're coming into the city, Vance."

"I think so. The red one. The scarlet one. It isn't with the rest, anymore. It's so big, maybe they chased it out of the group."

"God. I hope not. He's so huge. He could be spotted too easily."

Holcomb moved from behind his desk and walked slowly toward Kate. Finally, he stopped just in front of her. "I think Dodd saw one of them. Maybe the red one. I think he may have taken photographs."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because of the bullet in his head. I think they killed him because he had proof of something out there. I think they killed him to keep him from being able to prove it." He remained where he was and continued to stare down at Kate.

"Then…" Her hands moved up to her chest. She could feel her heart suddenly pounding at her ribs.

"Then, if they'd kill Tim Dodd, they might as well kill us, too," he finished for her.

"Do you think they know? I mean, that we're aware of what's living in this wilderness?"

"That would depend on whether or not Dodd had any proof, and whether or not they recovered it from him. And I think the answers to both of those questions are yes. Just taking the images from him would not have prevented him from telling anyone, nor would it have prevented him from coming back, with help, to get more proof.

"That's why the bullet in the head."

"Jesus." Kate swallowed. The idea of being shot or even the chance of it happening was not something she thought that she could deal with. "What should we do?"

"I think…" He stopped short. "I'm not sure, just now. But it might almost be time for us to go public."

Kate came out of her chair, standing up to face her employer. She was almost as tall as he was. "No. You know what will happen. This place will be crawling with people. We can't have that. Not now. Who knows how they'll react to other humans in their habitat? I mean…the only reason they haven't reacted to us is that our studies have no impact on their lives."

"Geez-o-Pete," Ron muttered. It was a mild exclamation he'd picked up from an old girlfriend. He had pulled at his hair until it spiked up on his head like that of some punk or Goth, as he had tried to decide his course of action. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" he whispered to himself.

For a long time he had simply sat on the edge of his bed and had gazed down at the green shirt he'd shed the night before. It lay there harmlessly, the disk in its pocket, looking to Ron like some deadly viper waiting to strike at him. He had no doubt but that Dodd had been killed for the contents of that disk.

Ron didn't know if he'd be suspected of having killed Dodd. He could account for most of his whereabouts the previous morning. But of course part of that had been in the company of the murdered man, so what did that get him? And he had told two people that Dodd wanted to meet with him before he'd actually left to do just that. Mary knew him well enough to know he wasn't a murderer, but Kate was barely familiar with him beyond his name and occupation, and knowing that he wanted to date her. And if Dodd had been murdered after Ron had left the hotel, then he had no way of confirming where he'd been or what he'd been doing. It didn't look good.

With a groan, Ron had stood, gripping the disk in his right hand, examining it. Maybe if he looked at what was on the disk first, he'd have some idea of what was going on. Cops loved to close the books on a murder, as fast as they could; if they could nail Ron as a prime suspect, then they'd certainly do it. He knew that much about police work. They hated not being able to close a murder case, and they dearly sought after anyone on whom to nail a felony. "What the hell are you?" he asked the disk, holding it between thumb and forefinger.

Where could he take it? He knew he only had a couple of hours. Kate had already made the connection between himself and Dodd, so if she was questioned, he'd have to admit that he didn't go to the cops for a while. Well, he wasn't guilty, so maybe he just cleaned up and ate some breakfast. And maybe they'd never get around to asking Kate, anyway. There was no reason for them to, unless she volunteered the information. He'd chance it, if he could decide where to go to have a look at the contents of the disk.

The office was out. He was on a rotating schedule and it was his day off, and he never went there when he was off. His coworkers would be suspicious. At any rate, he'd have to show it to someone there, to see if they had the hardware to download it, and then he'd have to ask someone in the office for help if it proved to be too technical for him. He had a couple of hacker pals, but Ron didn't really want to implicate them. Where, then?

"Kate," he said. He could take it out to Holcomb's compound. He knew he had seen some impressive computer equipment there. In Levin's lab and in a room he'd passed on his way to Holcomb's office. Surely Kate would give him a hand if he told her what was going on. He'd do it.

Ron went to his desk, where his own computer sat, an ancient 486 that had become obsolete years ago, and of no use for downloading this type of software. But he found a small envelope of thick paper that accommodated the bare disk, and he dropped it in and sealed it shut. He took a pen and scribbled a D on it, and dropped it in the top drawer.

After securing the disk, he went back to his bedroom and began to assemble his clothes for the day. He picked out some denims and a white cotton shirt. It would be sufficient if he were going back out to Holcomb's compound. He thought of the place sitting there, so close to Salutations, but so isolated from everything, all of that wilderness looming just beyond. Thinking of that, he got a pair of lightweight hiking boots out of the closet and drew some good thick socks out of the drawer. That would do it.

Quickly, he went to his bathroom and took a hot shower. He didn't linger, as he normally would on a Saturday morning, enjoying the warm water as it washed away the sweat and dirt of the previous hours. For now, all he wanted was to get clean and get out of the house and over to see Kate. In a few minutes he was done, had draped a towel around his hard waist, and was headed back to his bedroom.

And, intent merely on getting out of the house, he did not see the men hiding just beyond the doorway, waiting for him to emerge. Ron walked out, turned toward the bedroom, and was knocked instantly to the floor by the power of a strong sap-carrying right at the base of his skull. He went down, the towel still tight around his waist, his cheek meeting with the hardwood floor. The breath whooshed out of his lungs in a prolonged oof.

Before he could do much more than acknowledge that he'd been struck, Ron felt rough hands grip his wrists and peel him from the floor as two men stood him up, slamming him against the wall. Almost immediately, a fist plowed a vertical furrow into his stomach and he doubled, going down again, this time to his knees. He felt a couple of woody splinters driving into the flesh just at the top of his shins. "Oog," he said.

The men grasped him by the hair and pulled him up that way. His scalp screamed in agony. He almost forgot the pain in the back of his head, in his gut, and in his knees. And he did forget when one of his so far unseen assailants slapped him expertly across the front on his face, splitting both of his lips. Wincing, Ron could taste blood.

"Don't look at us, boy. Keep your eyes shut."

Ron did not have to be told again. He could feel what might have been a gun barrel stuck in the base of his throat.

"Now, where is it?" The voice was calm, smooth.

Ron swallowed. "Where is what?"

The same hand slapped him across the lips again, and Ron tasted a new trickle of copper as the blood burst through his clenched teeth and onto his tongue. "We're not here to play games, son. Just tell us where it is-keep your fucking eyes shut!-and you'll live through this. Now," a fist smashed against his right ear. "Where the fuck is it?"