Whitley Strieber Read online

  Settling sounds began to come from the bedrooms. The cat grew still. It closed its eyes, concentrating on every nuance of their beings. It felt as they felt, sensed as they sensed, shook its dirty old body as they tossed and turned, gazed with George as he adored the mental images of his women, Bonnie and his lost Kate, and Mandy, felt the pulsing, stifled sensation in his loins, and knew with him the dreadful weight of time.

  The old torn waited until the moon was at the top of the sky to begin.

  Then it moved off to commit the next act of the story.

  It stole into George's bedroom, listened a moment to his sleep. In one quick motion it leaped upon his bed. It heard his heart laboring softly and faithfully on toward its eventual breaking end, listened to his stomach digesting the day's meals, felt his dreams, haunted dreams of frogs and death and girls and loss.

  The torn walked softly up his sleeping body, until its big head hung over his throat. It looked down at the pulsing artery in George Walker's neck. It opened its mouth, its fangs just inches from the flesh. George Walker sighed, as if inwardly aware of the death overlooking him.

  The cat gagged softly and regurgitated. Something green and slimy slipped out of its mouth and onto George's face. By the time he had taken the first shocked breath of awakening, the cat was in the enclosed porch, passing the easels and paints. By the time George was gasping and fumbling for the light, the cat was going through the back door.

  It slipped beneath the back porch as lights pierced the windows of the house and Mandy's feet pounded down the hall while George Walker screamed and screamed.

  Chapter 2

  One moment Mandy was asleep, the next she was running down the hall toward George's bedroom. His screams called her deep instincts, so high they were, so like a panicked baby's. Her first, hideous thought was of fire.

  Then she saw him, crouched in the middle of the bed, his fists clutching his thin hair. Moonlight streamed over him, making him seem a dangerous shadow. She fumbled for the light switch, found it at last behind the door, turned it on.

  The suffusing yellow light changed him to a crumpled old man. Something obscene and wet and green lay on the sheet before him. He was screaming at it. She went to him. Another bellow gushed out of him. His eyes were staring, oblivious to everything except the sticky mass on the bed. Each time he screamed, flecks of bloody sputum flew from his mouth.

  “George!”

  She grasped his shoulders, shook him. He was as rigid as wood. His skin was cold. He shrieked again.

  “George!”

  There were a series of broken gasps. Then another shriek, cracking, pitched like the cry of a bird.

  “Hey!” She grabbed his cheeks, leaned into his face. His nostrils flared, his lips parted for another scream. She slapped him hard across the right cheek. The scream shattered, became a sob. She turned his face and slapped him on the left cheek. “George, wake up! You're dreaming!”

  He raised his hands to ward off her blows. For a moment they remained like that, she holding his chin, he seeking sanity in her eyes. Then he sank against her, sobbing bitterly. She held his thin frame against her breast. “George, hush now, it's all right. It's all right.”

  “The hell it is!” His voice was hoarse. “Look at that! You know what that is?”

  It was green, blotched with brown, so wet that it had made an irregular damp spot on the sheet. “What?”

  “A skin.” He sighed. “The skin of a frog. My frog'” Then he was crying, silently, bitterly, his shoulders shaking, the tears streaming from his eyes.

  He could only be referring to the frogs he used in his lab. But what in the world would one of them be doing here? She looked at it. Lying there on his bed, in a place so wildly wrong, it made her feel all the power of the wind that soughed around the house. Her thoughts went to snapping clean sheets and sunny rooms and she shuddered.

  “Why is it here, George?”

  “It really isn't very mysterious.” He cleared his throat. “I need a drink.”

  “Now, you take it easy. I'll get it. You stay put.”

  “Not in here.” He got out of bed. In four spider steps he was across the room. He took his robe from the closet.

  She followed him into the game room, where he had already started pouring Black Label into a highball glass.

  “Cheers,” he said. “Here's to reunion!”

  She had accumulated a fair number of questions in the past few minutes. But she did not press him now. He needed space to calm himself down. Although he was talking instead of screaming, she saw the wildness of his panic still in his eyes. “Come here,” she said, patting the couch beside her. He sat down. She laid her arm around his shoulders.

  Soon enough, he began to explain. “This was undoubtedly the work of a religious fanatic named Pierce. He has one of these fundamentalist churches here. Brother Simon Pierce. A Bible-thumping charlatan.”

  “Yes?”

  “He—they, I should say—they've demonstrated against my work. He preaches against it. Death is God's business, that sort of thing.”

  “The mess in your bed—”

  He snorted out a bitter laugh. “You don't understand, do you?”

  “No.”

  “That is the skin of a frog I killed and brought back to life this afternoon.”

  So that had been the triumph he had referred to earlier. “You actually succeeded?”

  “You bet I did. Well-nigh perfectly.” He uttered a sharp laugh. “Of course you know we're already virtually canceled by the Stohlmeyer Foundation?”

  He said it like it should have been general knowledge. “I didn't know that. Why in the world would they cancel such an incredible project?”

  “Precisely because it is incredible. The academic world doesn't like breakthroughs. It doesn't like upset and bother. It wants nice, safe confirmations of old theories. The unusual is frowned on, the extraordinary actively discouraged. So my grant money runs out in a couple of weeks. Unless, of course, I should produce a result so spectacular that it gets massive press attention. Then Stohlmeyer'd be forced to renew my funding or face embarrassment. This frog was to be my spectacular.”

  “You can repeat the experiment on another frog.”

  “Not in the time I have. It takes a lot of prep. To satisfy the protocols the review committee imposed on us, we have to prove the animal to be completely healthy before we use it. That takes a good week of observation and testing.” He paused, stared into his drink. “Oh, God, when I think of how close I came.” His shoulders sagged. “My problem with Brother Pierce started out so innocently. Three months ago I gave an interview to The Collegian. The very next Sunday Pierce was on my case. The seeds of ego bear bitter fruit, goddammit!”

  She thought she ought to say something encouraging. She didn't much like George, but he was suffering now. “You can keep going. I know you can.”

  “The frog was just a first step. Next we were going to do a series on rhesus monkeys, then the big one. The experiment beyond the spectacular. It would have made me famous. Famous, Mandy! I would have rehabilitated my career. The Yale Sciences Board would have had to swallow their slap in the face. Maywell would have to stop treating me like dirt just because I've failed elsewhere. It's rime that I got a little recognition, don't you think?”

  Beneath her hand she could feel the bones of his shoulder. He was much too obsessed with his work ever to get any exercise. He was wasting away.

  He slammed his fist into his palm. “It's breaking and entering! Malicious mischief! I'm going to call the sheriffs office.” He got to his feet.

  “You're sure it's your frog? Maybe it's another animal. Just symbolic.”

  “That fanatic broke into my lab, killed my property, came over here, broke into my house, and assaulted me!” As he spoke, his voice rose to a pitch of renewed rage..He dialed the phone. “This is George Walker, 232 Maple. Yes, I haw a crime to report! Breaking and entering. Assault. Who's the victim? I'm the victim! And I know who did it. I know
exactly who did it!”

  He listened a moment further, then slammed down me phone.

  “They're going to come by in a few minutes. Oh, hellV He picked up the phone again. ”Bonnie? Hi, hon. Sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night. Look, will you do me a massive favor? I think the lab got hit by Pierce. Yeah, by Pierce. I'm 90 percent certain. And I've got reason to believe he destroyed the frog.“ There was silence, punctuated by a burst of language from the other end of the line. ”Go over there and check. And call me as soon as you can. I've got to have complete confirmation before the sheriff gets here. That's a love, Bonnie. I'll repay in grades.“ He put the receiver down. ”She's general lab assistant. Her dorm is just across the quad from Wolff. I ought to hear from her inside often minutes.“

  Mandy had a strong feeling that he shouldn't have called the sheriffs office. “George, try to calm down before the sheriff gets here.”

  “Why? I've just been assaulted, I've had my experiment set back, maybe even ruined if I can't get another extension from Stohlmeyer. Why, pray tell, should I be calm? If anything, I ought to be raving mad. And I am!”

  “Just stay away from the liquor. And brush your teeth. If they smell you've been drinking, they're going to ignore you.”

  “Mandy, I was assaulted in my own bed!”

  “Think about what happened, George. How is it going to look to a cop?”

  She left him to dwell on that. Alone in her own room again, she fumbled through the closet for her robe. Deep tiredness weighed upon her. It was Just after three o'clock. The moon had dropped low, leaving the room in shadow. By me moonlight that lingered outside she could still see the bulk of Stone Mountain rising behind the house, its thick coat of evergreens punctuated by gray-glowing tumbles of rock—

  Mandy pulled on her robe and opened the window so that me cold air would refresh her. It smelled of the sweet rot of autumn leaves faintly tanged by old smoke. She could see Ursa Major wheeling above the dark high ridge of the mountain.

  The Great Bear. Woman's stars. The little girls of Athens once danced beneath them, honoring Artemis the wild huntress, who prowled the autumn hills in the shape of a bear. As a child Mandy's favorite cuddly had been a stuffed bear named Sid.

  Car lights shone on the back fence as the sheriff turned into the driveway. Mandy drew her robe close around her and went back to George.

  He swept the front door open before the bell even rang. “Come on in.”

  “You the complainant?”

  “I sure am.”

  The deputy was a lean man, his face all angles and lines exaggerated by the porch light. At his hip he had a big pistol, too big for the thin hand that rested on its butt. There were dark glasses in his top pocket, one chewed fret dangling out. His lips were dry and cracked. There was what appeared to be a food stain on the crown of his hat. He moved forward into the house, and Mandy smelled chili on his breath. He regarded George. “Assault?”

  “That's right.”

  “You hurt?”

  “Mentally I'm seriously injured.” The phone rang. George rushed to get it while Mandy stared back at the deputy, whose eyes had filmed in an unpleasantly intimate way the moment he saw her. Once she would have hated him, but too many whistles and whispers and unwanted touches had taught her indifference to men like this. As she had matured, their sexual insecurity had become obvious to her. She thought of them as frightened kids, unable to grow up, trapped on (he rock of adolescence.

  George's voice rose and fell as he talked into the telephone.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee. Deputy?”

  “Yes, ma'am. It tastes pretty good about mis time of night.”

  “Come on.” She led him to the kitchen, made him a cup of instant. She was just pouring the water when George burst into the room.

  “Just as I thought, the frog's gone! That damn preacher got in there somehow and took it. And killed it. Shit!”

  The deputy shot Mandy a questioning glance. “There was vandalism at Dr. Walker's lab,” she said.

  “Now, that'd be a college matter. We don't go on the campus.”

  “It started there,” George snapped, “but it ended here. Come on.” He led the deputy into his bedroom. The remains of the frog lay on the white bed sheet, drying to dull green. “There is where it ended. Brother Pierce or one of his robots came in here in the middle of the night and dropped that thing on my face!”

  “Who did you say?”

  “Pierce! That fundamentalist lunatic! He hates me and my work. He preaches against me! He's even led a demonstration.”

  The deputy put his coffee mug down. “You saw this man?”

  “Of course not. I was asleep.”

  “Now, if I understand you right, you're preferring a charge?”

  “Of course I am! I'm charging that fanatic with destroying university property worth God knows how much, with breaking into my lab and my home, with throwing that thing at me with intent to harm me—”

  “Brother Pierce is a respected religious leader in May well, Dr. Walker. I don't think you ought to just go charging him like this, with no witnesses or nothin'.”

  “He's the obvious culprit.”

  The deputy glanced at Mandy. “The Lord will be on Brother Pierce's side,” he said softly. His gaze returned to George, narrowed. “You just ought to know that. Not to mention the law.”

  “The law? I'm the injured party!”

  “You're not hurt.” He ran his finger around the edge of the mug. Then he looked directly into George's eyes. He smiled. “Not yet.” His voice was almost a whisper.

  Poor George. No judge of men. Mandy saw his mouth drop open, then saw understanding slowly enter his face. He shook his head. “The college supports this town. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “You high-handed professors don't run Maywell. And the college ain't even the biggest employer. That's Peconic Valley Power. Anyway, I'm just givin' you some good advice. There's penalties against preferring false charges. Stiff penalties, Doctor.”

  “Ah. So now I'm going to be arrested. That makes a great deal of sense.”

  “Listen, ma'am, why don't you put him back to bed? And keep him off the hootch. It don't do him no good.”

  The deputy moved to leave. In an instant George was on him, spinning him around, grabbing the front of his jacket.

  And staring into the barrel of his pistol.

  The gun had come up swiftly. It hung between the two men, its potential silencing them both. They looked down at it. Mandy could hear them breathing, could see sweat on George's brow.

  “You take your hands off me, mister, and I'll put my piece away.”

  Mandy closed her eyes in the iong moment before the two men separated. She saw the deputy to the door. He was about to say something to her, but she closed it too quickly to give him the chance.

  “Useless! Utterly fucking useless! I'm telling you, Mandy, I hate this godforsaken little town. These people get someone like me, do they care? Hell, no! I'm going to immortalize this place. That lab of mine will be a museum someday. People will come here to see where the mystery of death was solved at last! And this rotten little town spits in my face.”

  Mandy listened to her uncle rave. Outside the deputy's car started up, its lights flaring briefly against the front window. Then its sound dwindled into the night. “It's late. George. We'd better get some sleep.”

  “Sleep? I'm going to the lab. I've got work to do.”

  Her impulse was to try to stop him, but she realized that her efforts would only put him under greater pressure. She let him go.

  In ten minutes his Volvo was cranking up, then rattling off down the street. She heard its tires squeal at the comer, then silence fell about her.

  She returned to her bedroom. Too bad the door didn't lock. The idea of staying alone in a house that had been entered as easily and recently as this one did not appeal to her at all. She hadn't been in bed five minutes before she thought she heard a noise.

&
nbsp; It was a scraping sound, and it came from the sun porch. She sat up in bed, looking into the dark and listening. The night settled close around her. The moon had set, the crickets stopped. The world had entered predawn thrall.

  Again it came. Definitely from the sun porch. Carefully she pushed back the blanket and sheets and swung to the floor. Her first thought was to go to the kitchen and get a knife. But she'd have to cross the sun porch to do that. She went instead down the hallway, feeling her way in the dense shadows, until she had reached the entrance to the porch. While the stars rode and dry leaves whispered past the windows she waited. There was a feeling of sickness building in her stomach; her skin sang with the tickle of dread. She could not endure the suspense of staying here; she had to act. She would turn on the porch lights. They would surely scare away whoever was lurking beyond the door.

  The switch clicked loudly. And she clapped her fist to her mouth to stifle a scream. What she saw made her back away on shaky legs. Then she realized that those glowing eyes were an animal.

  Only an animal!

  She laughed around her knuckles. Her heart slowed its awful pounding. The cat meowed.

  “You poor cold baby,” she said, coming into the light. “Let me get you some milk.”

  A stray cat at the door. What a joke. She had been terrified. As she went across the sun porch, through the dining room, and into me kitchen, she turned on more lights. She opened the huge yellow refrigerator and found it almost empty. There was a dned-up sausage of indeterminate age and make, a package of Oscar Mayer cotto salami, a ioaf of Pepperidge Farm Bread, and down on the bottom shelf a pint carton of half-and-half. That the cat would love.

  She filled a saucer and went back to the sun porch. When she opened the back door, cold air came in, and with it a very fast, very large cat. She spilled a good bit of the milk jerking back as the animal made its rush.