than a minute ago had now reached the bottom. It was on the last step.
Both to the east and to the west of Vincent Vastagliano’s house, the
neighbors were established in equally large, comfortable, elegantly
furnished homes that might as well have been isolated country manors
instead of townhouses. The city did not intrude into these stately
places, and none of the occupants had seen or heard anything unusual
during the night of blood and murder.
In less than half an hour, Jack and Rebecca had exhausted that line of
inquiry and had returned to the sidewalk. They kept their heads tucked
down to present as small a target as possible to the wind, which had
grown steadily more powerful. It was now a wicked, icy, lashing whip
that snatched litter out of the gutters and flung it through the air,
shook the bare trees with almost enough violence to crack the brittle
limbs, snapped coattails with sharp reports, and stung exposed flesh.
The snow flurries were falling in greater numbers now. In a few
minutes, they would be coming down too thick to be called flurries any
more. The street was still bare black macadam, but soon it would boast
a fresh white skin.
Jack and Rebecca headed back toward Vastagliano’s place and were almost
there when someone called to them. Jack turned and saw Harry Ulbeck,
the young officer who had earlier been on watch at the top of
Vastagliano’s front steps; Harry was leaning out of one of the three
black-and-whites that were parked at the curb. He said something, but
the wind ripped his words into meaningless sounds. Jack went to the
car, bent down to the open window, and said, “Sorry, Harry, I didn’t
hear what you said,” and his breath smoked out of him in cold white
plumes.
“Just came over the radio,” Harry said. “They want you right away. You
and Detective Chandler.”
“Want us for what?”
“Looks as if it’s part of this case you’re working on.
There’s been more killing. More like this here. Maybe even worse . .
. even bloodier.”
Their eyes weren’t at all like eyes should be. They looked, instead,
like slots in a furnace grate, providing glimpses of the fire beyond. A
silver-white fire. These eyes contained no irises, no pupils, as did
human and animal eyes. There was just that fierce glow, the white light
from within them, pulsing and flickering.
The creature on the stairs moved down from the last step, onto the
cellar floor. It edged toward Penny, then stopped, stared up at her.
She couldn’t move back even one more inch. Already, one of the metal
shelves pressed painfully across her shoulder blades.
Suddenly she realized the music had stopped. The cellar was silent. Had
been silent for some time. Perhaps for as long as half a minute. Frozen
by terror, she hadn’t reacted immediately when Frosty the Snowman was
concluded.
Belatedly she opened her mouth to scream for help, but the piano started
up again. This time the tune was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which
was even louder than the first song.
The thing at the foot of the stairs continued to glare at her, and
although its eyes were utterly different from the eyes of a tiger, she
was nevertheless reminded of a picture of a tiger that she’d seen in a
magazine. The eyes in that photograph and these strange eyes looked
absolutely nothing alike, yet they had something in common: They were
the eyes of predators.
Even though her vision was beginning to adjust somewhat to the darkness,
Penny still couldn’t see what the creatures looked like, couldn’t tell
whether they were well-armed with teeth and claws. There were only the
menacing, unblinking eyes, adance with white flame.
In the cellar to her right, the other creatures began to move, almost as
one, with a single purpose.
She swung toward them, her heart racing faster than ever, her breath
caught in her throat.
From the gleam of silvery eyes, she could tell they were leaping down
from the shelves where they’d perched.
They’re coming for me.
The two on the work table jumped to the floor.
Penny screamed as loud as she could.