again.
The six-drawer highboy tipped away from the wall, toppled toward Jack,
and he jumped out of the way, and the big piece of furniture hit the
floor with the sound of a bomb explosion.
Rebecca backed against the wall and stood there, rigid and wide-eyed,
her hands fisted at her sides.
The air was cold. Wind whirled through the room.
Not just a draft, but a wind almost as powerful as the one that whipped
through the city streets, outside. Yet there was nowhere that a cold
wind could have gained admission; the door and the window were closed
tight.
And now, at the window, it seemed as if invisible hands grabbed the
drapes and tore them loose of the rod from which they were hung. The
drapes dropped in a heap, and then the rod itself was torn out of the
wall and thrown aside.
Drawers slid all the way out of the nightstands and fell onto the floor,
spilling their contents.
Several strips of wallpaper began to peel off the walls, starting at the
top and going down.
Jack turned this way and that, frightened, confused, not sure what he
should do.
The dresser mirror cracked in a spiderweb pattern.
The unseen presence stripped the blanket from the bed and pitched it
onto the toppled highboy.
“Stop it!” Rebecca shouted at the empty air. “Stop it!”
The unseen intruder did not obey.
The top sheet was pulled from the bed. It whirled into the air, as if
it had been granted life and the ability to fly; it floated off into a
corner of the room, where it collapsed, lifeless again.
The fitted bottom sheet popped loose at two corners.
Jack grabbed it.
The other two corners came loose, as well.
Jack tried to hold on to the sheet. It was a feeble and pointless
effort to resist whatever power was wrecking the room, but it was the
only thing he could think to do, and he simply had to do something. The
sheet was quickly wrenched out of his hands with such force that he was
thrown off balance. He stumbled and fell to his knees.
On a wheeled TV stand in the corner, the portable television set snapped
on of its own accord, the volume booming. A fat woman was dancing the
cha-cha with a cat, and a thunderous chorus was singing the praises of
Purina Cat Chow.
Jack scrambled to his feet.
The mattress cover was skinned off the bed, lifted into the air, rolled
into a ball, and thrown at Rebecca.
On the TV, George Plimpton was shouting like a baboon about the virtues
of Intellivision.
The mattress was bare now. The quilted sheath dimpled; a rent appeared
in it. The fabric tore right down the middle, from top to bottom, and
stuffing erupted along with a few uncoiling springs that rose like
cobras to an unheard music.
More wallpaper peeled down.
On the TV, a barker for the American Beef Council was shouting about the
benefits of eating meat, while an unseen chef carved a bloody roast on
camera.
The closet door slammed so hard that it jumped partially out of its
track and rattled back and forth.
The TV screen imploded. Simultaneously with the sound of breaking
glass, there was a brief flash of light within the guts of the set, and
then a little smoke.
Silence.
Stillness.
Jack glanced at Rebecca.
She looked bewildered. And terrified.
The telephone rang.
The instant Jack heard it, he knew who was calling.
He snatched up the receiver, held it to his ear, said nothing.
“You’re panting like a dog, Detective Dawson,” Lavelle said. “Excited?
Evidently, my little demonstration thrilled you.”
Jack was shaking so badly and uncontrollably that he didn’t trust his
voice. He didn’t reply because he didn’t want Lavelle to hear how
scared he was.
Besides, Lavelle didn’t seem interested in anything Jack might have to
say; he didn’t wait long enough to hear a reply even if one had been
offered. The Bocor said, “When you see your kids-dead, mangled, their
eyes torn out, their lips eaten off, their fingers bitten to the
bone-remember that you could have saved them.
Remember that you’re the one who signed their death warrants. You bear