What happens to artists in the new word coming? Loman wondered.
But he knew the answer. There would be none. Art was emotion embodied in paint on a canvas, words on a page, music in a symphony hall. There would be no art in the new world. And if there was, it would be the art of fear. The writer’s most frequently used words would all be synonyms of darkness. The musician would write dirges of one form or another. The painter’s most used pigment would be black.
Vicky Lanardo, Shaddack’s executive secretary, was at her desk. She said, “He’s not in.”
Behind her the door to Shaddack’s enormous private office stood open. No lights were on in there. It was illuminated only by the light of the storm-torn day, which came through the blinds in ash-gray bands.
“When will he be in?” Loman asked.
“I don’t know.”
“No appointments?”
“None.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
Loman walked out. For a while he prowled the half-deserted corridors, offices, labs, and tech rooms, hoping to spot Shaddack.
Before long, however, he decided that Shaddack was not lurking about the premises. Evidently the great man was staying mobile on this last day of Moonlight Cove’s conversion.
Because of me, Loman thought. Because of what I said to him last. night at Peyser’s. He’s afraid of me, and he’s either staying mobile or gone to ground somewhere, making himself difficult to find.
Loman left the building, returned to his patrol car, and set out in search of his maker.
26
In the downstairs half-bath off the kitchen, naked from the waist up, Sam sat on the closed lid of the commode, and Tessa performed the same kind of nursing duties she’d performed earlier for Chrissie. But Sam’s wounds were more serious than the girl’s.
In a dime-size circle on his forehead, above his right eye, the skin had been tensed off, and in the center of the circle the flesh had been entirely eaten away, revealing a speck of bared bone about an eighth of an inch in diameter. Stanching the flow of blood from those tiny, severed capillaries required a few minutes of continuous pressure, followed by the application of iodine, a liberal coating of NuSkin, and a tightly taped gauze bandage. But even after all these efforts, the gauze slowly darkened with red stain.
As Tessa worked on him, Sam told them what had happened:
“… so if I hadn’t shot her in the head, just then … if I’d been a second or two slower, I think that damn thing, that probe, whatever it was, it would have bored right through my skull and sunk into my brain, and she’d have connected with me the way she was connected with that computer.”
Her toga forsaken in favor of dry jeans and blouse, Chrissie stood just inside the bathroom, white-faced but wanting to hear all.
Harry had pulled his wheelchair into the doorway.
Moose was lying at Sam’s feet, rather than at Harry’s. The dog seemed to realize that at the moment the visitor needed comforting more than Harry did.
Sam was colder to the touch than could be explained by his time in the chilly rain. He was trembling, and periodically the shivers that passed through him were so powerful that his teeth chattered.
The more Sam talked, the colder Tessa became, too, and in time his shivers were communicated to her.
His right wrist had been cut on both sides, when Harley Coltrane had gripped him with a powerful bony hand. No major blood vessels had been severed; neither gash required stitches, and Tessa quickly stopped the bleeding there. The bruises, which had barely begun to appear and would not fully flower for hours yet, were going to be worse than the cuts. He complained of pain in the joint, and his hand was weak, but she did not think that any bones had been broken or crushed.
“… as if they’d somehow been given the ability to control their physical form,” Sam said shakily, “to make anything they wanted of themselves, mind over matter, just like Chrissie said when she told us about the priest, the one who started to become the creature from that movie.”