Midnight by Dean R. Koontz

“We’ll find the bastard, George. I swear we will.”

At last George looked up from the whiskey. Tears shimmered in his eyes, but he would not let them flow. He was a proud, hardheaded Pole, determined to be strong. He said, “Eddie was playin’ in the backyard toward dusk, just right out there in the backyard, where you could see him if you looked out any window, right in his own yard. When Nelia called him for supper just after dark, when he didn’t come or answer, we thought he’d gone to one of the neighbors’ to play with some other kids, without asking like he should’ve.” He had related all of this before, more than once, but he seemed to need to go over it again and again, as if repetition would wear down the ugly reality and thereby change it as surely as ten thousand playings of a tape cassette would eventually scrape away the music and leave a hiss of white noise.

“We started looking’ for him, couldn’t find him, wasn’t scared at first; in fact we were a little angry with him; but then we got worried and then scared, and I was just about to call you for help when we found him there in the ditch, sweet Jesus, all torn up in the ditch.” He took a deep breath and another, and the pent-up tears glistened brightly in his eyes.

“What kind of monster would do that to a child, take him away somewhere and do that, and then be cruel enough to bring him back here and drop him where we’d find him? Had to’ve been that way, ’cause we’d have heard … heard the screaming if the bastard had done all that to Eddie right here somewheres. Had to’ve taken him away, done all that, then brought him back so we’d find him. What kind of man, Loman? For God’s sake, what kind of man?”

“Psychotic,” Loman said, as he had said before, and that much was true. The regressives were psychotic. Shaddack had coined a term for their condition metamorphic-related psychosis.

“Probably on drugs,” he added, and he was lying now. Drugs—at least the conventional illegal pharmacopoeia—had nothing to do with Eddie’s death. Loman was still surprised at how easy it was for him to lie to a close friend, something that he had once been unable to do. The immorality of lying was a concept more suited to the Old People and their turbulently emotional world. Old-fashioned concepts of what was immoral might ultimately have no meaning to the New People, for if they changed as Shaddack believed they would, efficiency and expediency and maximum performance would be the only moral absolutes.

“The country’s rotten with drug freaks these days. Burnt-out brains. No morals, no goals but cheap thrills. They’re our inheritance from the recent Age of Do Your Own Thing. This guy was a drug-disoriented freak, George, and I swear we’ll get him.”

George looked down at his whiskey again. He drank some.

Then to himself more than to Loman, he said, “Eddie was playin’ in the backyard toward dusk, just right out there in the backyard, where you could see him if you looked out any window………” His voice trailed away.

Reluctantly Loman went upstairs to the master bedroom to see how Nella was coping.

She was lying on the bed, propped up a bit with pillows, and Dr. Jim Worthy was sitting in a chair that he had moved to her side, He was the youngest of Moonlight Cove’s three doctors, thirty-eight, an earnest man with a neatly trimmed mustache, wire-rimmed glasses, and a proclivity for bow ties.

The physician’s bag was on the floor at his feet. A stethoscope hung around his neck. He was filling an unusually large syringe from a six-ounce bottle of golden fluid.

Worthy turned to look at Loman, and their eyes met, and they did not need to say anything.

Either having heard Loman’s soft footsteps or having sensed him by some subtler means, Nella Valdoski opened her eyes, which were red and swollen from crying. She was still a lovely woman with flaxen hair and features that seemed too delicate to be the work of nature, more like the finely honed art of a master sculptor. Her mouth softened and trembled when she spoke his name “Oh, Loman.”