likely dead.
The third, Morton Redlow, was a one-man shop. Though not as glitzy as
the bigger agencies, Redlow possessed a bulldog determination that
encouraged Jonas to believe progress would be made. And last week,
Redlow had hinted that he was onto something, that he would have
concrete news by the weekend.
The detective had not been heard from since. He had failed to respond
to messages left on his phone machine.
Now, turning away from his computer and the conference paper he was
unable to work on, Jonas picked up the telephone and tried the detective
again. He got the recording. But he could no longer leave his name and
number, because the incoming tape on Redlow’s machine was already full
of messages. It cut him off.
Jonas had a bad feeling about the detective.
He put down the phone, got up from the desk, and went to the window.
His spirits were so low, he doubted they could be lifted any more by
anything as simple as a magnificent view, but he was willing to try.
Each new day was filled with so much more dread than the day before it,
he needed all the help he could get just to be able to sleep at night
and rise in the morning.
Reflections of the morning sun rippled in silver filaments through the
incoming waves, as if the sea were a great piece of rippling blue-gray
fabric with interwoven metallic threads.
He told himself that Redlow was only a few days late with his report,
less than a week, nothing to be worried about. The failure to return 1-
answering-machine messages might only mean the detective was ill or
preoccupied with a personal crisis.
But he knew. Redlowe had found Jeremy and, in spite of every warning
from Jonas, had underestimated the boy.
A yacht with white sails was making its way south along the coast.
Large white birds kited in the sky behind the ship, diving into the sea
and out again, no doubt snaring fish with each plunge. Graceful and
free, the birds were a beautiful sight, though not to the fish, of
course. Not to the fish.
Lindsey went to her studio between the master bedroom and the room
beside Regina’s. She moved her high stool from the easel to the drawing
board, opened her sketch pad, and started to plan her next painting.
She felt that it was important to focus on her work, not only because
the making of art could soothe the soul as surely as the appreciation of
it, but because sticking to everyday routine was the only way she could
try to push back the forces of irrationality that seemed to be surging
like black floodwaters into their lives. Nothing could really go too
far wrong-could it?-if she just kept painting, drinking her usual black
coffee, eating three meals a day, washing dishes when they needed
washed, brushing her teeth at night, showering and rolling on her
deodorant in the morning. How could some homicidal creature from Beyond
intrude into an orderly life?
Surely ghouls and ghosts, goblins and monsters, had no power over those
who were properly groomed, deodorieed, fluoridated, dressed, fed,
employed, and motivated.
That was what she wanted to believe. But when she tried to sketch, she
couldn’t quiet the tremors her hands.
Honell was dead.
Cooper was dead.
She kept looking at the window, erg to see that the spider had returned.
But there was no scurrying black form or the lacework of a new web. Just
glass. Treetops and blue sky beyond.
After a while Hatch stopped in. He hugged her from behind, and kissed
her cheek.
But he was in a solemn rather than romantic mood. He had one of the
Brownings with him. He put the pistol on the top of her supply cabinet.
“Keep this with you if you leave the room. He’s not going to come
around during the day. I know that. I feel it. Like he’s a vampire or
something, for God’s sake. But it still doesn’t hurt to be careful,
especially when you’re here alone.”
She was dubious, but she said, “All right.”
“I’m going out for a while. Do a little shopping.”