leaving no holes through which the too-bright moon could gaze. The
downpour also veiled the glow of streetlamps and the headlights of
oncoming cars, moderated the dazzle of neon signs, and in general
softened the Orange County night, making it possible for him to drive
with more comfort than could be provided by his sunglasses alone.
He had traveled west from his hideaway, then north along the coast, in
search of a bar where the lights might be low and a woman or two
available for consideration. A lot of places were closed Mondays, and
others didn’t appear too active that late at night, between the
half-hour and the witching hour.
At last he found a lounge in Newport Beach, along the Pacific Coast
Highway. It was a tony joint with a canopy to the street, rows of
miniature white lights defining the roof line, and a sign advertising
DANCING WED TIIRU sAT/JoIINNY WITH BIG BAND. Newport was the most
affluent city in the county, with the world’s largest private yacht
harbor, so almost any establishment that pretended to a monied clientele
most likely had one.
Beginning mid-week, valet parking was probably provided, which would not
have been good for his purposes, since a valet was a potential witness,
but on a rainy Monday no valet was in sight.
He parked in the lot beside the club, and as he switched off the engine,
the seizure hit him. He felt as if he’d received a mild but sustained
electrical shock. His eyes rolled back in his head, and for a moment he
thought he was having convulsions, because he was unable to breathe or
swallow. An involuntary moan escaped him. The attack lasted only ten
or fifteen seconds, and ended with three words that seemed to have been
spoken inside his head: Something’s . out …
there … It was not just a random thought sparked by some short
circuiting synapse in his brain, for it came to him in a distinct voice,
with the timbre and inflection of spoken words as distinguished from
thoughts. Not his own voice, either, but that of a stranger. He had an
overpowering sense of another presence in the car, as well, as if a
spirit had passed through some curtain between worlds to visit with him,
an alien presence that was real in spite of being invisible.
Then the episode ended as abruptly as it had begun.
He sat for a while, waiting for a reoccurrence.
Rain hammered on the roof.
The car ticked and pinged as the engine cooled down.
Whatever had happened, it was over now.
He tried to understand the experience. Had those word something’s out
there-been a warning, a psychic premonition? A threat? To what did it
refer?
Beyond the car, there seemed to be nothing special about the night.
Just rain. Blessed darkness. The distorted reflections of electric
lights and signs
shimmered on the wet pavement, in puddles, and in the torrents pouring
along the overflowing gutters. Sparse traffic passed on Pacific Coast
Highway, but as far as he could see, no one was on foot-and he could see
as well as any cat.
After a while he decided that he would understand the episode when he
was meant to understand it. Nothing was to be gained by brooding over
it. If it was a threat, from whatever source, it did not trouble him.
He was incapable of fear. That was the best thing about having left the
world of the living, even if he was temporarily stuck in the borderland
this side of death: nothing in existence held any terror for him.
Nevertheless, that inner voice had been one of the strangest things he
had ever experienced. And he was not exactly without a store of strange
experiences with which to compare it.
He got out of his silver Camaro, slammed the door, and walked to the
club entrance. The rain was cold. In the blustering wind, the fronds
of the palm trees rattled like old bones.
Lindsey Harrison was also on the fifth floor, at the far end of the main
corridor from her husband. Little of the room was revealed when Jonas
entered and approached the side of the bed, for there was not even the