or kill it, while he watched from a distance.
“Is it alive?” Julie asked.
“Not now,” Frank said.
Two forearms, like miniature lobster claws, extended from under the
front of the thing’s shell, one on each side of the head, though they
differed from the appendages of a lobster in that the pincers were far
more highly articulated than those of any common crustacean. They
somewhat resembled a hand with four curved, chitinous segments, each
jointed at the back, the edges were wickedly serrated.
“If that thing got hold of your finger,” Bobby said, “It could snip it
off. You say it was alive, Frank?”
“When I woke up this morning, it was crawling on my chest.
“Good God!” Bobby paled visibly.
“It was sluggish.”
“Yeah? Well, it sure looks quick as a damned cockroach
“I think it was dying already,” Frank said.
“I screamed brushed it off. It just lay there on its back, on the
floor, kicking kinda feebly for a few seconds, then it was still. I
stripped the case off one of the bed pillows, scooped the thing into it,
knotted the top so it wouldn’t crawl away if it was still alive. Then I
discovered the gems in my pockets, so I bought two mason jars, one for
the bug, and it hasn’t moved since I put it in there, so I figure it’s
dead. You ever see anything like it?”
“No,” Julie said.
“Thank God, no,” Bobby agreed. He was not leaning over the jar for a
closer look, as Julie was. In fact he had taken a step back from the
desk, as if he thought the creepy-crawler might be able, in a wink, to
cut its way through the glass.
Julie picked up the jar and turned it so she could look at the bug
face-on. Its satin-black head was almost as big as a plum and half
hidden under the carapace. Multifaceted, muddy yellow eyes were set
high on the sides of the face, and under each of them was what appeared
to be another eye, a third smaller than the one above it and
reddish-blue. Queer patterns of tiny holes, half a dozen thumblike
extrusions, and three clusters of silky-looking hairs marked the
otherwise smooth, shiny surface of that hideous countenance. Its small
mouth, open now, was a circular orifice in which she saw what appeared
to be rings of tiny but sharp teeth.
Staring at the occupant of the jar, Frank said, “Whatever the hell I’m
mixed up in, it’s a bad thing. It’s a real bad thing, and I’m afraid.”
Bobby twitched. In a thoughtful voice, speaking more to himself than to
them, Bobby said, “Bad thing.
Putting the jar down, Julie said, “Frank, we’ll take the case.”
“All right!” Clint said, and switched off the recorder.
Turning away from the desk, heading toward the bathroom, Bobby said,
“Julie, I need to see you alone for a moment.”
For the third time they stepped into the bathroom together, closed the
door behind them, and switched on the fan.
Bobby’s face was grayish, like a highly detailed portrait done in
pencil; even his freckles were colorless. His customarily merry blue
eyes were not merry now.
He said, “Are you crazy? You told him we’ll take the case.”
Julie blinked in surprise.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“No.”
“Ah. Then I guess I heard you wrong. Must be too much wax in my ears.
Solid as cement.”
“He’s probably a lunatic, dangerous.”
“I’d better go to a doctor, have my ears professionally cleaned.”
“This wild story he’s made up is just-”
She held up one hand, halting him in mid-sentence-
“It’s real, Bobby. He didn’t imagine that bug. What is that thing I’ve
never even seen pictures of anything like it.”
“What about the money? He must’ve stolen it.”
“Frank’s no thief.”
“What-did God tell you that? Because there’s no other way you could
know. You only met Pollard little more than an hour ago.”
“You’re right,” she said.
“God told me. And I always listen to God because if you don’t listen to
Him, then He’s likely to visit a plague of teeming locusts on you or
maybe set your house on fire with a lightning bolt. Listen, Frank’s so