vicinity had fled. If someone was spying on him, the intruder was
concealed in the brush farther back along the canyon or in a niche on
one of the canyon walls, certainly not near enough to have touched him.
Besides, he still felt the hand. He rubbed at the top of his head, half
expecting to find leaves stuck in his wet hair. Nothing.
But the pressure of a hand remained, even increased, and was so well
defined that he could feel the outlines of four fingers, a thumb, and
the curve of a palm against his skull.
What… where… what… why… ?
Those words echoed inside his head. No voice had broken through the
drizzling sounds of the rain.
What… where… what… why… ?
Candy turned in a full circle, angry and confused.
A crawling sensation arose in his head, different from any thing he had
ever known before. As if something was moving in his brain.
“Who are you?” he said aloud.
What… where… what… why… ?
“Who are you?”
THE BAD THING was a man. Thomas knew that now. An inside man and
something else, too, but still at least part man.
The Bad Thing’s mind was like a whirlpool, blacker black, swirling real
fast, sucking Thomas down, down, was to gobble him alive. He tried to
break loose. Swimming Wasn’t easy. The Bad Thing was going to pull him
into the Bad Place, and he’d never be able to come back. He thought he
was a gonner. But his fear of the Bad Place, of going to loose Julie
and Bobby would never find him and where he’d be a was so big he finally
tore free and rewound himself into the room at Cielo Vista.
He slid down on the mattress and drew the covers over his head, so he
couldn’t see the night beyond the window, and nothing out there in the
night could see him.
WALTER HAVALOW, Mrs. George Farris’s surviving brother and their to her
modest estate, lived in a richer neighborhood than the Phans, but he was
poorer in courtesy and good manners. His English two-story house in
Villa Park had beveled-glass windows filled with a light that Julie
found warm and beckoning, but Havalow stood in the doorway and did not
invite them inside even after he had studied their PI license and
returned it to her.
“What do you want?”
Havalow was tall, potbellied, with thinning blond hair and a thick
mustache that was part blond and part red. His penetrating hazel eyes
marked him as a man of intelligence, but they were cold, watchful, and
calculating-the eyes of a Mafia accountant.
“As I explained,” Julie said, “the Phans told us you could help. We
need a photograph of your late brother-in-law, George Farris.”
“Why?”
“Well, as I said, there’s a man going around pretending to be Mr.
Farris, and he’s a player in a case we’re working on.”
“Can’t be my brother-in-law. He’s dead.”
“Yes, we know. But this imposter’s ID is very good, and it would help
us to have a photo of the real George Farris. I’m sorry I can’t tell
you anything more. I’d be violating our client’s privacy.”
Havalow turned away and closed the door in their faces.
Bobby looked at Julie and said, “Mr. Congeniality.”
Julie rang the bell again.
After a moment, Havalow opened the door.
“What?”
“I know we arrived unannounced,” Julie said, struggling to remain
cordial, “and I apologize for the intrusion, but your-”
“I was just going to get the picture,” he said impatiently.
“I’d have it in hand by now if you hadn’t rung the bell.”
as he turned away from them and closed the door a second time.
“Is it our body odor?” Bobby wondered.
“What a jerk.”
“You think he’s really coming back?”
“He doesn’t, I’ll break the door down.”
Behind them, rain dripped off the overhang that sheltered the last ten
feet of the walkway, and water gurgled hollowly through a downspout-cold
sounds.
Havalow returned with a shoe box full of snapshots.
time is valuable. If you want my cooperation, you’ll keep it in mind.”
Julie resisted her worst instincts. Rudeness irritated the hell out of