WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

close behind it.

“Never saw you spooked before,” Walt said.

“A caffeine jag. I’ve had too much coffee today.”

“Bullshit.”

Lem shrugged.

“It seems to’ve been an animal that killed Dalberg, something with lots of

teeth, claws, something savage,” Walt said. “Yet no damn animal would carefully

place the guy’s head on a plate in the center of the kitchen table. That’s a

sick joke. Animals don’t make jokes, not sick or otherwise. Whatever killed

Dalberg . . . it left the head like that to taunt us. So what in Christ’s name

are we dealing with?”

“You don’t want to know. And you don’t need to know ‘cause I’m assuming

jurisdiction in this case.”

“Like hell.”

“I’ve got the authority,” Lem said. “It’s now a federal matter, Walt. I’m

impounding all the evidence your people have gathered, all reports they’ve

written thus far. You and your men are to talk to no one about what you’ve seen

here. No one. You’ll have a file on the case, but the only thing in it will be a

memo from me, asserting the federal prerogative under the correct statute.

You’re out from under. No matter what happens, no one can blame you, Walt.”

“Shit.”

“Let it go.”

Walt scowled. “I’ve got to know—”

“Let it go.”

“—are people in my county in danger? At least tell me that much, damn it.”

“Yes.”

“In danger?”

“Yes.”

“And if I fought you, if I tried to hang on to jurisdiction in this case, would

there be anything I could do to lessen that danger, to insure the public

safety?”

“No. Nothing,” Lem said truthfully.

“Then there’s no point in fighting you.”

“None,” Lem said.

He started back toward the cabin because the daylight was fading fast, and he

did not want to be near the woods as darkness crept in. Sure, it had only been a

mule deer. But next time?

“Wait a minute,” Walt said. “Let me tell you what I think, and you just listen.

You don’t have to confirm or deny what I say. All you’ve got to do is hear me

out.”

“Go on,” Lem said impatiently.

The shadows of the trees crept steadily across the bristly dry grass of the

clearing. The sun was balanced on the western horizon.

Walt paced out of the shadows into the waning sunlight, hands in his back

pockets, looking down at the dusty ground, taking a moment to collect his

thoughts. Then: “Tuesday afternoon, somebody walked into a house in Newport

Beach, shot a man named Yarbeck, and beat his wife to death. That night,

somebody killed the Hudston family in Laguna Beach—husband, wife, and a teenage

son. Police in both communities use the same forensics lab, so it didn’t take

long to discover one gun was used both places. But that’s about all the police

in either case are going to learn because your NSA has quietly assumed

jurisdiction in those crimes, too. In the interest of national security.”

Lem did not respond. He was sorry he had even agreed to listen. Anyway, he was

not taking direct charge of the investigation into the murders of the

scientists, which were almost surely Soviet-inspired. He’d delegated that task

to other men, so he’d be free to concentrate on finding the dog and The

Outsider.

The sunlight was burnt orange. The cabin windows smoldered with reflections of

that fading fire.

Walt said, “Okay. Then there’s Dr. Davis Weatherby of Corona Del Mar. Missing

since Tuesday. This morning, Weatherby’s brother finds the doctor’s body in the

trunk of his car. Local pathologists hardly arrive at the scene before NSA

agents show up.”

Lem was slightly unnerved by the swiftness with which the sheriff evidently

gathered, coordinated, and absorbed information from various communities that

were not in the unincorporated part of the county and were not, therefore, under

his authority.

Walt grinned but with little or no humor. “Didn’t expect me to have made all

these connections, huh? Each of these things happened in a different police

jurisdiction, but as far as I’m concerned this county is one sprawling city of

two million people, so I make it my business to work hand in glove with all the

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