“The other experimental animal you told us about?” Yes.
“The thing that was in the woods?”
Yes.
“All right, I’m going in there.”
No.
“Yes,” Travis insisted. “It’s my house, and we’re not going to run from this,
whatever the hell it is.”
Nora remembered the magazine photograph of the movie monster to which Einstein
had reacted so strongly. She did not believe anything even remotely like that
creature could actually exist. She believed that Einstein was exaggerating or
that they had misunderstood what he had been trying to tell them about the
photo. Nevertheless, she suddenly wished they had not only the revolver but a
shotgun.
“This is a .357 Magnum,” Travis told the dog, “and one shot, even if it hits an
arm or a leg, will knock down the biggest, meanest man and keep him down. He’ll
feel as if he’s been hit by a cannonball. I’ve taken firearms training from the
best, and I’ve done regular target practice over the years to keep my edge. I
really know what I’m doing, and I’ll be able to handle myself in there. Besides,
we can’t just call the cops, can we? Because whatever they find in there is
going to raise eyebrows, lead to a lot of questions, and sooner or later they’ll
have you back in that damn lab again.”
Einstein was clearly unhappy with Travis’s determination, but the dog padded up
the front steps to the stoop and looked back as if to say, All right, okay, but
I’m not letting you go in there alone.
Nora wanted to go in with them, but Travis was adamant that she remain in the
front yard. She reluctantly admitted that—since she lacked both a
weapon and the skill to use it—there was nothing she could do to help and that
she would most likely only get in the way.
Holding the revolver at his side, Travis joined Einstein on the stoop and
inserted his key in the door.
7
Travis disengaged the lock, pocketed the key, and pushed the door inward,
covering the room beyond with the .357. Warily, he stepped across the threshold,
and Einstein entered at his side.
The house was silent, as it should have been, but the air reeked of a bad smell
that did not belong.
Einstein growled softly.
Little of the fast-fading sunlight entered the house through the windows, many
of which were partly or entirely covered with drapes. But it was bright enough
for Travis to see that the sofa’s upholstery was slashed. Shredded foam padding
spilled onto the floor. A wooden magazine rack had been hammered to pieces
against the wall, gouging holes in the plasterboard. The TV screen had been
smashed in with a floor lamp, which still protruded from the set. Books had been
taken off the shelves, torn apart, and scattered across the living room.
In spite of the breeze blowing in through the door, the stench seemed to be
getting worse.
Travis flicked the wall switch. A corner lamp came on. It did not shed much
light, just enough to reveal more details of the rubble.
Looks like somebody went through here with a chainsaw and then a power mower, he
thought.
The house remained silent.
Leaving the door open behind him, he took a couple of steps into the room, and
the crumpled pages of the ruined books crunched crisply underfoot. He noticed
dark, rusty stains on some of the paper and on the bone-white foam padding, and
suddenly he stopped, realizing the stains were blood.
A moment later, he spotted the corpse. It was that of a big man, lying on his
side on the floor near the sofa, half-covered by gore-smeared book pages, book
boards, and dust jackets.
Einstein’s growling grew louder, meaner.
Moving closer to the body, which was just a few feet from the dining-room
archway, Travis saw that it was his landlord, Ted Hockney. Beside him was his
Craftsman toolbox. Ted had a key to the house and Travis had no objections to
his entering at any time to make repairs. Lately there had been a number of
repairs required, including a leaky faucet and broken dishwasher. Evidently, Ted
had walked down the block from his own house and entered With the intention of