blamed on instinct, he had not behaved in accordance with his self-image as a
hard-bitten canyon squatter. If he armed himself with the rifle now, when there
was no compelling need for it, he’d lose a large measure of self-respect, which
was important because the only opinion of Wes Dalberg that Wes cared about was
his own. No gun.
Wes risked going to the living room’s big window. This was an alteration made by
someone who held the Forest Service lease on the cabin about twenty years ago;
the old, narrow, multipane window had been taken out, a larger hole cut in the
wall, and a big single-pane window installed to take advantage of the
spectacular forest view.
A few moon-silvered clouds appeared phosphorescent against the velvety blackness
of the night sky. Moonlight dappled the front yard, glistered on the grill and
hood and windshield of Wes’s Jeep Cherokee, and outlined the shadowy shapes of
the encroaching trees. At first nothing moved except a few branches swaying
gently in the mild wind.
He studied the woodland scene for a couple of minutes. Neither seeing nor
hearing anything out of the ordinary, he decided the animal had wandered off.
With considerable relief and with a resurgence of embarrassment, he started to
turn away from the window—then glimpsed movement near the Jeep. He squinted, saw
nothing, remained watchful for another minute or two. Just when he decided he
had imagined the movement, he saw it again:
something coming out from behind the Jeep. He leaned closer to the window.
Something was rushing across the yard toward the cabin, coming fast and low to
the ground. Instead of revealing the nature of the enemy, the moonlight
made it more mysterious, shapeless. The thing was hurtling at the cabin.
Abruptly—Jesus, God!—the creature was airborne, a strangeness flying straight at
him through the darkness, and Wes cried out, and an instant later the beast
exploded through the big window, and Wes screamed, but the scream was cut short.
9
Because Travis was not much of a drinker, three beers were enough to insure
against insomnia. He was asleep within seconds of putting his head on the
pillow. He dreamed that he was the ringmaster in a circus where all the
performing animals could speak, and after each show he visited them in their
cages, where each animal told him a secret that amazed him even though he forgot
it as soon as he moved along to the next cage and the next secret.
At four o’clock in the morning, he woke and saw Einstein at the bedroom window.
The dog was standing with its forepaws on the sill, its face limned by
moonlight, staring out at the night, very alert.
“What’s wrong, boy?” Travis asked.
Einstein glanced at him, then returned his attention to the moon-washed night.
He whined softly, and his ears perked up slightly.
“Somebody out there?” Travis asked, getting off the bed, pulling on his jeans.
The dog dropped onto all fours and hurried out of the bedroom.
Travis found him at another window in the darkened living room, studying the
night on that side of the house. Crouching beside the dog, putting a hand on the
broad furry back, he said, “What’s the matter? Huh?”
Einstein pressed his snout to the glass and mewled nervously.
Travis could see nothing threatening on the front lawn or on the street. Then a
thought struck him, and he said, “Are you worried about whatever was chasing you
in the woods this morning?”
The dog regarded him solemnly.
“What was it out there in the forest?” Travis wondered.
Einstein whined again and shuddered.
Remembering the retriever’s—and his own—stark fear in the Santa Ana foothills,
recalling the uncanny feeling that something unnatural had been stalking them,
Travis shivered. He looked out at the night-draped world. The spiky black
patterns of the date palm’s fronds were edged in wan yellow light from the
nearest streetlamp. A fitful wind harried small funnels of dust and leaves and
bits of litter along the pavement, dropped them for a few seconds and left them
for dead, then enlivened them again. A lone moth bumped softly against the
window in front of Travis’s and Einstein’s faces, evidently mistaking the