Darkfall

answers kept occurring to her, however: goblins, gremlins, ogres… Cripes. It couldn’t be anything like that. This was real life, not a fairy tale.
    How could she ever tell anyone about her experience in the cellar without seeming childish or, worse, even slightly crazy? Of course, grown-ups didn’t like to use the term “crazy” with children. You could be as nuts as a walnut tree, babble like a loon, chew on furniture, set fire to cats, and talk to brick walls, and as long as you were still a kid, the worst they’d say about you-in public, at least-was that you were “emotionally disturbed,” although what they meant by that was “crazy.” If she told Mr. Quillen or her father or any other adult about the things she had seen in the school basement, everyone would think she was looking for attention and pity; they’d figure she hadn’t yet adjusted to her mother’s death. For a few months after her mother passed away, Penny had been in bad shape, confused, angry, frightened, a problem to her father and to herself. She had needed help for a while. Now, if she told them about the things in the basement, they would think she needed help again. They would send her to a “counselor,” who would actually be a psychologist or some other kind of head doctor, and they’d do their best for her, give her all sorts of attention and sympathy and treatment, but they simply wouldn’t believe her-until, with their own eyes, they saw such things as she had seen.
    Or until it was too late for her.
    Yes, they’d all believe then -when she was dead.
    She had no doubt whatsoever that the fiery-eyed things would try to kill her, sooner or later. She didn’t know why they wanted to take her life, but she sensed their evil intent, their hatred. They hadn’t harmed her yet, true, but they were growing bolder. Last night, the one in her bedroom hadn’t damaged anything except the plastic baseball bat she’d poked at it, but by this morning, they had grown bold enough to destroy the contents of her locker. And now, bolder still, they had revealed themselves and had threatened her.
    What next?
    Something worse.
    They enjoyed her terror; they fed on it. But like a cat with a mouse, they would eventually grow tired of the game. And then…
    She shuddered.
    What am I going to do? she wondered miserably. What am I going to do?
    VIII
    The hotel, one of the best in the city, overlooked Central Park. It was the same hotel at which Jack and Linda had spent their honeymoon, thirteen years ago. They hadn’t been able to afford the Bahamas or Florida or even the Catskills. Instead, they had remained in the city and had settled for three days at this fine old landmark, and even that had been an extravagance. They’d had a memorable honeymoon, nevertheless, three days filled with laughter and good conversation and talk of their future and lots of loving. They’d promised themselves a trip to the Bahamas on their tenth anniversary, something to look forward to. But by the time that milestone rolled around, they had two kids to think about and a new apartment to get in order, and they renegotiated the promise, rescheduling the Bahamas for their fifteenth anniversary. Little more than a year later, Linda was dead. In the eighteen months since her funeral, Jack had often thought about the Bahamas, which were now forever spoiled for him, and about this hotel.
    The murders had been committed on the sixteenth floor, where there were now two uniformed officers-Yeager and Tufton-stationed at the elevator alcove. They weren’t letting anyone through except those with police ID and those who could prove they were registered guests with lodgings on that level.
    “Who were the victims?” Rebecca asked Yeager. “Civilians?”
    “Nope,” Yeager said. He was a lanky man with enormous yellow teeth. Every time he paused, he probed at his teeth with his tongue, licked and pried at them. “Two of them were pretty obviously professional muscle.”
    “You know the type,” Tufton said as Yeager paused to probe again at his teeth. “Tall, big hands, big arms; you could break ax handles across their necks, and they’d think it was just a sudden breeze.”
    “The third one,” Yeager said, “was one of the Carramazzas.” He paused; his tongue curled out, over his upper teeth, swept back and forth. “One of the immediate family, too.” He scrubbed his tongue over his lowers. “In fact- ” Probe, probe. “-it’s Dominick