Phantoms

employees at Ordnay’s bookstores. You remember, I told you one of the shops deals strictly in out-of-print and rare books. The assistant manager at that store, name of Celia Meddock, recognized the Timothy Flyte moniker.”
    “He’s a customer?” Bryce asked.
    “No. An author.”
    “Author? Of what?”
    “One book. Guess the title.”
    “How the devil could I… Oh. Of course. The Ancient Enemy .”
    “You got it,” Charlie Mercer said.
    “What’s the book about?”
    “That’s the best part. Celia Meddock says she thinks it’s about mass disappearances throughout history.”
    For a moment, Bryce was speechless. Then: “Are you serious? You mean there’ve been a lot of others?”
    “I guess so. At least a bookful of ‘em.”
    “Where? When? How come I’ve never heard about them?”
    “Meddock said something about the disappearance of ancient Mayan populations—”
    (Something stirred in Bryce’s mind. An article he had read in an old science magazine. Mayan civilizations. Abandoned cities.)
    “—and the Roanoke Colony, which was the first British settlement in North America,” Charlie finished.
    “ That I’ve heard about. It’s in the schoolbooks.”
    “I guess maybe a lot of the other disappearances go back to ancient times,” Charlie said.
    “Christ!”
    “Yeah. Flyte apparently has some theory to account for such things,” Charlie said. “The book explains it.”
    “What’s the theory?”
    “The Meddock woman didn’t know. She hasn’t read the book.”
    “But Harold Ordnay must’ve read it. And what he saw happening here in Snowfield must’ve been exactly what Flyte wrote about. So Ordnay printed the title on the bathroom mirror.”
    “So it seems.”
    With a rush of excitement, Bryce said, “Did the San Francisco P.D. get a copy of the book?”
    “Nope. Meddock didn’t have one. The only reason she knew about it was because Ordnay recently sold a copy—two, three weeks ago.”
    “Can we get a copy?”
    “It’s out of print. In fact, it never was in print in this country. The copy they sold was British, which is evidently the only edition there ever was—and a small one. It’s a rare book.”
    “What about the person Ordnay sold it to? The collector. What’s his name and address?”
    “Meddock doesn’t remember. She says the guy’s not a heavy customer of theirs. She says Ordnay would probably know.”
    “Which doesn’t do us one damned bit of good. Listen, Charlie, I’ve got to get a copy of that book.”
    “I’m working on it,” Charlie said. “But maybe you won’t need it. You’ll be able to get the whole story from the horse’s mouth. Flyte’s on his way here from London right now.”
     
    Jenny was sitting on the edge of the central operations desk in the middle of the lobby, gaping at Bryce as he leaned back in his chair; she was amazed by what he had told her. “He’s on his way here from London? Now? Already? You mean he knew this was going to happen?”
    “Probably not,” Bryce said. “But I guess the minute he heard the news, he knew it was a case that fit his theory.”
    “Whatever it is.”
    “Whatever.”
    Tal was standing in front of the desk. “When’s he due in?”
    “He’ll be in San Francisco shortly after midnight. His U.S. publisher has arranged a news conference for him at the airport. Then he’ll come straight to Santa Mira.”
    “U.S. publisher?” Frank Autry said. “I thought you told us his book was never in print over here.”
    “It wasn’t,” Bryce said. “Evidently, he’s writing a new one.”
    “About Snowfield?” Jenny asked.
    “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”
    “He sure works fast,” Jenny said, frowning. “Less than a day after it happens, he’s got a contract to write a book about it.”
    “I wish he worked even faster. I wish to God he was here right now.”
    Tal said, “I think what Doc means is that this Flyte character might just be another sharp hustler out to make a fast buck.”
    “Exactly,” Jenny said.
    “Could be,” Bryce admitted. “But don’t forget Ordnay wrote Flyte’s name on that mirror. In a way, Ordnay’s the only witness we have. And from his message, we have to deduce that what happened was very much like the thing Timothy Flyte wrote about.”
    “Damn,” Frank said. “If Flyte’s really got some information that could help us, he should’ve called. He shouldn’t have made us wait.”
    “Yeah,” Tal said. “We could all be dead by midnight. He