Phantoms

boldness.”
    “You think it could happen now, today—”
    “No question about it!”
    “—in a place like New York or even here in London?”
    “Certainly! It could happen virtually anywhere that has the geological underpinnings I outlined in my book.”
    They both sipped champagne, thinking.
    The rain hammered on the windows with greater fury than before.
    Sandler was not certain he believed in the theories Flyte had propounded in The Ancient Enemy . He knew they could form the basis for a wildly successful book written in a popular vein, but that didn’t mean he had to believe in them. He didn’t really want to believe. Believing was like opening the door to Hell.
    He looked at Flyte, who was straightening his wilted carnation again, and he said, “It gives me the chills.”
    “It should,” Flyte said, nodding. “It should.”
    The waiter came with the eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast.
     

Chapter 19
    The Dead of Night
     
    The inn was a fortress. Bryce was satisfied with the preparations that had been made.
    At last, after two hours of arduous labor, he sat down at a table in the cafeteria, sipping decaffeinated coffee from a white ceramic mug on which was emblazoned the blue crest of the hotel.
    By one-thirty in the morning, with the help of the ten deputies who had arrived from Santa Mira, much had been accomplished. One of the, two rooms had been converted into a dormitory; twenty mattresses were lined up on the floor, enough to accommodate any single shift of the investigative team, even after General Copperfield’s people arrived. In the other half of the restaurant, a couple of buffet tables had been set up at one end, where a cafeteria line could be formed at mealtimes. The kitchen had been cleaned and put in order. The large lobby had been converted into an enormous operations center, with desks, makeshift desks, typewriters, filing cabinets, bulletin boards, and a big map of Snowfield.
    Furthermore, the inn had been given a thorough security inspection, and steps had been taken to prevent a break-in by the enemy. The two rear entrances—through the kitchen, one through the lobby—were locked, and additionally secured with slanted two-by-fours, which were wedged under the crash-bars and nailed to the frames; Bryce had ordered that extra precaution to avoid wasting guards at those entrances. The door to the emergency stairs was similarly sealed off; nothing could enter the higher floors of the hotel and come down upon them by surprise. Now, only a pair of small elevators connected the lobby level to the three upper floors, and two guards were stationed there. Another guard stood at the front entrance. A detail of four men had ascertained that all upstairs rooms were empty. Another detail had determined that all of the ground-floor windows were locked; most of them were painted shut, as well. Nevertheless, the windows were points of weakness in their fortifications.
    At least, Bryce thought, if anything tries to get inside the window, we’ll have the sound of breaking glass to warn us.
    A host of other details had been attended to. Stu Wargle’s mutilated corpse had been temporarily stored in a utility room that adjoined the lobby. Bryce had drawn up a duty roster, and had structured twelve-hour work shifts for the next three days, should the crisis last that long. Finally, he couldn’t think of anything more that could be done until first light.
    Now he sat alone at one of the round tables in the dining room, sipping Sanka, trying to make sense of the night’s events. His mind kept circling back to one unwanted thought:
    His brain was gone. His blood was sucked out of him—every damned drop.
    He shook off the sickening image of Wargle’s ruined face, got up, went for more coffee, then returned to the table.
    The inn was very quiet.
    At another table, three of the night shift men—Miguel Hernandez, Sam Potter, and Henry Wong—were playing cards, but they weren’t talking much. When they did speak, it was almost in whispers.
    The inn was very quiet.
    The inn was a fortress.
    The inn was a fortress, damn it.
    But was it safe?
     
    Lisa chose a mattress in a corner of the dormitory, where her back would be up against a blank wall.
    Jenny unfolded one of the two blankets stacked at the foot of the mattress, and draped it over the girl.
    “Want the other one?”
    “No,” Lisa said. “This’ll be enough. It feels funny, though, going to bed with all my clothes on.”
    “Things’ll