Phantoms

2
     
    Evil is not an abstract concept. It lives. It has a form. It stalks. It is too real.
    —Dr. Tom Dooley
     
    Phantoms! Whenever I think I fully understand mankind’s purpose on earth, just when I foolishly imagine that I have seized upon the meaning of life… suddenly I see phantoms dancing in the shadows, mysterious phantoms performing a gavotte that says, as pointedly as words, “What you know is nothing, little man; what you have to learn, immense.”
    —Charles Dickens
     

Chapter 21
    The Big Story
     
    Santa Mira.
    Monday—1:02 A.M.
    “Hello?”
    “Is this the Santa Mira Daily News? ”
    “Yeah.”
    “The newspaper?”
    “Lady, the paper’s closed. It’s after one in the morning.”
    “Closed? I didn’t know a newspaper ever closed.”
    “This isn’t the New York Times .”
    “But aren’t you printing tomorrow’s edition now?”
    “The printing’s not done here. These are the business and editorial offices. Did you want the printer or what?”
    “Well… I have a story.”
    “If it’s an obituary or a church bake sale or something, what you do is you call back in the morning, after nine o’clock, and you—”
    “No, no. This is a big story.”
    “Oh, a garage sale, huh?”
    “What?”
    “Never mind. You’ll just have to call back in the morning.”
    “Wait, listen, I work for the phone company.”
    “That’s not such a big story.”
    “No, see, it’s because I work for the phone company that I found out about this thing. Are you the editor?”
    “No. I’m in charge of selling ad space.”
    “Well… maybe you can still help me.”
    “Lady. I’m sitting here on a Sunday night—no, a Monday morning now—all alone in a dreary little office, trying to figure out how the devil to drum up enough business to keep this paper afloat. I am tired. I am irritable—”
    “How awful.”
    “—and I am afraid you’ll have to call back in the morning.”
    “But something terrible has happened in Snowfield. I don’t know exactly what, but I know people are dead. There might even be a lot of people dead or at least in danger of dying.”
    “Christ, I must be tireder than I thought. I’m getting interested in spite of myself. Tell me.”
    “We’ve rerouted Snowfield’s phone service, pulled it off the automatic dialing system, and restricted all ingoing calls. You can only reach two numbers up there now, and both of them are being answered by the sheriff’s men. The reason they’ve set it up that way is to seal the place off before the reporters find out something’s up.”
    “Lady, what’ve you been drinking?”
    “I don’t drink.”
    “Then what’ve you been smoking?”
    “Listen, I know a little bit more. They’re getting calls from the Santa Mira sheriff’s office all the time, and from the governor’s office, and from some military base out in Utah, and they—”
     
    San Francisco.
    Monday—1:40 A.M.
    “This is Sid Sandowicz. Can I help you?”
    “I keep tellin’ them I want to talk to a San Francisco Chronicle reporter, man.”
    “That’s me.”
    “Man, you guys have hung up on me three times! What the fuck’s the matter with you guys?”
    “Watch your language.”
    “Shit.”
    “Listen, do you have any idea how many kids like you call up newspapers, wasting our time with silly-ass gags and hot tip hoaxes?”
    “Huh? How’d you even know I was a kid?”
    “ ‘Cause you sound twelve.”
    “I’m fifteen!”
    “Congratulations.”
    “Shit!”
    “Listen, son, I’ve got a boy your age, which is why I’m bothering to listen to you when the other guys wouldn’t. So if you’ve really got something of interest, spill it.”
    “Well, my old man’s a professor at Stanford. He’s a virologist and an epidemiologist. You know what that means, man?”
    “He studies viruses, disease, something like that.”
    “Yeah. And he’s let himself be corrupted.”
    “How’s that?”
    “He accepted a grant from the fuckin’ military. Man, he’s involved with some biological warfare outfit. It’s supposed to be a peaceful application of his research, but you know that’s a lot of horseshit. He sold his soul, and now they’re finally claimin’ it. The shit’s hit the fan.”
    “The fact that your father sold out—if he did sell out—might be big news in your family, son, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be of much interest to our readers.”
    “Hey, man, I didn’t call up just to jerk you off. I’ve got a real story . Tonight they