 
Dreams

A Novel by Jack Petersen

Copyright 2013

Smashwords Edition
Chapter 1

Timmy stood looking up at the huge cliff. It seemed to stretch upwards forever. It had been pretty hard so far, but this looked impossible. It was getting dark, too. Timmy had started out scared. He was still scared, and tired, and hungry, and lonely, and, and, and.

For the first time in his ten years Timmy Michaelson was completely on his own. It wasn't anything like in the movies or in books about kids who ran away from home, or got lost somehow. You know, the guy comes up against all these problems and solves them by remembering something he learned in school, but forgot until then. Timmy couldn't think of a single lesson that would help him get up this monster cliff. He wasn't even sure that he needed to get up this cliff. Maybe there was just another cliff up there. He was pretty sure that he was going in the direction the pilot had pointed before he passed out. Timmy still couldn't believe that the pilot died; it was better to believe he just passed out. There had been a lot of blood, but maybe not that much. Anyway, this pilot was passed out, waiting for Timmy to get help. Just over this cliff.

Timmy wasn't even sure what kind of help was supposed to be on the other side of the cliff. The pilot didn't say very much. He had coughed a lot, and looked like he really hurt inside. Timmy remembered every one of those few words that was said after the plane crashed during the storm.

"Kid. Radio out. Beacon doesn't work. Get help. That way."

That had been in the morning. It was hard now to remember saying goodbye to his folks in Grand Junction, getting on the little airplane for the trip to Grandma's house in Phoenix. Timmy wished with everything he had that he was back in Grand Junction now, instead of here. Wherever here was. Timmy tried to remember the map they had looked at yesterday when his father had drawn a red line between Grand Junction and Phoenix so that he could keep track of where he was during the trip.

He remembered going across Utah because the pilot had told him about Moab and the San Juan River and how they would fly over the Grand Canyon soon. Then the clouds had started to build up, and the pilot had joked with him about how the Grand Canyon really was down there, you just couldn't see it.

It wasn't long after that when the pilot started acting nervous. Timmy saw him talking over the radio, but nobody seemed to be listening. He tried again and again, but no one talked back to him. Timmy had been plenty nervous by then himself, the little airplane was falling and rising and the clouds went as high as they could fly. Then the lightning started. Timmy never had liked thunderstorms, and flying through one was really scary. He had closed his eyes and wished hard that the trip would be over soon. The pilot had shaken his shoulder and told him for the second time to make his seat belt tighter, and when Timmy opened his eyes he thought he would see Phoenix below, but there were just gray clouds. He asked the pilot where they were, but the pilot was so busy with the controls he didn't answer.

Timmy had tried closing his eyes and wishing again, but it didn't do any good. He was getting sick to his stomach from the violent roller coaster ride the plane was on. Having his eyes closed only made him feel sicker. The banging on the fuselage startled him as the sleet started coming down. Big slushy pieces of ice covered the windshield. They couldn't see out at all. It was like being inside a big, dirty snowball. The pilot said something that Timmy couldn't make out, but it sounded like one of those words the kids told each other at school when the teachers weren't listening. The pilot was having trouble with the controls. He would try to move the wheel, but it seemed to push back at him.

Then the pilot had turned to look at him, and the fear in his eyes chased Timmy's sick feeling far away. Timmy knew that if even the pilot was scared, something real bad was going to happen. And, it did. Before Timmy or the pilot could say anything, some dark shapes seemed to jump into the ice-covered windshield as the little plane tore through a tall stand of pine trees.

When Timmy woke up, they were still and everything was quiet except for the wind. The ice had been scraped away by the tree branches, and a heavy rain was pouring down. Timmy looked over at the pilot then, and in the dim light saw him slumped forward with brown stains all over his head. Timmy could barely make it out, but it looked like a big piece of metal had pushed into the cabin and sort of squashed the pilot back into his seat. Timmy knew then that the man was badly hurt, and he tried to ask him what he should do, but he couldn't get an answer.

Timmy didn't feel hurt, except where the seat belt had pulled in his stomach. It even made him breathe funny. That didn't feel very good, so he unfastened the belt and tried to stand up. His movement overbalanced the plane as it hung supported at the prop and tail by trees on either side, and he was thrown into the windshield as the plane crashed the last ten feet to the ground.

When Timmy woke up again, it was the next morning and the storm had long passed through the area. Besides knocking Timmy unconscious, the final fall had done the pilot a favor. It gave him a few more hours of life. The fore part of the cabin had been pushed into his midsection by the engine, and it had broken several ribs, one of which had punctured his lung. After a night with a punctured lung and other internal bleeding from ruptured organs, he was just a corpse waiting for his mind to catch on. It was his own fault, really. He had taken out the inoperative transponder beacon, but had gone ahead and made the flight before the new one he had on order arrived. Then, the radio had stopped working just as the storm hit. Then, the crash had turned the radio into a broken piece of trash. By the time mid-morning after the crash had rolled around he didn't have any troubles anymore. He was long past caring. But, earlier that morning when he had come to with sunlight in his eyes, he had been numb all over. Then the pain had started, and it felt as though his entire body was ruined. He had remembered the Kid then, and looked over to see the boy staring at him with a terrified look in his eyes. He had a big bruise on his forehead, but he didn't look badly hurt. He knew he was going over the edge fast, and he tried to get out a few last instructions to the Kid.

Nobody was going to find the wreck anytime in the near future. They didn't even know where to begin looking since the plane had been blown off course during the storm. No mayday, no beacon. It might be weeks before they got into the right area, and then the dense forest would hamper the search. The best he could do for the Kid was to send him off either due north or due south; in either direction eventually he would cross a major highway. South was probably best, but in his disoriented state it was difficult to figure out which way to point. He guessed that south was to the right of the plane. He guessed wrong.

Timmy looked up at the cliff face again and then at the Sun. It was already low in the sky, and there was no way he would be able to climb all the way up in the dark. Getting stuck halfway up all night seemed like a pretty dumb thing to do. At least here the ground was flat and there were some soft looking spots under the pine trees where the old needles were mounded up. Then he saw the wild grape vines near a small seep of water at the base of the cliff. The tiny purple berries and the water decided the issue. He would stay here tonight.
Chapter 2

Tzetzlan woke with the setting sun. Hungry, but that was nothing new. It had been a very long time since hunger had replaced fullness. Ten's of thousands of nights. The memories were there, even so. They came back again as they did every awakening. Sweet, delicious memories brought on by hunger. It had been so easy then; they had come and by being near had broken through the shell built up over the ages since the journey had been interrupted. At first, they wanted to be led.

"Tzetzlan," they cried, "lead us!"

It had been heady stuff, after the centuries of darkness and long aching hunger.

The Journey! Another memory; this time dark and forbidding. The bitter memory of being cast adrift by a weak people. They could only trap, but not kill. They had made their trap well enough, and then set their prisoner adrift in the emptiness beyond the world they claimed. Alone. The stars did not fear him; could not feed him.

Him. A fairly new concept; a mere centuries old gift from the people who also gave him a name. Tzetzlan. Him. The others, the ones before, the weak ones had given him neither name nor gender. They had come to the world he inhabited, woke him from dormancy, discovered him, trapped him, and set him adrift. They had given only a few of their kind to his unceasing hunger before they had sent him on the long voyage. They had not honored him and given him name and gender. Only the people of this world had done that.

The people of this world had changed, though. They had also become a disappointment. At the start, they had been willing and eager to follow and to please him. Each time, upon his demand a new one would come to sate his hunger. After a time, perhaps a century as they measured such things on this world, the people were in a routine. It had almost been too much of a good thing. Before, it had always been catch as catch can. The regular feedings began to be a ceremony with expected outcome, and the sustenance derived not only from the one sacrificed but those in attendance gradually lessened. The hunt was missing, Tzetzlan had not understood how important that was to hone the apatite and satiate the inner hunger.

Inevitably, a deterioration of the relationship between Tzetzlan and the people resulted from his gradual withdrawal from the boring ritual. It had become a negative experience since so many regular feedings had built his store of reserves to something resembling corpulence.Give them time, he thought, time enough to lose the meaning of the ceremony; time enough to lose the memory of their god. Then he would return, and the feedings would be better again. The value of the ceremony would be renewed.

He had not counted on the people's reaction. The priests simply took over his role. They no longer needed him to spread fear; they could do it quite well on their own. Tzetzlan had been so dismayed that he had abandoned the lot of them and moved to a place where the people were fewer in number, and less well organized. Unfortunately, they were also warier and he found them to be exceedingly difficult to lure close enough to feed upon. After all, he moved very slowly indeed, and could not have physically kept up with the slowest of them.

Gradually, the new people living around his new hunting ground gave him a legend. It further served to keep wanderers out of reach. All too soon he was reduced to snaring the occasional small animal or bird, and very rarely anything larger. But, the beasts did not provide the level of fear he required to make a satisfactory feeding. Their fear was disorganized and decentralized. It couldn't be focused for intensity. He rapidly lost the stores of fear gained during the Tzetzlan years and once more became lean and hungry. It was better this way. Every feeding, no matter how tiny, meant the most it could. He was a gourmet of the tiniest nuance of fright. Still, the old ways had been so very satisfying for a time.

Not so long ago, a new people came to his area. They were of a still higher level of civilization than even the first people of this world. He was reluctant at first, perhaps they were capable of shipping him off into space as the others had done, but gradually it became clear that their technology did not match their ability. So much the better for him, perhaps they would give him a new name. He came to look forward to once again tasting a sophisticated fear, but he was in for yet another disappointment.

These beings were a very confusing lot. Some of them were primed to believe in things they could not see and would be good fare, but some of them, a growing number of them as time went on, pushed his tendrils aside as if they did not exist. The youngest and those with mental weakness were, of course, susceptible to his fear-inducing methods, but not many of those came near. The rest of them might be uneasy deep inside, but unless they were apprehensive for some other reason, perhaps injury or illness, he was unable to magnify and feed from the emotion. His diet did not improve after all. Very rarely did one of these new being fall prey to his need. He was doomed, it seemed, to continue subsisting on birds and mice.

Tonight would likely be no exception. Perhaps the fleeting fear of a field mouse would keep his hunger from deepening further, perhaps not. In a resigned state of mind, he began to sense his surroundings. At first, there was nothing except those very small organisms that seemed not to emote at all and the plants. He had tried once to feed from the fear of a tree during a very hard time, but it had taken nearly a full growing season to bring the cottonwood to an awareness of his tendrils. By the time some small reaction was noticeable, winter had set in and the tree went dormant. It had been a monumental waste of time, even for one who had all the time there would ever be.

The first sweep of the nearby area revealed nothing of interest, and even the rodents were keeping their distance. He broadened the circle to twice the radius, but there still was nothing except one small thing moving rapidly away. Widening again, it seemed he would still go hungry when a very faint response tingled in his head. What was it? Not a small thing, the mental scent was too complex, but not one of the larger seemingly fearless things that hunted for prey as did he. It was...Yes! His excitement mounted. It was a young one of the new people. It had not been there before, so it must have come into range while he was dormant during the daylight hours. Better yet, it was alone, and a young one with no support could be manipulated to any height of fear he could imagine. An uneasy thought came to mind then. It was too far away to travel the distance during this dark period, and it might move away during his dormancy the next daylight period. What to do?

He must start immediately to bring it closer, even if doing that might misfire and it would run away before being snared. He must use the thinnest of filaments, the smallest of nudges to coax it in the right direction. He knew how. Oh, yes! This was the hunt. The best part. Later, while he fed, he would remember the hunt and it would be the seasoning of the meal. The not so subtle flavorings of the feast. Such a rare opportunity must not be wasted, not the smallest fraction of gratification allowed to escape. He forced himself to pause, he was getting excited. That would interfere with the hunt.

Finally, when the planet's satellite was high in the sky, he was ready. He cast out the tiniest tendril of emotion. Out and down, drifting, weaving, and slowly closing on the prey. Closer, until it hovered near the young one. Closer still, until the tip brushed the young one's mind. Good! It was dormant for the night, and it was restless, already fearful! That was good! Good! He caught himself in time, nearly becoming overexcited again. With renewed control, he slowly pushed the filament closer until it wrapped itself within the young one's mind. There it lay for a time, becoming acquainted with the workings of the partly formed organism. Learning its way around the labyrinth that housed the intellect. Seeking out the weak spots. Discovering what caused the fear already there, and learning how to enlarge upon it. A small hors d'oeuvre stolen when he could not resist almost brought the exploration to an end as the young one stirred and nearly awoke. He withdrew then, reprimanding himself on nearly loosing the prey though carelessness, but he need not have worried, the young one must be exhausted indeed.

Tzetzlan had most of the answers; these people were not so very different from those who had given him name and gender, merely a bit more sophisticated in their thinking. He knew where to look and where to dig. He discovered and extracted even the tiniest source of fear the young one had ever known, but had kept hidden even from itself. On an instinctive level, Tzetzlan weighed the possibilities and arrived at the best strategy for the hunt.

Timmy sat up with a start. Awakened from a deep, but troubled sleep. It had been filled with dreams, and he remembered them all. It had started with a dream about when he was younger, in the company of several friends walking through a field near his home in Grand Junction. They had found an injured hawk, grounded and unable to fly. One of his friends, it had been Jeffery, had started teasing the bird with a long stick. The bird had tried to spread its wings and had hissed at them. Jeffery poked it with the stick and it hopped away. They ran after the fleeing bird and formed a circle around it. One of the others, Tommy, threw small pebbles at the bird and soon they had all joined in. They rarely succeeded in hitting the animal, but it became increasingly agitated. Tommy had been on the opposite side of the bird from Timmy, and when he managed to score a direct hit on the bird's back it had jumped away directly towards Timmy. Flapping one wing wildly, it was airborne for an instant before hitting Timmy in the chest and falling to his feet. There it jabbed at his leg with a sharp beak.

Timmy had been so startled by the attack, he jumped backwards, stumbling and falling onto his rear end. The bird hopped again, coming toward him as if to continue its attack. From his position on the ground, the bird looked much larger and more dangerous. It was staring him in the eyes as if it were going to tear them out of his head. It hopped still closer as the other two boys just stood there, looking on. Timmy grabbed a large stone from the dirt beside him and threw it as hard as he could. It caught the hawk full in the head and the bird slumped into a pile of feathers. He had killed it.

That memory was real enough, and Timmy had pushed it into a dark corner out of shame at the teasing and of causing death. It would have been bad enough if his dream had stopped there, but it hadn't. In his dream, the bird came back to life and sought him out in his bedroom while he slept. It had grown; it was as big as a man and it had hands at the tips of its wings. They reached for Timmy as he lay sleeping, and nearly touched him. Then, in his dream, he woke up to find that the bird was real. That had woken him from his real sleep. As he lay under the towering pine tree, he could still feel the dread. It filled the air around him and seeped from the earth beneath him. It seemed to be coming from a place down the hill, in the direction from which he had come. It had a bad feeling about it. It almost made his nostrils burn, like something dead and rotten was close.

Timmy shivered in the cool pre-dawn air. It was August, but he was chilled. The stars burned above him, but the moon was setting and the dark forest was deep and black behind him. He could barely make out the tree trunks nearby. He tried lying down again, pulling his jacket tight and nestling into the humus, trying to hide from the night. There was a soft scuffling a few feet away from his head. Timmy hoped that it was a mouse. He lay there with every nerve a-tingle, waiting for the bad thing to come. He knew where it would come from, and he must not let it catch him from behind. Gradually exhaustion won out, and despite the chill and fear, he drifted back into a troubled sleep.

The tendrils flailed about, seeking the way through the block Timmy had tried to build to keep the bad thing at bay. The wall began weakening as sleep came on, and a tiny crack opened up. The tendril wiggled into the thin fracture, forcing it wider. Abruptly, it was through, into the interior, connecting synapses; it began drawing the fragments of Timmy's fear closer together. Timmy twitched in his sleep, and his eyes moved rapidly under eyelids. It was coming and he was helpless. He couldn't stop it. The bad thing had broken out of its cage and it was fighting its way through the murky depths of Timmy's subconscious, gaining strength, deepening form, and finally bursting, fully developed into Timmy's dream. Timmy whimpered as the last barrier fell. He had returned to the dream about the hawk. The hawk-man reached out again to touch him with a featherless hand.

The hand changed; the feathers melted away to reveal dead gray skin. The talons at the end of the fingers became long curved fingernails, cracked and broken at the ends. In his dream, Timmy woke just as the fingers brushed across his face. The thing with the dead gray skin really was beside his bed. It wasn't a hawk anymore, it was a man. A dead man, with blood stains all over his face and staring white eyes. The man's mouth drooled saliva and blood. Timmy saw that the man's chest was caved in, and bones stuck out through his sides. The dead man opened his mouth to speak, and Timmy could see his swollen, black tongue.

"Timmy," it said, "why didn't you get help? I asked you to get help."

The dead hand brushed his cheek again, and the pilot bent down to stare with dead eyes into his face.

Timmy woke screaming then. He looked about wildly, but there was nothing there; only boughs waving in the early morning breeze above his head. The darkness was less complete, and the base of the cliff could be seen a short distance away. Timmy's whole body shuddered, but only partly from the morning chill. As faint shapes began to take form in the dim light, he couldn't tell if they were bushes or monsters. Timmy had never been so frightened in his whole life; not even when the plane crashed. It seemed like every part of him wanted to run in a different direction, to hide in the deepest, darkest hole that could be found. He closed his eyes as tight as he could and tried to think of something else. He pictured his Mom, back in Grand Junction, as he was used to seeing her sitting at her drawing table making illustrations for books. He felt better then.She and Dad would be looking for him by now. In his vision, his Mom turned her head to look at him, and smile like she did when he came home from school.

Only, it wasn't his Mom's face. It was the pilot again, smiling with dead, white eyes in a bloodstained face beneath his Mom's long wavy hair. The pilot's lips were colored with the same shade of lipstick his Mom always wore, and he had earrings in his ears.

Timmy opened his eyes and wailed at the same time. The terrible dream was coming even when he was awake. He had to get away from it some way, any way. In the first faint light, Timmy could make out the cliff face a few feet away. It looked softer in the morning light; not so imposing. He couldn't see very far up; maybe it wasn't as tall as he thought. He crawled over to the bottom of the first ledge; there were handholds there, and places to put his feet. He started to climb. After a few feet, he paused to look down where he had spent the night. There were shapes there he didn't remember, and they seemed to be moving around in the morning light. One shadowy form stretched out towards the base of the cliff directly below, and seemed to be looking for a way up. Timmy didn't look down again for a long time; he climbed with one small move after another, and when he did look again he could see nothing below but steep, bare rock.

Tzetzlan felt his consciousness begin to fade with the rising of this world's sun. He couldn't stop the diurnal cycle from happening, and soon he would be dormant until dark. With dormancy, control over his prey would be gone. Struggling against the inevitable, he sent out one last, weak tendril into the young one's mind.

"Seek shelter," it pleaded, "find a dark place. Here, here is a safe place."

Dawn broke fully over the cliff edge above Timmy, the tendril faded to a wisp, and then, as smoke in a breeze, dispersed.

Timmy welcomed the sunrise and its warmth. It promised the end of dreams and the end of fear. Then he looked around. Up. He couldn't see the top. It looked like a wall with tiny ledges and gaps. The hard sandstone felt like cement under his hands, which were already scraped and raw. He was perched on a ledge only a little wider than his foot, and the cliff above pitched away only slightly. Climbing higher would almost certainly result in a fall, to below. Below. He looked down and caught his breath. There was nothing there; just the edge of rock. He looked outward, and saw tiny pine trees that made a miniature forest. It wasn't much different than looking out the airplane window. He had no idea how he had gotten to this precarious perch on the cliff face. There was no place to put even a toe on the rock face below. He could not go back down. There was no way he could force himself to try that direction.

He looked up again. Either he had to stay cramped, on this ledge, or he had to climb. He wished it was still dark so he couldn't see what he was about to do. Slowly, tentatively he reached up with a hand to find a knob or even a tiny crack to hold onto. He had thought he was scared last night, but he had been wrong. He would rather be with the monsters in the pine trees than here clinging to a sheer precipice. His heart pounded in his chest, and his throat was so tight that he had trouble breathing.

The Young One's fear was so palpable that Tzetzlan quivered in his dormancy. His claws twitched in anticipation and the needle-sharp prongs at the ends extended beyond their sheaths. The fear was so strong that Tzetzlan fed in his sleep. Still deep in dormancy, some small part of his mind pleaded for nightfall.

The light began fading again, and Timmy almost broke into tears. All day he had inched his way up the cliff. More times than he could count his feet had slipped, and he had caught himself from falling only by grasping a tiny projection of stone or wedging his hand in a tiny crack in the rock. His muscles were sore, and he had trouble making his left arm reach up anymore. He wanted to just let go. Maybe it would be better that way. All day he had expected to be found by someone. Someone to pluck him off this cliff and take him home. Dad and Mom had failed him. They hadn't come to save him, and maybe they never would.

A sudden thought came then; maybe they had put him on that plane to get rid of him. Maybe they just didn't care. He was so tired by then, that he didn't care either; just let go and it would be over. They would be sorry, then. They'd find his broken body down there in the pine trees, and then they would be sorry they hadn't looked harder. He felt just then as he imagined the hawk must have felt, he was like the hawk, except he didn't have feathers. If he did, he could fly. Wouldn't that be something? Just to fly off this cliff? Fly all the way home. Maybe pretty soon he would do that. Fly, fly all the way home. He reached up again; if he didn't find something up there this time, maybe he'd try to fly.

He forced his arm up as high as it would go and groped blindly. All he felt was air. His heart jumped to his throat. All day long there had been something there when he reached up. Slowly, he brought his arm back down seeking something solid. Finally, just inches above his head, he found an edge to the rock. Holding as tight as he could to a little lump in the rock, he forced his legs to push him upward. Even before his legs were fully extended, his eyes came even with the rock edge and a broad flat area stretched out before them.

It only took seconds then for a renewed surge of energy to push him up and over the edge of the plateau and several feet beyond to the beginnings of a grass-covered tableland. Then, just as suddenly as the energy had come, it drained away, and he slumped down into the grass. He closed his eyes then, and the late afternoon sun felt warm on his face. He could see floating spots of light behind his closed eyelids. He had made it!

Timmy forced his eyes open and looked around. The pine trees started again off to his right, away from the cliff edge. The sunlight filtered through them, but they grew so thickly that he couldn't see very far into the forest. That was the way he had to go. He knew that he needed to find a better place to spend the night, it was too exposed here and he wanted to be far away from the precipice. He wished he had some water; he was very thirsty. He got to his feet and with one last look back over his shoulder, started into the forest. It was easy going on the flat ground, but he had to pay attention to low hanging branches. Sometimes his attention would wander and he would walk right into one. He gradually became aware of a change, the ground was rising and walking was a little bit harder. He began to catch glimpses of something dark and massive through gaps in the trees.

The trees started thinning out and he could see farther with every step. His spirits began to sink, and he didn't want to believe what lie ahead, but there it was. Another cliff. He took another few steps, and broke into an open meadow stretching out to either side along its base. He looked up. It wasn't as steep as the first cliff, but he couldn't see the top. As the late afternoon sun filtered through the forest behind him, Timmy stood there staring at the gray limestone wall with tears running down his face. He slumped to the ground and closed his eyes.
Chapter 3

Timmy's story had been on TV in Grand Junction. Even the Denver stations had picked up on the missing plane and the search effort. Dale and Lorrane Michaelson watched listlessly as the anchor went through the story they already knew.

"A small plane downed by a storm in northern Arizona carried a Colorado boy to an

unknown fate. Ten year-old Timmy Michaelson of Grand Junction was on his way to

visit his grandmother in Phoenix when the small, single-engine craft was apparently

caught in a violent storm over the high, Mogollon Rim country in northeastern Arizona,

near the small city of Payson.

Arizona Civil Air Patrol has mounted a massive search effort. However, they are

hampered by a lack of information regarding the position of the aircraft around the time

it went down. No transponder beacon and no radio signals have been received.

Using a new, sophisticated computer program developed in recent months, the CAP has

narrowed the search area by predicting how the storm would have pushed the small

craft off the course filed with the pilot's flight plan.

Still, the area is very large, nearly three thousand, heavily timbered, square miles.

We'll update this story at ten o'clock. Meanwhile, stay tuned. After these messages, Jim

will take a look at the pennant race. It's an exciting baseball year, isn't it Jim?"

Dale glanced over at his wife, sunk into the recess of the big overstuffed armchair. She was silently crying again. She blamed him, and he knew it. He blamed himself. He had thought it would be a thrill for Timmy to fly to Phoenix in a small plane. He had trusted Kelly as a friend of many years, and had often flown with him. He was a good pilot, and Dale couldn't imagine him taking chances, even small ones. Hell, even on the ground Kelly drove five miles under the speed limit. It had to be just rotten luck. That didn't help; he still blamed himself. He should have put Timmy on a commercial flight like they had first planned. If only Kelly hadn't mentioned having to fly to Phoenix to pick up a part. If only he hadn't asked whether Kelly might consider taking a passenger. His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the land line. Lorrane visibly stiffened. They both expected the worst.

As he listened to the voice on the other end of the line, he could feel Lorrane standing just behind. She could have picked up the extension and listened in. He understood why she didn't. It took him a few seconds to put down the receiver after the voice on the other end ceased. He was lost in thought. Lorrane interpreted his silence in another way, and ran off to the bedroom crying loudly. Belatedly realizing what he'd precipitated he turned and ran after her only to find the bedroom door locked. He could hear her crying inside, but it was muffled because her head was buried in the pillows. He tried knocking and calling out, but she was lost in profound misery and didn't want to hear him. Finally, after an eternity, he heard the crying taper off and sounds of movement behind the door. It was a strange assortment of sounds, doors and drawers opening and closing, things being moved around. He called out again, but again no response; just the noises. Finally it came to him; what to say.

"Lorrane," softly, "listen to me. Timmy isn't dead. They found the plane and Kelly, but Timmy wasn't there. He walked away from the crash."

The sounds stopped abruptly, and listening thought he could hear fast and shallow breathing just behind the door. Even so, when it opened abruptly it caught him by surprise. He looked first at Lorrane's red and tear-streaked face, and then over her shoulder at the open suitcases lying on the bed, half-filled with jumbled clothing, cosmetics and everything that had been on top of her dresser. He felt his throat constrict at the sight. She stared at him with an emotion-drained face.

"What did you say?"

Her voice was flat and toneless.

"I said," Dale picked his words carefully, "that Timmy walked away from the plane after it crashed. They found Kelly still inside. He didn't make it." He hurried on. "But, Timmy wasn't there. They looked all around. There was no sign of him and no sign that he was even hurt."

As Lorrane listened to him, she seemed to gain strength and hope flared in her eyes. She started crying again and pushed herself up against him. He held her tightly until she had pulled herself together. He didn't mention the bags. They scared the hell out of him.

"Lorrane, listen, we have to go there and help look. I was trying to figure out how to do it. First thing tomorrow we start. We'll take the four-wheel and get an early start."

"Why wait until tomorrow? As you can see, I'm already packed. As soon as you catch up, we can leave. I'll drive first."

It hadn't taken long to get on the road. Their only child was lost somewhere, probably scared and hungry, and maybe hurt. The plane had gone down more than thirty-six hours before, and both felt urgency building. By ten-thirty they had passed through Mexican Hat, Utah and were on the long, lonely stretch of road leading to Kayenta, Arizona. Dale was finally at the wheel, and Lorrane was sitting quietly in the passenger seat. He wished she would try to get some sleep, but knew she wouldn't. The early morning hours found them in Payson, looking for the Sherriff's Substation.

They checked in with the sleepy-eyed deputy on duty, and were told to go get a room and come back later in the morning. After extracting a promise to be included in the search effort, they reluctantly went off to look for a room. Once they lay in bed, both fully clothed, the long day caught up with them, and they were asleep in moments.

Deputy Henry Stanton Rockwell, Hank to people who wanted to stay on his good side, had been with the Gila County Sheriff's Department for nearly twenty-two years. He had seen pretty much everything in that time. Escaped felons, car crashes without number, run away wives, husbands, daughters and sons, petty thieves, armed robbers, and several small plane crashes. He figured this latest one was a bit out of the ordinary. The pilot had brought it down flat and should have survived. Bad luck and a big tree limb had overcome his competence. Hank didn't understand where the passenger, the boy, had gotten off to. He couldn't have been hurt bad, Hank was certain of that. No blood except the pilot's. Plus, the kid had walked away. He'd seen footprints around the fuselage under what was left of the wing. No, the kid was alright so far, but they better find him fast.

He stood in the sunlight waiting for the chopper to bring the kid's parents. Damn nuisance. They should have stayed in town, but they weren't having any of that. Had to be in on it, and would probably wind up lost themselves. He heard the telltale noise off to the south, muted but unmistakable sound of rotors. He leaned over slightly and shot out a long brown stream of tobacco juice. Bill Stubbs, of the volunteer Search and Rescue Team, moved his left foot just in time.

A half-hour later, the kid's folks had been introduced around, and shown the evidence that their son was alive. Bill could see the relief come flooding into their faces. He could imagine what they had been going through since the plane went down. Then Hank asked the boy's father to ID the pilot. Dale, Bill couldn't help but think of a chipmunk when he heard the name the first time, came away looking pretty sick. Bill would've bet the guy was ready to upchuck, and he was surprised when a few seconds later Dale asked when they planned to get started looking for his son.

Hank laid it out right away. He figured that the boy would've taken off down slope. It was easy going in that direction, and there was a well used county road just five miles away. It was the obvious choice, but the boy's mother, Lori or Lorrane, Bill wasn't sure which, asked about the other direction. Hank gave her a look that said she ought to let the experts do the thinking, and then he explained how it was all upslope and ended at the base of the Mogollon Rim. Nothing but heavy forest and a steep cliff, so even a dazed kid wouldn't choose to go that way.

Bill could tell that the woman wasn't convinced, but Dale looked like he wanted to believe in Hank's assessment. Bill was mostly on board with the Deputy except that when you looked at the kid's footprints they all pointed up hill. Hank said it didn't mean anything, they could only trace the footprints a short distance before they went onto bare rock, and it was likely that the boy only went a few steps before looping around to head down hill. Then Hank seemed to have a crafty look in his eyes as he offered the parents a suggestion.

"Tell you what, folks. We just don't have enough people to do a good job of searching both directions. Why don't we put most of our effort into the most likely direction, and if you want you two can sort of scout the uphill direction and look for signs. The base of the first cliff is about a half-mile that way. Bill here will stay with the chopper and relay messages. We'll give you a walkie-talkie to keep in touch, and if you find anything holler to Bill. Then, we'll get someone to join you and take a look at what you find. OK?"

Dale looked reluctant, but Lori or Lorrane was more enthusiastic. Pretty soon it was clear that Dale would go along with his wife, and Hank gave them some final instructions.

"Now, you two stay out of trouble and don't take chances. Check in with Bill at least once an hour, and head back here no later than three in the afternoon. We don't want you getting lost, too. You know how to use a compass?"

Nods from both of them.

"OK, good, here's a spare. Keep track of where you're heading and follow the reverse bearing to get back."

"Bill, fix 'em up with water, a radio, a medical kit, and lunch, and let's get to it."

Less than ten minutes later, Hank and the other ten members of the S and R team were heading off down slope, strung out in a search line. Dale and his wife looked after them a while, like they weren't quite sure of what they were doing, and then the woman turned around and started heading up slope. Didn't even say goodbye. Dale nodded at Bill and then hurried to catch up. Bill looked after them until they were out of sight in the trees and then settled in to wait. Hard woman, that one, he wondered if she was like that all the time.

Dale and Lorrane made steady progress going up slope, not talking, each lost in thought. Both were convinced that Timmy was still alive, but neither had much confidence in the sheriff's deputy or the S and R team, who mostly seemed to be out for the glory.

Lorrane still harbored a deep, bitter feeling that her son, her one and only child now that she couldn't make anymore because of that quack in Denver, was in danger because of her husband. Since the butchery in the operating room, she'd lived in constant fear of Timmy even cutting himself. This was the worst possible nightmare come true. Her boy was lost in the wilderness, maybe hurt, and certainly in danger. She may have softened her tone towards Dale when the good news had come the night before last, but now that she saw the rough and desolate country, her earlier feeling returned. He had put her son in danger. She felt his eyes on her back, and knew he felt guilty and wanted her reassurance. If they found Timmy safe and whole, maybe she could someday erase the resentment but not now when it was new and raw. Timmy needed her, and there was no room left over for Dale.

Dale knew that his marriage was in trouble. The excitement and happiness that had drawn them back together after the call lasted only until they had gotten off the helicopter. Now, faced with thousands of acres of harsh reality, his wife was drawing apart from him. It just wasn't fair, he had only wanted to give his son an experience to remember. Wasn't it enough that he felt such a terrible guilt? Lorrane refused to even try and lighten his emotional load. What would happen if they didn't find Timmy? Or, if they found him...he switched lines of thought quickly. The dread possibility that he had started to think about was off limits. They would find Timmy. He and Lorrane would find Timmy, or that boorish sheriff's deputy would find Timmy. It didn't matter who did it, but please, let it be soon.

The cliff loomed above them, and bed upon bed of sandstone stacked up to the sky. An impenetrable barrier. Neither of them could even imagine that Timmy would attempt to find a way up this wall. If he went in this direction, he must either be making his way along the base, or have turned back downhill. It was nearly noon, but neither of them had any interest in the sack lunch they'd been given. They sat down at the base of the cliff, and talked about what to do next. With the downhill area covered they were left with going in one direction or the other along the cliff. But, which way should they go? Dale couldn't decide, as there was no clear advantage in either direction so far as he could see. They couldn't split up, that was obvious, although Lorrane had suggested just that. He wouldn't hear of it, they must stay together.

Lorrane had been staring off to the east for some time, and Dale thought she was only avoiding eye contact, but then she got up and started walking in that direction. His first thought was that she needed to find a bush, but when she passed the first one without slowing down, he called out.

"Hey, where are you going?"

She didn't turn or pause, but her words came back loud and clear.

"Timmy is this way."

He got up and trotted after her.

"How do you know?" It didn't take long to catch up, but he was breathing hard and she was walking fast. "I said, how do you know?"

She didn't stop or even turn her head.

"I don't know how I know, I just do."

Dale continued walking beside her until the clearance between rock in the cliff face and heavy vegetation narrowed, and he was forced to fall behind. He watched her back as she moved along the rough game trail, evading low limbs, but thrashing her way through low brush without regard for clothing or skin. He supposed this direction was as good as the other, but couldn't understand Lorrane's certainty. He started to worry about the time, it wouldn't be long before they had to turn back in order to get back to camp before dark. Also, it was time to check in with Bill. Dale stopped and told Lorrane to hold up while he made the all. She didn't even slow down. He completed the call quickly, trying to keep her in sight. Another problem, the voice on the radio was faint and partly broken; they must be near the limit of range for the small radio.

Dale started trotting again, Lorrane had disappeared from view and he felt a twinge of fear. Even after he had run far enough to catch up, she still was not in sight. He was about to shout her name, when he broke into a small clearing and saw her crouched low under a pine tree. Then she went down on all fours and started patting the ground all around, and pawing through clumps of dried pine needles.

He looked around before asking her what she was doing. There was a greener spot at the base of the cliff and he surmised there must be a spring or seep there. The bright spot of color came from the tall grass and brush that took advantage of the moisture, and the face of the cliff was partly obscured where wild grape vines, laden with small purple berries clung to the rock. Something had torn down a few of the vines, in an effort to get to the fruit. Bear, maybe, and that thought made him uneasy. Lorrane hadn't looked up yet, but kept on patting the ground. Her voice came to him in disembodied form.

"Timmy was here. I know he was here."

He was about to say something to try and bring her back to reality, she was losing control. His voice caught in his throat as he tried to speak. In that instant, his gaze had fallen on a patch of humus and pine needles where something glimmered in the afternoon sun. It shone more brightly than a natural thing should, and he walked over to pick up the object, half hidden in the brown needles. He knew what it was before he cleared the debris away, but didn't say anything until he had carried the object to where Lorrane continued her search. Lorrane looked up as he brought the object to her eye level. She wasn't hesitant at all.

"That's Timmy's!

She was on her feet then and grabbed the small chrome figure of a space shuttle out of his hand.

"That's Timmy's!" She was looking at him with wild eyes. "You didn't believe me, did you? I was right, he's been here. He was here last night, alone and cold."

She looked around frantically, as if she expected her son to pop out from behind a bush.

Dale was excited, too, but made an effort to contain himself. Bad enough that Lorrane was out of control.

"Lorrane, listen to me, you have to calm down. We know for certain that Timmy was here, but we really don't know how long ago and we don't know where he's gone. We have to get the others to come here now and help us look. OK?"

"No," she said, "we have to look now! How long will it take us to go back and get the others, Timmy needs me now!"

Dale noticed the 'me' instead of 'we' and understood that he was still not a full-fledged partner in the parenting team. Her attitude hurt, but he let it slide, there were more important considerations.

"Lorrane, the more people we bring here the faster we find him. Come on, all we have to do is to get back into radio range."

"You go, and I'll stay and look."

"No way!" It was Dale's turn to be stubborn. "I could lose you, too." He grabbed her arm and pulled. "Come on Lorrane, it won't take long. We'll tie a handkerchief on this tree to mark the place."

Lorrane hesitated, and it was all the agreement he needed. He tied on the white cloth, grabbed her arm again and led her back they way they had come. It was slow going as Lorrane turned back over her shoulder constantly, stumbling along behind his lead.

Hundred's of feet above them, hidden from view and hearing by distance and rock, Timmy clung to the rock ledge and thought about flying.

Dale kept trying to raise Bill, but got only static. They had traveled back quite some distance, and were a lot closer than he thought necessary to bring them into range. It was late afternoon, and Dale began to worry about having enough daylight left to bring the others to the discovery site. Finally, Bill answered, he would have responded earlier but had been napping in the warm afternoon sun. He came fully alert when he heard what Dale had to say, and relayed the message to Hank.

Hank was less enthused about the discovery, at first he just didn't believe it, and thought it was just wishful thinking instead of hard evidence. When he finally came around to the idea that they had found something solid, another half hour had been lost. Timmy had made the climb over the last ledge, and lay on the grass-covered ground of the broad bench.
Chapter 4

Timmy stirred from his prone position when the sun was very low in the west. As the shadows around him lengthened, the air became noticeably cooler. A chill breeze swept through the small meadow causing goose bumps to rise on his arms. Night was coming again, and the dreams and the corpse of the pilot would return. With panic rising, a thought from last night returned. He suddenly knew what he must do, from deep in his head the thought came that he must find a hole. A cave in the dark limestone cliff ahead of him where he could hide from the night monsters until morning. Somehow, he even knew where to look; it was over that way, to his right.

In minutes Timmy had found his way through the thin vegetation that fringed the meadow and came up against the dark rock of the second cliff. It was different than the rock he had climbed to get here. This was a hard, gray, dirty looking stone. Its surface was rough and pitted. As he laid his hand on it, a hundred little points tried to break the skin of his palm. He liked the sandstone of the first cliff better; he wouldn't like to crawl on hands and knees on this stuff. He had an urge to go to the right along the cliff base. He had to hurry to find his place for the night, as the sun was half-way down on the horizon already. He looked up and saw a narrow ledge above his head, and he wasn't sure but there might be a dark spot just above the ledge. Maybe that was what he was looking for, and he started climbing. Before he even got more than his own height up his hands were bleeding from more tiny cuts than he could count, and his clothes were torn from catching on the solution-sharpened ridges on the rock.

Finally, he stood upright on the ledge, and looked around in the failing light. The limestone cliff wasn't very tall after all. Just a few more feet above, he could see it sloping off to the north, covered with soil and bushes. He was tempted to just keep going, now that it didn't look so bad, but it was nearly dark and that voice in his head cried out for shelter. No telling how far it would be to a place where help could be found. He soon gave up the idea of going on; the little voice won.

He turned to walk along the ledge. It rapidly narrowed to just a few feet and soon he had to turn sideways and shuffle along with his chest pressed against rough rock. He was relieved when it opened out again. He felt a cool breeze on his skin. It was coming from an opening in the limestone that he could just barely make out in the failing light. He had found the cave. Timmy groped his way into the even darker opening, and felt the ceiling just inches above his head. It was much darker than he had expected. That was good he thought, he could hide in the dark from the monsters.

Tzetzlan fought off the day's dormancy with a measure of impatience. The quarry might be close by now. He shook off the last traces of torpor, and sent out his mental tendril. He was nearly shocked back into dormancy, the young one was not far out waiting to be brought close; he was close, so close that he could place the location exactly. The quarry seemed to surround him with emanations. He quivered in anticipation, the prey was so close that he could see the progress of the hunt with his eyes, and not merely sense it with his mind! Not since the early days of the first people had he felt such a degree of excitement.

Slowly, because he could move no more rapidly, Tzetzlan rose from the niche in which he slept. His short, stubby legs shuffled forward a step to the ledge of the small overhang. Spreading his arms, he tottered forward to fall into space. The membranes stretching wide between arms and body caught the dank air of the cavern. The fall changed to a graceful glide that ended as his feet scraped the cavern floor and the end of the hundred-foot long big room he called home. It would take nearly an entire night to regain the niche, clawing and grasping to regain the elevation of his nest in the cavern wall. It was always hard work, but this time the trip back would be eased by a sated appetite.

Anticipation began to rage within him. To look down at the prey and to drink in the fear! Then, at the final moment...No! He would not think of it yet. That would bring on instincts too intense for the task at hand. He would need to use all of his rationality to bring out the best of the feast ahead. He would build slowly on the young one's apprehension, taking a taste there, a tidbit here, pruning the wild growth of panic and keeping the terror submerged until it was ready to burst in a last excess of emotion. He would feed tonight as he had not fed in centuries.

Out of self-discipline he had become a gourmet. The meal would be taken in courses; not rushed as in the ancient past. He would savor every instant, realizing that it might well be decades as these people measured time before an equal occasion presented itself. Perhaps, he thought, he could make it last for more than one night. What a stunning idea!

The glide had been much too fast, as usual, and he had trouble finding sure footing on the uneven cavern floor. Just like last time, his foot caught on the broken stump of a stalagmite and sent him sprawling with wings still extended. Tzetzlan righted himself and tucked the wing membranes up into the skin folds. He didn't mind being clumsy or ungainly, it simply didn't matter. What mattered was his ability to generate fear, and at that he was masterful beyond comprehension.

He shuffled down the long passageway leading to the cavern's exit to the outside world. The young one was near, very near. It lay still inside the cavern's mouth, and he could feel the presence increase with every shuffling step. The way was long, but that was on purpose. He had searched out the best place in the cavern for a nest and found it deep in the farthest corner. Usually, he persuaded the prey to come to him, and merely waited in his lair until they were close enough. The young one was different, where a small animal would keep running away from perceived danger and towards him with relatively little effort, the boy would require constant attention and prompting lest some spontaneous affect of his intellect send him charging in the wrong direction. He had been lucky so far, the young one had followed the implanted suggestions while he was dormant, and he could not be trusted to be so obedient every time. These beings were an uncertain and untrustworthy lot, and he had been disappointed many times in the past by their uncontrollable nature. It was so much better to be able to go to the prey in body rather than in mind.

If Tzetzlan were capable of abstract thought, he might have wished for a bit more speed out of his shuffling gait. He could not glide in the twisting passageways and under the lower ceilings of the cavern. Once grounded, all that was left to him was to move feet forward one after the other while keeping his balance with thickened talon sheathes at the end of his wing tips. He was made for clinging to rock faces, not walking on level floors. At some point in the unthinkably distant past, his kind had evolved on a world of perpetual darkness. They were that world's supreme predators, hanging from rock spires and huge fungal growths, preying first on the induced fears of the ground dwellers and then upon their body fluids. They did not actually require the fluids, but they did offer spice to the diet. He represented one of the most efficient life forms ever evolved, needing neither light, nor heat, nor much air except enough for gliding and metabolizing liquid food.

A few of his kind, including him, had to adapt to different conditions when an early survey craft visited their world and collected specimens. The crew of the ship fell, one after the other, as the ship made its way back to more civilized regions. The last crewmember, driven mad by fear and believing that evil was aboard; reset the ship's course for the nearest sun. Tzetzlan, cleverer than most of his kind, had gathered knowledge along with fear and recognized his peril. Finding and manipulating the rescue pod had been intellectually challenging, but he managed somehow to drift toward the system's only habitable planet. Tzetzlan had then fed on the fear of his brothers as they came to know their fate of incineration.

Once grounded by the craft's automatic systems, Tzetzlan had found his way from the pod out into full sunlight. It had nearly killed him. The intense radiation had burned his body and scrambled his mind. He'd stumbled back into the safety of the darkened pod, but had still felt the star's radiation pounding at him through the hull. It took a great deal of time for him to recover. The experience had taught him well, and never again would he venture out into such a hostile light. Darkness had been his way at the start and would be his way in the future. When next he left the pod, it was only the short time during night when he was able to seek permanent shelter.

It had taken many, many years to adapt to the new world, but he succeeded. The inhabitants of the new world became his prey and the small cave he found, his home. Over time his life became segmented into daylight times of dormancy and nighttimes of hunting and feeding. It was quite different than the world of his origin, but he survived, and in some ways prospered.

Then came another change. New beings arrived to claim his adopted world, and they weren't affected by his abilities. He was, at most, a nuisance, dangerous only to small young ones. They trapped him, and simply shipped him off with no particular destination designated. Whether he perished or survived was not their concern, but they did not count upon his unlimited lifespan and ability to adapt. He had gone dormant after finding no means of escape. The centuries had passed unnoticed and the happenstance of his landing on Earth went unnoted until the first people, the ones of the jungle, found the pod and freed him.

Now after uncounted seasons on this, his third world, Tzetzlan once more did what he did best. The hunt was on and the prey was near. He felt the young one's presence growing stronger even though it was dormant. The fear bubbled there just beneath the surface. It was tempting to poke at it even now; to make the illusions flow to build the intensity and cohesion of the fear. But no, it would not be wise; he must first be in position, blocking the way of the young one's exit, in the event it should panic and run. Soon now he would be within sight of the physical being he now knew as 'boy', or 'Timmy', that was its name. Its personal name, like Tzetzlan. Timmy and Tzetzlan. He found gratification in the thought, none of the prey before had a name; such an intimate association. He would call the boy by its name as the hunt progressed, that would further enhance gratification.

In his sleep, Timmy dreamt of rocky cliffs and flying birds, and not dead pilots. He was restless, turning and crying out as first one cliff and then another rose in his path. Half-way through the night, his dreams changed, and it began as a soft scuffling noise penetrated his subconscious. Something was coming. The dead pilot tried to come into his dream, but the sounds of movement didn't fit. It was something else. Images leaked into his mind from Tzetzlan, even as Tzetzlan tried to prevent it. His anticipation was too great, and Timmy felt the presence grow. His dreams accommodated the alien images, and the huge hawk was back. It was different, and it changed even as his dream progressed. The closer it came, the less it looked like any bird Timmy had ever seen.

Tzetzlan slowly moved around the last jutting projection of rock. The boy, Timmy, was so close now that his senses were flooded. Even Timmy's small fears in his dormant thoughts were so intense that Tzetzlan began to have a full feeling. After so many meals from mice and other smaller, non-thinking organisms, Timmy was a gluttonous feast. He began to fear that he could not hold all the boy had to offer. The best was always last, and here he was only through the earliest emanations. The peak emotion of the end would be lost! If only there was a way to prolong it, but he knew of none.

He moved around the sleeping form to stand before the opening of the cavern. The moon was full outside and a diffuse light came in through the entrance. It was slightly uncomfortable, but reflected light was not nearly as painful and sunlight. Tzetzlan found that by turning to face inwards, the light was barely noticeable. It filtered in around his body, leaving his form silhouetted in the cavern opening.

Timmy stirred, the scuffling had stopped, but the images filtering through into his dreams had intensified. He couldn't quite make out the appearance of the thing that had once been a hawk. It held a horrid fascination for him, and he found himself watching his dream from a different perspective, watching a dark figure watching him sleep. He still could not make out a form, but a deepening fear came that it would attack his sleeping body. He called out in his dream trying to force his own wakefulness. He thrashed about, and his eyes flickered twice and then opened fully. The moonlight streaming around the edges of a shadow above him blinded him temporarily. It came in around a large rock, or something, standing between him and the opening he knew he had come through. His vision improved as he became accustomed to the light, and he saw that the rock had a strange shape. He didn't remember coming in around it, and was puzzled about what it could be. Then it moved.

Timmy's heart nearly stopped. He froze, thinking whatever it was might not notice him, but he knew better.

"Timmy."

Timmy wondered if he imagined the voice. It hadn't come through his ears. It was like something had been pushed into his head, and it carried his name with it. He could not hear any noise in the cave, not even breathing from the thing in front of him.

"Timmy. You are mine, Timmy. You belong to Tzetzlan."

It made no sense, and the words still came to him without sound. It was like having a nightmare when you were wide awake. A long, stick-like arm rose up from the thing's side. Timmy expected to see a hand at the end, but there wasn't. Instead, pointed talons slid out like stilettos and wavered in the moonlight. A thin membrane draped between the arm and the monster's body. The moonlight filtered through a tracery of veins in the membrane. It turned its head, and showed a profile; a sloping forehead ended at bulging projections so clear that the moonlight refracted through. A huge, pointed beak jutted outward beneath the eyes, and it opened, revealing rows upon rows of sharp teeth. Then, the head turned back to face him, and Timmy couldn't help it, he screamed and fainted.

Tzetzlan came closer to the Timmy, he was dormant again. This time more deeply submerged. He could not sense much emotion, not that it mattered. He was full to overflowing. He had not dined so intensely in centuries. What he had gotten from the Timmy would last a very long time. But, it happened fast, too fast. The hunt had not turned out satisfactorily. Usually the prey did not pass out until just at the last moment. He stood over the silent form. Maybe the Timmy would wake up soon, he would wait.

Timmy remained submerged. His mind was busy building stout blockades against the horror waiting for him when he awoke. His subconscious had no intention of allowing him to wake until the walls were complete.

Tzetzlan waited. Time meant nothing to him, except that it would be dawn soon and he would have to move deeper into the cavern to escape the light. He could feel the dawn approaching, a tingling on his back announced an increase in radiation long before the Sun's corona cleared the horizon. He had to move soon. Timmy was still unconscious, and Tzetzlan lacked the right kind of appendages for picking up and carrying anything that large. Tzetzlan was hesitant, he should kill the boy now. Never had he let the prey escape once it had given a feeding. That was a principal borne within him, but he hadn't come close to draining the Timmy's fear. To kill him now would waste the best part of the feeding. The burning intensified and he must move soon or risk injury. He shuffled closer, ready to make the thrust, but still he hesitated. If the boy escaped, could he be found again? A new thought, that. If he could be found again, Tzetzlan could feed again. If he killed Timmy now, then the best feeding in memory would be done. His intelligence was stretched to the maximum to reach these conclusions. He could recognize immediate cause and effect, but foresight was not his strong point. This once, he was coming very close to predicting outcomes, and the question arose, if he let the Timmy live and if the Timmy escaped, could he find the Timmy again? The burning was surpassing uncomfortable. Either kill the Timmy...or what?

His instincts took over. Tzetzlan's supposed gender was a sham. His kind had no clear distinction between sexual functions of different individuals. They were unisexual, and capable of producing offspring without any other's assistance. It did not happen very often. So long-lived were they that the urge to reproduce seldom occurred and required an extraordinary stimulus. A prey so favorable that it could host the offspring to full development. The Timmy was such a host.

Timmy woke up at mid-morning with the edge of full sunlight falling below the sharp overhang at the cavern mouth. The horror had not been there when he woke up. His side hurt, and when he looked down, he found his shirt covered with dried blood. The monster had done something to him, but he didn't know what. As long as he did not have to see the thing again he did not care. He got up slowly. The night's restless sleep had not washed away his exhaustion. He had stopped being hungry, it had been so long since he had eaten, but he was still very thirsty. If the monster hadn't shared the cave with him he might have stayed inside until he wasn't thirsty anymore either. The monster was about the only thing that could get him to move, and he stumbled out into the sunlight. Pressing a hand against his hurting side, he started climbing up the small cliff to ground that sloped more gently, and continued his trek to the north. He started walking at a slow and steady pace, looking to neither side, but keeping sight on a snow-capped mountain far off in the distance. Even night did not stop him, and he kept on walking. As the moon rose that night, Timmy stumbled into a ditch running beside a dirt road. He got to his feet again and started plodding once more. This time down the middle of the road. He felt something scratching at the walls his mind had constructed, but it couldn't get through and he ignored it.

Chino Alvarez was barreling along the road two hours later. Chino was heading in late from a day of mending fences. His plan to be back home in Winslow by eight had gone wrong when he'd gotten stuck coming out along a sandy wash. It had taken him three hours and a lot of digging to get moving again. Trying to make up time down the last stretch of Chevelon Road, his speedometer was pushing fifty. At the far edge of the high beams he glimpsed a flash of white on the road ahead. Thinking that a calf had broken through the fence on the side of the road, Chino started breaking. Maybe he'd just tie the animal down somewhere and tell the boss. Someone could come out and collect the stray tomorrow. He'd put in a long-enough day. The white patch gained definition as he approached, and Chino was puzzled by the un-calf-like shape until finally he recognized the form as human.

A child! He pulled up along side and lowered the window. It was a boy, and couldn't be more than twelve. What a mess the kid was!He expected the boy to turn and greet him, but the kid just stared ahead and kept on walking. Chino tried several times to get the boy to talk to him with the same result. He was at a loss, and didn't know what to do. He couldn't leave the boy out alone, but he was acting so strangely that Chino felt apprehensive about forcing him into the truck. These days, helping someone out could wind you up in a law suit. Chino knew that the boy was demente by then. He was too strange. He pulled ahead once more, stopped, got out and stood in the boy's path. The boy walked right into him and just stood still until Chino put an arm around his shoulder and guided him to the passenger side of the truck. The boy didn't resist at all as Chino latched the seat belt and cinched it up tight. More to keep the boy restrained in case he turned violent than to prevent injury. He got back behind the wheel, and with a furtive glance and a muttered "Niño loco", started out again towards Winslow.
Chapter 5

Lorrane and Dale waited with growing impatience for Rockwell and his people to arrive. It had been three hours since they had reported their find and still no help had arrived. It was already nearing sunset, and they should be searching right now, back where they'd found the toy shuttle. Dale began to feel the resentment towards Rockwell that his wife had developed at their first meeting. Rockwell regarded them as nothing more than a nuisance, and troublesome interference he could do without. No doubt he was taking his time now, just to pay them back for making the discovery. He didn't care about their son, only his own stupid pride.

Lorrane wanted to forget about the S and R team and return to the spot to look on her own. Dale knew that if they didn't recognize evidence and then messed it up, they could hinder the efforts of a coordinated search. He didn't understand Lorrane's feelings about being able to locate their son by some sort of empathy. Such ideas were nonsense, and finding that little chrome shuttle nothing but a happy coincidence. Admittedly a coincidence with very long odds, but nothing more. Lorrane was building up to some sort of emotional disaster, and it disturbed him immensely that he didn't have any idea of how to head it off. If they didn't find Timmy soon...well, he might lose both of them. It was more than he was willing to lose, but he felt helpless, and wished that Rockwell would show up.

It was nearly six when they heard the first noise of approaching people. Soon after, the first shapes began to appear, moving between the trees. It took another fifteen minutes before all of Rockwell's people had arrived and formed a loose circle around Dale. Lorrane stood, excluded, off to one side.

Rockwell questioned Dale closely and repeatedly about what they had found, trying to find a flaw. He held up the shuttle trinket and remarked that there must be thousands like it. Dale was getting desperate. There was less than an hour of daylight left and nothing was being done about finding his son. He glanced over at Lorrane. She had a glassy-eyed look he didn't like. She was about to snap. He turned back to try and prod Rockwell into action. The latter held up his hand for silence while he discussed some minor logistical matter with one of the men. Dale looked back to Lorrane to try and enlist her support. She was gone! He looked around wildly, and caught just a glimpse of her sweater heading off into the trees. Maybe she had the right idea. These assholes were more interested in setting up camp than finding their son. He looked once more at Rockwell, still engrossed in conversation, and then simply turned and walked rapidly after his wife.

Rockwell stopped talking, when he noticed the father push his way out of the circle, and then looked around. The mother was gone, too. Damn amateurs. He pondered a moment and then spoke again.

"Well, men, it looks as though Mom and Dad are taking matters into their own hands. Probably get themselves into a mess of trouble with night coming on. I suppose we'd better go along and keep them from doing themselves harm. Let 'em play their cards out. Then maybe they'll go home and leave us to do our job."

Dale and Lorrane arrived back at the small spring together, neither one had anything to say. Dale began walking in widening circles around the spot where he'd found the shuttle. He expected Lorrane to do something similar, but when he glanced over, he saw her shuffling along the base of the cliff, running palms over the stone, and looking upward. He was about to ask what she was doing, but was distracted by the arrival of the search party. Lorrane kept on with her own peculiar search, apparently not noticing the arrival of the men.

Rockwell looked at the woman with considerable puzzlement showing in his face, before turning to Dale and demanding to be shown where the trinket had been found. Soon, he and the other men had joined Dale in a search of the ground. Only one of them, Bill, approached Lorrane. He watched her for a time, trying to figure out what she was doing. She had stopped at a place where the rock fell off into a narrow crevasse that went up as far as Bill could see. She was patting the rock in the crevasse with a peculiar expression on her upturned face. He looked up to see what she was looking at. Nothing. Just rock. His eyes wandered over the rock, but the failing light made seeing details difficult. A few feet above the woman's head they caught on something. Something that didn't belong there; wrong color, wrong shape, something. He gently moved the woman out of the way and alternately using arms and then legs, worked his body up the chimney formed by the crevasse until he could reach the object. He plucked it from a small crack where it had become lodged.

"Hank!" Bill called out, but Rockwell was farthest away of all the searchers. He had to call out again, more loudly before he was noticed. Seeing the sheriff's deputy look up, he went on. "Hank, you'd better come see this."

By the time Bill had lowered himself to the base of the cliff, a curious crowd had gathered. He held out his hand and relinquished the soft, blue piece of cloth to Hank.

"Well, I'll be damned." Was the only comment Rockwell made for some minutes. He went over and examined the crevasse intently. Then he looked with equal intensity along the ground at the base of the cliff, for signs that a body had fallen. Encroaching darkness put an end to his examinations.

A rough camp was put together on the spot. There was very little conversation. Lorrane sat off by herself staring up toward the cliff face.A good many curious glances betrayed a common wonderment at the strange woman in their midst. Dale most of all had cause to wonder at his wife's apparent sixth sense about her son. He felt intensely envious, and did not feel even the slightest premonition about Timmy's well-being or whereabouts. They turned in early after Rockwell outlined the plan for the next day. Most would return to the base camp and from there be ferried up the cliff by the helicopter. A few, the best climbers, would begin an assent at first light, just in case the boy was hung up on a ledge. After transporting the crew to the top, the chopper would fly traverses along the cliff face and then expand its search along the plateau above.

Dale passed the first part of the night in wide-eyed sleeplessness. He had a horrifying picture of Timmy clinging to a precarious ledge high above his head. In truth, he expected at any moment to hear a soul-rending scream followed by the sound of a seventy-pound body striking the ground nearby. After several hours, he was beginning to doze off, and he felt, rather than heard, Lorrane get up and leave her sleeping bag. He assumed that she had to take care of personal business and didn't pay much attention.

Only a short time later, he was wakened from a deepening slumber by a piercing scream that cut into him like a knife. His first thought was that his waking nightmare had come true and that Timmy was hurtling toward him. The he realized that it had been a woman's scream. Lorrane! He ripped the zipper of the sleeping bag getting out, and found several of the men already huddled at the cliff, shining lights upward.

He looked up and saw Lorrane in the harsh light attempting to tear her way up the rock. She was shouting, "No! No! No!" A couple of the men started up after her, reaching her feet in moments. Lorrane was no climber and had reached a place where her frantic efforts were of no use. She violently fought the attempts of the two men to bring her down, finally falling exhausted into their arms. They lowered her gently to the ground where she lay in a rumpled heap, crying hysterically. After a time, long after Dale had thought she must surely stop to breathe, she gulped in great breaths of air and then immediately began wailing again.

"It has him! The monster has him! The horrid, terrible beast!"

Dale sat with her the rest of the night, but there was no consoling her. Near dawn she had finally drifted into a fitful sleep. He drank cup after cup of instant coffee prepared over a low-burning campfire, until finally he couldn't stand the taste any longer. When dawn broke, his eyes grainy and swollen half-shut, Dale found that Lorrane was deeply asleep at last. Her rest didn't last long, as Rockwell was also up at first light and calling out to get the search party going. The group returning to base camp set out at the same time that the climbers began their assent.

Dale had a tough time deciding whether to stay or leave. Lorrane decided for him, as she staggered along at the end of the group returning to the chopper. With a last glance at the cliff, Dale followed after. He caught up with her in a few steps and attempted to support her while she walked. She shook loose of his arm and continued alone. Dale stood on the trail, hurt and bewildered, while he watched his wife of twelve years walk away from him without a backward glance.

The ferry operation was delayed while the chopper made a run into Payson for fuel. By the time it had returned and started loading passengers it was nearly ten o'clock. High on the plateau, Timmy had escaped the cavern hours before and was heading toward the snow capped San Francisco Peaks far off in the distance. The search was a failure before it began.
Chapter 6

After a day of fruitless effort atop the plateau, a new camp had been established on a grassy meadow near the rim. Another scrap of cloth from the rocky edge of the escarpment had everyone convinced that the boy had somehow made the climb. When the news came over the chopper's radio that a boy had been found on the road and taken to Winslow, Rockwell didn't hesitate. Truth was, he was tired of this whole business. He couldn't for the life of him, figure out how a child had climbed that cliff all by himself and then walked halfway to Winslow. The feat was beyond most men he knew. Then there was that crazy woman. No, Sir! He'd had enough. He sent them packing. If the found boy wasn't their son, well then he'd go back and look some more. Somehow, he knew it was the right boy though. He didn't know how it could possibly be, but the boy had done the impossible and rescued himself.

Dale and Lorrane waited anxiously in the reception area of the Winslow emergency clinic. The nurse on duty had insisted that they remain outside the treatment area until the doctor had finished up with Timmy. That it was Timmy was no longer in question. One look at the photo in Lorrane's wallet had convinced the nurse. She had assured them that Timmy's injuries were not serious, but still insisted that they wait for the doctor. Finally, he came out to greet them. His smile was friendly enough, but Dale could tell that it masked a deep concern.

"Folks, you can go in and see your son in just a moment. First, I need to fill you in." Noting Lorrane's sudden concern, he hurried on. "Now, don't be worried, Timmy is in pretty good shape, physically. Somewhere he sustained a fairly deep puncture wound in the side, but it looks clean and it's in one of the few places that internal organs are not endangered. I've stitched it up, and it will heal just fine. Aside from a few scratches and bruises, that's the extent of his bodily injuries."

Dale noticed the doctor's repeated separation of the physical from the mental and began to steel himself for what he knew was coming. The doctor hesitated noticeably before continuing.

"Timmy has been, ah, frightened badly by his experience, as I'm sure you must already have guessed." He hesitated again. "I'm a bit out of my league here. I usually treat bodies, not minds, but I think it's possible that Timmy has been scared so badly that he has kind of shut down his mind for a while. Now, don't let that scare you. It's probably something he'll snap out of in a few hours. Probably as soon as he sees you he'll start to come out of it. I just wanted to prepare you in case he doesn't respond the way you expect him to right off the bat. Now, you two go on in there and let him know he's safe again!"

Timmy hadn't snapped out of it in a few hours. Nor in a few days. Two weeks later, he hadn't changed at all. It was like living with a mannequin. Timmy would do nothing for himself, he had to be fed, clothed and led to the toilet by Dale. If Lorrane tried to help, Timmy would not cooperate. They tried to send him back to school once, in the desperate hope that his friends and classmates could bring him back. The school had called after less than two hours and asked that they bring him home. Not only had he remained totally uncommunicative, but he had soiled his pants. They both came to the inevitable conclusion that they needed professional help. Dale made the appointment the next day.

Dr. Linda Belmont was good at her job. She could have secured a much more lucrative practice in a larger city, but preferred the climate and scenery around Grand Junction. The problems that children experienced in a small city like this one weren't very much different that the problems of children elsewhere, but there were fewer of them. She often counseled adults as well just to fill out her schedule. She preferred to work with children, it was more rewarding to save a young life that had many years left than to attempt to salvage a life that had been ruined for years and had little hope of full recovery.

She knew immediately that Timmy was a very special case. He did not fit into any category. His parents were loving, concerned people who, despite their current stressful existence, would not have hurt the boy in any circumstance. In a short time, she was convinced that Timmy's problems were entirely due to his recent misfortunes. It was his reaction to the events that puzzled her. Children were generally very resilient about accidents and recovered quickly. Often becoming braggadocios about their experience.Only when others had been involved, particularly relatives, were there lingering traumas. Her first impulse was to relate Timmy's withdrawal to his having witnessed the pilot's death. It was either that, or some unknown event.Only Timmy could tell, and he wasn't talking, not even to her. Although she was reluctant to do so, eventually she recommended that he be placed in a care facility. Timmy's condition was tearing his family apart. Lorrane was especially affected, and even without consultation, Linda could see that the woman was but a short step away from a breakdown herself.

Two months passed and very little changed. Dr. Belmont had warned them that it might be a slow and difficult recovery, but neither Dale nor Lorrane was really prepared for how long it might be. Dale mechanically plodded through life. Eight hours of sleep, eight hours of work, one hour sitting with Timmy, and seven hours watching TV or reading. Lorrane did not try to adjust. Her son had not only withdrawn from her as he had from Dale, her, he had rejected, clearly and irrefutably. She was devastated. Even though she had some idea of what had caused Timmy to hide from the world, she could not talk about it. It was too bizarre, and she would be misunderstood or disbelieved. Slowly, she too, turned within herself. More and more often, when Dale returned from the care center she was not at home. Often, she didn't come home until late, and then came the night when she didn't come in until morning.

Dale had been frantic, fearing all sorts of disasters. His relief when Lorrane finally came home, explaining that she had fallen asleep in her parked car, was so great that he overlooked her disheveled appearance and the smell of gin. It happened more and more often after that and Dale gradually came to accept it. There was, after all, nothing he could do about it. Lorrane had come to hate him, he was certain of it. Even so, he clung to the tattered remnants of their marriage. It was all he had left.

One night, a knocking at the door roused him from the movie he was watching. He opened it up and found a highway patrolman there.

"Mr. Michaelson," the officer said after ascertaining his identity, "do you have a relative or friend you can call? I regret that I have to call upon you tonight, but your wife has been in an accident. It was a very bad accident. She did not survive."

Chapter 7

The days passed, one after another, with pleasing monotony. Timmy no longer thought about the world outside his clean, white room in the care center. His life was regimented and secure. People took care of him and protected him. Once a day, his father came to sit in the visitor's chair for exactly one hour and then would leave, usually without saying a word. Timmy didn't mind. The television on the corner table provided all the diversion his encapsulated mind needed or wanted.

Of course, when the woman came, she shut off the TV and talked in a low, friendly voice all the time. Timmy didn't mind that either. He thought her name might be Linda. She talked about all sorts of things and kept asking questions. He didn't answer, of course. He couldn't take the chance that if he opened up that little bit, the monster might find the way in again. He just kept quiet. He liked Linda. She was pretty. His mother had been pretty like that before the monster stole her face. His mother never came to visit. Timmy was glad. If she wasn't around, he didn't have to think about how her face had turned into the dead pilot's face.

One day, his father had come like he always did. Timmy didn't look at him directly, but his mind recorded the fact that he looked very tired and very old. He hadn't shaved. His father spoke to him that visit. He said that Timmy's Mom was gone now, and would never be back. Then he put his head down and cried. Timmy didn't know why his father should cry now, after all, the monster had stolen Mom's face long ago. For Timmy, she had died then. Who could live if your face had been taken away?

After that, his father had shown up less often. Timmy didn't mind. His father had sent him with the dead pilot to meet the monster. He didn't really care about Timmy anyway. The last time Timmy saw his father he had put a silver chain around Timmy's neck that had his little shuttle on it. Timmy was glad to have the shuttle back. When no one was around he would hold it in his hand. Sometime after that, they moved him to a different place. It wasn't so nice. It was small and had dark blue paint on the walls. Instead of a TV there was a small radio. It really didn't matter to Timmy. People still took care of him, and every once in a while Linda would come to visit.

The months passed into years and still Timmy sat in his room hiding from the monster. When he was nearly eighteen, the weak scratching on the walls protecting his mind that had begun years before, got stronger. It felt like the monster, only it was small and weak. It came from a place nearby. He wouldn't let it into his mind though. Each time the scratching got a little stronger, he would add another layer to the walls. There was plenty of room to hide in there. He had discovered places that most people didn't know existed.

One place, he liked better than all the rest, was like being inside a little radio. If he tried, he could tune in things from outside. From other people. At first it was all mixed up; like everybody talking at once. Then he learned how to concentrate on just one person at a time. Like the one who called himself 'Stud'. He was always thinking things like, "Well Stud, what you going to do tonight? Maybe get atop that Carol. Yeah. That'd be good. Um-hm, yeah, yeah, yeah." Or, "Stud, you sure did pull a boner there. That old man is gonna have you for lunch. Don't care though, this job sucks. Should just tell them to sit on it and spin."

Then there was Liz, he had to be careful with Liz. Sometimes she came through so strongly that Timmy thought she could see him listening. He didn't understand most of what she thought. It was all stuff that seemed to pop out of nowhere.

Most of all, he liked to tap into the person in the next room. He thought it was a girl, maybe about his age, eleven or twelve. He wasn't sure, but it just seemed like girl thoughts he caught. Stuff like dolls, make-up and parties. He was kind of convinced that she must be pretty, too. She had a soft, gentle mind. He spent hours there eavesdropping. Then, one time, her mind got all curdled-up and changed. It was like being caught in a thunder storm. All the softness disappeared into some deep tunnel and a raw uncertain feeling came through. He could feel the confusion well-up in her mind. Her thoughts came like pieces of paper in a dust devil. He knew what was happening, of course, the girl was frightened beyond coherent thought. He felt needles of fear shoot through her mind and saw them open wounds that bled terror.

Timmy had been horrified, he had his monster, but the girl was frightened beyond reason and there was no reason at all. It just happened. At least he had something to fight against, but the girl had no focus for her terror. It just came, filling her mind and destroying her sanity. Gradually, the terror subsided. Such an intense attack could not go on forever. There would be no mind left if that happened. Even so, for a time, there had been a vacuum where the girl's thoughts had been. It came to him then that she did the same as he, she hid from the terror in a place he could not enter.

On one such occasion, he felt another presence try to fill that vacuum. It was the thing that scratched at the walls of his own mind, he recognized it. It too had sensed the emptiness in the girl's mind and was trying to fill it. He was puzzled and afraid. What was that thing doing in the girl's mind? Gradually, he came to understand, it was feeding off her terror. Timmy shut down completely after this discovery. Perhaps he had brought the monster with him. Maybe he had become the monster!

Deep in the cavern, Tzetzlan stirred. Something had disturbed its long dormancy. Eight times the seasons had turned on the surface above, but it had not noticed or cared. The feeding from the boy Timmy had seen it through all this time. Tzetzlan shifted position, and loose dirt and small rocks that had fallen on its body over the years fell to the floor of the cavern.

Tzetzlan woke fully, and stretched long unused limbs. Something had intruded, had called. What could have reached through to call on this alien world so far from the planet of its birth? Then a thought surfaced. The boy! The boy carried the offspring! The offspring had survived, and now it was calling. The primordial urge grew. It was time to leave, and to go to the offspring to see to its escape from the host. It would be a long trip, but there was time. Tzetzlan rested a moment longer, and then made its way to the entrance of the cavern, cautiously approaching the opening in the cliff face, lest it be near daylight hours. No, it was dark, and not even the cool-light giving object was in the sky, although its rim could be seen just clearing the horizon. It pondered its options. It could climb up and shuffle along in its slow fashion, hoping to find shelter before dawn broke, or it could go down to the top of the cliff and step off, to glide for a long distance. At first it would glide in the wrong direction, but perhaps with up-drafts and chance winds that would change. If not, there was time to spare; the offspring would not be ready to emerge until the seasons had turned twice more.

Tzetzlan was eager to spread arms and fly. The long dormancy had left its mind clouded, and the rush of air would clear it for the long journey ahead. Since it had arrived on this world, Tzetzlan had always traveled north, and north was the direction this new leg of the journey would take. It would be new and unexplored country. Tzetzlan made its way down to the top of the sandstone cliff, and spread its arms wide. Behind, to the east, the full moon rose over the tree tops. Bathed in cool radiance, Tzetzlan's silhouetted form fell from the cliff to begin its long glide to the ground below. The light filtered through the thin, billowed membrane between its arms and body. From below, it any had been there to watch, it would appear as though a huge bat was traversing the sky. But, only the rusted remains of a small plane marked man's existence on this world.

The winds were unkind to Tzetzlan, and try as it might to change course, it drifted steadily west and slightly south. It was not a matter of great concern; there was time enough.
Chapter 8

Murray Fenster wasn't especially proud of his chosen career, but he did enjoy it. Truth was, almost everyone he had known in school had gone on to dead-end jobs while he, the famous Murray Fenster, was on top of his particular heap. Not bad for a thirty-year old, short, dumpy, prematurely bald lump of flesh from the poor side of Chicago. He was pulling 170K a year and loving every penny of it. Not to mention the unlimited expense account and the travel to wonderful places all over the country. Murray loved to travel, and he'd often thought that if journalism hadn't worked out, he would try trucking or maybe even bus driving. No worry about that now. He had a good-paying job, and it took him all over the continent.

Naturally, there were drawbacks to every job, and whenever he ran into one of his teachers or even a classmate, he could sense that they didn't think much of him or his writing. Well, he had several million adoring fans who thought a lot more of Murray than they did of some poor slob who wrote nothing but sport's scores and obits. Sure, it sort of hurt not to have the respect of one's peers, and that was the one aspect of Murray's life that nibbled away at his complete contentment. That's why he was always on the lookout for that special story. The one that would earn him professional respect. So far, it had been a lot harder to do than he first thought.

Some guys were lucky and had been in the right place, working for the right paper at just the right time. Then they fell into it, and wound up having movies made about them. Others just kept plugging away at an inconsequential lead until they jacked it up into a major story. Murray hadn't been at the right place yet, his timing was lousy, and he'd be the first to admit that he didn't have much use for anonymous perseverance. No matter, some day it would come, and then he'd send all his old teachers autographed copies of his Pulitzer Prize check.

On a bright April morning, Murray pushed his way through the massive, some called it pretentious, engraved brass door of the American Spectator's office in downtown Chicago. As usual, he stopped at the reception desk for a little bantering conversation with Midgy. She was a gold mine of inspiration for him. The spry fifty-two year old belonged to so many clubs, organizations and cliques that he couldn't imagine how she kept them all straight. Every night was a meeting night for Midgy. Sometimes, two a night, and through her Murray tapped into the lives of thousands of middle-aged women and men all over the city. If someone said his last piece was great, he knew about it. If someone wondered why they didn't do something about such and such, he followed up on it. If someone mentioned that a neighbor who happened to be a councilman was seen coming in late, holding onto the arm of a woman who wasn't his wife, Murray loved it.

Most of the local stuff was good only for fillers, after all the weekly had national clout. Even a few of the larger Canadian cities were markets. To satisfy that kind of need, they had to come up with stories of regional or national interest. That's where Murray shined; even though the American Spectator employed twenty writers, he was the star. They all wanted to know his secret, but he wasn't telling.

He finished up with Midgy, not much to harvest today. One, 'why didn't they do something about the terrible taste in the water?', and one 'Rita heard from her friend Kate that a relative in the hospital heard a nurse proposition a doctor.' Not much to build on there, and Midgy hadn't even known which hospital. The 'Sex Orgies Affect Medical Care' piece would have to wait a while. Maybe it would mature with time, like a good wine.

He climbed the stairwell to the writers' area and made his way between the tight rows of cluttered desks to the single door in the otherwise open space. His was the only private office on the floor. It was as substantial a status symbol as any could claim. There was no one else around as yet, and that was unusual. Almost any other time, one or two hacks would be struggling with some piece for the next issue. Murray glanced at the desktops as he passed through the room. A piece of copy here, a few scribbled notes there, nothing really important. He stopped and picked up a crumpled tear-sheet from a teletype that was lying on Lisa's desk, and smoothed it out. It was covered with her small, tight handwriting, and he read it quickly, glancing back towards the door every once in a while. It concerned an abnormal birth in Idaho. The baby had a tail and extra digits on its hands. Lisa had followed up by calling the doctor named in the syndicate blurb, and found out the baby had died soon after birth. Her last note seemed to be a comment to herself.

"Too bad! If the kid had lived it would have made a hell of a picture!"

Murray smiled to himself; that was Lisa's biggest problem, she gave up too easily. He folded the paper and put it into his pocket; just in time as he heard footsteps outside in the hallway approaching the office. He hurried then to his own office, closed and locked the door behind. Nothing out of the ordinary, that was how he started every morning, locked in his office doing his thing. The big stack of yesterday's papers from all over the country was atop his desk and the Teletype had spewed forth a long sheet of syndicated pieces. Even now, it was busy adding another six inches to the scroll. Murray sat at his desk and rubbed his hands together before digging in.

Three hours later the floor was littered with cast-off newsprint. There was a small pile of a dozen clips lying on the one clear corner of Murray's desk. He was half-way through the Teletype. It had been a fairly good harvest this morning what with two or three of the clippings showing definite promise. So far, the Teletype hadn't produced anything, and that was a disappointment; he liked to be timely with his work. He had just about decided to go after the stories from Corpus Christi and Philadelphia, they seemed to be most promising. If he could just get to someone that worked in that robotic microchip factory to smuggle out a picture of the one that went berserk and nipped the technician on the breast it would be a great eye-catcher. 'Lascivious Robot Attempts to Rape Its Keeper!' Not bad, but it needed a little refinement. That would come of course; it was something he was good at.

But then, the Corpus Christi piece was absolutely great, and hardly any refinement would be needed. Just change a word or two and presto, a dull story about the Coast Guard pulling a boatful of undeclared rum and drunks to shore becomes a 'New Wave of Bootleggers Threaten Texas Coast'. He was pondering improvements while continuing to peruse the Teletype, and was nearly to the end of the fifteen-foot long sheet. He was only being half-attentive to what he was reading, so he had gone two bylines beyond it, when it registered. He backed up.

AP Phoenix: 040195 0850

Report from Kohls Ranch, Arizona says giant bat

seen flying overhead. Eyewitness makes it 10 ft

wingspan. Heading for points west. No confirmation

End

Murray thought it over, it was certainly strange enough, but no mayhem, no murder, no nothing except probably a drunk seeing things. Pretty thin really, not enough to it, he reluctantly concluded. Still, hang on to it, and maybe on a slower day he could use it. Murray clipped the piece and opened one of the four, over-packed file drawers. He put it into the hanging folder labeled 'Arizona-Strange Animal Reports', right where it belonged between the two-headed burro and the albino rattlesnake.

Six months later, Murray was in trouble. Not serious trouble yet, but he could feel it building. For some unaccountable reason, the reading tastes of Mrs. John Q. were changing. Sales in the past two months had dropped like a rock. He could feel desperation in the air, and it was raining down from the big mahogany desk two floors up. It was no use talking to the man about how it was the same all over, and all of the rags were hitting the skids. If it kept up like this, heads would start rolling, and his might not be first, but he wouldn't last forever. He was the star, and stars were supposed to produce the stuff that sold. This growing danger to his lifestyle was at the back of his mind while he did his morning reading. He needed a hit, a big, big hit. Something to pull 'em back into the fold. Something that would break through to the legit media. That meant it would have to be something real—well, nearly real. The odds against coming up with something that good, and being the first to do it, were astronomical.

He turned his attention back to the pile of newspapers; he'd been paging through without really reading, and was already past the 'State and Region' section of the Phoenix Courier and into the classifieds. He was tempted to just toss the paper into the discard pile and go on to the Spokane paper. He sighed, it was no time to get sloppy, what he needed had to be dug out, because it wouldn't jump off the page on its own. He turned back to page one, and started over, and there on page two, column three, below the hardware ad was his story. He just didn't know it yet.

His first impulse was to fluff it off, just another ritualistic animal killing. They weren't as common as in the seventies, but every once in a while a rash of them would pop up, usually somewhere out west. Nothing new there, but he read it through just to be certain.

'Window Rock, Arizona-Navajo tribal officials responded yesterday to

growing unrest among Navajo shepherds throughout the reservation. A

string of apparently ritualistic killings of solitary animals has become a point

of contention between the owners and the Tribal Police who are said to be

unable to put a stop to the carnage.

The Tribal Chairman, in a prepared statement, laid to rest reports of a strange

bat-like animal said to have been seen near the site of one killing. Instead,

he said that the perpetrators are undoubtedly non-Indian who come onto the

Reservation to satisfy their peculiar religious needs. He promised a greater

effort on the part of law enforcement personnel to apprehend the criminals.'

Murray sat back and tried to remember why bats should ring a bell. One was clamoring like crazy in his skull right now. Every time that had happened in the past, he had come up with a better than average piece. Slowly, it came back to him. Colby Ranch. No, that wasn't right. He went to the file cabinet and pulled the 'Arizona-Animals' and 'Arizona-Strange Animals' files and started leafing through.
Chapter 9

Hal Burton sat at his desk, staring at the police report he'd just gotten from his friend Talbot Gurney. He didn't know what to make of it, so he read it again.

Date: 09/01/95

Subject: Helen Dominguez

Residence: Dinnehotso District, Tribal Housing

Age: 67 (?)

Height/Weight: 5'5"/98

Hair: Black w gray

Eyes: Brown

Previous File: None

Next of Kin: Jessie Dominguez

Residence: Kayenta District, Tribal Housing

Complaint: Deceased

Complainant: Jessie Dominguez

Remarks: Subject found by son on 8/29/95 about 0745. Death reported to Tribal Police same date at 1050. Initial investigation by Officer Benny Lucero, same date, 1410. Lucero reported signs of struggle, see Report of Investigations 95-691-C, and reported incident as possible infraction of US Code. Initial coroners' finding indicate death by natural causes, probable stroke, pending autopsy. Made note of extreme facial contortion, and possible intrusion by agent (s) unknown.

Hal also had the cross-reference files, and they dealt with the investigations of several dead sheep and one dead dog. It was not immediately obvious what the connection might be. He had been born in this country and knew that if somebody thought a thing to be important, it probably was. Talbot and he went way back, all the way to grade school. Talbot may have been the class clown then, but now he was all business, and since he had given over this report out of the blue, it meant two things. One, it was important and two, Talbot needed help.

Hal had been trying to run the weekly paper out of Blanding, Utah for nearly three years. People round about really appreciated the effort, and they told him so every day. Trouble was, there weren't enough of them, and if he hadn't liked doing it so much he would have given it up already. He was barely breaking even, but maybe that would change, now that he had finally convinced a couple of businesses in Cortez to pay for small ads. Hopefully, more would follow suit. Most folks didn't read the Blanding Banner for the ads. Truth was, they could get the same information over the radio, and get it a lot quicker. What they really liked was the local news, if they were given the chance to choose between the big Salt Lake paper and the Banner, they would choose the Banner every day. Of course, he couldn't publish every day, it took every bit of seven days to fill just one local news column.

One thing Hal did have was a good relationship with his neighbors, white or Indian didn't make any difference to Hal, he had good friends on both sides of the Reservation fence. That was why Talbot had fed him the report, he wanted Hal to use his friendship with Reservation people to get information on the rash of crimes down there. Of course, that didn't do anything to explain Talbot's interest in Indian affairs, as his bailiwick was the non-Indian part of San Juan County.

Hal spread the reports out on his desk and arranged them in order, by date. Now, there was something, the oldest was way down by Leupp and the second oldest, by report date anyway, was in the same area by Second Mesa. The latest, on the other hand, was a lot closer to home. He got out his map of the Four Corners and pinned it up on the wall, and with some colored map pins located all of the report locations at Leupp, Second Mesa, Piñon, Chilchinbito and Dinnehotso. The pattern was pretty darn obvious, it was a straight line, and it was aimed directly at Blanding. He looked at the reports again, the first three were sheep, the fourth was a dog, and the fifth an old woman. He felt a chill run up his spine, whatever it was, was coming this way and it didn't seem to matter what kind of life it snuffed out. Now he understood Talbot's silent plea for help.

Sunk deep in his thoughts, the ringing of the phone in the outer office escaped his notice. Finally, Kim, his daughter, left off the keyboard and went to shut it up. Answering phones was supposed to be her father's job. She shot an angry glance through the open door as she picked up the handset.

"Blanding Banner, can I help you?"

She didn't like answering the phone, and they always wanted to talk to dear old Dad anyway. She expected to hear a cowboy drawl on the other end, and so was surprised by,

"Good afternoon..., I suppose that it's still morning there, isn't it? Well, good morning then. This is Murray Fenster of the American Spectator."

The way he said it made Kim want to salute.

"I wonder if I might have the distinct pleasure of speaking with the esteemed editor of your newspaper, please?"

Kim had a hard time coming up with an answer. It was quite out of character, but she suddenly felt like an underling.

"Dad..., I mean Mr. Burton is in, ah, conference right now. If I might tell him why you wish to speak with him, I'll see if he can break loose for a moment."

She smiled to herself, not bad, Kim.

"Well, ah, Ms Burton is it? Please convey my respects to your father along with my petition to interrupt his busy morning. I am most eager to consult with him regarding the recent developments in your part of the country. As I am sure he is aware, they have gained national prominence and I would like to discuss a possible collaboration."

Kim didn't have a clue about Blanding being in national prominence, and could only manage to say, "Would you hold, Please?" And, then hit the button.

She stood staring at the phone, this was either one of the best put-ons she'd ever heard, or the guy was genuine. It was an uncertain nineteen year-old who knocked on the jamb of the open door to attract her father's attention.

His thoughts disrupted, Hal looked up at the beautiful young woman in the doorway. He smiled, it was still hard to believe that this was the same little girl who caught toads and turtles to keep her dolls company not so many years before.

"What is it, Kimmy?" Oops, he had forgotten again. The nickname was no longer acceptable, but she seemed not to notice his slip.

"Dad, there's this guy on the phone who wants to talk to you. What's going on, anyway? He's saying that we're national news here. I haven't heard of anything that big happening."

Hal hadn't either, but had a nasty feeling building in his gut.

"Who is this fellow, Kim? Did you ask?"

"Well, of course I asked! He said his name was Murray Fenster and he works at the American Spectator."

"What's that?" Hal had never heard the name before.

"Dad, really! Don't you ever look around when you go into Brown's Store? The American Spectator is that newspaper in the rack by the checkout stand that has pictures and big red print on the front page."

"Oh." Hal didn't know what to think. Up until now, he'd thought the publication she was talking about was a kind of comic book. "I guess I'd better talk to him so that we can both satisfy our curiosities."

He picked up the extension and pushed the flashing button.

"Hal Burton, here, Mr. Fenster. What can I do for you?"

Fenster's cultured voice oozed through the earpiece.

"Not just for me, my dear Sir. It's what you can do for yourself that really counts. I would like to come visit you to discuss a joint effort between us. One that will entail the pursuit of investigative journalism. That aspect of our business that all true prints-men hunger after."

Hal sat back in his chair, took the receiver from his ear and stared at it for a second before holding it up again and replying.

"Mr. Fenster, I got to admit that you're getting me pretty excited. Trouble is, I don't know what I'm getting all in a tizzy about. You want to explain, so that I can channel my fervor in the proper direction?"

Fenster's brief laugh gave way to a renewed sale's pitch.

"I admire your candor, Sir. I don't blame you a bit. I'd be tempted to hold onto a story like this myself, but consider this. My organization can offer a more sizable audience for your word-craft than any local paper, and I certainly mean no disrespect here, could possible offer. The story of the slayings in your area deserves national attention, and I merely offer a medium through which we can address that coverage. I would propose, for my own humble part, to provide access to that medium. The details of our collaboration can be worked out as you desire, for the most part. Just say the word, and I'll be on the next plane."

Reacting before thinking, Hal blurted a reply, "Mr. Fenster, I am impressed. I just got word of the Domenguez woman this morning. How in the world did you find out already?"

There was silence on the other end. Murray had only known about sheep and dogs, the story suddenly took a quantum leap in importance.

"Mr. Burton, we really must meet to discuss this properly. Please don't make any rash decisions. I'll be there as soon as I possibly can."

Hal wanted to ask again how Fenster knew about the Indian woman, but found that the line was dead. Not even a goodbye. Hal looked up at his daughter, who had been listening to the conversation on the other line.

"Well, Kimmy, what do you think?

Kim shrugged. She had decided that she didn't like this Fenster person, and wondered what her father might be getting into.

Tzetzlan had found an abandoned hogan shortly before sunrise, and was safe from the burning rays for one more day. The call of its offspring was much clearer now, partly because the distance had been halved, and partly because the offspring had begun to feed on its own. It had grown quickly since Tzetzlan's awakening and its fledgling abilities to tap the fears of its host would improve rapidly. Tzetzlan had no way of knowing that Timmy had built protections, and that the fledgling was feeding from an external source, but it would have been of no great importance either way.

For its own part, Tzetzlan's abilities to prey upon the inhabitants of this world had undergone a remarkable change. Its excursion into the boy's mind had revealed much about the people whom he had supposed to be untouchable. Their minds did not work differently from those of the jungle people after all.They were merely insulated by having lived mechanized lives. Their sophistication and disbelief in superstition had driven the primordial fears of the unknown deep within their subconscious. Tzetzlan knew how to reach those hidden places now, but it had discovered last night that a certain deftness was required, as well. The old woman had succumbed before the proper time because Tzetzlan had attempted to generate too much fear, too quickly. That would not happen again.

No more of those placid four-legged creatures with the thick tangled fur. Their fear had shot out in all directions. Even at the moment of death, Tzetzlan had been barely able to capture any of it. The other four-legged creature had been a little more satisfying. It, at least, knew what to fear. Tzetzlan had nearly lost an arm when, at the last moment, the fear had suddenly transformed into savage madness. No more of those creatures either, they were much too dangerous. No, the people of this world were its proper prey. Now that it knew how to feed from them efficiently, parent and offspring could harvest freely. Were it not for the terrible sun, this world would have been paradise. Even though half of its life was spent hiding from that burning orb, it was still not a bad place. Centuries of isolation and hunger had rapidly faded from memory after the boy. Now, it looked forward to a new existence, when its kind would rule this world. It was just a matter of time.
Chapter 10

Timmy's isolation was nearly total. The walls he had built were so massive that large areas of his mind were no longer accessible even to him. What was left of Timmy Michaelson huddled in a lost corner somewhere very, very deep. The only part of the outside world he had taken with him when he closed the last barrier were the memories of the girl in the next room. He had fallen in love with her placid, dreamy mentality. The hours and days passed while he centered his world upon her memory. There too, was his discontent. He longed to know her, to meet her face to face. He feared what might happen to her if he did. He was the monster now. To meet her would be to destroy her.

Not all was static in Timmy's mind. His abilities to reach out beyond the physical confines of his mind were growing even in his seclusion. He had delved within himself so deeply that he had found and tapped resources left dormant since mankind evolved into a tool-user. He had rediscovered skills that had been essential in a savage world for a furless primate without natural means of defense. Timmy had taken those dormant skills, and in his self-imposed isolation had honed them to levels far higher than even his most distant progenitors had possessed. He could reach out farther than before to visit other minds, see through other eyes, or hear through other ears.

For its part, the offspring had come to ignore the mind of its host. The walls were too thick and no sustenance was within reach. When feeding was desirable it sought outside the body that provided warmth and nutrients for its physical growth, and fed from those minds it could reach. Passing infancy in proximity to such a large number of prey made learning easy for the offspring. Things that had taken Tzetzlan centuries to learn came to the offspring in weeks or months. The inhabitants of the world were already its prey, but it sensed that something was missing. A culmination of sorts. When it was free of the host, and that time was approaching, it would discover just what that culmination might be.

Meanwhile, it fed when it wanted from the nearby prey. The girl was its favorite, she emoted such pure and intense fear when provoked, fear uncluttered by images or pre-existing causes. Others had to be prodded with certain images to stir them into fright, but not her. The mere sensation of the offspring invading her mind was enough to set her off. It had been nearly a week since the last feeding, and thoughts of the girl had sharpened its appetite. It cast out the first tendril along the well-known path leading to where she would be waiting, already anticipating the next attack.

Timmy chose that day to test once again if his isolation was necessary, or if his fledgling love for the girl in the next room might be explored. He slowly set about making his way out through the walls. It was a turning, torturous course meant to confuse and confound the monster within. Eventually, a small wisp of a filament emerged, sensing the immediate environment and ready to dive back in at the least sign of the monster approaching. Almost immediately he sensed it. It surrounded him completely, and the part of Timmy hidden deep felt bitter disappointment and would have immediately closed the maze, but for an instant the direction to the monster's center became clear. Stunned, Timmy retreated and closed the outermost barrier.

The monster had not originated within his mind at all! It had been close, very close, but not within his mind. He sent the wisp to peek out again. There! For the first time in a year, Timmy's arm moved of its own volition. It slid up from his lap and rested upon his side. A hard lump could be felt within. That was the monster! The wisp from within Timmy's mind observed the monster for some time. He could sense its presence clearly now, and when it sent out its feeding tendril, he followed. He knew the direction it was taking, and with growing horror he followed it to the girl. He watched helplessly as he perceived it move into her mind and begin to waken her fears.

Amy Wilson had lived at the county sanatorium for most of her life. A long-forgotten childhood trauma had destroyed her mind, and what was left was locked onto memories of the few months preceding her twelfth birthday. Her family had kept her with them as long as they could, but finally the financial burden overcame their dwindling resources. They'd no choice but to place her in a public welfare facility. That had been when she was twenty-five, nearly thirty-eight years before. Now the twelve year old mind lived in a sixty-two year old body. It might have continued on thus until she finally succumbed to old age, but the last year had been different from the ones before.

Something had begun to attack her. She did not know what, nor could she have begun to understand how, she only knew that her existence had turned to constant torment. The episodes of terror when some spark triggered ingrained reactions to the long-forgotten, but terrible accident that had once been rare occurrences were now increasingly frequent. Her child's mind now lived in constant dread of the return of fear. At last the time had come when she could stand it no more. Her parents had always warned her about running in the house. Her father had said many times that if she didn't slow down she would run crashing through the window in her second-floor bedroom and hurt herself. Now, it had come to her that the unbarred window of her room in the non-violent ward offered means of escaping the terror that came unbidden to her once again. Daddy might be angry with her, but she had to escape it, and as the presence began to grow in her mind she rose from the chair and ran towards the window as fast as she could. She did not stop.

Momentarily confused, the offspring sensed the girl react differently than before. It held its place in her mind and waited for what would come, and when Amy crashed through the window to land head first on the concrete walkway four stories below, it came to understand the culmination it had felt to be missing, and exulted in the knowledge.

Timmy felt the girl die. He knew what had killed her. He closed the barriers one by one and sank once more into deep depression. A small kernel of hate evolved, and over time, it grew.
Chapter 11

Murray Fenster pulled into town late in the afternoon on a mild, late October day. He'd never been to Blanding before, and his first impression of the main business area was that very few people had been to Blanding, and stayed. Tourism was the most obvious trade practiced and curio shops and motels outnumbered other businesses by a wide margin. A brown government sign pointed the way to a visitor area showing off the former digs of the long-gone Anazazi farmers. It was the kind of place Murray would have enjoyed exploring for a few days. He loved the West, and always had. He'd grown up when western movies with real heroes in white hats riding white horses were out of style, but his father had been born in that age. Dad had spent his youth watching Gene, Roy and Hopalong, and had become a real Western Buff. He'd had a collection of old western movies and TV tapes that he'd picked up as finances permitted. The two to them had spent endless hours munching popcorn and watching Trigger prance, or Cisco and Pancho cutting up, or maybe on a special occasion they'd watch the single Tom Mix film that had been Dad's prized possession. When the fire had taken Mom and Dad, the films had gone with them. He didn't know which he missed the most. Of course, now that he had the money, he could replace all of the films and add as many as he wanted. He didn't, mostly because it would have cheapened the only part of his childhood that he remembered with pleasure.

He checked into the newest-looking motel and sat at the small table in his room, sorting through the papers he'd brought. So far, the manila folder was distressingly thin, but that would change. There were a few, very few, back issues of the Blanding Banner that he'd lifted from the library in Salt Lake City, and several of his specially designed journal books. One was already half-filled with ideas and speculations. He paused with a sudden realization that he was frightened, because what he was doing right now might make the difference between continuing as America's most popular journalist, and being forced to learn how to drive a bus. Had he chosen the right story? He could quit, go back to Chicago and start all over again. Maybe a better story was out there waiting, or maybe it wasn't. This was no time for uncertainty, make a decision Fenster! He looked at the stack of material and picked up the most recent edition of the Banner that he had and began to read. There! He had begun, and there was no turning back. He wore a grim smile; his fate was sealed.

By the time he slid into the king-sized bed late that night he felt that he had a handle on Mr. Harold Burton, publisher and editor-in-chief of the Blanding Banner. It was a pathetic little rag, but its owner would lead the way into Murray's future. Who knew? Mr. Burton might even benefit from all of what was to come. Not likely, but possible. Murray didn't have any intention of sharing the credit, but some might slop over despite his efforts. In minutes, he was asleep.

Kim Burton unlocked the door to the office, as her father wouldn't be in until late morning. He was traveling the county, saying hello and gathering tidbits here and there. Birth notices, engagements, visiting relatives, small news items, but mostly just visiting. It was a once-a-week routine, and he loved doing it. Ever since her Mom's death four years before, he had searched for a way to fill the void she'd left behind. The paper had been up for sale at the time and after some weeks of wrenching indecision, he'd finally taken the leap into publishing. He'd sold the bean farm he'd worked twenty years, and exchanged gear grease for printer's ink. Kim was pretty sure they'd never get rich at it, but it was obvious that her father didn't care. He believed that he had found his true calling, and maybe that was all that counted.

Kim wasn't so sure about it herself, and she didn't want to spend the rest of her life in Blanding. She dreamed of living in a bigger city, maybe Flagstaff, for instance, or maybe even San Diego. Truth was, they were the only two cities of any size she had ever visited, both on family trips when she was a child. Maybe there was another town out there that was just the right one for her. She had read about so many different places in the news service items they subscribed to for the paper, and they all sounded a lot more exciting than Blanding. She'd never find out where she belonged if she was stuck in Blanding, and like most nineteen-year-olds she was impatient and found the small town claustrophobia to be maddening. A whole life ahead and absolutely no idea of what to do with it.

Most of her school friends just gave up and opted for marriage and whatever job or child came along. Not Kim though; the local boys were boring and she had no intention of becoming a bean farmer's wife. Some day Kim would make her choice, and her father would have another void to fill. Knowing that, made the decision even harder, but if her father even noticed her growing discontent, he didn't give any signs. He just didn't understand; sometimes she could just scream. She set about doing her morning duties, sorting copy, and getting ready to paste-up the week's ads. Still stuck on her personal issues, she didn't hear the door open, and the voice from behind made her jump.

"Ms Burton, I presume?"

She turned quickly, scattering copy in all directions onto the floor.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in!"

She glanced down at the mess on the floor and wondered how much of the clean copy had been ruined.

"May I help you?"

"It appears as though it should be I, helping you. I've caused you to ruin your layout before you've begun."

She looked up at the man; that unctuous voice was familiar. She couldn't place the person, though. His short and dumpy stature certainly didn't fit his voice, which ought to be coming out of the mouth of a tall, well built, athletic type. Then she remembered the telephone call she'd eavesdropped on nearly two weeks previously.

"I know you. You've Murray Fenster."

His surprise was evident in his reply. "Quite right! How in the world did you know? I've never been on the cover of anything."

"Your voice is very distinctive, Mr. Fenster. I answered your call several days ago."

"Well then, that explains it. So I was correct then, you are Ms Burton?"

"Oh! Yes, I'm sorry. I'm Kim Burton."

"I would have known, in any event. It was clear from the sound of your voice on the telephone that I was speaking to a most charming young lady."

Kim began to blush; she didn't handle compliments, even insincere ones, very well.

"Ms Burton, I've come from Chicago to meet with your father,I do apologize for not having made arrangements in advance, but my schedule was such that I could not predict my departure, or subsequent arrival here in Blanding, with sufficient accuracy to give fair warning of my arrival."

"I'm sorry Mr. Fenster," Kim replied, "but Dad is out making his rounds this morning. I don't expect he'll be back until early this afternoon."

"Please, Ms Burton, do not trouble yourself. I have no right to expect him to be at my beck and call. I would be perfectly happy to come back later, do you think around two would be about right?"

Kim was hesitant, Dad usually liked to spend the afternoon following his weekly excursion sitting at his desk and writing up the small stories he'd collected while they were still fresh. Besides, she didn't like Fenster very much.

"It would probably be best if you called first, Mr. Fenster. Dad is usually pretty busy in the afternoon. I'll tell him that you are in town if you like. Perhaps he could call you when he comes in and set up a time to meet."

"That would be fine, Kim. Might I call you Kim? I find formal titles to be so artificial. In turn, please call me Murray. I will look forward to his call. I am at the charming inn on the corner, in room 136. Now, until I have the great pleasure of seeing you again, I'll bid adieu and permit you to resume your work."

Kim watched the little man walk out the door and cross the street. He was an oily little bastard, she thought, her initial impression strengthened by the face to face meeting. She hoped that her father wouldn't fall for whatever line he would spin out. She and her father had discussed his call, and still couldn't understand why a murder, if that's what it was, in rural Arizona should interest a big city journalist. Journalist, Ha! They'd read a few of his pieces in the American Spectator after his call. He wrote fiction, really, under the thinnest pretention of reality.

Several hours later, her father came into the office, followed closely by Fenster. Her father gave her a look of helpless frustration. Fenster merely nodded in her direction as they went into Hal's office. Fenster even closed the door behind them, effectively blocking her participation in their discussions.

Kim was furious. It was obvious that Fenster had lain in wait for her father outside and had coerced him into giving in to his request for a meeting. The little twerp! She needn't have worried. In twenty minutes an obviously upset Murray Fenster threw open the door and stormed though the office on his way out. He didn't even look at her. She went to the door of her father's office, and peeked in. He was sitting at his desk with a big grin on his face.

"Now there, Kimmy, goes a little man with big ideas that don't amount to a hill of Pinto Beans."

Murray Fenster was outraged. To be treated like a cub reported by the editor of a hick town weekly was nearly more than he could stand. The man had actually told him that he was being ridiculous and trying to make something out of nothing. He should have known better than to expect someone from Blanding, Utah to have the ability to recognize potential in his story. It might have been bearable at least, if Burton had shared his sources and information. He had refused to do even that, saying that if Murray wanted the story, he should do his own digging. All right then! If that was the way he wanted it; that was the way he would get it. He's show Burton just what kind of investigative reporter he was. He would show them all!
Chapter 12

Tzetzlan had come to the edge of another cliff. This one looked down upon a river. It would be necessary to glide again. There had been few opportunities to spread arms and sail on the journey. It had been largely uphill, and even here it would not be possible to get all the way over to the opposite rim of the canyon. The rims were too far apart, and there were no updrafts at night. It would have to glide nearly to the bottom and then climb up. A dangerous business because dawn would be breaking before long and there was no guarantee that shelter could be found at the bottom. Tzetzlan's hunger, sharpened by the exertion of the journey, decided the matter. A wisp of emotion had caught Tzetzlan's attention, somewhere down there was one of the new people, alone and dormant. The instinct of the hunt took over. Tzetzlan spread arms and stepped out over the escarpment. No moon backlit the figure this night; it had yet to rise.

Jeffry Hunter was one of the best of the best. He had conquered the Rouge, the Upper Rio Grande, the Snake, and several lesser streams. Now he would overcome the San Juan and then the Lower Colorado all the way through the Inner Gorge. Alone in a kayak; his way, one against the river. When he got to Lake Mead he would have accomplished a major feat and he didn't care if anyone else knew of it, or not. He'd know, and that was all that was necessary. He had made it just short of being half-way through the Goosenecks when he stopped for the night. So far, it had been fantastic, the river didn't have much white water through this stretch, but the scenery was great. Towering walls of sandstone bounded a blue slash of sky above, and the green, roiling water at waist level formed a broad roadway between those same walls ahead. The Goosenecks were well named. Here, the entrenched river curved back on itself through loops too numerous to remember. And the rocks! The multi-hued strata had been gently folded here into a broad anticline, and dipped into the flow of the river. In places, it appeared as though the river were flowing uphill as it 'climbed' through the layers. Colonies of swallows nested on the vertical cliff walls. They had kept him company all day, diving and swooping in an unceasing effort to catch insects above the water.

He was a lucky man to be able to enjoy such beauty. While he was on the water, it belonged to him alone. At night, he slept on sand bars open to the sky, and tonight was the second of the trip. He'd landed at dusk at a place where a broad, sandy shore lined the river and a lot of driftwood had piled up. The fire that had cooked his food was now only glowing ashes, and Jeffry had fallen into a sound sleep, well earned after a day of the river.

In the early morning hours he began to dream. It wasn't a pleasant dream, but it was one he knew. As a boy he'd been accidentally locked in a dark room for an entire weekend. His parents had gone visiting friends out in the country, and had left him to sleep over at his Aunt's home. He had resented being left behind, and had run away as soon as his parents' car disappeared from sight. Aunt Sally had thought he was playing with his cousins and didn't notice that he was AWOL until late in the morning when she called them in for lunch.

Meanwhile, Jeffry had run to a vacant house nearby wanting to be by himself, and to luxuriate in his feelings of abandonment. It had been exciting to break into the house through a basement window, and then to explore the trash-strewn interior. Exciting, that is, until he'd heard the noise from behind and turned to find himself looking up into the unshaven face of a derelict who'd been squatting in the place. He'd screamed and run into a bathroom, locking the door and crouching in the filthy tub. There were no windows, and the room was pitch black. He heard the tramp shuffle around outside and try the doorknob. Jeffry found a small stick lying in the bottom of the tub and risked getting out long enough to force it into the lock release hole in the knob to try and jam it. It had worked, too well. The tramp gave up waiting after a while, but then Jeffry couldn't get the door open either. It was nearly noon the following Monday before a cop with six kids of his own and a pretty fair idea of what they might do, finally found him. His frantic parents hadn't even punished him for running away. They hadn't needed to, because his subsequent nightmares about the tramp waiting outside the bathroom door, saying "You gotta come out sooner or later, kid", was all the punishment he needed. From then on, he preferred to be out in the open, and in places without doors.

Part of his mind rebelled against the return of the nightmare after so many years, to spoil his trip. It came on anyway, and started the same way it always had, him in a small windowless room with a single closed door. The room was dark, but a new part of the nightmare featured a scratching in a corner, like fingers might make feeling along the wall for a light switch. Soon, a dim light would come on, revealing the tramp to be in the room with him. Then he would wake up in a cold sweat, unable to sleep again for hours. The part of his mind watching the progress of the dream was unable to alter its course, it was always the same. Until this time. This time, the room changed, and became an open place like this canyon bottom, with cliffs towering higher than any in the real world. There was a misty diffuse light and he could see far down the canyon. The river flowed placidly beneath his feet, and he realized that he was standing atop the water. But, something else was wrong, far down the canyon a sheet of solid whiteness was forming, stretching between canyon walls and from the surface of the water as high as could be seen. He looked upstream, the same thing. The canyon was blocked in both directions. He looked downstream again, and saw that the white wall had come closer. Upstream, that one was closer, too. He kept looking back and forth and each time it was closer still. He never saw them move, they always sneaked up when he wasn't looking.

When the white walls were both half the distance away as they had started, he thought he saw something standing out in contrast against the downstream wall. Finally, he saw the wall move, and as it crept forward, the black dot became ever larger until he could make out a man in dirty, torn clothing. Jeffry struggled to wake. It wasn't right that his beloved river should become part of his childhood nightmare. Then came a rushing breeze that swept over head, followed by a soft thumping sound. A dim light from the dying fire reflected from his flickering eyelids. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and he felt a pressure on his ankles. That was the last bit necessary to bring him full awake. A dark form stood above him and held his legs pinned to the sandy soil. He tried to sit up, but the thing spread long arms loosing a billowing membrane that stretched to its sides. Jeffry held to a semi-reclining position with his arms extended behind his back holding him up. He tried to make out the details on the thing's head. He could only see the eyes, and they burned with a deep orange glow refracted from the fire's embers. Then it turned its head and Jeffry saw it in profile. He screamed and fell backwards, arms crossed over his eyes. The weight on his ankles shifted, and he forced himself to peek out between his forearms. It was falling toward him, in slow motion, almost floating, the things arms reached out ahead of its body as if to break its fall, and Jeffry felt long-taloned fingers grab onto his arms and force them apart, outward to either side.

He lay there within the tent formed by the thing's membranous wings, its face directly above his own. Its fetid odor assaulted his nostrils and reminded him of the smell of decay of some long-dead animal. The burning eyes bore into his own, and he became incapable of rational behavior. He screamed then, gathered his breath and screamed again. His tormentor lifted its head as far as its extended arms would permit, and Jeffry lay paralyzed as the head suddenly moved downward. His last feeling was all encompassing pain as his chest seemed to burst apart.
Chapter 13

Murray Fenster was getting sick and tired of Blanding. He had been in town nearly two weeks and had made no progress at all. The story was there all right, the alarm bells ringing in his head convinced him of that, but he couldn't get to it. After being brushed off by Burton, and that still angered him deeply, he'd gone to the Sheriff's Office to see what he could dig up. Gurney, the local honcho, had flatly refused to give him any information, saying that it was policy in on-going investigations. He asked to see just the public report, then. He was given the identical one paragraph release he'd read in Burton's rag. He asked the Navajos he saw around town what they knew of the death of the Dominguez woman. Every one of them had stared at him with dark, expressionless eyes, and said not a word.

Murray was getting desperate, and to make matters worse, he'd been ducking phone calls from his editor. He had nothing to report, and didn't know how to convince the old bastard that there really was a story here. Sooner or later he'd have to answer one of those calls, and the voice on the other end might put a finish to his efforts. He walked back to his room after another wasted morning asking questions about something that people didn't want to talk about. He'd already turned the key in the lock before he noticed the yellow envelope taped to the door. It had "Western Union" all over it. He had no trouble figuring out who would use such an out-dated form of communication. Old Sid was not one to be put off forever. He let himself in, removed his shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed before tearing the end off the envelope.

Murray Fenster

Saltbush Motel

Blanding Utah

Have been trying to reach you past week.

Regret to inform that financial restructuring eliminated your position.

Consider self released from employment this date (11/20/1995).

Please submit final expenses through same date within thirty days.

Final pay sent for deposit your account.

No reply necessary.

Luck

Sidney Heathrow

Murray picked up his shoes and hurled them across the room, where they shattered the mirror above the dresser.

A few hours later, Murray had checked out of the motel and was heading the rental car back towards Salt Lake City. If they thought they could beat him into submission, they were wrong. They didn't know Murray Fenster like they thought they did. It had taken less than an hour to formulate a new set of plans. He patted his jacket pocket, and confirmed that his last expense report was there, needing only the car rental receipt to complete its generously padded contents. He'd called his bank and arranged for a wire transfer of ten thousand dollars to a newly established account at Blanding's only bank. As soon as he dropped off the rental, he'd shop around for an older pickup truck and head back to Blanding. He already had a line on a cheap apartment.

He knew that the story was there. Knew, not guessed, and he'd dig it up without anyone's help, no matter what it took. The ten thousand, nearly a quarter of his reserves, would keep him for at least four months in Blanding. If he didn't have the story by then...well, maybe he'd try bus driving after all. He smiled to himself. His apartment in Chicago was bought and paid for, so he'd be the only bus driver in the country living in a penthouse. Two days later, Murray drove along the last big curve before getting into Blanding. It had taken longer than expected to find the right vehicle, then they wouldn't take his check. He'd had to arrange for another wire transfer, and that took until late the next morning. Then he'd barely made it to Price before the truck stalled out on him. Another day and another four hundred dollars. After that, he'd driven all the way to Monticello without incident, but two miles farther along and he was flagging down a ride back to that town. One tire blew out all over the road and the spare was flat. Another five hours, and another fifty dollars.

Blanding seemed like home town as he pulled to a stop outside the house where he had put a deposit on an apartment. It was ten o'clock at night, and they wouldn't open the door, shouting down to come back in the morning. He looked around for a motel room only to find all the 'No Vacancy' signs lit up. Resigned to his fate, and too tired to care, he slept in the truck.

He woke stiff and sore at dawn the next morning. A highway patrolman was tapping on the window. Despite his explanation of the circumstances, the officer insisted upon seeing his bill of sale and driver's license. His name of the license caused the officer to look up sharply.

"Are you the Murray Fenster who writes for the American Spectator?"

"Wrote." Murray replied.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," Murray responded, "just mumbling to myself. It's been a long night. Yes, I am that Murray Fenster. Do you read the Spectator?"

"Oh no, not me!" The officer seemed a little amused at the idea. "My grandmother reads it. She claims it's better than a soap opera for getting your kicks. You down here looking into the business down by the river?"

Murray was instantly on the alert. Something new had happened.

"I certainly am, officer. We at the Spectator like to be among the first on the scene at breaking stories. Ah, have you been there?"

"Not me, the local boys are handling it."

"Oh, you aren't local, then?"

"They brought me in from Monticello to handle highway duty so's the locals could get out in the field. It's rough country, and they wanted experienced hands running around."

"I don't suppose a suspect has been identified yet?"

"Nup. If you ask me, this'll be a tough one. Anybody that would do that is bound to be crazy, and the crazy ones are the worst. He's probably holed up with the rest of his cult, miles away by now. Shoot, that boy had been dead at least two days before those rafters found him."

Murray felt his pulse pick up, he'd been right! A few more carefully phrased questions brought him enough information for a good story by anyone's standards. Not good enough for Murray though, he wanted it all.

A short time later he'd finally gained access to his apartment, and ignoring the hostile glare from his new landlord, moved his few possessions inside. He was anxious to get out his files and write up his memorized account of the officer's conversation. Fortunately, settling in did not take long, he threw his unopened suitcase onto the bed, and tore at the taped seams of the cardboard box that housed his notes. By noontime, he had finished searching his memory for every scrap of information that he'd garnered over the past few days. He was confident that everything was safely secured on a password protected file on his laptop, and that nothing had been omitted. Time, place, circumstances, witnesses...it was all down and saved. Murray decided to break for lunch. He was reluctant to lose the time, but his stomach reminded him that his last food had been a burger in Monticello the day before. Murray disliked being hungry more than anything else; it was too disruptive to his creative flow. He left everything on top of the small, single-drawer desk, carefully locked his door and walked to his favorite coffee shop. The quarter-mile stroll was quite pleasant in the mid-November sunshine. If it weren't for the cultural depravity and God-awful isolation of the place, he could be quite happy here. He'd never thought about such things before, but even the people here exhibited an ingratiating pleasantness all their own, as if reflecting the desert warmth. In Chicago, one had friends or acquaintances and strangers were just part of the backdrop, here the people were the town, not the other way around. Unfortunately, Murray would never do more than skim the surface of a place, and he could live here for a decade and still have been a stranger.

The door of the café stood slightly ajar, the closing spring having been broken years ago was in no imminent danger of repair. Murray pushed it open and went directly towards the window table he favored. He stopped short, it was already taken. Burton and Gurney were sitting there, deep in conversation. Both noticed his presence at the same time, but while Gurney looked at him with a blank stare, Burton had the effrontery to smile. Murray replied with a deep scowl and retreated to the unoccupied counter on the far side of the room. Almost as soon as he sat down, he realized that he had missed an opportunity to eavesdrop, and cursed himself silently. Too late to move now, his motive would be all too clear. As he strained to hear some wisp of conversation, his concentration was broken by the waitress who stood on the other side of the counter with a knowing smirk on her face. It was obvious what he was doing.

Back in his room, having gained calories but not information, Murray pulled out his much-used road atlas and turned to the pages covering the Four Corners states. He had been keeping track of incidents by marking locations, blue for sheep, green for the dog and red for the old woman. He had put on one more dot, purple, to mark the location of the 'giant bat' sighting at Khols Ranch. Now, he added another red dot, to mark the approximate location of the man in the kayak. It all fit beautifully on a straight line, absolutely straight except for the location tying in the bat. He needed a little modification before he could rip open a story, the likes of which had never been seen before. The problem was that the giant bat was too far east, and didn't fit in the straight line by any stretch of the imagination. He had noticed the discrepancy before, of course, but then the line hadn't been so well defined. Perhaps he could use literary license to shift its position just a bit? It wouldn't be the first time he'd 'adjusted' a story to make the facts come together like they should. He tossed the idea immediately, this was different. This was his shot at the big story; the one he had waited on for years, and it had to be perfect, no fudging allowed. This time the pieces had to fit perfectly, and if that meant that the giant bat was out, too bad, that's the way it would have to be. The map showed clearly what the next step must be, but it would require another road trip to take it. A town with the unlikely name of Strawberry, Arizona was situated directly on the line if one extended it far enough south. Definitely worth a shot, Murray decided, maybe that is where it all began.

Next morning, Murray set out, a new spare tire and a seventy-five dollar garage receipt in his wallet that insured him against breakdown during the next thirty days, or his money back. A few miles out of town, Sheriff Gurney roared past with lights flashing and siren wailing. Murray wished he could follow, but knew his twelve-year old truck didn't have the guts to match even half of the squad car's speed. He thought, momentarily of returning to Blanding and waiting for Gurney; then demanding a report on his excursion. Murray knew that would be useless, and dropped the idea. He'd give Strawberry a day or two and then come back, by then the police report would have been published in the Blanding Banner. He waved a one-finger salute at the vanishing red-blue flashing lights and pulled back out onto the highway. Near the end of the day, Murray finally came to the sign announcing his arrival in Strawberry. Surrounded by tall pine forests, Murray loved the town on first sight. Who would have thought that desert-infested Arizona had a place like this? He had been frankly amazed during his descent over the Mogollon Rim to find huge expanses of Ponderosa forest lining the roadway. Up until then, his trips to Arizona had taken him by air to Phoenix, or less often Tucson. The difference between the Valley of the Sun and the High Country were immense, yet they were less than a hundred miles apart.

Murray drove slowly through town on the main highway. It took less than five minutes, so he turned around and tried again. Three possibilities, the gas station, the coffee shop, and the bar, were the most likely places to hunt for information. He had his plan mapped out and his alter persona on tap, and he hoped to take less than an hour at the task. The gas station was nearest, so that's where he started, but it turned out to be a dead end. The guy who ran the place had moved up from Phoenix just the previous month, and was nearly as new to the town as Murray. He bought gas anyway, cringing at the price, and drove across the street to the coffee shop.

The waitress couldn't have been more than sixteen, and had trouble talking around the huge mass of bubblegum in her mouth. Murray knew that his chances were getting slim when she brushed aside his initial chatter and asked whether he wanted something to eat or was just going to sit. Murray looked around for a more sympathetic ear, but the place was deserted. Then a clatter from the back, gave him an idea and he asked to see the chef. The girl gave him a peculiar look, shrugged, and ambled out through the swinging door leading to the rear of the building. In ten minutes or so, she returned trailing a tall, lanky, pimple-faced boy who had an arm over her shoulder. Murray knew that it was a lost cause then, but asked a couple of questions anyway. They both stared at him and blew huge bubbles in unison. The girl won, hers was larger by far. Then they both shrugged and looked as if they would much rather go back to being alone. Murray left them to their work, but suspected that little of that would get done.

His last shot was the bar, and it proved to be a good-sized room occupying half of a log cabin. A few customers sat at the massive mahogany bar and an older couple occupied one of the small round tables on the floor. Off in the corner, the elevated bandstand was empty except for a sign that proclaimed 'Live Music—Saturday Night'. It had a worn appearance that suggested the live music was likely provided by a guitar-playing local who came in for two or three hours plunking away at a limited repertoire. Everyone inside looked up at his entrance, and followed his movement towards the empty stool in the middle. There was absolute silence, and Murray wondered if he had interrupted a clandestine meeting of the local secret society. Finally, the bar tender gave in and greeted him. He replied in as cheery a manner as possible, and that seemed to break the ice. The other patrons apparently decided that he wasn't grist for kidnap and torture after all, and fell back into interrupted conversations.

Matilda was her name. At least that was printed in large black letters on the big strawberry-shaped name tag. He had a hard time reading it because the lettering was nearly horizontal atop a huge mound of breast that pushed out the striped blouse.

"What'll it be stranger? The specialty of the house is strawberry daiquiris."

The thought of pink, crushed ice turned Murray's stomach.

"Er, no thanks. How about a little Johnny Walker and soda?"

"Umm, high class dude, huh? Well, we cater to all kinds here. Coming right up."

As she turned away Murray was treated to a view of a broad expanse of hind-quarter that would have done a Guernsey proud. He concluded that it was necessary to balance out her front half. While he waited for Matilda to return with his drink, he glanced around and saw the usual assortment of broken farm implements and out-of-date kitchen gadgets gracing the walls. The centerpiece of the display was a large bear head mounted on the wall near the bandstand. Its fur was matted, and in places had fallen out to reveal patches of gray, dried skin. All in all, it was not Murray's kind of place.

Matilda returned and said, "Here you go Honey. That'll be three seventy-five.

Murray pushed a twenty towards her and waited for the change. When it came he took a five and slid it into the drain channel on her side of the bar.

"Well! Thank you, Darling."

She picked up the bill with a practiced rap on the bar, and put it into the kitty next to the cash register. Matilda judged the reason for the oversized tip correctly and came back to stand in front of Murray.

"Haven't seen you in here before. You one of our Phoenix friends up for the last bit of Fall touring before it turns chilly?"

"No," Murray began his reply to the question he'd known would be coming, "I'm here on business. Not that I would mind doing some touring. You have some beautiful country around here."

"Yeah, I suppose so." Matilda was getting a bit more interested, not too many came to Strawberry on business. "I've been here so long that it's kind of lost its appeal for me. I don't like to think of winter coming. Hate that snow."

Murray smiled, conveying all the sympathy he could muster.

"I know what you mean, I don't know what winters are like around here, but you can bet I hate those lake-front storms in Chicago with a passion."

"Chicago!" Matilda said, "My but you are a long ways from home. What brings you to Strawberry? If I can ask?"

"Well, it's no secret," Murray lied, "I'm a research associate with the Abnormal Psychology Center at the Chicago campus of the University of Illinois. We've been studying certain kinds of incidents for ten years now. They involve cult practices in rural areas. You know animal mutilations and such. We picked up on some reports several months ago that a new rash of them had broken out around here. I'm here to investigate, simple enough."

"Well, I'll be! You fellows sure must have some good sources of information. I didn't think old Bill Franklin was even going to report that business." She stopped short and looked at Murray with suspicious eyes. "How did you find out about it, anyway?"

Murray was slow to answer, as the bells had started ringing like mad when he heard her words. Bingo!

"I guess Mr. Franklin changed his mind. The computer picked up on his police report. We have a tie-in to the national database on unexplained phenomena."

Murray's lies sailed smoothly from his mouth, but if such a database really existed he would have given his left arm to get plugged in. It sounded good though, and even better, Matilda bought it.

"I'll be damned, ain't them computers something? You been out to see Old Bill yet?"

"No, I haven't, I just got into town this afternoon, and I thought I'd get directions and try to get out to his place tomorrow."

Matilda smiled, "I can help you out there." She picked up a bar napkin and spread it out on the wet surface of the bar. "Just go north on the highway like this for five miles and turn west on Picket Post Road. He's three miles down at the big log cabin ranch house." She folded the napkin with her art work and handed it to Murray.

"Tell him Matilda said Hi, and ask him why he don't come in for a beer like he used to."

Murray beamed at her. He continued to talk for a while, but his mouth was on automatic. His brain was fairly aflutter with the new information, and he was already planning his meeting with Mr. Franklin. He stayed for another half-hour or so, finishing a second drink, before bidding Matilda goodnight with another five dollar tip. He was in an expansive mood.

The next morning, Murray arose as soon as the thin curtains in his motel room admitted sunlight. He'd been lying awake for hours anyway, unable to sleep for excitement. He checked out and began to trace the route on the bar napkin, although the ink had spread out into formless blobs on the once-damp paper. It turned out to be accurate, if one makes allowance for a couple of wrong turns where the blobs simulated road intersections. He parked outside a wooden gate blocking a driveway leading to a large log building. The gate had all sorts of warning signs nailed onto it, including the one that read 'Trespassers Will Be Experimented On' in big red letters. He wondered if maybe he should have called first and his courage was about to desert him. Then he caught a glimpse of an old man who stepped out to the edge of the porch and waved him on. He didn't see any sign of a weapon, so he got out and opened the gate. By the time he'd driven the short distance to the porch, the old man had turned and sat down in a rocking chair near the front door. He'd barely gotten out of the truck when one of the deepest and loudest voices he'd ever heard assaulted his ears.

"You must be the fella who was talking to Mattie last night."

"Why yes, I am."

Murray was surprised; he had come expecting that he would have to explain himself anew. It ruined his opening spiel and threw him off-stride.

"How did you know?"

"Think about it, Son. Chances are, I'm not a mind reader, how else could I know except that Mattie called me?" He snorted. "You don't seem bright enough to be a university fellow. You trying to put one over on an old man, or what?"

"No, Sir!" He was losing this skirmish fast. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Dr. James O'Connor, Chief Research Fellow with the Department of Abnormal Psychology at the University of Illinois. I've come to this area to pursue a major research effort into..."

"Stow it, Son. I know all I need to know already, except for one thing. What's in it for me?"

Along about then, Murray knew that he had met his match. Putting one over on this old geezer was probably going to be damn near impossible. He took a deep breath and started over.

"Mr. Franklin, forget the bullshit. Let's start over. I'm Murray Fenster, and I'm a writer. I want to do a story on animal mutilations. You can provide part of the story. What's in it for you? Right now, not much, maybe a couple hundred out of my own pocket. Later? Who knows, if the story pans out, and I make a buck, you'll get a piece of the action. If not, then we both loose out; me more than you since I'm operating on my own."

Murray shut up and waited for a reply.

"Son, that's the first intelligent thing you've said. Right now, a hundred'll do me fine. Later? Well, let's say you get more than five thousand; then I get ten percent. If you get less than five, you keep it all. Deal?"

Murray thought it over, and decided he didn't really have any choice but to agree if he wanted a real start to the story. Besides, it was unlikely that Franklin would even know how much he might earn, let alone where to find him.

"Done," he said.

"Fine, said the old man, "now let's you and me go inside and write it down all neat and pretty on paper. Then, when we're done we'll go into town, sign it in front of a notary, and get some copies made. Then we'll have us a late breakfast out of that hundred of yours and talk about what you want to know. Why don't you give me your driver's license so we can get all the details down right?"

Murray stood in stunned silence for a moment and then resignedly reached for his wallet. Too damn smart by more than half.

Late that afternoon, Murray had the beginning he had hoped for, but he still wasn't satisfied because Khols Ranch still nagged at him. The giant bat sighting still wasn't tied to the rest of the story. He asked around town again, and discovered that no one had so much as heard of the report, and more than a few people looked at him like he was crazy. He did find out that if anything had really happened, the sheriff's substation in Payson would be the place to find out.

The next morning, he drove down to Payson, and by mid-morning had met with Hank. By mid-afternoon, he had another lead to follow, this one in Grand Junction. He wasn't sure that it had anything to do with his story, but the tale of a ten-year old boy lost in the wilderness had real potential of its own. His good intentions wavered; maybe he could work it in some way, even if it didn't belong, who would know after all? He'd had enough of the High Country by then, pine trees, Matilda and all, and before nightfall he was a hundred miles up the road leading to points north.
Chapter 14

Timmy's doctor was concerned, because the ward nurse had noticed that Timmy recently had begun to hold his left side as if something bothered him. The following day he was given his semi-weekly sponge bath, and Dr. Welton stood by to watch. Timmy lay on his back in his bed as the nurse cleaned his chest, and Welton looked down at the young man's side and gasped.

"How long has that been there?"

Judy Hill was as shocked as the doctor, "I don't know! It wasn't there the last time I bathed him."

They both stared at the just-visible lump in the boy's side. It stood out only slightly from the normal contour of his abdomen, and was perfectly centered over a circular mass of old scar tissue.

"I want to see his history, now please. Cover him up and go get it. I'll watch him."

Dr. Welton was unhappy, this might be a welfare institution, but he gave every patient under his treatment the same level of care that he would have provided a paying client. Something had gone wrong in Timmy's case, or the tumor would not have gone unnoticed and un-biopsied long enough to be so large to be noticeable. There was no question about the course of treatment, and exploratory surgery must be scheduled as soon as possible. Fortunately, an excellent surgeon was available to the welfare unit. Dr. Welton knew him very well as they lived in the same section of town and frequently dined at each other's homes. Before the end of the day, he had made arrangements with Phil Hartley to admit Timmy to the hospital where he was on staff. Surgery would be scheduled for the next morning, and Welton hoped that it was not already too late. It might be that the boy was a vegetable, but he had a right to a physically healthy life.

Timmy was wheeled into the operating theatre promptly at ten o'clock in the morning. Already under anesthesia, he was unaware of the motion. No one had given permissions for the procedure, but since he was a ward of the state they were unnecessary. Timmy would not have been concerned, even if he had been aware; his body was merely a vessel for the protection and upkeep of his mind. The care of that vessel had been in responsibility of others for many years, and Timmy had nothing to do with it.

What was left of Timmy Michaelson was folded in upon itself in a vault deep within his mind. The wall around the vault was impenetrable from the outside. Even Linda Bowman had given up trying to reach beyond the wall. They really didn't need anesthesia to keep him under, and he wouldn't have felt the scalpel without it. Timmy dreamed on through the whole preparation for surgery, far removed from mundane, physical activity.

Phillip Hartley was an excellent surgeon, and at forty-three he was considered the best on the Western Slope, and better than many of the big city cutters in Denver. Dr. Phil was also a likeable fellow, all of his colleagues admired and respected him, and his patients held him in some awe. He was a miracle man, if anybody could pull you through, Dr. Phil could. Dr. Phil was also a driven man, born to a poor family with no history of higher education. He had set out at an early age to break the string of poverty and ignorance, but he'd had some formidable obstacles to overcome. His mother had been the only one in the family to support his quest. The rest, brothers, uncles, aunts and cousins thought that it was a foolish dream. They had given up trying to escape the life of their ancestors long ago. His father was the worst, constantly harping at him to stop acting like something he wasn't and get a job to help support the family.

Support his drinking was closer to the truth, because Fred Hartley was a drunk. There was no other way to say it, because even if alcoholism was viewed as an addictive sickness these days, Fred Hartley stayed drunk because he liked it. While his mother had worked at two jobs, one to keep her son in school and one to keep her husband in booze, Fred had lain on the sofa watching TV with a six-pack close to hand in an ice-filled tub. Phil Hartley had come to hate his father for his brutality towards his mother even more than for his constant inebriated state. One would have thought that Phil Hartley was primed to fail as a result of his family ties, and his friends and colleagues gave him credit for fighting off the obvious pitfalls. They wondered at his iron will in staving off the temptations, and saw a kind of super role model in him, one to be emulated by children of the ghetto.

They would have been shocked and saddened to learn the truth about Dr. Phil. He was a long-term coke addict. It had started innocently enough in residency, when it had been considered chic and the thing to do. Now, it was a daily necessity, and the only thing that got him through his pressure-packed days. Perhaps anyone else who had seen the destruction caused by cocaine use on a daily basis, would have at least tried to give up the stuff. Phil Hartley was special though, everyone said so, and more importantly, he believed it himself. Others might succumb to the drug, but not him; he was above such frailty.

How then to explain the nightmares that ruined his sleep at least twice a week? Always the same, he would be treating a patient in the throws of a drug induced hallucination and would grab the patient by the shoulder to turn him around. There was always resistance, the patent fought his attempts to bring him face to face with his doctor. Finally, he would succeed, and find himself staring into his own face. The message was obvious, but Dr. Phil was a terrible patient, and he would not listen to the prognosis, let alone accept treatment.

The nightmare was far away this morning, and he looked down at the young man on the table. He glanced over at Dr. Britton, the anesthesiologist, and asked for status.

Britton nodded at him and spoke, "Ready when you are Doctor, he's under. Respiration, blood pressure and pulse are well within limits."

Dr. Phil nodded back, and turning to the surgical nurse found her nodding as well. The abdominal pack was laid out on the instrument tray, ready to go. He took another look at the antibiotic swabbed circle around the lump in the boy's side and asked for a scalpel.

The offspring was puzzled, the host's body was dormant, but in a different way than usual. The host's mind was as unreachable as ever, but there were other minds nearby, many more than usual. It probed outward, lightly touching the four different psyches surrounding the host. The offspring had a huge advantage over its parent. It had been conceived and grown within one of the new people. It had learned its way around very well, and knew on an instinctive level how to reach out and manipulate their minds. Tzetzlan would have envied its ability, the offspring would be a great hunter on this new world. It had made its first kill, not as it emerged from its host, but even before it had been fully developed.

The offspring finished its survey of the prey around the host, and returned to the second one. Here was one that could be used very well. The feeding urge rose strongly within, and the hunt began.

Phil Hartley saw his hand tremble slightly, and it surprised him. They were usually rock steady. There was something nipping around the edges of his conscious thoughts. It was a gentle, incessant rapping that he could not filter out, but he tried to ignore it as he made the first incision. In moments, he was down to the lining of the abdominal cavity. He was working at the edge of the tumor, trying to avoid direct contact until he could see it and form a determination about its nature. Gently, he used a new scalpel to slice through the lining, and as if acting on its own volition, the tumor shifted towards the opening. Phil Hartley had his first view of the tumor under the harsh operating room lights. At first, he could only see a milky white, almost gelatinous, casing as it surged into the opening, as if attempting to escape the confines of the boy's body. As it rose, he could make out a dark shape within the capsule. This wasn't like any tumor he had seen before he thought, and then it began to move. The capsule stretched as the dark shape within unfolded. Philip Hartley found that he was staring into a pair of newly opened, glowing, orange eyes. Then things went blank.

Rose Chavez had been watching the doctor's moves closely, trying to anticipate his needs. She glanced up at the doctor's mask just as he was preparing to enter the abdominal cavity, it would be a terrible time for the mask to slip, when she saw his eyes go wide. She looked down at the incision, but her view was not as good as the doctor's, and she moved her body slightly so as to obtain a better view. Even before she could make out the moving form within the boy's abdomen she knew that something was terribly wrong. Her glance went back to the doctor, asking for guidance. He was standing rigid, scalpel in hand, staring off into space, and then an expression of intense disgust and fear filled his eyes. He looked about wildly, bringing the scalpel up like a weapon. His eyes found her, standing a few inches away. She was reaching up to touch his arm, hoping to calm him.

Phil Hartley understood immediately that the monster standing next to him meant to harm him. He reacted quickly, slashing out with the scalpel. It cut through the thing's neck, a thin red line quickly expanding to a gaping gash spewing blood. The thing looked surprised by the gushing red that spouted from below its vision, and in a moment, it had collapsed onto the instrument tray sending it crashing sideways onto the floor. The monster followed the tray, and slumped over it. Soon it would be dead.

But, Dr. Phil could not spare time to make sure, as there were other monsters to fend off. One stood by the autoclave, seemingly ready to bring sterile instruments to the table. Another one attended the complex anesthetic regulators. Dr. Phil understood that their apparent occupations were shams, intended to put him at ease, lull him to carelessness. He could see beneath their false superficial expressions of shock and surprise inhuman countenances showing expressions of hate and savage cunning. They meant to attack, and he had to finish them before they made a move to join forces against him. He ran first to the one by the autoclave, slashing and yelling, trying to put the reptilian thing down as quickly as possible. The lizard-thing fell and was still. He looked at the scalpel and saw that the tip had broken off, and he needed another weapon right away.

There was one monster left to go and he was defenseless. Unthinking, he opened the autoclave and took out a chest pack. Ignoring the searing heat, he unwrapped the cloth and grabbed another scalpel. He didn't notice the red welts that sprang up from contact with the hot metal. He turned to face the last snarling lizard. It still sat behind the operating table, claws trying to turn the valves of the anesthetic supply line. It must not be allowed to hurt his patient!

Britton had watched the carnage in horror, torn between administering to the patient's needs, or trying to stop Hartley. He sat frozen as Hartley advanced upon him, murder in his eyes. Even shouting had no effect upon the berserk surgeon. Britton looked at the intercom on the wall by the door. He'd never make it. He cut the flow of anesthetic to just sufficient to keep the boy under and started to rise. Before he was half-way up Hartley was on him stabbing with his new weapon. He felt a searing pain in his chest and fell backwards, toppling the chair he'd sat on. His head struck the linoleum floor with force and granted merciful, but brief unconsciousness.

Dr. Phil looked around the room, no more ugly lizards. He'd killed them all. He looked down at his trembling, blood-soaked arm, and a sick feeling welled up in his chest. Before his eyes, his arm was changing. Beneath the translucent surgical gloves the skin of his hand roughened. Where smooth brown skin had been; now there were scales. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even when the scales began to spread up his arm, row by overlapping row. He knew what he had to do, because the last monster in the room was the most hideous of them all. It was taking his body, and soon it would take his mind; he felt it gnawing there already. Forcing his hand open, he used his left hand to pry the scalpel from blistered flesh and turned it inward. He didn't hesitate; he knew where his responsibilities lay. He was a very good surgeon, and his aim was true; the scalpel entered cleanly between ribs and buried itself deeply in his heart.

The offspring ripped through its birthing membrane and stretched out fully. Nearly six inches tall, it stood with stumpy legs still half within the boy's abdominal cavity. The light was painfully bright, but not particularly dangerous. Darkness was preferred. The feeding had been gluttonous, and it knew that it should now dispatch the host, but what was the point? It was sated, and there was nothing at all to be gained from the host. It looked around for darkness, but found none. Every place in the room was brightly lit, and the light was less intense only in one direction.

The offspring made its way down off the table in uncertain fashion, limbs unused to exercise. Slowly, it shuffled towards the less lighted direction. The automatic doors opened at its approach, and in time, it found a darkened corner in a linen closet. The door had been left ajar by an orderly. Soon after, it was asleep. Like all infants, it needed lots of rest between feedings.

Tzetzlan woke in the middle of the day, aroused because the tenuous contact with its offspring had suddenly become much firmer. Though never before a parent, Tzetzlan instinctively realized the cause. The offspring had exited from the host, and was fully exercising its powers. It was calling out for help, as any child entering a strange environment it required assistance and the support of its parent. Tzetzlan was still very far away, the cool light in the sky would pass through many more of its cycles before the parent would meet its offspring. Tzetzlan was moving as fast as it could, but there were still too few opportunities to gain enough elevation to make gliding possible. Now, something had gone wrong, the birthing had occurred far too soon. Tzetzlan began to harbor a new feeling, something akin to concern, for its offspring. The blazing, death-giving sun was high in the sky, and even deep within the highway culvert, Tzetzlan could feel a tingle from the radiation. As anxious as it was to be on the move, nothing could be done before darkness.

After a time, the slightly hysterical signals from the offspring quieted, and Tzetzlan knew that its message had gotten through. The offspring was finally dormant, secure in the knowledge that its parent was coming as quickly as possible.

The offspring, once again feeling under control in what had become a dangerous situation, made use of its limited mental capabilities to assess its situation. It was not nearly so limited in this aspect as its parent. Growing within a thinking organism and in close proximity to other thinking prey had led it to acquire a new talent for its species. Planning. True, it was not very good at it, in fact, the structure of its brain worked against deductive or inductive reasoning. But, it thought that it had gotten the hang of it while tapping into the various prey. If the parent would take so long to reach the offspring, would not the time be reduced if the offspring moved toward the parent also? In order to do that, the offspring must grow quickly. In order to grow quickly, the offspring must find and utilize many prey in as short a time as possible. It had no doubt how to go about doing that.
Chapter 15

Murray had reached Grand Junction the evening before Timmy's surgery and had stayed over at a small, cheap motel near the Interstate. Rising early the next morning he had arrived at the Michaelson home only to find it in possession of new owners. They had lived there for five years after picking it up on a foreclosure. That the family had moved at least once in eight years didn't particularly surprise Murray, but the circumstances gave him some concern. Clearly, the family had fallen on hard times, and that might make the job of finding them a good deal more difficult.

Murray was a good investigator, and knowing where to look and what to ask came as second nature to him. It would take time, but he would hunt them down. The first day of research revealed that the house had been abandoned six years before, and a search of public records from around that time unearthed the death of the woman. Murray was surprised; he had expected to learn that something had happened to the husband. The rest of the day was not nearly as fruitful as searches for information for either Timmy or his father Dale, turned up nothing. It wasn't going to be so easy after all, and he was mulling over next steps as he turned on the TV to the Six O'clock News. The set brightened half-way through a story that had to do with something at a local hospital, and it was sheer luck that Murray caught the name on his way to the bathroom. Patiently, he waited for the late edition of the news. As sensational as the story was, it had top billing.

Twenty-four hours later Murray knew most of what there was to know. It came as a shock to him that by the end of that time he had developed a genuine feeling of sympathy for Timmy Michaelson. The boy's life had been a series of disasters, no wonder he was emotionally disabled. It would probably have been more merciful if he had died on the operating table, rather than being resuscitated at the last minute by an emergency medical team. Murray felt bad for himself, too. All of the hard work had been for nothing. The boy's parents were dead or gone, and the boy was catatonic. He wasn't going to get any help there. He was planning to meet with Dr. Britton, the only survivor of the Hospital Massacre, as it was being called, more to develop a second story than to add anything to the boy's profile.

Murray was only half-hearted about doing the interview. According to the early reports, the anesthesiologist had seen the murders, but not the suicide. Only half the story there, but it wasn't that often you could talk to someone who had evaded death by a quarter inch. It would have been worth a front-page photo for the Spectator. He really ought to be on his way south to Blanding again. That's where the real story was, and he didn't like being out of touch with developments about the kayaker's death.

Ralph Britton was still hospitalized, but wouldn't be for much longer. He'd lain in bed in the private room for three days, recovering from a near-fatal wound. The scalpel had missed his heart by millimeters as Hartley's thrust had been deflected by the boy's IV stand. He couldn't be blamed for dwelling on his close call with death, but that wasn't what was giving him the chills. What he had seen at eye level, raising from the open incision in the boy's abdomen was doing that. He couldn't talk about it, and his questions to his care givers upon regaining consciousness had been greeted with stares of puzzlement and maybe a little revulsion. They thought that he was perhaps temporarily crazed by his experience. Britton would actually have preferred to accept that assessment, but the waking nightmares wouldn't let him.

Since the rampage in the operating room, reporters had been hounding the hospital staff day and night. Most of all, they wanted to get a first-hand report from Britton. It was not something he wanted to do, but they were persistent. Despite hospital security, they found various and sundry ways to accost him. They were like a pack of jackals lusting after a bloody carcass. Finally, he had given in, but on condition that one person be appointed pool reporter to interview him and report back on the story. Then they had fought amongst themselves for the rest of the day without resolving the question of who would represent them. He solved their quandary by putting all their names in a bedpan and pulling one out with his eyes closed.

When he advised them of the identity of their representative, he was dismayed by their reactions. Clearly, the name Murray Fenster was the last one they had hoped to hear. The chorus of groans gave him pause to wonder what was wrong with the fellow. He'd never read the American Spectator, nor heard of Murray Fenster, and he might have reached in for another slip of paper if he had. As it was, he waited for the sounds of disappointment to die down and advised Mr. Fenster, whomever he might be, to present himself the next morning at ten o'clock sharp. He would be granted one hour.

The next morning, Dr. Britton found himself anticipating the interview with something approaching relief. Certainly, he would be happy to end the disruption to his recovery that the newshounds had brought, but there was something else as well. He had no family in this country, and his nearest living relative, a second cousin on his father's side, owned a station near Perth, Australia. He'd not even bothered to have him notified of his injury since they weren't especially close. He'd been in Grand Junction only three months, and hadn't formed any social attachments. Frankly, he needed someone to talk to. He'd spoken to his colleagues about the attack, of course, one could hardly avoid doing that, but the idea of relating the story to a non-professional was appealing. Britton had things to say that his professional associates would have found hard to believe. Perhaps a member of the press was not the ideal person to unburden upon, but he was hardly in condition to seek out a friendly bartender. The Fenster fellow might be able to reassure him about the stability of his mind, at the very least. Reporters were worldly people, after all, with broadly based experience. They all had heard incredible tales, he was sure, perhaps this one could offer a rational explanation for what he'd seen. He should have known better, of course, but he was young and a bit on the naïve side.

Murray sauntered into the room precisely at ten, waving off the admonition by the ward nurse that he had just one hour, no more. He looked at the pale, slight figure propped up in the bed, and decided it wasn't hard to figure out why he hadn't tried to stop Hartley. He didn't look as though he could have stopped a berserk field mouse.

"Dr. Britton, I'm Murray Fenster. Are you ready to get this show on the road?"

Britton looked at the pudgy little man and found himself wishing that he'd made his selection in a different way. He didn't think that he was going to like Murray Fenster.

"Please draw up a chair, Mr. Fenster. I'm prepared to give you a full accounting of the incident. I'll begin when you are ready."

"Save the speech, Doc. We've only got one hour. I'll just lay out a few questions for you, and you answer them. OK?" Without waiting for a reply from the somewhat stunned Britton, he plowed on. "Now then, when did you first notice that Hartley had slipped a cog?"

Much to his later regret, Britton started talking before thinking it over.

"I suppose that it was just after Phillip had opened the abdominal cavity and the thing started coming out of the boy. At least he wasn't reacting the way he should have under the circumstances. Just stood there, you know? With a blank expression on his face."

The alarms were going off again, As usual, Murray didn't know exactly why, but that would come.

"Hold on a minute, Doc, what kind of thing are we talking about? I thought the operation was exploratory for a tumor."

Britton replied slowly, this was already getting out of control. His hallucination was being addressed much too soon and out of order. He'd wanted to spend the time stressing the terrible ordeal he'd been through.

"Really, Mr. Fenster! I would prefer making my statement in my own fashion and in an orderly manner. You've already made me jump ahead to something that requires a carefully developed perspective. I must urge you to let me make my statement at my own speed. Otherwise it might come out sounding like the ravings of a madman. I'm sure that you would prefer an accurate statement."

Murray felt the beginnings of an odd mixture of euphoria and excitement. He smiled at the indignant face before him. Accuracy was not all it was cracked up to be, especially for a really good story.

"Doc, trust me, what we need to do is to get the facts on the table so I can do my job and get at the important parts of the story. You might be a great healer, but I know how to dig out a good story. Now then, what about this malignant tumor that popped up out of the boy's belly? Do you think that it was what caused Hartley to pop his belfry?"

Britton was becoming extremely agitated about his lack of control over Fenster, but he didn't understand that he had never been the one in control. Later, he would harshly chastise himself for not having stopped the interview then and there. Unfortunately, that was not his decision to make, when Murray Fenster smelled a story, not even the Hounds of Hell could have stopped him going after it. Despite his discomfort, Britton allowed another answer to escape un-edited.

"Mr. Fenster, no one has ever said that it was a malignant tumor. That's what the operation was for, to find out what it was. As I would have properly done, if you had given me the chance, would be to carefully develop my experience and to show how even a trained professional can be driven to imagine things that could not possibly have happened as a result of extraordinary events. Furthermore..."

"Well, Hell Doc! What's it going to be? Did you see anything or not? Maybe you passed out early and missed the whole shebang, huh?"

"Fenster! How dare you suggest anything of the kind! I stayed at my post until that mad beast struck me down! I did not cower! I did not evade my responsibility to the patient at any instant. Ever before I lost consciousness, I saw it. It was rising out of the boy like some hideous slime-covered apparition. I don't care what they say now, I know-that—I---saw----it."

The last words died out in a slow string as Britton realized how much he had said. He was sure this fellow would now think him mad. He'd gotten no chance to get into it gradually; no chance to prove his competence. He lowered his eyes to the bed sheets and waited for Fenster to start laughing. When the expected reaction didn't come, he looked up again. Fenster was just sitting there, regarding him with a level, noncommittal gaze.

"Well now, Doc, if you've gotten over your mad, why don't you tell me what you did see?"

Britton began slowly, still wanting to back up and start afresh to develop his observations as they had happened. He knew it was too late for that, and he told Fenster as much as he could remember about the shape, and color, and texture of the thing he had seen before losing consciousness.

"So that's it? You saw a dark blobby form all wrapped up in some kind of goo, and maybe it had two orange spots near the top? Nothing else?"

"Well, you see I came to for an instant after I fell. I'm not sure about that part, and it could well be that I was hallucinating by then. I really shouldn't say more, I'm sure I sound crazed as it is."

"Come on Doc, whatcha got to lose now? Spill it all."

"Oh, very well, then please leave. I've had enough of this."

"We'll see, you did promise an hour, you know."

Britton whimpered at that, and Murray came close to feeling sorry for him.

"Mr. Fenster, please stress in your story that my description here might well be a self-admitted hallucination. I've probably ruined my reputation already, please don't make me out a fool as well."

"Sure, sure, come on, Doc."

"You see, when I opened my eyes for that instant, my head was turned towards the operating table. I had a clear view of the profile of the boy's lower body. The dark shape was still there, but it was different, the covering was gone. It looked like a skinny ape, Mr. Fenster, only different. The legs were very short, and the arms hung down almost to its feet. I couldn't see the front. Hartley was standing at the end of the table and the thing was facing him. I saw just the upper part of Hartley. Fenster, I saw Hartley plunge the scalpel into his own heart. He had no expression on his face at all. It was blank. Then he was gone, slumped to the floor. I started to black out again, but before I lost consciousness I saw the ape, or whatever it was, stretch as though it was cramped. It had a membrane of some sort that stretched between its arms and its sides. And, wicked looking, long talons at the ends of its hands. No fingers, just talons. I don't know of anything to compare it to, except a bat maybe.

Murray rose abruptly and walked to the window, his back to Britton. The inside of his head sounded like a four-alarm alert. His mind was racing. He was silent for some time and Britton wondered if he'd been forgotten. The silence stretched out, but Britton didn't mind. He wished Fenster would leave. It caught him by surprise when Fenster finally did speak.

"Tell me Doc, what happened to the boy during all of this?"

Britton sighed, glad to be on safer ground.

"Most amazing, actually. Most likely, my last ditch effort to regulate his life support helped, but it's still something of a miracle. There he lie, sliced open like a ripe melon for at least twenty minutes they tell me, until an orderly came to check if anything might be needed. When he looked through the window by the intercom, and saw the carnage inside he went ballistic. It took them ten minutes at the nurse's station to calm him enough to say what he'd seen. Most likely, it was well over a half-hour before an emergency team got to him. Imagine that, and he lived. He's just down the hall, actually, mending nice as you please. Still catatonic, of course, but now the tumor, or whatever it really was, is gone, and physically he is in good shape. Of course, no one can explain why the only thing left of that huge tumor is just a few ounces of dried mucous membrane. We know though, don't we Fenster?"

Britton had let his gaze drop once more, and when he didn't get any reply he looked over to where Fenster had been standing. The window looking out on a pleasant flower garden was open, and there was no sign of the reporter.

Timmy lay in the hospital bed, still locked tightly within himself. The effects of the anesthesia and later sedatives had worn off, and now he realized that something was different. His hand rested over the spot that had been so painful lately. There was a dull ache there that his subconscious responded to, but his hand couldn't touch. The area was covered in soft padding. His mind did not notice the change in the nature of the pain, but something else had changed that was more important. The pressure on the wall was gone. The incessant scratching of tendrils seeking a way in had stopped. Perhaps he should open the tiniest crack and investigate. Sometime. It was comfortable here just the way he was, why take a chance?
Chapter 16

Murray knew he had made a coup. The gaggle of media people waiting in the lobby of the hospital wouldn't awake to the fact that their pool reporter had skipped town with the story until he was well beyond the city limits. Besides, Britton's interview would have sounded like the ravings of a madman to them. There really was no point in disappointing them that way. No doubt, Britton would finally cave in and give them a sanitized version of the Operating Room Massacre, and that was fine. He, the one and only Murray Fenster, had the real story, and he knew what to do with it. Sure, it would have been nice to visit with the kid. So far as Murray knew the boy was just a vegetable and you don't get a lead out of a head of cabbage. When the time came, Timmy Michaelson would be given first-rate treatment. Murray could see it already, 'Unwilling Victim of Alien Invasion Permanently Deranged by His Terrible Fate'. Great stuff!

Just one more thing to do, and it might be a little dangerous, but Murray knew when to stick his neck out for a story. This was the time for it. Late that night, Murray let himself into his Blanding apartment. It was a good thing he finally had his own key, chances were that his landlord wouldn't have stirred from his bed to let him in. He was up nearly until dawn putting it all together, but the result was worth losing a little sleep. The thing from Khols Ranch and Strawberry was heading for Grand Junction. The line was not perfectly straight, but it was close enough to convince anyone with an open mind. The Khols Ranch big-bat thing was heading directly towards the Grand Junction small-bat thing. He didn't know why, or what the relationship might be between the two, but that would come with time, and digging out details. Murray knew something else, too, by plotting the dates of the various killings against the distance between them he came up with an average speed for the big-bat thing's progress. It was 1.3 miles per day.His initial thought was that a thing couldn't fly at that slow rate, so it must be walking. Why walk instead of fly? He checked it over and over again, why so slow? There weren't any obvious answers to either of those questions, and even if the thing was walking during the nighttime hours only, it was still a snail-like pace. Even he could have done better. The giant bat was certainly no ball of fire, and at that rate it wouldn't make it to Grand Junction for another three months. In fact, if his calculations were right, its closest approach to Blanding had been just two days ago! Right then, as he sat thinking about it, the thing should be moving about three miles northeast of town. Murray was a believer in omens and this one was too good to ignore.

He needed a couple of days to get ready, but once he plotted access on his road atlas, he took a trial drive out to the area, and reconnoitered possible camp sites. In three more days the thing would pass near enough to this spot to spit on, he was certain of it. Back in town, he loaded up the camping gear he'd purchased along with enough food and water for a week. He checked his list, digital camera, infrared spy goggles, wire... the list went on for two pages, and at the end was the most important item. The old .45 and box of ammunition had been bought at a flea market in a slightly larger town nearby. Murray didn't have a clue about how to use it, but thought there would be lots of time to practice while he waited.

He intended to be on his chosen location early in the day, but getting everything ready took until nearly noon. All his activity attracted the attention of his landlord, who regarded Murray as a suspicious fellow to begin with. Now, seeing his new tenant packing up, his first thought was that Murray was vacating his premises. He was only partly convinced by Murray's explanation that he was simply making an outing for a few days and would be back no later than Wednesday evening. His lack of conviction had a lot to do with Murray's detailed description of the place he was going to camp. Sam Gardner had lived in Blanding his entire life. He'd been born there and could trace his ancestry to early Mormon settlers. He knew every place of even minor interest to tourists, and where Fenster was headed was just about the least scenic spot for a hundred miles in any direction. He thought that Fenster was probably lying to him, but rent was paid up and he had no cause to complain further. All the recent goings on in the area seemed to have happened since the fellow showed up in town, and he was more than a little apprehensive. Maybe it would be a good idea to have a talk with the Gurney boy.

Murray finally arrived at his chosen camp site at two in the afternoon. He'd have to push it to be ready for the night. He got out a second list, the one that itemized things to do at camp. He'd put a lot of thought into it, and item #1 was 'set out alarms'. It wasn't a bad idea, just poorly executed. Murray had decided he would need help detecting the arrival of his quarry. Unfortunately he was a city boy, and had never learned the art of reading a compass. As it turned out, the wire with rock-filled tin cans he stretched out for a thousand feet went north and south instead of the intended east to west.

It was an impressive lay-out even so, and it stretched across what he believed would be the line of travel of the giant bat, or whatever the Hell it was. By the time he pounded the last peg into the ground and tied on the end of the wire, it was nearly six o'clock, and he hadn't even made a start on item #2, 'put up tent'. Nightfall found him struggling with the gas lantern in an effort to light up his surroundings sufficiently to make a fire and cook a meal. Various other small tasks kept him fully occupied while the steak roasted over the open fire, he was pretty sure that was how you did it. Long after dark had settled in, Murray finally sat down to eat. The steak was by then a solid piece of charcoal, the cowboy coffee was mostly coffee grounds in an oily liquid, and the beans were dried beyond his ability to chew them. He decided that he wasn't really hungry anyway, and only wanted to sleep.

Trouble was, he couldn't do that. The whole idea was to stay up over night and sleep during the day. He was absolutely sure that for whatever reason the thing traveled only at night. The long eight hours until daybreak, were the longest in Murray's recent life, and by the time the sun was fully above the horizon he was slumped over his journal in a fitful slumber. He'd been keeping a detailed account of his pursuit of the killer. All during the night he had written furiously, and daylight saw the dairy nearly up to date. It was all there, what he'd done and how he'd done it. Neatly written down in one thick, cloth-bound journal. He'd even worked out a preliminary outline for the first part of the story. At some point during the night, the idea of writing just a newspaper article had been transformed into plans for a real life adventure book. There would be a lot more money in it.

Murray's plan to sleep during the daylight hours did not work well in practice. The light and the buzzing insects kept him in a half sleeping-half waking state until nearly noon. Then exhaustion took over, and he slept fitfully until nearly sundown. All the things he meant to catch up with during the late afternoon, remained undone. Ill prepared for the second night, he opened and ate a can of tuna without bothering to make a real meal out of it, and thus prepared, an already overtired camper started into another night on watch.

Murray had allowed two extra days at the outset, correctly judging that it might take a little getting used to, before he could function properly on an all-night watch. Even so, things weren't going as well as planned. The second night found him drowsing off every few minutes. If anything, he was even more tired on the second morning, and he began to wonder if this whole exercise was such a good idea, after all.

His third night at camp was the night he had calculated would be optimal for spotting the creature. He needed to be fully alert. Even his Cowboy Coffee couldn't do its job, and by midnight Murray was jerking his head up from his chest every couple of minutes. Hardly caring anymore, he lay down on his sleeping bag just to rest his eyes from the acrid Juniper smoke that his fire produced. It seemed that no matter how he positioned himself, the gentle night breeze blew it directly into his face. Lying there, arms thrown over his eyes, Murray was deeply asleep in moments. Even if the cans on his alarm wire had clattered in unison, he wouldn't have heard it.

Tzetzlan had been traveling fast and hard. Normally sedate, except when hunting, it was unusual for its kind to expend so much energy over a short period of time. So, it was an uncommon experience for Tzetzlan to be physically hungry. The psychic needs were easily met for long periods by just one feeding. To replenish the metabolic requirements brought on by unaccustomed exertion required material nourishment. It had begun to resort to small animals again to fill its requirement, but that was a full time business just to find enough. Tzetzlan did not have that much time to waste, the offspring was calling. Sometimes urgently, but more often of late in a manner that suggested it was unable to cope with its surroundings. It needed feeding also, but could find no suitable prey close enough. Worse, being prematurely born, it tended to weaken rapidly. Tzetzlan sensed that it could not last indefinitely in its present surroundings, and had begun to despair of reaching its goal in time.

The offspring was still locked in a seldom-used closet, and was unable to physically remove itself from its cell. The prey in the immediate area were too far away, or were too intent on other matters to be susceptible to its influence. Some of them were, like the host had been at the last, in deep dormancy and could not be roused to a dream state. Things were becoming desperate, as it too needed material nourishment in addition to emotive feeding. It was, after all, a growing baby.

Tzetzlan sent out tendril after tendril searching for larger prey, and its pace had slowed for lack of food. It began to consider the real possibility that the offspring would starve before it could be reached. Tzetzlan's own survival was not in doubt, and it had gone through long periods without either physical or emotive nourishment many times during its existence. The offspring was another matter, it should still be safely within the host's body and not exposed to the raw alien environment of the outside world. A short time before dawn, as it searched for a place to layover during daylight hours, Tzetzlan sensed something ahead. It was one of the new people, alone and exposed, but too far away to reach before daylight. Fearful of frightening it off, Tzetzlan left it untouched. It found shelter under a rock overhang and prepared to wait out the day, the frightened pleas of its offspring clear in its mind.

Alone and isolated from the rest of humanity for the first time in his life, Murray sat beside the campfire on the fourth night. He'd slept until nearly noon and was feeling refreshed. He was afraid he had missed the chance, and perhaps by now the giant bat was already north of him and he was waiting in vain. Perhaps he should start over again, set up camp farther north and wait in a new place. He cursed himself for giving in to sleep the previous night, as that could well have cost him his big opportunity. Before long, he had convinced himself that moving was the right thing to do. He thought it a good decision, and having made it he would get a full night's sleep, before breaking camp and moving on. Murray drank the last of his gritty coffee, and climbed into his sleeping bag, still fully clothed.

Tzetzlan woke from a most uncomfortable dormant period with severe burns on its legs. The overhang had been inadequate and the sunlight had nearly struck directly on its body. It ignored the burning, and sought out the prey. It was there! At the same distance, and best of all, nearly dormant. Tzetzlan roused itself, painfully brushing against the walls of the overhang as it extracted itself from the cramped quarters. Even before it set out, Tzetzlan sent out a strong probing tendril. It sought out the crevices into the secret places, reading the pride, the anger, the passion, and finally the shame. That was always buried the deepest, but once found it was easy to bring to the surface, especially when the prey were dormant. These new people seemed to have a need to punish themselves by saving their shame in hidden places, but calling it up when dormant to be part of their dreams. It didn't take much to encourage that tendency, and by now Tzetzlan was expert at it. Tzetzlan didn't know why some particular remembrances should be painful to the prey. They usually involved abstract concepts such as truth, loyalty, integrity, and honesty. Ideas that were totally alien and to its mind, unnecessary.

This one was different, and the shame arose from a source that even Tzetzlan could comprehend. In fact, Tzetzlan found it to be mildly disgusting itself. Surely, this one deserved to die, and it hoped that it would not be contaminated by the feeding.

The Night Watchman snapped into wakefulness. It had been years since he had been called upon. It had been years since The Dream had come to torture the Boss. The old tricks didn't work for some reason, maybe because the Boss was much older and was harder to rouse from sleep. The Boss refused to awaken even with the increase in bladder pressure as the Night Watchman used the never-fail technique. It appeared as though the most extreme effort would be required. The Dream came from a place so deep that it took time to find it in all the old debris lying around, but gradually the various elements came together in the expected fashion. He began to assemble a mental picture of the Boss' Father's coffin; it would bring him to full alert in seconds, shaking in terror. Something happened then that he could not comprehend. A presence came into the Night Watchman's chamber, it was a long snake-like thing slithering under the closed door, and then raising off the floor to waver back and forth as if looking for something. The Night Watchman backed away, forgetting his duties and the coffin began to open. A black line appeared around the edge of the lid, and broadened until the white lining became visible. The black, crinkled mass inside would gradually become visible, and that would certainly wake the Boss. The Night Watchman lost concentration on the progress of The Dream as the long, wispy snake slithered even closer, the tip vibrating in the air as if sensing his presence. Then it struck, pinning the Night Watchman in tightening coils, where, too late, he could watch The Dream go further than ever before.

The coffin opened fully, revealing not a blackened corpse, but emptiness. Murray didn't understand, it had always been different before, and he had gotten used to seeing his Father's burned body. He didn't like it, of course, but unlike when he was a child it no longer horrified him. This new twist to an old nightmare was disturbing. If his Father was not in the coffin, where was he? He should be lying there dead, looking exactly as he had when they brought him out of the fire-ravaged apartment. Suddenly, the nightmare jumped backwards in time. A young Murray, one with plenty of hair and a trim figure, sat in the small room his Father reserved for storing his collection of films and videos. He was hiding there, smoking a joint. It was something he knew that his old fashioned Father would have abhorred. Murray, mid-way into his teens and more rebellious than most, was proving to be a mounting burden on his family. He'd been sneaking into the film room to do his smoking instead of venting it safely on the roof, just to show defiance. He knew that the acrid odor would linger for hours, and he hoped it would drive his Father up the wall, trying to figure out where it came from. He was very careful about ashes and papers, removing all evidence when he left. His Mother was out with friends as always and wouldn't be back until a half hour before his Father got home from work. That afternoon, as had become his habit, he timed his smoking so that he was alone, and would be out with friends before either one of them showed up. Young Murray had seriously underestimated his Father, and the film room door swung open with his Father's outline framed by light streaming in from the adjacent room and catching him full with the joint dangling from his lips.

The punishment meted out that day did not hurt Murray so much as knowledge of the fact that his Father was more concerned about his stupid films than he was about his only son. Murray had stormed out of the apartment, both his backside and his feelings full of pain. His Father had restricted him to his room, but he didn't care. He needed to be amongst friends; they, at least, understood what he was going through. Having similar families, they understood Murray's complaints all too well, and were happy to bolster his rage at being whipped for the first time in years. They gave him all the pot he wanted, and one of them managed to get an older brother to buy a couple of six-packs. By ten that night, Murray was well beyond a buzz, and it was then that a plan for revenge came full blown into his head. He didn't say anything of it to his friends, he just left them sleeping in the abandoned basement.

It was past midnight when he sneaked back into the apartment. His parents were both asleep, and he could hear his Father's nasal breathing through the closed bedroom door. Quietly as he could, he made his way to the film room and let himself in. There, far beyond rational thought, he had only one purpose and that was to teach his Father a lesson. He would do away with those films he loved so much more than his son. Murray struck a match and held it to a wad of paper, and when it caught put it into the box that housed the oldest, most valuable film. Then he retreated, out of the room, out of the apartment, back to the abandoned basement where his friends were still asleep. He settled down amongst them and pretended to be sleeping.

The sirens roused them all a short time later. Still in a devil-may-care mood, they decided to investigate. Murray knew why the fire trucks were moving that early morning, but didn't let on. They followed the noise out to his street, his block, and finally to his apartment house. His friends were very supportive then, and reassured Murray that his folks were all right. It must be another apartment, and not his. Murray knew better, of course, but even the sight of flames leaping out from windows didn't make him admit his part in the fire. It served his Old Man right, didn't it?

The fire was clearly out of control by then, and his feelings of revenge were beginning to evaporate. Then they started bringing bodies out, his Mother came first. He threw up at the sight of her naked, blackened form. The neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Ferry, came next. Bill Ferry was still alive, screaming in agony, but he would survive his wife by only a few hours. Murray waited for them to bring out his Father. After several hours, near the middle of the morning, the fire crews packed up and left. The ambulances trucked off the corpses, and the crowd melted away. There was still no sign of his Father. Murray continued to wait on the sidewalk near his burned out apartment. His friends had left; he knew not when. His vigil went on all day, well into the next night. Strangely he had been left alone, no one showing any inclination to help the teenage boy waiting outside the burned shell of his home. The night seemed to last for an eternity, the moon hanging in the same place, and not traveling across the sky.

Then finally, a change. The street lamps began to go out, starting far down the street, one by one they extinguished until only two were left burning. Murray stood beneath the one, and the other was perhaps fifty feet away. Murray knew then that his wait was over, and as he watched the blackened, deformed figure move into the circle of light, he knew why his Father's coffin had been empty. He looked down at his hands, and found that they were not young hands any longer. His stomach wasn't flat like it had been back when he was young. It stuck out like it did now, and Murray realized that the teenager was gone leaving the middle-aged Murray to meet his long-dead Father. He watched, paralyzed by horror, and the burned creature moved towards him. The light of the street lamp moved with the advancing figure, bathing it in a cold, white glow. Murray began to pick out details of this Father's disfigurement. He wanted to be sick, but could not even do that.

As the walking corpse came to within a few feet, Murray saw that the empty eye sockets burned with a deep orange glow. He screamed. And, awoke.

His eyes shot open in unseeing terror, and then gradually focused on the dark form seeming to float in the air above him. The two orange-burning eyes were still there. His legs were held against the ground in a tight grasp that was not lessened by the cloth of the sleeping bag. His arms were still free, but caught within the folds of the sleeping bag. He spread them as far as he was able, and the contact with the metal zipper along the side served as a touchstone to reality. The horrid dream was over he knew, but now he was in real physical danger, and the analytical mind he was proud of kicked into action. He fought to expel the presence he felt crowding his mind and attempting to direct his thoughts.

For the first time in millennia, Tzetzlan was challenged by the prey. It came as a surprise, and nearly the prey dislodged the tendrils controlling his mind. Tzetzlan had to act quickly before the prey could do more, and it raised its head, turning its profile into the moonlight before slashing downward.

Murray saw the sharp serrated beak and skeletal face, moonlight shone nearly through triangular openings. A long, horror-filled "No-o-o-o-o" escaped his mouth, and with a mustering of strength born of adrenalin his right arm burst through the sleeping bag's zippered side and found the .45 lying nearby. The movement caused the talons in his shoulder to tear gaping wounds and Tzetzlan nearly lost its balance as part of its support fell away. In the seconds it took to regain its hold Murray got off three rounds, but then the head started to make another downward sweep.

The open, scissor-like beak plunged into Murray's chest, shearing ribs with an ease that would have astonished a surgeon. Slashing through muscle and arteries, the beak closed, and cut his heart in two. Tzetzlan rested then, feeling the warm fluid washing around and through its beak even as the prey's consciousness faded into nothingness. It took what it needed and left, seeking shelter against the coming day. The three holes in its wing membrane were not painful and were not debilitating, but Tzetzlan reflected, in its simple way, that the new people were becoming dangerous.

The offspring felt a sympathetic stab of surprise as Murray's bullets tore through its parent's wing membrane. It was enough to rouse the offspring from the lethargy that had nearly overcome it. A last desperate effort to cling to life brought it into contact with Josh Cunningham. Josh was on the payroll at the hospital in a work-care program. He lived in a group home with others who had similar conditions. He was a careful and conscientious worker, and when someone gave him a job to do, he did it right, and no loafing. Tonight he was restocking linen. Most guys would have skipped the auxiliary supply room outside of operating room number two because nobody used the stuff in there. It was mostly for big emergencies like plane crashes and stuff. Josh didn't skip it though, because it would be real bad if one of those big emergencies happened and something was missing. Josh opened the door all the way and started to turn on the light, but something in his head said, "No, don't do that." So he didn't.

The thoughts that weren't his told him to come in. Then they told him to lie down. He did those things because he was confused. It didn't seem like it, but he must be thinking those things. Mustn't he? Nobody else could use his head, could they? He lay there wondering what he was doing, because this felt a lot like loafing to him. Then something in his head said he needed to be scared, but he didn't know what to be scared of. That kind of frightened him all by itself, because if there was something to be scared of how come he didn't know about it? Something started moving up his arm, and he wanted to get up and run, but he couldn't. He wanted to holler out for Nurse James, but his head wouldn't let him. Whatever it was had gotten up to his shoulder. First, he thought it was a mouse, but it was too big and heavy. Maybe it was a rat! He hated rats, and he wanted to knock it off his shoulder, but he couldn't move. He felt a sharp stab in his neck. It really hurt bad. Soon, he passed out.

The offspring finished feeding. It had been only partly fulfilling, because the prey was weak-minded and could not emote sufficiently to satisfy its needs. It had taken physical nourishment though, and could feel its strength returning. It knew that it could not remain in this small enclosure. It must move on, but the lights in the corridor were very uncomfortable. There must be a dark place somewhere, and it went through the open door to a stairwell and found it less bright because the overhead light had burned out. Josh had been going to replace that bulb as his next task, and had left the door ajar as a reminder. The offspring started down the stairs, passing as quickly as possible beneath lights still burning on lower levels. When it reached the service level it found a dark hole where the cover had fallen from a floor-level vent and was barely large enough to curl up in. It was very tired now, and full. Time for a nap.

They found Josh within the hour, but he was barely alive and had lost a lot of blood. The wound had only nicked the artery and clotting had finally stemmed the flow of blood. He would live, but it would be a very close thing. Everyone was puzzled, it looked like a knife or scalpel wound, and with Hartley's rampage still fresh in mind, everyone was understandably nervous. They called in the police to assist hospital security, and every place big enough to hide a person was searched. The dark interior of the vent pipe down in the service level was much too small to merit attention.

When Josh woke up the next morning, they asked him what had happened. What he had to say didn't make very much sense. "A rat?" They questioned. "We don't have rats around here. Why did you lie down in the first place?" When he told them that a voice in his head had told him to, they chalked it up to his condition and stopped asking questions.

After sundown that day, the offspring moved on through an open freight door and made its way slowly towards downtown Grand Junction. Over the next few weeks a rash of small animal deaths were noted, but soon lost the attention of local authorities when a growing number of the city's homeless began turning up dead. The police were convinced that a serial killer was at work, and they even went so far as to plant undercover officers in the area. That plan was abandoned when an officer was found dead, weapon still holstered. Grand Junction became a city under siege as the killings continued for three months. Then, as suddenly as they had started, the killings stopped.
Chapter 17

Hal Burton and his daughter were in the shop early that Wednesday. It was a production day.The weekly paper went to press at midmorning, and would be on the street early Thursday. It was the most hectic day of the week, a time for making last minute changes and doing that final proofing. They always had the closed sign facing outward until the paper went to the printer in Cortez so that distractions were minimized. The knocking on the front door came as an unwelcome surprise, and Hal let it go on a few minutes before giving in. Whoever was pounding apparently wasn't going away. He opened the old fashioned roll-up blind, ready to shoo away the intruder. Instead, he wound up opening the door.

"Hal, I'm sorry to bother you, but it's important."

Sheriff Gurney was clearly upset, and anything that could shake him up must be very important, indeed.

Hal sighed, and said, "Come on in Talbot, and tell me what's so important that it would stop the presses."

Gurney shuffled into the shop and stood looking around uncertainly.

"The start is usually the best place," Hal said.

"Huh?"

"You seem to be at a loss for words, Sheriff, and I was just saying that it's often easiest to get out what you want to say if you pick up the story at the place where you came in."

"Oh. Well, we found that Fenster fellow early this morning." The Sheriff paused.

"I didn't know that he was lost," Hal responded by way of prompting. Fact of the matter was, he hadn't even given a thought to Murray Fenster for well over a month.

"No one did," Gurney started, "except for his landlord. That old buzzard, Sam Gardner, didn't even file a report until Fenster's rent came due on Tuesday and he didn't get paid. The only reason he came in then, was to ask how long he had to wait before he could sell Fenster's stuff.

We finally got out of him where Fenster was headed when he left town six weeks ago, and we went up to check around. Hal, he was still there, inside a tent and all tucked into his sleeping bag; and long, long dead."

Gurney paused again, and Hal was getting impatient.

"Well Gurney, what was it, a heart attack?"

"You remember that boy we found down on the San Juan?"

Hal had a sinking feeling, "Yes."

"Well it was like that, only worse. His whole chest was ripped open and his right shoulder was torn apart. I mean sure, the animals had been at him, too. But, they didn't do all that damage. Even with him lying there for five or six weeks."

Hal heard his daughter run off to the small bathroom. The noises left no doubt that she was being sick. Truth was, he felt pretty queasy himself. Gurney wasn't a particularly sensitive fellow, and he kept plowing along.

"I mean that fellow was in really bad shape. And stink? My God, it was all I could do to look in the tent at him."

Hal swallowed back bile, "Alright, Talbot! Alright! I get the picture, but why tell me all of this? It's a little late to make this week's paper."

"Yeah, I know. Too bad, you could have scooped the big town boys." Gurney smiled, "Anyway, there were a couple of things that puzzled the hell out'a me..."

"Just a couple?" Hal couldn't resist the jibe.

"Huh? Well no, of course not, I mean the whole thing is a puzzle. What I'm trying to tell you is that there were a couple of real strange things about the situation. First off, Fenster had hold of a beat up .45 and there were three expended cartridges lying on the ground. So we figure he took a pop at whatever got at him. He probably missed, because there wasn't any blood stains around except what come out'a him. Not even as much of that as there should'a been. Funny about that."

"Maybe whoever did it was only hurt a little," Hal suggested, "or maybe Fenster just plain missed, or wasn't hit inside the tent. Did you look around outside?"

"Oh hell yes! Of course we did, and the only thing we found were a few kinda greenish stains on the sleeping bag, like maybe he dripped some jelly there one time. Other than that, nothing."

"Jelly?" Hal had trouble picturing Murray Fenster sitting up in bed eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "You know, Talbot, maybe just for the sake of completeness you ought to send those stains in for testing."

"You think so? Hmmm. Well, why not? I never get to put those crime lab boys to work, but I get laughed at because it's apple jelly, you owe me a dinner."

"Done. Now what about the other curious thing?"

"Yeah, that's why I really came to see you." He held out a thick book, crammed with loose pieces of paper. "This we found laying on top of Fenster's gear inside the tent. I've looked at it, but it don't make any sense at all. I was wondering if you could take a look and tell me if it means anything, or if Fenster was just writing a book."

Hal was reluctant to touch the book since he could see brownish stains on the cover. He forced himself to reach out for it, then immediately set it down on the table top.

"OK Talbot, I'll do that, and then I'll let you know what I think. Anything else?"

"No, I guess not. Well, I gotta get back to work. Me and the boys have never had so much to do around here. The coroner should be finished up with Fenster later today, or maybe tomorrow. I'll let you know what he has to say."

"OK Talbot. Thanks for keeping me up to date."

As Gurney closed the door after him, Hal was staring at the blood-stained book. The idea of handling it repulsed him, but he knew he had to read it. His curiosity was fully aroused. Right now, there was a paper to put to bed, and he turned back to the paste-up table as Kim came out of the bathroom. She looked pale and shaken. He tried to comfort her, but she refused to be babied. It was getting harder and harder to treat her like a little girl. That made him feel sad.

Late Thursday, after the papers had been distributed and the office was quiet, Hal sat down and began to read. He let the blood-stained cover rest flat on the desk and turned pages using the eraser end of a pencil. Soon, he forgot his fear of contamination and picked the book up to hold it at a comfortable reading distance while he leaned back into the old leather desk chair. He became so totally engrossed in the hastily scribbled account that he missed dinner. When Kim came in with a tray of food he waved her to a chair and continued reading. It wasn't until eight that a combination of the gnawing emptiness in his stomach and red, bleary eyes forced a halt.

Kin knew what the book was, and had been trying to ignore it, but the expression on her Father's face worried her. She understood that sooner or later she would have to deal with the book and its contents. Her Father didn't say a word while he ate the cold food, and didn't seem to notice that she was obviously waiting for an explanation. Somewhere between the last of the corned beef and the first of the apple pie, Hal Burton reached a decision that was to affect his and his daughter for the rest of their lives.

"Kim, would you do me a favor and pull out that old road atlas from the reference shelf in the other room?"

She got up to do as he asked.

"While you're in there, grab a handful of those little pins with the colored plastic heads."

Neither one of them got much sleep that night, nor did it take long before Kim was caught up in Murray Fenster's big story just as intently as her Father.

They set out on Friday afternoon for the drive to Grand Junction. A call before they left confirmed that a patent named Timothy Michaelson was indeed a long-term resident of the county welfare care unit. None of Hal's other questions had been answered over the phone, as even welfare patients had a right to privacy. Taking turns driving, Hal and Kim arrived in Grand Junction at ten that night. It had been several months since Kim had been to a town of any size and she thought that at least the trip would serve some purpose, even if it was only to look in a few store windows or to eat in a real restaurant. She was looking forward to checking out the town, it was one of the places on her list. Her Father probably wouldn't object so much to it since it was a fairly easy drive from Blanding.

Hal might have been saddened by his daughter's thoughts, but when he glimpsed her excited expression as they drove through the downtown area the next morning he knew exactly what she was feeling. He still remembered his own youth and how, as a country boy, he'd longed for the big city life. He felt a pang of guilt for not letting Kim spend more time around places that offered more excitement and culture than Blanding. He'd been selfish, wanting to keep to his own comfortable little world. He didn't understand yet that Kim needed to separate her life from his and not just from small town living. Like most parents, that idea would never occur to him.

They arrived at the care unit for their appointment with the facility administrator a few minutes ahead of time. Mrs. Phelps was typically long on work and short on time. They could have been a half hour late, and it wouldn't have been noticed. Once she came into the room and started asking some very pointed questions, Hal began to despair of ever seeing the Michaelson boy, let alone spend any time with him. Mrs. Phelps had long believed that Timmy's nearly nine-year isolation from people his own age had helped to keep him locked in his limited world. She was wrong, of course, but she made the right decision anyway. Kim's presence pushed her decision in the right direction.

Under Mrs. Phelps' watchful supervision, Hal spent the next half hour sitting at Timmy's bedside watching his face and searching for even a slight sign of intelligence in the open, but seemingly sightless eyes. He saw nothing to give any hope that Timmy's story would ever be anything more than a closed book.

Kim stood at the doorway, just at the edge of Timmy's line of vision. She felt sorry for the boy; her complaints about being isolated and locked away from life seemed petty and childish compared to Timmy's total withdrawal. She couldn't help but wonder what could have been such a terrible blow to have caused a child to leave the world so totally behind. She found herself wishing that somehow she could reach out and touch his sleeping mind to let him know that people still cared about him.

Perhaps that silent wish was the key that had been lost for so long, or perhaps it was the vision of the young girl caught at the edge of Timmy's sight. She could be like the girl in the next room who had died running away from the monster. The wall around Timmy's consciousness cracked just a little, and his first impulse was to immediately seal it again. The pressure and scratching still hadn't returned though, and it would be tempting to peek out for an instant. There really wasn't much left to think about inside, and his intellect cried out for something new to perceive, even the smallest thing to think about that he hadn't thought about a thousand times already. The filtered vision of the girl overcame the reluctance to chance the outside, and Timmy gave in to temptation. He sent the merest wisp of a searching tendril to investigate. It sought out and touched the minds of the people nearest. First, an old man, much older than his Father had been, who was thinking about somebody named Murray. Near the old man was a woman who he recognized from his mental excursions before the monster had scared him back behind the wall. She hadn't been very interesting then, and she still wasn't. Always thinking about forms, and budgets, and other dull stuff.

The tendril reached out a bit farther, hesitantly, ready to snap back behind the barrier at the slightest hint that the monster was around. Towards the third presence in the room. The one that seemed to glow with a sunny, yellow light. It was warm and comforting and he wanted to know more about it. He'd never felt anything quite like it before, not even with Amy, before the monster killed her. Slowly and carefully he felt his way inward through the jumbled conscious thoughts, seeking the center of the warmth. When he found it, he was caught by surprise.

She felt the intrusion immediately, but it was a soft, gentle pressure. Not in the least objectionable, and it seemed perfectly reasonable to her that she should silently ask the question.

"Who are you?"

At first, she sensed surprise and a start of withdrawal, then the presence seemed to gain courage, and the reply seemed almost bashful.

"I'm Timmy, who are you?"

Hal watched, startled out of his drifting thoughts about what to do next since the boy was so unresponsive, as Timmy's eyes blinked once and then focused on something behind where he was seated. He turned to look, and saw Kim standing there, staring intently into the boy's eyes.

They traveled to Grand Junction regularly after that first visit. It was a long, slow recovery, but Timmy Michaelson was coming back to the world. Hal didn't know why and Kim knew better than to try and explain, but it was obvious that the boy had responded to his daughter's presence. If he had a chance to live some sort of a normal life, they had to give it to him. Mrs. Phelps was absolutely convinced that her long-held beliefs had been correct, and was more than willing to accommodate the extra work occasioned by the Burtons' visits.

Tzetzlan and its offspring lay side by side deep within an abandoned mine outside Uravan, Colorado. It had been a long and arduous journey, and both had been exhausted by the ordeal. Time and dormancy were needed to restore the parent and a time of quiet growth was needed by the offspring. The latter had fed well and often in Grand Junction, and it was now far beyond the dangers occasioned by its premature birth. It had developed rapidly and was nearly half-grown by the time it had jointed its parent. It promised to be a prime example of its kind.

They had shared a feeding before retiring to the mine. The bleached skeleton of the hunter wouldn't be found for several years. Of course, even then no hint of the cause of his death would be uncovered. For now, they rested, minds loosely joined together, and by the time they awoke in response to hunger, the offspring would know its roots and all the parent knew of this world. In return, the parent would share the offspring's intimate knowledge of the people of this world, and how best to hunt them.
Chapter 18

It was a long hard road back for Timmy. The wall had been in place for so many years that it was a natural part of his mental landscape. For several weeks, only the presence of Kim nearby would entice him to open the cracks a little more each time. Still, the monster did not return, and there was no remnant of that evil presence left behind. Timmy knew nothing of Hartley's rampage or what Britton had to say. He only knew that it was gone and that maybe the outside world wasn't such a bad place after all.

He took his time speaking again. He and Kim needed no sounds to communicate, but her gentle prodding eventually convinced him to try talking, out loud, to someone else. He didn't recognize the cracked, grownup voice that came out when he did try. There had been many changes over the years, and the short, ten-year-old he remembered had put on fifty pounds and sixteen inches. The mirror would reveal more changes when he finally looked into one, including the beginnings of a brown beard. They gave him three months to get used to himself and the world again, and then they brought in a tutor. Timmy remembered not liking school very much before, and would just as soon have skipped that part. Everyone kept after him though, especially Kim and her father, until finally he gave in.

The tutor, a graduate student in education, hoped to make a master's thesis out of Timmy. It would be an ideal opportunity to evaluate the progress of someone who had been literally turned-off for nearly half his life. They knew that he had been a bright child, but the old school records showed the all-too-common picture of an intelligent kid who was under-challenged by school. Consequently, he'd done poorly, but tests don't lie they said, he had a near-genius IQ and ranked in the top five percentile of his age group on equivalency tests he'd taken in the third grade. He had talents, but he'd never had the chance to develop them. No one was particularly surprised when his renewed education came on easily. No one except Timmy, that is, he still hated his third grade teacher, and to suddenly find that learning was not only easy, but fun, came as a big shock.

At the end, Timmy's progress amazed everyone, and not even Timmy appreciated just how basically his years of isolation and introspection had changed his thinking processes. He was more in touch with his mental capabilities than any but the most virtuous of eastern mystics. They, unlike Timmy, tried to channel their thoughts. All those years, Timmy had explored without goals and without discipline, and the working of his mind opened to his curiosity in a natural fashion. What he had discovered, most researchers would have put into the category of psychic nonsense. His ability to wander at will through other people's thoughts was but one of his abilities. Some, he did not recognize as abilities, they were just the way things were. Like his eidetic memory and instant recall. Timmy had a lot of unused room in his brain after so many years of blocking out sensory input, and the new information was taken in at astonishing speed.

By the time Elwood Hayden had completed a month of tutoring the basic reading skills had been re-established. Elwood could tell already that Timmy was growing tired of the second-grade level material he'd been given to start. He'd been bored stiff with the bland material when he was nine years old, now it was even worse. The adventures of Jan and Tom just didn't make the grade. On an impulse he gave Timmy a copy of The Old Man and the Sea, thinking that the deep concepts treated by relatively simple language would keep Timmy occupied for some weeks. His surprise, the next day when Timmy asked for more of Mr. Hemmingway's writings, was nothing compared to what he felt when Timmy proved that he had read and understood the entire novel in less than one day. If he'd known that it had actually taken only a little over two hours, his reaction would have been one of stunned disbelief.

After four months of tutoring, Elwood gave up the idea of making Timmy the subject of a thesis. The boy's progress was simply beyond what anyone would ever believe. They would either accuse him of planting a ringer as a research subject, or just plain out-and-out lying. Elwood knew the thesis idea wouldn't work for another reason, too. The thesis research was supposed to show the results of a planned series of stages, designed to bring the subject up to an education level commensurate with his age. Not only had Timmy's progress trashed his entire carefully thought-out program, but he didn't have a clue how Timmy was doing it. Timmy might be a good subject for a psychometric research project, but as far as educational research was concerned, forget it. Still, he'd grown to like Timmy and stayed on the job, giving help when he could. Then one day, Timmy discovered the library, and the next week internet search engines. After that, Elwood was superfluous.

Towards the end of Timmy's sixth month back amongst the sane, it was obvious to everyone that he no longer needed to be in an institution. In fact, it was clear that Timmy found his once comfortable surroundings to be restrictive and depressing. He asked about his parents, and they explained what he really already knew. His Mother had died long before, and his Father had abandoned him. His grandparents had died, one by one over the years of his hospitalization. He had matured considerably since the end of his self-imposed isolation, and now found that he was saddened beyond measure to be deprived of a family that had shown him nothing but love and devotion. He knew where the blame should lie, for not only his own missing years but for the ruined life of his Father and the death of his Mother. This knowledge impelled Timmy towards a deep and abiding hate for the thing that had caused his pain and loss. He remembered what it looked like, and he was beginning to understand that now, there were two of them.

With Murray Fenster dead, he had been the only one alive to know of the existence of the monsters. But now, things were different, Kim Burton was gradually coming to believe in their existence as well, but she lacked the personal experience that would have solidified her faith in his story. Hal Burton, still was not privy to Timmy's most personal memories, and regarded Fenster's journal as fiction. The murderer must surely have been either human or animal, monsters did not exist. It might not be that Timmy was yet totally driven by revenge, but it was a growing part of his emotional character.

A problem of a more mundane sort troubled the people who had taken care of Timmy over the years. They had done their part and had protected the boy until he was ready to rejoin society. Now, he no longer needed them and was taking up space that could be better used by another. They felt an attachment for Timmy, but his place was now in the outside world. Only they didn't quite know what to do with him. There were no relatives, they had tried to trace his father, but the trail ended at a dock in Long Beach, California. Dale Michaelson had apparently shipped out six years before for points in the South China Sea and hadn't been heard from since. Timmy, bright as he may be and despite his amazing progress, was not ready to face the day to day world on his own. The law of the state was quite clear, as long as there was any doubt at all about Timmy's ability to function on his own they were legally bound to provide adult guidance. How to do that within the financial limitations of the welfare unit was the question. Or was, until Hal Burton made a very sensible suggestion.

Since, he argued, Timmy was rapidly becoming an intelligent and responsible adult, he didn't need supervision so much as someone to show him the ropes. Now, everyone understood that coming to terms with life in a big city might be difficult for a novice, so what better way to start Timmy in the right direction than to introduce him first to an uncomplicated, rural setting?

The idea went over big, and before many days had passed, Hal Burton found himself appointed guardian of Timothy Michaelson, aged nineteen. The guardianship would last for a period of twenty month, until Timothy turned twenty-one, unless extended by the court. The order became effective at the beginning of September, and by Labor Day Timmy was securely ensconced in a first floor guest room in the Burton home in Blanding. Hal might have put him on the second floor, but had noticed the rather close attention Timmy and Kim gave one another in Grand Junction. While he didn't disapprove, he wasn't about to turn his back while a couple of teenagers, one of whom was barely more than the social equivalent of a ten-year-old, decided to give in to their hormones.

Tim felt comfortable with the Burtons, and, of course, he was infatuated with Kim. The closeness of their relationship had developed from the first mental encounter to nearly a constant low-level contact. It was not an intrusive connection, simply a feeling of closeness that did not fade with distance. They had both agreed to one simple rule-no closer contact without an invitation. Kim insisted on that privacy. Not that she minded the times when they shared a closer contact, but she knew that Tim had a lot of maturing to do and she was far from ready to make a commitment to someone who might develop into a total bore. She had also begun to overcome some of her own mental barriers with Tim's guidance. Even though she'd not been subjected to the kind of trauma that had enabled Tim to develop such a mental prowess, she was already far along the path leading to fuller use of her inborn talents. After a time, the two of them settled into a mutually acceptable relationship, from which Hal Burton was largely excluded.

But then, he had his own place in Tim's affections, rapidly becoming a father figure and a source of guidance. Hal might never share any of Tim's deepest secrets, but he was as important to Tim as Kim. As the three of them continued to meld into a family, only the growing realization of how much he had lost because of the alien prevented Tim from putting the past behind him.
Chapter 19

The years had passed with an easy regularity. If not for the malignant hate within Tim's heart, the two young people would have been long married and Hal Burton a fledgling grandfather. But the hate was nearly a tangible thing, and just as it impeded the development of an idyllic love between Kim and himself, so it kept other social relationships at arm's length. Tim had grown to understand the problems and responsibilities of adulthood quite rapidly, and he had also come to realize just how much of his youth had been lost, no, destroyed by the intrusion of the alien into his life. Even now, so many years later, he recalled his Mother with an involuntary shudder of disgust born of the cruel trick the alien had played on his mind. He knew that it was unfair, and that his own reaction had been largely responsible for his Mother's suicidal impulses. That only served to strengthen his hate. On the other hand, the hate he'd felt for his Father had abated. He realized that his Father had been a victim, too, and had been destroyed by the alien just as surely as had his Mother. Tim's outlook on life was colored by the idea that everything that had happened to him since his tenth year was due directly to the alien. Hatred continued to smolder and the need for revenge was unabated, and by the time he was twenty-four he was faced at every turn by the pair-hatred and a need for revenge.

Kim understood his feelings, how could she not? To her, they had a different meaning, however, and Tim's obsession with his hate, it must have some fancy physiological term but she couldn't think of what it might be, was preventing the culmination of their personal relationship. She had come to want that ultimate bonding very much; he was a man that met her every requirement perfectly. It became a matter of deep frustration that Tim was so selfish about his need to hate he let it put his love for her on hold. If she had not had access to Tim's tortured mind, Kim's frustration might have gradually turned into dislike and then into animosity. But, she did understand, all too well. She too was coming to hate the alien.

Hal Burton, now approaching his late fifties, was not included in Kim and Tim's problem. He had still not been initiated into their personal communication, as it was much too special and private. He knew that something was wrong even so, as they were obviously totally devoted to one another, and why they seemed to be stalled at the first date stage was a source of puzzlement. Tim had overcome his delayed development, and was the kind of person Hal had always imagined the perfect son-in-law would be like. He even had a talent for writing, and was now contributing nearly half of the weekly's content. Nothing would have pleased him more than to run an engagement announcement for the pair. He wasn't sure that he had ever seen them so much as hold hands, so eventually he came to the misinformed conclusion that drastic measures should be taken. Long ago, he'd been hesitant to even let them sleep on the same floor, but now he was about to swing a full one-eighty. Maybe what they needed was time to be alone. With him out of the way, perhaps nature would finally prevail.

He had the perfect excuse as off and on over the past six years he'd studied every page of the copy of Fenster's journal he had kept. He had put together a map just like the one they'd found in Fenster's room, except he had added a few more points as he'd uncovered possible correlated events. Everything Fenster had figured out seemed to make sense, if it weren't for that ridiculous giant bat thing. Hal Burton was willing to admit that there were a lot of strange things in the world, but not that strange. Besides, except for that Khols Ranch story and an unsupported statement from a now-dead Bill Franklin, there wasn't a shred of evidence to support the monster theory, as Hal thought of it. He'd even gone so far as to try and telephone Dr. Ralph Britton to get his side of the story. He'd not succeeded, Britton had returned to his native Australia soon after the operating room massacre. He had managed to dig out a few of the articles reporting on Britton's experiences, and none of them had supported Fenster's account. Terrible as the incident had been, it was merely a case of a surgeon gone crazy because of drugs and nothing else.

Still, it nagged at him because the pattern of killings in Arizona and then Fenster's strange death; and finally the spate of killings around Grand Junction just after Tim's operation. Hal had plotted those on a city map, and much to his surprise found they also fell on a straight line. Even though the length of the line was much shorter that the one connecting the Arizona-Utah murders, it followed, to the best of his measurements, exactly the same course. His biggest surprise had come when he put dates on his new map. The Grand Junction line had events moving south, in the opposite direction of the Arizona-Utah line. His first thought had been that the insane killer had mover north and then turned around to go back in the direction he had come from. Then he found an obscure report from La Sal Junction, Utah. It also fit the pattern, a hitchhiker on a deserted stretch of road killed by person(s) unknown, by penetration trauma to the chest. It seemed to be just one more of the ritualistic murders until he checked the date. It had happened within an hour of the last Grand Junction killing. There was no way that one person could have done both murders. There were two of them.

The newshound in Hal broke out of its sedate and quiet kennel with that discovery. He knew something that no one else had guessed, and he began to understand Fenster, at last. But then, it was the first chance he'd ever had to put together a Big Story on his own. His breakthrough had come several months before, and even though he thought Fenster's monster was nothing more than the product of an over imaginative mind, the numbers made sense. Hal had gone back many times figuring the time and mileage between killings, and he always got the same number as Fenster; 1.3 miles per day, a very slow killer indeed. When he discovered that two killers were involved, and heading towards one another, he had used that same rate of progress to solve a simple algebra problem to predict when and where they would meet. The X came up in a remote area near the small town of Uravan, Colorado at a time nearly five years previously. It wasn't long after that he began to dig through law enforcement records. That had been just a few weeks ago, and it was a disappointing search. In fact, it looked to be a fruitless effort until he came across a missing person story on an overdue hunter. The time and place were right, but according to the single, one-paragraph news item no trace of the man had been found.

Hal, of course, had no intention of going fishing on his trip, as he had told his daughter and Tim. He had held back on his real intentions because if they had known what he was really after, they would have insisted upon coming along. That, most certainly, was not the idea. He wanted them together, alone in a place they felt comfortable. If nature didn't take its course then, he had no hope that it ever would. Then, there was another reason, one that was less clear, but just as important. He knew that Tim had read Fenster's wild speculations about his having harbored a new alien. He'd never discussed it with the boy, and it was something he hoped that Tim would simply forget about. But, if he could prove that the killings in Fenster's story as well as Fenster's murder were the work of an ordinary human...well, if that monster idea had any hold on Tim it needed to be put to rest. In fact, anything he could do to make Tim's bizarre childhood less important in his adult years would be well worth the effort. He wasn't at all sure that some of that monster nonsense wasn't a part of Tim's reluctance to live a normal life. Even if Kimmie wasn't so obviously distraught by Tim's reluctance to make a commitment, he'd do it for the boy's sake alone.

Feeling a bit like a schoolboy off on an adventure without telling his parents, Hal took leave of Kim and Tim early on a Friday morning after the paper had been taken care of for the week. He told them he'd return after four days of fishing trout, and that they'd better have the frying pan limbered-up by the time he got back. Kim smiled at him, but Tim had a worried look on his face. Hal wondered what was bothering the boy now. If he'd been put in Tim's position when he'd been a youngster, he'd have been grinning like a fox locked up in a hen house. For a last time, Hal wondered if he was doing the right thing, and he glanced back in the mirror and saw the two standing shoulder to shoulder and knew that he was.

It was a pleasant, early autumn day and the miles rolled by. The trip was all on state and county roads so he didn't have to contend with any destination-crazed tourists on an interstate. He thoroughly enjoyed the leisurely drive, and by the time he started the assent up the low, west slope foothills, he was almost ready to find a trout stream and put all that tackle in the trunk to some use after all. He drove into the town that was the Montrose County Seat almost reluctantly, putting thoughts of a brightly feathered fly skipping on the surface of a rushing stream back where they belonged. He was here to work, and not play. He intended to stay overnight, and in the morning get in touch with Vince Carthaugh. He knew Sergeant Carthaugh only by voice, having spoken with him twice in preparation for the trip. By now, his credentials should have been verified and the good sergeant would open all the public files to him, and hopefully a few of the not-so-public files as well. In the few minutes of daylight remaining to him, Hal sought out the cleanest looking motel, and checked in.

Kim and Tim sat side by side on the big sofa in the living room finishing off a meal of cheeseburgers and fries they'd gone out to buy. Neither of them had felt like cooking. They hadn't yet figured out how to act, now that their constant chaperone had left them to their own devices. Already, Kim was a little disappointed. Tim had been lost all day in a very private reverie. She'd barely gotten a word, let alone a reassuring thought, out of him since Dad had left. Something was clearly bothering him, and it wasn't something he was ready to share. The TV light was the only illumination in the room, and an inane sit-com about a roving dance troupe and their adventures in show business provided background noise to ease the silence between them. The antics on the screen did nothing to overcome the solemn mood.

Kim had no idea of her father's real reasons for leaving them alone, but had no trouble in seeing the potential in the situation. There was not going to be any better opportunity to shake Tim loose from his apparent desire to keep their relationship on a platonic level. She would preferred to have Tim make the first move, of course, but the way things were going, if she left it up to him they wouldn't be doing anything more than holding hands by the time they were forty. She gradually built her nerves, reminding herself that Tim had been socially inactive for eight long years, during the time of life when one learns to deal with romantic impulses. She thought it likely that he needed a little help, and when he finally put the last bite in his mouth and the plate on the coffee table she judged the time to be right. She reached out and gently ran her finger tips down the side of his face while applying gentle pressure with her mind. She felt him abruptly stiffen, body and mind, and then gradually relaxed.

He turned to look in her eyes, and she heard him ask, she knew not how, "Is it finally time, Kim? I've waited for your invitation for a very long time."

She understood then how literally and strictly he had kept to the promise made between them so many years ago, and it was all she could do to nod her head because speech had failed her. The knowledge that he had been waiting as patiently as she for so long without complaint made the thought of what was to come even sweeter. Firmly holding hands, they made their way to her room on the second floor while the TV played on to an empty room.

Hal woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and in good spirits. There was an undercurrent of joy and peace pervading his mind, and he had no idea why he should be feeling so good. A quiet voice deep within told him that it had to do with Kimmie, but it didn't tell him why. Even after a leisurely breakfast, the feeling persisted, and he was tempted to call home and see how things were going. He resisted the impulse, it would be better to leave the kids with their privacy over the weekend. He set out to walk to the sheriff's substation after paying for his meal. It was a warm October morning with only a light breeze stirring the weeds along the sidewalk. His appointment wasn't for another twenty minutes, so he had plenty of time. He paused at the last intersection to look around. Off to the southwest, the small, nearly abandoned town of Uravan lay on the other side of a national forest, too far for even a hint of its existence to be noticed. Nonetheless, a chill replaced the warmth and a dark foreboding rose in place of his sanguinity. He might have turned around then, returned to his car and driven back to Blanding. Only the sight of a patrol car driving up to park in front of the otherwise deserted sheriff's office brought him back to the matter at hand. That must be Carthaugh, he guessed, arriving in time for his appointment. That settled the matter, if what he was doing would help Tim then it must be done, and he resolutely set off across the street, hailing the officer before he reached the door of the building.

Late that afternoon, Hal left the substation and returned to his motel room. The visit had been more informative than he'd dared to hope. The missing hunter, or rather what was left of him, had been found nearly three years after his disappearance. At least, that's what the sheriff's department believed. The guy hadn't had any close relatives to press an investigation, and the limited physical evidence wasn't conclusive, but who else could the bones have belonged to? No one else had gone missing, and what evidence there was fit what they knew about the hunter. When Hal had asked how the man had died, he got a laugh in return. The scattered bones hadn't revealed anything except that the local wildlife had dined well for a time. At least Carthaugh had pin-pointed the location for him on a detailed topographic map of the area. He could go and look around for himself. He'd noticed a little Y-shaped symbol on the map, and had asked what it stood for. Now that he knew it marked the location of a mine adit, his interest was aroused. If the killers of the hunter had spent any time in the area, maybe they had holed up in the old mine workings. It was less than a quarter-mile from where the hunter's remains had been found, so it was possible. He'd take a lantern along and check it out.

The offspring stirred restlessly in its dormancy. Not for the first time, it felt hunger pangs and was gradually rousing from its long sleep. Still only partly awake, it pressed its parent to waken also, so that they might hunt. Tzetzlan was capable of going some time yet before hunger became an issue, and was more interested in prolonging its dormancy. It ignored the offspring, who gradually drifted back into a restless slumber. Like any parent, roused too early from a comfortable bed, Tzetzlan had no trouble putting the intrusion out of mind and getting back to dormancy.

Gradually drifting off, it contemplated the last waking period and the hunt. The new people were easy prey, they did not comprehend the hunt, and could be drawn in without difficulty. Only the one had been troublesome, but that one had been abnormally developed. Most of them were complacent and pliable, and now that the offspring and itself had shared information, future hunts would be even more rewarding. Together, they could tap very deeply into the minds of the prey and find the darkest, most hidden fears. Tzetzlan began to feel hunger also at that point and thought that waking fully to feed was becoming more desirable, but not just yet. Dormancy was more alluring, and soon the recesses of the mine were absolutely still once more.

It was the offspring that noticed it first. A presence was near. Prey! Not one of the puny, unsatisfying animals that shared the darkness with them, but something large. It was one of the new people. Like a child sneaking out of bed to steal a snack in the middle of the night, the offspring blocked its thoughts from the parent, and prepared to send out hunting tendrils. The prey was coming closer of its own accord, and it could wait quietly in ambush until the time was right.

Hal shined the light ahead down the dark passage. So far, there had been nothing at all, and more than once he had thought of turning back to the daylight. It was already near sunset, and he had no desire to travel back over the rough and overgrown mining roads in darkness. This was most likely just a wild goose chase, but the end of the adit must be not too far ahead. He might as well check it out as thoroughly as he could. He'd begun to notice a dank, musty odor and hoped the air wasn't getting bad. It smelled more like animal musk, but he couldn't imagine what sort of beast would choose to live this far underground. He'd thought himself foolish to haul the old thirty-ought along with him into the mine, but now it was comforting to have it along. Even though he knew he shouldn't, he took the safety off as he reached the back part of the mine and started smelling things. The light shined off a rock wall ahead and he thought he'd finally reached the end of the adit. But no, as he came up to it he found that the mine drifted off to the right for some distance yet. With a worried sigh, he set off to explore this new direction, and almost immediately the animal scent intensified. It was a peculiar smell, almost sickly sweet. He'd heard the odor of death described like that; sickly sweet, what an odd combination.

Once more Hal came to the end of a narrow passage, but this one opened out above into mining stopes. He shined the light around, picking out ledges and short openings into the rock. Apparently, this had been the part of the mine that had produced the ore. It was a fairly large room, and in one corner a raise had been cut upward as if they had intended to go all the way to the surface. They hadn't made it though, and the raise ended about fifty feet above his head. The light picked out a ledge near the top of the raise, maybe a work station of some sort. There was a dark mound resting there; it had soft outlines, not at all like the surrounding rock. The light from his lantern was weak at that distance and details were impossible to pick out. It seemed to be just a pile of canvass or such lying near the edge of the work station. He was about to shine the light in another direction when it moved.

Hal's first thought was here was the source of the animal scent he'd noticed, but what kind of an animal would climb all the way up there to nest? The wooden ladder leading up to the ledge was in poor repair with half the rungs missing. It looked as though it was about ready to fall into a jumble of timber. He watched the shape carefully, alert for further movement, but he found his mind to be wandering. All sorts of unpleasant and unwanted thoughts tried to force themselves in upon his consciousness. He wondered if the air was bad. Maybe the apparent movement on the ledge and these horrid fantasies were due to poison gas. He had to get out. His dead wife's face seemed to materialize in the air in front of his face, and she was looking at him in an accusing manner. He didn't know why that should be, they'd always been close and the best of friends. Then random thoughts about Tim and Kimmie raced through his mind. Kimmie lying hurt and crying while Tim lurked nearby. Kimmie lay there, bleeding to death while Tim stood over her with a knife in hand. Kimmie...No! It was too terrible, and Hal fought back the visions, shaking his head in an attempt to clear them out. But, it was like an increasing pressure on his head, and the visions intruded with even more force.

Somehow, the rustling noise from above fought through the battle with the furies in his mind. Unthinking, he pointed the light upward again, and caught the offspring full in its beam just as it launched itself from the ledge. Instinctively, his reason was fully involved with the battle for his mind, he raised the rifle and squeezed off a shot. Immediately, his mind cleared, except for a silent scream that replaced the unwelcome visions.

The thing that had been gliding down crumpled into a compact mass and fell the last thirty feet to the floor of the stope. He pointed the lantern at the black mass. In what he thought might be a head, a single orange eye was slowly darkening from a blazing glow into a dimly glowing ember, like charcoal in a dying fire. His lucky shot had taken half of the thing's head off. In what was left he could make out sharp, angular features in a triangular shape that ended in a jutting beak filled with irregular rows of randomly placed shark's teeth.

Another wild scream shattered his conscious thoughts as it drove through his mind. He fought to operate the bolt of his rifle, but panic made the operation slow and uncertain. His last coherent thought was that he should have remembered, there were two of the killers.

Tzetzlan had awoken to the deafening concussion of the rifle shot as it echoed through the chamber. The sound and the sudden arousal from dormancy brought a confused jumble of sensations, but one fact broke though the chaos. The offspring's presence was gone from its mind. No, not gone, but fading rapidly, the offspring was hurt, the offspring was dying. The presence of one of the new people came next to its mind. The connection was clear, the man-thing was killing the offspring, and as it launched from the ledge to fall down upon the killer of its young, it screamed its rage with every fiber of its being.

There! Standing over the dying offspring was the man-thing-beast-killer! Tzetzlan folded its wings and plummeted straight down upon the enemy. Only at the last second did it spread its arms to break its fall. As if slung from an unseen pivot in the air, Tzetzlan's body swung upon outstretched wings. Its short, stubby legs and strong taloned feet struck, cutting through cloth and skin to pierce deeply into muscle and bone. Too late did the man-thing swung the stick it held. The rifle barrel struck heavily into Tzetzlan's side, but the pain went unnoticed as it saw the man-thing go down, its light falling off to the side where its reflection from the wall of the mine gave dim illumination to the battle scene.

The enemy was down and hurt, and Tzetzlan felt its cries of anguish and pain well up in its mind. Tzetzlan was grounded now, and had to give up the advantage of flight. It made short hops in the direction of the downed form. It was a soft and weak thing, too badly injured to flee. It lay there sending out waves of pain and begging for help that would not come. Tzetzlan's rage was unabated, and without thought or plan it struck again. Plunging with a beak having the strength of tempered steel into whatever part was closest. It felt the jarring impact against thick bone and suddenly the man-thing was no more. Its awareness melted into death with a speed that caught Tzetzlan by surprise, and the ease with which the man-thing died enraged Tzetzlan even more. The dying spark of the offspring lingered on, pleading for its parent's help. Pleading that it might live, but slowly fading all the same.

Tzetzlan fought to extract its beak. It was suck in bone and would not come loose. It pulled back with powerful legs and drew the inert form up from the floor. Hal's body followed along with his skull, which was impaled on Tzetzlan's beak. Tzetzlan felt panic then, adding to its rage as the man-thing held its bony grasp on its beak. Struggling with the weight, it pulled the body to the wall and began to swing its head beating the man-thing against the rock face. Ignoring the shock and pain of repeated impacts, Tzetzlan continued working until finally skull bones split, separating enough to release its beak. Still, its rage was unsatisfied, and it once again struck the inert form with slashing talons and stabbing beak, over and over until the rock in the floor was being hit more often than yielding flesh. Unnoticed in its rage, the final spark of the offspring's life faded and failed. Only exhaustion kept Tzetzlan from finding and striking further at the bits of flesh and bone strewn over the floor.

Even exhaustion could not extinguish the rage boiling within. The new people had reached out and killed the offspring, and had taken progeny and companion, leaving Tzetzlan alone and isolated once more on this alien planet. It seemed to Tzetzlan that its whole being could not contain the hate it felt for these creatures. No measure of revenge would be great enough to satisfy the wrong that had been done. It would seek out and destroy these new people. It would kill them all, one by one, until this world was fit to live on. As daylight faded in the world outside the mine, Tzetzlan turned from the carnage and made its way towards the mine opening. Once outside, the tingling of the indirect rays of the Sun washed its back as it set off toward the east.

Chapter 20

Tim and Kim had spent every moment of the three-day weekend together. There were no bounds they did not explore and learn to deal with. They had both quite literally forgotten that the outside world existed, and when Monday morning came, they woke together in Kim's bed after a sleep brought on by mental and physical exhaustion. They knew it was time to consider how best to let everyone else in on their new life, and the first invitation had to go to Hal. If he did not understand and share their new found exuberance, it would be a difficult life ahead. They expected him to return by early afternoon, and the time passed slowly in anxious anticipation. By mid-afternoon that had changed to faint concern, and by evening to outright worry. Not having any idea where Hal might have stayed, they couldn't even check to see if he'd decided to remain another day. The very fact that he had not checked in with them since he left, added to their apprehension. The only thing they knew for sure was the name of the town he'd been headed for.

They tried calling information to obtain motel names in the town, but could only get two at a time from the parsimonious telephone company. After four calls to information, and eight to various motels they were no closer to an answer. Six of the motels had never heard of Hal Burton, and two closed their switchboards early and couldn't be raised. They had thoughts of calling the Highway Patrol or Sheriff, but finally decided to wait until morning. Perhaps he was just having car trouble and would be in late, or at least call by morning. They discovered over the interminable night that the bad part of sharing such a close relationship was that each of their fears fed upon the other's.Just as their love was strengthened by feedback, so were the negative emotions. Around two in the morning they fell into a restless slumber in each other's arms on the big sofa in the living room. White static filled the TV screen, but went unnoticed.

The first light of dawn roused the pair and the realization that Hal had not come in during the night renewed their concern. The tried the Colorado Highway Patrol, and were told that no accidents had been reported involving a Hal Burton, and the same report came from the Utah Patrol. They went back to their list of motels and tried the two that had not answered before. The second ring brought an answer from the Pony Soldier Motel. Yes, they were told, Hal Burton was registered there, and as a matter of fact he was supposed to have checked out the previous morning. The manager was also quite concerned since his bed hadn't been slept in for two nights and all his belongings were still in the room. It was Tim who first felt the pangs of impending disaster. As yet, Kim's concerns were too generalized to be channeled into fearing the worst, but it didn't take long for it to filter through from Tim's thoughts. Even though Tim tried to block it off, they were much too closely attuned for that to work. Immediately, she sank into a deep despair thinking it must be true, otherwise he would surely have called. Neither of them knew what to do next, and when Kim broke down into tears punctuated by long, racking sobs it was all Tim could do not to join in her bereavement. Her pain tore at him and clouded his thinking.

When the phone rang, cutting through Kim's crying, she naturally hoped to hear the gentle voice of her father bringing her comfort. Instead, the unfamiliar voice on the other end brought only a sinking sensation to her heart, and when the caller identified himself as Sergeant Carthaugh of the Montrose County Sheriff's Department, Kim threw down the phone as if it were a snake she'd found in her hand. Time retrieved the handset, while Kim looked on, her face filled with a mix of emotions among which, anguish held sway.

"This is Tim Michaelson. Hal Burton is a close friend. Do you have news of him?"

"No, not really," Carthaugh replied, "I did meet with him the other day, and when Jean over at the Pony Soldier called to say he'd gone missing, I thought that I should get in touch with you. You haven't heard from him at all?"

"No, Sergeant, not a word, and he was supposed to be back here yesterday afternoon at the latest. Why did he meet with you?"

"He told me he was researching a story about a hunter who was reported missing several years ago, and he wanted to look at our reports. He spent about three hours in the office going over the paper work, and asked a lot of questions about the autopsy on some remains we found a few years after the disappearance. All in all, it was a pretty normal investigation by a journalist."

Tim felt his premonition take a turn he'd have given anything to avoid.

"Do you have any idea what he might have done after he left you?"

"Can't be sure, of course," Carthaugh explained, "but he was pretty careful about getting the location of where the bones were found. I think that it's very likely he went out there."

Tim dreaded the possible answer, but had to ask anyway, "How did the hunter die, Sergeant?"

"Don't know. All that was left was part of the skeleton and that was in pretty poor shape after the animals and all. Could have been anything."

Time made up his mind in a hurry.

"Sergeant, I'm coming up there. Will you be able to show me where you think he might have gone?"

"Oh, I'll do better than that, I'm going to run out there today and have a look around. Look, there's really no need for you to come up. Chances are, he just had trouble with his vehicle. I'll round him up and bring him into town, then I'll have him give you a call."

The premonition was growing into a palpable thing, and Tim knew beyond doubt that he would need to go to Montrose. It took all of his courage to face what he thought was waiting for him there, but for Kim's sake he had to do it.

"Thank you Sergeant, but I have to be there. Mr. Burton is not only a fried, but he's also the father of my fiancée. I'll wait at your office if you aren't there when I arrive."

"Alright, Mr. Michaelson," Carthaugh said, doubt ringing in his words, "if you have to, you have to. Drive carefully."

Breaking the connection, Tim turned to find Kim staring at him with large, round eyes. The streaks left by tears marred her face. She'd caught his premonition, of course, and he saw that its implication frightened her beyond words. He went to her and held her tightly, but her body felt like a marble statue in his embrace. Their lives were going to change forever, and they both knew it. The ecstatic joy of a few hours past seemed to belong to another lifetime. So short it had been, the wait so long, and the happiness so brief. Tim felt as if a curse lay upon him, and he couldn't help but wonder if he would lose Kim, too. It would be more than he could bear. He felt her body relax then, and her fingertips caressed his face. Her thoughts joined with his, and nothing, they said, could destroy what they shared. He felt the deep sorrow within her, and took as much of it as he could. This too, they would share.

Kim had refused to be left behind. Tim understood, and accepted the decision, because it would have been the same for him. They took turns driving, as much to avoid giving way to morbid thoughts as to share the chore. They made good time, and arrived in Montrose before two in the afternoon.

They went first to the Sheriff's Office, but finding it closed and locked, settled for a restaurant instead. The food was tasteless and they spent their time looking out of the window toward the sheriff's office. They didn't notice the commotion when the volunteers of the fire department responded to a radio request and headed out of town in the opposite direction. It was clear by four o'clock that not only wasn't Carthaugh going to be back soon, but that the waitress was becoming anxious for them to leave. Their cups were full of long-cold coffee and they hadn't said a word out loud in over two hours. It was more than enough to make the girl nervous. They caught her mood and silently agreed to leave. Neither of them spoke as they paid the bill and walked out the door. Nina sighed with relief as she watched them get into a car and drive off. As a truck stop waitress, she'd gotten used to strange and unusual people, but that pair was something else.

There was only one place left to go, of course, and the drive to the Pony Soldier Motel took only a couple of minutes. They introduced themselves to the manager, and were let into Hal's empty room where they spent more time staring out the window and waiting. They could just barely see the Sheriff's Office parking lot, but had a good view of the highway into town. It continued to be a long and unrewarding vigil, and just after midnight they gave it up and went to bed. Lying side by side and holding hands, they slept the restless, dream-filled hours until dawn.

They were up at first light, planning to go get coffee and a light breakfast, when a knock on the door interrupted their preparations. An extremely hairy man of medium height in rumpled clothing stood outside the door. Even though fatigued, his eyes betrayed his recent experiences, which could be described as being shaped by equal measures of horror and disbelief. Despite his lengthy service record, he had not been prepared to see the things that the abandoned mine held. He glanced nervously at Kim, and began speaking.

"Mr. Michaelson, I'm Sergeant Carthaugh, we spoke on the phone. I presume this is Ms Burton?"

"Yes officer, she's Hal Burton's daughter. Do you have any news?"

Tim held off trying to peek into the man's mind, the eyes said it all. There was news and it was all bad. He went to Kim and held her as if he could protect her from what was to come. He could feel her trembling beneath his arm and knew that his barrier would be a very poor one.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you that we have found your father, Miss. He is dead. Sorry to be so blunt, but it's the best way. We have positive ID from his driver's license. There is no mistake."

He did not go into how long it had taken to collect various parts of the man's body to make identification possible. He was puzzled by their lack of reaction, it was almost as if they had already known; he forced himself to continue.

"Ordinarily, we'd ask one of you to confirm the identification, but in this case...Ah, the circumstances dictate otherwise. We have, er, collected the remains, and we'll be sending them to the Coroner's Office in Grand Junction for autopsy."

He paused.

"Look, I know that you will have a lot of questions about this when the shock and grief have subsided. Ms Burton, please let Mr. Michaelson take care of it for you. It will be better, please believe me."

Kim was sobbing quietly in Tim's embrace, her face pressed against his shoulder. Carthaugh couldn't be sure if she'd heard what he had said. Finally, Tim responded.

Sergeant Carthaugh, thank you for coming to tell us. I'll come over to talk with you later."

Vince Carthaugh slumped with relief as he closed the door behind him. He hated this part of the job, and this was one of the ugliest he'd ever had to do. Worse yet, he wasn't finished with it. How do you tell someone that a relative had been ripped into a hundred shreds. Hell, they didn't even know now if they'd found all of him yet. There hadn't been a man in that mine who hadn't rushed off to a corner to puke his guts out. And, that thing. Carthaugh shuddered at the memory of what it looked like. Even dead, it was the embodiment of evil.

He was still confused about the young man's reaction, the girl had reacted as expected, but not him. Michaelson had shown grief in his eyes, sure, but there had also been hate. He knew that if he ever saw that kind of anger in somebody's eyes and it was directed at him, he would either have to kill or be killed. Michaelson knew something about what had happened to Burton. He would have to find out what that might be.

Tzetzlan moved eastward during the night hours and hid in whatever shelter could be found before daylight returned. With every short step, this new emotion hatred grew, and orange glowing eyes blazed with it. It emanated from the alien in thick waves, keeping every living thing as far away as possible. Only the new people, the hated people, were incapable of sensing it. They were unable to recognize the source and direction of Tzetzlan's hatred, but they would know of it soon. Already, Tzetzlan sought ahead for the faintest spoor of the prey, this hunt would last forever, until they were all dead or until Tzetzlan was dead. There was no other possibility, the killers of the offspring must die.

The slope steepened imperceptibly, but Tzetzlan did not notice. Somewhere ahead was a gathering of the prey. Just barely could a tendril reach so far. It would take many nights, but the course was certain.

"Look here," Carthaugh began, "there's no reason why we have to be formal about this. Sometimes it's easier if you just go at it one on one. My name is Vince, can I call you Timothy?"

"Just Tim, Vince. That would be fine."

Tim already had come to like the older man, he'd been gathering perceptions without intruding, and everything he sensed said that Vince was a strong and true man. Somebody you could trust. He needed that just now.

"OK, Tim it is then. How's Ms Burton doing? I know that it's rough on both of you, but in a couple of days it will start to fade. It won't ever go away completely if you liked Burton, and I think you did, but it will become softer over time. Then, only the good memories will be left."

Tim took his time replying, he knew exactly how Kim was doing, they had spend the last few hours buried in one another's thoughts. It was easier that way. Just as she had helped him overcome the long-delayed grief over his Mother's death and his Father's disappearance, so had he helped her through the first hours of her bereavement. Both of them had come through it drained to the core. Kim was still sleeping, a deep and healing sleep, and even now Tim kept a gentle presence in her mind. Ready to help her through the sharp pangs of despair that would come, unbidden, into her dreams. Before she had drifted off she had agreed that he should meet with Carthaugh alone. It was not a lack of courage to hear the details, but a mind can only absorb so much before it is damaged. She already understood that her Father's death had been most unpleasant, and she was not ready to know the details first hand. Tim would filter them for her, judging her ability to accept the facts.

He was hardly prepared himself for even the edited version that Carthaugh gave him. The very idea that Hal Burton, the man who had given him not only Kim, but a home and family for the years since his hospitalization, had been so brutally and wantonly murdered was nearly more than he could stomach. Then the time came to ask who or what had done such a brutal killing.

Carthaugh hesitated, and then replied.

"Tim, you have to understand that we've just discovered the crime and there are lots of unanswered questions. I've got some ideas, but I need time to put it all together. Now, I know that isn't easy for you, and certainly not for Ms Burton, but please understand that I can't just give way to wild speculation."

Tim knew then that his premonition had been right, and that the killer was known to him. He understood Carthaugh's reluctance to talk about it, but he didn't have all the facts. He decided then that it would be a good idea to cautiously bring the lawman up to speed on the monster. If it was still in the area the man needed to know his enemy.

"Vince, I really know your problem. You might think that it would be impossible for me to even come close to understanding, but I do. Look, I'd like to leave something with you for the night. It's a journal written by a man who's been dead nearly seven years. I won't say anything more, but you should read it. It's a lot closer to the truth than you might think at first glance. I'll stop by tomorrow, and, if you want, we'll talk about it."

Tim handed over the copy of Fenster's journal that he'd brought along. Hal hadn't known he made the copy years ago, but then he hadn't known just how much of Tim's life was explained by those pages. He hoped that Carthaugh would be receptive to strange ideas. However much he hated the monster of his youth, he would need all the help he could gather to find and then slay it.

Tim took his time on the walk back to the motel, Kim was still deep in dreamless sleep and he had no wish to disturb her. He paused for a while outside the motel in a small park-like rest area in the middle of town. His initial assessment of Vince Carthaugh had been reinforced by the meeting. The man exuded a sense of solidity and honesty that he had found in very few people. His special talents gave him an edge in 'reading' people; they couldn't hide their thoughts and attitudes from him.

In a way, he disliked involving yet another person in what he had long felt to be his own problem. Hal's death had changed his outlook, and as he thought back on the others who had died because of the monster, he realized that it had never been just his problem. He felt Kim begin to stir in her sleep, she would soon wake, and he hurried back to the room to be there when she did.

Vince rubbed his red eyes and was rewarded by a painful itch. He'd been awake for more than eighteen hours, just about the time when you either had to get some sleep or face up to another day without rest. He desperately wanted to forget everything that he'd seen over the past day and give in to unconsciousness. It might have been just possible before Tim had dropped this little journalistic jewel in his lap, but not now. When he first started reading, he hadn't been sure what to make of Murray Fenster, or his writing. It seemed just to be the incoherent ramblings of someone taken by fantasy. Then he came to the part about the 'giant bat' and the horror in the mine snapped into view. He put the journal down and wondered again just how much Tim Michaelson really did know. And, how did he know it? He didn't especially like what it might mean if Michaelson did have information on Burton's murder. If young Tim knew about the thing in the mine, it had to mean that he had prior knowledge, and that idea troubled him considerably.

Reluctantly, he picked up the copy of the journal once more and set about reading Fenster's account of his Arizona monster chase. Vince stopped himself from thinking of Fenster as a crackpot, after what he had seen, and had personally carried out of the mine, he shouldn't be doubting anyone's wild tales. Dawn found him slumped face down on the pages of the journal. His mounting excitement as he read Bill Franklin's statement couldn't override the bone-weary tiredness. Even the thought of what lie in the body bag just down the road, waiting for transport to Grand Junction, failed to keep him alert. The Sun had been full on his face for an hour before the ringing telephone finally roused him.

"Vince Carthaugh here," was all he could manage at first, but then the sound of Tim Michaelson's voice brought yesterday back, full force.

"Vince, have you had a chance to read the journal?"

"Damn, Tim, what time is it?" He looked at his watch. "It's not even seven yet! What made you think I'd even be here?"

"I saw your truck in the parking lot," Tim lied. Actually he'd been tracking Vince's whereabouts since he'd left last night. He knew that the other man had never left his office.

"Yeah? Well something sort of came up, I'm only about, ah, a third of the way through. Why don't we have dinner tonight, and I'll have finished by then?"

"OK." The disappointment in Tim's voice came through clearly. "What do you think, so far?"

"Look Tim, I'm going to finish reading before I say anything. So, you'll just have to hold onto your hat. Tonight, OK?"

Tim was reluctant to let Vince off so easily, but knew the man had a lot to do. He wasn't helping any by taking up his time. He said good-by, and sat back in an armchair waiting for Kim to get ready for breakfast. The rest of the day passed slowly, but without the painful trauma of the day before. Kim was bearing up better than most people would have. Her strength was more than doubled by Tim's support. Already the pain of loss was receding, and what she needed most was something to distract her. Hoping that it would help, Tim convinced her to take a drive into the nearby hills, and they got up high enough to catch the early part of the fall color display. By the time they headed back into town Tim had decided that she was up to listening to what Vince Carthaugh had to say.

Arriving back at the motel just at sunset, they immediately started getting ready for dinner. Tim had expected a message advising when to meet Vince at one of the town's five restaurants, but the message light wasn't blinking and no note was taped to the door. Tim resisted the urge to call the Sheriff's Office and give Vince a prod, but Kim wasn't as anxious to meet the man. It would only bring her Father's death back to the forefront, and the pain. They would return soon enough on their own. The telephone rang just as she completed that thought, and she listened with resignation as Tim agreed to the time and place. Both of them were surprised that Vince had picked the most elegant looking restaurant of the bunch, and was going to bring his wife. They hadn't counted on it being a social occasion, and Kim began to relax, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all.

The Carthaughs, as a pair, weren't anything at all like Kim had imagined. She hadn't looked at the man on first meeting for any length of time and her impression of that first meeting was blurry and incomplete. She had some sort of stereotypical image of a small town lawman in mind, and now with the opportunity to study Vince and his wife, she found that she must correct her totally incorrect assumptions. They seemed to her to be a totally mismatched couple. Vince, with a solid, bulky torso, and large rough looking hands dangling low by his thighs. She suppressed a smile at the image of a chimpanzee that sprang up in her head, but when she looked up at his face, there was no monkey face staring back. Instead, she was relieved to see a brown, weather beaten visage that, though heavily bearded, bore no resemblance at all to Cheetah. The eyes were particularly striking, and they stared at her with an intensity that made her nervous. She wondered what he saw.

While she and Tim were introduced to Dorothy Carthaugh, she shifted attention one to the other and was struck by the obvious differences. Dorothy was nearly as tall as her husband, but was slender, where he could have been a linebacker. Her long, manicured fingernails contrasted markedly with Vince's solid, calloused paws, and looked as though they were treated to no harsher abuse than fluffing pillows. Vince wore a checkered flannel shirt and blue jeans, held up by one of the biggest silver and turquoise inlaid buckles she'd ever seen, topped off by a brown corduroy jacket. He held a cream colored Stetson in one hand, while the thumb of the other hand remained hooked through a belt loop.

Dorothy wore a neatly fashioned dress made of material that probably had a pedigree and had a high-fashion look. She wore heels and carried a light wool sweater over her arm. Her hair was a masterpiece of design and must have required at least a half a day of salon time. In Montrose, a salon? Kim wondered just where that hairdo had come from. Dorothy caught her staring just then and laughed aloud, a short musical sound. Kim knew that the older woman knew exactly what her thoughts were, and shared in the amusement. Kim knew immediately that she would like the woman, and was beginning to look forward to dinner.

The usual getting to know you routine didn't seem to be necessary for the quartet, and they settled down to cocktails at the outset of dinner with conversation that would have been suited to old friends meeting for the hundredth time. Before any of them were aware of it, the meal had been completed and it was nearly nine o'clock. Not a word had been said all evening about the terrible event that had brought them together. As if to break the mood and bring the gathering to its proper purpose, Dorothy asked to be excused for a moment and inquired if Kim would accompany her.

Vince waited only a moment after the women left, and then inquired, "The boy in the Grand Junction hospital was supposed to be you, right?"

"That's right, Vince, it was."

"And, I'm to believe that one of those 'giant bat' things grew up inside of you?"

"Vince, I can show you a big scar, if you like, but the truth is I don't remember a thing about those times except that I was hiding from something incredibly evil. I don't know what was growing in me and not a single one of the doctors could tell me later just what it was they cut out. The only one who had anything to say about it was the sole survivor of the operating team, Britton. He left for Australia before I made much of a recovery, but if you read what Fenster says he got out of him, it certainly seems something unusual was inside me."

"That's pretty incredible Tim."

"I know, but there's something that no living person except Kim and I know about. My mother knew, and it killed her. I was already hiding from the monster then, that's what helped to kill her. That part of it is still hard for me to talk about."

"Is that what you want to tell me, Tim? About your Mother?"

Vince was getting worried again, had he been involved in still another murder?

"No, no, this was before she committed suicide in a bottle. Way back when all of the trouble started, fifteen years ago."

"What were you then? Eleven or twelve years old?"

"No, I was only ten, but I remember it like yesterday."

Just then Dorothy and Kim returned to the table, and Dorothy seemed saddened and quiet, but Kim had a determined look on her face. Once more, Tim prepared to launch into his story, but Vince held up his hand and suggested they retire to the lounge where they could be more comfortable. During the delay of getting the bill paid, resettling themselves in a booth in the lounge and ordering drinks, Tim found himself wondering again if explaining his past was really a good idea. He'd come to like the Carthaughs and wanted to be liked in return, not viewed as some strange freak. As he hesitated to start, he felt Kim's gentle prodding and it gave him confidence, she must feel it was essential, too.

Tim began his tale in a soft, but clear voice. It was the first time it had been told aloud, Kim had gotten the mental version with all the subtle accoutrements and emotional sidelights. He stared down at the table as he talked, only rarely and briefly looking at his audience. He knew what it must sound like, and he didn't want to see the looks that his words must be engendering. It took an hour to tell it all, every detail he could remember up until the examination in the clinic at Winslow. After that, he'd never been able to recall much except emotions and isolation. So he stopped finally with his forced attempt to re-enter school. At his last uncertain words giving his impression of his early treatment, Kim took his hand and offered silent support. The table remained quiet for a time after he stopped talking and he finally forced himself to look up at the Carthaughs. Vince was looking at him with a thoughtful expression on his face, while Dorothy's revealed sympathy. He was surprised, and relieved.

"Well, I expected you two would be laughing me out of the place by now. Or, is it just that you are so taken aback that you can't speak?" His last words had a definite edge to them.

Vince paused a moment longer before replying, as if wondering at the wisdom of saying anything at all. At last, he came to some sort of decision. As he spoke, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph.

"Tim, I had to hear your own words about what happened to you, before bringing you into this. Does this look familiar to you?"

Tim sat in stunned and disbelieving silence as his eyes focused on the image in the photograph. The shock was so great that he nearly slid back into the vacant room in his mind. It was the monster of his youth! Yet, different somehow, not just because it was obviously dead, with half its head gone, but the photograph showed a thing that lacked the harshness of his monster. Undeniably, it was the same sort of thing. Evil poured out of the photograph in waves that rocked him back in his chair. Only Kim's insistent pressure in his mind kept him anchored in reality. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he overcame the force of the image, but his voice was shaky as he spoke.

"Where did you get this? How did it die? Who killed it?"

Vince held up a restraining hand, trying to stem Tim's growing anxiety, which was evident even to those at nearby tables.

"Tim, and you too, Kim, I'll tell you everything I know, but not here. Why don't you two come home with us, and stay the night? There's plenty of room, and we can talk over some coffee. Alright?"

Tim wanted to demand to be told everything, then and there, he was near hysteria, and only Kim's silent efforts kept him in check. Rapidly regaining control, he found that he was gripping Kim's hand with what must have been painful force. Her face reflected the pain, but she said nothing. He relaxed his grip, and holding her hand gently now in both of his, nodded his assent.

It was not an easy telling for Kim. To finally know how her father had died was nearly more than she could stand. Vince had made it as easy as possible on her, but he had not been able to evade her questions about the indignities her father's body had endured. His assurance that he had died early in the attack could not diminish the brutality. She sat, silently weeping in Tim's embrace, as Vince described the rescue party's discovery of the dead creature. Dorothy led Kim off to allow her to recuperate, but it was the first she had heard of the details as well, and she felt sickened also.

The two men sat across a small coffee table, and Vince, silent by choice, waited for Tim to make his own way back. Hal had been more than Kim's Father, and he was nearly as deeply affected as Kim. His mind had been rapidly going over Vince's account and a growing uneasiness overcame even his sorrow.

"You seem to be saying that the thing you found died after killing Hal."

Vince hesitated before replying, "It's pretty obvious that a shot from Hal's rifle caused the injury that killed the creature. I suppose that Hal was killed in its dying attack."

"But, you don't believe that, do you?"

How did the boy know that?

"Well, there is evidence, or rather a lack of evidence, that casts doubt on that idea."

"Like what?"

"First," Vince responded, "it's hard to believe that the thing in the mine, as badly injured as it was, had the strength to do what was done to Hal. Second, none of Hal's blood was found on the creature, only its own body fluids. If you knew what had been done to Hal, you would understand how improbable that is."

Tim looked directly into his eyes, and Vince could see the determination in the younger man's face.

"I have to see it."

Vince had expected that, perhaps not this soon, but he'd known it was coming. He'd already decided to agree.

"Alright Tim, but after some rest, it's nearly four in the morning and we all need some sleep. Kim needs you now, and the creature isn't going anywhere."

Tim had no argument for that, it was true. He could feel her calling to him. The thing could wait.

Morning broke through the lightly curtained window into the Carthaugh's guest bedroom. Kim's eyelids twitched in discomfort and she turned her head to hide it behind Tim's shoulder. Her movement was enough to bring him half-awake, and his arm slid over to rest on her shoulder. The skin to skin contact was more than enough to bring Tim to full wakefulness. His arm, without any conscious direction, propelled his hand down the small of Kim's back to rest on her buttocks, and with a shudder she pressed closer to him with predictable results. The blunt jabbing pressure against her lower abdomen brought her slowly awake.

"Not here, Tim, they'll hear."

"Then you'd better move your hand away. It's making me crazy."

"Oh!"

They held each other tightly for a while, sex forgotten, just finding comfort in the embrace. The sound of movements in the kitchen directly below finally got them out of bed and dressed. Neither of them wanted to give the Carthaughs the impression that they'd been using the double bed for its intended purpose. The four of them met in the kitchen, and after half-embarrassed greetings, Kim and Tim joined the older couple at the table. Dorothy had to rebuke Vince with a stern look over the half-smile he was wearing. She remembered, better than Vince, how it had been early in their relationship when they met someone who knew without question that they were new lovers. She vividly recalled how uncomfortable she had been, knowing that the person knew that the big lummox beside her shared her bed. To break the uncomfortable silence she asked how they liked their eggs, "over easy, or hard', and nearly blushed at her own unintended innuendo. Vince had no problem, he laughed loud and long while Kim and Tim looked on with uncomprehending smiles. Afterward, the mood was a good deal more relaxed and congenial, even if the younger couple didn't know exactly why.

Once done eating and washing plates, moods took a downturn as Vince came directly to the point, asking if Tim was ready to view the creature's remains. He would have been less ready to offer the viewing if Hal Burton's remains were still on premises, but they had been already sent on to Grand Junction. There was only one body bag left in the room they would visit.

Tim didn't hesitate, and said he was ready to go immediately. That surprised Vince, he'd expected some reticence, but it didn't surprise him as much as Kim's declaration that she wanted to come along. The two younger people didn't look at each other as she said that, and he decided they must have discussed it earlier. He had no way of knowing about the fierce mental debate that had been raging right there in front of him. Even as Kim said it aloud, Tim was mentally capitulating. He still didn't like the idea, but could understand how she would want to know more of the things that had taken his youth and her father's life. He only had reservations about her seeing the evil in person.

The three of them rode in silence. Dorothy had declined her husband's half-hearted invitation to join them. She had seen the photograph, and that was more than enough, thank you. Vince made one attempt at conversation during the short ride to the undertaker's building, which also served as the local morgue, but neither of them replied to his enquiry about whether they liked Montrose. Not that their silence surprised him, he'd only asked because he was nervous himself. This whole business was outlandish, and after hearing Tim's story it seemed ready to turn into something a good deal more disturbing. He hadn't yet come to terms with himself about the creature's obvious alien appearance, and he was running out of logical alternative explanations. Trouble was, there weren't any, and his need to explain things in a logical experience-based manner was on ever more slippery ground. Tim had to have some of the answers he was looking for and coaxing them out would be objective number one for the day. Viewing the creature's body would be a catalyst for that, he was sure. Today was the only day for this opportunity, the body bag and its contents had to move on up the line tomorrow at the latest. After that, questions would come flying in his direction, and if he tried to rely on the scribblings of a long-dead, sensationalist-cum-journalist, he'd be laughed out of the investigation.

They parked in the deserted lot behind the Bell Haven Mortuary, and silently made their way to the back door. The long black limo with draped windows that was parked there sent a shiver down Kim's spine, and she wondered if her father's body had ridden its last miles in that shadowy interior. She turned her head away, and hung onto Tim's arm. Vince had trouble finding the right key for the heavy metal door, and once inside the dark interior couldn't find the light switch. Finally, his fingers slid over the toggle and a bright beam shattered the darkness. It was the spotlight suspended over the embalming table, and its effect on the trio was electrifying. Tim whimpered aloud, that lump in the black plastic bag could only be one thing. For a moment, it seemed to be alive and his mind jumped back to the silhouette in the cave. Kim too, sharing in his memories, gasped in anticipated horror. The sharp pain of her nails digging into his biceps brought Tim back to the present.

Vince was more surprised than anything else, he'd expected the main lights to come on and seeing the body bag starkly lighted gave him a feeling of unease. Almost, a portent of disaster, but he shook loose of the feeling. This business was strange enough already, and he didn't need to add his own imagination to the mix. Still, he stayed close to the other two as they walked to the table. Even in death, the thing exuded an evil as thick as ground fog. It seemed to take all of his will to force his hand to unzip the bag and throw back the top. He stood there staring at the grotesque head and upper body. The scissors-like beak was open, exposing uneven rows of triangular teeth. Shark's teeth, he thought, not for the first time. How could such a creature have ever been alive, he wondered, there was not even a hint of softness about it, all a construct of lines and angles. His gaze shifted to the wound in the head, if a man had been killed this way, there would have been soft brain tissue exposed in the gaping hole. This thing had only a hard sponge-like substance where a brain should be. It looked more like a wad of steel wool than a brain, and no blood. A man's opened head would be covered with brown, dried blood instead of this still oozing green gelatin. Small goblets of it were still hanging from the edges of the wound.

No, this world could never have produced such a horror as this, at least he found himself hoping that was the case. That would mean there were more of them, and for the first time he felt fear. Fear that a tribe of these nightmares would swoop down upon him. He abruptly turned his attention to Tim, more to break the direction his thoughts were taking than anything else.

Tim and Kim both were staring with shocked expressions, and trancelike they stood motionless, eyes riveted on the creature's face. Vince waited, preferring to look off into the darkness rather than return his gaze to the thing on the table. It seemed like an eternity before Tim cleared his dry throat and tried to speak. Unsuccessful at first try, he attempted it again.

"Yes, that's one of them, but it's not my monster. Maybe it's the one that grew in here."

He was holding his side, where Vince knew a large scar was hidden beneath his shirt.

Tim was shaken, this creature had been conceived in him and had grown to emerge after years of gestation. He shuddered at the thought of it. This thing had been inside him! Part of him! Feeding on him! His stomach turned, he felt unclean.

Neither of the men had noticed Kim, as she, still in a trance-like state, had moved away from them silently. She had noticed a red gas can in a corner, emergency fuel for the hearse she supposed, and she lifted it to check its contents. It was more than half full, and she carried it towards the table while removing the cap. With the other hand she felt in her back pocket for the lighter she carried out of habit, to ignite her father's seldom used pipe. At the table, half of the fluid had been poured out on the black form before either Tim or Vince noticed what she was doing. They were too slow even then as she spun the flint wheel to ignite the old-fashioned lighter-fluid fueled wick and threw it onto the gasoline-soaked form.

Tim and Vince rounded the table from opposite directions and threw her backwards as the exploding flames leapt outwards to singe her hair and face. All three were splattered by burning liquid, but the flames were quickly beaten out. Too late to do anything about the table, which was fully engulfed in fire, the black body bag seeming to writhe in agony as it burned to black soot. The creature's body within caught like dry kindling, and a sulfurous odor caused them to gag. Vince ran to find the fire extinguisher, but even as he frantically sought the one he knew should be in the room, he realized it would be too late. Smoke filled the room, adding to the sulfur fumes, making it difficult to breathe. The overhead sprinklers came to life then, but the offspring burned with a chemical defiance of the water. The room, large enough to park the hearse within, was becoming a death trap. Vince gave up on the extinguisher, and groped his way back to Kim and Tim. In minutes that seemed like hours, they made their way to the door and out into the bright sunlight.

Fighting to cleanse their lungs with fresh air, all three lie gasping on the immaculate, green lawn outside the mortuary. As he lay recovering from near-asphyxiation, Vince's first coherent thought was how to explain the destruction of the corpse of the only suspect in Hal Burton's murder. All that was left was the photograph, a visual image that could have been concocted, doctored, or portrayed a kid in a Halloween costume. The little pile of black ash that had recently been an alien creature was now nothing more than a few ounces of carbon and other assorted elements.

The Sheriff's Department investigators listened to the eyewitness accounts, at first incredulously and finally with a hint of impatience that everyone was telling the same unbelievable tale. Kim, Tim and Dorothy were barely listened to, as they had only after the fact involvement. Also, relatives of victims or even prospective relatives, such as Tim, were judged to be unreliable, in any event. The investigators went away without a solution they found to be acceptable, and worse they came away with the impression that the substation was being run by a man subject to delusion, or perhaps even an over-imaginative prevaricator. Hal Burton had been murdered by a person or persons unknown. In time, Vince Carthaugh was let to know that the Montrose County Sheriff's Office was phasing out his particular position. "Sorry Vince," they said, "perhaps you could look into security work for a private company. We'll give you references."

Tim and Kim had returned to Blanding long before then, of course. They had been officially excused from the investigation. Kim's part in the fire might have been prosecutable as destruction of evidence or even arson, but the investigators might then have had to give some credence to the fiction of an alien in their midst. Caught in the middle of such a choice they elected to take the easy route out, and gave Kim the benefit of the doubt as the overwrought daughter of the deceased. Since the fire damage was limited, and covered by insurance, they gave her a sympathetic reprimand, and told her to go home and bury her father. She would live a happy life in time, they assured her, tragedy forgotten.
Chapter 21

Tzetzlan took advantage of the early night-time hours to move up to the top of the small ridge line overlooking Crested Butte on the west. The seasons had changed again and the path led always uphill, now snow covered the ground and nights were long. Temperature meant very little to Tzetzlan, its body adjusted as needed, but the long nights were good. More time to travel, fewer nights to reach the ever growing signal coming from the massed prey ahead.

Several nights before, a smaller concentration of prey split off from the signal it had been following. The smaller group lay only a short distance off its course and Tzetzlan had veered accordingly. Hunger, more than immediate revenge, had triggered the change. It had been long since the last feeding, and the way had been difficult. The elevation on the ridge was great enough to take advantage of a wind blowing out of the west. Tzetzlan took wing, and glided towards the lights of the town, casting ahead for easy prey.

IPS--Dateline Denver 12/25/02

Crested Butte, Colorado

Christmas tragedy in a small mountain town. Three winter visitors, in town for

cross-country skiing, and two local residents were found mysteriously murdered on

Christmas Day. Few details available. Local law enforcement officials stunned and

unable to cope with what observers state is mass murder. One report of savage

butchery. Local coven leaders disclaim any part in calling forth devil to cause mayhem.

Denial follows an earlier report of giant bat over town on Christmas Eve.

End

Tzetzlan continued on, night after night climbing never ending mountains. It was new and different country, mostly barren of prey, and it would have thought itself alone on the planet if not for the persistent signal from the massed prey ahead. The farther Tzetzlan traveled, the fuller that signal became, now blossoming into a long line stretching as far as senses could reach to either side. But, still far, far away, many more nights would pass before the burning center of the line came within reach. Now, the line itself was separating into a string of clusters of the prey. Their energies merging into beacons that called Tzetzlan onward. So many prey, enough to feed many offspring, and Tzetzlan had never imagined that this world was so densely populated. A new desire joined revenge as drivers of Tzetzlan's march, so many prey made for many young ones, many young ones made for many hosts. Bringing this unusually complicated string of thought to a conclusion, Tzetzlan realized that this world could be the birthplace for a new race of its kind. A world of their own on which to hunt unlimited prey. Time meant nothing to its kind, and only the hunt mattered, and revenge. That new emotion, hate, still raged within and was a self-feeding ember in its mind.

So many seasons had passed in confusion and avoidance of this prey. It had taken the boy and the offspring to bring them within reach, but now Tzetzlan was master. So arrogant these beings, they thought themselves masters of their world, but could not even master their own minds. Their bodies, so soft and weak, vulnerable in so many ways, so quick to die. They went so quickly that there was barely time to feed properly, but now Tzetzlan understood the way to control their minds, that could be improved. Another chain of reasoning began, perhaps the feeding could be prolonged with better planning? It was a difficult concept, planning, and Tzetzlan gave up on the idea for the time being.

The world was nothing but ice now, soft white powdered snow covered the rock of the mountain. Walking was difficult, as feet broke through thin icy crust, nearly impounding its body in whiteness until it spread its wings to stop sinking. It was difficult to extract oneself from this deep, drifting snow, to regain the surface and move forward a few paces only to have the same foundering happen again. Very dangerous, too if Tzetzlan were caught in the snow at daybreak it would mean the end as its body succumbed to the burning rays of the Sun. Fortunately, upon extracting itself again, Tzetzlan found it was near to a rock face and there was a wide cleft in the rock that went deep into its interior. So deep that eventually all light was excluded, and a safe place was found to wait out the turning of the seasons and the disappearance of the snow.

Tzetzlan's dormancy lasted until the warm air of June melted the last of the snow sending rivulets into the cleft where they eventually dripped onto the inert form. Water was both unnecessary and unwelcome to Tzetzlan, and waking to dampness, it discovered a deep hunger had grown during the snow-time. The exertion so far required sustenance more often, and if Tzetzlan wished to reach the massed prey ahead, a local source of nourishment must be found. So, with nightfall the climb was resumed.

Finally, in mid-June the top of the mountain loomed just ahead, and with one more night's travel Tzetzlan was able to look down on the broad Arkansas River Valley. The goal still lie far ahead, but now the line of diffuse points had become further defined as clusters of life force, some small, some large. Tzetzlan picked out the largest cluster easily, it burst into the sky with a light only Tzetzlan could see. Still far away, and yet another mountain lay in the way.

Spreading arms, Tzetzlan fell from the craggy precipice into the night sky. Gliding silently, using weak nighttime air currents expertly, it crossed above the river and fought to gain elevation on the other side. Below, it could sense scattered prey, and reluctantly chose to complete the glide as far and as high on the oncoming mountain range as possible. The last climb had nearly been deadly, and it had no wish to repeat the experience. So it happened that just after eleven that night Tzetzlan reached the west slope of the next mountain range and made a less than graceful landing. Not that it mattered, the flight had saved many, many nights' walking.

In early July, Tzetzlan reached the ridgeline of the current mountain range and saw a broad, high basin ahead. Near its middle, a small cluster of prey huddled in one of their artificial communities. They lie directly in the line of travel, and by now hunger was quite acute.

IPS—Dateline Denver 07/07/2003

A second, small mountain town struck by multiple murders. The community of

Fairplay, Colorado became the latest site of homicidal rampage. Law enforcement

officials are trying to keep details under wraps, but several eyewitness reports

tell a gruesome tale. At least ten persons have been reported murdered. An

eleven year old girl survived the attack on her parent with only minor injuries.

She was treated for a puncture wound and transferred to a children's care facility in

Denver. Details are withheld, but it is understood that psychiatric treatment is

indicated.

State Police have announced that the nature of the killings, described as maniacal,

wanton and hideous, indicate involvement of several persons, perhaps a religious

cult. They indicated that although the injuries inflicted before death were

numerous and diverse, the final fatal blows were uniform and of an apparently

'ritualistic' nature.

More follows..

Tzetzlan continued its nightlong travels, and gradually the overfull feeling dissipated, to be replaced with a comfortable sense of well-being. The hills were now less severe, and were populated by scattered prey. Still, Tzetzlan had no particular urge to feed again so soon, and the march continued. Toward the end of July, Tzetzlan stood atop the last hill before the land descended to a vast plain, and was overwhelmed.

The glow of combined life forces now could be seen as countless sparks below. Tzetzlan could not conceive of beginning to count so many sparks, hardly separable, swimming together, a sea of prey. It frightened Tzetzlan, too many of them, and in awe of the mass below, it sought out a place to lie and wait. This unexpected situation had to be considered, and Tzetzlan felt inadequate for the task of subjugating these people. A new way had to be found. It found an abandoned coal mine high above the city, and waited there hate and trepidation fighting for supremacy, until at last it seemed that it would lie there for eternity not knowing what to do.

Time passed slowly, Tzetzlan was unable to lapse into dormancy, because the sheer number of prey so close clamored at its mind like a never-ceasing gale. It sent out tendril after tendril, counting, separating, learning the habits, these beings were no different than the ones it had hunted before, just more numerous. That should not cause problems in the hunt, but it was somehow daunting, and prevented action. Season followed season as Tzetzlan struggled with uncomfortable and complex mental processes and sought a way forward.

When the snow melted for the third time and plants began to green, Tzetzlan had an answer. The months of studying the prey came to fruition, and once again tendrils were sent out to investigate, more carefully this time, picking one signal from another with precision. Locating just the individuals it would need, marking locations, and attempting to keep all in order in its mind. After a time, its capacity to plan further was exhausted, and soon it would become necessary to resume the hunt.
Chapter 22

Kim and Tim had been married for two years before they heard from the Carthaughs again. They made Hal Burton's work their own, and the paper had grown substantially. They even shared a prize given annually to the best weekly newspaper with a circulation below five thousand. Much to her surprise, Kim began to love the paper and even the drudgery of putting it together. Her father's devotion to the 'Rag', as he had called it, became her own. It would have been an idyllic life were it not for the intermittent pall that hung over her husband and cast a shadow upon her as well. They had left Montrose on good terms with Vince and Dorothy, who understood why she had given in to her emotions and destroyed the beast. There had been several telephone calls back and forth up until the time that Vince lost his job. Afterward, Kim's renewed sense of responsibility made her acutely uncomfortable. Again, Vince and Dorothy understood and the phone calls ceased. Even Tim's gentle urging could not erase her guilt, and it was if it the guilt took the place of the revenge she'd hoped to gain with her actions.

The two of them were putting the First of July issue to bed in 2004 when the door of the office opened, causing the small bell to jingle. Neither of them looked up from the final page of paste-up, although Tim called out that they'd be with the visitor in a moment. The response, "Take your time, there's no rush", seemed familiar, but he couldn't place the voice; it was probably some local he knew in passing. He'd come to know many of them since he had taken up Hal's weekly travel routine, gathering bits of local color. Kim finished her corner first, and went to see to the visitor. Tim kept his ears open, expecting the conversation to inform him of the visitor's identity. The sound of the visitor's voice and a wash of surprise from Kim didn't help much, and he resisted the impulse to look over to the counter.

"What's the matter Kim, don't you have a hello for us anymore?"

"Dorothy, Vince! What a surprise! What are you two doing down here?"

"Soon as your Old Man gets his nose out of his newspaper, we'll fill you in. Meanwhile, how are you doing Kim? You look great, how many kids you got now?"

"Vince!" Dorothy's indignant voice rose above her husband's. "Mind your manners you hulk. Don't mind him, Kim, he just never had any proper upbringing. My, but you do look good though, and from what I can see of your husband, he hasn't changed much either."

Tim gave up at that, and left the last piece of copy lying on the paste-up table. He'd been keeping tabs on Kim's reaction to the visitors, and was happy that she had not tried to hide from them. He soon saw why. The Carthaughs were both resplendent in custom tailored clothes, and while Vince looked as out of place as an orangutan dressed in formal attire, Dorothy looked like royalty.

"Look at you two," Tim began, "you don't look as if you've been living on welfare."

"Tim!" It was Kim's turn to scold while Dorothy laughed.

"I do believe," she said, "that they were raised in adjoining pig sties. Don't you Kim?"

Tim felt Kim's mood lighten and a great weight lifted from her mind. Suddenly, it was like that dinner they'd had together, just four friends laughing together. Kim had finally come to understand that the Vince and Dorothy harbored no ill feelings. The last shreds of her guilt evaporated. Tim turned his head to greet Vince, and the older man winked at him, as if to say "See, that worked out just right, didn't it?" Tim said nothing but smiled; it was really good to see the older couple again. The paper would just have to wait until morning.

"OK," Tim said, "we've just closed for the day. You two are going to stay over with us for at least tonight, and no arguments, there's plenty of room. If you have other plans, you'll just have to cancel them."

"See," Vince mock whispered to Dorothy, "I told you they'd be suckers for a couple of freeloaders like us. We did right to pass up that ritzy motel down the street."

That brought a chuckle all around, given what the Four Corners Lodge, a ramshackle assemblage of single-wide trailers and storage sheds with porch lights, looked like since it had been abandoned a few years before.

"That's alright," Tim said as he eyed Vince's thousand-dollar wrist watch, "you probably couldn't have afforded to stay there anyway."

"You are a sound judge of character, Tim. By the way, will you feed us, too?"

"Vince!" Dorothy sounded stern, but didn't look the part.

As it turned out, the trunk of the very large Mercedes was packed full with an assortment of delicacies that left all four of them in speechless gratification.

"Now that Raoul," Vince said as he poured the last of the second magnum of Champaign, "he sure knows how to pack a picnic basket, don't he?"

"Vinch," Kim began, she was feeling the three glasses of bubbly and had to try again, "Vince, you have fed us everything from chateaubriand to truffles and chocolate mousse, though I will never understand how you kept everything at its proper temperature in the trunk of your car, I mean limousine, but now you have to tell us. What have you been up to? The last we heard, you were out of a job and leaving your home in Montrose behind. How'd you get so rich? Have you turned to the other side of the law?"

"Heat pumps."

"Huh?"

"That's how we keep everything at its proper temperature. We had a small heat pump installed for just that purpose. There's a hot side, and a cold side and never the twain do meet. Nifty, huh?"

Before Kim could complain that although heat pumps were indeed nifty, she had really been more interested in how they came to be able to afford such high technology, Vince continued.

"Ever hear of Jake Colorado?"

"The writer?" Tim asked. "Sure, who hasn't? He must have sold a couple million books by now. Really great stuff, they call him the Arthur Connan Doyle of the new millennium. How he comes up with all those intricate plots, I'll never understand. It's like you took a dozen major crimes and juggled all of the elements together until they fit into just one bad guy and one good guy. Excuse me, two good guys. Sherlock had his Watson, and Jake Colorado has his Zeno. All that technical stuff leaves your head spinning. Kim and I buy every new hard cover as soon as it hits the stores. What's Jake Colorado got to do with anything?"

"Well," Dorothy took over, Vince was busy looking smug, "aside from the fact that your purchases have helped to buy our heat pump, the actual sales to date are at two million, six hundred forty-some-odd thousand copies of the first three novels. The next two may even outsell the others."

"You! You're Jake Colorado? Why, you are the last person on Earth I'd have thought would turn into an author."

"Hey! Thanks a lot!"

"Oh, Vince, I'm sorry! I didn't mean you aren't a smart man and capable of figuring out complex schemes, I just meant that you don't seem to be the kind of person with the patience to sit down and pound out thousands of words in sequence. Let alone, five times that."

Kim looked so contrite and self-conscious that Vince couldn't continue his attempt at playing hurt ego. Even before she finished apologizing, he was struggling to suppress a grin.

"You can give half the credit to my Zeno." He said, pointing to Dorothy, "my lady here has a wonderful talent for research and organization. If it weren't for her, the words I put on paper wouldn't even make sense to me."

Early the next morning, despite the late night, Tim was up and out the door. There was no choice but to get the paper out. With the Fourth of July Weekend coming up there were too many announcements that needed to see the light of day. A few hours wrapping it up, and he could send it off to the printer. Kim stayed behind to take care of the Carthaugh's needs, if they decided to get out of bed. He was back at the house by ten in the morning, expecting that Vince and Dorothy would have long since been up and about. Instead, he found Kim sitting alone in the kitchen, radio turned up and dishwasher going while she drank coffee and read a magazine.

"Hey!" He shouted mentally and aloud, "Aren't you afraid you'll disturb the coyotes? Where are Vince and Dorothy?"

Her head jerked up in surprise, and she looked at him and thought, "Tim, you remember the night we stayed over at the Carthaughs' and were so timid about making love under their roof?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, Vince and Dorothy most emphatically and obviously have no such hang-ups. If I didn't have every distraction going that I could find, I'd be so heated up by now that I'd probably rape you where you stand."

"Oh."

Tim was about to move in to take advantage of the situation when the bright-eyed and slightly flushed lovers came into the kitchen.

"Morning, you two!" Vince boomed out. "Had a great night, never slept better."

"So I hear," Tim responded, "er, I mean glad you were comfortable. Have you had breakfast yet? I just finished the paper up for this edition, and haven't had anything to eat yet myself. Maybe if Kim isn't too full yet, we can have a brunch out on the porch."

"Sounds good. After last night I thought I'd never eat again, but I guess this desert air really builds up your appetite."

Kim had no trouble interpreting the wink Vince threw in Dorothy's direction as he spoke.

Late in the morning, dishes done and a new pot of coffee made, the four friends sat around the kitchen table while Vince and Dorothy described how their life had changed over the past few years. Early that evening, everyone caught up to date, the conversation came to a pause, and when it resumed it turned serious. Vince led it off.

"Look kids, we have to be honest with you now. As much as we wanted to see you again there's another reason for our visit."

"You mean you really aren't rich, and you're here to ask for jobs as reporters on the Blanding Banner?"

"Maybe not exactly that, but we do need your help. First off, it what we are asking is too painful, for either one of you, just say so and we'll forget it."

Kim and Tim looked at one another, and knew at the same moment what was coming. Instantly, they were in accord because neither had forgotten that deep hurt that could be healed in only one way. Tim spoke for them both.

"Tell us what you have in mind, Vince. We are ready, even after all this time to hunt the monster down and kill it."

"Now, how in hell...," Vince began, but then understood, "of course, this has been a part of your lives since way before we got involved."

The telling took some time, beginning with how Fenster's journal had been on his mind, and then how Tim's own story had reinforced Fenster's. Then he told them about their trip to Australia, and that they had visited Britton there. On that man's last day alive in his losing battle with cancer, he had called them in to recount what he had seen on that day in the operating room. There had been no place left for doubt afterward, and they had returned home to start making their own maps.

"It was easy to reproduce your father's map, Kim. He left a copy in his things at the motel, and Fenster's was fairly accurate, too. The real problem came with events that happened after Hal's death. What direction did the creature take then? We spent months looking for records of strange murders. We drew a lot of concentric circles around Uravan, and started canvassing local law enforcement files. Last year, we had our first hit, at Crested Butte, Colorado.

You probably don't remember the incident, if you can call it that, because it didn't get much coverage since it happened during the holiday season. For once, the media decided not to spend much time on a Christmas disaster. Five out of the six people who were attacked died, and the one who didn't was a child with no memory of what happened. The local sheriff never released the details, hoping that some suspect might say more than he was supposed to know. I called in a few past favors, and got a look at the case files. They all died the same way, some had slashed throats, but every one of them had a deep puncture wound in the chest. They never did find the woman's heart, it was ripped right out of her body."

"OK," Tim said, "so you were able to establish a line of travel. Did you plug in the average speed that Fenster calculated, and that Hal confirmed?"

"Sure did," Vince replied, "the line headed for a point south of Denver, near a town called Englewood. But, before it gets that far it passes close to Fairplay. Naturally, we checked the distances between Crested Butte and Fairplay, made the calculations, and came up with a date...nothing. Fairplay was a very dull place for months during the time the creature should have been passing through. At first, we were disappointed that our predictions hadn't worked, but then we thought about the possibility that the creature stopped of its own accord, or had been stopped. That would have been good news for the population of Fairplay.

Then we heard about what happened there in July. By the time they stopped counting, thirteen people were found dead. You want to guess how they met their ends?"

"What happened?" Kim asked, "why didn't it get there on time?"

It was Dorothy who answered, but she knew the story as well as her husband.

"We think winter happened, a Rocky Mountain Winter with over one hundred inches of snow. The creature couldn't move, it was snowed in."

"Why didn't it fly? It has wings, and people have seen it in the air. Even at Crested Butte, according to the transcript you described, someone saw it flying."

Tim had kept silent, but it was something that bothered him, as well. If the thing could fly, why did it travel so slowly?

Vince looked as if he was anxious to share a discovery, but Dorothy beat him to it and was rewarded with an aggravated look.

"That had us puzzled for a long time, too, Kim. Then we realized the obvious, the Beastie is a glider, not a flyer! To get somewhere on the wing, it has to climb up to a high point and then glide down. If it can't walk, it can't get to a place to glide from."

Tim was excited, it all made sense, and one more element of the monster's character was known.

"So, if the monster holed up for the winter, and then moved on in the spring, when did it get to Englewood?"

Vince and Dorothy exchanged looks heavy with long-suffered bewilderment.

"It hasn't." Vince answered.

"We don't understand." Kim began, "I mean, I don't understand. According to your reconstruction, the thing was in Fairplay the night of July sixth. It's what, about fifty miles to Englewood from there, and that should have taken it, uh, forty days or so. That was months ago, did it change course?"

"That's one possibility," Dorothy admitted, "but we don't think so. Every time the Beastie goes anywhere it's in virtually a straight line. No matter what obstacles, be it mountains, canyons, cities, or anything else, are in the way. You're right, it should have gotten to Englewood a long time ago. If it had, you can be certain that we would all know about it by now. Our Beastie is holed up somewhere again. That's the only answer, but we don't know where, except that it is on this line we've drawn on the map."

"So, why don't we just walk the line, inch by inch, back and forth if we need to, looking for any hole big enough for it to hide?

Tim was already taken by the idea, they could see enthusiasm for the project in his eyes. Kim could sense it, as well, a lot more directly. Her own reaction was much more restrained, talking about hunting the creature down was one thing, actually doing it another. Her Father had proven that. Still, it was difficult not to become infected by the emotional wave that Tim was broadcasting in her direction. She was so deeply caught up in her conflicting thoughts that she had to pull herself back into the continuing conversation.

"We're one up on you, Tim. We've brought aerial photographic coverage for the entire strip of land along the line. Not just any photos, mind you, where one inch might equal two thousand feet on the ground, but enlargements. We'll show you later, but they're great. Objects as small as five feet across show up in sharp detail."

Vince paused to collect his thoughts, and Dorothy took over.

"Obviously, in one respect, this is going to make it a lot easier. We can look for holes right here in the living room without even losing our breaths walking that forty-two miles. But, there is a problem, would you care to guess how many pot holes, overhangs, cracks, crevasses, and mines there are along this stretch of country?"

"I don't know," said Tim, "maybe a hundred?"

Vince gave a short laugh, "Way off, so far we've counted five hundred thirty-nine, and every time we look at the photos we add a couple more we hadn't noticed before. To make it tougher, most of them are a long way from any sort of road or trail. Just figuring that it would take one day each, it would take one person one and a half years to see them all."

"Obviously, we have to narrow down the list."

"Obviously, and that's why we are here. We need your input to make meaningful selections. Tim, so far as we know you are the only one to have been so close to the beast and lived to tell about it."

"Well, that's not quite true, if you include the smaller monster there was Britton and the hospital orderly that you found out about."

"Sure, but we can't be certain that the small one would have acted like the big one. Also, Britton only saw it through half-conscious eyes and the orderly was in a dark room, and was incapable of making intelligent observations. You saw the creature we are hunting in its natural environment.

Tim could sense the hesitation mounting in Kim as she sat stiff-limbed beside him. He didn't know why. She had blocked off access to her thoughts. He was immersed in the Carthaugh's enthusiasm by then, and while he might normally have paid closer attention to Kim's unspoken mood, the hunt for his monster had suddenly assumed realism. He began to feel that it was an attainable goal.

"Vince, you have to remember that I was a scared, lost ten-year-old when I met the monster, and I didn't see the thing that grew inside of me until after it was dead. All I remember is a shape outlined in the mouth of a cave by moonlight. It was a black, hulking form. I couldn't make out details, except..."

"Except what, Tim?"

Tim cleared the sudden lump in his throat.

"Except when it turned its head; then it was all angles and open spaces where there should have been bone and flesh. Like a skull of a carnivore, maybe like a wolf or a dog. I could see moonlight through triangular openings in its skull. That's why I knew the thing on the mortuary table wasn't my monster. Its head wasn't right. Sure, maybe that one was immature, or something, but it was different. I don't know Vince, I only saw my monster for a few minutes before I passed out. I don't think I'll be able to give you a very good description. How about you? You must have had a good long while to study the thing Hal killed. How about the search and rescue team, didn't they look at it, too?"

"That is part of the problem, Tim. Back then, I was mostly interested in keeping wild stories off the streets. I was first into the mine stope and as soon as I saw the thing I put a blanket over it. None of the others had a good look. You are right about me, of course, I spent hours looking at it in private, trying to decide what to do. When I took you two in to see it, even the mortician hadn't been allowed a peek.

Even so, I guess two, no three things stand out most clearly in my memory. The legs were really short, less than a foot and a half from hip to toe, and they ended in three wicked looking talons. One facing the opposite direction from the other two. Not like bird talons made for perching. These were arranged like ice tongs for grabbing and lifting maybe. And sharp! Man, you wouldn't believe how hard they were, too. I tried scratching one with a knife blade and it just skittered off without leaving a mark.

Then there were the wings. I know that they didn't look like much when you saw them, but if you pulled the arms wide, they opened up like kites. I don't have any trouble picturing that thing gliding along on those parachutes.

One last thing that stands out in my memory, I mean after all the whole damn thing was weird looking, but I'll never forget that beak. Like a pair of hedge trimmers, only filled with sharp teeth. Kind of like shark's teeth only thinner and harder. You could have cut through a log with half of that thing's beak. Like I said, the whole thing was unnatural looking, black scaly skin, arms that ended in razor sharp claws, an eye that seemed to tear right though yours even though it was black and dead, that..."

"Eyes!" Tim shouted.

"What?"

"The eyes, I remember them now! That's another reason the thing on the table looked different to me. The monster in the cave had orange almost red, eyes. They burned into my head, they glowed so much. It was like they took my will away."

Tim paused a moment, trying to decide how far to go. He tried to make contact with Kim to seek her advice but the way into her mind was still blocked. He made the decision alone.

"There's something else you should know, Vince and Dorothy, these creatures can get into your head."

He noticed the suddenly cautious and uncertain look that sprang up on Vince's face.

"I know that will be hard for you to understand, but that's how it controls the victim. Haven't you ever wondered about how only the two people who went hunting the thing ever managed to fight back? Think about it. How many people has it killed by now? Twenty-seven or eight? That we know about? Out of all those people only two, Hal and Fenster, managed to inflict any damage even if they ultimately lost the battle. I think the difference was that they were prepared to meet something dangerous, and were at least thinking of how to deal with an unknown danger.

How about that thing on the table? We know that it killed, too. Do you think it was big enough to physically overpower a full grown man without a helluva fight?"

"Tim," Vince replied, "I'll grant you that it's strange, but that's mighty shaky evidence to conclude that the thing can control your mind."

"Well," Tim hesitated, he didn't really want to go any further, but concluded that he must, "there's more. Until now, Kim is the only one I've told about this, but while that monster child was growing in me I felt it trying to get at my mind, to feed from my fear. That's why I had built such a thick mental barricade. I locked myself inside, away from the scratching of the beast at my door."

He would have gone on then, to divulge how the creature had forced his own mental development, when Kim's sharp thought dissuaded him. He could see in Vince's face that his words had already had some effect. Kim, after her brief warning, had closed up again, and finally he was beginning to wonder about that. They needed to sort out whatever was bothering her, but that would have to wait until they had some privacy. Being able to communicate silently did not prevent the outward expression of emotion. Tim felt grateful when Dorothy suggested that she and Vince turn in for the night, and Vince readily agreed. It was clear that they had things to discuss as well.

A short time later, Kim lay beside Tim in bed, still uncommunicative in all ways, and he finally resorted to speech.

"Kim, why don't you talk to me? Tell me what's wrong, please?"

That did the trick, but as she turned her head preparing to reply he could see an upwelling of tears in her eyes.

"I'm scared, Tim. This business of hunting the thing down frightens the hell out of me. My father tried it, and look what happened to him. If that should happen to you, too, I couldn't live with it."

"But, I thought that's what you wanted, also! We've often thought about killing the monster. Now it's beginning to look like it might be possible, and you change your mind! I don't understand."

"Thinking about doing something and actually doing it are two different things, Tim. You know that. As soon as we started talking about actual plans tonight, I had a premonition that hasn't gone away yet. If we do this thing, something terrible is going to happen."

Tim held her in close embrace, and now that he was once more permitted access, he felt the premonition for himself. It was no less frightening for being second hand. Shaken, he found himself doubting the wisdom of his plans, nebulous as they might be. Then a thought came, shared immediately by Kim.

"What if we don't do anything? What happens to the people in the monster's path? Can we live with more death, knowing we might have prevented it?"

They both knew the answer to that question.

The next morning came all too early after a restless night. Dorothy and Vince had also wrestled with sleeplessness thinking about Tim's revelation. Finally, they decided that they must believe him; they knew Tim and Kim well enough that there was little room for doubt. Once accepted, the idea that the monster could exercise mental control added a new and dangerous facet to the hunt. After a period of intense doubt about their willingness to continue, they finally asked the same question as the younger pair. What of the residents of Englewood?

All four were somber and restrained at the breakfast table. Afterward, as planning resumed, the light-hearted quest of yesterday was replaced by a new level of serious contemplation of consequences if they got the methodology wrong. The Carthaughs moved in on a more or less permanent basis from that day, and as time went on the plans assumed a solidity and direction that were no longer doubted by any of the four. Within a few months the work preliminary to the actual hunt had grown so demanding that the paper began to suffer.

Kim and Tim reluctantly decided to hire, for the duration of the hunt, someone to keep the paper running. It was a difficult decision, to leave their life's work in the hands of a stranger, but knew that they couldn't afford split loyalties, and it was going to be all or nothing for the hunt. They looked around at other small papers in the four-state region asking for suggestions about who to hire, and the name Mandy Haines popped up several times. She came in for a try out for a two week period and picked up the business so rapidly that neither Tim nor Kim had any compunction about leaving her in charge. When the time came finally, to pack up the big Mercedes and head eastward, Mandy was handling the paper on her own with a little part-time help from a local high school boy with inclinations towards journalism. They left Mandy on a Friday morning, having helped get the paper out one last time, with a promise to call every Thursday. They also left an over-full cardboard box containing copies of the speculations, histories, and plans each of the four of them had prepared individually. The carton was securely taped. It took some doing, because Mandy was by then extremely curious about what her employers were up to, but finally they extracted her promise to leave the carton be, untouched unless they failed to call in for two successive weeks. Then it would be up to her to decide what to do with the contents.
Chapter 23

Tzetzlan was ready. The prey were identified. Many of them. It knew the numbers one, two and three, but beyond that it was simply many. There were many, many of them, and it would take nearly a full turn of seasons. Perhaps they were locked away in those strange artificial caverns the new people made for themselves. It would not be easy but Tzetzlan had no concept of easy or hard, only do or not do. This, it would do. Spurred on by the newly perceived, but still weak signals from the presence it had left behind in its travels, it wished to begin soon.

Tzetzlan waited in the dark mine interior as the final rays of the Sun faded, and the only light that remained was the reflected artificial light from the city below. Then, it made its way out from the mine portal, and shuffled towards a precipice overlooking the myriad of pin-points below. It found nothing of awe or beauty in the display, but simply launched itself outward into the night, spiraling in ever-decreasing circles centered upon a small, ill-kept house a few blocks off Santa Fe Boulevard.

The Ramirez family, or what was left of it, struggled to live on the small benefits derived from a faltering welfare system. Elena Ramirez had lost her husband and two oldest children, along with most of her will to live, in an auto accident five years before. Julio, along with Steven and Frank, new names for a new country Julio had said, had been coming home from a Broncos' game that night when a drunken gringo had run them off the road into a concrete abutment. All she had left were Sissy, Carmen, and a mountain of bills. She and Sissy were watching a late movie on the static-filled television. Carmen was too young to be up so late and lay sleeping in the room she shared with her sister. After the movie, when Sissy went to bed, Elena would make up the sofa in the living room, and there spend most of the night in silent contemplation of the life that had been taken from her. Then, sometime shortly before dawn, she would awake from an hour's restless slumber to get the girls ready for school.

Elena was only thirty-seven, but the deep hollows beneath her eyes and her undernourished condition added years to her appearance. Once, she had been a beautiful girl, full of hopes and dreams. Now, she was a shell, hollowed out from a previous being, and surviving only to see her daughters into adulthood. Thoughts of giving up and letting go of life were always near but not as near as on that night. Even though they had seen the James Bond movie times beyond counting before, the big man with the metal teeth always made Sissy shudder in fear. Tonight was no different, but for Elena the evil man was just another image in her mind, an image that kept thoughts of Julio at bay. Perhaps those metal teeth would give her release some day.

The scratching at the door reminded her that the single pet they could afford, because Sylvester kept himself fed, was due to come in for his evening drink of water, and to eat the few scraps left over from dinner. Perhaps he would even curl up between them for a time and permit Sissy to scratch between his ears. Elena muttered "Gato loco", and got up to go to the door.

She looked down as she opened the battered front door, expecting to see the familiar one-eared cat saunter through as if he owned the place. Nothing. She was puzzled and looked outward, but a strange pair of black, scaly legs blocked her view down the pathway.Already, deep within her, a scream was building, ready to be let out as her eyes moved up the naked, snake-like body. When they reached the head, her mouth was open in anticipation, but the scream did not come. Her eyes followed without understanding as a long arm flashed sideways. She felt the claw at the end tear into her throat, and her last vision was of red, red liquid that seemed to erupt from beneath her chin to spray all over the black monstrosity in front of her.

Sissy began to turn her head towards the sound made by her Mother's body slumping onto the floor. Even before she had half-completed the movement her eyes had glazed over. The movie had changed. Her father and brothers were there. They had fallen from the road and were rolling down a steep hill. There, at the bottom of the slope were strange flowers. She struggled to see them more clearly. Like daffodils they were, but different. She seemed to float closer as first her father and then her brothers rolled into the field of plants. The petals were stiff and bright silver. Like metal. They became metal. The petals turned inward and grew like fangs. She floated closer to where her father lay screaming, and then she saw why. The flowers were biting him! Over and over, until he bled from a thousand cuts and tears. She continued watching, helpless as her father was bitten to death. Even with his last scream, she could hear her brothers beg for mercy until, finally, they too were silent.

The movie in her mind ended as abruptly as it had begun. Her fear-clouded eyes cleared only to find another hideous apparition looming above her. Somehow, she had come to be laying flat upon the sofa, looking upward. Where the ceiling should be there were two orange, burning eyes. It was too much, and she opened her mouth to let loose the wail that was filling her to bursting. The eyes moved up and away but then flashed back, falling below the line of her vision. Her chest seemed to explode, and overwhelming pain brought unconsciousness seconds before the gaping hole in her chest brought death.

Tzetzlan left the bodies lay, not bothering to feed from the fluids. The nourishment from the outpouring of fear had been good. There was no immediate need to gorge upon the fallen prey. There was a sense of urgency now. After many, many, then it could feed to fullness and find a place for dormancy. Not now. Tzetzlan made its way to the single closed door and stood, immobile, before it. The real goal was behind this wall, but how to get through? It pushed out in frustration, and the door swung open the latch long broken and useless. Dim light spilled in from the living room, illuminating the two small cots within.

Slowly, it made its way to the one that was occupied by a thin, still form. Reaching out with care it used the tip of a talon to pick at the thin sheet covering and pull it back from the body beneath. The night was warm and the young one was dressed only in a small covering around its middle. Tzetzlan probed into the mind of the small being and recognized it as one of those identified months before. The urge within built steadily until the sharp ovipositor slid from beneath its sheath of scaly hide. Carefully, almost with surgical precision, it sought the right place. The needle-like projection pressed against skin, and her mind anesthetized by Tzetzlan against pain, she did not feel the skin break as the ovipositor slid into her abdomen, stopping at the safe place where another offspring could grow in peace until the time came to emerge. Tzetzlan slowly withdrew then, the task done. Tzetzlan, having become more adept since Timmy, left only a minor puncture to mark the entry. The blood would soon clot and the wound would heal, leaving small evidence of the night's work.

The next host lay some distance to the north, and the distance could not be covered before sunrise, but the start of the journey must be made. Somewhere along the way, a dark and isolated opening would be found to shield against the burning rays that would come all too soon.

The story rated momentary glory. The survivor, a child of seven, could tell nothing of what had happened. She only talked of a nightmare. Murders were common along the industrial section of Santa Fe Boulevard. True, these were more gruesome than most, but time and the press of other news soon forced an end to reporting on the stalled investigation. After a time, her wound of unknown origin healed and Carmen was placed in a foster home. She was not treated unkindly, but as one of several children she received no special attention.

The next incident never made the news, and not even a police report was filed. The family doctor suspected child abuse, but couldn't find enough evidence to support his hunch. The wound appeared to be more than skin-deep, but not serious, and after nine-year-old Freddy left with his mother, Dr. Blank made a note on his chart to check for further signs of abuse at the boy's next examination.

Several weeks later, an incident in Commerce City made the nightly news. The Johnson twins had been accosted in their bedroom. Both had identical wounds, not serious mind you, that were overshadowed by the murder of their sitter. Unfortunately, Officer McPherson in Englewood and Dr. Blank missed the news that night, one on-call and the other at bowling league, so similarities to the cases they knew about went unnoticed.

The next incident, several months later, occurred in Greeley. Then Fort Collins, then in the bedroom suburb of Wellington. If anyone had been keeping watch, the trail would have seemed to turn after Wellington, as if the perpetrator had gone too far to the north and stopped its travels. By then a dozen wounded children suffered constant nightmares; and eight older children and adults lay dead and buried. Still, the connection had not been made between the incidents.
Chapter 24

On a quiet spring night, a bored police reporter sorted through the scattered files on her desk. Some were months old, and she picked one at random and scanned the summary sheet. Ramirez, Elena and Sissy. What a name, she thought. Dead by unusual means, cut throat and large puncture wound in chest. Sue Hill shuddered. The aseptic police report couldn't mask the trauma that must have accompanied those wounds. Younger daughter unhurt, except for small puncture in abdomen. What a sicko it must have been to do that. She put the file down, feeling depressed. She was pushing the file jackets around, not really having the ambition to sort them out and file them away. A paper slipped out of one of the folders as she started to stack them, and a word on the page caught her eye. Lafayette. Curious, she picked the file out of the mess and opened it. She knew Lafayette well, once a small farming town, now it was just one more bedroom suburb of the greater Denver Metropolis. She snorted--bedroom. It was aptly designated. She'd left the split level house and Aaron three years ago. The bastard had expected her to stay home and play the dutiful live-in playmate while he screwed everything in skirts in Boulder. Damn him.

She shook off the unwelcome memory and forced her attention to the file. Aaron was soon forgotten. She reread the report several times, and then dug out the Ramirez file. There wasn't any doubt in her mind. The Englewood murderer had also visited Lafayette. Lost in thought, she didn't notice William Chase come over to her side. What she'd been thinking of helped to startle her when he spoke.

"Hey Sue, lost in thought or just daydreaming?"

Her hand instinctively sought to cover her throat at the unexpected sound. It took her a long moment to bring her adrenalin under control.

"Damn it, Willie! Don't you have anything better to do than to scare the hell out of me? What do you want, anyway?"

"Now Sue, is that any way to talk to your boss? I just noticed you sitting here all alone and thought I'd ask if you wanted to grab a bite to eat. You spend too much time by yourself. It's not right for a pretty girl like you to be all by yourself so much of the time.

Sue grimaced inwardly at the thought of being alone with Willie Chase. Having to work for the old lecher was already beyond the call of duty.

"Thanks Willie, but not right now. I'm trying to sort out a few things I just came across. I want to keep at it for a while."

"Come onto something interesting Sue? Why don't you tell me about it? Maybe we can work it out together."

"Not on your slimy life," she thought. Her spoken reply was more civil. "It's too soon Willie. Right now it is just an idea. Probably turn out to be nothing at all. Let me work on it a while. If it turns into something I'll let you know."

Right after its written and handed over to the editor, she silently added.

Willie knew that it was a lost cause to try and make time with the woman. She was a hard boiled bitch. As stony as they came. Not that he'd kick her out of bed, of course. If he ever got the chance. Then again, maybe it was time to move her out of his department. Maybe he could make a deal with Vivian Majors and trade her off to the Social Events Editor in return for that cute brunette just out of college. After all, a guy could put up with just so much rejection, and Sue had been piling it on from day one. He'd never believed that such an attractive woman could be a lesbian, like the guys in Sports said she must be, but who knew these days? He muttered something about having to meet someone else for lunch, an appointment momentarily forgotten, and left her.

She watched the receding form for a couple of seconds. She knew that she was on thin ice, but Willie Chase was just about more than she could stomach. If it wasn't for the occasional excitement that the job offered she would have quit months ago. Even the bulky, shapeless clothes she's started wearing her second week on the job hadn't helped. She thought that every male in the building, and the Sports Department was the worst, must be suffering from severe testosterone imbalance. Walking past the Sports' desk was like being stripped naked and raped in broad daylight. She'd heard the rumors about her supposed gay tendencies but hadn't tried to counter them. Maybe it would help keep the wolves at bay. It hadn't worked; bedding her down was now apparently the supreme challenge in macho-land. One or two had even mentioned that they wouldn't mind meeting her 'girl friends'.

The feel of the file folder in her hand brought her back to the task she'd settled on undertaking. She put the folder down and pulled a legal pad out of the desk drawer. After some thought, she scribbled out a few headings across the top. Place; Date; Deaths, Number; Deaths, Cause; and as an afterthought added, Injuries, Nonfatal. Turning to the computer work station, she typed in a search program and set it to work on the morgue. She'd set the time frame to include reports as far back as five years prior to the Ramirez' murders. The other parameters she'd set would result in a printout of violent deaths resulting from throat or chest injury. Computers were marvelous things she mused as she waited for the results, almost as good a friends for keeping you company.

After a time, she noticed the flashing words on the monitor, 'Search Complete/No. of entries=721/ read or print?' She was shocked, so many? She pushed the read key and a list appeared on the screen. It told her nothing. Dates, places, and either a designation of throat, fatal or chest, fatal. She punched up details on the first five and realized her mistake. Auto accidents. Disgusted with her lack of foresight, she revised the search program to exclude traffic deaths and pushed the button again. The results took less time to generate, and in less than a minute the screen was flashing again. 'Search Complete/ No. of entries=73/ read or print?' Still too many, she thought. She punched up the detail of the first one nearly five years previous to Ramirez. Again, she was disappointed. Jay Knopf, killed in a factory accident when the lathe he was running spun off a large steel splinter directly into his chest. She rewrote the exclusions, adding industrial accidents and was about to execute again, but paused to think it over. Taking up the pencil once again, the yellow legal pad was soon filled with other possibilities. A half-hour later, the search had been rewritten to exclude hunting accidents, climbing accidents, aircraft deaths, and public transport deaths. She pushed the button.

In less than five seconds the monitor flashed, announcing the number of entries was down to twenty-five. Satisfied that she had a meaningful group, she pushed the print button. As the printer began to rattle across the paper she read the emerging text. 'Fairplay, Colorado July 7, 2003, Multiple murders in a mountain town...' She felt a chill go down her spine.
Chapter 25

They had been at it for months. The aerial photo enlargements had been used to cut the number to a third, but the search targets left were still depressingly numerous. If they didn't find a better way, it would take years. By then they would be a bunch of raving lunatics, if for no other reason than knowing each time they stepped into a dark opening or mine adit one or more of them might never emerge. Then there were the natural hazards, like the one time Kim and Dorothy had been working together and managed to lose their return trail in a small but complicated cavern. Only Tim's ability to home in on Kim's mind had freed them from their prison so quickly. Vince and Dorothy had wondered aloud at Tim's abilities, and their speculations, some of which were uncomfortably close to the truth, were only silenced after Tim fell into a winze, and had been rescued by Vince instead of Kim.

They were all very close to giving it up. That evening they gathered in the Carthaugh's suite in the Fairplay Hotel to go over the day's results. Another five targets examined, none of them really suitable because they were shallow and didn't provide the darkness they presumed the creature desired if not required. They were about ready to call it quits for the day, and Vince turned on the TV to catch the late news report, as they did every night. This time he opted for the Denver channels instead of the National News Net he ordinarily favored. The lead story caught their attention immediately.

"Today, there is one survivor out of a family of three that lived near Englewood. The child, whose name has not been released, was found by concerned neighbors when none of the family had been seen for three days. Juanita Villages, a neighbor and family friend, found the child huddled in a bedroom within sight of her mother and sister in the next room.

Mrs. Villages, much too distraught to be interviewed on camera, described the scene as 'a bloody carnage' and 'horrible, terrible'. Few details have been released as yet, but informed sources say that the causes of death were a 'cut throat and a massive chest injury'. We'll keep you advised as details emerge.

Now, Jim is here with the sports scene, but first, this message."

It wasn't much to go on, but Tim voiced the consensus. "We're too late. It has already reached Englewood."

"Isn't that a little premature, Tim," Dorothy said, "they could have died in any number of ways. There wasn't a thing in that report that pointed directly to the Beastie."

"Tim is right, Lover. We all know it."

Tim turned to look at Kim, who was seated at the small table. Her face was ashen and she was trembling. He went to her and knelt down to pull her close.

"We were trying Kimmie. We didn't just let it happen. Now we have more work to do. The longer the monster is left to itself, more death will happen, or maybe something worse. We have to be strong now, we can't give up."

His words seemed to answer, what to the Carthaughs were unspoken words.

She straightened in her chair and color returned to her face, words soon followed.

"Then we ought to be in Englewood, not sitting here."

That decided it for all of them. Even though the Sun was setting and they hadn't eaten the evening meal, Vince checked them out of the hotel. In a short time they were on US 285 heading north. Shortly before midnight, they found what must have been the last two rooms in convention-filled Denver, and settled in to wait for morning. The trip down the mountain had given time to discuss what had to be done next. The most obvious need was to find help, and when a citizen needs help against mayhem and murder the first thought is of the police. Only Vince seemed to be reluctant to accept the idea, but he was outvoted.

"OK," he finally conceded, "but you will have to do the talking, Tim, not me."

"Why, Vince? They should have more faith in you. After all, you are the ex-cop."

"I am afraid you will find the answer to that question all too soon, Tim. Trust me, it's the only way, and it probably won't work at that."

After fighting the over-stressed streets of Denver, choking on exhaust fumes with eyes tearing from inversion-bound smog, the four of them found the Englewood Police Headquarters and requested a meeting with the Chief of Detectives, Paul Dawson. Even with the prod about having knowledge about the Ramirez murders, they were kept waiting over an hour. Declining an alternative meeting with the detective in charge of the case probably further delayed the meeting.

Chief Dawson was not a sympathetic listener, even though Tim left out the part about his meeting with the monster in the cave when he was young. It would have been too much for a skeptical stranger to accept. He did his best to give a balanced, objective statement, but he could tell that Dawson wasn't buying it. As Tim recounted the part about Hal's death and Vince's investigation, Dawson spent a long moment staring in Vince's direction, only half-listening to the continuing narrative. Abruptly excusing himself, he left the room, leaving the four of them in quiet confusion. When he reappeared, he left no doubt as to his opinion.

"Mr. Michaelson, I'm going to be lenient with you. Filing a false report is a serious charge, but I'm going to assume that Mr. Carthaugh here, or Mr. Colorado as his readers know him, has somehow led you astray.

As for you, Carthaugh, or Colorado, or whatever you may be calling yourself these days, the picture on the dust jacket of your book looks just like you. Also, I'm just off the phone with your former superior in Grand Junction, and it is my opinion and his as well, that you made a good career move when you did. Solid police work has no room for fantasy and Will O' the Wisp ideas. I don't care how many books you sell about anything you choose to write about, but Mister, you'd better take this warning to heart. If I catch you trying to manufacture a story out of the misfortunes of the people on my beat again, I'll see to it that you have a lot of solitude to do your writing. You read me Mr. Colorado? Now get out of here, all four of you. Don't come back."

Vince led the way out of the room. The others followed in stunned silence. No one spoke until they'd gotten back to where they'd left the car. It was easy to see that Vince was still close to boiling over.

"Now do you understand why I didn't want to come here and tell the truth? I shouldn't have even been in there with you, maybe he would have listened a while longer. We are just going to have to be realistic about this. No one, especially a cop, is going to take our story seriously. We're on our own, unless you want to enlist the aid of crazies, of course. There are thousands of them who'd just jump at the chance to go monster hunting. Then, if you did find it, three-quarters of them would start to worship the thing."

"That was just one officer, Vince. One guy who has probably had to face a big problem the last twenty-four hours and was blowing off steam. Maybe we should try the Denver Police, or how about the FBI? Don't they get involved in interstate crimes?"

"You don't learn very fast, do you Tim? Look, the three of you can tell anyone you like, but without me. I've had it. The only way that killing alien is going to be found, is if we do the finding. You take the car." He tossed the keys in Tim's direction. "I'm going back to the hotel."

They watched him walk off down the sidewalk to a taxi stand outside of the courthouse. Dorothy was torn between staying with Tim and Kim, or going after her husband. Only the idea that three people made a more impressive showing than two kept her with the younger couple. No doubt Vince was right, but they had to try.

The sound of the suite's door opening brought Vince's attention away from the map he had been studying. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand beside the bed. It was still early, not even five. The silence as the three of them came into the room told him everything he needed to know.

"So, they didn't buy the story either? Where else did you try?"

Dorothy spoke for all of them, her voice heavy with dejection and resentment, "Denver Police, Colorado State Patrol, Jefferson County Sheriff, and the FBI. Dawson had already called the first three, and we didn't even get five minutes before they cut us off. The guy at the FBI office listened for almost half an hour. I think he was trying to get better tapes of our voices and decent pictures on his video camera."

Vince didn't even bother gloating, "Are you ready to get back to work now?"

It would take a while to get back on track, and in fact the remainder of the day was pretty well shot. All of them, especially Vince, although he wouldn't admit it, deeply resented being sloughed off by the police agencies.

The next morning, after a big breakfast that Vince arranged from room service, things seemed at first to be a little better.

"I did a lot of thinking yesterday," Vince said, "and a lot of looking. Pay attention now, this might be important. This is a fresh copy of the map we've been using for the last few months. We all know this line between Crested Butte and Fairplay by heart. It's straight, no deviations. Always in the past, we've seen that when the creature moves it goes in a straight line. No side trips for sightseeing. Now, look at the projection of the line toward Englewood. It crosses Santa Fe Boulevard here, nearly ten miles south of the Ramirez killings."

Vince waited for a response, and when he got none, he prodded.

"Well, what do you think?"

Kim had a puzzled look on her face as she said, "I don't know what you're getting at, Vince. Obviously you have an idea. Why don't you let us in on it instead of playing guessing games?"

"Ooooh, touchy eh? How do you think I felt after getting put down by Dawson?"

She reddened noticeably, "I'm sorry it's just that we've put in so much time and effort into this and all we're doing is spinning our wheels. I'm getting tired of it all."

"We all feel that way Kim," Dorothy said, "I'd like nothing more than to take a month and go beachcombing as far away from Colorado as I could get. All we're doing is keeping up with where the Beastie has been. Fenster and your Dad, at least did better than that. They caught up with it. How about it, guys? Maybe we need a break." She paused a moment, "I know what you're going to say. How about all those people we could save? Well, we haven't saved anybody yet. In fact, we can't even convince anyone that people need saving."

Tim had been silent during the exchange, staring intently at the map.

"It's turning."

Vince nodded approvingly, "Yep, it's turning to the north."

Dorothy threw up her hands in exasperation, "So what if it's turning? Do you know how far, or where it will head next? No! You don't. Haven't you been listening to us? What are you going to do? Have the four of us spread out over twenty miles of metropolitan Denver in the hopes we'll see the thing wander past some night? Get serious, you two, all we can do is wait for something to happen that will give us direction. You know what that means as well as I, someone else has to die. Me, I don't want to be anywhere near when it happens."

Vince had a stricken look on his face.

"You mean just give up?"

It was Kim's turn to pick up the argument.

"No! Not give up, just take a break. Maybe we need a fresh perspective. Maybe we just need a little time away from the hunt. We're not thinking clearly anymore. At least, I'm not. We've been at it for months now, Vince. I want that thing dead more than you can imagine. It killed my father."

She turned towards Tim, who had just begun to listen.

"Tim, what do you say? I know we haven't talked about this, but it's been bothering me for weeks now."

Tim was busy trying to reach her on a more private level. He'd been taken by surprise by the outburst. Somehow, he'd missed realizing that Kim had been preoccupied, and it suddenly seemed to him that they were growing apart. That convinced him faster than any rational argument could.

"Maybe you are right, all we can do is wait, and we can do that anywhere."

The look of relief in Kim's eyes told him that he'd made the right choice. Vince was the most difficult to win over. He had a policeman's tenacity about unsolved crimes, and an ingrained dislike of just standing by to let yet another crime happen. Even so, he knew that what the other three had concluded made some sort of sense. Maybe they did need a break.

"OK, maybe we could use a little time off. How about we all go down the Baja for a while, and..."

"No!" Dorothy and Kim spoke in unison, and Dorothy continued.

"A break, means a break, Vince! We need to be on our own for a while and so do Kim and Tim. You know damn good and well that if take a vacation together Beastie will be on vacation with us. That's not the idea. The idea is to put some space between it and us for a while."

"OK, OK. But, at least let's set a time limit. Then we start again. Alright?"

"Fine," said Kim, "when?"

"How about a month?"

"Six would be better."

"Too long, if the thing is turning north it will be headed into densely populated areas. In thirty days it can cover thirty-nine miles."

"Two months?"

"That's seventy-eight miles. It will be way north, out in the country again."

"Two months."

Vince recognized the set in his wife's voice. It would be two months.

"Oh hell, alright. Tim?"

"Yeah, I guess so, but there is something we can do, even if we aren't here."

"What's that?"

"Hire someone to keep track of things. A news clipping service, and maybe somebody else to check up on police reports."

"Now, why the hell didn't I think of that?"

"Probably because you aren't a news person."
Chapter 26

The two months had slipped by almost unnoticed. Then three. Vince had started a new novel. It was going well, and Dorothy gave more than enough encouragement to keep him at it. Then she found the nearly perfectly matched pair of Palominos she'd been looking for ever since money had become less of a concern. Every spare moment of her time was spent in the newly built stable or adjoining exercise corral. In time, the mare was obviously pregnant, and Dorothy began to plan her long term breeding program. Her horses pushed any thought of resuming the hunt further into the background.

The news clippings still arrived on a regular basis. Once a week, like clockwork, there would appear clippings; sometimes just one, sometimes two or three. None of them seemed quite right, and neither Vince nor Dorothy could see the Beastie in any of them. The Lafayette slaying didn't make the papers in Denver because of extensive coverage given to a massive freeway pileup in Denver on that day. The deaths of twelve urban motorists far outweighed the death of one in the suburbs.

Tim and Kim, back in Blanding, found that Mandy Haines had not only maintained the paper, but had made it into a much better publication. An additional bright point was that she was a natural salesperson. Ad revenues had skyrocketed. She had managed to promote herself into a corner. Only by putting in eighteen-hour days had she managed to cope, and the ever increasing demands of the paper were threatening to swamp her at that. It required most of the first two months back on the job for Tim and Kim to catch up with the changes and elevated demands of the publication.

Almost immediately, they made the Blanding Banner into a semiweekly, adding a Sunday edition. The workload increased exponentially. Also, the growing number of tourists coming into the area for scenic canyon-land excursions loved the tour guide supplements Mandy had instituted. Soon, a sideline grew out of the basic newspaper publishing business, and the Haines-Michaelson Four Corners Guidebooks ballooned into lavishly illustrated and extremely popular publications. Requests from both coasts elevated the photogravures into instant collectors' items.

The monster hovered just beneath the surface, and the Michaelsons knew they had a job to finish, but the Carthaughs weren't pushing and there didn't seem to be any obvious pattern developing around Denver. Somehow, time just kept on slipping by.

The phone call on a warm and sunny May day came as a shock to both of them. Vince didn't waste any times on pleasantries.

"I'm faxing down a clipping. You both need to read it, and then call me back. I think we need to meet."

Denver-Boulder Herald

Hidden Terror in the Metropolis

By Sue Hill

Is there a night-stalker amongst us? Sometimes, in a populace of two million spread out over more than one hundred twenty miles, from Colorado Springs to Fort Collins, it is difficult to discern patterns. It is not as if a maniac went on a killing spree lasting a few days a few weeks, or even a few months. It is not as if one particular city had been singled out by the madman.

The reign of quiet terror has been going on for at least eighteen months. Usually, they are very private tragedies. A family ceases to exist, wiped out in one night, no screams to mark their passage. Only, days later a concerned relative calls or a neighbor stops to chat, and the crime is discovered. A young mother is brutally slain in her home and the killing is discovered by her husband, coming home from his night shift. A sitter hardly more than a child herself, is horribly murdered, leaving a gristly scene for a couple returning from a night on the town.

In what seems to be trademark fashion, all of these horrors have at least one thing in common. A survivor. Usually just one, but in the case of a Commerce City family, twins were left living. Mrs. Marylin Toon, former neighbor of one murdered family, summed up the scene she found.

'There she was, just huddled in a corner of the closet. She must have seen the Mom and Dad lying there in the kitchen in that pool of blood. It was a sight that will give me nightmares for the rest of my life. I knew them for years, but I couldn't even recognize them, all torn up like that. I was sick, right then and there.

The little girl, she isn't even seven yet, must have seen them. She was in a state, let me tell you. She didn't even seem to know me. I held her until the paramedics and police came. I guess maybe she did recognize me a little. She wouldn't let the paramedics look at the hole in her side, they had to stand there and tell me how to clean it up and put a bandage on it. Then I held her all the way to the hospital.'

In what has to be one of the biggest failures of police cooperation on record, the link between the deaths of twenty-nine persons and the injuries to thirteen young survivors has gone virtually unnoticed. In these times of highly touted law enforcement networks and sophisticated crime watch systems this killing spree has somehow escaped being brought to the light of day, except on a case by case basis, by local police and sheriff's officers.

I asked Captain Frederick Meyers about the failure of law enforcement in this case. What he told me would make any bureaucrat proud.

'Assuming your idea is correct, and assuming there is, in fact, a spatial-temporal relationship between these incidents, it is likely that the presumed failure of the system to correlate the data arises from the apparently peculiar spacing of the incidents with regard to location and time. I can assure you that these particular incidents are on record and that every effort will be made to bring the perpetrator to justice.'

I spoke later with a data processing supervisor in one of the metro police agencies, who has asked to remain unidentified.

'It's quite simple, really. The program was written with a thirty-day correlation window. That means unless two similar things happen within thirty days the case goes to library file. Why? Well, do you have any idea of how many crimes are reported in thirty days around here? We don't have a super computer, and the people who do won't automatically punch out a correlation matrix. You have to recognize that Crime A and Crime B are related somehow and then you can ask them to look for similarities based upon the MO.

Yes, I can see that these crimes took place less than thirty days apart, but look at the places. This one in Commerce City and this one in Lafayette, for example. Different agencies. We get external reports on the tenth of each month, so let's say that Commerce City came in on the first of the month and Lafayette came in on the fifteenth. Commerce City would go to library files while Lafayette would remain active for another twenty-five days. Once something goes to library you have to make a special request to bring it back into a correlation search. You have to say, search current and recall such and such from the library. Now, computer time isn't cheap, and when you call up library records for a search, you're talking big bucks, and, as you must know, there are severe budget restrictions. There's a requirement that you have to have a good reason to make a library search, signed off by top brass. I guess nobody had a good enough reason. Kind of looks like somebody should have come up with one though, doesn't it?'

That seems to be the upshot of it all. We live in an age of the ultimate Idiot Savant. It takes, sorts, and correlates information to perfection, but some one person has to be close enough to the overall picture to recognize that the right buttons need pushing. In the case of thirteen wounded youngsters, nobody has even put the big pieces of the puzzle together let alone searched for the details that might uncover a mass murderer.

Next Week: The Children and the Sinister Nature of Their Injuries

As Tim read the newspaper article, something from the still-darkened past crept into the light. His hand moved to his side and he remembered the night a ten-year-old boy stumbled down a country road holding a hand over the painful wound in his side. Kim shared the vision, and neither was sure who had the thought first.

"The bastard is laying eggs!"

The call caught Vince in the midst of composing a critical sentence, and Dorothy was out with the horses. He tried to ignore the jangling noise long enough to find the one, right word, but it wouldn't come.

"Damn! Yeah, hello."

"Vince, hi, this is Tim. Kim is on the extension. Listen, about the newspaper article, when was it published and when does the second part come out? There's no date on the copy you faxed."

"Hi Tim, Kim. We're fine, thank you, and how are you two today?"

"Wha...? Oh, sorry Vince, I got carried away, but it's important."

"Sure it is. Twenty-nine more people are dead, but we knew it was going to happen. Didn't we? Hold on a minute, and let me get Dorothy on the line. She's out in the stable."

The wait seemed interminable, but finally Vince picked up the phone again.

"OK, all set here. Now what is the big news?"

"Vince, Dorothy, as bad as the deaths are, there's something that outweighs them. The monster is making babies. At least thirteen of them that we know about and maybe more that we can't yet identify."

Another long silence was finally broken by Dorothy's voice.

"Hi Tim and Kim, what do you mean?"

"Hi Dorothy, exactly what I said, the monster is laying eggs or whatever the hell it does. All those injured kids that this Sue Hill wrote about. They are all carrying little Beasties around with them now."

"How do you know?"

"I remembered something. After all, it happened to me. How do you think that monster number two got inside of me?"

Vince spoke next, "You know, I always wanted to ask about that but it seemed, I don't know, indecent or something. Since you brought it up, how did it happen?"

"That is what I remembered. When I was in the cave, it came toward me. It was dark in there, only the moonlight was shining through the entrance. It had my mind, but I remember something long, black, and shining in the moonlight. It was like a needle at the end, real sharp looking. It got very close, and then I passed out. When I woke again, the thing was gone and the sky outside was blue. My side hurt, and when I looked I saw a round hole there. Somewhere along the trip to Winslow, I forgot all that, but I was treated at the clinic there. They told me that when they were trying to rebuild my memory. I bet anything that if you check the old records and compare my diagnosis with those of the thirteen kids now, they would match exactly."

"That might be Tim, but we will never know."

"Huh? Why not?"

"That clinic was one of the first things I checked out after hearing your story for the first time. Oh, you've got a file there alright, but just the bare minimum of detail. To save space, all non-resident treatment records are abbreviated and original files are trashed after ten years. All it said was 'puncture trauma to left side', nothing else."

"Well, doesn't that tell you enough?"

"I don't know Tim, remember I used to get paid to be skeptical. Let's wait and see what else this Sue Hill has to write about. Her piece is due out today, and I can pick up a copy down at a store that sells East Slope papers. You two just hang tight, and I'll fax it to you even before we read it ourselves."

Denver-Boulder Herald

The Children and the Sinister Nature of Their Injuries

By Sue Hill

Picture a child secure in its bed after a long day of school and play. In moments, his world will be shattered; destroyed beyond repair. The people he loves will lie dead in horrible fashion, but even then his horror is not at an end, for the killer seeks him out.

A fantasy, you ask? A child's nightmare? No, it is the truth and it is happening now. Perhaps tonight the toll will mount. Last week we looked at what the authorities are doing about this series of tragedies. The answer, unfortunately, was nothing.

No honest reporter wishes to be the one to yell 'Fire!' in a crowded building.

The time has come, however, to warn the populace of the danger in our midst. I am grateful for the support shown by the publisher and owners of this paper and for their permission to publish this series of articles. They too, realize that official inaction will result in more needless slaughter. I am also happy to see that my colleagues in other media have picked up the story and are doing their part to keep you well informed. Now, to the story itself.

There are, as of today, thirteen children we know of, and perhaps more that we don't, who have suffered a similar fate. The killer or killers, have an unerring ability to pick households where such youngsters live. It seems almost as if they, rather than those who died were the actual objectives of the heinous crimes. None of them, understandably, were identified by local authorities. We only know where they lived at the time of the attacks. The killer is not a homebody, and began his rampage nearly two years ago in Fairplay. Then Englewood, Commerce City, Lafayette, and the small farming community of Frederick. Then he stopped for a while, only to begin again in Plattville. Again, an hiatus before Greely became the site for three separate attacks. Then the killer moved north again to Easton and to Ault. The final two assaults were at isolated farmhouses lying along US 85 north of Ault.

Have you pulled out your road map and followed along? Then you know the killer is moving north. Perhaps even now he is in Wyoming. Why then, you ask, should we be particularly concerned? Because of the children. Each of them terrorized beyond the level most adults could retain reason. Each of them ritualistically marked by a sick mind and a sharp, pointed weapon. Too big to be an ice pick, but round like one, it has been used to stab each child in the side.

What sort of person would inflict such wounds time and time again? Precise, non-fatal injuries serving no purpose except to mark the child of the victim family. Although it is understandable that the police wish to withhold details of the murders and associated injuries for purposes of confirming the identity of the killer once apprehended, this reporter has it on good authority that given the complex nature of the killing injuries it is remarkable that virtually no physical evidence has been left behind, and even the general description of a person or persons of interest does not now exist. No hairs left behind, no shoeprints in blood, no sign of sexual activity, not so much as an unidentified fingerprint.

Emily F., a highly experienced profiler working for an unidentified federal agency, expresses extreme frustration at her inability to build a believable picture of the perpetrator. Is it a religious fanatic with a crucifixion fantasy who marks each child as a parody of Jesus? Is it an impotent sex-addict wannabee who substitutes a sharpened metal spike for the real thing? Who can delve the depths of insanity without even the smallest of clues to go on?

Why should we be concerned? For the children, of course; those already marked, and those still in the path of the killer.

Next Week: The Official Line—Professionals Offer Insights into the Character of the Killer

"The girl certainly knows how to beat a drum. I'd hate to be anyone even suspected of paying too much attention to someone else's children if I lived within a hundred miles of Denver. We need to talk to her, Vince. She has information we need, and she is the person we need to help us track it down."

"Yeah, you're right. Dorothy and I will leave for Denver tomorrow. You two want to come along?"

"Of course, how could you have any doubt?"

"I didn't, just being civil."

"Sorry, again, you have no idea how I feel, Vince. I'm not giving up this time, and Kim feels the same way."

There was an uncomfortable pause in the exchange, until Tim spoke again.

"You must have plotted the locations on a map, right?"

"Sure did. It's pretty obvious that the creature isn't moving in a straight line anymore. It knows exactly where to go, and it goes there. It'll make it hard to predict where and when to look for the next attack."

"That's what I was afraid of. Shall we meet you in Denver, Vince?"

"That would probably be best. We will need two vehicles. How about joining up at the Denver Palace day after tomorrow? I'll make reservations."

"OK, Vince. See you then."

Tim hung up, wondering at the distance he felt growing between himself and the older man. He thought that it must have to do with their abandonment of the hunt last time, when it was clear that Vince had wanted to continue. He'd have to reconcile with Vince. It was no time for problems between them.
Chapter 27

Tzetzlan paused for several weeks. It lay in the middle of a highway culvert. Loosely piled soil on either side of a shallow depression it had dug effectively blocked what little sunlight made it in that far. Still, it was not a comfortable place to spend time, and it would soon need to move. The next host was back in place after a long absence.

The combined pressure upon Tzetzlan's mind from the many, many young new offspring had already begun to naturally suppress the urge to reproduce. Only the distance between offspring made it possible to continue seeking more hosts. Soon though, and it would no longer be possible to produce another one. That knowledge did not disturb Tzetzlan. Its duty would then be done, and it could begin the revenge for the death of the first offspring. Now, just a burning ember of hate remained from the death of that one, and at times it was difficult to recall why so many new offspring were desirable. No matter, there were prey enough to feed them all for many, many turns of seasons.

Tzetzlan felt the tingling sensation recede as the last of the sunlight was blocked by mountains to the west. It was nearly time to move again. The journey had taken much longer than Tzetzlan had imagined. Always, on the way north, it had seemed that as soon as one host had been found and utilized, another one was sensed some distance farther on. Now, nothing more came to mind from that direction. There were a few scattered prey, of course, but none suitable for hosts. The great mass of prey now lay behind, and it was time to reverse direction and head south. Not on the same route, but on another path closer to the mountains. The next host, the one that had been gone for a time, was less than a night's travel away.

Fading light gave way to a moonless night, and Tzetzlan left the culvert behind. Headlights illuminated the ground briefly as sparse traffic from points north swept over the sloping terrain. That light did not particularly bother Tzetzlan, but the speed with which the moving boxes carried the prey was disturbing. It was good that the prey did not always move so rapidly, as hunting would be very difficult then.

Since the series had begun, Sue Hill had gotten her share for nut cases, everything from an itinerant healy-feely claiming the power to search out the killer with her quartz crystal to one raving maniac who claimed to be the killer. Mostly, the calls were from frantic parents asking advice or seeking assurance that their child was not on the killer's list. She'd lasted only two days fielding calls herself. The depth of fear she had aroused by her writing astounded Sue. She had begged for help, and was grudgingly assigned one operator to screen the calls. With one ore part of the series yet to be published, the outcry was still increasing. Sue was sure she had made more than one enemy in law enforcement. They had taken the brunt of the criticism, and Sue honestly felt it was deserved. She had let off the pressure in the last segment, focusing on the killer instead of the failure of police agencies.

The interview with the criminal psychologist had been particularly unrewarding. Not only had the doctor been unable to pin down a psychological profile, she had been obviously baffled. Nothing quite like it had ever happened before, and therefore no case histories were available to use as guidelines. Emily Fahrnhausen hadn't been short of possibilities though. She'd presented far too many of them, but wouldn't be pinned down to a most likely one or two.

Sue looked over the page-long list once more, trying to pick out something to emphasize. Would it be the religious nut with the Christ-fixation, the orphan abused in childhood, the Satanist calling up the master with ritual sacrifice, or perhaps the repressed and impotent child molester? None of them seemed quite right. Maybe she should make up her own profile; it probably wouldn't be any less valid than the good Doctor's version. She was becoming involved in building this mental picture of the killer when the phone on her desk rang for the first time that day. Startled, she picked up the handset without thinking.

"Sue, sorry to bother you, but I've got one on the line that you are going to have to handle yourself. They've been calling, one after the other, since yesterday afternoon and I just don't know how to deal with it."

Sue was uncertain, too, even without knowing what Helen was talking about. Anybody that could fluster Helen was sure to be more than a match for her.

"Who is it Helen, and what does he or she want?"

"It's a he this time. The one that calls himself Vince Carthaugh. Before that, it was a Dorothy, who claimed to be Vince's wife, Kim who is Dorothy's friend, Tim who is Kim's husband and Vince's friend, and so on and so forth. What they want, is to talk to you, but none of them will give details. They just claim to know something important about your story. You will have to talk to him, or at least tell me what to say."

"All right, Helen. Calm down. I'll talk to him. Put him through."

In the seconds before the connection was made, Sue had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she had finally stepped off the edge into a void.

"Ms Hill?"

"Sorry? I mean, to whom am I speaking, please."

"My name is Vince Carthaugh. You may recognize another name I use, Jake Colorado."

"The author? Certainly, I recognize the name, but I have only your spoken assurance that you are Jake Colorado."

"True enough, but I am obviously trying to establish credibility with you, Ms Hill, and that is difficult to do over the telephone, when any statement I make might be fairly disputed. I have arranged for you to make contact with my publisher. He is Arthur Dillard of Zypher Books, and that much is a matter of public record. You can obtain the corporate number though directory assistance in New York or off the Web. He will give you my unlisted number. I'll be waiting for your call, should you be curious enough to make it. Have a pleasant day, Miss Hill."

The abruptly broken connection emphasized the sincerity of the caller. He left no option but for her to go through his publicist to get back in touch. In the end, her curiosity overcame the strange hair-raising fear that was crawling up the back of her neck.

She made the call to New York.

They met in a large, well known restaurant at an early dinner hour. The arrangements were clearly for her benefit, to assuage any remaining uncertainty or fear. During the brief wait for their table, she gained a first impression of her hosts. Dorothy stood out against the others like a beacon. A tall, strikingly beautiful blond, and even middle age had not detracted from her looks, poise, and bearing. She belonged in the editorial board room of a high fashion magazine, not in the company of the rough looking character who was married to her. The other woman, Kim, was a mousy sort of a girl. Fairly attractive, but being noticed was obviously not a major concern for her. She dressed in poorly tailored department store clothes and wore minimal makeup. She kept very close to her husband. Sue would have bet anything that Kim was a very difficult person to get to know or to like. A very private sort, but she was ideally matched to her husband, Tim. Kim and Tim, cute. He was also an understated sort. Pleasant and quiet, you could easily overlook his presence, until you caught his eyes examining you. Not your body, you would expect that, your head. It was as if he could see into it. All in all, both Kim and Tim gave her the creeps.

Vince was as spectacular as his wife, but in the opposite direction. She was quite sure that no one had ever accused him of being a fashion plate. He reminded her of a friendly bear, no that wasn't right. Like a chimpanzee! Huge brown eyes in an overly-hairy head, and hands that reached low enough to scratch his knee caps without bending. Instinctively she liked him, and felt comfortable with Dorothy. The other two, well they weren't her kind of people.

The dinner went pleasantly enough. The reasons for the meeting weren't even brought up, although she sensed impatience from Tim. The Carthaughs wouldn't permit the smallest intrusion of a serious topic, with Vince's writing and Dorothy's Palominos holding sway. She found herself enjoying the anecdotes, her concerns dispelled. Even the overbearing pressure of the last few weeks lifted for a while. She surprised even herself by telling stories of her own college life, when things were a good deal less complicated. At the end, it was Vince who reluctantly brought the evening to its point.

"Sue, I hate to do it. It's been a great evening so far, despite our sourpusses there, but we had a reason for wanting to meet you. If you feel comfortable with us now, maybe we should talk about it."

"Fine with me, Vince, I don't have a problem with that, but do we have to sit here at the table? Frankly, my ass is getting sore, the food was great, but the chairs need padding."

That cracked Vince and Dorothy up, and even the Michaelson Twins, as she'd come to think of them, showed signs of smiling. Dorothy was the first to recover.

"Sue, you are a girl after my own 'heart', I vote we adjourn to a well-padded booth in the lounge. All in favor? The ayes have it in a landslide."

The telling took a while, but they were getting used to it. Sue maintained a non-committal attitude through most of it, but showed obvious signs of distress at the descriptions of the operating room massacre and of Hal's death. They left off the telling at the point where they had learned of the Englewood killings.

"An incredible story, and I'm not sure that I don't mean that literally. Why should I believe you?"

"We understand your feelings," Vince began, "it's not as if each of us hasn't gone through a period of disbelief or uncertainty, except for Tim, and I think even he would tell you that he had trouble believing things at the start. We can give you documentation of what we've done, what Murray Fenster did and thought, what Hal Burton put together, what Ralph Britton saw, and everything we've accumulated over the years. When it comes right down to it, it will be your own personal decision. Do you trust us enough to believe us, or don't you? We've spent all evening letting you get to know us and we probably can't do more than that. Just remember Sue, what you decide may have an influence upon how much longer the creature remains unchecked."

"All right then, you people know all of this, why do you need me?"

Because you have access to information sources we don't have. Because you are in a position to feed us the kind of information that will enable us to finally get ahead of the thing and stop it."

"You still haven't told me the whole story, have you? You left off in Englewood and went home. Now, you are back of the trail. Why? What has changed to bring you back into the hunt, as you put it?"

Vince beamed. "See, I told you she'd be a clever girl."

Only Dorothy smiled back at him. The Michaelson Twins stared at her in strong silence.

"If you think the story so far has been hard to swallow, the next part will really test your credulity. I call it the 'Thing', Dorothy calls it the 'Beastie', Kim never refers to it directly, and Tim calls it 'monster'. By whatever name you put to it, it's doing what comes naturally. It's reproducing."

"What!"

"If you think it's bad having one of them running loose, just wait about ten years and there will be another thirteen or fourteen of them feeding off the populace."

"You mean the children."

Sue knew then where that chill down her spine came from, because it was back, big time.

"That's right, Sue. If we are right, those kids are in exactly the same position that Tim was in when he was ten years old. If we are right, each of them is hosting a tiny creature that will grow into a big problem someday. Tim was lucky, they cut it out of him and he survived. What happens if the creature comes to term without surgical intervention? You want my guess, it'll be like wasp eggs in a caterpillar, they'll feed off the host until he or she is dead and then they'll pop out ready to go on a killing spree of their own."

The imagery was clearly more than Sue had been prepared for; she turned pale and swallowed back a sudden upwelling of bile.

"Jesus."

The table was quiet for a long moment. They all understood that Sue had an important decision to make. The time for selling the idea was past. Finally, Sue gave her body a visible shake.

"I need to think about all of this. You say you have some documentation?"

"Yes, it's out in the car. It's one of a kind stuff. We've got copies, but we'd like you to look at the originals. Please don't lose it Sue, It's irreplaceable. The very fact that we are willing to leave it in your keeping ought to tell you something."

"It does, Vince, and I promise to return it intact no matter what conclusion I may reach. How long may I keep it?"

"As long as you need it, of course. Just remember that the longer we wait, the more the damage that can be done. We'll go back west tomorrow and stay out of your hair until you reach a decision. It won't be easy, but we will try."

Sue was about to say goodnight and thanks, when a peculiar notion crept into her mind. Something was stalking her. She slumped a bit lower in the booth trying to hide but it was no use, the hunter knew exactly where she was. Ill ease became concern, which gave way to alarm, and alarm escalated into fear. She could feel tiny droplets form on her forehead as the fear grew into unreasoning panic. She wanted to flee, to find a stout wall to hide behind. Adrenalin pumping, her eyes moved rapidly, seeking her tormentor and trying to find sanctuary at one and the same time. She didn't notice the puzzled stares of the Carthaughs nor the blank gazes of the Michaelsons. The awful pressure relented, to be replaced by a quiet voice within her head.

"That's what it's like. The monster feeds from your fear. That's what the children will live with if you don't put an end to it."

Not knowing why, she looked into Tim Michaelson's eyes, and knew it for the truth.

Shakily, she rose to her feet and began her goodbyes. Vince and Dorothy walked out with her to get the box of records while Tim and Kim stayed at the table. Neither of them had offered her their handshake. She had been very glad for that. Still felling violated, she stayed between the Carthaughs as if they could offer protection.

The next day she took the box to the office, to have it near at hand so that she could look it over during the occasional spare moment. That notion lasted for less than an hour. The first time she left to get a cup of coffee, she returned to see Willie Chase with his nose buried in the box.

"What the Hell do you think you are doing, Willie?"

"Seeing what you got here Sue, my girl. I am your boss."

"You'll have to restrain your curiosity. That's private property, and none of your business."

"Look here Sue, you went right past me with that mass murder story. I didn't appreciate that, and like I said, I am your boss. I have a right to know what you are working on. I'm supposed to approve your stories before they get sent to the editor."

"Willie, if you don't like the way I work, you ought to fire me. Of course, I imagine Mrs. Bloomfield might have something to say about that, but maybe you've got the balls to make it stick. Do your worst, Willie my boy, I don't really care. Just keep your clammy hands off of my personal property."

She grabbed up the box and marched directly for the Editor-in-Chief's office. Mrs. Bloomfield didn't have any difficulty understanding Sue's complaint. Willie Chase was tolerated, but just barely, because he knew how to make a story work. The first read-through of Sue's story had told her that, in this case anyway, Willie was superfluous.

"Sue, why don't you finish up writing the series at home? Tell Helen to forward any important calls on to your home phone. I'll have a word with Mr. Chase while you are gone. It is possible that he might be interested in transferring to the Social Scene Department for a while. Their stories need a little livening up. I'm sure that he will enjoy working for Vivian, don't you?"

Sue grinned all the way home. Vivian Majors was the stuffiest, most self-centered, cultural elitist she had ever met. The idea that she would have control of an uncouth lout would bring out the absolute worst in her. If Willie made it through the rest of the week without turning in his resignation, it would be a miracle.

She stayed up until dawn the first night and after a brief nap and a shower, kept at it through the second day. Half way into the material, mental exhaustion and eye strain forced a halt. A solid night's sleep would solve most of her problems, except the biggest. Did she believe in monsters? She found that she desperately wanted to answer no, but she had a gnawing in the subconscious that seemed to be saying, "Oh yes, you do."

Early the next morning, after a restless night, she reached into the half-emptied box and pulled out a small, brown clasp envelope. The neatly hand printed legend in the upper left corner simply said 'Photo of subject, ventral view, Temporary Morgue, Montrose, Colorado'.

She didn't like the sound of that, as chances were good that the picture was of a dead body. That thought made her feel a little queasy. Vince hadn't mentioned a picture of a dead body. Maybe it was in the box by error. Perhaps there was more of an explanation inside the envelope. Her fingers trembled as she worked the clasp. Ridiculous, it was only a photo, no matter how disgusting it might be, she'd seen pictures of dead bodies before. Lured into a false sense of bravado by that thought she pulled out the glossy print, and nearly screamed. The image on the photo seemed to leap out at her. It was a sharp image, and very clear, taken under well-lighted conditions. One could not say that poor quality had led to a distorted image. Every detail in focus, the monster was there in living color.

No, dead color. Black, ebony, toneless, and only highlights gave a sense of relief to the features. She regained control of her reactions, so this was the monster. She looked at the picture for a long time, tracing outlines, searching for different textures; trying to see an absurdity that would quickly put an end to the whole business. It wasn't so easy; the descriptions from Vince, Tim and Kim matched the picture in every detail. Even the death wound that Hal Burton had inflicted was plainly evident. All in all, it was a most convincing piece of evidence. She wondered why Vince hadn't made a point of telling her about it. Then it came to her that the shock value of her unexpected find had done exactly what was intended. She was nearly a believer. Nearly? No, it was beyond that, if she had been manipulated into believing a fraud, it had been done expertly and with precision.

Nearly all the remaining contents of the box seemed to be documents pertaining to their long search in the field. How it was done, why, where, even the aerial photos with small neat circles over the targets they had told her of were included. Why was all of this in here? If she understood correctly, it had been a bad idea, time consuming and with little chance of success. The verbal description of the effort would have been sufficient, so why all the backup? Surely they didn't expect her to look at each little circle?

She pulled out the last folder of aerial photos, and found beneath it a tattered looking, clothbound book of some sort. There were brown stains on the cover and edges of the pages. She opened to the first page and read 'Property of Murray Fenster'.

"Oh!" She whispered, something else she hadn't been told about. She'd wondered how they had known so many intimate details of the late Mr. Fenster's search for his story of stories, now she knew. The brown spots? He must have spoiled coffee or something. Reading Murray Fenster's tight script was a challenge. Her eyestrain was back before she made it past a couple of pages. Another night, more restless than the last, passed before she sat down to resume reading. By Friday noon, she'd finished, forcing herself through the last twenty pages. She saw that there were a number of blank pages after the last with writing, and wondered why he hadn't filled the entire book, he certainly seemed to have had a lot to say.

Putting aside the question, she read the last, unusually short note.

'Camp again tonight. Giant bat probably just a little ways behind.

Have to be ready for tomorrow night. Time to get some sleep.

This camping is for ecofreaks and birds.'

She looked again at the last fifteen or so blank pages at the end; not even a doodle. Why had he stopped there? Then it dawned on her. Those weren't coffee stains, and she had just read Murray Fenster's last words. It might be irreverent of her, but she could hardly help but think that the man hadn't been exactly a literary giant.

She took the rest of the day off. Trying to regain some sort of equanimity with the world. Up until now, the world had had its share of murderers and madmen but no real monsters. Now, that had changed, and she already knew that she would have to get back in touch with Vince and the other three. She was still uncertain of what they wanted of her, but she had to do something to help stop the thing.

Early on a Saturday morning the phone brought Dorothy out of her deep sleep. She started to reach for it, but Vince rolled on top of her, pinning her to the mattress.

"It's probably Tim again, Lover. He's been calling every day since we left Denver. What say we just sort of ignore it...hmmm?"

"Vince! Cut that out, you know I can't answer the phone when you do that."

"That's the idea."

"What if it's important?"

"Nothing's more important than this. Or, this. Maybe even this."

She began to wish the phone would shut up, but it just kept on screaming. Finally, even Vince realized that whoever it was, wasn't about to give up.

"Hello?"

"Vince, Sue Hill, I won't beat around the bush¸ I think I believe you."

The pause on the other end made Sue wonder if the connection had gone astray, or maybe it wasn't Vince at all.

"Sorry about the delay, Sue, I was just getting into, ah, a more comfortable position."

The background noises didn't quite blur out the distant voice that could be Dorothy, "Bastard, I told you to unplug the thing." Sue grinned.

"I hope that I didn't catch you at an inopportune moment, Vince."

"Oh no, we were just relaxing out on the veranda. Ouch! Like I said, no problem. What were you saying?"

"I said, I think I believe you."

"You think? What's keeping you from being sure?"

"You are asking a lot, you know. Alien monsters that no one except you four have seen or believe in. Details that could be explained in less complicated ways. I don't have your intimate involvement in the early part of this business. Remember, I'm a late comer. I need convincing."

"How about the picture?"

"Could have been faked."

"How about Fenster's journal, and his death?"

"Might be the ravings of a madman and coincidence, or suicide."

"Come on Sue, with those injuries? You've seen the police report."

"All right, suicide is hard to figure. By the way, I've asked about you at a couple of the local cop shops. They don't have a very high opinion of you, Vince."

"No surprise there. They don't believe in monsters, either. If I recall, your first column didn't place a lot of faith in the deductive reasoning powers of the constabulary."

"OK, we are not getting anywhere. How are you going to prove it, Vince? What are you going to tell me to convince me?"

"Sue, that's a toughie, by now you know damn near everything I do. Tim is the only one who knows more, and he can't remember most of it."

Sue suppressed a shudder at the mention of Tim's name. He and his wife still gave her the chills.

"Look Vince, I feel like I want to believe you, but I need something to finish it. There has to be a clincher."

"There is, Sue, but I don't know how to get to it." Sue waited for him to continue. "It's the kids."

"The kids? None of them remembered what happened to them. How are they going to help?"

"If we are right about why they were attacked, each one of them is carrying an alien seed. Maybe it's an egg, or an embryo, or a larvae, we have no way of knowing just what it is. We have to get one or more of those kids examined, even if it means surgery."

"Sure Vince, how in the Hell are we going to do that? Excuse me Ma'am, but your kid is pregnant with a baby alien monster, we need to have him cut open? You think that's going to get us anywhere except a mental institution?"

"Sue, you wanted proof. That's the surest way to get it. There are two other choices. One, we wait eight or nine years until the gestation period is over and thirteen little monsters pop out into the world, or two, we go after Mama Monster."

Sue was silent for a while. She hadn't known what to expect, but certainly not having the whole thing tossed back in her lap.

"What do you mean 'we', white eyes? I haven't signed up yet."

"Yes you have, Sue, you wouldn't be talking to me right now if you weren't committed. You would have sent the box back with a note saying 'Don't call me, I'll call you', right?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Well then, of the three choices you gave me, only the last one has any real hope of immediate success. But, that is exactly what you have been doing for years now. What can I do that will make it work that you haven't done?"

"Sue, I told Dorothy that you were a smart girl. She didn't want to believe me, of course. Ouch! Something about you being too attractive to have any brains. Cut that out! Anyway, what you can do is use all of the information sources you have, and we don't to track the thing. In the past, when we got news of something that might relate to the alien, it was too late to do any good. We were always one step behind, following a trail. We need to get ahead of it and run it to ground.

Sue sighed, "One more question, Vince. How am I going to explain all of this to my boss?"
Chapter 28

Tzetzlan approached the darkened building. It was surrounded by a stone wall with a locked wrought iron gate. That was no problem, Tzetzlan was built for climbing. The problem it didn't know about was that the grounds were guarded by two Dobermans. Tzetzlan had been so focused upon the prey-host it hadn't noticed their presence until they had caught the strange scent and came over to investigate. Tzetzlan send out tendrils to investigate the animals' minds, searching for ways to control their bodies, but met impenetrable walls of suspicion and hate. Worse, the touch of the tendrils made the animals even more nervous, and the growls intensified, alternating with whimpers of blood lust. The animals were killers far beyond anything Tzetzlan had encountered on this world before. Only one thing could be done, and slowly, while the sounds of animal rage increased from the other side, it climbed the wall to eventually stand upright on its broad crest.

It was not high enough to launch into a glide that would cover any distance, and Tzetzlan searched for a way to gain additional elevation. A tall popular stood just inside the wall a short distance down from its present position, and Tzetzlan made its way in that direction. The dogs followed, now nearly beyond their ability to keep silent and were leaping in wild attempts to reach the top of the wall. One of them, jumping higher than usual, snapped at the air just behind Tzetzlan's foot, not even the width of a talon off the mark. Finally, coming even with the tall tree Tzetzlan started to climb using talons fore and aft to dig into the smooth bark. It was slow going, from limb to limb ever higher until the trunk became too small to support its weight. The animals looked much smaller by then, and when a strengthening breeze came ahead of a cold front, Tzetzlan launched into the air momentarily rising back over the wall in the wrong direction. Then, gaining control, Tzetzlan began a long swooping glide, spiraling down over the wall again, and then over the manicured lawn beyond.

Folding its wings, it fell towards the waiting dogs, and then at the last moment spread arms wide to catch air and pull out of the dive, simultaneously stretching out talons on the right side. They caught the throat of the female Doberman and ripped it open, but at that instant the second dog leapt across its mortally wounded partner and its jaws snapped shut on wing membrane. Tzetzlan was pulled sideways, crashing to the ground. It shook its right arm vigorously seeking to dislodge the animal, but the dog would not release its grip. It could smell the scent of copper on the air, and sensed the death of its mate. What little reason remained in the animal's mind departed then, and it shook its head violently attempting to tear the intruder apart. Carless of its own life, it sought to kill.

Tzetzlan, unable to regain its feet while being shaken by the animal, struck out with its feet, and more by luck than skill one of the dog's legs fell into its grip. Control shifted in the silent battle, as the dog could not move against powerful muscles. Thrashing out with the other foot, razor sharp talons found the dog's soft underside, and biting deeply cut through skin and intestines. Tzetzlan thrust out a second time, now finding the rib cage, and the sound of breaking of bone and cartilage was the loudest sound in the night. Still, the dog held tight its grip, and with a final vicious shake of its head shredded a small part of the leathery wing, then fell motionless to the ground. It lay there in a pool of its own blood, eyes locked in death at the hated thing lying beside it.

Tzetzlan tore loose the few last strands of wing membrane still caught in the animal's jaws. Pain was not a hindrance for Tzetzlan, but it recognized the severity of the damage to its wing. It would not fly again, the tear extended entirely through the membrane, leaving the wing flapping in two disconnected and useless pieces. It would live with the new, flightless condition because there was no choice, and it turned away from the animals beginning a slow shuffle towards the house.The older prey and the young host awaited it there.

Those in the house knew nothing of the intruder's presence. Judy and Howard lay, still entwined, after waking in the early morning to indulge in a third lovemaking. The knowledge that the only other adult normally sleeping in the house was away until the next day lent an extra urgency to getting in as much noisy sex as possible that night. Neither of them awoke as the bedroom door, left ajar to let them listen for noises from their son's bedroom, opened fully to reveal a hunch-shouldered silhouette.

Tzetzlan merged with their minds, and led their dreams of gratification into new and darker directions. Howard stiffened, bringing a groan from Judy. They struggled to awake, to take advantage of Howard's remarkable endurance, but wakefulness would not come. They seemed to be locked together in a shared dream; an erotic dream with a watching presence. Embarrassment might have brought them awake, but instead the tempo increased. It was becoming difficult to breathe, and the exertion seemed to go on forever, but no climax approached. Howard tried to force open his eyes, but they seemed glued shut. There was a constriction at his throat, and he couldn't get enough air. He heard wheezing gasps from Judy beneath him. Brains hungering for oxygen fought bodies intent upon intercourse, and reserves of oxygen in their blood streams approached dangerously low levels, but still their bodies pumped against one another.

Tzetzlan, sensing that an ending was near, climbed atop the heaving bed. Holding tightly to Howard's thighs, it continued to drive the couple mercilessly until their minds recognized the inevitability of death, and panic arose. They might have freed themselves from Tzetzlan's control when finally, but belatedly, their bodies acknowledged that self-preservation was at stake, but Tzetzlan was expert at judging such things. Its head snapped up and plunged down, driving the ebony beak entirely through Howard's neck to sever Judy's jugular below. Neither of them appreciated the death-induced orgasms, and Tzetzlan was fully engaged in the upwelling of fear, so the small sounds coming from the open doorway escaped its notice.

The child's scream shattered Tzetzlan's preoccupation a split second before the poorly aimed butcher knife blade plunged through the remaining undamaged wing membrane and buried itself deeply in Howard's back.

"Hello?"

"Vince. Sue Hill, I may have something for you, I'm not sure. All I know is that it's one of the weirdest stories I've ever come across."

"Weird definitely qualifies, Sue. Why don't you brief me?"

"The Fort Collins police are reporting that a ten-year old boy killed his parents with a butcher knife. They hypothesize that the boy discovered them making love and thought that the father was hurting the mother. So, they say, he got the knife from the kitchen and tried to protect his mother. When he discovered that he'd killed them both, he tried to kill himself."

"So far it's tragic, but I don't get the weird part."

"That's coming. The coroner is having conniptions saying that only one wound, a non-fatal puncture in the father's back which was still occupied by the knife, corresponded to the shape of the knife blade. The fatal wounds were to both of the parents' necks. To quote one of my sources, 'It looked like the kid took a pair of hedge trimmers to them.'"

"How about the boy's wounds?"

"That doesn't fit either. Just one, apparently made with a sharp instrument with an oval cross-section. The boy was very lucky as it went into the abdominal cavity without coming near any internal organs."

"Oh ho! Sounds familiar; anything else?"

"Oh, yeah. No one can explain the two dead Dobermans in the front yard. And, they can't figure out where the green sticky stuff came from or what it is, but to top it off they're having a devil of a time trying to understand why the man and woman were trying to strangle each other to death while they were making love."

"Umph! You did say weird, didn't you? How come you know so many details, so soon?

During my days in law enforcement, reporters weren't given so much insight until the case needed help from publicity."

Yeah, well things haven't changed. Another reporter, Gail, and I came up to Ft. Collins as soon as the story broke yesterday afternoon. I'm calling from there. Gail and I happened to run into this Coroner's Assistant and he knew a lot of stuff that he was happy to talk about over dinner."

"Say no more, I understand completely. Tell me about the Dobermans, how were they killed?"

"One had her throat torn out, and the male was disemboweled and had a crushed chest."

"Not exactly injuries that a ten-year old boy could inflict."

"Nope. Get this, the male had a piece of quote 'some kind of strange looking leather', unquote clamped in its jaws. It had more of the green stuff on it."

"Gets more and more interesting all the time. Was the green stuff found anywhere else?"

"Other than the green stuff on the father's back near the knife wound, it was found on a window sill where a screen had been totally destroyed, and on the boy's nightclothes."

"Given all of those clues, what sort of scenario are my esteemed former colleagues putting together?"

"As far as I can tell, since the sticky stuff is green and not red, it doesn't count as body fluid. They did send some off for analysis, but that's just tying up loose ends, I gather. The dogs apparently went mad all by themselves and tore each other apart. The parents' neck wounds were made by a weapon that hasn't been found, but will be at some time in the future. The child had Superboy strength as a result of adrenalin rush. And, best of all, the parents were into rough sex, and some sort of near-death fantasy enhancement of copulation."

"Jeeze, how is that for tunnel vision? OK, who found the bodies?"

"The family had just returned from an extended vacation, and the live-in maid, one Mattie Childers, was due to come back to work the day after their return. She showed up, right on schedule, at six in the morning and found the dogs in the yard. She knew that something terrible had happened, so she rounded up a couple of neighbors, a Mr. James and a Mrs. Hudson, and the three of them went into the house, using Mattie's key.

All of them had a lot to say to just about anyone who would listen. Mr. James, in particular, was very graphic in his description of the mess they found in the master bedroom. Right down to the details about how the hands were frozen in strangleholds around the opposite partner's neck."

"What did the Coroner's Assistant have to say about that?"

"Oh, he was absolutely astounded. He couldn't image how the woman, in particular could've had the strength to crush her husband's windpipe. Hers was collapsed also, by the way."

"That would have been fatal even without the knife wound, right?"

"You bet, unless they'd managed to get emergency treatment within five minutes or so."

"What did they do with the boy?"

"He's incommunicado, of course, but we understand that he was put into some sort of specialized medical facility for evaluation. I haven't a clue where that might be."

"What do you think, Sue? You must have some notion that things don't add up, or you wouldn't have called."

"I don't buy the official line for a minute, of course. I could tell you all of what I've learned about the family, but for briefness sake, all I'll say for now is that there is no way that boy would have attacked his father. I don't know how to explain the knife with his prints on the handle. The boy's wound, the green blood, the dogs, the piece of leather...I think it's the work of your alien, Vince."

"So do I, Sue. Listen, I might have a surprise for the police. I'll tell you about it when we get there. Dorothy and I will leave as soon as we can. I'll have to call Tim and Kim to see if they can leave immediately, but at least the two of us will be there tomorrow. Will you still be in Ft. Collins?"

"Yes, I'll stay over. Vince...do the Michaelson Twins have to be involved in this?"

"The who? You mean Tim and Kim? I guess you're right, they are a lot alike. Why,

Sue? Do you have a problem with them?"

"They give me the willies."

"Sue, take my word for it, we are going to need them. Especially Tim."

"Oh, alright, just don't let him get too close to me. See you tomorrow."

"'Til tomorrow, then we'll go monster hunting. 'Bye Sue."

Tzetzlan stayed in the dark crawl space in the basement for nearly two days and two nights. The wounds might not be painful, but the loss of body fluid had drained its energy. The wounds had clotted with some difficulty, and even now there was a sticky pool beneath its body. It would need to replenish its body fluid before much more time passed. The house had held prey ever since Tzetzlan had wakened from dormancy after the first day. There had been many of them at first, but now there was only one.

Ian Flannery was bored to tears. Watching over an old crime scene, especially one where the perpetrator was in custody, was dull and unrewarding work, and he didn't even know why the Captain had insisted that the coverage continue for so long. To make it worse, books were prohibited, phone calls and texting were prohibited, and even the TV's and radio were off limits. Nothing to do but pace around. Here's that ugly maroon leather chair for the fiftieth or five hundredth time, there's the pump in the aquarium, still bubbling away. Wonder who's going to feed them when I'm gone?Check the door. Locked. Check the windows. Closed and latched. It's stuffy in here, you can still smell death. Can't even turn on the air conditioner. Why not? That's stupid, why can't I turn on the damn AC?

"Because you can't hear the bogyman coming Ian."

The answer floated into Flannery's mind like a wisp blown from a darkened space, just beyond the lighted areas of his consciousness. He shivered. Stupid answer. Ah, here's the kitchen. Time to make anther cup of instant, wonder why they didn't forbid that? Decaf, of course, got to sleep after I get off the detail.

"No need to save up, Ian," the voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "you'll be sleeping for a long, long time."

The crash of the tea kettle into the chrome sink brought him back to his surroundings.

"What the Hell? He said aloud, but then continued thinking, going crazy, that's what. Who wouldn't, locked up in this house of horrors. I can still see those dogs out in the yard. He peeked through the curtained window toward the service gate. How could that kid have done those animals? Especially the one with its belly torn out. Shit. I couldn't even do that. What if the boy hadn't done any of it?

"Yes, what if Ian? What if another did it. What if the other is still here, waiting?"

His hand dropped to the standard issue .38 at his belt, but there was nothing to aim at. Just a voice in his head.

"That? Such a puny weapon, Ian. Go ahead, take it out and look at it. Such a small thing. Look at the hole, Ian. So small. How could anything from that small opening hurt. Yes, look at it, stare into it. Just think, you pull the trigger and a small, tiny something comes out of that hole right into your eye."

Flannery snapped back to normalcy for an instant and found himself staring down the bore of his service revolver. His right thumb straining against the trigger. If the safety had been off he'd have blown the back of his head out. He dropped the weapon, and backed away from it into the living room, past the bubbling fish tank. Backward, toward the closed and latched doorway leading to the basement.

"Wrong way, Ian. No safety here. You need to be out in the big, wide open outdoors. Don't go into the basement, Ian. It's not safe, Ian, even if you can lock the door behind you."

Flannery paused to think, and a crafty look crossed his face. The voice always told him wrong. Quickly, he turned to the basement door, unlatched it and opened it wide, preparing to step through. Something more horrid than his worst nightmare stood there, waiting for him.

Sue met them at the check-in desk and waited with clear impatience while they filled out the registration forms and listened to the youthful desk clerk tell them about the motel's amenities. Finally, they turned from the desk and started back out to where the car was parked.

"When was the last newscast you heard?"

"Hi, Sue. Yes, it's really nice to see you again, too." Vince said.

"Really! When was the last newscast?"

Vince looked perplexed, his gentle reminder about basic social conduct usually brought results.

"I don't know, five hours I guess. We listened to public radio on the way up, and talked about what you told me."

"Then you don't know yet, it was released to the media an hour ago."

"What don't I...we know yet, Sue?"

"They left a rookie cop to watch the Faber's place. He turned up dead this morning. No one has said how yet, buy my friend at the Coroner's Office said that a very vital organ had been ripped, his word, out of the body."

"Has that changed the theories about the Fabers' deaths?"

"Are you kidding? They won't even admit that they've lost a cop yet."

"It will. Give it time to set in. Even a cop turned politician will realize that the official line isn't worth the paper it's written upon. They'll find a new explanation. How much you want to bet it will have something to do with a religious cult?"

"No bet. Even a kid fresh out of journalism school could see that one coming. You said that you might have a surprise for them. What is it?"

"Yeah, the timing will be just right for it, now that the Faber kid is off the hook. Do you remember reading the police report on Fenster's death?"

"Sure, the wounds were as bad as these, but different. How does that help?"

"Do you remember the totally unauthorized copy of the evidence list?"

"Yes, I glanced at it, but...wait a minute! Sticky, green substance on sleeping bag, and on ground! Green blood! Hot damn, a tie-in across the years!"

"And, across the miles," Vince added. "As it happens, one of my last acts as a law enforcer was to sign out one of the two packets containing scrapings of an unknown green liquid, dried. I still have it. Maybe it's too old now to be of any use, but I'm betting it isn't. A couple of years ago I paid big bucks to get half of the sample analyzed."

He pulled out a manila envelope.

"The other half of the sample and the analytical report are in here. If I send it to them they'll probably ditch it in File 13 without hesitation. If you send it in, they'll have to pay attention to it. How about it?"

"What do I say when they ask how I come to have stuff out of a police evidence locker?"

"Confidential news source. Don't tell them what it is, just that they would be wise to compare it to similar material found at the Faber crime scene. By the time they realize that it's identical, and trace the pathologist's report back to the Utah crime scene, they won't have any choice but to ask what else you know. Count on it."

"What about your position, Vince? Won't there be repercussions about you stealing the evidence?"

"Stealing! Really Sue, I checked the evidence out through proper channels while I was employed by the Montrose County Sheriff's Department. I merely forgot about it until now. Besides, the statute of limitations ran out two years ago."

"Got all the angles covered, don't you?"

"As many as I could identify. Now, let's talk about us and the most important job we have to do."

"Which is?"

"Convincing a parent or guardian that one or more of thirteen, no, now it's fourteen, children desperately need medical assistance. The second most important job is to try and predict where our blood-sucking friend will head for next."

"I still don't agree, Dorothy broke her long silence, "finding the beast ought to be top priority. Then we can prove to the authorities that a danger does exist. Getting the kids treated will be a lot easier then."

"Like I've said before, you're wrong on two counts, my love. First, finding the alien is not going to be easy. It might take years, yet. Meanwhile, those kids are nurturing more of the things. Ask Tim here, if he would want anybody else to live with one of those things inside. Second, when we can prove that the kids have been impregnated, implanted, whatever, it's going to be a lot easier to get help with the hunt. Everyone will want a piece of the alien. The five of us alone don't stand much of a chance. Five hundred people looking would get results a lot quicker.

Tim and Kim had been standing a little apart from the other three. Holding hands, with heads inclined towards one another, they looked more like a statue than two living people. The last few months had brought a gradual change into their life. If they'd been close before, now they were virtually inseparable. Their world had closed down to just the two of them. Mandy had been running the paper for months, and Tim and Kim occupied a shrunken realm. They awoke at the same instant, fell asleep within seconds of one another and more and more often, the outside world did not exist for them for days at a time. Then, they would live in a wordless environment, every thought, emotion, and feeling was shared immediately and totally. They'd started out looking a lot alike, and over the years that closeness in appearance had deepened, as if sharing minds had led to a melding of bodies. Even their hair was cut and styled in identical fashion.

Sue looked at the pair, picturing them to be like bookends, leaning towards one another, keeping an imaginary volume in place. Her sense of alienation faded then, leaving in its place a sort of pity. These two were cripples of some sort or another. Totally dependent upon one another, and totally unable to face the world on its own terms. She was called back from her reflections by Vince's voice.

"What about it Sue?"

"Huh? Sorry Vince, I was thinking about something. What did you say?"

"See that, Dorothy, I told you she wasn't interested in my body. I can't even hold her attention for a few minutes. Ouch! Cut that out, woman, I swear I've got permanent black and blue spots on that side."

"If you had the civility of the baboon you resemble, I wouldn't have to constantly remind you of your manners. Honestly, being a world-famous author has gone straight to your head and totally destroyed your sense of propriety.

Sue, what my socially unredeemable husband was proposing was that we should all get a good night's sleep, and return to Denver in the morning to plan our campaign. Does that meet with your approval?"

It sounds like a fine idea to me, Dorothy, I'll ask Gale to stay up here to run the follow up. I have to get back to my desk, anyway."

"Good, and how about you Husband, does that summarize your suggestion?"

"You bet, Lover, especially the part about all of us getting a good night in the sack. Ouch! Damn it, Woman, pick on the other side for a change will you?"

Sue watched the Carthaughs as they walked, arm and arm, off to find their room. She was genuinely fond of the couple. They were about as similar as salt and pepper, but she'd never known a pair so obviously in love. Then the Michaelsons drifted past, unless it was those two she thought. But, were they in love, or in bondage? She shook her head vigorously, as if trying to dislodge dirt from her hair. Like a thought she didn't remember having, there was a momentary vacuum in her mind.

Tim and Kim lay atop the bedspread; they had turned off the air conditioner and opened the window. It was a warm night and neither felt comfortable in clothing while sleeping. If it weren't for the physical differences, they could have been taken for identical twins.

"You went into the woman's mind."

"You came with me."

"Of course, but why?"

"She was thinking of us."

"Most people who see us do, we do not go unbidden into everyone's mind."

"No, but she is important. Her thoughts are important to our mission."

"We did not seek out those particular thoughts."

"No."

"Is she correct? Are we enslaved to one another?"

"Do you feel that way?"

"No, only comfort and security, but..."

"You miss privacy and independence?"

"At times, not often any longer."

"This is better."

"Yes."

"Who else can love as we love?"

"No one, I can feel you growing."

They did not often share their bodies anymore. The combined sensations flowing through both of them without hindrance were too intense to indulge in frequently. The strange surroundings, the presence of many other people and their forbidden entry into Sue Hill's mind combined to bring an excitement to the night.

The Carthaughs, in the next room, found sleep was difficult to achieve. The rhythmic squeaking of the bed in the next room and the perfectly synchronized groans of passion seemed to go on all night. Their own playful, but brief joining had lasted but five minutes. Vince sighed into the darkness.

"Ah, to be young once more. Ouch!"

Nor did Sue Hill find sleep easily, but for different reasons. Images from the old photograph floated in the shadows of her room. Somewhere very near, less than five miles away if the Carthaughs' calculations were correct, a brutal and hideous creature moved. The next victims were chosen, but she was helpless to warn them.

Sue left the news car with Gail, and rode back to Denver with the Carthaughs. Much to her displeasure, she shared the back seat with Tim and Kim. At least she had a window seat, although she doubted they would have let her sit between them in any event. She could smell a lingering scent of sex about them, and was surprised. She had not thought them capable of intimacy. Bookends don't get it on, do they? She reminded herself that she had no room to be judgmental on the matter of sex. It had been a couple of years since she's shared that bastard's bed in Lafayette and there hadn't been anyone since. Why not, she wondered as they passed the off-ramp leading to Loveland. Loveland, the very names of the towns were conspiring against her, now that the lack of a physical relationship struck home. Maybe Charlie and the Sports Guys were right, maybe she did have latent homosexual tendencies. She shook loose the thought, and asked Vince the first question that came to mind.

"Tell me Vince, how you are going to convince someone that they need to have their kid cut open?"

"That's what I love about you, Sue, not a delicate bone in your body. To be frank, I haven't the faintest idea. We'll have to select our target carefully. Find the one what will be susceptible to well-meaning guidance. That's first priority when we get to Denver, putting together profiles on each of the kids and whoever is caring for them."

That's me, Sue thought, just your average bull dyke. Straight female machisma. Aloud, she didn't let on that his words had stung her.

"That is a tough order, Vince. Most of those kids have been hidden away ever since their respective traumas. Just finding them is going to be time consuming."

"But, you can do it, right?"

"Oh, I suppose, even kids leave paper trails. And, paper trails almost always wind up on a computer somewhere. Computers are close friends of mine."

"That'a girl! See Lover, I knew we picked the right person. Beautiful and talented, too. Man, what a combo!"

Partly assuaged by Vince's words, even if they were pure bull shit, she leaned back and closed her eyes. She felt she must have drifted off to sleep because the words from a dream echoed in her head.

"You should not think so badly of yourself. You are a kind and generous person. The opinions of others should not weigh so heavily upon you."

The words seemed so clear and real that Sue opened her eyes to see who had spoken. She glanced at Kim, who was apparently asleep, and then to Tim. His eyes were closed also, but he was stirring restlessly. As if he felt her stares, his eyes opened and met hers, but there was no hint of compassion in them. She lay her head back again, vaguely troubled. The voice had been like the one she'd imagined that night in the bar, and her companions were the same.

Tim closed his eyes again and redoubled his efforts to re-establish contact with Kim. Suddenly, she was there once more.

"What were you doing? You shut me out!"

"I needed a moment of the privacy we thought of last night."

"I didn't like it. What were you doing?"

"It was private, Tim. Leave me a little of myself."

"I didn't like being cut off from you. Please don't do it very often."

Dorothy, aware of the silence behind her, turned to glance toward the back seat. All three seemed to be asleep. Sue wore a frown, and Tim's lips were pressed together as if he'd been denied a candy bar. Only Kim wore a peaceful expression. She smiled, like three children, asleep on a long road trip. She reached over a hand to let it lie on Vince's thigh. Immediately, his right hand dropped from the wheel to cover hers. If it weren't for this business with the Beastie, things would be perfect.

They'd opted for a small, but comfortable hotel near Sue's office. They'd be spending a lot of time together and didn't want to face the mindless commuter traffic more often than was absolutely necessary. The clerk was clearly impressed when Vince pulled enough bills off of a huge wad to secure the suite for thirty days. He was even more impressed when Vince asked about a dedicated phone line for a computer hookup, explaining that the wireless connection wasn't secure.

Sue rejoined the quartet after putting in a few hours at the paper. She was desperately behind in getting her assignments finished. Mrs. Bloomfield was showing some signs of impatience with Sue's apparent infatuation with a story for which she hadn't seen so much as an outline. Sue knew that she would have to buy time by being especially productive on other pieces, and somehow she managed.

At least she didn't have to fight off Willie's constant interference or put up with his slimy innuendoes. Somehow, he'd managed to hold onto his job while working with Mrs. Etiquette in the Social Scenes Department. Contrary to expectations, he had outlasted the most optimistic pick in the 'When Will Willie Quit' pool. Vivian Majors was noticeably mellower these days, and the sly glances between the two were not lost on anyone, except perhaps Mrs. Bloomfield. Willie was a survivor, and once again he had found a way. At least he was not left with spare time to seek revenge.

Sue's knock of the suite's door was answered by Kim, and she smiled when she saw Sue. Sue was so surprised at this unexpectedly friendly greeting that she nearly missed Vince's welcome.

"Hi ya Sue. How was work?"

"Oh, OK, I guess, but it's hard to keep my attention on what the city councilman said about raising sales taxes when there's a calamity wandering around, just waiting to happen."

"I know the feeling, and I haven't written a word since we got your call. My agent is going nuts. I'm supposed to have the last chapter roughed out by next week—ain't going to happen. You hungry? We had a cold meal brought up a while ago, and there's plenty left.

Sue walked over to the serving cart. It was heaped with an assortment of delicatessen cold cuts, salads and fresh fruits. What they'd left over could feed her for a week.

"Sure is nice to hobnob with the well-to-do," she said.

She loaded an imported crystal plate with a huge chunk of black bread, several cheeses and a pile of fresh strawberries. She looked longingly at the bowl of whipped cream laced with Cointreau, and only the memory of a faint paunch showing in the mirror that morning kept her from it. She grabbed a handful of carrot sticks instead.

"OK, Chief, I'll just sit here and stuff my face while you explain how we are going to do the impossible."

"My staff and I have not been sitting idle while you were slaving away informing the metropolis of the eminent danger to its collective wallet. No Ma'am, we've been collecting information. We already know where two of the children are and expect to locate at least five more in the next day or two."

"Mumplh! Excuse me, it's tough to talk around a mouthful of gouda. How'd you manage that?"

"My dear girl-investigative-reporter, even we poor fiction novelists are not unfamiliar with the idea of doing research. It took time, of course, but..."

"Cut the bull," Dorothy interrupted, "what he is eventually going to get around to saying after he finishes patting himself on the back, is that custody hearings are not confidential. They are matters of public record, and records can be checked, especially if you have the money to pay a moonlighting clerk of the court."

"A guy can't even get in a little self-aggrandizement here. How am I supposed to impress the girl, if you insist on giving away my secrets?"

Sue was grinning by then; watching the Carthaughs having fun with each other was entertaining at any rate. She finished a carrot stick, still thinking about the calorie-laden cream.

"Alright you guys! I get the point, I'm not the only one who can get answers. Have you also talked to the two guardians?"

"Well, no," Vince admitted, "actually the first two are wards of the state. That makes things a bit difficult."

"I'll bet it does. I've got a little information along those lines myself. The Faber kid, remember?"

"How could we forget?"

"Turns out, his next of kin is his father's sister. Matter of fact, she's the only surviving relative, and most likely will get custody, if she wants it."

"How in the world did you find all that out so quickly, Sue?"

"I cheated, and looked in the Ft. Collins phone book under 'Faber', and started making calls."

"Ouch! Didn't I tell you she was smart? How much did you tell her, Sue?"

"Not much at all. I only confirmed that she was related to Howard Faber and made a few inquiries about how she was taking the tragedy. After I hung up, I got in touch with Gail, and asked her to get as much information on Amy Faber as she could dig up locally. I need to call her around two this afternoon to ask what, if anything, she's turned up."

Vince glanced at his watch.

"That's still two hours away; maybe we should spend some time talking about Mama Monster."

"Sure, why not?"

Sue glanced over at the Michaelsons, who were sitting side by side on the sofa, holding hands with their heads inclined towards one another. Weird. She had never heard more than ten words from either of them after Tim told his life story that night. Yet, it seemed as if they were chattering away in some sort of silent code.

"So," said Dorothy, "it seems the Beastie had left off its northern march and has turned to the west."

"Or," Vince said, "to the south. Maybe Ft. Collins is part of an arc in its travels that will continue swinging until it points to Denver. If we draw a line from Ft. Collins to its previously known location and then extend it westward, actually southwestward, it goes through rough, uninhabited country. On the other hand, if the line is pushed southward a bit, it goes through Loveland. I don't think any of us is ready to believe that the creature is finished with its procreative urges. It's heading back towards more densely populated areas, and I wouldn't be surprised if it wound up in downtown Denver in about two months."

"In the meantime," Dorothy resumed, "it could show up in Loveland, Berthoud, Longmont, maybe Lafayette again, but I'd guess Boulder instead, and Golden. Then it either heads off into the mountains, or it turns east for Denver."

"What would be the calculated arrival date for Loveland?" Sue asked.

Vince took out his scale and calculator.

"Ten days, give or take a day."

"Shouldn't we be there?"

Tzetzlan shuffled along the back streets of eastern Loveland. The occasional street light reflected in the myriad of facets that segmented the clear surface of its eyes. The rest of its body seemed to absorb illumination, making for a dark shadowy form moving silently along the roadway. It was a quiet neighborhood, everyone asleep for hours. Dogs noticed Tzetzlan's presence, but the soft growls of uncertain fear went unnoticed. There were many easy prey here, but no prey-hosts. None of the many young ones had that right mental signature. It was not yet time to feed, and Loveland was spared tragedy as Tzetzlan made its way to the outskirts of town, unnoticed and leaving no sign of its passage.

In separate cars, Sue, in one, Vince and Dorothy in one and Tim and Kim in the third, patrolled the quiet streets for five nights, attracting the notice of a police patrol, who followed each of them in turn. It was Vince who was finally stopped, and he was ready with a response. How dare they stop a well-known novelist and his assistants who were out to gather vital research for a major new mystery story about the famous detective? Mollified, the two patrolmen didn't even bother to record the incident in their log. Of them all, Sue had come closest to Tzetzlan while driving down a dead-end road on the east side of town, just after the ebony form passed city limits and into the grasslands beyond. Moments later, it had found a deserted pump house to shelter in against the coming daylight.

Later that week, the five of them held another summit in the hotel suite in Denver.

"Now what?" Sue asked the question they'd all been wrestling with since their five sleepless nights.

"One," Dorothy said, "we don't know if our idea about the Beastie turning south is right or wrong. Two, if it was right, we don't know why is chose not to attack. Personally, I don't know whether to be happy that there weren't more deaths, or sad that we've lost track of the thing."

Vince was getting to be more than a little upset that Tim and Kim had been contributing so little this trip. They'd become nearly silent partners in the search.

"How about it, Tim, do you have anything to contribute?"

"We, I think that the monster passed through Loveland because nothing was there that it wanted."

"What do you mean? It hasn't been shy about killing before."

"Yes, but ever since Fairplay, it was never killed without also leaving a child behind with its spawn. Since then, it has not simply killed and moved on. It could not find the right kind of child in Loveland, so it simply passed through.

"That's scary," it was Sue who reacted first, "are you saying that this thing pre-selects its victims somehow? That just not any kid will do?"

"That's right."

"How in the world could you know that?"

The question was met by silence. She watched as Tim and Kim turned to look at each other, as if silently seeking some answer to her question from each other. She was about to ask again, when Tim turned back in her direction. His face was expressionless, and his lips were pressed firmly together. The voice in her head was clear and unmistakable.

"Because the monster has given me a part of its powers. At times, I know what it must be thinking just as I can understand its motives. It seeks children who are like what I was. It needs a certain kind of child. If it didn't, by now out world would be overrun by monsters."

Sue's face turned ashen, and she sat heavily back in the chair. Vince and Dorothy rushed to her side, their concern for her health obvious in their faces. She continued to stare past Vince's shoulder into Tim's eyes. The voice had fallen silent. She turned to look first at Vince and then Dorothy.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"They don't know," the voice said, "because we did not want to ruin our relationship with our only friends. We would only be freaks to them if they knew, just as you feel about us, so would they. We don't want that. Please, don't tell them; at least not until it becomes necessary."

"What didn't we tell you, Sue?" Vince said. "Are you alright? Should we call a doctor?"

She managed a weak smile.

"I'm sorry, Vince. I don't know what happened to me. I'm alright, really; just tired and confused."

Vince looked uncertain, but Dorothy had a more definite expression and it was still filled concern.

"Really, Dorothy, Vince, I'm OK. I just need a good night's sleep. Let me go on home and sack out for a solid ten hours and I'll be ready to hit it again after work tomorrow."

"At least, let me drive you home, or call a cab for you."

"No, please Vince, I'm fine. See, I can stand on my own. I can walk without falling down."

"If you are sure?"

"You bet, no problem at all. I've driven myself home under much more trying circumstances. I'll be fine."

Dorothy felt her forehead, and apparently satisfied that she wasn't in feverish delirium, nodded her head.

"Yes Dear, you go home and get a good rest. This business can wait until tomorrow."

After Sue left, Vince and Dorothy seemed just as anxious to be alone themselves. Dorothy sent one glance towards the younger couple, but held her questions in check. Something was decidedly odd here.

Sue didn't come by, or even call, the following night. Nor the next. After five days of silence, Vince was worrying about whether or not she had decided to drop the whole idea. They'd read her columns every day in the hope of catching a hint of her intentions. They wouldn't have been surprised to read about the lunacy preached by four out-of-town odd balls, but not even the slightest mention of their activities was put into print. Finally, the sixth night brought a call.

"Vince? Sorry I haven't been in touch. I had a lot to think about, and I'm not finished mulling it over yet. I need to speak to Tim. Privately, on the phone. Would you let me do that?"

"Of course, Sue. No problem. Let me ask Tim."

Faint voices could be heard over the line. It didn't take long.

"Sue, this is Tim. Vince and Dorothy have left the room. Kim is here with me. You must know that we wouldn't have it any other way."

"Yeah, I guess so. OK. Listen Tim, I don't know what your range is, but no mind games. Agreed?"

"If you insist, but we really don't need the telephone. All three of us can be in communication. It's the sort of communication that doesn't leave room for doubt. Words can be misunderstood."

"That's something I have only your word on, for all I know you can brainwash me in an instant."

"I'm not the monster, I'm its victim! I wouldn't even think of doing that!"

"Alright, alright, calm down. You just have to realize that I don't know you. I may have met you months ago but you haven't let me get to know you and your values. You can help change that right now by talking to me."

There was a long pause. She could almost sense Tim's reluctance to speak aloud.

"Very well, Sue, have it your way. What is it you want to know?"

"When did your abilities start? When you were attacked as a child?"

"No, not really, that may have started it, but it was the offspring that developed my ability. All that time it was in me, growing, it was trying to get at my mind and control it. To feed from the fear it tried to generate. I hid from it. I hid so long and so well that I think I achieved what those eastern mystics try to accomplish, but never do. I came to know every nook and cranny of my mind. Maybe the offspring helped, too. Maybe it broke down some barriers trying to get at me. All I know is that eventually I could do what the monster can do. I can reach into other minds and communicate. The thing uses its ability to hunt and to kill. I don't use it at all unless I have permission. At least not usually. It was very important to get you on our side. You have no idea how ashamed I am that I've come into your mind without asking."

"And, Kim? Can she do those things, too?"

"Yes. I don't think that she is as good at it as I am. She didn't have one of those things inside of her."

"How do I know that this isn't some sort of trick?"

"Trick? How could it be? You heard my thoughts, didn't you?"

"I thought I did, but I've heard too many mind reader scams to believe it just because you say it's true. Can you prove it to me?"

"I suppose, but that means I'd have to come into your mind. Would you permit that?"

"Yes. But, it has to be on my terms. Agreed?"

"Sure. What are your conditions?"

"First of all, you don't have a maximum distance?"

"Not that I know of. I could reach you at your apartment."

"How do you know that? Never mind, I don't want to know. Can you find me anywhere?"

"Now that I know you, yes. A mind is as distinctive as its owner. A familiar mind stands out in the crowd."

"Alright, here's what I want to do. It's eight-twenty by my watch. What time do you have?"

"The same, within a few seconds."

At exactly nine-o-five, I want you to find me and write down on a piece of paper exactly what I'll be thinking, for exactly one minute."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Sue immediately broke the connection and left her apartment. She drove randomly for a while, and then headed for the noisiest night club she could think of. She'd decided earlier that it would be either a noisy club, an isolated spot near Sloan's Lake, or a shopping mall. The club was a last second choice. She found a seat as close to the over-amplified rock band as possible and shouted her order for a club soda to the server. She sat and played with the lemon slice floating in the ice and kept an eye on her watch. At eight-fifty-three, the first of several would be Lotharios stopped by to ask if she was waiting for someone. She ignored them all. At nine-o-five she began thinking of a series of seven numbers. She concentrated on thinking of just those same seven numbers in the same sequence for exactly sixty seconds. Then she got up, and left the bar, leaving five or six thoroughly puzzled males staring after her.

Thirty minutes later, she was at the doorway to the hotel suite, and as soon as she knocked, Dorothy opened the door, with a puzzled expression on her face.

"Sue, come in. We were beginning to think that we would never see you again."

"Hi, Dorothy. I'm sorry about the silence. I hope I can explain it to you later. I hate to impose, but I need a little more patience. I need to talk to Tim, and Kim too I suppose, alone. Please?"

"Tim said you might show up with that particular request. They are waiting for you in their bedroom, down that hall. Will you visit with Vince and me later?"

"I hope so, Dorothy. Please, just be patient with me. OK?"

Without waiting for a reply, Sue walked to the double doors. One half was open, waiting for her. She entered and closed the door behind. Kim and Tim were side by side on the love seat in one corner of the room. She seated herself in an armchair facing them.

"Well?"

"Here it is."

Tim handed over two sheets of paper. She was surprised at the lengthy, close-spaced writing. Her first thought was that Tim had made up a bunch of nonsense. Then, she began to read.

(Level One)

4-17-9-87-31-13-2, 7, 4-17-9-87-31-13-2, 15, 4-17-9-87-31-13-2, 22, 4-17-9-87-31-13-2, 29, 4-17-9-37-no-87-31-13-2, 38, 4-17-9-87-31-13-2, 45, 4-17-9-87-31-13-13-2, damn, 53, 4-17-9-87-31-13-2, 59, 4-17, 60.

She stopped reading and looked up at Tim.

"God, they're all there, including the mistakes! But, what are those other numbers between commas. Oh! Jesus! I was tracking the seconds! Those are the seconds!"

Tim smiled for the first time she could remember.

"Oh! Sure, of course. We thought you were just being tricky."

She looked back at the paper.

"What's all the rest of this?"

"You said to write down what you were thinking. That's the rest of it."

Sue went back to reading.

(Level 2)

Damn band too loud can't keep track of the numbers wish those guys would quit bugging me old time word bugging where'd I dig that up from never use that in the column that one isn't too bad looking nice body good ass kind of paunchy trying to suck it in go way trying to concentrate sports guys would know for sure I'm gay if they saw me ignoring all this male flesh damn that one's cologne is enough to clog your sinuses imagine breathing that when he gets all sweaty stop it concentrate count missed one there concentrate damn repeated a number only eleven seconds to go. Now! Stop!

Sue recognized her sublevel thinking even if she hadn't been cognizant of it at the time. She felt her face reddening at the idea that such private thoughts had been shared. She didn't look up or comment, but instead turned to the second page of hotel stationary. She was almost afraid to read it.

(Level 3)

Damn bastard damn him screwing that girl had me at home bastard damn foul bastard hitting mama making her cry hate him hate them all same no difference walking drunken pricks want sex slaves pounding slave no love any of them no care any of the this one same one before like papa all same never want never care anymore need need need need love care can't have can't find can't look for be same as pap damn bastards hate them why why why can't forget them don't

Sue sat, shaken to her soul. She wanted to scream that it wasn't her, it wasn't true, it wasn't real. But, it was. The core of her lay there on the page. She ran her fingers across her cheek and found it wet with streaming tears. She felt naked and exposed as if the very fabric of her being had been ripped apart and posted on a wall for the world to see. She heard Tim's voice at a distance, and gradually it swam toward her through the streaming emotions.

"...other level, of course, but when you get that deep there aren't words anymore. Just emotions and images. You've heard the expression 'Deep down, he's a beautiful person'? For you, that is true. Your mind flows with a deep current of powerful and beautiful images."

Sue looked up finally, studying Tim's face. There was no judgment there, no recrimination , no sign that he had found her inferior or wanting in morals. He was still speaking.

"That's where Kim and I spend most of our time. Swimming in each other's images, and the flow of our beings. If it weren't for the needs of our bodies, and the drive of our conscious minds we would disappear into that hidden world forever."

For the first time in her memory, Sue heard Kim speak more than a word of greeting.

"I know how you feel, Sue. I went through it, too. It's like someone reached deep inside and pulled you inside out. I wasn't sure that we should have put all of that on paper. Tim convinced me. Even if you despise us for knowing you so intimately. It's more important that you know what lies deep within. Tim and I have given each other entrance to the deepest parts of our beings many times. Very little is private between us. I keep a small corner closed to him, and so does he, it is enough. In knowing each other, we know ourselves. We have a commitment that very few have ever known. Only Tzetzlan keeps our world from being perfect."

"Tzetzlan?"

"The Monster." Tim's voice betrayed his hatred. "The alien beast that was both tormentor and benefactor to me. Yes, it has a name. Its offspring had no name, but it has. As much as I have gained from its interference in my life I would give back all if I could see it and all of its offspring dead before me. It is basically and unreservedly evil. It is not of this world and must be removed."

The quiet determination in Tim's voice only served to deepen the emanation of hatred she'd sensed. Here was a man who would die taking the enemy with him if that was necessary. Sue had nearly recovered from her experience by then. It would never be the same of course, but perhaps that was good. She wasn't sure.

"Vince and Dorothy. You have to tell them. They both obviously care for you, each of you. They deserve to know what you've shown me. I don't think you have to worry about them treating you differently. What will hurt them the most is that you haven't told them before now. You have to. If we are going to work together as a team there can't be any secrets."

She rose to her feet, and found that her legs were slightly shaky. She thought that Tim might have nodded to her as she left the room.

Dorothy and Vince were waiting in the sitting room. Dorothy noticed her reddened eyes and tear streaked face immediately.

"Sue! Are you alright? What happened?"

"I'm alright Dorothy. In fact, I may be better than I've been in a long, long time. I can't stay tonight. I think that Tim and Kim have something they need to talk to you about. When you're ready, call me."

She might have felt awkward doing it before but not tonight. She embraced and gave each of them a kiss on the cheek.

Watching the door close after Sue, Vince made the inevitable comment.

"Not such a hard bitch tonight. I wonder what went on in there?"

They turned back to the sitting room and found that Tim and Kim had silently taken seats. They hadn't long to find out.
Chapter 29

Tzetzlan passed through Berthoud as it had passed through Loveland. The gathering of prey had no host to offer. There was but one left. The pressure on its mind from the many, many offspring already implanted was becoming intense. The evolutionary control on overpopulating the species was having its effect, and even the last host had been very difficult to implant. The next might be impossible. It would be the last, and then it would be time to feed well and to find a deep and darkened place to wait.

As the nights passed, Tzetzlan came within an hour's journey of the last remaining host. This one did not live in a gathering of prey, only one other was nearby, but there was an animal again. One of the silent four-legged kind. Not the same as the ones that had torn its wing. This one was new. Something like the ones that lived in the green jungles of the first people. That kind had never bothered Tzetzlan before. They had ignored each other. This one was different. It took notice. Tzetzlan could feel the animal bring its awareness to bear, and it sought to implant tendrils to control it. The animal paid them no heed. The animal began to move; it circled around, always in the same direction. Finding the intruder. Centering on the prey. Tzetzlan was incapable of worry or apprehension, but the behavior if this beast caused a good deal of uncertainty. It was a rare thing, the hunter was the target.

Lacking experience in such a situation, Tzetzlan continued to move on towards the prey it sought. The animal circled again, moving with Tzetzlan, getting closer. It stopped, still and waiting, directly in Tzetzlan's path. Tzetzlan advanced upon the animal, but only the presence of a mind was discernible, the animal's body blended with the landscape. Except for a twitch of the tail, it was as good as invisible.

The attack took Tzetzlan unaware. The body hurled through the space between them, and it was all Tzetzlan could do to raise an arm to try and block the snarling form. Tzetzlan's remaining wing was shredded in the first seconds by sharp claws and ripping teeth. The membrane fell, in tattered ribbons, even as the animal slammed into Tzetzlan's body forcing it back and down. In an instant, the animal had teeth clamping shut on Tzetzlan's stubby neck, and only the exoskeleton saved its throat from being torn away as many a soft-bodied animal's throat had been over the years. Even so, the animal lay heavily upon Tzetzlan's thorax, iron jaws clamped to the lower half of its head. Tzetzlan could not move, and its short stiff legs could not bend enough to drive the talons on its feet into the animal's body. Claws were raking down the exoskeleton, skidding off bony armor, but gouging deeply in the small, unprotected spots at joints and expansion seams. If the animal kept on, death would come. Tzetzlan was outmatched, and it flailed with the arm that was free, barely managing to hit the furry hide, much less doing any damage.

Then a lucky strike drove a talon into the animal's eye. It released its grip in reflexive action and screamed in pain. It had moved just enough that Tzetzlan could grasp a leg with the talons on one foot. With this new purchase on the animal, it twisted its body to bring the other talons into play. Those dug into soft tissue, through bones and vital organs alike. The animal screamed again, this time in rage. It renewed its attack on Tzetzlan, flailing with teeth and claws.

In the end, it was a very close thing. Tzetzlan's body was very badly damaged. A small pool of green ichor pooled beneath its body and then flowed into a larger depression filled with the animal's blood. Tzetzlan was barely capable of movement, and lay there spent. Nothing had been gained from the animal which had attacked.Even in death, the animal had withheld fear of its own end. Even the animal's body fluid was unavailable, spilled wastefully on the ground. Worse, one of the prey was approaching, not the host, the older one, its mind overflowing with hate and anger. Tzetzlan was in no condition to meet even one of the weak-minded prey. It must escape and hide. It struggled with the inert form atop its body, pushing with taloned feet, twisting and turning. Gradually, the weight shifted, and a leg came free first, and then an arm. The prey was closer, noises came from distant brush, and the sounds that the people made with their mouths cut through the night. It was calling the animal.

Finally free of the weight, its troubles only beginning, Tzetzlan found one leg to be temporarily unusable. It must crawl, pulling with arms, pushing with the one good leg as it made its way to the low bushes surrounding the small clearing that had hosted the death battle. Tzetzlan continued crawling, finally reaching a low overhang formed by a slab of sandstone that had fallen from the hogback above. It provided poor cover, but the ground beneath was soft. Tzetzlan began to dig.

Keller probably heard the scream in his sleep, but it took Jody coming in to make him realize it. She was shaking his shoulder violently, and screaming in his ear as he struggled to a sitting position.

"Daddy, wake up!"

"What was that noise?"

"It was Kitty, Daddy! Kitty's hurt! Get up, please. Go help him, please."

"OK, OK girl, let a guy get his senses about him. Reach me my clothes over there."

He was putting on his boots, when the second scream cut through the air. He knew what it was immediately, something just got killed. Jody knew what it meant, too. She threw herself into his arms and started crying. Keller let his daughter sob a while, his ears alert for anything more, but nothing overrode the timid night sounds that were normal. Then, he pulled her to her feet.

"Listen girl, you pull that door closed behind me and you latch it. You don't open it unless you hear me calling you. Understand?"

She nodded her head.

"I'm going to see what happened, then." He paused a moment before going out and held Jody tightly. "Make a pot of coffee, will you. No more sleep tonight, probably."

Keller started off to the northeast. After six years, he knew the land good. That scream had come from up by the hogback. He'd be thirty minutes getting there. He'd known that sooner or later something would happen. Man can't live out in the country twenty miles from the nearest neighbor without something happening after a time. Just have to see what it is and fix it.He'd be sorry for Jody. Wasn't no doubt the cat was dead. He shifted the twelve gauge in his hands and flipped off the safety. Damn cat. Raised him from a cub, Jody did. Just like a damn dog sometimes, wouldn't let a flea hurt that girl. Loved her, that cat did. Biggest damn mountain lion he'd ever seen and it would roll around like a puppy when Jody scratched its belly.

That cat would have taken a lot of killing. Must be something big. Shit, ain't nothing big left in the Rockies. Not for the first time, he thought about moving back into town. Not just because of the cat, but that was another reason now. Jody was nearly thirteen, and she always talked about being around other kids her age. Wasn't fair to keep her from having friends, going to school, watching TV, all that stuff. It had been seven years since Mary was killed. Enough time maybe. Keller wouldn't have even considered it two, three years ago. Back then, he still thought that people who would do what the Denver people did weren't worth living with. Letting that guy go free after what he'd done to Mary. Wasn't any justice in that. None at all. Raped her, then killed her three different ways. No better than a mad dog. Except they killed mad dogs. Him, they just said they made a technical error in his arrest—had to let him go. Sorry 'bout your wife and all, but that's justice.

After Keller had been out here for a couple years he'd gone back to Denver one night and done a little of his own justice. They'd never come looking for him after that, maybe by now they'd have just plain forgot. Maybe by now, Jody and he could get back to people again. Small town, maybe. Not Denver. Not just for Jody, either. Keller needed people, too. Now that Jody was nearly a woman it was getting even tougher. He couldn't even look at her in her underwear without thinking of women. It scared him. What if he got all screwed up and started thinking of Jody in a different way? He'd sooner take a shotgun to himself than that.

Keller shook loose from his dark thoughts, he was getting close, or ought to be. The hogback was a dark shape looming above him. He started casting around, softly calling the cat just in case it was still alive. After a time, he came to a small clearing, and even though it was still early with false dawn barely lighting the east he could see a still form there in the middle. He came up and played the light of the kerosene lantern over the animal. Long dead. He didn't know why, but he knelt down and pulled the cat's head into his lap, stroking the familiar muzzle as if it were still alive. Damn good animal. Jody loved it. He stayed that way until the daylight was strong enough to look around.

Hell of a fight. What was that green gook? He picked up a scrap of tough, leathery, dark gray material. Almost like snake skin, but thicker, tougher. Then he noticed the marks in the soil. Deep gouges leading off toward the brush. Damn cat did some damage, after all. Hurt the thing. Good. He followed the trail. More green stuff. He remembered a science fiction story he'd read as a teenager. Must have been an android! He chuckled to himself, softly.

The trail led to a big flat rock at the base of the hogback. The soil underneath was all tore up, and there was more green shit. He found a big stick and started poking it into the ground. It skidded off something hard just beneath the surface. Couldn't dig down, too many rocks. Maybe it went up the hogback. He'd been away from the cabin for five hours. He had to get back or Jody would have a fit. He looked up at the rock face above. Back for you later, you bastard.

Keller kept his word and was back that afternoon and for three days after. He never found more sign and gave up looking. The plans to move back to town grew in importance.

Two months later, and Jody was full of excitement. Keller and she had made a trip to a place called Platteville. Daddy had lined up work at a farm near there. They were going to move in a few days. They'd found out that the farm kids from around there went to school in a place called Ft. Lupton, it was an even bigger town. She could hardly wait, but she knew it would be hard. She was way behind other kids her age, but she knew how to read. Daddy taught her, and he had brought back school books every time he went to town for supplies. She was smart, and would catch up fast. It was getting harder and harder to sleep at night. Three more days. She lay in bed thinking of Platteville, where they were going to live in a big white house, not at all like this little cabin. It had a real stove, a big bathtub, and you could even get TV pictures there. She heard Daddy get up and move around before going out the front door. Probably going to the outhouse. She must have drifted off because the sound of the shotgun going off in the distance went unnoticed.

Tzetzlan stirred, its body was healing, but very slowly. The rock above and the thin covering of soil were barely sufficient to keep the burning rays of the sun from doing even greater damage. It had to move, but first it desperately needed to feed. It could not go to the prey as it was not strong enough yet. Somehow, the prey must be brought here. Trusting to its instincts, Tzetzlan sent out tendrils seeking the prey, the older one, not the host.

Keller woke up. It felt like something was crawling around in his head. Strange, crazy feeling. Like someone was trying to tell him something. Mary? How could that be? But, there she was floating in front of his eyes, and he knew that she was trying to tell him something. Something important. He concentrated, trying to catch her words, and slowly they came through. He was incredulous at first. How could that be? I killed him, I cut his throat and burned his house. I even stayed to watch them fight the fire, but they couldn't put it out and just let the house burn to the ground. He burned up.

Not dead? How? It was compelling. Mary had always known how to convince him. The killer was coming for Jody first, and then for him. Keller had to stop him. Mechanically, he got up and dressed, picking up the shotgun as he left the cabin. He flicked off the safety as soon as he was outside. By the hogback, that's where he would be coming from. Out where the cat had died. Maybe he did that, too? Twenty minutes later he was standing beneath the towering rock. Nothing. The inside of his head started crawling again.

"Hi Keller, remember me?"

Keller spotted the figure standing atop a large flat rock. He pulled up the shotgun and fired off two cartridges in one fluid motion.

"You'll have to do better than that Keller. You already killed me once."

The figure pointed to a raw gash that separated the top part of his throat from the lower half.

"Wha...what do you want?"

"Me? What in the world would I want from you? I already took your old lady, remember? Of course, there is that girl of yours. Bet she's a pretty thing by now. Just getting a little shape to her. Heh heh!

Keller stood rock still, not believing what he was hearing.

"Guess I've got too much competition there. She's probably Daddy's girl, hey Keller? Living out here, all alone, not a woman in sight. Been at her already, Keller? No? Won't be long though, will it?"

"I'd kill myself first, you bastard!"

"Sure you would, Keller, sure you would. You and me? We're just alike Keller. You got no soul either, Keller. That little girl don't need my attention, she got you Keller!"

"No! No! No, damn you! It would never happen!"

How you going to stop it?"

"This here shotgun, that's how!"

He cracked the weapon ejected the spent shells, and shoved two more home, and with a practiced flip, brought the barrel back up into position.

"Prove it right now. Save that little girl of yours. Go ahead, prove it. What's the matter, got no guts?"

"Man can't pull a shotgun on himself. Arms ain't long enough."

"Oh yeah, Keller! You just told me you gonna do it with your shotgun. Now you tell me you can't. Woo-who, Keller, you're a fine one, you are. You got no intention of stopping yourself. You gonna do that little girl. Maybe tonight, heh?"

No damn you, I'd do it right now if I could."

"Give it to me, then."

"Huh?"

"Give me the gun, Keller. Then, I do you. Then, we're even, you and me. I save your little girl, and I do you."

Keller wasn't real sure why, but he walked over to the rock and put the gun down on the ground. Something in his head kept whispering that it was the only way. He stepped back a few paces and waited.

Suddenly, his mind cleared. The ghost was gone, and just the rock was in front of him. He looked down for the shotgun, and screamed. The scream was cut off abruptly as the top of his head came off with the first shell.

Tzetzlan dropped the weapon. It had been very hard to use the unfamiliar thing. Tzetzlan did not ordinarily use tools, and it was a difficult concept to understand. Only its weakened condition made it possible, because bringing the prey down on its own would have been impossible. Even now, it felt strength returning after the brief but intense release of fear from the prey. Tzetzlan had soaked up every bit of it. Scrabbling over the ground, it reached the body. Its fluid, still living, would provide the rest of what was needed.

Very late that night, Jody stirred in her sleep, as the draft from the open door blew across her face. Nearly, she woke up, but then started dreaming about Platteville. Good dreams. She sank back into a deeper slumber, and even the pain in her side did not rouse her.

Captain Floyd looked over the morning report. Mostly quiet, except for the Keller matter. He looked up at the three officers seated in front of him.

"What's new about the girl?"

"They told her last night about her father," Al said, "and she took it hard. Far as I know they've still got her on a mild sedative. She'll go to Health and Social Services today, unless you say otherwise."

"Anybody run the father?"

"Sure. Clean as a whistle. Only time his name came up, was a case five or six years ago. Somebody raped and strangled his wife."

"Did you follow up on that?"

"Sure. One (name deleted) was accused and scheduled for trial. Let loose because of an error in arrest procedure."

"So, who in Hell is this name deleted character?"

I checked into that. Harder than hell to get any info these days on a defendant released before trial, you know. One Marty Rodriguez, released as a result of some cop running him into a squad car a little at a time. Also, not given rights at the time of arrest. He didn't have anything to do with Keller's death though, if that's what you're thinking.

"Why not, how do you know?"

"Got burned up in a house fire four and a half years ago. Burned to a crisp, Marty was."

"OK, no connection then." Captain Floyd paused a moment, struck by a sudden thought. "The girl, Jody was it? Yeah, Jody. Did they check her out good? No sign of sexual activity was there?"

"Not a thing, she's a virgin as they come. Wait a minute. Ah, here it is. Lately, you know, they've been giving kids this Social Adjustment Evaluation along with the medical. Listen to this."

'Subject is socially retarded twelve year old. Lacks formal education in nearly all areas, but can read above grade level. Lacks advanced social interaction skills. Functions at seven to eight year age level.'

"Captain, this girl don't even know why boys and girls are supposed to be different, let alone have any firsthand experience. Matter of fact, the only thing wrong with her was a cut on her side."

"Bad cut?"

"Nah, they didn't even write it down. The nurse told me about it. It's already mostly healed, she said."

"Sloppy records keeping." He made a notation on the corner of the file folder. "OK, tell H and SS they can have her whenever they want. Al, you type up the report to send along. Any insurance involved?"

"Nope."

"OK, clean it up some. Call it an accident. No point in giving the kid nightmares if she ever gets hold of the report. Next case is that shoplifting down at the Country Store. Carl, did you do the follow-up?"
Chapter 30

It had taken a long time to get back on track again. Vince and Dorothy hadn't been hard to convince about Tim's and Kim's unusual talents, but the idea that they'd been left ignorant while a relative stranger had been told did not do much for the friendship. Tim's protestations that they had not wanted to tell them because it would change their relationship had no effect at first. After a time, Dorothy softened enough to at least talk to them again, but Vince harbored a severe case of damaged feelings. Eventually, even he came around enough to let them get on with their quest. Nearly two months had passed, however, and there was a lot of catching up to do.

Sue tried to get enough writing in the leave early in the afternoon. Nothing much had changed at the Herald. The Sports guys still made obscene jokes at her expense, Mrs. Bloomfield still occasionally asked how that research was going, and the dull business of turning out enough daily copy to keep the pages filled began anew every day. In fact, the only newsworthy thing involved the Social Scenes Department where Willie still retained his job. That, in itself, was still hard to understand, until you noticed how Willie spent untold hours playing up to Vivian Majors. Sue thought it was enough to turn your stomach, but had to admit that it seemed to be working. Vivian behaved like a giddy school girl when Willie was in sight, and the nearly X-rated looks she got in return were nothing short of ludicrous. Willie was a survivor alright, even if had meant killing off what little self-respect he had left to do it. One good thing, keeping Vivian on a line left no time at all to bother the younger women on the floor.

The phone gave that abbreviated jangle that announced an internal call, bringing her back from her daydreams.

"Sue Hill."

"Sue, Elizabeth Bloomfield here. Would you stop by to see me before you leave this afternoon?"

"Sure thing Mrs. Bloomfield, I'll be right in."

She put down the handset as a bad feeling began to take root in her gut. She hadn't done anything good enough for praise lately, and that left a single other reason for a command performance. She got off the elevator on the top floor and stood waiting while Carrie announced her presence. Mrs. Bloomfield actually came out to her office doorway to usher her in. It was worse than she thought.

"Sue, I wanted to talk to you first, and I'll come right to the point. Willie Chase seems to have turned over a new leaf."

Is she kidding?

"He's been simply a model of a hard working newsman. Vivian Majors just can't say enough about him."

I'll bet she can't

"As much as I hate to break up a team that works so beautifully together, I feel that I have to consider doing so."

"Why is that, Mrs. Bloomfield?"

"It's been so long since we've had a big story to print. Your series on the murders was the last and that was months ago. When Willie was on the City Desk, we had big stories almost once a month. It's something he is really good at doing."

'Cause he lies like a rug!

"Take your research for example; maybe if you filled him in on it he could suggest ways to turn it into a story a lot sooner. You do seem to be making so little progress."

God! It was worse than a reprimand! This was disaster in the making!

"What do you think, Sue?"

"Mrs. Bloomfield, please let me say this very slowly and deliberately so that there is no possibility of misunderstanding. If you do bring Willie Chase back, I will, at the first time he says a word to me, about anything including the weather, turn in my resignation, effective immediately."

"Sue! I realize that you two have had some differences, but don't you think that reaction is a little extreme?"

"Mrs. Bloomfield, if you had to put up with the domineering, lecherous, sexist bastard for as long as I and every other woman on the floor have, you wouldn't think my reaction extreme at all."

"But, Vivian Majors has only good things to say about him."

"She also has the extreme bad taste to be sleeping with him."

"Vivian and Willie! Why, that's preposterous! I can't even imagine Vivian sharing tea, let alone her bed, with that ingratiating bore!"

"See? And, you want to palm him off on us again?"

Mrs. Bloomfield turned quite red.

"Alright Sue, I'll think on it for a time. I do hope that your research comes to fruition sometime soon."

Back at her desk, Sue fumbled with the touch pad several times before finally getting the number right.

"Vince? Sue Hill. Listen, I hope the four of you are over your snit. I just got the word: produce, or else. You know what that means? It means that either I start publishing the story as is, or we start making headway. I'm not going to be any good to you if I'm out of a job."

"Yes Sue, it is time we got together again. We've, I've been childish. The stakes are much too high to let personal feelings interfere. I'll call the others, and let you know when we can get together. I hope that you don't have to publish prematurely, Sue. You will need some sort of proof to be taken seriously."

"I know Vince, I'll be waiting to hear from you."

The group reconvened four days later. Again, the Carthaughs had rented a suite in the downtown area. Their new relationship with the Michaelsons was obvious. That couple had made separate arrangements for accommodations. The gathering was off to a bad start, even with Vince's intentions to let bygones be bygones. Sue knew that she had to do something to bring them back together.

"Vince! Come on, lighten up! Our two mind readers here are really pretty good people. Look at me, because of them I'm a lot better off than I've been in years. Why, I even went out on a date last week!"

Dorothy, Kim and Tim all smiled at her. Only Vince continued to stare at his knees, and when he did speak it was with a voice so low that she had to strain to make out the words.

"I treated them like my own kids. I loved them like my own kids. In return, they treated me like a stranger. Was that right?"

Sue might have expected it of Kim, but somehow Tim's reaction caught her by surprise. He went to Vince and sat on the floor in front of the older man. Taking his limp hands in his own, he stared into his face until Vince raised his eyes to meet the intent gaze.

"Vince, I was wrong. Even Kim's Dad didn't know about it. I got to the point where the special thing that Kim and I have was the most important part of my life. It was a very private part of us, and we only showed Sue because she was going to leave the hunt and we need her. Now, I know that I was selfish, and what Kim and I share makes us different, but I should have trusted you enough to know it wouldn't change your feelings for us. Please, forgive me."

Dorothy had always known that their childless marriage had been a source of silent suffering for Vince. She hadn't particularly felt the lack of kids running about, but Vince's sterility bothered him enormously. As she watched her husband of thirty years tearfully embrace the son he'd never had before, she knew that she'd underestimated the void in his life. She looked at Kim, who also had a tear-streaked face, and before she knew it they were locked in an embrace every bit as intense.

Sue could only watch and smile. She'd always been fond of Dorothy and Vince, and ever since sharing her mind with Tim and Kim, the Michaelsons hadn't seemed so bad either. She let them have a few minutes together, and then called all four back to a task none of them really wanted to tackle.

"Alright, you four, let's get down to business. First, I finally have something solid from Gail. Miss, never married, Amy Faber is a bit of a weirdo. Regularly attends séances, supposedly to touch base with a departed but not forgotten, fiancée. She holds down a job at a bank, in charge of business loans, no less. She has very few close friends, and doted on her nephew. The séance business has been kept quiet, so she is viewed as a respectable member of her community. She's already filed for guardianship over the boy, and Gail thinks she should get it, no trouble.

As far as the other kids, ten are now wards of the state, in foster homes. Forget any possibility of convincing Ma Colorado that they need exploratory surgery. Out of the remaining three, two have been given over the guardians in other states. The last one, the one we only suspect exists, we haven't been able to find. I'd say that our choices are very limited."

"Sure sounds like it," Vince said, "I hate to take advantage of an emotional situation, but maybe Amy Faber is the kind that can be, ah..."

"Manipulated." Dorothy finished for him.

"Maybe we can help there."

Sue looked up in surprise.

"Kim, you guys have been so ethical about the use of your abilities. Are you saying that you'd attempt to influence this woman's thinking?"

"We have held to very strict rules," Tim replied, "even between ourselves. No invitation, no entrance. Things are getting to the critical stage, and if we don't make some progress soon, the monster will win. That can't be allowed to happen. Perhaps we will pay dearly for breaking our rules, but we think it necessary."

"Again," Sue said. "I remember very clearly, three other instances in which you previously strayed from your rules."

"Three?" Tim was clearly confused.

"Yes. The first time was in the bar when we first met and the last time we all remember very well. The second time was in the car driving back from Ft. Collins."

"That was me." Kim said, quietly.

"You can do that, Kim? Without me?"

"Can we get back on track?" Sue said. "OK, so you two can manage to convince Amy Faber to have her nephew cut open. Fine. Except she won't be getting control over the boy for weeks yet. How about the hunt for Tzetzlan?"

"Who?" Dorothy and Vince said, in unison.

They'd been hanging on to the conversation, just barely, up to that point, but the strange sounding name was a bit too much. Everything had to come to a halt while Tim explained what Tzetzlan meant. Vince and Dorothy had a hard time with the implications. Up until that moment, they'd thought that they had been tracking an animal which had a fair amount of animal cunning, but animals don't give themselves names. That required more intelligence than 'Fetch, Rover'. If they really were hunting an intelligent adversary, the danger rose exponentially. For the first time, Sue thought that she detected a hint of reluctance in Vince's words.

"Jeeze, I wish you'd told us about this a long time ago, Tim. Maybe we could have done things differently. How intelligent is this Tzetzlan? Does he or she know that we're after him? Her? Which is it, anyhow?"

"I don't know," Tim admitted, "but when I think of it, it's a he, but males don't implant the young in a host. Females do."

"It's hermaphroditic," Sue offered, "call it, 'IT'"

"Alright, but is 'IT' intelligent enough to figure out that somebody is looking for 'IT'?"

Tim could only shrug.

"I don't know. I don't think so, but I don't know why I think that."

"Terrific."

There was a long pause while everyone absorbed the possible consequences arising from the new information. Sue resumed speaking first,

"So what we've got is a hermaphroditic, blood thirsty, mind-invading, egg-laying, possibly super-intelligent alien to find. Where do we go from there?"

There were lots of blank stares, but no answers.

"This is getting us exactly nowhere. Let's back up. Where is the last place we know this Tzetzlan was?"

"The Faber place, of course. Come on, Sue, you've been keeping track of new reports about strange or unexplained murders. Have there been any since the Fabers'?"

"No, the closest was an accidental death about twenty miles north of Boulder about ten days ago."

"Oh? Any chance it may not have been an accident? Any kids involved?"

"Second question, yes. A thirteen year old girl."

"A little old. Most of the others have been ten or younger. Any injuries to the girl?"

"Not according to the medical report. Just severe mental anguish. The victim was the girl's father. Mother already dead."

"Doesn't sound likely, then."

"Nope, and it's even less likely when you consider the unofficial version. According to that, the guy committed suicide with a shotgun."

"I guess that takes care of it then. I can't imagine our monster using a shotgun. So, where do we look? A line between the last two killings we are certain of, leads back into the mountains. Do we look there?"

"No. Even if Tzetzlan did head for the hills, we'd never find it. We found out the hard way last time. I still think it's headed for Denver. I don't know why it has stopped its killing spree, but I really believe it will show up where the biggest mass of people are."

"Prey."

"What did you say, Tim?"

"Prey. That's how it thinks of us. We're its prey."

"Another bit of memory?" Asked Dorothy.

"Yes, for some reason I'm remembering more and more of that time in the cave. Just then, I had a weird recollection of the monster's thoughts as it overpowered my mind."

"I shared his memory," said Kim, "it was awful."

She had a pale and sickened look on her face, and had moved away from Tim ever so slightly, as if to insulate herself.

Vince and Dorothy didn't know what to say. It was hard to imagine, with so little experience, just how deeply such a mental invasion could affect one's mind.

Sue was on a different track altogether; she wasn't insensitive to Tim's difficulties, but this was now, and today's needs were real and required relief.

"Tim?"

"Yes, Sue?"

"Tim, you had no trouble finding me in a heavily populated area. If you remember Tzetzlan so well, what's to keep you from finding 'IT'?"

Tim's face drained of color. He had obvious difficulty in finding an answer.

"You have no idea what you are asking."

"Probably not. Why don't you explain it to me?"

"If I searched for Tzetzlan, and found it, it would know of the contact. It would track back until it had found me!"

"When you were lying helpless on the operating table, the offspring ignored you. Everyone else in the room it attacked, or rather had the doctor attack. Why did it leave you alone?"

"Why? Because I was nothing then but a lump of flesh. My mind was blocked, and it could gain nothing from me."

"Have you lost the ability to block your mind?"

"Of course not, oh..."

"Is there another reason you don't want to search for Tzetzlan with your mind?"

"Alright Sue! I admit it, I'm a coward! Once in a lifetime is enough. Please don't ask it of me."

"Maybe I can try."

Kim's quiet voice caught everyone by surprise, especially Tim. It was hard to imagine how, but he turned even paler.

"No, Kim! No! No! No! You don't know how to block. Tzetzlan would rip you to pieces. No! I forbid it!"

"Tim, we've been truly as one for many years, but sometimes I feel submerged in you and no longer does Kim Burton exist. Now she is just half of Tim. But, I guess I have a little spark left. You can't forbid me, Tim. If it means that I have to stand by and watch others fall to that thing, I won't be half of you anymore. I'll go back to being just me."

The pain in their eyes was evident to the other three in the room. Sue felt guilty at having brought it about, but at the same time knew that the Michaelsons offered the only possible answer. One or the other of them would have to take the chance.

"I.... we have to think about this. What you ask wouldn't be easy for either of us, but for Kim it would be extremely dangerous. Please give us time. Until tomorrow night, at least."

Kim and Tim retired to the room which Vince and Dorothy had insisted they use, just like old times. Sue looked at Vince and then Dorothy, preparing to bid them good night. Dorothy had a worried look about her. Obviously, the idea that her young charges could be put in danger did not sit well with her. Vince's eyes were smoldering.

"Where do you get off asking either one of those kids to put their lives on the line? Hasn't Tim suffered enough because of that creature? How about Kim? She lost her father to the thing. Haven't they both been hurt enough already?"

"Come on, Vince. I don't want to see either one of them hurt. If there was another way, I wouldn't have made the suggestion. Hell, if I could do it, I would! I can't, but they can. How about all those other people who might get ripped apart if Tzetzlan isn't stopped? Don't they deserve a life, too? You guys have been chasing Tzetzlan for years. What were you going to do if you found it? Take pictures and run?"

Vince lowered his eyes to the floor.

"You're right Sue, of course you are. I've just found him, and you don't know how much he, no both of them mean to me. I don't want to lose them."

Sue left then. Dorothy was holding the graying, rough-looking man like a child. It wasn't going to be easy for anyone from here on out. She'd get her way, but she wasn't happy about it.

As it turned out, the next evening's gathering brought some surprises. Tim agreed, but with conditions, and though everyone agreed to them, their implementation took some time.
Chapter 31

The offspring were flourishing, and Tzetzlan could distinguish each one of them. Too many to count. Many, many offspring. This world would soon know new masters. Once freed of their hosts, the offspring would unite to bring these new people down to their proper place. As prey. Already, many of the older offspring were feeding, learning how to use their hosts to best advantage. One was advanced enough to go beyond its host, feeding from other prey nearby. This world was far better for its kind than the home world where over population limited hunting ranges and prey were developing natural protections against predation. Here, the prey were totally unprepared to face the danger, and Tzetzlan had visited enough minds to know that they considered themselves above all other life forms. So much the better, when they fell it was with bewilderment and denial, spices that added to the emotional bouquet of the feeding.

The sun was nearly above the horizon, and Tzetzlan had found a large burrow in soft earth. It was a tight fit, but it would do. As usual, it opened to the thoughts of its offspring. Greeting each one by recognition of its mental signature. Even the most distant of them signaled strongly. The oldest of them forced its siblings into the background. That was as it should be; the strongest should command the weaker. It pushed into Tzetzlan's mind, demanding to the taught. All was well, and the terrible daylight hours passed as if they were but heartbeats of the prey.

During the following nights, Tzetzlan moved steadily towards its goal. It had been very difficult to plan so far ahead, but it had been necessary. This plan required one thing even more important than feeding. It required that a deep, dark place be found for a long hibernation, which time was very near. The stress of procreation had exhausted Tzetzlan, and the various injuries sustained had taken their toll. No longer could it glide, both wing membranes hung in useless shriveled tatters. The deep gashes that had been inflicted on the softer parts of its body had not healed properly. Its body mass was dangerously low, and as soon as the hibernation place was found it would need to feed often, and well.

Tzetzlan had been lucky when passing through the Denver area the first time, and had come upon a segment of the city's original sewer system. Most of that extensive underground network was long abandoned and forgotten. Even though an entrepreneur had found it chic to open his small business in one easily accessible section, there were thousands of feet left in darkness, blocked and mostly inaccessible. Tzetzlan spent many nights searching this artificial cavern, looking for just the right place, ideally suited to its needs. It returned now to that place, and settled in, preparing for many nights of hunting on the streets above.

The first night out on the city was nearly a disaster. Few if any of the prey were out on the streets unprotected. The ones that were out went around encased in the metal things that traveled at very high speed. Tzetzlan had seen them often on the trip just completed, but never head-on with artificial light blazing in its eyes. It was a near miss, the drunken driver swerving to avoid the incredibly ugly and misshapen dog in the street. The horn blast as the car literally skimmed Tzetzlan's arm was shocking, and there had not been enough time to try and reach the occupant. It was left only with rapidly dissipating and disjointed fragments from the prey's mind.

Tzetzlan quickly found quieter and darker pathways, and spent the remainder of that night wandering up and down the Sixteenth Street Mall. The only prey in sight were already dead, encased in glass, with eyes staring blindly out onto the night. Each time the lights of a patrol car would sweep the deserted shopping area, Tzetzlan would scurry for cover, not strong enough now two handle two prey at the same time. The second night was a good deal more successful. Tzetzlan found the skid row section north of Larimer Square, and discovered prey in great number there, laying in open doorways or amongst boxes and cans in alleyways.Returning to its lair after the third successful night, it found an open balcony window above an easily scaled rough wall. The well-to-do family within were dispatched one after another. The silence had been broken only by the five successive death strikes as each of the prey in turn had been brought to the height of nightmarish fear. Resuming its journey to the lair, Tzetzlan felt something brush its mind. One of the offspring? No, the feeling was entirely wrong, but there was a vague familiarity about it. Something from many, many seasons past. It waited for the contact to resume, to get a fix on its source, but nothing came until just before dawn as Tzetzlan was slipping into dormancy. Then it was back, but not a glancing thing this time, it settled in and began gathering the knowledge uppermost in Tzetzlan's mind. It still did not know the source of the strange invading presence, and was being prevented from tracing it back to source. Its last conscious thought before succumbing to dormancy, was colored by mixed confusion and anger. How was it possible that some creature could come unbidden to its thoughts? Only the offspring had been capable of it up until now.

"Got it!"

Tim was exuberant. He hadn't actually expected to succeed. Just recalling the feel, and the terror, of his previous contact with the monster was nearly enough to hamper his abilities. He had been as surprised as Tzetzlan by the first, brief encounter, but had recognized the thing's mind immediately. There was nothing in the natural world that came close to it. He'd held off making more substantial contact until sunrise. Everything possible had been done to prevent the creature from retaliating in some fashion, and it had worked beautifully. The beast had gone dormant just after Tim had gained firm contact, and he was firmly latched on now, gathering up memories and perceptions.

It was the beginning of a long and terrible day for Tim, and then for Kim. As the two adepts in the group, they had the principal responsibility for hunting the thing down. The other three could only watch and offer encouragement, their talents being very rudimentary even after the intense training sessions. Progress was being made, especially by Sue, but it would take more time before any of the others could actually use their new talents to effect. And, some expertise was required to do this task of raiding the monster's mind for clues as to its whereabouts.

Tzetzlan's mind was like a sponge, many interconnected passageways, but an equal number of that led nowhere at all. It was difficult to understand how the creature ever managed to think rationally. There were no straight lines possible in its mind. Always, one followed a memory for a distance only to have it end in midstream. Then, by moving 'sideways' for a space, one might come upon the continuation of the memory unexpectedly. It was all very confusing and terrifying. Tzetzlan's memories were vivid and lifelike, and between them, Kim and Tim witnessed the murders of hundreds of humans, some in modern dress, others wearing garb that might be appropriate for the tropics. Kim, especially, was taking a chance, because if she should stumble onto the murder of her father, it would be more than she could survive intact.

By the end of the day, it was time to vacate the creature's mind. They dared not remain when it came to full consciousness after dormancy. There was no way of knowing just how it would react, or what it was capable of doing. Long before sundown, they were free of it. Everyone took a break during the early evening hours, waiting in the fear that the creature would, despite precautions, manage to trace them home. Tim and Kim took brief naps, but were up and ready at nine o'clock. Vince called it a debriefing session, but although remembering the details was not particularly difficult, putting them into some sort of order was impossible.

"It's a tunnel or passageway," Tim said, "the walls curve up to meet the arc of the ceiling There's a strange pattern, like brickwork, only the pieces are larger than ordinary bricks."

"It was wet there once," Kim added, "but now it's dry. Dark stains on the wall and soft dirt on the floor, like dried mud. It passed openings on the way in. One led off to the left, and one went straight up."

"How did it get in?" Dorothy asked.

"I haven't seen that yet."

"Nor I."

"How can you see so much detail?" Dorothy asked. "It must be absolutely black in there."

"Tzetzlan's eyes are made for utter darkness. Remember how I said they glowed orange? I don't know, but I think it possible that it's able to generate some sort of radiant energy. It probably 'sees' way down in the infrared anyway. Maybe temperature differences are just as important as radiant light. Whatever, the details are as clear in its mind as if they were seen by any of us at high noon."

"Hmm. So, what else is there to say about the Beastie, tonight?"

"Unless you want detailed descriptions of parts of several murders, probably not much. Getting around in that jumble is really difficult. You can't just go look for what you want. It's going to be a matter of luck, getting the information that we need."

"Will Tzetzlan run, now that it knows something is on its trail? Are you going to have to go looking for it every time?"

"Not unless it can block its mind, and I don't think it can. It's never been in a position like this before. It doesn't understand what's going on, but it won't try to hide."

"OK." Vince broke in. "You two better get some food and then more sleep. The day starts early again tomorrow. Sunrise at 5:47."

"Right you are. Sue, anything new on Amy Faber?"

"Oh, yeah! Glad you mentioned it, Kim. Amy has been formally awarded guardianship of her nephew. As you know, he's been living with her for nearly two weeks now. I think that it's time to move on that front also."

"Good!"

Vince had always put more faith in producing one of the offspring than in producing the parent.

"For now, that task is up to you, Sue. Do you need anything at the moment?"

"No, I'm all set. This should be right up my alley. Convincing a sensitive, no doubt overwrought, first-time guardian, first-time parent of a boy already ten years old, that an alien monster has impregnated him. Sure you don't want to do it?"

"No thanks. Like you said, it's right up your alley."

Tzetzlan woke slowly. It had been a troubled dormancy. Mixtures of memories from all through time had come unbidden together in a mélange. It had been like what the people called dreaming. Tzetzlan had never dreamed before. It was a new thing. Nothing had ever come into its mind before to waken such jumbles of memories. Tzetzlan searched its mind, looking for signs of intrusion. Whatever had come had once again gone, and there was no trace of the strange presence. To a being with a higher degree of sentience, it might have brought a troubling portent of disaster. To Tzetzlan, when no explanations came immediately to the fore, it was something to be pushed aside.

The time was approaching when the reserves of emotional and material sustenance would be large enough to begin a long dormancy. As the first time, it would await the maturation of the offspring; this time many, many offspring. Its waking mind was crowded with their insistence for attention. Even now, though they were barely begun, each was clamoring for information about the world they were being born to, and most of all, how to hunt. That was good. They were all healthy, and developing rapidly. After the long sleep, they would emerge to join Tzetzlan. Not much remained of the hatred and indignation that the death of the first offspring had engendered. The lack of straight lines in Tzetzlan's mind caused the submergence of past events quite quickly. Along with recognizing cause and effect, inductive reasoning was not a strong suit for the thing, and it would never be capable of learning from mistakes if they occurred more than a few nights past.

Enough memory remained that it knew tonight's hunt would be good. A place had been found where a number of young prey gathered. Tzetzlan had observed them for a time. It could not understand why, but although the young ones had begun as typical prey something changed in them. They became mentally disrupted, susceptible to gross distortions of memory and thought, perfect for harvesting. Even if Tzetzlan had known of drugs, the idea that a non-living substance that could be used to do the job of hunting would have been beyond comprehension.
Chapter 32

Bobby and Carl had been the first ones in, but that was expected because they had the connection. They also knew how to make the Steam. As they worked in silence, getting the pots ready, they heard some of the others gathering outside in the hall. No one could come in until they were all present. That's just etiquette, Carl thought, no one wanted to be the last to hook up, the idea was to do it together. Soon, it was ready to go and Bobby stuck his head out of the door to see if everyone was there. Then he opened the door half way and let them in one at a time, collecting twenty bucks a head as they passed by. Steam was nice, but it was also expensive. Enough to do twenty people cost almost two hundred, and the other two were profit. Steaming was getting to be risky business, after all. When the new drug had first appeared, no one gave it much attention. Somehow, inhaling vapors of a mixture of common weeds and a few easily obtained chemicals seemed innocuous when compared to crack and H. That was before anyone realized what those vapors were capable of doing. They lifted you up into a dream world and kept you there for hours. After all the dregs had boiled away, you came down softly. No hangover, no weird personality, no damage to your body or your brain, you just came back to reality. That was the hard part. Nobody cared much for teenage reality. So, you went up again as soon as you could. Steaming wasn't physically addictive, but it threw a big hook in your mind and reeled you in.

Now, eighteen months after Steaming had become popular, they were starting to talk about laws against it. They were having trouble though because none of the ingredients was controlled. That didn't stop them from hassling kids at Steamer Parties, and the parties had gone underground. Trying to convince a teen that something he likes is bad, is tough enough. Trying to force him to quit, is even harder. So, semi-public parties in the Rec room while the parents were away transitioned to private parties in 'Safe' houses that were organized by the entrepreneurs amongst them. Then, suddenly, there was a major price increase for one of the key ingredients. Where enforcement had failed, economics succeeded, and parties became too expensive to hold more than once, or maybe twice, a week. Deaths by starvation dropped off markedly.

All of this was just fine with Bobby. He liked Steaming as much as anyone, but he didn't need to be in a constant dream state. Most of the time, he stayed on the fringe of the parties they organized catching only a whiff of the aromatic mixture. Just enough to feel good. Besides, he and Carl had a deal that one of them would always stay outside the circle. Just in case, you know. If everyone was Steamed, any random intruder could walk in and rip them off. But, tonight he would indulge, and Carl could stand watch for a change.

At seven-thirty sharp, the door was closed and the eighteen or so bodies were arranged in groups of four or five around the pots hanging over the alcohol burners. Nothing mystical about that, it was too crowded if you tried to stuff in more bodies around the small pots. Most of them lay face down of the chaise lounges that Bobby and Carl provided, with their heads pointed inward toward the pots. A few purists sat in some sort of cross-legged meditation posture. Bobby thought they were crazy; sitting like that for six hours straight was too hard on his ass. He moved on to his own specially padded chase lounge and got comfortable. Carl began to put the pots on the fires, and in the still atmosphere of the condemned building's storage room the vapors rose steadily to infuse the air around each group.

Carl finished his duties, and went to the stool by the door. Everyone was here, the door was closed and the small fan atop the nearby table was spinning. After a while, the whole room would be heavy with vapor, and he'd have to go and wait outside. For a while, the fan kept the air around him clear, but sooner than he expected he found himself drifting. He wondered then if there had been a mistake in measuring, because the air was already thick with Steam, or so it seemed. It was a little different than usual, kind of like an itch in his head. He caught himself drifting off into a dream that seemed like it would involve the blonde in the group nearest his stool. He got up and shook his head. Not that a dream like that would be bad, but Bobby would be mad as hell if he didn't take care of business. He looked around the room once more, and quietly opened the door, carrying his stool out into the dark corridor.

Boredom set in almost immediately, it was all he could do to sit still for a half an hour, then he got up and began to pace up and down the hallway. After a time, it became a mechanical march, up, about face, and down. Up, about face, and down. Over and over. On the thirteenth or fourteenth trip back towards the stool, Carl saw a shadowy form waiting for him. His pulse quickened. An intruder? As he got closer, he saw that it was the blonde. Alright! The girl was out for a little real excitement. He hoped that she just wasn't going to ask for directions to the ladies room. He closed the distance up to a few inches in front of her magnificent breasts, and waited for her to speak. He had nearly an overpowering urge to reach out and stroke them. Later. She didn't move. Didn't even make a sound. Carl stood there waiting, didn't know what to do, or what not to do. His mind was working overtime, though. As if in response to his racing imagination, she reached down with a motion that seemed unnatural, grabbed hold of the bottom edges of her sweater, and pulled it over her head.

Carl's heart leapt, and he felt himself stiffen in the confines of his jeans. He expected to see a broad expanse of belly rising upward into two mounds of rose-tipped flesh. Instead, there was nothing but dull blackness. He didn't understand. The blond was unzipping her jeans and letting them slip down her white, rounded thighs...except, they weren't white. Just more dull, hard looking blackness ending in ridiculous looking stumpy legs. He backed up and hit the wall next to the door, and he tried to reach for the doorknob to escape from what was becoming something not-so-good.

As the door began to open, he saw the blonde's head, perched upon a grotesque ebony body, turn to follow his movement. She reached up an arm that ended in three curved talons, and took off her hair. Only a gleaming black, bald pate remained. Carl looked at her face then, and it smiled at him. A sick, hungry smile. He wanted to turn and run, but he couldn't. Somehow, the blonde's arm had risen all the way up to his neck and the talons were grasping it in a gentle embrace. She kept on smiling as her free arm reached up and peeled off her face. Carl had a choice of fainting or screaming. He chose the latter.

Denver-Boulder Herald

Denver, Colorado

Parents of teenagers involved in the rapidly growing Steamer Cults,

and other opponents of the new drug craze, had something new to be

outraged about this morning. Twenty young men and women, all

between the ages of fifteen and twenty, were found dead, surrounded

by Steamer paraphernalia, in an abandoned office building on 18th

Street.

The Press was not allowed in the death room, but even seasoned police

officers were seen to be visibly shaken upon their exit from the building.

None of the victims have been identified, and details are sketchy. The

discoverer of the gristly scene is under protective custody and undergoing

support therapy. However, secondary sources relate conditions so bizarre

as to be hardly believable.

This newspaper, while realizing that these tales will be propagated widely

by other elements of the media, recognizes its responsibility toward the

preservation of proper social conduct, and will not succumb to printing

such vile nonsense. When substantial details have been released by the

proper authorities, we will of course provide them to you, our readers.

Tzetzlan was sated. The feeding had been overwhelming, and there was literally no room for more. It was as if the prey had gathered like the jungle people of the past, to offer up the best of their young. Where the maidens of the jungle folk had been pleasant tidbits, these young of the new people had been a feast. Tzetzlan felt the strength within bursting its bounds, there would be no trouble now lasting through the long dormancy until the offspring emerged. There was enough energy to spare for all of the offspring to tap into, all the many, many of them. Tzetzlan moved farther back into the abandoned sewer system to the hidden alcove that had once been a branch into the main line, but had been recognized as an error in judgment nearly as soon as it had been built. There, on a ledge well off the floor, Tzetzlan sank into an ever deepening state of rest. Much deeper than the usual daytime sleep, it was a condition that could last for years, or even decades.
Chapter 33

Tim came out of his trance-like state only moments after he had begun.

"I've lost Tzetzlan."

"What do you mean 'lost', Tim?" Vince said.

Tim's panic was obvious to all of them.

"Just that. I had it for a moment. Tzetzlan was climbing back through that brick lined corridor, but early. It was too soon. Then it just shut down and went blank. I can't find it."

"Dead? Did it die, Tim?"

"Nuh-uh, didn't feel like that. Tzetzlan just shut down. Stopped sending signals all of a sudden. Disappeared."

There was a long pause.

"It did something terrible last night."

No one in the room wanted to ask, but it was Sue that couldn't resist knowing.

"What?"

"Kids. Lots of them. I saw images, real fresh images. Blood everywhere. One blonde girl, a big good–looking kid. She was just sitting there, like in a trance with a smile on her face. And, her expression changed to sadness, then to fear, and then a claw reached out and ripped through her face exposing bone from forehead to jaw. The thing just watched her run around falling over chairs, and...and bodies."

Tim doubled up as if his stomach was bursting.

"Terrible."

Sue went to the desk and made a call. When she returned to the group, she had a pale, pasty complexion.

"It's at the desk already. Last night twenty kids on a Steamer Party were killed. They aren't printing the details. They don't believe it yet. The City Editor said that it was too gruesome to believe. He said that there were..."

Sue gagged on rising bile. Choking it back down, she continued.

"Said that several of them were supposed to have been torn open with their insides strewn all over the floor. God."

"What does it mean, Tim?"

Dorothy sensed that something different was happening.

"What is Tzetzlan doing?"

"I'm not sure, but I think maybe it's going to ground. After it planted its spawn in me it didn't do anything we know about for nearly eight years. When the thing inside me got big enough to survive on its own, that's when it started moving. Maybe it's finished making babies, and now it's going to sleep until they are ready to come out."

"It can't do that!"

Vince rose from his chair.

"We can't let it do that! If we lose it for eight years, those kids it implanted are just going to be even more endangered. What happens if several of those things are running around? We have enough trouble trying to track down just one?"

"Maybe before then, others will take notice."

Dorothy looked as if she didn't believe what she was saying.

"I mean, you can't have fifteen kids swell up and give birth to monsters without someone taking notice."

"Oh yeah? How about Tim? Only one witness survived that birth, and nobody believed him. Why should it be any different this time?"

"Because there are more of them."

"You want to take a chance on that?"

"No! Of course not, but what can we do if we've lost the Beastie?"

"Well," said Vince, "I'll tell you one thing we've been procrastinating about. Sue, how about Amy Faber and her nephew? Have we made any progress in getting to know her better?"

Sue hesitated before answering, she was still a bit queasy and wasn't sure that she wanted to discuss anything even slightly upsetting. She decided that there wasn't any choice.

"Vince, I haven't said much about Amy Faber lately, but I have been following up. Actually, I wasn't sure that you would approve of my methods."

"What do you mean, Sue?"

"I, ah, put a Seer on the payroll."

"Huh?"

"I knew this was going to be tough to explain. Listen. Remember Gail's first report? About how Amy was a respected business woman, but had one or two idiosyncrasies?"

"Sure, but..., Oh oh. What exactly are you trying to tell us, Sue? Let's cut through all the bullshit and get right to the heart of the matter."

"Yes, well..." She cleared her throat, "it seemed to me that if Amy was so firmly convinced that the Other Side had all of the answers, why not let them do the convincing? So, I have this acquaintance who has this friend, who knew about this really believable Medium who operates out in Westminister. It wasn't difficult. Hardly any effort at all. I guess you might say that Amy Faber has a new spiritual advisor now. We just filled Madam Zellinski up with a bunch of personal information about Amy and her brother, and then let her do her thing."

There was a dead silence in the room for nearly a full minute before Vince's booming laughter seemed to shake the walls. Dorothy was the first to join in and after a short delay even Tim's and Kim's wounded senses of propriety caved-in under the onslaught.Sue was left to smile in a bemused fashion, but even she couldn't resist the infectious laughter for long.

Vince was gasping for breath and wiping tears from his eyes when Dorothy had composed herself sufficiently to speak again. It felt good to get away from the horror they had learned of so recently.

"So, you conned the broad. Where do we stand? Jeez, I know that I shouldn't find it so funny, but I can't help it. Come on Sue, What's going on now?"

"Tomorrow night is the test."

"Yeah? What happens then?"

"Amy's brother taps out a message that he's discovered, from his sources on the other side, that his Son has an undiagnosed cancer. She has to take him in for evaluation, including x-rays."

"And, that will do it?"

"You bet. Even if it's smaller than a match head, they'll find it and want to know what it is. If we can get her that far, the boy might have a chance."

"So, when do you hear from Madam What's-her-name?"

"Zellinski. Tonight about ten o'clock."

"OK, tell you what. I think that we all need a little diversion about now. Dorothy and I discovered a little known gem of Denver culture last week. Dinner is on us tonight, and afterwards we'll wait together to hear from Madam Z."

They pulled up into a driveway flanked by a brick paved sidewalk leading up to a pair of large chrome and glass doors. The only indication that the doors actually led anywhere was in a small sign in neon script in pink lettering. 'Xavier's', was all that was written. As soon as they came to a full stop, a valet appeared from nowhere and handed Vince a claim check. As the limo was taken off to a screened parking area, there was little choice but to follow Vince and Dorothy through the doors and down a long stairway.

At the bottom, Sue whistled appreciatively.It wasn't a place that she would have found on her salary. The entrance had belied the richly decorated foyer she found herself standing in. A curtained archway beckoned them farther into the mysterious underground. The Maître d' knew his business, hesitating just long enough to let the anticipation build before parting the curtains and offering them entry into the hidden interior.

The brickwork was obviously old. No one did work like that anymore. The walls arched up and over their heads to meet in a series of perfectly aligned keystone blocks. As if designed to go with the brickwork from the start, massive mahogany tables lined either wall at distance guaranteed to insure privacy to the patrons. Decorations were minimal, but what decorations they were. A crystal vase here, an original oil painting there, a few gold plated knickknacks scattered around on small teak tables standing beneath rich tapestries, all in all very sumptuous surroundings. Somewhat overwhelmed, Sue, Kim and Tim followed Vince and Dorothy to the large table in an isolated alcove festooned by royal purple wall hangings and a large bouquet of white carnations. Seated between Tim and Vince, Sue managed to leave off examining the surroundings long enough to catch the glint of amusement in Vince's eyes.

"What is the place? I've lived in Denver for six years and didn't have a clue about it."

"Oh, it's been here for quite a while. Vince and I discovered it quite by accident. Last visit, we spent a long time talking to the Maître d', Henri. His real name is Hank Goetz, but don't let on that you know. Xavier's isn't exactly a fast food joint, but as you can see, it doesn't lack for customers. Especially the well-heeled kind. They don't depend on volume here, believe me. Sometimes, it's really a kick being rich."

Cocktails came and the obsequious waiter took the order from Vince with clear approval of the selections. Vince was enjoying playing the host at the gathering so much that Sue held back on her impatience with being told what she was going to eat. In truth, the constant chatter from Dorothy and Vince about the history of the restaurateur and his clientele kept her enthralled until the salads arrived. Romaine and delicate Buttercrunch under Mandarin Orange sections with a sesame-honey-soy dressing. Anywhere else, and she would have wondered if she could eat such a concoction, but here it looked not only appetizing, but positively artistic. One taste was enough to convince her that the salad chef, at any rate, was a genius.

Corse followed course, each more delicious than the last until Sue thought that she must certainly succumb to over-gracious living. The Baked Alaska at the end was nearly more than she could take, but not quite. Frozen in place, with a brandied coffee in front of her, she had a momentary desire to die happily then and there. Surely nothing could compare to the last two hours, unless it was to be there with someone she loved. Suddenly impatient with the thought, she shook her head and paid more attention to her companions. The Carthaughs were holding hands and flirting with each other. Nothing new there, she was used to outward signs of affection between the two of them.

Tim and Kim had been exceptionally quiet all night. Neither of them had seemed to notice the food. Even the spectacular Beef Wellington hadn't brought them fully in touch with the meal. She couldn't stand it any longer, and turned in her chair to start a conversation with them, no matter how inane it might be. She found them both to be staring with rapt attention at the brickwork. She gave up the idea of idle chatter with a pair of statues, and turned back to Dorothy.

"Sue! I'm sorry! We've been ignoring you. This ape man has strange and mystical powers over me, especially after a gourmet meal."

Vince said. "How'd ya like the eats, Kid? Not so bad for a cow town, eh?"

"No, Vince, not bad at all. I'll be two months recovering, thanks." She nodded her head in the direction of Tim and Kim. "What's with the Bobsy Twins here? Not impressed with the finer things in life?"

"Dunno. Watching all that untouched Beef Wellington being carted off the feed the local mongrels tore my heart out. Let's find out. Hey! Tim! Kim! Time to communicate with Earth Base. Where are you?"

Sue was getting that eerie feeling again. Both of them were still staring at that same part of the brickwork in the ceiling. Vince had to nearly reach over and shake them before they paid any notice to what he was saying. Then, when Tim did speak, his words didn't make any sense.

"It's the same. This is the same place where the monster lives."

"What the hell are you talking about, Tim? This is a public restaurant, there aren't any monsters here, unless you count the Maître d', of course."

That seemed to bring the two of them to ground. They looked around, and showed obvious relief at what they saw.

"Sorry Vince, you too Dorothy, Sue. We got lost. This place, what is it?"

"It's a restaurant. See? Tables, waiters, menus, food."

"No, damn it, what was it before?"

Tim's vehemence caught him by surprise.

"I don't know, is it important?"

"Yes!"

"Well then, let's find out."

Vince beckoned to the hovering waiter and asked him to bring Henri to the table. It didn't take long, Xavier's was eager to please.

"Yes, Sir! How may I be of assistance?"

"My friends and I are engaged in a friendly wager, Henri. Only you can determine the winner. Will you assist?"

Henri permitted a smile to deform his lips.

"Of course, Sir. Ask what you will of me."

"We were discussing the beautiful masonry. All of us agree that it is not recent work, but must date from a more craftsman-like era. So, the question naturally arose—what was this place before? When it was new, what purpose did it serve? Now, Timothy here, insists that it must have been the subterranean castle of a reclusive early day miner. Perhaps one who made his fortune in the hills to the west, but preferred to live in town, bringing his mine with him.

I disagree. I think this must have been the wine cellar of an early industrialist. The mansion he once inhabited has since gone to dust, but the cellars remained intact.

So then, Henri, which of us is correct, and which of us will be treating dinner tonight?"

Henri permitted his smile to enlarge sufficiently to involve certain facial muscles. This was too good. Just the sort of people he hated most. Rich, pseudo sophisticated upper class jerks who thought they could replace culture with money. He'd let them have it with both barrels.

"Ah, I am truly sorry, but neither of you has come close. The truth of the matter is that this is one small segment of the former Denver sewer system. In that direction," he pointed toward the entrance, "it led to the Platte River, and in that direction it burrowed under, I'm sorry to say, the lower class neighborhoods of early Denver. Sometimes," he lowered his voice, "if you stand against the far wall of the kitchen, you can perceive, through small cracks in the inferior modern masonry, a certain fetid odor. Gentlemen, I regret that neither of you has won. Instead, both have lost. Nonetheless, I wish you the best of evenings. Have you, by the way, been offered a choice from the desert cart as yet?"

Henri expected a contrite and uncomfortable reply. What he got was quite different.

"No shit! Hey, that's great!"

"Please Sir, the other patrons!"

"What, you don't think they want to know they've been eating in a sewer? Come on, Hank, give 'em a thrill. While you're at it, pass out some chocolate mousse to everyone here. It's on me!"

Henri seemed to disappear into the brickwork. The sudden silence in the room was punctuated by silverware hitting porcelain.

As they left Xavier's, Dorothy was smiling. Tim and Kim looked confused. Only Sue commented.

"Vince, you are terrible. Do you suppose that the waiter has enough sense to keep that hundred in his pocket and just turn in the two dollar tip you left on the table?"

"I dunno. He looked like a smart kid."

They returned to the suite to wait for Gail's call. Not that waiting was a problem. They'd all come to similar conclusions about Tim and Kim having recognized the brickwork, but it was Sue who got the ball rolling.

"Are you two sure that the brickwork is identical?"

"Oh yes," Kim said, "absolutely identical. Wherever that brickwork extends is where we will find Tzetzlan. It's just a matter of finding the rest of the old sewer system."

"How do we do that?" Dorothy wanted to know.

"Shoot, Lover, I can think of three possibilities right off hand that are natural places to start. The library, the City Planner's Office, and the Water Department."

"You forgot the most obvious," Sue said, "the Sewer Department."

"Isn't that the same as water?"

"Not in this town, they like to separate the incoming from the outgoing."

"OK, four places then. Just the right number, one of us to coordinate, and four to investigate."

"Guess who the coordinator is?" Dorothy asked.

"I'm always glad to serve." Vince replied.

By the time Gail's call finally came in, an hour late, they were pouring over a map of Denver. They'd located Xavier's with some difficulty, and were speculating upon how that small, preserved segment might have connected with the rest of the early sewer system. Knowing that it was her call, Sue left the other four as they tried to determine where the system might have emptied into the Platte. She returned to the table twenty minutes later with a smile on her face.

"It worked! Totally and absolutely worked! Amy Faber is going to make an appointment for the boy first thing in the morning. A full, first-class medical evaluation, x-rays, barium enemas, and all."

"Any idea of what Amy is going to tell the doctor to justify all that?"

"You bet. Straight from her brother's ghostly mouth she heard that the boy was wounded in the side and may be showing signs of pain in the area, which he is doing, by the way. Maybe not exactly pain, but some discomfort. According the Madam Zellinski, Amy Faber said that the boy often holds his hand to the area, as if it bothered him."

The group didn't meet after that for four days as it was taking longer than anticipated to gain access to the old records. The library had been a total waste of time, and the City Planner didn't much care for City History, so finally the four of them descended on the two remaining agencies. Tim and Kim faced the bureaucratic morass at the Water Department, where they discovered it would take several clearances to gain access to the files.

Sue and Dorothy were having better luck. They'd stumbled on to a history buff in the Sewer Department who claimed to have a personal library of early public engineering works in Denver. What's more, he was quite susceptible to the combined charms of two females. When Sue called late in the evening, Vince and Dorothy assumed that she'd been working overtime on the sanitation engineer.

"Hi Sue, what's up?"

"Got some news from Gail, Vince. The Faber boy goes under the knife tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh, yeah? How'd that happen so quickly?"

"Gail had spoken to Madam Zellinski just before she called, and discovered that Amy Faber had insisted on an emergency session. Madam Z really had to scramble to get her props together in time."

"Do you mean to say that our Madam Z uses props! I'm shocked!"

"Come on, Vince, this is important. Anyway, Amy Faber tells Madam Z that she needs to contact her departed brother post haste for advice. Naturally, Madam Z sets it up, and naturally she listens in. The doctor, says Amy to her spirit brother, has found a shadow on the boy's x-ray which he feels may be cancerous. He wants to do an exploratory. Does the spirit world concur that it is appropriate. And does the spirit world guarantee the boy's survival?

Naturally, Gail has been listening to the little speaker in her ear and signals Madam Z to arrange a positive response. Amy Faber leaves in a much less agitated frame of mind. Less than an hour later, Madam Z gets a call requesting that she be 'on call' tomorrow between 5 and 9 p.m. Either Amy wants to let her brother know that everything went well or wants to be able to chew him out if it doesn't."

"Great! Where is the surgery scheduled, Sue?"

"Don't know. Is it important?"

"I think we should be there, just in case the surgeon finds something a little too strange to talk about."

"I'll find out and call you in the morning."

Dr. Jeanene Arlington was puzzled and more than a little apprehensive. She sat behind her desk in the darkened room with only a large magnifying glass and lamp combination in use. She'd left the assisting surgeon to close the patient and, taking the specimen tray herself, had rushed out of the operating room before anyone else had gotten a good look. It was obviously an embryo. Not like any embryo she had ever seen before, but it couldn't be anything else. It had given her a sense of dread just to look at it lying in the specimen tray. She hadn't felt the least compunction about stuffing it into a large vial and covering it with formaldehyde.It was certainly a grotesque little bastard. The knock of the door startled her out of her concentration. Cracking the door slightly, she saw her receptionist standing just outside.

"Lupe, I told you I wasn't to be disturbed."

"I know, Dr. Arlington. I'm sorry, but there's a very big and insistent man in the office who demanded that I give you this envelope." She thrust it through the crack in a manner that suggested she wouldn't take it back. "Dr. Arlington? He also said that you must read it immediately."

Dr. Arlington took the envelope back to her desk after relocking the door. She laid it next to the vial under the magnifying lamp. She wasn't sure that she was prepared to put up with any more strangeness in one day. Right now, all she wanted was one of Caesar's neck massages, and maybe a hot shower at the same time. Too much! Maybe she should just flush the thing down the toilet and pretend it had been an odd-shaped blood clot. Tempting. The envelope seemed to push its presence upon her demanding attention. She gave in, and opened it. The message was simple, but horrible.

Dr. Arlington,

The creature you removed from young Faber is not the only one of its kind.

There are others lying in other young bodies. We need your help to find and

expunge them.

Please call.

Vince Carthaugh

555-0739

Tzetzlan stirred restlessly in its dormancy. One of the offspring had ceased to exist, a fragile connection had been torn. The offspring had perished in an abrupt and painful manner. The host must have died, and taken the offspring with it. It was a painful loss, but with so many, many offspring now thriving and growing, it was a small loss.

Tzetzlan sank deeper into dormancy once more, its mind inactive except along the thin threads extending to its progeny. Weeks passed by unnoticed, everything was well with Tzetzlan and its brood. Until one day in late April.

Something was terribly wrong. One by one, the offspring were dying. Torn from their hosts in some manner and plunged into a killing fluid. Some were old enough to transmit the sensations in detail. Tzetzlan struggled to shake off its deep lethargy. Another delicate strand was cut as helplessly, it shared the offspring's submergence into the foul water that killed so swiftly. Even now, Tzetzlan could recognize the beginnings of each death. The host was opened to let light into the dark interior, and with unerring precision another of the offspring was cut from its host. They were too young to fight back effectively.

A great wailing scream welled up in Tzetzlan's mind and exploded outward to all who could perceive it.
Chapter 34

"We have it!" Kim and Tim spoke in unison. "It's closer to Kim than to me. Drive in her direction."

Vince keyed the small transmitter.

"Sue, stay where you are, we're coming in your direction."

He turned to Dorothy, beside him in the front seat.

"Well Lover. Here we go."

He turned his head to address Tim.

"You tuned in, Tim?"

He didn't expect a reply, and got none. He was just nervous over the hunt coming to an end after all those years.

"I still don't understand why those Ninnies in the Police Department wouldn't believe us," said Dorothy, "it just doesn't make any sense. They had a good long look at the Beastie they took out of the Faber boy. They ran all their tests and proved it was made of the same material as the green goo and the Faber place and at Fenster's camp. What more do they want?"

"Don't fret Dorothy. They'll have enough proof to convince even the biggest skeptic any time now. All those vials filled with alien babies floating in formaldehyde ought to be making news very soon now."

"Too late to do us any good. By the time our noble protectors get around to making the connection, Mama Beastie might have been well on its way to new quarters."

"As much as I hate to defend them, you have to admit that parts of our tale might have seemed a bit peculiar. Like when they asked how we were going to find the big one? What kind of answer could we give them? Well, ah, we've got these two people who read minds and they are going to track it down with telepathy as soon as we get it to wake up."

"Still, they could have made some effort."

"They will. Now, they won't have any choice."

"So, we are left to go after a ruthless killer, alone and unprotected."

Vince slapped the holstered .44 under his jacket.

"Not all that unprotected."

Dorothy turned to the window to hide her frightened expression.

"How much help was that to the officer in the Faber house?"

For once, Vince didn't have anything to say.

"Slow down!"

Tim's voice from the back shocked them both. They had forgotten he was there.

"It's about as strong now to me as it is to Kim. Stop here and have them move closer."

They watched as Sue's four by four grew from a small dot in the distance to a recognizable form.

"OK, Kim has a stronger signal now, go ahead and move towards them again."

The vehicles approached at a snail's pace.

"Stop! I'm getting colder, but Kim is still warming up. It's in back of us. Back up. Yes! Keep backing. Here! Stop here, and wait for Kim."

Sue brought the other truck up to nearly touch the grill of Vince's limo.

"Yes, it's the same for both of us. The monster is directly below us."

Vince let out his breath.

"OK Kiddies, let's get out the maps our friend in the Sewer Department let us copy, and look for a way in. If I remember right, this is the one long section he thought had caved-in when the Platte went above flood stage way back when."

Sue and Kim had joined the group looking at the map spread out on the hood of the limo.

"You're right," Sue said, "see here's the X he made at the Platte outlet, and here's the other X where they found the worst of the damage after the flood. We're right here in between."

"Great, now how do we get in?"

"We're even crazy to want to."

Dorothy hadn't quite got over her earlier feeling of impending disaster.

"I know Dorothy, but we have to try. If nothing else, we've got to keep it from moving until reinforcements arrive."

"No." Tim's quiet voice cut the ensuing silence. "We have to kill it. "I have to kill it."

"That's revenge talking, Tim. What we need now is good strategy. What time is it Dorothy?"

"Just after noon. Are you going to give Jose a call now?"

"Yeah. Hand me the phone, please."

Vince dialed the number and waited for an answer.

"Jose? Hiya. This is Vince Carthaugh. We need you now. We are at about, ah Platte Drive and Rio Boulevard. What? Yeah, I know. There's nothing here but sand and a few old foundations, but this is the place we need you. Oh Yeah? Sounds good, Jose, but we need you now. Tell you what, you give up your wife's enchiladas and we'll take you both out to a dinner tonight that you'll never forget. Deal? Deal! How soon can you be here. OK, Great."

Switching off the phone, Vince handed it back to Dorothy, and said, "He's all loaded and ready to go. Half an hour, tops."

Sue had been studying the map.

"We've two choices. There were service entrances here and here, then nothing until the other side of the blockade. Which one do we go for?"

Tim had the answer.

"This one. It's closer to the blockade. I think it's found a way through the rubble. We should cut off its avenue of escape."

"Maybe it went in and out the other way, down by the river."

"Uh uh, too far. That's nearly a mile to city center. It would have worried about having enough time to travel during the night. Besides, look again where the cave in is located."

"Oh! That's almost under the place where the first homeless killings took place."

"Right. Any doubts now?"

"Nope. Let's see if we can find any sign of the manhole, or whatever it was."

Jose rolled in forty-five minutes later. By then, they had located the most likely spot for the old service entrance. Jose made short work of the first guess, the two cubic yard bucket was down to undisturbed soil in two scoops. An hour and five tries later, they were beginning to despair of ever finding the manway. The backhoe was digging down farther than usual when it scraped against something hard five feet down. Tim and Vince went in with shovels to clean out the bottom of the trench. It wasn't a service entrance, but it would have to do. The top of the arch of the drainage tunnel itself lay exposed for the first time in over a hundred years. The decision wasn't hard to reach.

"Rip it open, Jose."

That proved to be much easier said than done; the early craftsmanship resisted even mechanized destruction longer that they would have thought possible. Nearly in desperation, Jose brought the bucket down full force on the side of the arch. The deep rumble as the brickwork gave way and fell inward was more felt that heard, but the cloud of dust rising into the sky convinced them that the barrier had been breached. Jose backed the machine away from the hole, and all five of them gathered around the pit to stare down into a dark cavern below.

"Damn," Vince said, "I hope we're right about this. The state historical society is going to have conniptions,"

Getting down into the hole was another matter entirely, but Vince had a way of taking charge of any situation.

"Sue, there's an army surplus store up on Eighteenth Street. I'll bet they have rope ladders and climbing supplies. The lights we brought will still be enough to move around, but you might pick up one of those sodium beam spotlights that you plug into a cigar lighter. We'll put it through the hole and get a look at what we will be dropping into.

Tim, you and Kim keep your mental ears open for any indication of movement below. We don't want to lower ourselves into any surprises.

Dorothy, please get the gear together while I have a word with Jose."

Vince walked to the backhoe, where Jose, seeing that he'd apparently accomplished whatever it was these crazy gringos wanted him to do, climbed down.

"Jose, how would you feel about staying out here for a few hours for say, and extra five hundred?"

"Mr. Carthaugh, for an extra five hundred, I'll stay out here all night."

"Great! So let's get settled up on the work done so far. That's five hours at thirty-five, and here is two hundred. Close enough, right?"

"Yes Sir, whatever you say!"

The sound of Sue's truck coming to the edge of the excavation broke Vince's concentration. He'd been staring over the rubble-strewn, weed covered lot towards downtown Denver. The tall buildings seemed out of place to him. He preferred the sage covered hills around the small town he and Dorothy called home.

"What did you do, girl, buy out the store?"

"I saw one or two things that might come in handy."

"One or two things? Looks to me that you could outfit an Antarctic expedition out of the back of your truck."

"Be nice, Vince, it isn't every day that a girl gets to go monster hunting."

Vince's expression went blank at that remark, he seemed to be catching a bit of Dorothy's apprehension.

"OK people. We are ready to get started. It's late. While you three girls hold down the fort topside, Tim and I will..."

"No!"

The chorus of female voices stopped him short.

"I am not staying up here and miss out on the whole story!"

"Where Tim goes, I go."

"You aren't leaving me alone up here, Vincent!"

He had expected that there would be dissatisfaction, but not rebellion.

"Dorothy, we're climbing down a rope ladder into a dark sewer. You don't want to do that. We need someone up here that knows the whole story and can get help if we need it. Besides, Jose will say here to help, if he's needed.

Sue, we need someone strong to be on call if we need help. Come down to the bottom of the ladder, if you want, but no farther. Nobody gets all the troops in trouble at the same time. It just isn't smart.

Kim, I guess I wouldn't be able to talk you out of it in a month. I just wish you'd stay behind in case things go bad. There has to be someone who can find the creature again."

"No."

Vince knew a lost cause when he saw one.

"OK, let's get started then. It's six already. Sundown in an hour."

Sue stood by the bottom of the rope ladder, watching the three backs fade into darkness ahead. The dangling lantern lit up an area of about fifty feet either side of the ladder. If it weren't for the helmet lights bobbing along she wouldn't have known anyone else was down in the hole. She played nervously with the small walkie-talkie. Dorothy had another one on top, and Vince and Kim carried the other two. She resisted the impulse to start talking into hers.

They had to go nearly a thousand feet to get to the place where the monster was supposed to be holed up. There was a short, branching tunnel there, and no one, not even the Sewer Department man, had any idea of its purpose. It was just there, going off at an angle for a hundred feet or so before ending. Sue didn't like the idea that they were trapping the thing in a dead end. She'd heard all the stories about cornered animals.

Tzetzlan felt them coming. It was strange. They should be easily accessible in their thoughts like all prey were. But, these minds were closed. One, Tzetzlan could only sense because it occupied a space that should be empty. A second one leaked a few fragments of thought, and the third did not control its wall very well. For brief instants, its mind was open and unprotected, then just as suddenly closed again. They were in the tunnel, and coming directly towards its lair. As if they knew. Only once before had that happened. A few scraps of memory surfaced. When the first offspring had been killed! There had been one then, and now there were three. More offspring had died and now they came to attack the parent! Still others of the prey waited at greater distance. There could be no doubt, the prey were coming to hunt the hunter! Tzetzlan began to climb the rough wall, using steel-like talons as pitons.

Sue waited until Dorothy's anxious face moved back away from the edge of the hole, and then she set off to follow the trio. This was too good a story to miss any part. Keeping the light low, she moved as quickly as she could over the rough floor of the tunnel. Even after eighty years of disuse, it still smelled like a sewer, and she hated to think of what she might be walking over. She'd almost managed to half the distance to the three ahead when their lights bobbed suddenly off to the left. She covered the remaining distance and stopped at the junction with the branch tunnel. The three were moving very slowly now, alert to danger from ahead. Mostly by shape, she could see that Tim was in the lead with Vince and Kim walking just behind and nearly side by side.

Her first impression was that a part of the roof had fallen in. The black mass swung down like it was on a pivot in the ceiling. It struck Vince full on the back, knocking him into Kim, and they both fell heavily against the wall of the tunnel. The piece was big enough to cause serious damage, she thought, and it didn't seem that either Vince or Kim was moving. Their lights were pointing in opposite directions. She shined her light towards the block that had fallen just in time to see it get up and move. The creature!

Fear rose immediately. She was entirely unprotected, not even the Kevlar body armor the first three wore. She wanted to scream out, to run, to hide...something, but her body had ceased obeying instructions. Nothing seemed to work, and she couldn't even manage a cringe as she watched the black form move towards her. No! Away from her, and towards Tim. He seemed not to have noticed that Vince and Kim had been injured. His light still pointed ahead, and he was moving away.

Tzetzlan finally found the tiniest opening into the prey's mind. It was a very small opening of the sort that Tzetzlan used to communicate when it and its offspring were dormant and their minds otherwise inactive. This puzzled Tzetzlan; did it mean that the prey could reach between minds? That had never occurred before. Probing further, Tzetzlan found something familiar. This prey was known! How could it be? Known prey were dead prey—or hosts, and this one was too mature to be a host. A fragment floated up from an isolated pocket in its mind.

Tim felt an itch at the base of his skull. Kim? She should be keeping her wall up! He let the filament in further.

"I know you, Prey. You were the host for the first offspring. How do you come to be still alive? Did you not die at the offspring's emergence?"

Tim, shocked beyond measure, spun around to face the black, angular form behind him. The light on his helmet struck the monster full on.

"Your light does not burn like the sun. It does no damage, but it is irritating. Make it stop shining."

The tendril was floating around in his mind, seeking some part to grasp, to control. Other tendrils were working at the hole, trying to force entry. Tim fought to close the portal, but was only partly successful. How had he ever expected to fight this thing?It was too strong, and he dared not open all the way to strike back. He would lose immediately. Where was Vince, where was the gun? Then he saw lights pointing at odd angles at the walls and ceiling. They were down! The monster had killed them!

Tim nearly retreated then. To the small room deep within that had been his prison and his fortress for so many years. He still knew the way and the walls were waiting to protect him. Nearly. From a place he hadn't known existed, a place buried more deeply still, rose a fiery anger. A hatred so intense that cowardice melted from him. Analysis and strategy were thrown aside, and his mind opened full to the beast and the hatred poured out in waves.

Tzetzlan stumbled to a halt, nearly within striking distance, blinded and confused by the sudden maelstrom of raw emotion. Uncertainty did not last very long, and it forced its body to obey commands, to conquer the rebellious prey.

Time felt a multitude of intrusions in his mind, wrapping tightly around every protrusion, trying to force his thoughts inward upon themselves. Inward to where the fear could be uncovered and fed upon. Opening his mind had let in more than just the monster. Immediately, he felt Kim's presence. Still Alive! But, hurt, unconscious. He tried to rouse her; she must escape. Slowly, her befuddled thoughts organized themselves and he knew that she was awakening. He urged her to block the mind and run, but she refused. Instead, he felt her lash out at the beast herself.

Tzetzlan felt a new attack from a different source, and unprepared to deal with a new foe, it was once more stunned into immobility. So near the first prey, even now it could lash out an arm and kill, but it wanted more. This one must die for vengeance. Some way, it knew not how, this one prey was the cause of the deaths of nearly all of the offspring. Now there were two to battle and no choice remained. Its arm swung up, talons exposed, tearing into Tim's abdomen below the flak jacket, rising far into his lung and tearing outward.

Tim grasped the arm with both hands and struggled to hold it immobile talons still buried in his body. The pain was horrible. He blocked it out and renewed the attack. Over all, he recognized Kim's mental scream of anguish, but then her hate flowed also. Concentration was becoming difficult, but the monster must not be allowed to turn its attentions onto Kim. A small portion of his mind bent itself to the task of contacting his wife.

"The Sun. Think of the Sun."

Between them, thousands of sunlit summer days blazed alive. Searing the alien's mind with imagined burning rays, bringing fragments of memory of when it was nearly burned to death, they sent a fusillade of images into the creature's mind. The images were temporarily overpowering, and it must block off the death images burning its mind!

Sue found herself suddenly released. The creature was no longer in control of her body. She knew it might only be a temporary respite, but for the moment she was free. Shaking herself, she moved quickly farther into the room and towards Kim and Vince. They had to be got out while it was concentrating on Tim. She reached Vince's side only to find him out cold and unresponsive. Turning to Kim for help, she saw the other woman's eyes were locked upon the death battle in the tunnel ahead. There were tears running down her face, and she mumbled the phrase repeatedly.

"Think Sun, Think Sun."

It didn't make any sense to Sue, but Kim was in the middle of the fight somehow. She couldn't leave them to battle alone. Turning back to Vince, she opened his jacket and fumbled for his .44. It was wedged tightly between his inert form and the floor. She put every ounce of her strength into trying to turn him over. Finally, his shoulder fell back onto the floor exposing the front of his jacket. She noticed the smashed walkie-talkie as she extracted the gun from the holster. Use hers to call Dorothy? No. No time. She took up the weapon and searched for the safety. She knew that it had to be in the off position. What else? Does it have to be cocked? She pulled back the hammer, just in case.

Forcing herself to a steady pace, she approached the two interlocked forms. At close range, it was a horrid mess that her light made visible. Blood all over the place. Then she saw why and nearly gagged. The creature's arm was buried in Tim's middle and he was obviously holding it there, keeping the creature under physical control. He couldn't last long with that kind of blood loss. Immediately upon her thought, the light in Tim's eyes began to dim. She heard Kim scream, "No!"

A tickling began at the base of her skull, and she fought to remember Tim's training, forming a wall, blocking off the sensation. She was losing the battle, but her arm seemed to know what to do of its own volition. Fascinated, she watched it rise in slow motion. It wasn't high enough yet, and with reserves she hadn't known she possessed, she forced it higher. Another foot and it would be pointed at the creature's midsection. She wasn't going to make it, her control was slipping fast. Her mind felt all fuzzy, and random thoughts from her past life drifted in and out. She brought what was left of her rationality to bear on the trigger, just the trigger. Pull the damn trigger!

Suddenly, the pressure on her mind was gone. The reverberation from the gun shot rang out through the tunnel, nearly deafening her. She didn't care. Pulling the trigger again and again, she only guessed at the direction. The click of the hammer hitting an expended cartridge gradually brought her around. She let her arm drop to her side, and stunned as much by the silence as she had been by gunfire, she tried to refocus her attention.

She moved her head in a slow arc, sweeping the light over the floor in front of her. It fell on Tim's face. She knew beyond question that he was dead. Kim had found her way to him and lay sprawled across his body, her own wracked by grief. Sue didn't know what to do. She let the light wander farther until she caught a glimpse of a taloned foot. She played the light along the limb until it ended at a ragged end. She'd shot it off. God! Was that all she'd done? Was it still alive? Wildly, she moved the light around, seeking the rest of the creature. A pool of dark liquid reflected the light as it shot past. Getting herself under control, she moved the beam back. There! A pool of viscous dark fluid, and it was green! It had bled a lot. She played the light around the pool, and outward in increasing arcs, and it passed over an irregularity on the floor.

She took off the helmet light and moved it with her hand so as to control it better. There! The light played over a dark mass, but it was hard to make out the form. She had to know, and she moved closer conscious of every sound. Even her exhalations echoed in her ears. Ten feet. Five. Still, it looked like nothing more than a shapeless mass. She inched closer, and razor sharp talons raked over the tunnel floor and wrapped themselves around her ankle. A tickle in her head grew to an all pervasive presence.

"Prey, you have won. I die. So weak and soft you are. My offspring..."

The grasp on her ankle weakened, and the presence in her head was gone once more. She reached down and pried the talons loose. Not wanting to look again, she returned to Vince's side to find him sitting up. He had been roused by the gunfire and by Dorothy's frantic voice over the walkie-talkie. He started shouting into the darkness for Tim and Kim, calling their names over and over.

Epilog

Kim moved along, most days. The newspaper kept her busy, most days. The emptiness within was there every day. Every minute. Every second. At first, she had thought it to be her imagination, this weak and tiny tingling in her mind. She'd thought it to be just a response to her desperate aloneness. Day by day, it seemed to grow stronger, until she began to fear for her sanity. The idea arose that perhaps there really were offspring left in the world, and that they had found her. She tried everything she could think of to take her mind off the growing presence, and used all of the techniques she knew to block out entry to her mind, but nothing seemed to work. Housecleaning, reading, inane TV shows, anything and everything that could distract, she tried. Forcing herself into wakefulness for twenty hours at a time, until sleep came in an avalanche. Then waking to start the routine all over again.

Then, one day nearly two months after the battle, she was concentrating on building a grocery list. Going through cabinets, checking household supplies and the medicine cabinet, she eventually came across an empty box of tampons. About to add it to the list, she had a sudden thought. She hadn't used any for three months. Suddenly, her heart filling with joy, she knew that she needn't fear the voice in her head any longer.

In other places, silent voices raged. Far from Kim and her child, they called back and forth. Three, there were. Three voices seeking answers from each other. Why had the parent died? Why had the many, many siblings died? Had the parent been wrong? Was this not their world to do with as they pleased? Would they also die?

Time was on their side, and time would tell.

***
