Earlier in the day, on the telephone from London, Burt Sandler, the editor from Wintergreen and Wyle, had prepared Corello for the possibility that Flyte would make a negative impression on the newsmen, but Sandler needn't have worried. The newsmen grew restless as Flyte cleared his throat half a dozen times, loudly, into the microphone, but when he began to speak at last, they were ended within a minute. He told them about the Roanoke Island colony, about vanishing Mayan civilizations, about mysterious depletions of marine populations, about an army that disappeared in 171 I. The crowd grew hushed. Corello relaxed.

Flyte told them about the Eskimo village of Anjikuni, five hundred miles northwest of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police outpost at Churchill. On a snowy afternoon in November of 1930, a French-Canadian trapper and trader, Joe LaBelle, stopped at Anjikuni-only to discover that everyone who lived there had disappeared. All belongings, including precious hunting rifles, had been left behind. Meals had been left half-eaten. The dogsleds (but no dogs) were still there, which meant there was no way the entire village could have moved overland to another location. The settlement was, as LaBelle put it later, as eerie as a graveyard in the very dead of night. LaBelle hastened to the Mounted Police Station at Churchill, and a major investigation was launched, but nothing was ever found of the Anjikunians.

As the reporters took notes and aimed tape recorder microphones at Flyte, he told them about his much-maligned theory: the ancient enemy. There were gasps of surprise, incredulous expressions, but no noisy questioning or blatantly expressed disbelief.

The instant Flyte finished making his prepared statement, Sal Corello reneged on his promise of a question-and-answer session. He took Flyte by the arm and hustled him through a door behind the makeshift platform on which the microphones stood.

The Newsmen howled with indignation at this betrayal. They rushed the platform, trying to follow Flyte.

Corello and the professor entered a service corridor ' where several airport security men were waiting. One of the guards slammed and locked the door behind them, cutting off the reporters, who howled even louder than before.

“This way,” a security man said.

“The chopper's here,” another said.

They hurried along a maze of hallways, down a flight of concrete stairs, through a metal fire door, and outside, onto a windswept expanse of tarmac, where a sleek, blue helicopter waited. It was a plush, well-appointed, executive craft, a Bell JetRanger 11.

“It's the governor's chopper,” Corello told Flyte.

“The governor?” Flyte said. “He's here?”

“No. But he's put his helicopter at your disposal.”

As they climbed through the door, into the comfortable passengers' compartment, the rotors began to churn overhead.

Forehead pressed to the cool window, Timothy Flyte watched San Francisco fall away into the night.

He was excited. Before the plane had landed, he had felt dopey and bedraggled; not any more. He was alert and eager to learn more about what was happening in Snowfield.

The JetRanger had a high cruising speed for a helicopter, and the trip to Santa Mira took less than two hours. Corello a clever, fast-talking, amusing man-helped Timothy prepare another statement for the media people who were waiting for them. The journey passed quickly.

They touched down with a thump in the middle of the fenced parking lot behind the county sheriff's headquarters. Corello opened the door of the passengers' compartment even before the chopper's rotors had stopped whirling; he plunged out of the craft, turned to the door again, buffeted by the wind from the blades, and lent a hand to Timothy.

An aggressive contingent of newsmen-even more of them than in San Francisco-filled the alleyway. They were pressed against the chain-link fence, shouting questions, aiming microphones and cameras.

“We'll give them a statement later, at our convenience,” Corello told him, shouting in order to be heard above the din. “Right now, the police here are waiting to put you on the phone to the sheriff up in Snowfield.”

A couple of deputies hustled Timothy and Corello into the building, along the hallway, and into an office where another uniformed man was waiting for them. His name was Charlie Mercer. He was husky, with the bushiest eyebrows that Timothy had ever seen-and the briskly efficient manner of a first-rate executive secretary.

Timothy was escorted to the chair behind the desk.

Mercer dialed a number in Snowfield, making the connection with Sheriff Hammond. The call was put on a conference speaker, so that Timothy didn't have to hold a receiver, and so that everyone in the room could hear both sides of the conversation.

Hammond delivered the first shocker as soon as he and Timothy had exchanged greetings: “Dr. Flyte, we've seen the ancient enemy. Or at least I guess it's the thing you had in mind. A massive… Another thing. A shape-changer that can mimic anything.”

Timothy's hands were shaking; he gripped the arms of his chair. “My God.”

“Is that your ancient enemy?” Hammond asked.

“Yes. A survivor from another era. Millions of years old.”

“You can tell us more when you get here,” Hammond said. “If I can persuade you to come.”

Timothy only heard half of what the sheriff was saying. He was thinking of the ancient enemy. He had written about it; he had truly believed in it; yet, somehow, he had not been prepared to actually have his theory confirmed. It rocked him.

Hammond told him about the hideous death of a deputy named Gordy Brogan.

Besides Timothy himself, only Sal Corello looked stunned and horrified by Hammond's story. Mercer and the others had evidently heard all about it hours ago.

“You've seen it and lived?” Timothy said, amazed.

“It had to leave some of us alive,” Hammond said, “so that we'd try to convince you to come. It has guaranteed your safe conduct.”

Timothy chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip.

Hammond said, “Dr. Flyte? Are you still there?”

“What? Oh… yes. Yes, I'm still here. What do you mean by saying it guaranteed my safe passage?”

Hammond told him an astonishing story about communication with the ancient enemy by way of a computer.

As the sheriff talked, Timothy broke into a sweat. He saw a box of Kleenex on one corner of the desk in front of him; he grabbed a handful of tissues and mopped his face.

When the sheriff finished, the professor drew a deep breath and spoke in a strained voice, “I never anticipated… I mean… well, it never occurred to me that.”

“What's wrong?” Hammond asked.

Timothy cleared his throat. “It never occurred to me that the ancient enemy would possess human-level intelligence.”

“I suspect it may even be a superior intelligence,” Hammond said.

“But I always thought of it as just a dumb animal, of distinctly limited self-awareness.”

“It's not.”

“That makes it a lot more dangerous. My God. A lot more, dangerous.”

“Will you come up here?” Hammond asked.

“I hadn't intended to come any closer than I am now,” Timothy said, “But if it's intelligent… and if it's offering me safe passage…”

On the telephone, a child's voice piped up, the sweet voice of a young boy, perhaps five or six years old: “Please, please, please come play with me, Dr. Flyte. Please. We'll have lots of fun. Please?”

And then, before Timothy could respond, there came a woman's soft and musical voice: “Yes, dear Dr. Flyte, by all means, do come pay us a visit. You're more than welcome. No one will harm you.”

Finally, the voice of an old man called over the line, warm and tender “You have so much to learn about me, Dr. Flyte. So much wisdom to acquire. Please come and begin your studies. The offer of safe passage is sincere.”

Silence.

Confused, Timothy said, “Hello? Hello? Who's this?”

“I'm still here,” Hammond answered.

The other voices did not return.

“Just me now,” Hammond said.

Timothy said, “But who were those people?”

“They're not actually people. They're just phantoms. Mimicry. Don't you get it? In three different voices, it just offered you safe passage again. The ancient enemy, Doctor.”

Timothy looked at the other four men in the room. They were all staring intently at the black conference box from which Hammond's voice-and the voices of the creature-had issued.

Clutching a wad of already sodden paper tissues in one hand, Timothy wiped his sweat-slick face again. “I'll come.”

Now, everyone in the room looked at him.

On the telephone, Sheriff Hammond said, “Doctor, there's no good reason to believe that it'll keep its promise. Once you're here, you may very well be a dead man, too.”

“But if it's intelligent…”

“That doesn't mean it plays fair,” Hammond said, “In fact, all of us up here are certain of one thing: This creature is the very essence of evil. Evil, Dr,. Flyte. Would you trust in the Devil's promise?”

The child's voice came on the line again, still lilting and sweet: “If you come, Dr. Flyte, I'll not only spare you, but these six people whore trapped here. I'll let them go if you come play with me. But if you don't come, I'll take these pigs. I'll crush them. I'll squeeze the blood and shit out of them, squeeze them into pulp, and use them up.”

Those words were spoken in light, innocent, childlike tones which somehow made them far more frightening than if they had been shouted in a basso profundo rage.

Timothy's heart was pounding.

“That settles it,” he said, “I'll come. I have no choice.”

“Don't come on our account,” Hammond said, “It might spare you because it calls you its Saint Matthew, its Mark, its Luke and John. But it sure as hell won't spare us, no matter what it says.”

“I'll come,” Timothy insisted.

Hammond hesitated. Then: “Very well. I'll have one of my men drive you to the Snowfield roadblock. From there, you'll have to come alone. I can't risk another man. Do you drive?”

“Yes, sir,” Timothy said, “You provide the car, and I'll get there by myself.”

The line went dead.

“Hello?” Timothy said, “Sheriff?”

No answer.

“Are you there? Sheriff Hammond?”

Nothing.

It had cut them off.

Timothy looked up at Sal Corello, Charlie Mercer, and the two men whose names he didn't know.

They were all staring at him as if he were already dead and lying in a casket.

But if I die in Snowfield, if the shape-changer takes me, he thought, there'll be no casket. No grave. No everlasting peace.

“I'll drive you as far as the roadblock,” Charlie Mercer said. “I'll drive you myself.”

Timothy nodded.

It was time to go.

Chapter 36 – Face to Face

At 3:12 A.M., Snowfield's church bells began to clang.

In the lobby of the Hilltop Inn, Bryce got up from his chair. The others rose, too.

The firehouse siren wailed.

Jenny said, “Flyte must be here.”

The six of them went outside.

The streetlights were flashing off and on, casting leaping marionette shadows through the shifting banks of fog.

At the foot of Skyline Road, a car turned the corner. Its headlights speared upward, imparting a silvery sheen to the mist.

The streetlamps stopped blinking, and Bryce stepped into the soft cascade of yellow light beneath one of them, hoping that Flyte would be able to see him through the veils of fog.

The bells continued to peal, and the siren shrieked, and the car crawled slowly up the long hill. It was a green and white sheriff's department cruiser. It pulled to the curb and stopped ten feet from where Bryce stood; the driver extinguished the headlights.

The driver's door opened, and Flyte got out. He wasn't what Bryce had expected. He was wearing thick glasses that made his eyes appear abnormally large. His fine, white, tangled hair bristled in a halo around his head. Someone at headquarters had lent him an insulated jacket with the Santa Mira County Sheriff's Department seal on the left breast.

The bells stopped ringing.

The siren groaned to a throaty finish.

The subsequent silence was profound.

Flyte gazed around the fog-shrouded silence, listening and waiting.

At last Bryce said, “Apparently, it's not ready to show itself.”

Flyte turned to him. “Sheriff Hammond?”

“Yes. Let's go inside and be comfortable while we wait.”

The inn's dining room. Hot coffee.

Shaky hands clattered china mugs against the tabletop. Nervous hands curled and clamped around the warm mugs in order to make themselves be still.

The six survivors leaned forward, hunched over the table, the better to listen to Timothy Flyte.

Lisa was clearly enthralled by the British scientist, but at first Jenny had serious doubts. He seemed to be an outright caricature of the absent-minded professor. But when he began to speak about his theories, Jenny was forced to discard her initial, unfavorable opinion, and soon she was as fascinated as Lisa.

He told them about vanishing armies in Spain and China, about abandoned Mayan cities, the Roanoke Island colony.

And he told them of Joya Verde, a South American jungle settlement that had met a fate similar to Snowfield's. Joya Verde, which means Green Jewel, was a trading post on the Amazon River, far from civilization. In 1923, six hundred and five people-every man, woman, and child who lived there vanished from Joya Verde in a single afternoon, sometime between the morning and evening visits of regularly scheduled riverboats. At first it was thought that nearby Indians, who were normally peaceful, had become inexplicably hostile and had launched a surprise attack. However, there were no bodies found, no indications of fighting, and no evidence of looting. A message was discovered on the blackboard at the mission school: It has no shape, yet it has every shape. Many who investigated the Joya Verde mystery were quick to dismiss those nine chalk-scrawled words as having no connection with the disappearances. Flyte believed otherwise, and after listening to him, so did Jenny.

“A message of sorts was also left in one of those ancient Mayan cities,” Flyte said. “Archaeologists have unearthed a portion of a prayer, written in hieroglyphics, dating from the time of the great disappearance.” He quoted from memory: “'Evil gods live in the earth, their power asleep in rock. When they awake, they rise up as lava rises, but cold lava, flowing, and they assume many shapes. Then proud men know that we are only voices in the thunder, faces on the wind, to be dispersed as if we never lived.'” Flyte's glasses had slid down his nose. He pushed them back into place. “Now, some say that particular part of the prayer refers to the power of earthquakes and volcanoes. I think it's about the ancient enemy.”