Текст книги "Howlers"

Автор книги: Kent Harrington

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

“Wow,” Gary said. He had no idea what a Fifty Caliber was, exactly. But if she owned one, great.

“He wants to get an old Army surplus Quad Four, but they won’t let him have that,” she added.

Quentin pulled up into Eileen Alexander’s driveway. They had heard the same story at the junior high that he’d heard at the high school earlier, only this story was even more bizarre. Kids hadn’t shown up for class, or had left the school grounds. Ronny Alexander had attacked a teacher, they’d been told. When a math teacher tried to stop him from leaving the room, he’d hit the teacher and run away.

“Quentin, will you come in? If he’s here, I want you to take him back to the school and find out what happened. I want you to get the teacher to stop pressing charges. Please. You know Ronny. He wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Eileen said.

The sheriff looked into his friend’s face. She was pale. He needed her to come back to the office, but he was afraid to ask. What he’d heard had scared him because he did know Ronny Alexander. He was a bookish kid, who rarely spoke above a whisper. The principal had said he’d attacked his math teacher. They’d had to call an ambulance for the teacher, whom Ronny had beaten horribly and left unconscious. The principal told Quentin that Ronny had fought off another two teachers and run away. And he wasn’t the only kid who had acted violently that morning. Several teachers had been attacked. The principal had closed the school for the day and sent everyone home.

“None of this makes any sense,” Quentin said. He looked at the front yard buried in snow. He wondered where his daughter was. He heard the car door open and knew he had to go inside with Eileen. But he didn’t want to. He wanted only to find Sharon. Nothing else seemed important.

I’m not going to panic, he told himself. Don’t panic. He remembered the look that young father had when Quentin was forced to tell him they hadn’t found his daughter.

Oh God, that can’t happen to us, Marie.

“Is Dad home?” Sharon asked. Lacy had picked up the ringing landline on the way out of the house. She’d almost decided to not answer. She and Robin had had a terrible fight. She’d said the word “abortion” and Robin Wood had gone ballistic. He hadn’t heard anything else she’d said.

“Where are you?” Lacy asked.

“I’m in town. At someone’s house,” Sharon said.

“What do you mean, at someone’s house? Why aren’t you at school?”

“What difference does it make? Just tell me where Dad is,” Sharon said.

“I don’t know. He left here and went into town. He wants to talk to you. What happened between you two?”

“He won’t leave me alone about stuff.”

“What stuff?” Lacy said.

“Never mind.”

“Sharon, are you sleeping with that dirt bag who picked you up this morning?”

“None of your business.”

“Are you being careful? Are you using a condom?” She tried to imagine her little sister now. In some biker’s crash-pad, feeling grown up.

“Are you?” Sharon said. “Tell Dad I’m okay. All right? I’ve decided. I am not coming home for a while. Okay? Tell him I’m okay. I’m going to school. But I’m not coming home for a while. I just can’t take it right now. I need some space.”

“Sharon … ” The line went dead. Lacy put down the phone and called her father, but the call went to voice mail. Then she went outside and loaded her VW bug and left for town to buy a new cell phone before leaving for the Bay Area.

CHAPTER 11

They were driving Bell to the Army’s regional stockade in Sacramento, as ordered by the colonel. Two young MPs had put Bell in leg irons and loaded him into a white government van that would take him to jail. It was still snowing softly, the way it had been earlier that morning when he and his sergeant had landed their chopper. It was difficult for Bell to believe that all that had happened only a few hours ago. He’d tried to explain to the colonel, but he hadn’t listened. Instead he’d assumed that Bell was crazy.

Riding in the MPs’ van Bell decided he would have to tell another story. No one was going to believe the truth; he understood that now. And for the first time, he was scared.

Why didn’t they send another helicopter up there? Why didn’t they look at the tracks in the snow? They would still be there if they hurried. He hadn’t killed Sergeant Whitney—that was absurd.

Bell listened to the conversation between the two young MPs. They were talking about their upcoming plans for the weekend as if everything were normal. The young soldiers’ scalps were gleaming white under their very short military-style haircuts. Just as the snow had gleamed around us, Bell remembered. He heard Sergeant Whitney yelling at the things again as the two of them fought for their lives by the creek.

*   *   *

They saw more of the creatures dropping off the snow bank down into the creek, half a dozen more. Others were already in the water, too many to fight. Bell and the sergeant helped each other out of the shallow water. The sergeant began to move up the bank. The lieutenant followed him out of the creek, pistol in hand.

“There’s too many, sir!”

“I’ve got an extra clip,” Bell said. His breath appeared as fog in the cold air.

“No good, Ken.” It was the first time the sergeant hadn’t called him sir. “Look at them. There’s twenty or more in the river.”

Bell watched more of the things drop into the river and start to swim-float toward them. They all wore the same dull and strange expression, man or woman. “We have to get to the chopper. They’ll have to run through the snow, too.” Bell said. “Let’s wait until they all drop in.”

“I’m fucking scared, sir.”

“Bill.” The lieutenant looked at the sergeant.

“Yes, sir.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m just as scared. I want to shit my pants.”

“Yes, sir!” They watched the horde of human-like things drop into the fast-moving creek, some sliding down the bank on their butts and into the water. One of them started to howl, then another.

“They look just like people,” the sergeant said.

“Well, they aren’t people,” Bell said. The first one was twenty yards and coming, floating down the creek, his chest up out of the water. Bell raised his pistol and fired, hitting the thing in the mouth. Hurrying, he and Whitney helped each other up the snowy bank and started to run toward their chopper through the deep snow.

*   *   *

The MPs’ van stopped at a traffic light. Everything seemed so normal, hours later. Not like out there in the snow running toward the helicopter that looked close but wasn’t. It must have been about nine in the morning, Bell thought, when they ran toward the chopper. If running was the word for it. The sun had come out without them noticing. They crawled, helping each other up the steep snow-covered creek bank, standing in four feet of snow now. The lieutenant heard the sergeant’s labored breathing. He could hear it now, again, the sound of Bill Whitney’s breathing and the look of terror in the older man’s eyes.

*   *   *

They could see their helicopter only seventy yards away, sitting in the open field, the dull Army-green color standing out on the snow. He’d let the chopper down on a rocky boulder-strewn field spotted with fresh snow; it was a high spot that Bell had guessed would support the Apache.

“There’s some of them around the chopper!” the sergeant said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bell said. He didn’t know what else to say. The chopper seemed to be their only chance. They started to trot toward it. The sun came out and the glare on the open field was explosive. He saw a bluish crystal-burn on the icy surface of the fresh snow in front of him, strangely psychedelic. The sergeant was ahead of him. They ran with their hips deep in snow. Sergeant Whitney was charging, bent slightly forward like a halfback trying to break a tackle. The lieutenant could hear Whitney grunting. The deep snow was pocked and crushed by Whitney so that Bell could follow in the bigger man’s trail. But it was slow going; the snow was wet and deep and seemed to hold them in place at times.

It dawned on Bell that the creatures would be able to use their trail, too. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Are they coming, sir?” The sergeant stopped. Bell could hear him breathing very hard. The sergeant, older, in his late forties, was sweating, his red face wet with it.

“Keep going, Bill. You have to keep going!” The lieutenant was afraid to turn around. He forced himself to stop and look behind him. He saw nothing behind him. But he was shocked how close to the creek they still were. They’d only come fifteen yards, at most.

The sergeant was bent over, taking gulps of air. Bell heard him spit. “Tired. Have to rest a moment.”

“All right, I’ll go first,” Bell said. He stepped around the sergeant, having to push through the snow that came up to his crotch. He handed Whitney his Beretta.

Bell looked at the clean snow in front of him. It was belt-high, the top frozen and hard. He looked up at the helicopter. It was still more than fifty yards away, an eternity it seemed. He started forward. Immediately the wet fresh snow gathered around his waist and made going forward difficult and exhausting.

Bell leaned forward, feeling the snow barely separate. His legs started to burn. He tried to hop as a way of clearing his body, but it only made him sink deeper in the snow. He tried to get a rhythm he could maintain, his leg muscles straining with the effort. The snow fell away as he broke a narrow trail, narrower than the sergeant’s.

The sun came out through a fissure in the clouds and blinded him. The glare off the field made him squint to see anything. Bell made himself think of his control panel in the helicopter. He made himself see each dial, each knob, the smooth red knobs of the flight control, the chopper’s clean windshield. He made himself feel the thing lifting off the ground. He was sitting in the pilot’s seat, watching himself and Whitney run toward him, turning on the engine, listening to the whine of the engine and the movement of the heavy dark blades that would save them.

Move, you SOB—move, move, move.

“Run, Lieutenant, they’re behind us! RUN, LIEUTENANT! OH GOD, RUN!”

Bell felt the sergeant’s hand on his back, pushing him. He tried to tell him to stop it, that he was going to fall forward, but he couldn’t speak. Bell was sucking hard for air. He heard a gunshot shot.

“LIEUTENANT, RUN!”

Bell heard a second shot, very close to him. Something pushed him from behind. He fell face forward in the snow and everything went dark.

Horribly confused, the lieutenant struggled to stand up. He heard the howling near him, very loud. He stood and managed to turn around. Whitney had one of the things, a woman, by the hair. He was pulling her head back, bending her backwards violently. Another creature, a man in a blue suit and dark glasses was running down the snowy glistening path, howling. The thing’s not-quite human face contorted, long strings of white thick-looking spit dripping from its reddish lips. The woman Howler, despite being pulled backwards, backhanded the sergeant, knocking him away from her. Bell saw the sergeant fall to his knees, pistol in hand. Panicked, Whitney fired at the woman, the bullets catching her in the chest, then the stomach. The Howler stood up from where she’d fallen, unfazed, and kicked the sergeant in the face, knocking him toward the lieutenant. The struggle was compacting the snow around Whitney into a scooped-out bowl.

Bell looked at the bullet hole in the in the women’s breast. Blood poured out onto the trampled snow staining it red, but she was unaffected.

“You fucking bitch!” the sergeant yelled. This time he took careful aim and fired. Nothing happened.

The Howler looked at him, her mouth open in a strange snarling glare. She walked over to the sergeant and picked him up.

“OH God, Lieutenant, help me! God, Lieutenant!”

The Howler bent him over her knee, trying to snap Whitney in two like a stick.

“OH GOD! OH GOD! AAH!”

The lieutenant heard the sergeant’s spine snap, saw the man’s hands and feet twitch horribly, his back broken. The Howler threw Whitney aside as if he were a broken toy.

The one behind her, in the suit, stopped howling and trotted up the carved narrow trail toward Bell.

The lieutenant stood up. He looked at the Beretta laying in the trampled snow a few yards in front of him and knew it needed to be reloaded. He took the extra clip from his service holster hanging from his arm.

“You fucking—” The lieutenant jumped for the weapon. The woman came at him in a crouch, stepping over the sergeant’s still-twitching body. Bell, grabbing the weapon, managed to drop the clip and ram home the fresh one. He fired at her. He caught her in the neck, then fired again at almost point blank range. Her head exploded and she ran aimlessly, face punched out. Bell fired again, this time at the back of her head, hitting it and seeing the back of the thing’s skull smashed open and fall apart.

The Howler in the suit pushed the head-shot Howler out of its way, knocking her down. The Howler with the sunglasses stood in front of Bell, long strings of spit hanging from its slightly open mouth. The thing turned and looked at the squirming sergeant, his body twitching in agony. Bell saw that the thing wore a name tag on its coat and an American flag on its lapel. It said: Hi, my name is Paul. The lieutenant looked at the tag in horror.

“Why are you doing this? Why?” Bell said. The lieutenant raised his pistol.

The Howler looked at him. The Howler opened his mouth and made a kind of hissing sound.

“Hey, Paul! Fuck you!” The lieutenant fired into the thing’s howling mouth. It fell backwards, stone dead. Bell ran to the sergeant lying face up in the blood-sprayed snow.

The sergeant looked up at him, still alive. “Shoot me, sir. Please. Please. I won’t make it. Please, God! Don’t leave me alive.”

Bell knelt down and put the pistol’s barrel on the center of Whitney’s forehead. They locked eyes; Bell fired several rounds, each seeming louder than the next. He finally turned and started toward the helicopter, the pistol and his hand covered in Whitney’s blood and brains.

   Bell turned to rest a few yards from the chopper. He saw one of the creatures—a small young woman, no older than fifteen—lift the sergeant’s dead body over her head and throw it out of her way. The sergeant’s dead body flew several yards. It was impossible, but he’d seen it with his own two eyes. How could she lift the body like that? He caught his breath. He dropped the pistol’s clip into his palm and saw he had only a few rounds left.

I’ll save the last one for myself.

He turned around and started running again, his entire body burning from the effort. The snow dropped away as he reached the rocky area. But he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything but hate. He wasn’t afraid anymore. Three teenage Howlers, standing near the chopper, were screaming so loud it hurt his ears. He killed all three and climbed into the chopper. He heard himself yell with excitement at having cheated death; he started the engines and lifted off the ground and saw, he guessed, a hundred of the things coming through the snow in single file past the sergeant’s dead body splayed out in the snow.

*   *   *

“We have to take you to the Nevada City jail,” the MP said. “Something’s going on down the freeway. We just got a call. The freeway into Sacramento is closed.”

“What do you mean it’s closed?” the lieutenant said.

“I don’t know, sir. Just got a call on my cell. Weren’t you listening?”

Bell shook his head. He’d been back there starting the helicopter and seeing a hundred or more of the things coming toward him in a long line. He opened up with the Apache’s cannon and cut down half of them, hovering at just 50 feet, turning the ship’s nose, the sound of the cannon overwhelming the terrible howling sound. He finally took his finger off the trigger and flew over the destroyed column of things, many of them still trying to crawl. A few, untouched by the cannon, were howling at the Apache as it flew over their heads.

   The magnitude of what had happened to them hit him. He’d been forced to stop Whitney’s horrible suffering—what other choice was there? They’d both known it. He couldn’t have just run off and left Whitney alive. He’d never forget the sergeant’s look as they’d locked eyes: grateful. He was grateful.

“No.”

“We’ve been ordered to take you to Timberline and leave you there. The MPs from Sacramento will come and get you later, when the highway opens again.”

“Why is the highway closed?” the lieutenant asked. “It’s Howlers, isn’t it? They’re all over, aren’t they?”

The MP looked at him. “Sorry, sir. What’s a Howler?”

“You’ll see,” Bell said.

The kid looked at him, then turned around. He winked at the corporal who was driving.

*   *   *

“Why didn’t you say you knew people in this town, boy?” Mr. Worden, the pet shop owner, wasn’t mad that Summers was late. “I’ve known Rebecca Stewart since she was a little girl.” Worden, in his seventies, put his arm around Rebecca and hugged her.

“I have to go back to the store,” Rebecca said. “He was afraid you’d be mad at him for being late, Mr. Worden. But I told him you wouldn’t be if you knew he was with me.” Rebecca turned and looked at Gary. “You see, Mr. Worden and my pop are very tight. And besides, Mr. Worden is my godfather. I told you not to worry.”

“He still thinks he’s in the big city where nobody knows anybody,” Worden said, smiling. “Who you know in Timberline matters, son. Now if you’re a friend of Rebecca Stewart’s, then you’re a friend of mine.”

“I’ll come by the video store later,” Gary said.

Rebecca reached over and kissed him on the cheek. “Why don’t you come by the gun shop instead? I’ll be there after two,” Rebecca said.

Gary nodded. Today, he thought, watching her leave, was the best day of my life. He was in love! Without question. He knew he was in love for the first time in his life. It was as if he had gotten a new pair of eyes. The shop’s brass bell, attached to the door, rang as she closed the door and left him alone with Worden.

CHAPTER 12

I could break the story here, Price thought, putting his cell phone down. Why not?

Howard looked out the bank of windows from his spacious corner office. His stand-up desk held several computer monitors, and a flat panel TV hung on the wall above it. The TV was tuned to CNN, but the sound was muted. CNN had reported nothing that morning to contradict what his brother, a fire captain in Santa Monica, had just called to tell him: major riots were underway in several southern California cities, including downtown L.A., all under a news blackout ordered by Homeland Security.

Price turned from the TV, which was showing clips from the previous evening’s “Dancing With The Stars,” where there had been a major upset. He didn’t recognize any of the “celebrities.” The tarted-up wunderkinder being interviewed were dressed up in garish costumes, their faces overly made up.

Price laughed. He’d been in the office for more than five hours and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. He searched his messy desk for his coffee cup.

He usually got to work around by 5:00 a.m., which allowed him to work on his own book about Building Seven’s collapse on September 11. He was keeping the book a secret from everyone at work because of what had happened to him at the LA Times. He was also tracking several international news stories that he felt weren’t getting the attention they deserved in the US press: the nuclear accident in Japan at Fukushima, NSA’s project PRISM, and the federal government’s use of drones inside the US.

Tracking these stories took time and effort. He’d been especially engrossed in the Fukushima story because it seemed so important to the future of mankind. He couldn’t help himself. Of late he had begun tracking currents in the Pacific Ocean, and the strange reports of sea otters and other mammals dying off the coast of Orange and San Diego counties. He was convinced of a link to Fukushima’s ongoing meltdown and massive release of nuclear waste directly into the Pacific Ocean.

His research into Building Seven had convinced him that the U.S. media were no longer doing its job. Big Media had turned into a hopeless wasteland filled with mind-numbing PR about iPhone apps, or lurid tabloid stories, or we’re-on-it-now disasters. The best TV news coverage was the rampaging lunatic-gunmen stories—very common—which made for high drama and high ratings. The TV news business had become an empty-headed array of video snippets with blow-dry commentary—even for mass shootings. The question of why there were so many murderous lunatics in America remained unaddressed. Major newspapers, too, were doing their best to keep up in this race to the bottom of America’s IQ.

   Howard considered what his brother had just told him, which was unbelievable, even to him. Across the street was an exact duplicate of the building he was standing in; its mirrored windows reflected a pewter-colored and dangerous looking sky. He saw Miles Hunt park his ridiculous old Mustang in the parking lot and trot toward their building. Miles, he guessed, was back from Genesoft’s news conference.

Staring out the window, he tried to put the conversation with his brother into some kind of order. If it had been anyone else, anyone, he would have assumed the person was a lunatic. My brother isn’t crazy. He’s an asshole maybe, but he is not crazy.

Howard waited for Miles to walk into the city room, or what passed for a city room. Compared to the L.A. Times, it was more like a mailroom. As soon as he saw Hunt, he signaled for the young reporter to come into his office. Uncharacteristically grim faced, he motioned for Miles to close the door behind him and sit down.

“There’s something wrong at Genesoft,” Miles said. He sat in the chair across from Price. “Employees are sick.  I have a whistle blower who—”

Howard put his hand up to stop him. “There’s some kind off major panic in Los Angeles. I have a call into the L.A. Times trying to check on the story. Homeland Security is trying to cover it up, it seems. They’re not letting the media report it. There’s a news blackout. I want to break the story here. I have to wait until I get more details, but I think we’ll run it in tomorrow’s paper. I want you to help me with the cover-up angle. I’ve got Garzarelli working the phones with some other local papers. I’ve had him call the Chronicle and the Sacramento Bee, to see what they have on the story.”

“You mean another riot?” Miles said. “Another Rodney King thing?”

“No. Different. I got call from my brother this morning while you were at Genesoft. He’s a fireman, a captain in L.A. County.”

The phone rang and Price’s secretary told him it was his call into the Times. Price took it on the speakerphone. “Jim?”

“Howard, I got your message.”

“You’re on a speakerphone, it’s two of us here. My reporter Miles Hunt and myself,” Howard said. He was looking at the phone as if it would jump off the table.

“This is all off the record,” the Times editor said.

“Fine,” Price said.

“Yes, your brother is right. There is a news blackout.”

“What’s going on? My brother said it’s some kind of major panic,” Price said. “Some kind of illness?”

“No one knows for sure what it is. People are disappearing, that’s all I know for sure. Whole buildings full of people come up missing for work. The police are working with only about forty percent staff, probably less. We’ve been able to confirm that part of the story. And it’s the lack of police that’s prompted the news blackout from Homeland. The Times is cooperating with their request, at least for the time being.”

“I don’t understand,” Price said. “You said disappear? What do you mean, exactly?”

“We’re not sure. But I know a lot of the staff here at the Times are missing too, probably over half.”

Howard looked at Miles.

“We can’t contact them,” the Times editor said. “We’ve called their homes, but either no one’s there, or their families can’t find them. We’re getting a lot of reports of people seeing their loved ones on the street and them not recognizing family members. And worse stories, too. This is what the mayor’s office and Homeland don’t want reported.”

“What do you mean worse?” Price said, looking away from Miles.

“Gangs of people roaming the streets attacking people. No one in the office has seen it for themselves, but we got a call from our office in the San Fernando Valley that a gang of people, about a hundred or so, attacked a fast-food place. Killed everyone in the place. The story hasn’t been confirmed. The ABC affiliate has a helicopter capturing footage of other gangs of people on the streets of the Valley. They’re threatening to go live with it.”

“Gangsters?” Price said.

“No, that’s just it—not gangsters. Ordinary people,” the editor said. “People are making a connection between the missing and these attacks.”

“I’m sorry, Jim, but I can’t believe this. It sounds ludicrous,” Price said.

“I know. I don’t believe it, either. But that’s what we’ve heard. And these types of reports are coming in now from all over L.A. County. The boss is in a meeting right now with people from the Mayor’s office and Homeland Security.”

“We have missing people here, too,” Price said. “I mean at the newspaper, here.”

“A lot?” his friend asked.

“If you count the delivery people, about twenty or so,” Price said. “We employ fewer than a hundred people.”

“All right, you see? I’ve been calling around town, to different businesses, big and small. Everyone is saying the same things. People aren’t showing up for work. They call them at home and there’s no answer, or their families say they’ve gone missing in the last day or so. We’re hearing the same story again and again,” the Times editor said.

“I’m going to break the missing-people story. No one’s told us not to,” Price said.

“I doubt the government cares about the little papers. They’re targeting big mass-media outlets. The Daily News has something up on its website, and so does La Opinion. And some of the independent radio stations are reporting this. But it’s not on TV yet. Homeland Security’s blacked out TV, local and national, the whole nine yards. Listen, I have to go. Good luck. Call me back and I’ll let you know if anything changes. Howard, good luck.”

A dial tone came from the speakerphone. Price, hitting a button on the phone, hung up too.

“Half the people at Genesoft are missing,” Miles said.

Price looked at him. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to cover the local story, then. We’ll run two stories, side by side. The Los Angeles story, and our own Nevada City and surrounding community’s missing-persons story,” Howard said.

They looked at each other as if for reassurance that the other had heard the same tone of fear in the man’s voice, which had somehow given the outrageous story he told credibility.

“Start with Timberline, and some of the other smaller Sierra towns. Call the sheriff’s department and get a report on all recent missing persons. We’ll build our local story around those. Contact the families of the first ten people on the list. We’ll have to edit the stories ourselves,” Price said. “Everyone on the copy desk is gone.”

Miles turned around and looked into the small city room. It seemed like a Sunday afternoon, not a Friday afternoon when their city room was its busiest.

“What do you think is going on?” Miles asked.

“Something bad. Something very bad,” Howard said, and picked up the phone. “Maybe the biggest story of the century. And here I am stuck up here in the sticks with you.”

If it had been a big-city newspaper, Miles would not have had the sheriff’s personal cell number. Because it was Timberline, he did. He went to his desk and dialed Quentin’s cell. Like all the old Timberline families, the Colliers and the Hunts kept in touch. In fact, they were close: Miles’ brother had married into the Collier family.

He got the message option on Quentin’s cell number, hung up and called the sheriff’s department’s main line.

“Sheriff’s office,” a woman’s voice answered.

“Yes, can I speak to Quentin, please?”

“He’s not in right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Is this Eileen?”

“Yes.”

“Eileen, this is Miles Hunt.”

“Hello, Miles. I thought it sounded like you. Can you hold a moment?”

“Sure.”

Miles sat looking at the pile of the random papers on his desk. He saw a message from his fiancée in San Francisco and tucked it into his pants pocket. There was another from the whistleblower at Genesoft. He’d told her to call him as soon as she got any more news. He’d made a date with her, for later in the day, to interview her boyfriend.

Miles looked at his watch and kept waiting. He cradled the phone’s receiver with his shoulder and took out the message from his fiancée. A cold panic filled him. She was in San Francisco at a fashion show and buying trip for the new store she was planning to open in Nevada City after they were married. If something was going on ... He punched in his girlfriend’s cell number on a different line.

“Room 1222, please ... Hello, Becky?”

“Miles. I was just leaving. Hi.”

The panic in Miles’ stomach eased. He saw his soon-to-be bride. She was a trim brunette with blue eyes and a knock-out smile. They’d met at Cal Berkeley while both students.

“I wanted to ask if my mother had gotten hold of you? She had a list of questions about the guest list. She doesn’t want to make any mistakes with your people. I thought you—”

“Miles, go ahead.”

Miles heard Eileen Anderson on the other line and asked his fiancée to hold. “Yes, Eileen —could you have Quentin call me at the paper as soon as possible? And I was wondering, have you had a lot of missing-person reports filed in the last day or two?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Could you fax me over the list?”

“I don’t know . . . my son’s missing. That was his school calling asking me where he was,” she said. Her tone was different. She sounded frightened.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s okay.”

“I dropped him off at school myself,” she said.

   “Eileen, I need the list of missing people, even if Quentin is out of pocket. Okay? It’s important.”