Chapter 8

July 1987

LINDY

The printer beside her desk chattered busily while Lindy Grant leaned back in her chair feeling better than she had in a couple of weeks. Amazing, she thought, how bad news can suddenly turn into good. Just two days ago it had seemed that everything she had worked for was in the toilet.

She knew from the gingerly way Josh Cleery said her name over the telephone that his message was not going to be a pleasant one.

"Lindy?"

"What's wrong, Josh?"

"Wrong? Did I say anything was wrong?"

"You've got that funeral hush to your voice. Did somebody die? Or is it more serious?"

"Lindy, you were right about that Lou Davidoff. He knows dip about what makes a good script."

"He wants more changes?"

"Not exactly."

"He wants to call in another writer?"

"Well, no."

"Lou, for God's sake will you get to the point? What does he want?"

"He wants out."

"Out?"

"Out. Ben Zalic doesn't think the concept will go. New Titan is no longer interested in Shadow Watcher."

"After I gutted the story and crippled the characters to make the changes Davidoff wanted?"

"Lindy, what can I say? It's not your fault. You did the best you could. Davidoff is a self-serving sonofabitch. There's a lot of them in this business."

Back to square one, Lindy had thought. Back even beyond that. Word traveled fast in Hollywood. It was a rare script that, once bounced, ever found a home. And if it got talked around that she was incompetent or, worse, uncooperative, she would play hell trying to sell another original.

She had spent forty-eight gloomy hours after that assessing her chances for a career change at thirty-seven. Then, while she was eating breakfast, came another call from Josh that rousted her from nightmares of unemployment.

"I hope you didn't burn the original script," he said, his tone unnaturally cheerful.

"I never burn anything. Don't tell me New Titan had a change of heart?"

"You have to have one to change it. Anyway, who needs those schmucks? I just talked to the top man at Cinema World. They got maybe not as many theaters as New Titan, but quality, Lindy, quality. They want Shadow Watcher, and they want it the way you wrote it."

Lindy burned her mouth on hot coffee. "Cinema World? They're buying the original script?"

"They love it, Lindy. I mean love it. We're dealing with motion picture people here, not accountants. With a few minor changes they'll -"

"Minor changes?" Lindy's hopes sagged.

"Trust me, they love the script. Dialogue polish is all it amounts to. Can you meet with us today?"

She could and she did, not without strong misgivings about the "minor changes." Incredibly, they turned out to be truly minor, and the deal had gone ahead without a hitch. Josh was busy now renting studio space, lining up a director, a production manager, and other key people, giving Lindy a rare opportunity to work on her novel.

The printer's chatter ceased with a beep, and Lindy tore off the draft of a new Chapter 3. As she did so, she glanced at her watch and saw it was past eleven. Unlike Lindy, her daughter was by nature a late sleeper, but she had said she was going shopping early this morning for a new outfit to wear to the Duran Duran concert tonight at the Forum. It was a first date with some totally hunky guy from Beverly Hills High, and Nicole had let her mother know that this would be the single most devastating evening of her life.

Lindy left the compact room she used for an office and walked to her daughter's bedroom. She rapped on the door. No response from inside.

A twinge of apprehension caught like a bone in her throat. Although she had packed the incident of Nicole's wild look and the strange voice off to the attic of her mind, the ugly vision of a month ago would not go away.

She pushed open the bedroom door and walked in. Nicole lay on her side, facing away from the door. As usual she wore only the oversize top of a pair of men's pajamas. The sheet and blanket were crumpled around her feet, the pajamas pulled up over her pert little rump. Lindy crossed the room to the bedside and covered her. She touched the girl's shoulder. It was warm under her fingers. Too warm?

"Nickie? Nicole?"

The girl muttered something inaudible and rolled away from her mother's touch.

"Better get up if you want to get your shopping done."

Nicole gave a little moan of protest and buried her face more deeply in the pillows.

"Come on, kiddo, it's almost noon. Duran Duran tonight, remember? The hunk from Bev Hills?" Lindy took hold of her daughter's shoulder and rolled the girl gently over onto her back.

She straightened up with a gasp. Nicole's eyes were wide and staring. Her lips were slightly parted. Lindy had a terrible flash image of a death mask.

The girl blinked, rubbed her eyes, and looked at Lindy.

"Oh, hi, Mom. What time is it?"

Lindy could not immediately find her voice. She shook her head silently.

"Hey, what's the matter with you?"

"I... nothing. It's just that you looked so strange for a moment."

Nicole frowned. "I was having a dream. I don't remember exactly, but something icky." She rubbed the back of her head. "I must have slept with my head crooked."

"Do you want an aspirin?"

"You know I don't believe in pills." She looked past Lindy at the digital clock on the dresser. "God, look at the time. I've got lots to do. You shouldn't have let me sleep."

She was out of bed and across the hall into the bathroom before Lindy could collect her thoughts.

Lindy caught her as she sailed toward the door on her way out of the house.

"Nickie, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, Mom," she said in the heavily patient way teenagers have of talking to slow-witted adults. "I'm just in a hurry, okay?"

"Okay." Lindy gave her a smile she did not quite feel. "Do you need any money?"

"I've got your Visa card, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Try not to bankrupt me, will you."

"Mo-om!" Nicole gave her a shake of the head and danced on out.

Two hours later the front door banged open and Lindy jumped at the sound of Nicole's wailing cry. She ran to the door to find her daughter standing in the foyer, her hands covering her face, crying bitterly.

"Nickie, what is it?"

The girl's answer was to wail even louder.

"What happened?"

"I want to die!"

Lindy took hold of her daughter's wrists and pulled her hands down. She could not suppress a sharp intake of breath at what she saw. At the side of Nicole's nose, just over the nostril, was a red-and-purple boil the size of a grape. It was shiny and inflamed and looked ready to pop. Just about the ugliest thing Lindy had ever seen.

Nicole read her mother's expression and reached new volumes with her crying. "It just popped out there," she got out between sobs. "Don't look at me. I'm ugly, ugly, ugly!"

ROMAN

It was a rare sunny day in Seattle, with puffy white clouds that bustled across a bright sky, pushed by the breeze off Lake Washington. The atmosphere in the Lion d'Or was relaxed and promising. Roman Dixon swallowed his first good bourbon of the afternoon and wished he had someplace to go besides home.

The lilt of female voices attracted his gaze to the far end of the bar. There were two of them, in their twenties - a big healthy-looking redhead and a smaller trim-figured brunette with dark foxy eyes. Roman sucked in his stomach, knowing they were watching him. He could hear them whispering now, heads close together.

He looked them over in the mirror behind the bar and felt the familiar stirring in his crotch. The girls were at an age when the skin was resilient and unwrinkled, the body firm, the breasts upthrust and insolent. Everything his wife Stephanie was not. Roman pushed away from his place at the bar and sauntered down to where they stood.

"Hi, girls. Are we having fun yet?"

They glanced at each other and at him. The bigger one, the redhead, looked up with frank interest. The dark one kind of peeked up at him through long lashes.

"We just got here," the redhead said.

Roman gave them his killer grin. "I'm sort of an unofficial greeter. Make sure everybody's happy, you know."

"I'll bet you're good at your job," the big one said, eyeing him up and down.

"I don't get too many complaints." Roman turned the grin on the shy one. "You local girls?"

"We're from Vancouver," the dark girl said.

"Canadians. Well, welcome to the U.S.A, eh?"

The girls smiled, but not broadly.

Roman switched his approach. "What are those things you're drinking there?"

"Banana daiquiris," said the redhead.

"No kidding. Well, let me buy you a couple, how about it?"

The girls looked at each other. The dark one said, "I don't know. We were just -"

"Good-neighbor policy," Roman said. "Hands across the border."

"Have you got any other plans for your hands?" the redhead asked.

Roman raised his palms innocently. "Hey, do I look like the kind of guy who would put the moves on two lovely Canadian visitors in a bar?"

"Yes," said the redhead, laughing. "As a matter of fact, you do."

Roman glowed. He hadn't lost it. Hell, if wanted to he could probably have both of them in a motel well before midnight. As a matter of fact, he wasn't in any hurry to get home. He raised a finger to signal the bartender.

That's when he felt it. A small thump at the base of his skull like a blow from a rubber hammer. Roman gave a small grunt, and for a moment the interior of the bar spun away from him. In a matter of seconds it was gone and the girls were looking at him.

"Hey, how many have you had, Ace?" asked the redhead.

"It's nothing," he ad-libbed. "Old war wound. Lucky I got it in the head. Nothing there to damage, ha ha. Hey, Jerry, a couple more of these banana things for these nice Canadian ladies."

Roman was talking fast to cover his concern about the momentary blackout. He had put down only one drink, and he never got dizzy like that. He had been a little off his feed since the dinner at the Haaglunds when his mother-in-law had acted so weird.

He pulled a stool over next to the redhead's and sat down, letting his thigh rest against hers. She made no move to pull away, and Roman grinned, back on familiar ground.

"So what are your plans for tonight?" he said.

"We thought we'd have a nice dinner somewhere, then..."

The redhead was still talking, but voice faded from Roman's consciousness. He had been hit suddenly with the most god-awful crotch itch of his life. Worse than the case of crabs he'd picked up in the Army. If he didn't get down there and scratch it right now, he was going to scream.

"Excuse me," he blurted, and staggered off toward the men's room, feeling like a thousand little parasites were chewing at his balls. The women stared after him, puzzled, but he didn't look back.

Barely giving the men's room door a chance to swing shut behind him, Roman yanked down his pants and the black satin briefs. He gasped at what he saw. His cock, his balls, and the surrounding flesh of his thighs was a flaming red, itching like nothing human. He grabbed himself, felt the unnatural heat of his skin, and almost cried out.

What the hell was this, some exotic new venereal disease? How could anything break out that suddenly? He had been fine this morning.

He shuffled to the sink, pants down around his ankles, and began splashing handfuls of water on his burning member. Tears welled in his eyes, and he wanted to scream.

ALEC

It was not often that both Dean Laymon and Richard Koontz appeared together at the offices that bore their names. Koontz, a dark, tightly coiled man with darting eyes, spent more time there than his partner, working fourteen-hour days in his corner office when he wasn't traveling among the movers and shakers of the international set. Laymon, big and open-faced, preferred to spend his time fishing in the Gulf of Mexico or hiking through the Adirondacks. The event that brought them both back at the same time was Alec McDowell's assessment of Bo Walton's chances of unseating Anton Scolari.

Koontz held a sheaf of papers and frowned down at it as he spoke. "Frankly, Alec, I don't see that this Newark business will do us any good. I mean, all right, so their guy raked back a few dollars on city contracts. Who doesn't? The voters don't give a damn about a little graft anymore. Hell, they're more likely to admire the guy for it than condemn him." He looked up, pinning Alec with his dark glare. "I'm disappointed. I expected more out of you on this one."

Laymon shifted his bulk in the leather chair. "It's not that we don't appreciate your efforts, Alec, but like Richard says, it really isn't enough. Scolari not only has the strong ethnic thing working for him, he's got a just-one-of-the-boys personality that comes across both in person and on television. He's a guy the voter wouldn't mind having a beer with. And let's face it, our man Walton comes across both in person and on the tube as a wimp."

Alec nodded sagely, as though he were thinking over what the partners had said. He had anticipated something like this, and he was ready. By holding his trump card until he had apparently failed, he would score the highest possible points with it.

He said, "That's exactly the way I saw it. Scolari is a crook, and we could prove it, but the fact is, who cares. Unless he personally shot somebody's mother in front of witnesses, people aren't interested. Maybe not even then. But I turned up something better."

The partners leaned forward. Alec savored the moment. As he was about to speak, something pressed his neck right at the base of his skull. A wave of dizziness came and went as he froze for an instant.

"Alec?" he heard Laymon say. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine. Just an allergy."

"You were saying you had something for us," Koontz prompted.

"Right. You remember what finished Gary Hart a couple of months ago?"

"You've got Scolari in a sex scandal?" Laymon asked.

Koontz was doubtful. "I don't know. Hart was running for President. You don't have to be all that clean to be elected on the municipal level. It might stop him from going any further, but that won't help us or Bo Walton now. Sleeping with a woman isn't good enough, Alec."

"How about sleeping with a boy?"

The partners leaned forward.

"Scolari's a faggot?" Koontz said.

"You've got proof?" Laymon asked.

"I've got the boy he was buggering," Alec told them. "He workth at dhe youemn..."

He realized the two men were staring at him a fraction of a second before he heard the distorted words from his own mouth.

"I gom to sime appadapit..."

"Alec, are you all right?" Laymon asked.

Koontz just stared.

Alec put a hand to his mouth. His tongue felt like a hunk of strange raw meat. It was swelling against his palate.

"Allagy," he mumbled. "Sowwy."

Laymon pushed out of his chair and came over to stand beside him. "Man, that came on suddenly. Is there something you can do for it?"

"Mmm-mmm," Alec shook his head.

Koontz said, "Look, you better get out of here and have that taken care of. We can continue this later."

Alec nodded, hand still clapped over his mouth, and fled from the office.

He stumbled out of the building and waved to a cab. He could barely keep his mouth shut now with the tongue forcing itself fatly between his teeth. The panic sweat was on him as he scribbled the address of his apartment on a card and shoved it at the driver.