“About that DNA,” Ralph said. “Ed Bogan in the Serology Department at General ran those samples. With his reputation at stake, he should be squawking his head off.”
Samuels smiled. “He should, shouldn’t he? Except the truth is even less palatable—another case of footprints that just stop, you could say. There was no exposure to UV light, but the samples began developing white spots of no known origin, and now they’re completely degraded. Bogan got in touch with State Police Forensics in Ohio, and guess what? Same thing with the Heath Holmes samples. A series of photos shows them basically disintegrating. A defense attorney would have a ball with that, wouldn’t he?”
“And the witnesses?”
Bill Samuels laughed and poured himself another drink. He offered the bottle to Ralph, who shook his head—he was driving home.
“They were the easy part. They’ve all decided they were wrong, with two exceptions—Arlene Stanhope and June Morris. They stand by their stories.”
Ralph was not surprised. Stanhope was the old lady who had seen the outsider approach Frank Peterson in the parking lot of Gerald’s Fine Groceries and drive away with him. June Morris was the child who had seen him in Figgis Park, with blood on his shirt. The very old and the very young always saw most clearly.
“So now what?”
“Now we finish our drinks and go our separate ways,” Samuels said. “I just have one question.”
“Shoot.”
“Was he the only one? Or are there others?”
Ralph’s mind returned to the final confrontation in the cave, and to the greedy expression in the outsider’s eyes as he asked his question: Have you seen another one like me somewhere?
“I don’t think so,” he said, “but we’ll never be completely sure. There might be anything out there. I know that now.”
“Jesus Christ, I hope not!”
Ralph made no reply. In his mind he heard Holly saying There’s no end to the universe.
（September 21st）
6
Ralph took his coffee with him into the bathroom to shave. He had been slipshod about this daily chore during his mandated time away from the police force, but he had been reinstated to active duty two weeks before. Jeannie was downstairs making breakfast. He could smell bacon and heard the blare of trumpets that signaled the beginning of the Today show, which would open with the daily budget of bad news before moving on to the celeb of the week and many ads for prescription drugs.
He set his coffee cup down on the little table and froze, watching as a red worm wriggled its way out from beneath his thumbnail. He looked in the mirror and saw his face changing into Claude Bolton’s face. He opened his mouth to scream. A flood of maggots and red worms poured out over his lips and down the front of his shirt.
7
He woke sitting up in bed, heart pounding in his throat and temples as well as in his chest, hands plastered over his mouth, as if to hold in a scream . . . or something even worse. Jeannie slept on beside him, so he hadn’t screamed; there was that.
None of them got in me that day. None of them even touched me. You know that.
Yes, he did. He had been there, after all, and he’d had a complete （and overdue） physical checkup before resuming his duties. Other than slightly elevated weight and cholesterol, Dr. Elway had pronounced him fine and fit.
He glanced at the clock and saw it was quarter to four. He lay back, looking up at the ceiling. A long time yet until first light. A long time to think.
8
Ralph and Jeannie were early risers; Derek would sleep until he was rousted at seven, the latest he could be allowed to sleep and still make the school bus. Ralph sat at the kitchen table in his pajamas while Jeannie started the Bunn and put out boxes of cereal for Derek to choose from when he came down. She asked Ralph how he’d slept. He said fine. She asked him how the job search for Jack Hoskins’s replacement was going. He said it was over. Based on his and Betsy Riggins’s recommendations, Chief Geller had decided to promote Officer Troy Ramage to Flint City’s three-man detective squad.
“He’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he’s a hard worker and a team player. I think he’ll do.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” She filled his mug, then ran a hand down his cheek. “You’re all scratchy, mister. You need to shave.”
He took his coffee, went upstairs, closed the bedroom door, and pulled his phone off the charger. The number he wanted was in his contacts, and although it was still early—Today’s opening trumpet flourish was still at least a half hour away—he knew she would be up. On many days, the phone at her end never got through the first ring. This was one of them.