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The lights were on, and the door was unlocked. Brookhart's stayed open until nine even on Sunday evenings during the off season.
Bryce went in first, followed by Jennifer and Lisa Paige. Tal entered last. When choosing a man to protect his back in a dangerous situation, Bryce always preferred Tal Whitman. He trusted no one else as much as he trusted Tal, not even Frank Autry.
Brookhart's was a cluttered place, but curiously warm and pleasing. There were tall glass-doored coolers filled with cans and bottles of beer, shelves and racks and bins laden with bottles of wine and liquor, and other racks brimming with paperbacks, magazines, and newspapers. Cigars and cigarettes were stacked in boxes and cartons, and tins of pipe tobacco were displayed in haphazard mounds on several countertops. A variety of goodies were tucked in wherever there was space: candy bars, LifeSavers, chewing gum, peanuts, popcorn, pretzels, potato chips, corn twisties, tortilla chips.
Bryce led the way through the deserted store, looking for bodies in the aisles. But there were none.
There was, however, an enormous puddle of water, about an inch deep, that covered half the floor. They stepped gingerly around it.
“Where'd all this water come from?” Lisa wondered.
“Must be a leak in the condensation pan under one of the beer coolers,” Tal Whitman said.
They came around the end of a wine bin and got a good look at all of the coolers. There was no water anywhere near those softly humming appliances.
“Maybe there's a leak in the plumbing,” Jennifer Paige said.
They continued their exploration, descending into the cellar, which was used for the storage of wine and booze in cardboard cases, then going up to the top floor, above the store, where there was an office. They found nothing out of the ordinary.
In the store again, heading toward the front door, Bryce stopped and hunkered down for a closer look at the puddle on the floor. He moistened one fingertip in the stuff, it felt like water, and it was odorless.
“What's wrong?” Tal asked.
Standing again, Bryce said, “It's odd-all this water here.”
Tal said, “Most likely, it's what Dr. Paige said-only a leak in the plumbing.”
Bryce nodded. However, although he couldn't say why, the big puddle seemed significant to him.
Tayton's Pharmacy was a small place that served Snowfield and all of the outlying mountain towns. An apartment occupied two floors above the pharmacy; it was decorated in shades of cream and peach, with emerald-green accent pieces, and with a number of fine antiques.
Frank Autry led his men through the entire building, and they found nothing remarkable-except for the sodden carpet in the living room. It was literally soaking wet; it squished beneath their shoes.
The Candle glow Inn positively radiated charm and gentility: the deep caves and elaborately carved cornices, the mullioned windows flanked by carved white shutters. Two carriage lamps were fixed atop stone pilasters, bracketing the short stone walkway. Three small spotlights spread dramatic fans of light across the face of the inn.
Jenny, Lisa, the sheriff, and Lieutenant Whitman paused on the sidewalk in front of the Candle glow, and Hammond said, “Are they open this time of year?”
“Yes,” Jenny said, “They manage to stay about half full during the off season. But then they have a marvelous reputation with discriminating travelers-and they only have sixteen rooms.”
“Well… let's have a look.”
The front doors opened onto a small, comfortably appointed lobby: an oak floor, a dark oriental carpet, light beige sofas, a pair of Queen Anne chairs upholstered in a rose-colored fabric, cherry wood end tables, brass lamps.
The registration desk was off to the right. A bell rested on the wooden counter, and Jenny struck it several times, rapidly, expecting no response and getting none.
“Dan and Sylvia keep an apartment behind this office area,” she said, indicating the cramped business quarters beyond the counter.
“They own the place?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes. Dan and Sylvia Kanarsky.”
The sheriff stared at her for a moment. “Friends?”
“Yes. Close friends.”
“Then maybe we'd better not look in their apartment,” he said.
Warm sympathy and understanding shone in his heavy-lidded blue eyes. Jenny was surprised by a sudden awareness of the kindness and intelligence that informed his face. During the past hour, watching him operate, she had gradually realized that he was considerably more alert and efficient than he had at first appeared to be. Now, looking into his sensitive, compassionate eyes, she realized he was perceptive, interesting, formidable.
“We can't just walk away,” she said, “This place has to be searched sooner or later. The whole town has to be searched. We might as well get this part of it out of the way.”
She lifted a hinged section of the wooden countertop and started to push through a gate into the office space beyond.
“Please, Doctor,” the sheriff said, “always let me or Lieutenant Whitman go first.”
She backed out obediently, and he preceded her into Dan's and Sylvia's apartment, but they didn't find anyone. No dead bodies.
Thank God.
Back at the registration desk, Lieutenant Whitman paged through the guest log. “Only six rooms are being rented right now, and they're all on the second floor.”
The sheriff located a passkey on a pegboard beside the mailboxes. With almost monotonous caution, they went upstairs and searched the six rooms. In the first five, they found luggage and cameras and half-written postcards and other indications that there actually were guests at the inn, but they didn't find the guests themselves.
In the sixth room, when Lieutenant Whitman tried the door to the adjoining bath, he found it locked. He hammered on it and shouted, “Police! Is anyone there?”
No one answered.
Whitman looked at the doorknob, then at the sheriff. “No lock button on this side, so someone must be in there. Break it down?”
“Looks like a solid-core door,” Hammond said, “No use dislocating your shoulder. Shoot the lock.”
Jenny took Lisa's arm and drew the girl aside, out of the path of any debris that might blow back.
Lieutenant Whitman called a warning to anyone who might be in the bathroom, then fired one shot. He kicked the door open and went inside fast. “Nobody's here.”
“Maybe they climbed out a window,” the sheriff said.
“There aren't any windows in here,” Whitman said, frowning.
“You're sure the door was locked?”
“Positive. And it could only be done from the inside.”
“But how-if no one was in there?”
Whitman shrugged. “Besides that, there's something you ought to have a look at.”
They all had a look at it, in fact, for the bathroom was large enough to accommodate four people. On the mirror above the sink, a message had been hastily printed in bold, greasy, black letters:
Timothy
Flyte.
The Ancient
Enemy
In another apartment above another shop, Frank Autry and his men found another water-soaked carpet that squished under their feet. In the living room, dining room, and bedrooms, the carpet was dry, but in the hallway leading to the kitchen, it was saturated. And in the kitchen itself, three-quarters of the vinyl-tile floor was covered with water up to a depth of one inch in places.
Standing in the hallway, staring into the kitchen, Jake Johnson said, “Must be a plumbing leak.”
“That's what you said at the other place,” Frank reminded him, “Seems coincidental, don't you think?”
Gordy Brogan said, “It is just water. I don't see what it could have to do with… all the murders.”
“Shit,” Stu Wargle said, “we're wastin' time. There's nothin' here. Let's go.”
Ignoring them, Frank stepped into the kitchen, trading carefully through one end of the small lake, heading for a dry area by a row of cupboards. He opened several cupboard doors before he found a small plastic tub used for storing leftovers. It was clean and dry, and it had a snap-on lid that made an airtight seal. In a drawer he found a measuring spoon, and he used it to scoop water into the plastic container.
“What're you doing?” Jake asked from the doorway.
“Collecting a sample.”
“Sample? Why? It's only water.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, “but there's something funny about it.”
The bathroom. The mirror. The bold, greasy, black letters.
Jenny stared at the five printed words.
Lisa said, “Who's Timothy Flyte?”
“Could be the guy who wrote this,” Lieutenant Whitman said.
“Is the room rented to Flyte?” the sheriff asked.
“I'm sure I didn't see that name on the registry,” the lieutenant said, “We can check it out when we go downstairs, but I'm really sure.”
“Maybe Timothy Flyte is one of the killers,” Lisa said. “Maybe the guy renting this room recognized him and left this message.”
The sheriff shook his head. “No. If Flyte's got something to do with what's happened to this town, he wouldn't leave his name on the mirror like that. He would've wiped it off.”
“Unless he didn't know it was there,” Jenny said.
The lieutenant said, “Or maybe he knew it was there, but he's one of the rabid maniacs you talked about, so he doesn't care whether we catch him or not.”
Bryce Hammond looked at Jenny. “Anyone in town seen Flyte?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Do you know everyone in Snowfield?”
“Yeah.”
“All five hundred?”
“Nearly everyone,” she said.
“Nearly everyone, huh? Then there could be a Timothy Flyte here?”
“Even if I'd never met him, I'd still have heard someone mention him. It's a small town, Sheriff, at least during the off season.”
“Could be someone from over in Mount Larson, Shady Roost, or Pineville,” the lieutenant suggested.
She wished they could go somewhere else to discuss the message on the mirror. Outside. In the open. Where nothing could creep close to them without revealing itself. She had the uncanny, unsupported, but undeniable feeling that something-something damned strange-was moving about in another part of the inn right this minute, stealthily carrying out some dreadful task of which she and the sheriff and Lisa and the deputy were dangerously unaware.
“What about the second part of it?” Lisa asked, indicating THE ANCIENT ENEMY.
Jenny finally said, “Well, we're back to what Lisa first said. It looks as if the man who wrote this was telling us that Timothy Flyte was his enemy. Our enemy, too, I guess.”
“Maybe,” Bryce Hammond said dubiously, “But it seems like an unusual way to put it-'the ancient enemy.” Kind of awkward. Almost archaic. If he locked himself in the bathroom to escape Flyte and then wrote a hasty warning, why wouldn't he say, “Timothy Flyte, my old enemy,' or something straightforward?”
Lieutenant Whitman agreed. “In fact, if he wanted to leave a message accusing Flyte, he'd have written, 'Timothy Flyte did it,' or maybe 'Flyte killed them all.' The last thing he'd want is to be obscure.”
The sheriff began sorting through the articles on the deep shelf that was above the sink, just under the mirror: a bottle of Mennen's Skin Conditioner, lime-scented aftershave, a man's electric razor, a pair of toothbrushes, toothpaste, combs, hairbrushes, a woman's makeup kit. “From the looks of it, there were two people in this room. So maybe they both locked themselves in the bath-which means two of them vanished into thin air. But what did they write on the floor with?”
“It looks as if it must've been an eyebrow pencil,” Lisa said. Jenny nodded. “I think so, too.”
They searched the bathroom for a black eyebrow pencil.
They couldn't find it.
“Terrific,” the sheriff said exasperatedly, “So the eyebrow pencil disappeared along with maybe two people who locked themselves in here. Two people kidnapped out of a locked room.”
They went downstairs to the front desk. According to the guest register, the room in which the message had been found was occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Harold Ordnay of San Francisco.
“None of the other guests was named Timothy Flyte,” Sheriff Hammond said, closing the register.
“Well,” Lieutenant Whitman said, “I guess that's about all we can do here right now.”
Jenny was relieved to hear him say that.
“Okay,” Bryce Hammond said, “Let's catch up with Frank and the others. Maybe they've found something we haven't.”
They started across the lobby. After only a couple of steps, Lisa stopped them with a scream.
They all saw it a second after it caught the girl's attention. It was on an end table, directly in the fall of light from a rose shaded lamp, so prettily lit that it seemed almost like a piece of artwork on display. A man's hand. A severed hand.
Lisa turned away from the macabre sight.
Jenny held her sister, looking over Lisa's shoulder with ghastly fascination. The hand. The damned, mocking, impossible hand.
It was holding an eyebrow pencil firmly between its thumb and first two fingers. The eyebrow pencil. The same one. It had to be.
Jenny's horror was as great as Lisa's, but she bit her lip and suppressed a scream. It wasn't merely the sight of the hand that repelled and terrified her. The thing that made the breath catch and burn in her chest was the fact that this hand hadn't been on this end table a short while ago. Someone had placed it here while they were upstairs, knowing that they would find it; someone was mocking them, someone with an extremely twisted sense of humor.
Bryce Hammond's hooded eyes were open farther than Jenny had yet seen them. “Damn it, this thing wasn't here before was it?”
“No,” Jenny said.
The sheriff and deputy had been carrying their revolvers with the muzzles pointed at the floor. Now they raised their weapons as if they thought the severed hand might drop the eyebrow pencil, launch itself off the table toward someone's face, and gouge out someone's eyes.
They were speechless.
The spiral patterns in the oriental carpet seemed to have become refrigeration coils, casting off waves of icy air.
Overhead, in a distant room, a floorboard or an unoiled door creaked, groaned, creaked.
