Dead of Night (Dead of Night 1)
The creature pounded again. And again.
And then the door opened.
Hartnup begged God to let him die for real and for good and to not have to be a witness to this.
His loudest cry was as silent as death, and not even God heard him.
Hartnup tried to scream loud enough to drown out the other screams that now filled the air. He tried.
He tried.
He tried.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
GREEN GATES 55-PLUS COMMUNITY
Dr. Volker surprised them by answering the door after the first knock. He pulled it open abruptly as if he intended to spring out at them, but then he froze, his eyes narrowed and suspicious.
“Who are you?”
Trout smiled. “We spoke on the phone earlier, doctor. I’m Billy Trout, Regional Satellite News. ”
Volker was in his late sixties. Beyond retirement age. His sharp German features were softened by age, his blond hair thinned to a pale rime. He wore a thick velour bathrobe and one hand was buried to the wrist in one deep pocket. The pocket sagged under a heavy weight, and Trout suddenly felt his testicles climb up inside his pelvis.
Gun, he thought. Christ, he has a gun.
“How did you get this address?”
“Does it matter?” asked Trout.
“Yes,” snapped Volker, “it does. How did you—”
“DMV. The address on your license…”
“You shouldn’t have access to that kind of information. ”
Trout spread his hands. Behind him, Goat shifted nervously and Volker’s pale eyes shifted toward him.
“Who is this?” Volker demanded.
“My cameraman. Gregory Weinman. ”
“Weinman,” Volker repeated, his lip curling slightly into a sneer.
Great, thought Trout, he probably hates Jews. This is going to be so much fun.
“Doctor,” Trout said, “we would like to ask you a few questions. About Selma Conroy and Homer Gibbon. ”
Volker gave him a flat reptilian stare, and Trout was already fishing for something to say to try to convince the doctor to let them in, when Volker suddenly stepped back. “Very well,” he said. He turned and walked into his house, leaving the door open.
Trout and Goat looked at each other. Goat raised his eyebrows in a “well, this is what you wanted” look.
They followed the doctor inside and closed the door.
The house was depressing and dry. The pictures on the wall were the kind you bought at Ikea. The living room was almost certainly picked without passion from a catalog and it was set up to match that page. It was technically attractive, but it lacked warmth and humanity. No magazines on the coffee table. No novels or even technical books. Nothing. It was a place, not a home. Volker waved them to chairs. Trout and Goat sat on opposite ends of the couch.
Volker surprised them again. “Do you want coffee?”