Smith set the receiver gently down on the cradle, then fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to think.

His thoughts were a mass of fragmentary and horrific images that he tried desperately and unsuccessfully to force into order. That thing was in his apartment, answering his phone – and what else was it doing there? What did a walking nightmare do in its free time?

What about all his things – his clothes, his books, his computers? Was that thing wearing his clothes, reading his books, using his computers?

There were so many questions and mysteries!

What had happened in that basement? What had the nightmare people done there? What had they done to his neighbors? What had the police found there?

Where had the monsters come from in the first place? Where could they have come from? Outer space? Hell? Genetic experiments?

None of those made any sense. How could monsters from outer space disguise themselves as human? Why would they want to? Why attack an apartment complex?

And nobody was doing genetic experiments like that, not even the CIA, he was sure.

And he didn’t believe in hell, not really, not as a source of devils and monsters.

So where had they come from?

He didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine any sane explanation, and as he tried, his exhaustion got the better of him; he fell asleep.

He was awakened by the growling of his stomach. Sitting up stiffly, he looked out the window to see the sun low in the west, behind the Orchard Pond apartments.

He looked at his watch and saw that he had slept away the entire afternoon; it was only a minute or two before 7:00 p.m.

He felt better, calmer and more rested, than he had since fleeing his apartment the day before. Sleep had been what he needed, no doubt about it.

He took a moment to use the bathroom, comb his hair, and change his wrinkled and sweat-stained shirt, then headed for Denny’s for dinner. It was obviously too late to call Lieutenant Buckley now; he would call in the morning.

And when he did call, besides asking what progress had been made in the investigation, it occurred to him that it might be a good idea to let Buckley know where he was staying.

He found a table, read the menu, and told the waitress what he wanted. After he had ordered, he sat back and considered.

How long was he going to stay at the motel, anyway? And where was he going to go?

Sleeping on George’s couch down in Bethesda would be cheaper – not that he was especially short of funds or anything – and would get him farther away from Diamond Park. He would be heading against the worst of the rush-hour traffic on his way to his job in Rockville, instead of being in the middle of it, and that would be nice.

And what was he going to do about his apartment?

He would give it up, clear it out, and forget about the monsters, that’s what he would do. He had done his part in calling the police. Dealing with monsters wasn’t his responsibility.

If there really were any monsters.

And if there weren’t, well, living with vicious practical jokers wasn’t his idea of a good time, either.

A few hours’ sleep made it all seem so much simpler. It wasn’t his business. He might make a few more anonymous calls, but he wasn’t going to ruin his life. The monsters, if they were really monsters, had come and taken over that one apartment complex, and he had been lucky enough to get out alive, and as far as he knew that was the end of it.

That they had turned up at the motel later on didn’t matter. After all, they’d had plenty of opportunity while he was asleep just now, or when he was poking around the unfinished office building; if they were going to attack him, they could have done so then.

Of course, he thought, looking out the window at the orange-streaked western sky, that had all been in broad daylight, and the two occasions when he had seen nightmare people undisguised had been in the middle of the night.

Clearing out his apartment had better wait until morning, he decided. And in fact, he might see about staying up all night again, just until he could get settled in at George’s place and start looking for a new apartment.

He was watching the glorious summer sunset and trying very hard not to think any more about any of it when his steak and shrimp platter arrived.

“Hey, George,” he said into the phone as he lay back on the motel bed.

“That you, Ed?” George’s voice was calm and familiar.

“Yeah,” Smith said. “How’s life treating you lately?”

“Not bad, not bad. You gonna be at the poker game this month?”

“That’s a week from Friday, right?”

“Right, and it’ll be right here at my place.”

“Yeah, I expect I’ll be there. In fact… well, listen, George, I have a favor to ask.”

“Ask away; what’s up?”

“Well, see, there’s a problem with my apartment. In fact, I’m calling from a motel; I had to move out. Is your living room couch still vacant?” He tried not to sound as if he were begging.

George hesitated, and Smith’s heart sank.

“Jeez, Ed,” he said at last, “I don’t know. I mean, nobody’s sleeping on the couch, but Bridget’s been…” He let his sentence trail off unfinished.

“Oh,” Smith said. He paused for a moment, trying to decide how badly he needed somewhere else to stay, and then asked, “You think that would be a problem? I mean, it wouldn’t bother me.”

“Well, yeah,” George said, slightly annoyed. “I think it might have something of an inhibiting effect, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Smith acknowledged.

For a moment both men were silent; then George said, “Look, if it’s an emergency, maybe for a day or two…”

“No, that’s all right,” Smith said, a trifle reluctantly. “I can stay at the motel. At least for now.”

“Okay. Hey, I’m sorry; if the situation changes, I’ll let you know. And if I come across any good apartments I’ll give you a call.”

“Fine. Thanks, George. Really. I’m at the Red Roof Inn in Gaithersburg, room 203.”

“Right.”

“Right. Well, guess I’ll see you at the poker game.”

“Yeah. See you.”

He hung up.

It would seem, Smith thought wryly, that he was not going to be staying with good old George down in Bethesda.

Well, he could find an apartment easily enough. Right across Route 124 there were plenty of apartments, and there were bound to be vacancies – maybe not right now, but reasonably soon.

Then he’d have to go and get all his stuff out of his old apartment – maybe it was just as well he’d never really finished unpacking everything. That meant spending at least a couple of hours at the Bedford Mills complex, with the monsters all around – if they were real. That was a daunting prospect.

At least he’d be able to get George to help – he could play on the guilt about his refusing the couch.

But right now, he didn’t have much to do. He couldn’t go apartment-hunting at this hour, or call the police, and while he’d have been able to work if he were already there, he couldn’t get into the building this late; they locked up at six, and he didn’t have a key yet.

And all his books and records and tapes were back in his apartment, damn it.

He sighed, turned on the TV, and sat on the bed.

Midway through the Tonight Show, where Jay Leno was filling in for Johnny Carson, Smith came to a conclusion.

When you aren’t tired or sleepy or doing anything else, when there are things you’d like to do but can’t, and when you’re all alone in a motel room, watching late-night television is really, really boring.

Worst of all, the television didn’t distract him from worrying about when that nightmare face was going to peer in his window again. His earlier cheerful optimism had faded once night had settled in, the sky had darkened, and the traffic had started to thin.