“Are you okay?” he asked Jessie finally, unable to stand her silence any longer.

“I’m okay, Daddy. The doctor is going to help us. He’s a good man.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “I just do.”

I just do. It was funny, but somehow he believed her.

The night outside the windows darkened until the woods were no longer visible. They continued to sit in the living room, comforted by each other’s company. Eventually, Helen picked up the copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales from the coffee table and started to read to Jessie. The wind continued to gust and moan around the roof of the house, rattling the large panes of glass on the south side. He looked at his wife and daughter, huddled close together on the couch. They seemed fragile, and far too vulnerable to hold up under the pressure that was building around them like a giant, helium-filled balloon. He couldn’t wait for O’Leary to call him. It was time to do some checking up on Hydro Development, so he would know exactly who or what he was up against, if anyone. And before bed, he would inspect the house again. Just to be safe. The phone call from Flint, the cat, the doctor’s advice—it had all gotten him rattled. And he didn’t like the feeling.

He listened to Helen’s voice, calm and sweet in the warmth of the fire, and the wind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Nothing had prepared him for this.

The creature (what had been a dog, but what was now some sort of slobbering, half-crazed beast) lay on its belly on the table, sweat-flecked sides heaving, bloodshot eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. Wires ran from electrodes on the creature’s skull to a machine on the floor. Though it was pretty obviously dying, it was still trying desperately to get at any of the various humans watching the spectacle; jaws speckled with yellowish foam and bits of blood snapped and snarled, and lips curled upward, exposing long rows of teeth. Blood ran freely from its nose and spattered in tiny dots on the surface of the table.

If the creature hadn’t been securely chained to a bolt on the tabletop, Flint might have left the room then and there; as it was, he took a single, involuntary step back.

“Jesus, Jimmy. What the hell is going on?”

“What, did you think I was lying to you?” a man in white at the head of the table said. “I love having you down here, Danny, but really.”

“Yeah, well, I just didn’t expect this.” Flint wasn’t sure what he had expected, but no amount of description over a phone line could prepare you for a real live Cujo, right here on a laboratory table.