Project Hyperion (A Kaiju Thriller) (Kaiju #4)

Despite the large number of prey consumed, her hunger not only continued, but expanded, like her body. She felt tight inside her own skin. Moving became harder work, which burned more calories, and fueled her hunger. She reached out with her senses, searching for more of her preferred food source, but the waters were empty. There were scores of them—humans, she thought—on land, but she still felt wary of the pain she’d felt and her tightening body would restrict her movement.

More than that, she had grown increasingly revolted by the thought of consuming humans. It wasn’t the flavor—she couldn’t really taste them—it was just the idea. Some part of her said that eating humans was wrong. It was an emotion she had never felt before, not since waking up, and not in the time before, which she was slowly starting to remember as hazy images. She didn’t know what, but something about her was different. And it was that same something that drew her south. Whatever force pulled her in that direction was bigger than her budding craving for justice or her unceasing hunger.

So she swam, following the coast, rubbing her itching body along the ocean floor and searching for larger prey that might satiate her hunger.





34



My bedroom is directly beneath the Crow’s Nest. It has the same distant ocean view as the massive workspace, just a few feet lower. But what it loses in height, it gains by having access to a stone deck fringed by a three-foot-tall, Romanesque wall complete with columns. Iambic or something. No, that’s poetry. Doric? No, Ionic. That’s it.

I shake my head and roll my eyes at myself. I’m dwelling on the stupid columns so I don’t have to think about anything else. I’ve seen things I’ll never be able to forget, despite how badly I would like to. People have died. Thousands of them. Because I failed. I know it’s harsh, but it’s true. Had I taken the mission statement of FC-P seriously and actively pursued cases instead of just waiting for Watson to hand me something, maybe I would have caught wind of this sooner?

No, I tell myself, Zoomb covered their tracks too well. And with the General’s help, they managed to stay below everyone’s radar. I wonder if he had to call in favors. When the dust settles how many people will I be putting in cuffs?

Maybe no one.

“You already look like shit,” Collins says, somehow materializing next to me. “You can stop beating yourself up.”

After flinching and nearly falling two stories to the brick patio below, I say, “Geeez.”

She smiles and says, “You okay?”

She’s probably referring to my apparently obvious mental whipping, but I don’t feel like having a heart-to-heart about that. It’s too fresh. The smell of blood and smoke lingers in my nose, complimenting the screams echoing in my head. I’d told Collins and Woodstock to get some sleep and left Cooper and Watson with orders to wake us if anything developed, but I’m clearly not the only one avoiding bed. Dodging the emotional bullet, I say, “I thought you were old Mrs. Rosen.”

“Mrs. Rosen?”

“She was the last owner of this house,” I say.

“And you thought I was her?”

“Her ghost,” I say. “But I’ve never seen her. Watson seems to see her every time the wind blows, but even Cooper claims to have seen her once.”

Collins climbs on top of the wall and sits next to me. It’s dark out, but the full moon glows brightly on her freckled face. She waits for the rest of the story.

“Said she was sitting in a rocking chair,” I point up at the large windows of the Crow’s Nest. “Up there. Just looking out the window. When she spoke, the old woman disappeared. It’s funny, I always thought that Cooper and Watson looked up the death report on Mrs. Rosen and were teasing me, but now... I’d say just about anything is possible, and I think I need to change my Halloween tradition.”

She smiles widely at this, despite not knowing how disrespectful my Halloween tradition could be taken if Mrs. Rosen is indeed wandering the halls of this gigantic house. Of course, she hasn’t haunted me yet, so maybe she appreciates someone keeping the vigil.

“What would they have found in her death report?” Collins asks.

I hitch my thumb at the windows above us. “That’s where they found her, rocking chair and all.”

“You’re serious?”

“The worst part is that she sat there, baking in the summer heat for a month before neighbors noticed she never moved and called the police. I’m pretty sure that’s why we got the place.”

“Well, I think it’s interesting,” Collins says. She props her hands on the wall and looks up at the stars. “Not as many as I’m used to.”

I look up. Beverly’s city lights drown out all but the brightest stars, blocking out about sixty percent of what can be seen from the backwoods of Maine.