Free The Wild by Whitley Strieber Page B

period to the conversation by announcing that the news had started. They told about a terrible series of murders in Calaveras County, California. Pictures of the concrete blockhouse where the crimes were committed were shown. Bob felt fascinated loathing at the sight of the thing. He wondered what had gone on inside.
    Later he went into Kevin's room and talked to him about Kafka. Then he read the Metamorphosis and grew slightly sick. People assumed that the story of a man turning into an insect was metaphorical, but what if Kafka had taken it from life? What if it was a real experience?
    Of course it wasn't real. How could he even think that, and so debase the literature of the piece?
    Later he drank three Stolys and listened to Steve Reich's Desert Music. He ate some cold shrimp that were in the fridge and wished he was at Pascal Manoule's in New Orleans. Barbecued shrimp and a Dixie beer. God love it, perhaps the best meal in America.
    This night passed without dreams.
    When he woke up, there was thin, gray light coming in the window. He went through the ceremonies of the morning, the shave, the brushing of the hair, the dressing in the gray suit, the kissing of the schoolbound boy, the march out into the sun-drenched traffic, the subway, the jammed crowds of Thirty-fourth Street, the elevator, the office of Duke Data Consultants on the sixth floor of the Empire State Building. At the moment he could not afford a secretary, and his outer office contained nothing but a desk, an archaic Mac, and a telephone.
    He took in the mail, which consisted of the usual pound or so of computer magazines, trade journals, and bills. There were no letters of inquiry, and none of his outstanding accounts had sent checks. The bills he piled up to take to Cindy.
    He had not yet sat down when the phone began ringing. "This is Joe Tragliano, I want—"
    Bob put down the phone in horror. Tragliano? Somebody from the landlord's office—but which landlord, home or this place?
    He didn't want to call Cindy about it. The mere fact that landlords were beginning to phone would terrify her. Why didn't things ever come out right? The world is not made to come out right, the world is made to burn. And yet flowers, spring, glistening lakes, snowflakes, laughing children.
    And yet—the phone ringing again. Bob jerked back and forth. God, God, it could be a client. Or—he answered.
    "Tragliano. Look, we got a hot check here. We can't deposit it again, you gotta send us a new check. You understand that?"
    "Yes."
    "Okay, there's gonna be an eviction notice in your mailbox tomorrow. It's no big deal, don't get worried, just get the money to us, okay?"
    "Okay." Oh, God. The apartment, sixteen hundred and fifty dollars a month. It hadn't seemed like much a year ago but now, God.
    There was a pink envelope on the floor he hadn't seen before. Pushed under the outer door while he was on the phone. He opened it. A pink copy of his April office rent bill, a yellow copy of the May bill, a blue copy of the June bill, a white copy of the current bill.
    They had been waiting for him to come in. Eyes had watched his entrance, feet had moved. Was somebody now hanging back in the hall, waiting to buttonhole him when he came out?
    Please somebody—if there is a God—help me, help me get out of this mess.
    He would go down to the coffee shop in the basement and coffee himself and read the latest issue of MacWorld. Maybe there'd be some useful tidbit in the computer-industry gossip columns, something he could make a few cold calls about. "Hi, Willard, I just heard a rumor that Compaq's coming out with an AT clone that's—"
    What? Who cares. His "clients" didn't need him, they subscribed to computer magazines, too. Soon he heard the coffee bell in the hall. Never mind the shop in the basement. He shouldn't risk leaving his office, anyway. What if they changed the locks on him? But they were nice people here. He was nearly half a year behind and they hadn't even given him an