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”
    When he looked up, he found that he was conversing with empty air. The doctor was gone, the door still swung wide against the file cabinets.
    Dammit !
    “Loomis,” he called out, and he was answered only by the repercussions of his own voice throughout his head. “ Loomis !”
    ***
    Doctor Loomis marched across the puddled pavement in the direction of a half-dozen blue OFFICIAL USE federal sedans, his hard black shoes splashing droplets of water onto the legs of his dark brown slacks. He stormed over to the nearest vehicle and opened the door to the driver’s side with a key from his pocket keychain. He heard a distant voice behind him; perhaps it was the voice of reason, but regardless, Loomis was not a reasonable man in the face of unreasonable urgency. But he recognized that voice, and this was the very reason why he did not turn.
    “Where do you think you’re going?” Hoffman said, catching his breath. He had been running.
    Loomis continued into the car, slammed the door shut and rolled down the window. His words were hurried and desperate. “To find It . It has a single relative left alive the daughter of Laurie Strode. She’ll be Its target now.”
    Hoffman gripped the edges of the car door with despairing urgency. “For godsake, just listen to yourself. Michael Myers is a threat to no one.”
    Even after ten years,” Loomis replied, starting the engine, “you still have no idea what you’ve let loose.” Then, “What are you doing?”
    Hoffman had hastened over to the passenger’s side, opened the door and hopped in.
    “If you’re wrong, he said, “I don’t want you starting a panic.”
    “And if I’m right?”
    “You won’t be,” Hoffman told him.
    But there was that encompassing fear.
                 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Four
    Four Illinois State Highway Patrol cars were parked on the shoulder of the dust-filled country highway. A state trooper was in the process of lighting flares, placing them across the asphalt of the breakdown lane, occasionally raising his gaze to the remote distance of the road and wiping the newly- formed sweat from his brow. The area was silent save for the crackling of the patrolmen’s radios and the talking. Three troopers were working their way down a muddy embankment beyond the shoulder which sloped down into a deep ravine of marshy undergrowth.
    The Smith’s Grove medical transport bus rested on its roof; a wasted dissolution at the bottom of the ravine. Ground fog swirled and eddied around shattered bits of glass and metal.
    The three troopers scattered around the wreckage, investigating the surroundings carefully.
    “What a mess,” the first one exclaimed. Then, to the others, “Swing around the backside. Anyone alive is a lucky son of a bitch.”
    “Anyone alive’d be too messed up to be a lucky son of a bitch,” another remarked.
    The troopers circled the vehicle, moving moderately nearer through sucking mud and swamp runoff. The youngest of the three sloshed towards the rear quarter, finding the back doors twisted open. He peered into darkness. The other two joined him there, gazing closer into the bus’ interior. As soon as they began to realize what they beheld, repulsion set in and the younger one dodged over to a nearby clump of weeds, doubling up, retching into the thickness. Another newly arrived trooper, a much older man, nearly stumbled over to the other two and joined them as they continued their gaze inside.
    “Holy shit,” he whispered. “Looks like those traffic films we show to Driver’s Ed classes.”
    A trooper beside him unbuckled a flashlight from his belt and flashed it within the bus for a better view. Behind him, still others circled through the weeds.
    Back out on the highway, Loomis’ sedan joined the patrol cars pulled over to the shoulder. He killed the engine and stepped out, gravel crumbling under his heels. Hoffman shut the