by Dean Koontz
“At precisely eight-thirty this evening,” Mick continued, “the telephone company’s computer will shut down all twenty-four of the lines serving the Manheim estate.”
“Won’t that alert Paladin Patrol, the off-site security company? One dedicated line maintains a twenty-four-hour link between Paladin and the estate, for alarm transmissions.”
“Yeah. If the line goes dead, Paladin treats the interruption in service the same as an alarm signal. But they won’t know a thing.”
“It’s an armed-response company,” Corky worried. “Their guards aren’t Barney Fifes with pepper spray. They respond fast, with guns.”
“Part of the package I’ve worked up for you is a breach of the Paladin computer immediately before the Manheim phones go down. It pulls the plug on their whole system.”
“They’ll have redundancy.”
“I know their redundancy like I know my own crotch,” Mick said with impatience. “I’m pulling the plug on the redundancy, too.”
“Impressive.”
“You won’t have to worry about the off-site security company. But what about the private guards on the estate, Manheim’s own boys?”
“Two on the evening shift,” Corky said. “I know their routine. I’ve got that covered. What about cell phones?”
“That’s part of the package you’re buying from me. I checked out the information you got from Ned Hokenberry, and Manheim still uses the same cell-service provider as before Hokenberry was fired.”
Corky said, “Two cellular units are used by the on-duty guards. A third goes everywhere with the security chief, Ethan Truman.”
Mick nodded. “They’ll be shut down at eight-thirty along with the hard-wired phones. The couple that runs the estate also receive cell phones as part of their job—”
“The McBees.”
“Yeah,” Mick said. “And Hachette, the chef, and also William Yorn…”
“The groundskeeper. None of them will be there tonight,” Corky noted. “It’s just Truman and the kid.”
“You don’t want to take any chances, do you, that somebody might decide to work late or maybe come back early from vacation? If I shut them all down, there’s no chance anyone on that estate can dial nine-one-one. At the same time, service will be discontinued to those members of the staff who carry personal pagers.”
Previously they had talked about the Internet and ways in which it could be used to issue a call for help.
Anticipating Corky, Mick said, “Cable-direct Internet access from the Manheim estate will also be terminated at eight-thirty.”
“And the on-duty guards won’t know any of this has happened?”
“Not unless they try to use a phone or go on the Internet.”
“There won’t be a system-interrupt warning on their computers?”
“Got that covered. But like I warned you, I can’t shut down the cameras, the perimeter heat sensors, or the motion detectors in the house itself. If I did any of that, they’d see their system going blind, and they’d know something was up.”
Corky shrugged. “When I get in the house, I want the motion detectors operative, anyway. I might need them. As for the cameras and the perimeter heat sensors, Trotter will get me past all that.”
“And then you’ll kill him,” Mick said.
“Not right then. Later. So what do you have left to do?”
Raising his right hand high in ceremonial fashion, Mick said, “Just this.” Slowly, with a goofy sense of drama, he brought his index finger straight down to the keyboard and tapped ENTER.
The data on the computer vanished. The screen clicked to a soft, unblemished field of blue.
Corky clenched. “What went wrong?”
“Nothing. I’ve initiated the delivery of the package.”
“How long’s it take?”
Mick pointed at three words that had appeared in the center of the screen: GETTING IT ON. “When that changes, the job is done. You want a Coke or something?”
“No thanks,” Corky said.
He never ate or drank anything in the Sachatone house, and he tried not to touch anything, either. You had to figure that Mick had touched everything in the place, at one time or another, and you never knew where Mick’s hands had recently been. Actually, you pretty much did know where Mick’s hands had recently been, which was the problem.
Most of Mick’s friends would have avoided shaking his hand if he had offered it; but he seemed to understand their concern, if only subconsciously, and never suggested hand-to-hand contact.
Bart Simpson ran across a field of wrinkles, jumped in and out of folds of fabric, and made numerous faces as Mick got a Coke from an office refrigerator and returned to his chair at the computer.
They talked about a rare adult video, supposedly produced in Japan, which was legendary among aficionados of sleaze; the film involved two men, two women, and one hermaphrodite, all costumed as Hitler. Mick had been chasing after this item for twelve years.
The video didn’t sound all that interesting to Corky, but he didn’t have a chance to be bored by the conversation because in less than four minutes, the words on the computer screen changed from GETTING IT ON to the succinct SATISFACTION.
“Package delivered,” Mick said.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. The seeds have been planted in the phone-company, cable-company, and security-company computers. Later today, just when you want it to happen, everything will go down.”
“Without any more attention from you?”
Mick grinned. “Slick, huh?”
“Amazing,” Corky said.
Mick tipped his head back to take a long swallow of Coke, and Corky drew the Glock, and when Mick lowered his head again, Corky blew him away.
CHAPTER 67
THE PROFESSOR WHO HAD ORGANIZED THE ONE-DAY seminar on publicity and self-promotion was Dr. Robert Vebbler. He preferred to be called Dr. Bob, as he was known on the motivational-speaking circuit, where he promised to turn ordinary, self-doubting men and women into doubt-free dynamos of self-interest and superhuman achievement.
Ethan and Hazard found the professor on the mostly deserted campus, in his office, preparing for a January speaking tour. The walls of the two-room space were papered with portrait posters of Dr. Bob in a size popularized by Joseph Stalin and Mao Tse-tung.
He had a shaved head, a handlebar mustache, a red-bronze tan that established his contempt for melanoma, and laser-whitened teeth brighter than irradiated piano keys. With the exception of his red snakeskin boots, everything he wore—as in the posters—was white, including his watch, which had a white band and a plain white face without any numbers or checks to indicate the hours.
Dr. Bob managed so successfully to turn the answer to every question into a mini-lecture on self-esteem and positive thinking that Ethan wanted Hazard to arrest him on charges of felony cliche and practicing philosophy without an idea.
He was just as quacky as Donald Duck, but he was no more a murderer than was that excitable mallard. He hungered to be famous, not infamous. Donald had on occasion attempted to kill Chip and Dale, that pair of pesky chipmunks, but Dr. Bob would instead motivate them to give up their rodent ways and become successful entrepreneurs.
He signed for Ethan and Hazard two paperback copies of his latest collection of motivational speeches and declared that he would be the first ever to pyramid a series of self-help books into a Nobel prize for literature.
By the time they escaped Dr. Bob’s office, located a trash can in which to ditch the paperbacks, and returned to the Expedition, the instrument-panel clock and Ethan’s watch showed a synchronized 3:41.
At five o’clock, the last of the household staff would leave for the day. Fric would be alone in Palazzo Rospo.
Ethan considered calling the guards in the security office at the back of the estate. One of them could go to the house and stay with the boy.
That would leave one man to monitor cameras and other detection systems, with
no one to conduct the scheduled foot patrols. Ethan was reluctant to spread his resources thin in the current circumstances.
He continued to believe that Reynerd’s unknown partner, if still determined to act, would not do so until Thursday afternoon at the earliest, when the Face returned from the location shoot in Florida. Manheim’s whereabouts were public knowledge and much written about. Anyone sufficiently obsessed with the star to want to kill him would most likely know when he was expected to return to Bel Air.
Most likely…but not absolutely.
The element of doubt, and Hazard’s intuitive sense that they didn’t have until Thursday, troubled Ethan. He worried that someone would discover a way to penetrate the estate’s defenses, regardless of how tightly the grounds were sealed, and lie in wait undetected until Manheim’s return.
Even the most drum-tight security plan was a human enterprise, after all, and every human enterprise, due to the nature of the beast, was imperfect. A clever enough lunatic, driven by obsession and by a vicious homicidal impulse, could find a crack even in the wall of protection around a President of the United States.
From what Ethan knew of Reynerd, the man hadn’t been clever, but the person who had inspired the character of the professor in the screenplay might be a higher-caliber crackpot.
“You go home,” Hazard insisted as they drove off the university campus. “Drop me back at Our Lady of Angels so I can get my car, and I’ll check out the last two names myself.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“You’re not a real cop, anyway,” Hazard said. “You gave that all up for fortune and the chance to kiss celebrity ass. Remember?”
“You’re only in this on account of me.”
“Wrong. I’m in this because of these,” Hazard said, and rang the set of three silvery bells.
The sound resonated in the fluid of Ethan’s spine.
“Damn if I’m gonna have spooky shit like this in my life,” said Hazard, “or guys walking into mirrors. I’m gonna explain it somehow, blow all these hoodoo thoughts out of my head, and get back to being who I was, such as I was.”
The remaining two names were those of professors of American literature at yet another university. They had been put at the bottom of the list because Reynerd’s partial screenplay suggested that his co-conspirator would prove to be an acting teacher or an academic associated in some other way with the entertainment business. Stuffy professors of literature, lounging about in tweed coats with leather patches on the elbows, smoking pipes and discussing participles, did not seem likely to be celebrity stalkers or murderers.
“Anyway,” Hazard said, “I think maybe these two won’t pan out any better than the others.”
He read from notes made during phone calls that he had placed en route between Professor Fitzmartin at Cedars-Sinai and Dr. Bob.
The storm had somewhat relented. The wind that had cracked trees now merely worried them and made them shudder in expectation of a sudden resumption of the tempest.
Rain fell with a brisk measured efficiency but no longer with destructive force, as though a revolution in the heavens had turned out the ruling warriors in favor of businessmen.
“Maxwell Dalton,” Hazard continued after a moment. “Evidently he’s on leave or sabbatical from the university. The woman I spoke to was some holiday temp, not too clear, so I’m supposed to see Dalton’s wife. And the other is Vladimir Laputa.”
CHAPTER 68
CORKY REGRETTED WHAT HE HAD DONE TO Mick Sachatone’s face. A good friend deserved to be executed in a more dignified manner.
Because the Glock hadn’t been fitted with a sound suppressor, he had needed to make the first shot count. Maybe none of the nearest neighbors were home, and maybe if they were home, the rush of the rain would mask a single gunshot well enough to avoid piquing their interest. But a full barrage had been out of the question.
In Malibu, Corky had not wanted to suppress the fine voice of the pistol. The bang of each shot, punctuating the brittle chorus of the shattered porcelain figurines, had rattled Jack Trotter.
Although he had a silencer with him, the extended barrel did not permit the Glock to seat perfectly in his holster. Nor did the extra few inches allow for as smooth a draw as Corky preferred.
Besides, if poor Mick had seen the holstered Glock fitted with a sound suppressor, he might have been uneasy in spite of Corky’s nonchalance.
After holstering the pistol, Corky pulled on his black leather coat and withdrew a pair of latex surgical gloves from one pocket. He needed to avoid leaving fingerprints, of course, but in this shrine to the sinful hand, he was less concerned about the evidence that he might leave behind than about what he might pick up.
Elsewhere, shelving for videos overlaid windows, making a cave of the house, but in the work rooms, the dreary face of the fading day pressed against rain-dappled glass. Corky closed the drapes.
He needed time to search the house for Mick’s well-hidden cash reserves, which were most likely significant, as well as time to disconnect the computers and load them in the Land Rover to ensure that any information they contained about him would not fall into hostile hands. He would wrap the body in a tarp and haul it out of here, and then clean up the blood.
To avoid a homicide investigation that might, in spite of all his caution, lead back to him, Corky intended to make Mick disappear.
He could have instead saturated the place with gasoline and torched it to eliminate all evidence, as he had done at the narrow house of Brittina Dowd. The thousands of videocassettes would burn with intense heat, casting off great clouds of toxic smoke sufficient to foil firefighters. No clues would remain in the smoldering slag.
Yet he was loath to destroy the Sachatone archives of mindless lust, for this place was as great a monument to chaos as any that Corky had ever seen. This malignant mass sent forth vibrations with the power to spread dissolution and disorder as surely as a pile of plutonium issues deadly radiation against which, in time, no living thing can stand.
The search for Mick’s cash, the dismantling of his computers, and the removal of the pajamaed corpse would have to wait, however, until Aelfric Manheim had been snatched from the cozy lap of fame and imprisoned in the room currently occupied by Stinky Cheese Man. Corky would return here in twenty-four hours.
Meanwhile, he switched off the computers and the other active machines in the work rooms. Then he went through the house, top to bottom, to be sure that no electrical appliance would be left on that might overheat and start a small blaze, bringing the fire department to these rooms before the trove of money had been located and while the corpse still waited to be discovered.
In the living room again, Corky stood for a minute, watching the four-screen erotic contortions of the incomparable Janelle, before bringing darkness to the wall of writhing flesh. He wondered if Jack Trotter had taken advantage of her astonishing flexibility to fold her into a half-size grave and save himself some digging.
With Mick now gone, both the Romeo and Juliet of porn were dead. Sad.
Corky would have preferred not to kill Mick, but poor Mick had signed his own death warrant when he’d sold out Trotter. In a fever of jealousy, sick for revenge, he had revealed to Corky the numerous fake identities that he had over the years created for Trotter. If he would betray any client, he might have one day betrayed Corky, too.
Destroying the social order is lonely work.
Corky stepped onto the front porch and locked the door with Mick’s key, which he had taken from a pegboard in the kitchen.
The chill of the day had deepened.
For all the rinsing and wringing that it had undergone, the washrag sky was a dirtier gray than it had been this morning, and its light cast neither beam nor faintest shadow.
So much had happened since he had risen to face the day. But the best was yet to come.
CHAPTER 69
IN THE KITCHEN, CONFERRING WITH MR. HACHETTE regarding dinner, Ethan found the chef barely co
mmunicative and stiff with anger that he flatly refused to explain. He would only say, “My statement on the matter is in the mail, Inspector Truman.” He would not describe the “matter” to which he referred. “It is in the mail, my passionate statement. I reject to be lowered into a brawl like a common cook. I am chef, and I announce my contempt like a gentleman by modern pen, not to your face but to your back.”
Hachette’s English was less fractured when he wasn’t angry or agitated, but you seldom had an opportunity to hear his more fluent speech.
In only ten months, Ethan had learned never to press the chef about any issue related to the kitchen. The quality of his food did justify his insistence on being given the latitude of a temperamental artist. His storms came and went, but they left no damage in their wake.
Responding to Mr. Hachette with a shrug, Ethan went in search of Fric.
Mrs. McBee disliked whole-house paging on the intercom. She considered it an offense against the stately atmosphere of the great house, an affront to the family, and a distraction to the staff. “We are not at work in an office building or a discount warehouse,” she had explained.
Senior staff members carried personal pagers on which they could be summoned from anywhere on the sprawling estate. Squawking at them through the intercom system was seldom necessary.
If you needed to track down a junior staff member or if your position included the authority to seek out a member of the family at your discretion—which among the household staff was true only of Mrs. McBee, Mr. McBee, and Ethan—then you must proceed on the intercom one room at a time. You began with the three places where you most expected to find the wanted individual.
As five o’clock approached, only a minimal staff remained on duty to be distracted, all of them scheduled to leave within minutes. Fric was the sole member of the Manheim family in residence. The McBees were in Santa Barbara. Nevertheless, Ethan felt obliged to follow standard procedures in respect of tradition, in deference to Mrs. McBee, and in the conviction that if he paged Fric in all rooms at once, the dear lady in Santa Barbara would instantly know what had transpired and would have her brief holiday diminished by unnecessary distress.
