Demon Child

by Dean Koontz

  He stepped forward and smiled at her.

  It was an awful smile, the sort of smile the crocodile gave its victim before it skittered forward and chomped all those teeth through flesh and blood.

  She wished Walter were here.

  "Miss Brighton?" Maybray asked.

  "I am," she said.

  He smiled again.

  Then the smile flicked away.

  "Who killed Lee Symington?" he asked her. "Was it you or someone you telephoned?"

  * * *

  10

  "Now wait just a damn minute, Detective-" Richard began, rising from his easy chair. His face had gone scarlet in anger, and there was a look of menace in his eyes.

  "Sit down," Maybray said without taking his eyes away from Jenny. His voice was cold, almost a monotone. It had a sense of command in it, however, which indicated that this man was not accustomed to being disobeyed.

  "I never meant that you should-"

  "Shut up!"

  The room reverberated with the harsh command.

  Richard looked furious. But the iciness in the larger man's voice got the message across. He sat back down, not looking at Jenny or at anyone else in that room. He only stared at the carpet as if he were seeing it for the first time, and he continued to gouge the easy chair's upholstery with his fingers.

  Maybray smiled and returned his attention to the young woman before him. "I asked you a question Miss Brighton. And when I ask people questions, I usually expect answers."

  "I-I didn't understand the question," she said. She felt dizzy, but she was determined to show as little weakness as possible. This gorilla would enjoy watching her quake. She didn't want to give him any pleasure.

  The crocodile smile came and went.

  "I asked you whether you murdered Lee Symington or whether it was someone you phoned for the job."

  "You're crazy!" she gasped as the full import of what he had said struck her like a hammer blow. She put a hand to her breast and felt her heart thumping like the heart of a small animal or bird. "You aren't making any sense at all!"

  "Aren't I?" He kept a careful watch of her face, as if he expected to see guilt written there. "A veterinarian by the name of Lee Symington was employed on this estate this morning. This afternoon, he was found dead in the stables just down the lane, on these grounds. You were the only one, besides Richard Brucker, who knew the vet was going to be here today. And Mr. Brucker's alibi is flawless."

  There was silence.

  She realized they were all waiting for her to speak. But she could not think of anything to say. It was as if an icy hand had slipped over her mind to slowly freeze it shut.

  She trembled all over. She could not help that.

  "Who'd you tell, Jenny?" Richard asked in a more even, friendlier tone of voice.

  She looked at him.

  Maybray continued to stare at her.

  "Dr. Hobarth," she said at last. "I told him at breakfast."

  "Hobarth!" Richard exploded, edging forward on his chair.

  "Anyone else?" Maybray asked.

  "Anna," Jenny said. "She was in the kitchen when I told Dr. Hobarth. She overheard us."

  "Well?" Maybray asked, turning to Richard.

  "If Anna knew, she told Harold." He turned to the old man. "You knew, didn't you?"

  Harold nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Why didn't you speak up?" Maybray asked.

  "I didn't know Jenny was to be put to such punishment," Harold said. "You hadn't explained your rather unorthodox operating procedure when you asked me to bring her downstairs."

  "You told Cora, didn't you?" Richard asked.

  "Yes," Harold said.

  "Harold is one of those old-fashioned male servants who feels his primary duty in all matters is to the man or woman of the house."

  "That blows everything," the plainclothes policeman on the couch said. He slapped his notebook shut.

  "Not yet," Maybray said. "Everyone will have to give us an alibi that checks out for the time of the murder. If nothing comes of that, then everything is blown."

  "When was it?" Jenny asked.

  Maybray said, "Between twelve-thirty and two o'clock, the coroner says." She realized that the detective was still watching her intently.

  "I ate a light snack at about a quarter past twelve," Jenny said. "I ate in the kitchen and talked with Anna until one."

  "Then?"

  "Then I went to the library and sat with Dr. Hobarth until just a few minutes before two o'clock. He had invited me to sit through a session of his analysis of Freya. The session went badly. I was upset and went directly to my room afterwards."

  "She was in her room at two, like she says," Harold verified.

  "Is that so?" Maybray asked in a tone of voice that said he was not to be convinced without facts.

  "Yes," Harold said, unruffled by the policeman's gruff ways, "I came out of Cora's room after delivering a late lunch tray. I saw Jenny going in her own room and closing the door. She didn't come back downstairs in the next half hour, at least, for I was polishing the stair railings during that time."

  "Am I-clear?" Jenny asked.

  "As spring water," Maybray said.

  "It was a wolf, then," the second officer said. "I said right from the beginning that it wasn't murder."

  Detective Maybray turned to Richard. "Do you still believe it was something other than a wild wolf?"

  Richard sighed and relaxed against the well-cushioned back of the easy chair. "I don't know. I've been so very sure- There have been so many strange things happening. But maybe the wolf is real. Maybe it is a coincidence that makes the rest of these things seem phony when they aren't. I just can't say any more."

  "Well," Maybray said, "we'll get the cook and Mrs. Brucker in here and see if they're vouched for."

  "I can vouch for Anna," Harold said. "And if you take a look at all she's cooked today, you'll see she couldn't have left the house for a moment."

  In a short while, Maybray had interviewed Cora and Walter and had ascertained that they were as solidly alibied as everyone else. His manner with them was as cool and probing as it had been with Jenny, It was as if he hoped to frighten someone into saying something they otherwise would have kept to themselves.

  "The first thing to be done," Maybray said, speaking more civilly now that he knew everyone in the room was trustworthy, "is to organize a hunting party for the wolf. Heaven knows what has driven it down into more civilized parts. But it must be caught. I'll detail two troopers to be here in the morning, along with their academy mounts. If you could put together some of the area people, your neighbors, to augment a search party, the beast should be routed in a day."

  "It can be done," Richard said.

  "I'd ask you, also, to contact Gabe Atchison and see about getting him and his hounds here. You know him?"

  "Yes," Richard said. "I've been to the yearly country club fox hunt once or twice."

  "In the morning, then," Maybray said. He nodded politely to everyone seated around and stalked out of the room.

  Richard and the second, still unnamed policeman, followed on his heels.

  "I'll get some coffee," Anna said. "And some rolls."

  She left the room with her husband trailing after her.

  "It's just horrible," Cora said. "That poor Mr. Symington, torn apart like that."

  "It always seems," Walter mused, "that the right things are never done until a tragedy points the way. There should have been a hunt for the wolf when the dead rabbits began showing up. And surely there should have been one after Hollycross was killed. Anyway, all this will be better after tomorrow. If we have a dead wolf to show Freya, it's going to take some of the drive out of her ingrained fantasies."

  "I'm not so sure," Jenny said. She had just had a dreadful thought, one that left her more shaken than ever.

  "But she can't have killed Symington while the demon possessed her," Hobarth said, amused at such concepts. "For one thing, she wasn't in a coma this afternoon
. For another, the wolf has never prowled by day before."

  "If the coroner was right about the time of death," Jenny said, "then the wolf was prowling the stables about the same time Freya was hypnotized. About the same time that she was having that horrible nightmare. Remember, Walt, how she said that the wolf was anxious to taste the blood of a human being now?"

  He looked at her. He looked away. "That's silly," he said.

  But it was the first time she had seen him even a little bit disturbed about any of this curse nonsense.

  She wished he would take her hand and hold it tightly. She wished that he would tell her how foolish her fear was. She wished he would use that great pool of his logic to reason away all the hideous specters of doubt that had risen to consume her.

  But he said nothing.

  After coffee, she left that tense room where the conversation had taken on a forced gaiety. She climbed the steps to her room, no better or worse than when she had come down them an hour or so ago.

  As she opened the door to her room, Richard stepped out of the room across the corridor and called her name. She turned and watched him approach her. He must have been waiting for her, she reasoned.

  "Why did you tell Hobarth?" he asked. He was wringing his hands as he spoke.

  "Tell him what?" she asked. She felt uncomfortable around him, as if he might spring at her.

  "About Lee's coming here, of course."

  "You don't have to be so nasty," she said. He had spoken to her as if she was worthy only of disdain.

  "I have a right, perhaps. I asked you to tell no one that Lee was coming up here. But you did. And now he's dead."

  "I didn't tell the wolf," she assured him, trying to adopt his own petulent tone. "And if you're trying to make me feel guilty about something, forget it."

  "Look, Jenny-" he began, grabbing her arm, holding her so tightly that he hurt her.

  She tried to pull loose and could not. "You look," she said, her fear of him only making her anger twice as sharp. "You're the one who has a lot to answer for."

  "Me?"

  He was really hurting her arm. He seemed not to be aware of it, but pressed harder now.

  "Yes, you!" It felt good to act, to attack rather than wait to be attacked. "You were half an hour late picking me up at the terminal last week. You opened my luggage and snooped through it that first day. You treated your stepmother awfully this past week. And who were you talking to on the telephone Saturday morning-when you talked about drugs and killers?"

  "You did eavesdrop!" he snarled.

  "I accidentally overheard," she defended herself. Before he could make anything of that, she said, "And where were you sneaking to last night when you crept away from the house toward the stable? Why didn't you want to be seen then?"

  He looked crushed.

  She felt his grip lessen, in shock. At that precise moment, she pulled herself loose, whirled, slammed her bedroom door shut between them and threw the latch in the same, swift movement.

  She leaned against the door, whimpering. She listened to the noise for a moment, wondering what it was. Then she realized it was her, and she clamped down on the sounds, forcing herself to be strong.

  Her heart ached. Her face was flushed with excitement. It was all out in the open now. What would Richard do about it?

  For a moment, he did nothing but wait, too stunned to think or to move. Then he stepped forward and knocked on her door. It was not a polite knock, but strong and loud.

  "Go away," Jenny said.

  He knocked again.

  The door shook slightly in its frame, almost as if he must be using both fists instead of one.

  "Go away," she said.

  He tried the handle, found that she had locked it. He rattled it for a long moment, as if he thought the lock might slip if he tried hard enough.

  Should she scream? Or was it not that dire a situation?

  "Open up," he said.

  "No."

  "Open this door."

  "Go away."

  He was silent a while, but he did not move. She could hear him drawing breath; heavy, rapid breath which indicated his state of agitation.

  Again, she wondered if she should call for help. But what would she tell them when they charged up the stairs and found only Richard menacing her? He was her cousin, after all. He couldn't seriously harm her, could he? Surely, he was just angry that she had been spying on him. Both times-when she had heard him on the telephone and when she had seen him sneaking along the hedgerow last night-it had been accidental spying, of course. But he would not understand that.

  "Please let me explain, Jenny," he said.

  "Go away," she said reflexively.

  Should she give him a chance? If she opened the door, what more could he do than explain? It was silly to think of her own cousin attempting to harm her.

  He suddenly tried the door again.

  That decided her against opening for him.

  "I can explain it all to you in ten minutes," he said. His voice was weary, tired, pleading. He sounded, now, like nothing more than a lost and lonely child. But he could be putting that voice on for her benefit.

  "I won't talk to you now, Richard," she said firmly. Richard was the unknown. His moods, his secret schemes and strange behavior made him suspect. With Walter, she knew she was safe, knew that all was steady and sure. With Richard, anything might happen, any disaster might strike.

  He waited outside her door for several minutes, but when he saw that she wasn't going to open it to him, he finally turned and walked off. She listened to his footsteps going down the corridor and then down the stairs. When there was nothing to be heard but silence, she left the door and went to her bed where she curled up against the headboard like a child in its mother's lap.

  She had no mother, though. And for the first time in nearly a year, the pain of that knowledge made itself felt. She began to cry. She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow and cried until her stomach hurt and until there were no more tears.

  She went into the bathroom and washed her face, daubing her eyes with cool water to make them less bloodshot. She combed her hair, then gave it a hundred strokes with a brush. The shimmering beauty of her dark mane made her think of Walter Hobarth and how much she wanted to look nice for him. Thinking of Walter made her less gloomy.

  After all, she thought. I am safe now, locked in my room. No one can get in that door. It's a thick and sturdy door. And no wolf could ever climb those stone walls outside to reach a second floor window. As long as I don't go out alone or let myself alone with Richard, I'm safe.

  And as long as Walter Hobarth was here, she intended to stick it out. Nothing could happen to her as long as the man she loved was close by.

  Loved?

  Did she truly love him, then? If she could have a thought like that, so casually, then it must be true. Now it was up to her to do her best to make him feel the same thing toward her.

  She smiled at the mirror.

  I am pretty, she thought. And intelligent. I would make a fine wife for a psychiatrist.

  She went to the wardrobe and picked out the prettiest dress she had brought. She would wear that, along with lemon-scented perfume, and she would be fresh and bright and attractive at supper this evening. He would notice; he always did.

  Suddenly, a spider ran across the top of the dresser, eight legs pistoning furiously, and it seemed like a sign, a warning of things that were to come...

  * * *

  11

  Jenny was awakened early the following Tuesday morning by a soft knock at her door. She yawned, rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. The time was five minutes before eight. She had slept late most every morning this past week, a luxury she had never allowed herself before coming to the Brucker estate. No one had urged her to earlier rising, so who could this be?

  "Yes?" she asked.

  "It's me, Walter," Dr. Hobarth said. "The hunt forms at nine. I thought you'd like to use the spare horse to come alon
g."

  "Just a minute," she said. She put her robe on and went to the door, opened it. "They don't want a woman along, do they?" she asked.

  He was dressed in jeans, boots and a short-sleeved workshirt. The inevitable pipe was with him, smelling of cherries. "Oh, there's no danger," he assured her. "What with the hounds ready to tear it up and most of the men armed. We'll stay in groups to cut the chance of danger even further."

  "I don't know whether I should."

  "Oh, come on, Jenny! It'll be exciting!"

  She did not fancy coming face-to-face with the murderous animal no matter how safe the confrontation might be. But it was obvious that he wanted her to come along. This was another sign of his interest in her that she would be foolish to ignore.

  "I'll have to shower," she said.

  "Time for all that if you hurry," he said. "Nine o'clock at the stables. I'll have a horse saddled for you."

  When she reached the stables, dressed comfortably in jeans, a blue sweater and brown riding boots, the others were already mounting for the hunt. Eight men from neighboring farms had volunteered for the chore. Though Jenny would have called it a chore, the others seemed more favorably disposed. Most men, of course, enjoyed a hunt no matter how civilized and urbane they might be. It was a primitive bloodlust that ran beneath the skin of all men-and women-no matter how much they might deny it. But on top of that natural drive, most of those present also looked upon the day's venture as a mark of acceptance. These were all gentleman farmers, lawyers and businessmen who maintained farms not for living so much as for the status such ownership implied. To have been asked to join a Brucker family hunt was a sign of some minor aristocratic standing in the area. They had all accepted, surely, with the same smugness and self-assurance that the nouveau riche exhibited in accepting a party invitation from an old-line family like the Vanderbilts or Rockefellers.