The Dark of Summer

by Dean R. Koontz

  “They aren't there,” he said.

  “You're sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked down.

  She still saw them: broom marks.

  She shuddered and hugged herself with both arms, still possessed by that chill, the doubt setting in, confidence shaken loose by the tremors that passed through her.

  “You should come back to the manor with me now, Gwyn,” her Uncle Will said. His voice was deep, masculine, reliable. He was offering her shelter from the world — and from herself.

  A tern swept by above them. It called out in a high, funereal wail, disappeared into the side of the cliff, just as Gwyn's own happiness had disappeared without warning.

  She said, “I think I'm very sick, Uncle Will.”

  “It's not that bad.”

  “No, it's very bad,” she said.

  Another tern squealed, attacked the cliff, popped out of sight. Her happiness was already gone; what did this symbol represent, then — if not her sanity?

  He said, “Come back up to the house with me, Gwyn.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “I'll call the doctor.”

  “I may need more than that,” she said.

  She felt like a lost child.

  “You'll have whatever you need,” he said.

  She nodded; she believed him. But she didn't think anything would help her now.

  “Gwyn?”

  She looked at him again.

  He said, “You're my entire family — you and Elaine. I haven't any children of my own, as you know. You're the closest — you're the last— relative I have in the world. I've lost others, in the past, because of my own thick-headedness, but I won't lose you.”

  She stood up as he did, but she continued to look down at the sand, where the broom marks lay at her feet. She kicked at them, blotting them out, though that didn't do much good. They marked the sand other places as well, every place the imaginary dead girl had walked.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He put his arm around her and turned her back toward the steps, gentle, with strength enough for both of them.

  Halfway to the steps, she stopped and said, “This is worse than the last time.”

  “You'll feel better when you've rested,” he assured her. “You're tired, and you aren't thinking straight.”

  She said, “No, it really is worse than the last time. Will you call Dr. Recard and tell him what's happening to me?”

  “I'll call him today,” he said.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  She let him lead her the rest of the way across the beach, up the steps to the top of the cliff, across the well tended lawn and into the big manor house where the ghost-hallucinations had begun and where, she ardently hoped, she'd get rid of them forever.

  TWELVE

  A man and a woman, both young, lying in the lush grass at the edge of the clifftop and sharing a pair of high-powered European binoculars, had watched the scene on the beach between William Barnaby and Gwyn, watched with particular fascination. The man, Ben Groves, Barnaby's chauffeur and handyman, was not as frivolously behaved as he took pains to be in Gwyn's company, but serious and intent on what developed below, as if his whole future might hinge on the outcome. The woman with him, no less concerned than he was, was a yellow-haired beauty in a many-layered white dress. Her eyes were incredibly blue, her complexion pale, her whole attitude one of unearthly fragility…

  “Well?” she asked.

  He waited, still watching, and did not reply.

  “Ben? What's happening?”

  He put the binoculars down and rubbed at his eyes, which felt furry after staring at that magnified, sun-brightened sand. He said, “Don't give yourself an ulcer, love. It looks as if it worked, all according to plan.”

  She sighed, as if a great burden had been lifted from her slender shoulders. She said, “I just haven't been sure of myself during any of this. It's quite different than acting before a camera or on a stage.”

  “You were superb today,” he said.

  She flashed him a quick look of unfeigned surprise and said, “How would you know about that?”

  “I watched you.”

  “When I was trying to get her to drown herself?” the girl asked, astonished.

  “That's right.”

  “From where?”

  “Right here.”

  “With the binoculars?”

  “Yeah.”

  She giggled. “I didn't know I was going to have an audience. Why didn't you tell me you'd watch it?”

  “I didn't want to cramp your style,” he said.

  “Nonsense. I always play better with an audience. You know that, darling.” she reached out and touched him.

  “Anyway,” he said, leaning to her and kissing her lips, “you were quite fine. You even scared me.”

  “I scared her witless.”

  For a few moments, then, they were silent, letting the cool breeze wash over them, enjoying the soft grass on which they lay.

  “Light me a cigarette?” she asked.

  He rolled onto his back, extracted a pack from his shirt pocket, lit one for her, passed it over.

  When she'd taken a few drags, she said, “I still don't feel a hundred percent right about this.”

  He snorted derisively and lighted a cigarette for himself, puffed out a long stream of white smoke. “With what we stand to make from this little charade, you don't have to feel a hundred percent right about it, love. You don't even have to feel a full ten percent right about it, as far as that goes. All that lovely cash money will do a lot to soothe the conscience.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “I know it will.”

  “But, basically, she's such a sweet girl,” the blonde said. “And she's had it pretty rough to date, what with her sister and her parents dying—”

  “For God's sake, enough!” he bellowed, flicking his cigarette over the edge of the cliff and rolling onto his side to face her and be closer to her. He was the strength that kept them going, he knew, and he had to raise her spirits now. “You can't afford to be empathetic, Penny.”

  “I know.”

  “It'll get us nowhere.”

  She nodded.

  “We've had a good stroke of luck, to fall into this deal, and we've got to be ruthless about exploiting it.”

  She smiled. “I'll stay up tonight and practice being ruthless before my mirror.”

  He hugged her and said, “That's more like it.”

  “I just hope it doesn't have to go on much longer,” Penny said. “It's fraying my nerves.”

  He said, “Just remember what it was like when you hadn't any money, when you had to — take to the streets. And remember how bad it's been for us to get going, to get any roles worth dirt. What we make here will give us a chance to set up our own productions and to hell with all the casting directors we've had to bow to.”

  “I guess I can hold up,” she said, finishing her cigarette.

  He said, “Besides, it won't be more than a day or two now. Gwyn's ready to go over the edge. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But soon.”

  BOOK THREE

  THIRTEEN

  Louis Plunkett, the county sheriff, was a huge man, three inches past six feet tall, weighing two hundred twenty-five pounds, all of it muscle; his friends called him “Tiny.” An ex-marine in his mid-thirties, he kept himself in tip-top shape and was more than just a little bit impressive. When he served a summons or a warrant or made an arrest, he was seldom resisted by those to whom he was bringing the force of modern law; and those who were foolish enough to argue with him and make his duty a difficult one, always wished, later, that they had been less caustic and less belligerent.

  Yet, despite his size, Louis Plunkett's face gave evidence of a gentle soul lying close beneath all that hard-packed muscle. His hair had receded back from his forehead, giving him a high-domed, extremely vulnerable look that accentua
ted his soft, brown eyes that were far too large for his face. His nose was small, almost pug, his mouth not hard but soft and sensitive. His face was splashed with freckles, giving him the look of a young farmboy; indeed, almost all that he required to complete that image was a pair of bib overalls and a length of dry straw dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  To a stranger, he might look too big, too clumsy, and somewhat unsophisticated. If the stranger with such an opinion of Plunkett were a law violator and acted on that judgment, he would be sorry indeed, for Plunkett was exceptionally intelligent, in his own way.

  Louis Plunkett's personality was as at odds with itself as was his formidable appearance, containing opposites that somehow worked in perfect harmony: inside, as well as out, he was half man and half boy, half the weary cynic and half the gay innocent, the pessimist and the optimist rolled into one, choosing to love but often hating as well. He did not like to see violence, and he went out of his way to avoid causing it. He disliked having to use his fists on a man — or his gun — and he preferred even to avoid verbal force when persuading a lawbreaker to see the light. He always tried to reason with an opponent or a potential opponent, using his deep calm voice as a tool to settle other people's bubbling anger. Yet, when the occasion demanded, he could easily hold his own in any fight, against anyone, even against two or three adversaries — as he had proven twice during his career as a law enforcement officer. He held back none of his great strength when he had to fight, and he was brutal to the end of it — after which he had to take a couple of Alka-seltzer tablets in order to settle his stomach, which had been turned by the sight of blood.

  Plunkett was also scrupulously honest and fair-minded. Yet he knew that a man in his position had to provide special favors to certain influential citizens — or find himself out on his ear come election time. He did not have to permit the wealthy and the well-known to break the law, though he did have to let them stretch it a bit, now and then. And, on occasion, he was expected to assist them in a matter he would have preferred to be left out of.

  It was just such a matter that had brought him to the manor house at William Barnaby's request, the morning after Gwyn's near-breakdown on the beach. He arrived in the county sheriff's car, with the gleaming gold-colored shield on the door, exactly at 8:00, prompt as always. Five minutes later, he had been ushered into William Barnaby's study and seated in the visitors' easy chair.

  “How are you this morning, Sheriff?” Barnaby asked.

  Casual friends of Louis Plunkett's called him Lou, while close friends called him Tiny. William Barnaby, however, to both their satisfaction, merely called him Sheriff.

  “I'm fine,” Plunkett said, his voice soft and without edge.

  “You've had breakfast, I trust?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I could have Grace whip up a batch of hotcakes or something,” Barnaby told him.

  Plunkett sensed that the invitation was not genuine, only what the other man thought was expected of him. But he had eaten, so the answer was easy to make. “Really, sir, I've been well fed by the wife.”

  Barnaby sighed, almost as if he were relieved the formalities were over with, and he handed the sheriff a set of papers which was the only thing on the top of his desk.

  The big man looked through them, nodded.

  “Do you foresee any trouble?” he asked.

  “When I post them?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Not then,” Plunkett said.

  “But later?”

  “Yes, there'll be trouble later.”

  “I'll expect your support.”

  Plunkett frowned at the papers in his large hands, and he said, “I had heard you were trying to buy the Niche, but I didn't know that the deal had already gone through.”

  “Just yesterday,” Barnaby said. “You've seen the deed transfer; it's all perfectly up-and-up.”

  Plunkett considered this for a moment and said, “According to law, don't tenants have as much as thirty days to vacate the premises when a new landlord takes over and wants them out?”

  “Various laws define this as a proper courtesy period,” Barnaby said. “However, I'm not feeling especially courteous toward these fishermen, Sheriff.”

  Plunkett was clearly not satisfied with that answer.

  Barnaby said, “In a case like this, Sheriff, the landlord is in the driver's seat, always has been and always will be, as long as the concept of private property exists. You see, if I evict them now, returning a proper portion of whatever rent they've paid, they'll need a full week to get a restraining order from a judge — if they can get one at all. By the time the order is enforced and they're back in the Niche, most of the courtesy period will be up anyway. Besides, the whole procedure will require legal help, and that will cost them more money than the court order would be worth.”

  “I see.” Plunkett was not happy. Laws were not necessarily being broken — but they were most surely being stretched to the limit.

  “Well,” Barnaby said, in a sprightly tone of voice, dusting his long hands together, “shall we be on our way, then?”

  Plunkett looked surprised and sat up straighter in his chair. He said, “You're not coming with me, are you?”

  “Of course.”

  “That's not necessary, Mr. Barnaby.”

  “I'll enjoy it.”

  “But perhaps it's also unwise.”

  “Why?”

  “There might be trouble, sir.”

  Barnaby frowned and said, “You told me, only a few moments ago, that there wouldn't be trouble. Now, what could have happened in the last minute or two to change your mind?”

  Plunkett shifted uneasily in his chair, rolled the papers up in one huge hand. “Well, sir, in all truth, I didn't expect trouble if I went alone. But with you there… You know how much some of those fishermen hate — how much they dislike you, sir.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, then—”

  “But I don't suspect they'll cause trouble with you along,” Barnaby said. “And I want them to know I'm dead serious about this. I want them cleared out of Jenkins' Niche within thirty-six hours.”

  Plunkett got to his feet, realizing that it was useless to argue with a man like William Barnaby. Still, in one last hope of averting the coming trouble, he said, “Can't you at least give them a week, sir?”

  “Impossible,” Barnaby said.

  “But thirty-six hours is so little time to—”

  “I will not tolerate these dirty, uneducated, mannerless little men being on my land any more than thirty-six hours!” Barnaby had slowly raised his voice until he was nearly screaming; his face was flushed, his hands fisted at his sides as if he were holding his anger tightly between his fingers. “I will not be associated with the likes of them, not for a single minute longer than necessary, not even as their landlord, Sheriff. And that is my last word!”

  Plunkett nodded sadly.

  “Shall we go?”

  “About that time,” Plunkett agreed.

  By 8:30 that morning, they were on their way to Jenkins' Niche with the official eviction notices…

  Gwyn had dozens of dreams that night, all of them bad, a few of them nightmares:

  — She was running along a dark, narrow, low-ceilinged corridor, pursued by a faceless woman in white robes; the woman cried out to her, trying to get her to turn around and run in the other direction; but she knew that behind her, the corridor opened into the void; however, before long, she found that it opened onto the void at both ends…

  — She was being chased by a formless creature through dark woods, and she could not escape those trees except by moving out onto a featureless plain which encircled them; the plain, she felt, was more terrifying, in its perfectly level scope, than were the shadowed trees where her stalker waited and watched…

  — She was climbing a slope whose summit was obscured by deep shadows, trying to escape from a transparent woman with blood-red eyes who was climbing
the same slope behind her; she scrabbled at the rocks, tearing away her fingernails, skinning her hands, falling to her knees repeatedly — only to rise up again and plunge on; the transparent woman wanted to carry her down to the bottom of the hill and throw her into the still black lake down there, an event that must not transpire, no matter what the cost of preventing it; at the top of the slope, Gwyn knew, she would find hope and a future; instead, as she crossed the brink, she discovered that the hill was capped by another black lake, just as evil as the stagnant brew below; then, the transparent woman caught up with her and, squealing in a voice filled with echoes, shoved her forward, off the stone rim and down toward the black water…

  Gwyn woke from this last nightmare with a scream caught in the back of her throat, and she sat straight up in bed, flailing at the covers with both arms.

  “Gwyn?”

  Gasping, she looked toward the voice, saw Elaine and, blinking, realized the slope and the black lake and the transparent woman had all been parts of a dream.

  “Gwyn, are you feeling all right?” Elaine bent over her anxiously, her pretty brow furrowed with concern. She felt Gwyn's forehead for a fever, and finding none she gently pressed the girl back until her head touched the pillow once more.

  “I'm okay,” Gwyn said, barely able to spit out the words. Her mouth was terribly dry and fuzzy, the corners of her lips cracked, her throat parched and sore. She managed to ask, in a voice all feathery and strange: “May I have a glass of water?”

  “Of course,” Elaine said. “But you won't try to get up while I'm out of the room, will you?”

  “No.”

  Elaine disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, Gwyn heard the delicious sound of running water in the sink. When the older woman returned with the water, she took it and greedily drank it down, almost without pause, as if she had just spent a week in the desert.

  “Better?”

  She relaxed. “Yes, thank you.”

  Elaine returned the glass to the bathroom, came back and sat in the chair beside the bed, picking up a hardbound book which she had been reading to pass the tune.