Dean Koontz - (1984)

by The Servants Of Twilight(Lit)

  "But, honey, I just don't think there's any way she could have followed us. I know she didn't. And there's no way she could've learned where we live. Not this soon, anyway."

  He said nothing. He just stared down at his fisted hands and slowly let go of the sheet and blanket. His palms were sweaty .

  Christine said, "Maybe you were dreaming, huh?"

  He shook his head vigorously.

  She said, "Sometimes, when you wake up from a nightmare, just a few seconds, you can be sort of confused about what's real and what's just part of the dream. You know? It's all right .

  It happens to everybody now and then."

  He met her eyes ." It wasn't like that, Mom. Brandy started barking, and then I woke up, and there was the crazy old lady at the window. If it was just a dream . . . then what was Brandy barking at? He don't bark just to hear himself. Never does. You know how he is."

  She stared at Brandy, who had plopped down on the floor beside the bed, and she began to feel uneasy again. Finally she got up and went to the window.

  Out in the night, there were a lot of places where the grip of darkness was firm, places where a prowler could hide and wait.

  " Mom?"

  She looked at him.

  He said, "This isn't like before."

  "What do you mean?"

  " This isn't a imaginary white snake under my bed. This is real stuff. Cross my heart and hope to die."

  A sudden gust of wind soughed through the caves and rattled a loose rain gutter.

  "Come on," she said, holding out a hand to him.

  He scrambled out of bed, and she took him into the kitchen.

  Brandy followed. He stood in the doorway for a moment, his bushy tail thumping against both jambs, then came in and curled up in the corner.

  Joey sat at the table in his blue pajamas with the words SATURN PATROL, in red, streaking across his chest. He looked anxiously at the windows over the sink, while Christine telephoned the police.

  The two police officers stood on the porch and listened politely while Christine, in the open front door with Joey at her side, told them her story-what little there was to tell. The younger of the two men, Officer Statler, was dubious and quick to conclude that the prowler was merely a phantom of Joey's imagination, but the older man, Officer Templeton, gave them the benefit of the doubt. At Templeton's insistence, he and Statler spent ten minutes searching the property with their long-handled flashlights, probing the shrubbery, circling the house, checking out the garage, even looking in the neighbors' yards. They didn't find anyone.

  Returning to the front door where Christine and Joey waited, Templeton seemed somewhat less willing to believe their story than he had been a few minutes ago ." Well, Mrs. Scavello, if that old woman was around here, she's gone now. Either she wasn't up to much of anything . . . or maybe she was scared away when she saw the patrol car. Maybe both. She's probably harmless ."

  "Harmless? She sure didn't seem harmles s this afternoon at South Coast Plaza," Christine said ." She seemed dangerous enough to me."

  "Well . . ." He shrugged ." You know how it is. An old lady . . . maybe a little senile . . . saying things she really didn't mean ."

  "I don't think that's the case."

  Templeton didn't meet her eyes ." So . . . if you see her again or if you have any other trouble, be sure to give us a call."

  "You're leaving?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "You're not going to do anything else?"

  He scratched his head ." Don't see what else we can do. You said you don't know this woman's name or where she lives, so we can't go have a chat with her. Like I said, if she shows up again, you call us soon as you spot her, and we'll come back."

  With a nod of his head, he turned away and went down the walk, toward the street, where his partner waited.

  A minute later, as Christine and Joey stood at the living room windows, watching the patrol car drive away, the boy said, "She was out there, Mom. Really, really. This isn't like the snake."

  She believed him. What he had seen at the window could have been a figment of his imagination or an image left over from a nightmare-but it hadn't been that. He had seen what he thought he'd seen: the old woman herself, in the flesh. Christine didn't know why she was so sure of that, but she was. Dead sure.

  She gave him the option of spending the rest of the night in her room, but he was determined to be brave.

  "I'll sleep in my bed," he said ." Brandy'll be there. Brandy'll smell that old witch coming a mile away. But . . . could we sorta leave a lamp on?"

  "Sure," she said, though she had only recently weaned him away from the need for a night light.

  In his room she closed the draperies tight, leaving not even a narrow crack through which someone might be able to see him .

  She tucked him in, kissed him goodnight, and left him in Brandy's care.

  Back in her own bed once more, with the lights out, she stared at the tenebrous ceiling. She was unable to sleep. She kept expecting a sudden sound-glass shattering, a door being forcedbut the night remained peaceful.

  Only the February wind, with an occasional violent gust, marred the nocturnal stillness.

  In his room Joey switched off the lamp that his mother had left on for him. The darkness was absolute.

  Brandy jumped onto the bed, where he was never supposed

  to be (one of Mom's rules: no do, in bed), but Joey didn't push him off. Brandy settled down and was welcome.

  Joey listened to the night wind sniffing and licking at the house, and it sounded like a living thing. He pulled the blanket all the way up to his nose, as if it were a shield that would protect him from all harm.

  After a while he said, "She's still out there somewhere."

  The dog lifted his square head.

  "She's waiting, Brandy."

  The dog raised one ear.

  "She'll be back."

  The dog growled in the back of his throat.

  Joey put one hand on his furry companion ." You know it, too, don't you, boy? You know she's out there, don't you?"

  Brandy woofed softly.

  The wind moaned.

  The boy listened.

  The nilit ticked toward dawn.

  el

  In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, Christine went downstairs to Joey's room to look in on him. The lamp she had left burning was off now, and the bed-room was tomb-black. For a moment fear pinched off her breath. But when she snapped on the light, she saw that Joey was in bed, asleep, safe.

  Brandy was comfortably ensconced in the bed, too, but he woke when she turned on the light. He yawned and licked his chops, and gave her a look that was rich with canine guilt.

  "You know the rules, fuzzy-butt," she whispered ." On the floor ."

  Brandy got off the bed without waking Joey, slunk to the nearest corner, and curled up on the floor. He looked at her sheepishly.

  "Good dog," she whispered.

  He wagged his tail, sweeping the carpet around him.

  She switched off the light and started back toward her own room. She had gone only a step or two when she heard movement in the boy's room, and she knew it was Brandy returning to the bed. Tonight, however, she just didn't care all that much whether he got dog hairs on the sheets and blankets. Tonight, the only thing that seemed to matter was that Joey was safe.

  She returned to her bed and dozed fitfully, tossing and turning, murmuring in her sleep as night crept toward dawn. She dreamed of an old woman with a green face, green hair, and long green fingernails that hooked wickedly into sharp claws.

  Monday morning came at last, and it was sunny. Too damned sunny. She woke early, and light speared through her bedroom windows, making her wince. Her eyes were grainy, sensitive, bloodshot.

  She took a long, hot shower, steaming away some of her weariness, then dressed for work in a maroon blouse, simple gray skirt, and gray pumps.

  Stepping to the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, she examined her
self critically, although staring at her reflection always embarrassed her. There was no mystery about her shyness; she knew her embarrassment was a result of the things she had been taught during the Lost Years, between her eighteenth and twentieth birthdays. During that period she had struggled to throw off all vanity and a large measure of her individuality because gray-faced uniformity was what had been demanded of her back then. They had expected her to be humble, self-effacing, and plain. Any concern for her appearance, any slightest pride in her looks, would have brought swift disciplinary action from her superiors. Although she had put those grim lonely years and events behind her, they still had a lingering effect on her that she could not deny.

  Now, almost as a test of how completely she had triumphed over the Lost Years, she fought her embarrassment and resolutely studied her mirror image with as much vanity as she could summon from a soul half-purged of it. Her figure was good, though she didn't have the kind of body that, displayed in a bikini, would ever sell a million pin-up posters. Her legs were slender and well shaped. Her hips flared just right, and she was almost too small in the waist, though that smallness made her

  bustline-which was only average-seem larger than it was. She sometimes wished she were as busty as Val, but Val said that very large breasts were more of a curse than a blessing, that it was like carrying around a pair of saddlebags, and that some evenings her shoulders ached with the strain of that burden. Even if what Val said was true and not just a white lie told out of sympathy for those less amply endowed, Christine nevertheless wished she had big boobs, and she knew that this desire, this hopeless vanity, was a blatant reaction to-and rejection of-all that she had been taught in that gray and dreary place where she had lived between the ages of eighteen and twenty.

  By now, her face was flushed, but she forced herself to remain in front of the mirror a minute more, untit she had determined that her hair was properly combed and that her makeup was evenly applied. She knew she was pretty. Not gorgeous. But she had a good complexion, a delicate chin and jawline, a good nose. Her eyes were her best feature, large and dark and clear .

  Her hair was dark, too, almost black. Val said she would trade her big boobs for hair like that any day, but Christine knew that was only talk. Sure, her hair looked good when the weather was right, but as soon as the humidity rose past a certain point, it got either lank and flat or fizzy and curly, and then she looked like either Vampira or Gene Shalit.

  At last, blushing furiously but feeling that she had triumphed over the excessive self-effacement that had been hammered into her years ago, she turned away from the mirror.

  She went to the kitchen to make coffee and toast, and found Joey already at the breakfast table. He wasn't eating, just sitting there, face turned away from her, staring out the window at the sun-splashed rear lawn.

  Taking a paper filter from a box and fitting it into the basket of the dripolator, Christine said, "What can I get for you for breakfast, Skipper?"

  He didn't answer.

  Spooning coffee into the filter, she said, "How about cereal and peanut butter toast? English muffins? Maybe you even feel like an egg."

  He still didn't answer. Sometimes-not often-he could be cranky in the morning, but he always could be teased into a

  better mood. By nature, he was too mild-mannered to remain sullen for long.

  Switching on the dripolator and pouring water into the top of it, she said, "Okay, so if you don't want cereal or toast or an egg, maybe I could fix some spinach, brussel sprouts, and broccoli. They're all your favorites, aren't they?"

  He didn't rise to the bait. Just stared out the window. Unmoving. Silent.

  "Or I could put one of your old shoes in the microwave and cook it up nice and tender for you. How about that'? Nothing's quite as tasty as an old shoe for breakfast. Mmmmmmmm! Really sticks to your ribs."

  He said nothing.

  She got the toaster out of the cupboard, put it on the counter, plugged it in-then suddenly realized that the boy wasn't merely being cranky. Something was wrong.

  Staring at the back of his head, she said, "Honey?"

  He made a wretched, stifled little sound.

  " Honey, what's wrong?"

  At last he turned away from the window and looked at her .

  His tousled hair hung down in his eyes, which were possessed by a haunted look, a bleak expression so stark for a six-year-old that it made Christine's heart beat faster. Bright tears glistened on his cheeks.

  She quickly went to him and took his hand. It was cold.

  "Sweetheart, what is it? Tell me."

  He wiped at his reddened eyes with his free hand. His nose was runny, a nd he blotted it on his sleeve.

  He was so pale.

  Whatever was wrong, it wasn't simply a standard complaint, no ordinary childhood trauma. She sensed that much and her mouth went dry with fear.

  He tried to speak, couldn't get out even one word, pointed to the kitchen door, took a deep shuddery breath, began to shake, and finally said, "The p-p-porch."

  "What about the porch?"

  He wasn't able to tell her.

  Frowning, she went to the door, hesitated, opened it. She gasped, rocked by the sight that awaited her.

  Brandy. His furry, golden body lay at the edge of the porch, near the steps. But his head was immediately in front of the door, at her feet. The dog had been decapitated.

  Christine and Joey sat on the beige sofa in the living room. The boy was no longer crying, but he still looked stunned.

  The policeman filling out the report, Officer Wilford, sat on one of the Queen Anne armchairs. He was tall and husky, with rough features, bushy eyebrows, an air of rugged self-sufficiency: the kind of man who probably felt at home only outdoors and especially in the woods and mountains, hunting and fishing. He perched on the very edge of the chair and held his notebook on his knees, an amusingly prim posture for a man his size; apparently he was concerned about rumpling or soiling the furniture.

  "But who let the dog out?" he inquired, after having asked every other question he could think of.

  "Nobody," Christine said ." He let himself out. There's a pet portal in the bottom of the kitchen door."

  "I saw it," Wilford said ." Not big enough for a dog that size ."

  "I know. It was here when we bought the house. Brandy hardly ever used it, but if he wanted out badly enough, and if there wasn't anyone around to let him out, he could put his head down, wriggle on his belly, and squeeze through that little door. I kept meaning to have it closed up because I was afraid he might get stuck. If only I had closed it up, he might still be alive."

  "The witch got him," Joey said softly.

  Christine put an arm around her son.

  Wilford said, "So you think maybe they used meat or dog biscuits to lure him outside?"

  "No," said Joey adamantly, answering for his mother, clearly offended by the suggestion that a gluttonous impulse had led to the dog's death ." Brandy went out there to protect me. He knew

  the old witch was still hanging around, and he went to get her, but what happened was ... she got him first."

  Christine was aware that Wilford's suggestion was probably the correct explanation, but she also knew that Joey would find it easier to accept Brandy's death if he could believe that his dog had died in a noble cause. She said, "He was a very brave dog, very brave, and we're proud of him."

  Wilford nodded ." Yes, I'm sure you've got every reason to be proud. It's a darned shame. A golden retriever's such a handsome breed. Such a gentle face and sweet disposition."

  "The witch got him," Joey repeated, as if numbed by that terrible realization.

  "Maybe not," Wilford said ." Maybe it wasn't the old woman."

  Christine frowned at him ." Well, of course it was."

  "I understand how upsetting the incident was at South Coast Plaza yesterday," Wilford said ." I understand how you'd be inclined to link the old woman to this thing with the dog. But there's no solid proof, no real rea
son to think they are linked .

  It might be a mistake to assume they are."

  "But the old woman was at Joey's window last night," Christine said exasperatedly ." I told you that. I told the officers who were here last night, too. Doesn't anyone listen? She was at Joey's window, looking in at him, and Brandy was barking at her ."

  " But she was gone when you got there," Wilford said .

  "Yes," Christine said ." But-"

  Smiling down at Joey, Wilford said, "Son, are you absolutely, positively sure it was the old lady there at your window?"

  Joey nodded vigorously ." Yeah. The witch."

  "Because, see, when you looked up and noticed someone at the window, it would have been perfectly natural for you to figure it was the old woman. After all, she'd already given you one bad scare earlier in the day, so she was on your mind. Then, when you switched the light on and got a glimpse of who it was there at the window, maybe you had the old woman's face so firmly fixed in your mind that you would've seen her no matter who it really was."

  Joey blinked, unable to follow the policeman's reasoning. He just stubbornly repeated himself: "It was her. The witch."

  To Christine, Officer Wilford said, "I'd be inclined to think the prowler was the one who later killed the dog-but that it wasn't the old woman who was the prowler. You see, most always, when a dog's been poisoned-and it happens more often than you think-it's not the work of some total stranger. It's someone within a block of the house where the dog lived. A neighbor. What I figure is, some neighbor was prowling around, looking for the dog, not looking for your little boy at all, when Joey saw them at the window. Later they found the dog and did what they'd come to do."

  "That's ridiculous," Christine said ." We've got good neighbors here. None of them would kill our dog."

  "Happens all the time," Wilford said.

  "Not in this neighborhood."

  "Any neighborhood," Wilford insisted ." Barking dogs, day after day, night after night . . . they drive some people a little nuts ."

  "Brandy hardly ever barked."

  "Well, now, 'hardly ever' to you might seem like 'all the time' to one of your neighbors."