More than anything, she wanted to hold him, touch his hair, his face, hug him tight, feel the beat of his heart and the warmth of his breath on her neck. But her injuries prevented her from going to him, and he appeared to be in a state of shock that rendered him temporarily oblivious of her.
Far away in other caves, the bats must have begun to resume their familiar perches, for they squeaked again as if contesting with one another for favored positions. The eerie sound of them, which soon faded into silence once more, sent a chill through Christine, a chill that intensified when she saw her halfmesmerized son cock his head as if in understanding of the shrill language of those nightmare creatures. He was disturbingly pale .
His mouth curved into what appeared to be a vague smile, but then Christine decided it was actually a grimace of disgust or horror engendered by the scene that he had just witnessed and that had left him in this semiparalytic stupor.
As the renewed cries of the bats gradually faded, fear uncoiled in Christine, though not because of what had happened to Grace Spivey. And she was not afraid that the bats would return and kill again. In fact, somehow, she knew they would not, and it was precisely that impossible knowledge that frightened her. She did not want to consider where it came from, to ponderjust how she knew. She did not want to think about what it mi lit mean.
Joey was alive. Nothing else mattered. The sound of the gun had drawn the bats, and by a stroke of luck-or through God's
mercy-they had limited their attack to Grace Spivey. Joey was alive. Alive. She felt tears of joy suddenly burning in her eyes .
Joey was alive. She must concentrate on that wonderful twist of fate, for it was from here that their future began, and she was determined that it would be a bright future full of love and happiness, with no sadness, no fear, and above all no doubts.
Doubt could eat at you, destroy happiness, turn love to bitremess. Doubt could even come between a mother and her much-loved son, producing an unbridgeable chasm, and she simply could not allow that to happen.
Nevertheless, unbidden and unwanted, a memory came to her .
Tiaesday, Laguna Beach, the Arco station service bay where they had waited for Charlie after barely escaping the bomb that destroyed Miriam Rankin's house; she and Joey and the two bodyguards standing by the stacks of tires, with the world outside caught in a fierce electrical storm so powerful that it seemed to signal the end of the world; Joey moving to the open garage doors, fascinated by the lightning, one devastating bolt after another, unlike anything Christine had seen before, especially in southern California where lightning was uncommon; Joey regarding it without fear, as if it were only fireworks, as if ... as if he knew it could not harm him. As if it were a sign? As if the pretematural ferocity of the storm was somehow a message that he understood and took hope from?
No. Nonsense.
She had to push such stupid thoughts out of her mind. That was just the kind of craziness that could infect you merely from association with the likes of Grace Spivey. My God, the old woman had been like a plague carrier, spreading irrationality, infecting everyone with her paranoid fantasies.
But what about the bats? Why had they come at exactly the right moment? Why had they attacked only Grace Spivey?
Stop it, she told herself. You're just . . . making something out of nothing. The bats came because they were frightened by the first two shots that the old woman fired. The sound was so loud it scared them, brought them out. And then . . . when they got here . . . well, she shot at them and made them angry. Yes .
Of course. That was it.
Except . . . If the first pair of shots scared the bats, why didn't
the third and fourth shots scare them again? Why didn't they fly away? Why did they attack her and dispose of her so . . . conveniently?
No.
Nonsense.
Joey was staring at the floor, still anemically pale, but he was beginning to emerge from his semi-catatonic state. He was nervously chewing on one finger, very much like a little boy who knew he had done something that would upset his mother. After a few seconds, he raised his head, and his eyes met Christine's .
He tried to smile through his tears, but his mouth was still soft and loose with shock, with fear. He had never looked sweeter or more in need of a mother's love, and his weakness and vulnerability gave her heart a twist.
His vision clouded by pain, weak from infection and loss of blood, Charlie wondered if everything that had happened in the cave had actually transpired only in his fevered imagination.
But the bats were real. Their bloody handiwork lay only a few feet away, undeniable.
He assured himself that the bizarre attack on Grace Spivey had a rational, natural explanation, but he was not entirely convinced by his own assurances. Maybe the bats were rabid; that might explain why they had not fled from the sound of the gun but had, instead, been drawn to it, for all rabid animals were especially sensitive to-and easily angered by-bright lights and loud noises. But why had they bitten and clawed only Grace, leaving Joey, Christine, Barlowe, and Charlie himself untouched?
He looked at Joey.
The boy had come out of his quasi-autistic trance. He had moved to Chewbacca. He was kneeling by the dog, sobbing, wanting to touch the motionless animal, but afraid, making little gestures of helplessness with his hands.
Charlie remembered when, last Monday in his office, he had looked at Joey and had seen a fleshless skull instead of a face .
It had been a brief vision, lasting only the blink of an eye, and he had shoved the memory of it to the back of his mind. If he had worried about it at all, it was because he had thought it
might mean Joey was going to die; but he hadn't really believed in visions or clairvoyant revelations, so he hadn't worried much .
Now he wondered if the vision had been real. Maybe it had not meant that Joey would die; maybe it had meant that Joey was death.
Surely such thoughts were proof only of the seriousness of his fever. Joey was Joey-nothing more, nothing worse, nothing strange.
But Charlie remembered the rat in the battery cellar, too, and the dream he had later that same night, in which rats-messengers of death-had poured forth from the boy's chest.
This is nuts, he told himself. I've been a detective too long .
I don't trust anyone any more. Now I'm looking for deception and corruption in even the most innocent hearts.
Petting the dog, Joey began to speak, the words coming in groups, in breathless rushes, between sobs: "Mom, is he dead?
Is Chewbacca dead? Did . . . that bad man . . . did he kill Chewbacca? "
Charlie looked at Christine. Her face was wet with tears, and her eyes brimmed with a new flood. She seemed temporarily speechless. Contrasting emotions fought for possession of her lovely face: horror over the bloodiness of Spivey's death, surprise at their own survival, and joy at the sight of her unharmed child.
Seeing her joy, Charlie was ashamed that he had regarded the boy with suspicion. Yet . . . he was a detective, and it was a detective's job to be suspicious.
He watched Joey closely, but he didn't detect the radiant evil of which Spivey spoke, didn't feel that he was in the presence of something monstrous. Joey was still a six-year-old boy. Still a good-looking kid with a sweet smile. Still able to laugh and cry and worry and hope. Charlie had seen what had happened to Grace Spivey, yet he was not in the least afraid of Joey because, dammit, he could not just suddenly start believing in devils, demons, and the Antichrist. He'd always had a layman's interest in science, and he'd been an advocate of the space program from the time he was a kid himself; he always had believed that logic, reason, and science-the secular equivalent of Christianity's Holy Trinity-wo uld one day solve all of mankind's
problems and all the mysteries of existence, including the source and meaning of life. And science could probably explain what had happened here, too; a biologist or zoologist, with special knowledge of bats, would most likely find their behavior well within the ra
nge of normality.
As Joey continued to crouch over Chewbacca, petting him, weeping, the dog's tail stirred, then swished across the floor.
Joey cried, "Mom, look! He's alive!"
Christine saw Chewbacca roll off his side, get to his feet, shake himself. He had appeared to be dead. Now he was not even dizzy. He pranced up onto his hind feet, put his forepaws up on his young master's shoulders, and began licking Joey's face.
The boy giggled, ruffled the dog's fur ." How ya doin', Chewbacca? Good dog. Good old Chewbacca ."
Chewbacca? Christine wondered. Or Brandy?
Brandy had been decapitated by Spivey's people, had been buried with honors in a nice pet cemetery in Anaheim. But if they went back to that cemetery now and opened the grave, what would they find? Nothing? An empty wooden box? Had Brandy been resurrected and had he found his way to the pound just in time for Charlie and Joey to adopt him again?
Garbage, Christine told herself angrily. Junk thought. Stupid.
But she could not get those sick thoughts out of her head, and they led to other irrational considerations.
Seven years ago . . . the man on the cruise ship . . . Lucius Under . . . Luke.
Who had he really been?
What had he been?
No, no, no. Impossible.
She squeezed her eyes shut and put one hand to her head. She was so tired. Exhausted. She did not have the strength to resist those fevered speculations. She felt contaminated by Spivey's craziness, dizzy, disconnected, sort of the way victims of malaria must feel.
Luke. For years she had tried to forget him; now she tried to remember. He'd been about thirty, lean, well muscled. Blond hair streak-bleached by the sun. Clear blue eyes. A bronze tan .
White, perfectly even teeth. An ingratiating smile, an easy manner. He had been a charming but not particularly original mix of sophistication and simplicity, worldiness and innocence, a smooth-talker who knew how to get what he wanted from women. She'd thought of him as a surfer, for God's sake; that's what he had seemed like, the epitome of the young California surfer.
Even with her strength draining away through her wound and leaving her increasingly light-headed, even though her exhaustion and loss of blood had put her in a feeble state of mind that left her highly susceptible to Spivey's insane accusations, she could not believe that Luke had been Satan. The devil in the guise of a surfer boy? It was too banal to be believable. If Satan were real, if he wanted a son, if he wanted her to bear that son, why wouldn't he simply have come to her in the night in his real form? She could not have resisted him. Why wouldn't he have taken her forthrightly, with much flapping of his wings and lashing of his tail?
Luke had drunk beer, and he'd had a passion for potato chips .
He had urinated and showered and brushed his teeth like any other human being. Sometimes his conversation had been downright tedious, dumb. Wouldn't the devil at least have been unfailingly witty?
Surely, Luke had been Luke, nothing more, nothing less.
She opened her eyes.
Joey was giggling and hugging Chewbacca, so happy. So ordinary.
Of course, she thought, the devil might take a perverse pleasure in using me, particularly me, to carry his child.
After all, she was a former nun. Her brother had been a priest-and a martyr. She had fallen away from her faith. She had been a virgin when she'd given herself to the man on the cruise ship. Wasn't she a perfect means by which the devil could make a mockery of the first virgin birth?
Madness. She hated herself for doubting her child, for giving any credence whatsoever to Spivey's babbling.
And yet . . . hadn't her whole life changed for the better as soon as she had become pregnant with the boy? She had been uncommonly healthy-no colds, no headaches-and happy and successful in business. As if she were . . . blessed.
Finally satisfied that his dog was all right, Joey disentangled himself from Chewbacca and came to Christine. Rubbing at his red eyes, sniffling, he said, "Mom, is it over? Are we going to be okay? I'm still scared."
She didn't want to look into his eyes, but to her surprise she found nothing frightening in them, nothing to make her blood run cold.
Brandy . . . no, Chewbacca came to her and nuzzled her hand.
"Mommy," Joey said, kneeling beside her, "I'm scared .
What'd they do to you? Whatd they do? Are you going to die?
Don't die, please, don't die, Mommy, please."
She put a hand to his face.
He was afraid, trembling. But that was better than an autistic trance.
He slid against her, and after only a moment's hesitation, she held him with her good arm. Her Joey. Her son. Her child. The feel of him, snuggling against her, was marvelous, indescribably wonderful. The contact was better than any medicine could have been, for it revitalized her, cleared her head, and dissipated the sick images and insane fears that were Grace Spivey's perverse legacy. Hugging her child, feeling him cling to her in need of love and reassurance, she was cured of Spivey's mad contagion .
This boy was the fruit of her womb, a life she had given to the world, and nothing was more precious to her than he was-and always would be.
Kyle Barlowe had slid down to the floor, his back against the wall, and had buried his face in his hands to avoid staring at Mother Grace's hideous remains. But the dog came to Kyle, nuzzled him, and Kyle looked up. The mutt licked his face; its tongue was warm, its nose cold, like the tongue and nose of any dog. It had a clownish face. How could he ever have imagined that such a dog was a hound from Hell?
"I loved her like a mother, and she changed my life, so I stayed with her even when she went wrong, went bad, even when she started . . . to do really crazy things," Kyle said, startled by the sound of his own voice, surprised to hear himself explaining his actions to Christine Scavello and Charlie Harrison ." She had . . . this power. No denying that. She was . . . like in the
movies ... clairvoyant. You know? Psychic. That's how she could follow you and the boy ... not because God was guiding her . . . and not because the boy was the son of Satan ... but because she was just ... clairvoyant." This was not something he had known until he heard himself speaking it. In fact, even now, he did not seem to know what he was going to say until the words came from him ." She had visions. I guess they weren't religious like I thought. Not from God. Not really
.
Maybe she knew that all along. Or maybe she misunderstood .
Maybe she actually believed she was talking with God. I don't think she meant to do bad, you know. She could've misinterpreted her visions, couldn't she? But there's a big difference between being psychic and being Joan of Are, huh? A big difference ."
Charlie listened to Kyle Barlowe wrestle with his conscience, and he was curiously soothed by the ugly giant's deep, remorseful voice. The soothing effect was partly due to the fact that Barlowe was helping them understand these recent events in a light less fantastic than that shed by Armageddon; he was showing them how it might be paranormal without being supernatural or cataclysmic. But Charlie was also affected and relaxed by the odd, soft, rumbling tones and cadences of the big man's voice, by a slight smokiness in the air, and by some indefinable quality of light or heat that made him receptive to this message, as a hypnotist's subject is receptive to suggestions of all kinds.
Kyle said, "Mother Grace meant well. She just got confused there toward the end. Confused. And, God help me, I went along with her even though I had my doubts. Almost went too far. Almost . . . God help me . . . almost used the knife on that little boy. See, what it is . . . I think maybe your Joey . . .
maybe he has a little psychic ability of his own. You know? Have you ever noticed it? Any indications? I think he must be a little like Mother Grace herself, a little bit clairvoyant or something, even if he doesn't know it, even if the power hasn't become obvious yet . . . and that was what she sensed in him . . . but she misunderstood it. That must be it. That must explain it. Poor Grace. Poor, sweet G
race. She meant well. Can you believe
that? She meant well, and so did I, and so did everyone in the church. She meant well."
Chewbacca left Kyle and came to Charlie, and he let the dog nuzzle him affectionately. He noticed blood in its ears, and blood matting the fur on its ears, which meant Barlowe had hit it very hard with the butt of the rifle, terribly hard indeed, and yet it seemed completely recovered. Surely it had suffered a severe concussion. Yet it was not dizzy or disoriented.
The dog looked into his eyes.
Charlie frowned.
"She meant well. She meant well," Kyle said, and he put his face in his hands and began to cry.
Cuddling with his mother, Joey said, "Mommy, he scares me .
What's he talkin' about? He scares me."
"It's all right," Christine said.
"He scares me."
"It's okay, Skipper."
To Charlie's surprise, Christine found the strength to sit up and hitch backward a couple of feet, until she was leaning agenst the wall. She had seemed too exhausted to move, even to speak .
Her face looked better, too, not quite so pale.
Still sniffling, wiping at his nose with his sleeve, wiping his eyes with one small fist, Joey said, "Charlie? You okay?"
Although Spivey and her people no longer posed any threat, Charlie was still quite certain that he would die in this cave. He was in bad shape, and it would be hours yet before help could be summoned and could reach them. He would not last that long. Yet he tried to smile at Joey, and in a voice so weak it frightened him, he said, "I'm okay."
The boy left his mother and came to Charlie. He said, "Magnum couldn't've done better than you did."
Joey sat down beside Charlie and put a hand on him. Charlie flinched, but it was all right, perfectly all right, and then for a couple of minutes he lost consciousness, or perhaps he merely dropped off to sleep. When Charlie came to, Joey was with his mother again, and Kyle Barlowe seemed to be getting ready to leave ." What's wrong?" Charlie asked ." What's happening now?"
Dean Koontz - (1984) Page 43
