Relentless

by Dean Koontz

  In the dining room, I do not hear the laughter anymore, and there is no phone to try.

  The brass griffins still fly in the fireplace, but the logs they carried on their backs are ashes now, and embers.

  Silence settles once more, and I am unable to hear the hinges on the swinging door or even my footsteps as I go into the kitchen.

  The telephone on the wall beside the refrigerator is as useless as the previous three.

  At a kitchen window, I stare into the moonlit night. No one is in the backyard, either.

  They have all gone away.

  I wander through the house, downstairs and upstairs, and down again, feeling lost and alone. Twice, I think I hear footsteps in the distance, but when I stand quite still and listen, I hear nothing.

  Eventually, I am in Uncle Ewen’s study for the third or fourth time. Previously, I did not notice the telephone.

  Putting the receiver to my ear, I am surprised by a dial tone.

  As I will later learn, the phone-service cable was cut outside the house. But in the interest of business security, because of his sensitive financial discussions conducted by phone, my uncle Ewen required an entirely separate, dedicated private line to serve his study, and that one was overlooked.

  Using the keypad, I enter 1 plus the ten digits of our home number that I have memorized. It rings until the answering machine picks up. I hear Mother’s recorded voice.

  Following the beep, I can think of no message to leave. Although I have said nothing else, I say “Good-bye” before I hang up.

  After further thought, I dial 911.

  When the sheriffs-department operator answers, I say, “They all went away, and I’m alone here.”

  In response to her questions, I tell her my name, that I am six years old, that I am at Ewen Durant’s house, and that I have been alone since before eight o’clock the previous evening.

  According to Ewen’s desk clock, it is now 4:32 in the morning.

  Also on the desk is a framed photo of Aunt Nora, Cousin Colleen.

  “I slept some, like two hours,” I tell the operator, “but since before midnight, I been looking, nobody’s here. I didn’t take off my shoes before getting on Colleen’s bed, so I’m probably in trouble.”

  She asks me if I know where they have gone, and I say no, and she tells me a deputy will come to help me, and I say thank you, and she says not to be afraid, and I say I am not afraid, just alone.

  Leaving the house through the front door, I am surprised to see all the cars along the driveway. It leads down to the state highway, and a dozen vehicles stand one behind the other on the shoulder.

  The night is mild and full of stars, with a smell of mown grass.

  I watch moths gliding under the soft light in the porch ceiling, where one of the two bulbs is burned out. They make no sound.

  I sit on the top porch step to wait.

  I hear the approaching engine before I see the sheriffs-department cruiser far down on the highway. No siren, no flashing lights. It slows, turns onto the driveway, and comes to the head of the line of parked vehicles.

  The deputy who gets out of the cruiser reminds me of the tall motorcycle cop on that TV show, CHiPS, and I know he will help me as soon as I see him.

  I stand up as he approaches, and he says, “You must be Cubby,” and I say, “Yes, sir,” and he says, “So you’re alone here,” and I say, “Yes, sir,” and he asks who all the vehicles belong to, and I say, “To my aunts and uncles and cousins. That one there is my dad’s.” He looks at all the house’s lighted windows and asks where my folks are, and I say, “They’re gone, sir,” and he asks if I know where they’ve gone, and I say, “No, sir.”

  He follows me to the open front door, where he rings the bell, and when no one answers, he calls, “Anybody home?”

  I figure policemen have to do things their way, by the rules, so I do not remind him that I am alone.

  He asks me to show him the way, and I lead him through the open door with the clouds and the moon.

  Just across the threshold, in the front hall, the deputy says, “Son? Cubby? Wait a minute.”

  I turn to look up at him. His face has changed, and not just because the light is brighter here.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Your shoes.”

  My sneakers are more red than white, and dark, and wet with blood. On the wood floor around me are bloody footprints.

  With his right hand, the deputy draws his revolver, and with his left, he pulls me to his side and half behind him.

  In three steps, he reaches the archway between the hall and the living room, and he says, “Oh, my God.”

  Looking past him, I see everyone dead, and now I remember what happened before I went to sleep in Colleen’s room.

  Soon many deputies and the sheriff himself are at the house, plus other people not in uniform, who seem as busy as the police.

  The sheriff is a nice man, tall and older and with a belly, but he does not listen well.

  I tell him that because I was not afraid, Tray and his friends could not see me. The sheriff says I must have found a hiding place.

  I tell him that after I woke up in Colleen’s room, I forgot what happened for a while. But because I was not afraid and because the dead people did not want to frighten me, I could not see them, just like Tray could not see me.

  The authorities conclude I combed my mother’s hair and restored the dignity of other victims after Tray and his buddies left.

  But I know the truth. Most memories from early childhood fade or vanish altogether, but my memories of that night are as clear as if the event were only a week in the past.

  I know how I survived. I do not know why.

  That night and the next day, I do not cry. They say I am brave, but I am not. I am instead the recipient of a great mercy, because upon me was conferred a power of endurance, emotional and mental, that is far beyond my six years. It will remain with me until my name is changed, and will for the rest of my life seem unearned.

  Months later, a court rules behind closed doors, and thereafter I am Cubby Greenwich, living with Aunt Edith in a new city.

  That evening, at long last, the grief comes and the tears. The murderers are in their cells, the murdered in their graves. Tears can wash away all that has obstructed hope, and grief that does not break us will only make us stronger.

  What psychological problems I experience for a couple of years are all related to these facts: I am the one who heard Tray knock; I am the first to see him on the front porch; I am the one at whom he winked through the clear moon, as if we were conspirators; I am the one who opened the door to him; I am the sole survivor.

  I feel to a degree responsible and believe illogically that no one else would have opened the door to Tray.

  Furthermore, for a long time I will not answer a door because of the irrational fear that others like Tray and his two friends will be drawn to me because they know I will always grant them entrance.

  Sessions with a psychologist are unproductive.

  Although she has little experience of children, my aunt Edith possesses the wisdom and patience to show me that guilt requires fault and that fault requires intention. She works, as well, on my irrational fear and convinces me in time that I have no reason to be afraid of a knock or a doorbell: I am not a magnet for monsters.

  Like her sister, my mother, Edith loves to laugh, and from her I learn that laughter is our armor and our sword.

  Years later, when I am twenty and Edith is on her deathbed, I tell her that I believe I was spared that night in September for a reason, for something of importance that I will one day be called upon to do. And Providence put me in her care because she was kind and wise enough to heal me and therefore prepare me for whatever task will be required of me. I tell her she is as good a soul as I have ever met or hope to meet, that she is an angel in the flesh, and that I will speak her name to God every night of my life before I go to sleep.

  Penny slept, Milo s
lept, and the dog sat looking out a window and sighing periodically as I drove north on the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Halfway across the bay, the rain abruptly diminished, and by the time we reached the northern shore, I was able to turn off the windshield wipers.

  More than an hour later, past Santa Rosa, at four o’clock in the morning, Milo woke, said he could go another hour without peeing, and rummaged quietly through his gear until the backseat brightened with an unusual pale blue light.

  Hoping not to wake Penny, I asked softly, “What’s that?”

  “This thing,” Milo said, matching my quiet tone.

  “What thing?”

  “This thing that makes it happen.”

  “Makes what happen?” I asked.

  The dog sighed, probably with pity for me, and Milo said, “What nobody would believe could happen.”

  I said, “I might believe it could happen. Try me.”

  “Oh, man,” Milo whispered, impressed by something he had just seen, “this is radical.”

  “I’ve got a strong and limber imagination,” I reminded him.

  “Not this limber.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  “It’s too complicated to tell,” Milo said.

  “I love complicated.”

  “Dad, you don’t have the scientific background to understand.”

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll turn on the radio.”

  “So turn on the radio.”

  “I’ll find a fire-and-brimstone preacher station.”

  “Then I’ll blow up the car.”

  “You won’t blow up the car.”

  “Try me,” Milo said.

  “You wouldn’t hurt your mother.”

  “I could blow up just the driver’s seat.”

  “That’s a fake-out. You can’t blow up just the driver’s seat.”

  “Try me.”

  “Come on, Milo. Driving hour after hour is boring. I need some mental stimulation.”

  “All right. Which came first—the chicken or the egg? Think about it.”

  “That’s bogus. There’s no answer. It’s a paradox.”

  “There’s an answer.”

  “So tell me the answer,” I challenged.

  “If I just tell you, that’s no mental stimulation.”

  “I don’t want to know about chickens and eggs.”

  The blue light pulsed in the backseat, and Milo said, “Wow.”

  “I want to know about the thing that makes it happen.”

  “Makes what happen?” Milo asked.

  Fresh from her nap, Penny said, “Remind me—which one of you is the genius with the IQ they can’t measure?”

  “That would be Milo,” I said modestly.

  “Not from the evidence of this conversation,” Penny said.

  Milo said, “Ouch.”

  “She nailed you, dude,” I said.

  “And which of you,” Penny asked, “needs to set an example of mature behavior?”

  I said, “That would be Lassie.”

  “Good one, Dad.” The blue light pulsed, Milo said, “Holy-moly,” and he began muttering equations to himself.

  “There he goes back into his cocoon,” I said. “I almost broke him, almost learned about the thing that makes it happen what nobody would believe, then you woke up.”

  “Yeah, right. Which came first—the chicken or the egg?”

  “Paradox. No answer.”

  “The answer is the egg—it’s time for breakfast.”

  At another truck stop, after fueling the Mountaineer, we had breakfast in a window booth at dawn, as the first golden sunlight made visible on the big sheet of glass all the fly specks that a backdrop of night had concealed.

  We had to leave Lassie alone in the SUV, but we parked where we could keep an eye on her while we ate. The dog could keep an eye on us, too. From a backseat window, she withered us with the dreaded Stare of Accusation.

  After we brought her a grilled hamburger pattie to augment her kibble, we were heroes in her eyes once more.

  California is a huge state, bigger than most countries. The drive from Boom World in Orange County to Smokeville was over 850 miles, and we still had at least five hours to go.

  We could have flown north, but not with all the I’ll-blow-up-the-car-if-I’m-not-allowed-to-take-it gear that Milo needed, not easily with Lassie, and not without showing up on a passenger list that the apparently omniscient Shearman Waxx would peruse within nanoseconds of our takeoff.

  Having slept over four hours before breakfast, Penny took the wheel for the next leg of our journey.

  I felt rumpled and grimy, my beard stubble itched, I already had acid-indigestion from my poblano-chile omelet, and I knew I would not sleep in the glare of daylight. Nevertheless, I told Penny, “When the highway comes back toward the coast, up where it gets lonely, wake me. We’ll find an isolated spot, you can give me gun instruction.”

  Perhaps half a mile farther, I fell asleep.

  When Penny woke me two and a half hours later, we were no longer on U.S. Highway 101. We followed a rutted, weedy dirt road with the sun at our back. Still stiff and dry from the heat of summer, the weeds bristled in front of us and lay broken in our wake. No one else had come this way since at least the previous spring.

  The road descended through a pine woods to the coast. Waves broke onto a short slope of pearly sand. The sand feathered into a wide expanse of shingle: a deep bed of small waterworn stones and pebbles smoothed by centuries of tidal action.

  Penny parked on the shingle, at a place where it was backstopped by a bluff.

  When she switched off the engine, I said, “If you’re worried that a gun is too complex a machine for me, that I’ll shoot off my nose, I want you to know this is different now. I can do this.”

  “A shot-off nose, I can handle. Let’s just not have anything like the vacuum-cleaner incident.”

  “I’m serious, Penny. I can do this.”

  She put a hand against my cheek. “I know you can, sweetie. You can do anything.”

  I didn’t realize that before I learned to shoot, I had to learn how to stand, which involved not just the feet but the entire body through the arms to the position of the hands on the gun. Penny favored the Weaver stance for some situations, the Isosceles stance for others. All this was easier than learning how to waltz, but harder than I expected.

  Milo and Lassie remained in the Mountaineer. I’m sure that Milo continued to be sufficiently engrossed in weird science that he paid no attention to the spectacle that I made of myself. But every time I glanced at the SUV, the dog was watching and appeared to be laughing.

  The metal cases we brought from Boom World contained shoulder rigs for carrying our guns under jackets, spare magazines, ammo, and the same .45-caliber pistol for each of us: a Springfield Armory Super Tuned Champion, which is a customized stainless-steel version of the Colt Commander.

  On this lonely part of the coast, the nearest house must have been at least five miles away. A light offshore wind would blow some of the sound of the gunfire to the sea.

  The first twenty or thirty times that I squeezed the trigger, the pleadings and the screams of victims came back to me from that far September and seemed as real as the crack of the pistol and the crash of the surf breaking behind us.

  At that time of year, the northern coast was cool, yet soon I stood sheathed in sweat. The mind is a trickster with an infinite repertoire, and mine transformed the odor of gunfire into Tray’s sour breath precisely as it had been that long-ago September night.

  Learning, I fired a hundred rounds of Federal Hydra-Shok .45 ACPs, and I would have needed five hundred if my instructor had not been so capable and so patient. At the end of the session, I was not a marksman by any standard, but I understood recoil and how to manage it. If events required close-range self-defense, I might not make a complete dead fool of myself.

  We had used large-leafed plants on the bluff face as targets. Some marked for shredding were un
scathed, although a satisfying percentage were now cole slaw.

  As Penny showed me how to clean the gun, we sat together on a large rock where the shingle met the beach.

  The time had come, and so I steeled myself and said, “You know I never lie to you.”

  “It goes both ways.”

  “I deceived you by omission when I told you I was taking Milo to Roxie’s for lunch but failed to mention Waxx would be there.”

  “I made note of it in my little book of your crimes.”

  “I didn’t know you kept a diary of my crimes.”

  “It’s titled His Transgressions and How He Will Pay.”

  “Sounds kind of medieval.”

  “What can I say. I’m a very fourteenth-century girl.”

  The offshore breeze and the sun did not disarrange and parch her hair, but groomed it into greater beauty, as if Nature considered her its special child.

  “Well,” I said, “I hope you have some pages left in that diary.”

  “Another deception by omission or a flat-out lie?”

  “The former. It goes all the way back to when we were dating. It’s something … so dark I didn’t want it hanging over you, over our life together. But now I think maybe I should have told you.”

  “Does it concern just a stripper or is there a llama involved?”

  I took a deep breath, blew it out. “Aunt Edith not only raised me but also adopted me. My born name isn’t Greenwich.”

  “Couldn’t be Hitler, you’re not that old. Anyway, it’s Durant.”

  I could not have been more surprised if she had shot me. “How do you know that? How long have you known?”

  Cleaning her pistol with the same expression of affection that brightened her face when she brushed Lassie’s coat, Penny answered the second question first: “Since shortly after we were married.”

  Only one explanation occurred to me: “Grimbald. He wanted to find out everything about the man his daughter was marrying. He’s the kind who would know a private detective.”

  “What kind is that? A Boom? But it wasn’t Daddy. It was your aunt Edith.”

  I could not have been more surprised if, after having shot me once, she’d shot me again. “Edith died four years before we met.”