by Dean Koontz
came a low and sinister form, its eyes radiant with the reflected beams of the headlights. A lean coyote with its sharp teeth bared.
The beast didn’t even glance at Tom Bigger. With boldness not characteristic of the species, it moved menacingly toward those who were threatening him.
“Is that a dog?” Jackie asked, and his pal said, “Shit, no.”
As if conjured with invocations and pentagrams, another coyote slunk out of the darkness, close behind the first. And then a third.
Backing away, Jackie said, “Scare them off, George.”
The shooter fired a round in the air, but the animals weren’t frightened.
From the deep dark and the tall grass, a fourth coyote, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh materialized.
The rifleman, who was the driver, got behind the wheel of the Suburban, and the slam of his door triggered the retreat of the other men to the safety of the vehicle.
Now that he was the only prey remaining, Tom Bigger expected the pack to turn on him, but their attention remained fixed on the three occupants of the SUV.
For a minute or two, the driver waited, surely expecting the coyotes to roam away into the night. But the seven maintained their vigil, eerily still.
Through the windshield, Tom could see the two men in the front seat, the third leaning forward from behind them. They appeared to be arguing.
The driver released the emergency brake, put the Suburban in gear, and pulled onto the highway. He drove south, back the way he had come.
Tom watched until the taillights dwindled from view.
He took the unloaded pistol from under his waistband, held it at his side, and walked north.
The coyotes accompanied him through the moonlight, three ahead of him, one on each side, and two behind.
So high that the sound of its engines didn’t reach the earth, a jet transited the sky from west to east, and for Tom its lights signified that his journey, too, would continue, must continue.
After a quarter of a mile, the coyotes moved away from him in single file, diagonally across the blacktop.
He stopped to watch them leave.
One by one, the seven leaped across a drainage swale beyond the farther shoulder of the highway, eastbound as silently as the jet, and vanished into a moonlit meadow.
He did not know what to think of them.
After they were gone, he walked north again for about a mile, until he came to a small stone bridge over a currently dry creek. He took off his backpack and placed it on the waist-high wall of the bridge.
He put away the pistol. From the upper compartment of the pack, he took one of the six bottles of tequila, each of which was wrapped in its own stuffsack.
Two cars appeared in the south, but the thugs were not returning with reinforcements. A sedan and a pickup swept past without slowing.
Tom twisted the cap, broke the tax stamp, opened the pint. He brought it to his nose and inhaled.
The aroma made his mouth water and his stomach flutter with anticipation. The shakes took him, so he held the tequila with both hands.
After he stood there for a while, perhaps for five minutes, he screwed the cap back on the bottle. He took no satisfaction in his self-control. He knew his willpower would not long endure.
Cursing himself for his sudden temperance, he threw the bottle off the bridge. He heard it shatter on the stones in the waterless waterway.
He zipped shut the storm flap, shouldered the backpack once more, and adjusted the hip belt.
Soon twelve hours would have passed since the sobering incident in the bluff-top rest area, above his cave home. He’d been awake for twenty hours, and he’d walked a long way in the past four. He should have been asleep on his feet, but he was awake, alert, and grimly focused.
He knew where he must go. A long, long walk remained ahead of him.
He knew what he must do. The task would not be easy. He might not have the courage to complete it.
As Tom Bigger walked north into the last few hours of the night, he was overcome again by the feeling that he was not alone, that he was followed step by step, and not merely by coyotes. And he was afraid.
Thirty-nine
For a walk in the suburban Seattle woods, Liddon Wallace wore Brioni loafers protected by rubber overshoes, gray wool slacks by Ermenegildo Zegna, a Mark Cross belt, a Geoffrey Beene shirt, an Armani sweater, a black leather jacket by Andrew Marc, and a Patek Philippe wristwatch.
The hard-packed dirt footpath proved easy to follow in spite of the mottling shadows and the mist. Dawn had come nearly an hour earlier. But fog veiled the face of the sun and allowed only this indirect light.
In the morning murk, the towering Douglas firs and hemlocks appeared to be black, and the ferns were more blue than green. Even the clusters of Pacific dogwoods, with their flurries of scarlet and gold leaves, blazed less than smoldered in the dripping gloom, and their enormous white flowers, which usually resembled clematis, now looked like dead birds in their branches.
After little more than three hundred yards, the footpath led out of the forest. Beyond lay the putting green at the eighteenth hole of the golf course.
An electric cart, used by groundskeepers, stood on the green. Even as Liddon Wallace came out of the trees, Rudy Neems, chief of the landscape-maintenance crew, took the eighteenth-hole flag from the cart and stood it in the cup.
Half surrounding the green and beyond it were three sand traps and then a fairway that sloped down to a water hazard. The first half of the fairway, beyond the water, faded into the mist, and the tee was far beyond sight. A narrow rough lay along each flank of the fairway, and behind both roughs the forest continued.
Rudy Neems stood by the grounds cart, watching Liddon approach. The landscaper was thirty-eight, stocky, with a blond mustache and thick hair that grew naturally in ringlets. Ironically, as a boy, he was often picked to play an angel in Christmas pageants.
“This weather sucks,” Liddon said.
Neems was soft-spoken to such a degree that even in the morning stillness, his voice didn’t carry far: “Good for the skin.”
Indeed, the groundskeeper had a superb complexion.
Liddon said, “So you reviewed the package.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
“You see how it can be done?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“The money?”
Liddon handed him a manila envelope containing forty thousand in hundred-dollar bills. “Forty thousand more when it’s done.”
Neems didn’t bother to count the deposit. He dropped it in the cart and returned to Liddon another envelope that contained numerous photographs of his house in California, the floor plan, and detailed information about the security system.
“Plus expenses,” Neems reminded him.
“Yes, of course. Forty thousand more plus expenses. When are you flying there?”
“This afternoon.”
“As I told you, I’m only in Seattle on business until Wednesday noon. When will you do the job?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Tuesday evening.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Excellent. I’ll be having drinks and dinner with a client from six o’clock till eleven or later.”
“Your wife looks nice,” Neems said.
“Yes, she does, she’s a beautiful woman, but I should never have married. I’m not the marrying kind.”
“I want her.”
“You want her? No. Not a good idea, Rudy. You were acquitted, but your DNA is still on file from the court-ordered blood sample, it’s still in the system, you don’t dare leave semen behind.”
“I won’t.”
Four years earlier, in California, Rudy stood trial for the murder of a fourteen-year-old girl. Liddon was his defense attorney.
“It’s too risky,” Liddon reasoned, “because I got you off in the Hardy case. They fi
nd your DNA, they’ll know I hired this done.”
He had not merely won a not-guilty verdict for Neems, but he had also made two straight-arrow police detectives appear so corrupt that they were ultimately fired from the force.
A network-TV news magazine did a two-hour feature on the case that brought Liddon millions in business. The camera loved him. He was a natural. Now and then he watched a DVD of the program just to remind himself of how good he looked.
“Judy didn’t have any.”
Judy was Judith Hardy, the fourteen-year-old who was kidnapped and raped.
Liddon said, “Didn’t have any what?”
“Any of my DNA.”
“She was largely dissolved by acid in a pit on the beach. The best forensic team wasn’t going to get anything from that body.”
“So I burn Kirsten.”
Kirsten was Liddon’s wife.
“Fill the bathtub with gasoline,” said Neems.
Looking past Rudy Neems, Liddon surveyed the foggy fairway. No one was in sight. The course didn’t open for at least another hour. Nevertheless, this was taking too long. To minimize the chance of their being seen together, they needed to meet in places as discreet as this and keep the meetings brief.
“Bathtub of gasoline?” Liddon said, boggled by the flamboyance.
“Sink her, burn her,” said Neems.
“I’ve got a lot of expensive art, antiques.”
“And a fire-sprinkler system.”
“Still. A bathtub of gasoline.”
“Studied it,” Neems said.
Liddon looked at the manila envelope full of photos and details about the house, which Neems had returned to him.
“You’ll lose the bathroom,” Neems said.
“Obviously.”
“Master bedroom. Some attic.”
“What about water damage?”
“Sprinklers only go off in rooms with heat.”
“Ah. So there’s no widespread water damage. Smoke?”
“I’ll close the bathroom and bedroom doors behind me.”
Neems was as dependable as he was soft-spoken. He thought things through, cared about details.
“I guess the alarm system will get the fire department there in a hurry,” Liddon said.
“Probably under four minutes. They’re nearby.”
Because the apron of the putting green sloped up slightly to the surrounding fairway, the contours of the land pulled faint currents of morning air into the depressed green, where they circled, circled, drawing in a thicker knee-high scrim of fog that moved around Liddon and Neems, a slow-motion whirlpool, around and around.
“You really want Kirsten that much?” Liddon asked.
Neems nodded. “I gotta have her.”
“How long will you … take with her?”
“Two hours. Three.”
“You’re confident about this?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s kind of wild,” Liddon said.
“So wild, it’s not the way hired killings are done.”
“Good point. Well … okay, then.”
Neems’s smile was so sweet, he would still be good for Christmas pageants. “Two things. First—you sure about Benny?”
Benny was Benjamin Wallace, Liddon’s three-year-old son.
“I’m no better at parenting than marriage,” Liddon said.
“There’s nannies.”
“I’d either end up with some harridan who ruins the mood of the house or some young thing who files a phony civil suit against me for sexual harassment. Is Benny a problem for you?”
“Why would he be a problem? He’s three years old.”
“I didn’t mean a physical problem.”
“I’m fine with it,” Neems said.
“All right. Then it’s set.”
“I just wanted to be sure you were okay with it.”
“It is what it is,” Liddon said. “What’s the second thing?”
“Just my curiosity.”
“I’ve got to get going.”
“You come to me for this—you had to know I did Judy Hardy.”
“Obviously.”
“When did you figure it out?”
“Before I took your case,” Liddon said.
“You did my case pro bono.”
“You didn’t have any money.”
“Thought you defended me because you believed.”
“In your innocence? No. Never.”
“So you did it pro bono because …?”
“What do you think, Rudy?”
“In case one day you needed someone like me.”
“There you go.”
“Were you married when you took my case?”
“Only a few months.”
“Did you know then that maybe …”
“No, no. I loved her then.”
“That’s sad.”
Liddon shrugged. “Life.”
“You do a lot of pro bono work.”
“I try to give what time I can.”
“So you have others like me?”
“A couple. If I need them.”
“Well, I want you to know I’m grateful.”
“Thank you, Rudy.”
“Not just for back then, but for this opportunity, too.”
“I know you’re meticulous. Now I better be going.” He took two steps across the green, toward the woods, then turned to look once more at the groundskeeper. “I’m a little curious, too.”
“About what?”
“Since Judy Hardy, have you …”
“Yes.”
“Often?” Liddon asked.
“I make myself wait between.”
“Is it difficult—waiting?”
“Yes. But then it’s sweeter when I do one.”
“How long is the wait?”
“Six months. Eight.”
“Have you ever come under suspicion again?”
“No. And I never will.”
“You’re a smart and careful man. That’s why I took your case.”
“Besides, people like me,” said Neems.
“Yes. They do. That’s always a plus.”
Liddon continued across the green, across the rough, to the footpath through the woods. He was two hundred yards from the most terrifying encounter of his life.
Forty
Henry.”
The dream was a montage of action close-ups: long bare limbs thrashing, blond hair tossing, red-nailed hands clutching with desire and striking out defensively, ripe mouth open in rapture but then shaping a silent scream of sublime terror.
As he woke, Henry Rouvroy thought he heard someone whispering his name.
“Henry.”
In sleep, he had slid onto his side. Now he sat up, his back against the closet wall.
The shotgun. He had let go of it. He fumbled in the dark, found the 20-gauge.
More likely than not, he dreamed the voice. He listened but heard nothing.
Beyond the open door, the bedroom was brighter than when he had taken up his post in the closet, but it wasn’t as bright as it would have been with a lamp on.
Dawn had come. Morning sun seeped around the edges of the closed draperies.
Wincing, flexing his left foot to defeat a cramp, Henry rose and moved cautiously to the doorway.
Again he listened. After a silence, he heard the thinnest of whistles—and his heart clenched for a moment, until he realized that the sound was his own flatulence.
