by Dean Koontz
“Roustabouts are the guys who put up the circus tents and pull ’em down, plus they take care of the equipment, the generators, that kind of stuff.”
“How many banks have they hit?” Lorrie wondered. “Are they good at it?”
“Yes, ma’am, they were. Seven in 1998, four in ’99. Then they hit big with two armored-car heists, August and September ’99.”
“Nothing in the last three years?”
“The thing is, the second of those armored cars was such a rich score—six million cash, two million in bearer bonds—Beezo decided he could retire, especially if he and Ornwall killed the roustabouts and didn’t split with ’em, which is what they did.”
“Hard to imagine guys who knew Konrad Beezo would turn their backs on him,” I said.
“Maybe they didn’t. Both roustabouts were shot pointblank in the face with such high-caliber rounds their heads were hollowed out like Halloween pumpkins.”
Carson smiled, then realized that what was a simple fact to an FBI agent might be excess information to us.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“So you’ve been after Beezo all this time?” Lorrie asked.
“We nailed Ornwall in March 2000. He was livin’ in Miami under the name John Dillinger.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No, sir.” Carson smiled and shook his head. “Ornwall knows end-all about banks and armored cars, but he’s one bean short of a full spoon.”
“Maybe two beans.”
“He told us bein’ Dillinger was like Edgar Allan Poe’s story ‘The Purloined Letter,’ like hidin’ in plain sight. Who would expect a wanted bank robber to be livin’ under the name of a famous dead criminal?”
“Obviously, you guys did.”
“Well, because first time we arrested Emory Ornwall and sent him to Leavenworth, he was hidin’ under the name Jesse James.”
“Unbelievable,” I said.
“A lot of criminals,” Carson said, “are dim bulbs.”
“More coffee?” Lorrie asked.
“No thank you, ma’am. I can see you’ve got a big dinner comin’ up, so I want to get out of your hair soon as I can.”
“You’re welcome to stay.”
“Can’t, I’m afraid. But thanks for your kindness. Anyway…like I said, Ornwall…he knows end-all about banks and armored cars, but he’s no strategist or tactician. Beezo planned the jobs, and he was brilliant at it.”
“You’re talking about our Beezo?” Lorrie asked disbelievingly.
“I mean, ma’am, we’ve seen some smart guys gone wrong, but none the equal of him. We were in awe of Beezo.”
This surprised me. “He’s crazy.”
“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t,” Carson said, “but he’s a genius when it comes to executin’ big-ticket stickups. They say he was on his way to bein’ the greatest clown of his day, and for sure he found this other line of work he was also born for.”
“From our experience, he’s all emotion and rage, no reason.”
“Well, the genius sure wasn’t Ornwall or the roustabouts, all second-raters. They would’ve screwed up most of their jobs if Beezo hadn’t planned so well and kept them in line. Pure genius.”
“It did take some planning to bug our house that time and keep a watch on us from Nedra Lamm’s place,” Lorrie reminded me. Then she turned to Carson and got to the quick of it. “Where is he now?”
“Ornwall tipped us that Beezo had gone to South America somewhere. He didn’t know where, and it’s a big continent.”
“When I was trapped in the Explorer with him, out there in the woods, he told me he’d gone to South America in ’74,” Lorrie said, “after he killed Dr. MacDonald.”
Carson nodded. “Back then he spent six months in Chile, two and a half years in Argentina. This time…took us a while, but we tracked him to Brazil.”
“You got him?”
“No, ma’am. But we will.”
“He’s there now—in Brazil?”
“No, ma’am. He left the first of this month, thirty-six hours before we broke his cover, got his identity and address in Rio.”
Lorrie looked meaningfully at me.
“Almost nailed him there,” Carson continued. “But he skipped to Venezuela, where we have some problems with extradition treaties right now. Just a hiccup. He won’t get out of there except we take him out in handcuffs or in a box.”
Only fear for her family could tighten Lorrie’s face in such a way as to diminish her beauty. “He’s not in Venezuela anymore,” she told Porter Carson. “Sometime tomorrow…he’s going to be here.”
45
* * *
Chocolate marmalade cake, baked ham steeped in cherry juice, dark-roasted Colombian coffee, and the subtle sour scent of heart-piercing dread, which also manifested as a faint metallic taste…
Until this moment, I hadn’t realized that I had been deeply invested in the hope that Konrad Beezo was dead.
I had told myself that I couldn’t count him out, that prudence required me to assume that he remained alive.
Unconsciously, however, I had put a stake through his heart. I had stuffed a clove of garlic in his mouth, placed a crucifix on his breast, and had buried him facedown in a churchyard of the mind.
Now Beezo had risen.
“Sometime tomorrow,” Lorrie predicted, “or as early as midnight tonight, he’ll be here.”
Her cold certainty surprised and perplexed Porter Carson. “No, ma’am, there’s no chance of that.”
“I’d bet my life on it,” she replied. “And in fact, Mr. Carson, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing, whether I like it or not.”
He turned to me. “Mr. Tock, I came here to ask something of you, but please believe me, I didn’t come to warn you that Beezo is on your doorstep. He isn’t. I can assure you.”
By her eyes alone, Lorrie conveyed a question to me that I could read as clearly as printed text: Should we share with him the story of Grandpa Josef and the five dates?
Only the adults in our immediate family and a few close and trusted friends knew about the prophecy under which I lived: five swords of Damocles hung by five hairs, two of which had spared me, three of which still dangled.
Huey Foster knew, but I didn’t think he would have shared it with Porter Carson.
Reveal such a thing to a hard-nosed FBI agent, and he would write you off as a superstitious fool. I could almost hear him: So you believe that you’re cursed, Mr. Tock? You mean like witches and voodoo?
Grandpa Josef hadn’t cursed me. He had not wished five terrible days upon me. By some miracle, in the last minutes of his life, he had been given the power of prophecy to warn me, to give me a better chance to save—not myself, perhaps, but—those whom I loved.
Inevitably, however, it would sound like a curse to Carson. Even if I could pierce his skepticism and make him understand the difference between a malediction and a pre diction, he was no more likely to believe in fortune-telling than he was in the effectiveness of a shaman’s evil eye.
As a responsible officer of the law, he might feel it incumbent upon himself to report to child-protective services that Annie, Lucy, and Andy were being raised by parents who believed themselves to be hexed, who felt oppressed by diabolists and necromancers, who shared these fears with their offspring and thus terrorized them.
Over the years, newspapers had carried numerous stories of false charges of abuse resulting in parents’ loss of custody, families torn apart for years until the accusers admitted to lying or were beyond doubt proved malicious. By that time, lives were ruined, children traumatized beyond full recovery.
Because no one wished to put children at risk, authorities in such cases often believed the most transparent lies by people with obvious grudges to settle. An earnest FBI agent who had no history with us, no reason to malign us, would receive a respectful hearing and swift action.
Unwilling to risk calling down upon our heads a buzzing hive of misguided and self-right
eous bureaucrats by telling Porter Carson about Grandpa Josef, I answered the question in Lorrie’s eyes with a shake of my head.
Turning to Carson again, Lorrie said, “All right, okay, listen to me, I can’t tell you how I know, but I know the crazy son of a bitch is coming right here sometime between midnight tonight and midnight tomorrow. He wants—”
“But ma’am, that’s just not—”
“I’m talking to you, I’m begging you, listen to me. He wants my little Andy, and he probably wants to kill all the rest of us. If you’re truly serious about catching him, then forget Venezuela, he’s not in Venezuela anymore if he ever was. Help us set a trap here, now.”
The fervor in her face and the adamancy in her voice unsettled Carson. “Believe me, ma’am, I can absolutely assure you that Beezo is not on your doorstep and will not be here tomorrow. He—”
Frustrated, gray-faced with anxiety, Lorrie pushed back her chair, rose to her feet, and, wringing her hands, said to me, “Jimmy, for God’s sake, make him believe it. I get the feeling Huey doesn’t have enough manpower to protect us this time. We aren’t going to be lucky like before. We need help.”
Looking distressed, too much a gentleman to stay seated when a woman stood, Carson rose, and I stood, too, as he said, “Mrs. Tock, please let me repeat and explain what Chief Foster told your husband on the phone a short while ago.”
Carson cleared his throat and continued: “‘Jimmy, we’ve just got some good news about Konrad Beezo you’ll want to hear.’”
The most peculiar thing wasn’t that he repeated precisely what Huey had said on the phone but that he sounded exactly like Huey, not like Porter Carson.
No, that wasn’t what Huey had said on the phone. I had not been talking to Huey earlier, but to this man.
To me, the FBI agent said, “And your response, as I recall, was pointed.” A pause. “‘This isn’t much in the yuletide spirit, but I hope the bozo turned up dead somewhere.’”
His voice was so similar to mine in timbre and in nuance that I felt fear like blood flukes twitching in every vein and artery.
From beneath his suit jacket, he withdrew a pistol fitted with a sound suppressor.
46
* * *
Porter Carson had assured Lorrie that he hadn’t come to warn her that Konrad Beezo was on her doorstep.
He was sincere on two counts. First, he had no intention of warning her. Second, Beezo had already gotten past her doorstep and into her kitchen.
Likewise, he had been confident that Beezo wouldn’t be here tomorrow—because Beezo was here today.
Konrad Beezo had hazel eyes. Porter Carson’s eyes were blue. Colored contact lenses had been available for years.
Beezo was nearly sixty years old. Carson looked forty-five. Now I could see similarities in body type and bone structure, but otherwise they appeared to be two different men.
Some of the world’s finest plastic surgeons have offices in Rio to serve the jet set from all over the world. If you are rich, if you will accept the medical risks of profound restructuring, you can be redesigned, rejuvenated, fully re-made.
If you are paranoid and obsessed with vengeance, if you believe you were destined for greatness that others conspired to deny you, perhaps you have the motivation to endure the pain and the hazards of multiple surgeries. Madness is not always expressed in reckless action; some homicidal paranoids have the patience to spend years planning their revenge.
Listening to Beezo’s uncanny imitation of me, I remembered that he had mocked Dad by imitating his voice, too, in the expectant-fathers’ lounge over twenty-eight years ago.
In response to my father’s amazement, Beezo had said, I told you I’m talented, Rudy Tock. In more ways than you can imagine.
In those words my father had heard only a boast by a vain and troubled man full of show, fond of flourish.
Nearly three decades later, I realized that it had not been a boast but a warning. Don’t tread on me.
Now, as the three of us stood around the kitchen table, Beezo’s smile was ripe with gloating. His hazel gaze, even filtered through blue lenses, burned with a vicious exultation.
In his own voice, not in the mellow Southern accent of Porter Carson but the rougher timbre of the man who had harried us in the Hummer, Beezo said, “As I told you, I came here to ask something of you. Where is my compensation?”
My attention, and Lorrie’s, moved on a short vertical track: from his hate-twisted face to the muzzle of the silencer-equipped pistol, to his face again.
“Where is my quid pro quo?” he demanded.
Pathetically, to gain time to think, we lamely pretended not to understand his question. Lorrie said, “What quid pro quo?”
“My recompense, my makeweight,” Beezo said impatiently, “my something for something, your Andy for my Punchinello.”
“No,” Lorrie said neither angrily nor with apparent fear, but with a flat finality.
“I will treat him well,” Beezo promised. “Better than you treated my son.”
Anger and sharp terror throttled my voice, but Lorrie firmly said again, “No.”
“I’ve been robbed of the fame that should’ve been mine. All I ever wanted was immortality, but I’m willing to settle now for a little secondhand glory. If I teach the boy what I know, he will be the greatest circus star of his age.”
“He has no talent for that,” Lorrie assured him. “He’s the descendant of pastry chefs and storm chasers.”
“Bloodlines don’t matter,” Beezo said. “All that matters is my genius. Among my gifts is mentoring.”
“Go away.” Having fallen nearly to a whisper, Lorrie’s voice had the quality of an incantation, as though she hoped to cast some spell of sanity upon him. “Father another child of your own.”
He persisted: “Even a boy with a minimum faculty for clownery can be molded into greatness with me as his guide and his master and his guru.”
“Father a child of your own,” she repeated. “Even a creep like you can find some madwoman who’ll spread her legs.”
A cool scorn had entered her voice, and I could not grasp her purpose in further angering him.
She continued: “For enough money, some drug-addled slut, some desperate whore, will gag down her nausea and mate with you.”
Incredibly, instead of angering him further, her scorn clearly disconcerted him. He flinched more than once at her words and licked his lips nervously.
“With the right psychotic hag,” she continued, “you could father another murderous little maggot as insane as your firstborn.”
Perhaps because he hadn’t the courage to meet Lorrie’s eyes any longer or perhaps because in my furious silence he sensed the greater threat, Beezo shifted his attention to me.
Trembling, the pistol in his right hand followed the interest of his eyes, and the muzzle offered me the dark bore of eternity.
The instant Konrad Beezo was distracted, Lorrie thrust a hand into a pocket of her cheerful Christmas apron, extracted a miniature pressurized cannister of pepper spray.
Realizing his error, Beezo turned away from me.
As he twitched toward Lorrie, she scored a bull’s-eye. A rust-red stream of fluid splashed his face.
At least half blinded, Beezo squeezed off a shot—a hard muffled thup—exploding a pane in a windowed cabinet door, shattering dishes.
I snatched up a chair and thrust it at him as he squeezed off another wild shot. He fired a third as I drove him backward across the kitchen in the manner of a wild-animal trainer warning off an enraged lion.
A fourth shot drilled the chair between us. Splinters of pine and soft wads of foam padding flicked my face, but the bullet didn’t find me.
When he backed into the kitchen sink, I rammed the legs of the chair into him.
He cried out in pain and fired a fifth shot that cracked the oak-plank flooring.
Cornered, the rat found a tiger in himself. He wrenched the chair from me, fired a sixth round that blew out
an oven window.
He threw the chair. I dodged.
Gasping for breath, wheezing out the fumes of pepper spray, streaming tears from bloodshot eyes, waving the gun, he staggered across the kitchen, nearly cold-cocked himself with the refrigerator, slammed through the swinging door into the dining room.
Lorrie had fallen into a terrible silence, a perfect stillness on the oak. Shot. And oh, God, the blood.
47
* * *
I could not leave her there alone, yet I could not stay at her side with Beezo loose in the house.
This rending dilemma was in an instant resolved by one of the many tough equations of love. I loved Lorrie more than I loved life. But the two of us loved our children more than ourselves, which in the language of mathematics, you might call love-squared. Love plus love-squared equalled an inevitable choice.
Sickened by the prospect of an intolerable loss, terrified by the anticipation of another loss unendurable, I went after Beezo, desperate to stop him before he found the kids.
He wouldn’t be content to escape and return another day. We had seen his new Brazilian face. Never again would he enjoy the advantage of surprise.
We were in the end game. He would have his compensation, his something for something, Andy for his Punchinello. He would murder the girls, too, and call it fair interest on the debt.
As I crashed through the swinging door into the dining room, he staggered out of there, clipping the frame of the archway with his shoulder.
In the living room, he shot at me. Pepper-blurred as his vision must have been, luck rather than skill guided the bullet.
Fire seared my right ear. Although the flash of pain was not disabling, it scared me into a stumble, a fall.
I scrambled up.
Beezo had vanished.
In the foyer, I found him with the pistol in his right hand, his left hand clutching the bannister on the balustrade, doggedly climbing the stairs, with half of the first flight already behind him.
He must have thought that I had been head-shot and disabled, or even killed,
