The Servants of Twilight

by Dean Koontz

  The windows had unsteamed.

  As far as Charlie could see, there were still no white vans in the parking lot.

  He had looked through everything in the purse without finding the electronic device that he had been sure would be there. He began to examine the purse itself, seeking lumps in the lining.

  “I think we should get moving again,” Christine said nervously.

  “In a minute,” Charlie said, using her nail file to rip out the well-stitched seams in the handles of her purse.

  “The exhaust fumes are making me sick,” she said.

  “Open your window a little more.”

  He found nothing but cotton padding inside the handles of the purse.

  “No transmitter,” she said.

  “It’s still got to be the answer.”

  “But if not in my purse . . . where?”

  “Somewhere,” he said, frowning.

  “You said yourself that it had to be in the purse.”

  “I was wrong. Somewhere else . . .” He tried to think. But he was too worried about the white vans to think clearly.

  “We’ve got to get moving,” Christine said.

  “I know,” he said.

  He released the emergency brake, put the car in gear, and drove away from the shopping center, splashing through large puddles.

  “Where now?” Christine asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  46

  For a while they drove aimlessly through Santa Barbara and neighboring Montecito, mostly staying away from main thoroughfares, wandering from one residential area to another, just keeping on the move.

  Here and there, at an intersection, a confluence of overflowing gutters formed a lake that made passage difficult or impossible. The dripping trees looked limp, soggy. In the rain and mist, all the houses, regardless of color or style, seemed gray, drab.

  Christine was afraid that Charlie had run out of ideas. Worse, she was afraid he had run out of hope. He didn’t want to talk. He drove in silence, staring morosely at the storm-swept streets. Until now she hadn’t fully realized how much she had come to depend upon his good humor, positive outlook, and bulldog determination. He was the glue holding her together. She never thought she would say such a thing about a man, any man, but she had to say it about Charlie: Without him, she would be lost.

  Joey would speak when spoken to, but he didn’t have much to say, and his voice was frail and distant like the voice of a ghost.

  Chewbacca was equally lethargic and taciturn.

  They listened to the radio, changing from a rock station to a country station, to one that played swing and other jazz. The music, regardless of type, sounded flat. The commercials were all ludicrous: When you were running from a pack of lunatics who wanted to kill you and your little boy, who cared whether one brand of motor oil, Scotch, blue jeans, or toilet tissue was better than another brand? The news was all weather, and none of it good: flooding in half a dozen towns between L.A. and San Diego; high waves smashing into the living rooms of expensive homes in Malibu; mud slides in San Clemente, Laguna Beach, Pacific Palisades, Montecito, and points north along the stormy coastline.

  Christine’s personal world had fallen apart, and now the rest of the world seemed dead set on following her example.

  When Charlie finally stopped thinking and started talking, Christine was so relieved she almost wept.

  He said, “The main thing we’ve got to do is get away from Santa Barbara, find a safe place to hide out, and lie low until Henry can get the organization functioning again. We can’t do anything to help ourselves until all my men are focused on Grace Spivey, putting pressure on her and on the others in that damned church.”

  “So how do we get out of town?” she asked. “This car’s hot.”

  “Yeah. Besides, it’s falling apart.”

  “Do we steal another set of wheels?”

  “No,” he said. “The first thing we need is cash. We’re running out of money, and we don’t want to use credit cards everywhere we go because that leaves a trail. Of course, it doesn’t matter if we use cards here because they already know we’re in Santa Barbara, so we’ll start milking our plastic for all the cash in it.”

  When at last Charlie swung into action, he moved with gratifying speed.

  First they went to a telephone booth, searched the yellow pages, and made a note of the addresses of the nearest Wells Fargo and Security Pacific bank offices. In Orange County, Charlie had his accounts at the former, Christine at the latter.

  At one Security Pacific office, Christine used her Visa card to get a cash advance of one thousand dollars, which was the maximum allowable. At another branch, she obtained a five-hundred-dollar advance on her MasterCard. At a third office, using her American Express Card she bought two thousand dollars’ worth of traveler’s checks in twentyand hundred-dollar denominations. Then, outside the same bank, she used her automatic teller card to obtain more cash. She was permitted to withdraw three hundred dollars at a time from the computerized teller, and she was allowed to make such withdrawals twice a day. Therefore, she was able to add six hundred bucks to the fifteen hundred that she had gotten from Visa and MasterCard. Counting the two thousand in traveler’s checks, she had put together a bankroll of forty-one hundred dollars.

  “Now let’s see what I can add to that,” Charlie said, setting out in search of a Wells Fargo office.

  “But this ought to be enough for quite a while,” she said.

  “Not for what I’ve got in mind,” he said.

  “What is it you’ve got in mind?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Charlie always carried a blank check in his wallet. At the nearest Wells Fargo branch, after presenting an array of ID and after speaking at length with the manager, he withdrew $7,500 of the $8,254 in his personal checking account.

  He was worried that the police might have informed his bank of the warrant for his arrest and that the Wells Fargo computer would direct any teller to call the authorities the moment he showed up to withdraw money. But luck was with him. The cops weren’t moving quite as fast as Grace Spivey and her followers.

  At other banks, he obtained cash advances on his Visa, MasterCard, Carte Blanche, and American Express cards.

  Twice, in their travels back and forth across town, they saw police cruisers, and Charlie tried to duck out of their way. When it wasn’t possible to duck, he held his breath, sure that the end had come, but they were not stopped. He knew they were swiftly running out of luck. At any moment a cop was going to notice their license plate number—or Spivey’s people were going to make contact again.

  Where was the transmitter if not in Christine’s purse? There had to be a transmitter somewhere. It was the only explanation.

  Minute by minute, his uneasiness grew until, at last, he found himself sheathed in a cold sweat.

  By late afternoon, they had put together a kitty of more than fourteen thousand dollars.

  Rain was still falling.

  Darkness was settling in early.

  “That’s it,” Christine said. “Even if there was some way to squeeze out a few hundred dollars more, the banks are all closed. So now what?”

  They stopped at a small shopping center, where they bought a new purse for Christine, a briefcase in which Charlie could carry the neat stacks of cash they had amassed, and a newspaper.

  A headline on the bottom half of the front page caught his attention: CULT LEADER SOUGHT IN WAKE OF ARSON, BOMBINGS.

  He showed the story to Christine. Standing under an awning in front of a dress shop, they read the piece all the way through, while rain hissed and pattered and gurgled in the settling twilight. Their names—and Joey’s—were mentioned repeatedly, and the article said Charlie was wanted for questioning in a related homicide investigation, but fortunately there were no pictures.

  “So the police aren’t just looking for me,” Charlie said. “They want to talk to Grace Spivey, too. That’s some consolation, anyway.”<
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  “Yeah, but they won’t be able to pin anything on her,” Christine said. “She’s too slippery, too clever.”

  “A witch isn’t scared of cops,” Joey said grimly.

  “Don’t be pessimistic,” Charlie told them. “If you’d seen her with those holes in her hands, if you’d heard her raving, you’d know she’s teetering right on the edge. Wouldn’t surprise me if she bragged about what she’d done next time the cops talk to her.”

  Christine said, “Listen, they’re probably looking for her down in Orange County, or maybe in L.A., but not up here. Why don’t we call the cops—anonymously, of course—and tell them she’s in the neighborhood?”

  “Excellent idea,” he said.

  He made the call from a pay phone and kept it brief. He spoke with a desk sergeant named Pulaski and told him that the incident at the Wile-Away Lodge, earlier in the day, had involved Grace Spivey and the Church of the Twilight. He described the white vans and warned Pulaski that the Twilighters were armed with automatic weapons. He hung up without answering any of the sergeant’s questions.

  When they were in the car once more, Charlie opened the paper to the classified ads, found the “For Sale” section under the heading “Automobiles,” and began reading.

  The house was small but beautifully kept. It was a Cape Cod-style structure, unusual for California, pale blue with white shutters and white window frames. The lamps at the end of the walk and those on the porch pillars were brass ship’s lamps with flame-shaped bulbs. It looked like a warm, snug haven against the storm and against all the other vicissitudes of life.

  Charlie had a sudden longing for his own home, back in North Tustin. Belatedly, he felt the terrible impact of the news that Henry had given him this morning: His house, like Christine’s, had been burned to the ground. He had told himself insurance would cover the loss. He had told himself there was no use crying over spilt milk. He had told himself that he had more important things to worry about than what he had lost in the fire. But now, no matter what he told himself, he could not dispel the dull ache that took possession of his heart. Standing here in the chilly February darkness, dripping rainwater, weary and worried, burdened by his responsibility for the safety of Christine and Joey (a crushing weight that grew heavier by the hour), he was overcome by a poignant yearning for his favorite chair, for the familiar books and furnishings of his den.

  Stop it, he told himself angrily. There’s no time for sentiment or self-pity. Not if we’re going to stay alive.

  His house was rubble.

  His favorite chair was ashes.

  His books were smoke.

  With Christine, Joey, and Chewbacca, Charlie climbed the porch steps of the Cape Cod house and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a white-haired, sixtyish man in a brown cardigan sweater.

  Charlie said, “Mr. Madigan? I called a little while ago about—”

  “You’re Paul Smith,” Madigan said.

  “Yes,” Charlie said.

  “Come in, come in. Oh, you’ve got a dog. Well, just tie him up there on the porch.”

  Looking past Madigan at the light beige carpet in the living room, Charlie said, “Afraid we’ll track up your carpet. Is that the station wagon there in the driveway?”

  “That’s it,” Madigan said. “Wait a moment, and I’ll get the keys.”

  They waited in silence on the porch. The house was on a hill above Santa Barbara. Below, the city twinkled and shimmered in the darkness, beyond curtains of blowing rain.

  When Madigan returned, he was wearing a raincoat, hood, and high-top galoshes. The amber light from the porch lamps softened the wrinkles in his face; if they had been making a movie and looking for a gentle grandfatherly type, Madigan would have been perfect casting. He assumed Christine and Joey were Charlie’s wife and son, and he expressed concern about them being out in such foul weather.

  “Oh, we’re originally from Seattle,” Christine lied. “We’re used to duck weather like this.”

  Joey had retreated even further into his private world. He didn’t speak to Madigan, didn’t smile when the old man teased him. However, unless you knew what an outgoing boy he usually was, his silence and solemnity seemed like nothing worse than shyness.

  Madigan was eager to sell the Jeep wagon, though he didn’t realize how obvious his eagerness was. He thought he was being cool, but he kept pointing out the low mileage (32,000), the like-new tires, and other attractive features.

  After they had talked awhile, Charlie understood the man’s situation. Madigan had retired a year ago and had quickly discovered that Social Security and a modest pension were insufficient to support the lifestyle that he and his wife had maintained previously. They had two cars, a boat, the Jeep wagon, and two snowmobiles. Now they had to choose between boating and winter sports, so they were getting rid of the Jeep and snowmobiles. Madigan was bitter. He complained at length about all the taxes the government had sucked out of his pockets when he’d been a younger man. “If they’d taken just ten percent less,” he said, “I’d have had a pension that would’ve let me live like a king the rest of my life. But they took it and peed it away. Excuse me, Mrs. Smith, but that’s exactly what they did: peed it away.”

  The only light was from two lamps on the garage, but Charlie could see no visible body damage on the wagon, no sign of rust or neglect. The engine caught at once, didn’t sputter, didn’t knock.

  “We can take it for a spin if you’d like,” Madigan said.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Charlie said. “Let’s talk a deal.”

  Madigan’s expression brightened. “Come on in the house.”

  “Still don’t want to track up your carpet.”

  “We’ll go in by the kitchen door.”

  They tied Chewbacca to one of the posts on the back porch, wiped their feet, shook the rain off their coats, and went inside.

  The pale-yellow kitchen was cheery and warm.

  Mrs. Madigan was cleaning and chopping vegetables on a cutting board beside the sink. She was gray-haired, roundfaced, as much a Norman Rockwell type as her husband. She insisted on pouring coffee for Charlie and Christine, and she mixed up a cup of hot chocolate for Joey, who wouldn’t speak or smile for her, either.

  Madigan asked twenty percent too much for the Jeep, but Charlie agreed to the price without hesitation, and the old man had trouble concealing his surprise.

  “Well . . . fine! If you come back tomorrow with a cashier’s check—”

  “I’d like to pay cash and take the Jeep tonight,” Charlie said.

  “Cash?” Madigan said, startled. “Well . . . um . . . I guess that’d be okay. But the paperwork—”

  “Do you still owe the bank anything, or do you have the pink slip?”

  “Oh, it’s free and clear. I have the pink slip right here.”

  “Then we can take care of the paperwork tonight.”

  “You’ll have to have an emissions test run before you’ll be able to apply for registration in your name.”

  “I know. I can handle that first thing in the morning.”

  “But if there’s some problem—”

  “You’re an honest man, Mr. Madigan. I’m sure you’ve sold me a first-rate machine.”

  “Oh, it is! I’ve taken good care of her.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “You’ll need to talk to your insurance agent—”

  “I will. Meanwhile, I’m covered for twenty-four hours.”

  The haste with which Charlie wanted to proceed, combined with the offer of cash on the spot, not only surprised Madigan but made him uneasy and somewhat suspicious. However, he was being paid eight or nine hundred more than he had expected to get, and that was enough to insure his cooperation.

  Fifteen minutes later, they left in the Jeep wagon, and there was no way that Grace Spivey or the police could trace the sale to them if they didn’t bother to file an application for registration.

  Though rain was
still falling, though an occasional soft pulse of lightning backlit the clouds, the night seemed less threatening than it had before they’d made their deal with Madigan.

  “Why did it have to be a Jeep?” Christine asked as they found the freeway and drove north on 101.

  “Where we’re going,” Charlie said, “we’ll need fourwheel-drive.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Eventually . . . the mountains.”

  “Why?”

  “I know a place where we can hide until Henry or the police find a way to stop Grace Spivey. I’m part owner of a cabin in the Sierras, up near Tahoe.”

  “That’s so far away . . .”

  “But it’s the perfect place. Remote. It’s a sort of timesharing arrangement with three other owners. Each of us has several weeks there every year, and when none of us is using it, we rent it out. It was supposed to be a ski chalet, but it’s hardly occupied during the worst of the winter because the road into it was never paved. It was planned to be the first of twenty chalets, and the county had promised to pave the road, but everything fell through after the first one was built. So now, there’s still just a one-lane dirt track that’s never plowed, and getting in there in the winter isn’t easy. Bad investment, as it turned out, but now maybe I’ll get my money’s worth.”

  “We keep running, running . . . I’m not used to running away from problems.”

  “But there’s nothing we can do here. It’s all up to Henry and my other men. We’ve just got to stay out of sight, stay alive. And no one will ever look for us up in the mountains.”

  From the backseat, in a low voice filled with weariness and resignation, Joey said, “The witch will. She’ll come after us. She’ll find us. We can’t hide from the witch.”

  47

  As usual, Grace could not sleep.

  After leaving Santa Barbara and driving north for a while—ten of them in two white vans and one blue Oldsmobile—they had finally stopped at a motel in Soledad. They had lost the boy. Grace was certain he was still heading into the northern part of the state—she felt it in her bones—but she didn’t know where in the north. She had to stop and wait for news—or holy guidance.