Dean Koontz - (1973)

by Shattered(Lit)

  He let his hand slide along her throat, felt her pulse with his fingertips, then dropped the hand and cupped one of her heavy, unrestrained breasts. "Just as lovely as ever," he said.

  "Please. Don't touch me like that," she said. She tried to pull away from him.

  He held her tightly, and his free hand fondled her. He caressed the other breast now. "You said that you'd let me touch you again.

  "What do you mean?" His fingers were digging into her arm so deeply that shooting pains exploded in her shoulder.

  "You said I could make love to you again."

  His voice was low and dreamy. "Like before. "

  "No. I never said that."

  "Yes, Courtney. You did."

  She looked into his dark-ringed, bloodshot eyes, into the vaguely unfocused blue circles, and for the first time in her life she experienced the fear which belonged solely to women. She knew he might try to rape her. And she knew that even as gaunt as he was, he would be strong enough to do it . . . But wasn't it ridiculous to fear him this way?

  Hadn't she been to bed with him dozens of times in the past, before he had started to change? What was there to fear, then? But she knew. It was not the sex that she feared.

  it was the force involved, the violent potential, the humiliation and the sense of being used. She did not know how he had gotten here or how he had learned their address. She did not know his circumstances or full intentions. But none of that mattered worth a damn. All that mattered right now was whether or not he would rape her. She felt weak, helpless, and oppressed. She was cold and hollow inside, trembling at the prospect of having to accept his forced attentions.

  "You better not stay here any longer," she said, despising herself for the tremor in her voice. "Alex will be here in a few minutes."

  Leland smiled. "Well, of course he will. I know that."

  She could not figure out what he wanted, what he thought he could achieve beyond the brief, vicious taking of her. "Then why are you here?"

  "We talked about that bef ore.

  "No. No, we did not."

  "Sure, Courtney. You remember. In the van, we talked. On the way here. You and me. We've talked about it for several days now-how we could take care of them and then be together again."

  She was no longer merely frightened. She was terrified. Finally he had gone over the edge. Whatever was wrong with him-some physical illness or a psychological disease it had at last pushed him beyond sanity.

  "George, you've got to listen. Are you listening to me?"

  "Sure, Courtney. I like your voice."

  She shuddered involuntarily. "George, you are not well. Whatever has been wrong with you for the past two years-" The smile faded from his face as he interrupted her. "I'm perfectly healthy. Why do you always insist I'm not?"

  "Did you ever have those X-rays that the doctor-"

  "Shut up!" he said. "I don't want to talk about it."

  "George, if you're sick, maybe there's still something-" She saw the blow coming, but she could not pull away from it in time. His big cal- I loused hand struck her hard alongside the head. Her teeth rattled. She thought that was an almost funny sound But then the darkness rushed up at her, and she knew that she was going to faint Unconscious, she would be even more help' less. And she realized, suddenly, that rape might be the least of her worries. He mightnot rape her at all. He might kill her.

  She cried out, or thought that she did, and then she fell away into an inky pool.

  Leland went out to the van and got the .32-caliber pistol which he had forgotten to bring with him the first time. He came back into the living room and stood by the sofa, looking down at her, admiring her golden hair and her freckles, the exquisite lines of her face.

  Why couldn't she have been nice to him?

  All the way across the country, she had been nice. When he told her to stop nagging him about something, she had stopped at once.

  But now she was the bitch again, picking at him, trying to say his mind was going on him. Didn't she know that was impossible?

  it was his mind that had gotten him all the scholarships, years ago. It was his superb mind which had gotten him off that damn farm, away from the poverty and the Biblethumping and his father's paddle.

  So he couldn't be losing his mind. She only said that to frighten him.

  He put the pistol barrel in her ear.

  But he could not pull the trigger.

  "I love you," he told her, although she could not hear him. He sat down on the floor beside the couch, and he started to cry. He snapped back from a daydream and realized that he was undressing her.

  While his thoughts had been elsewhere, he had pulled off her thin blue sweater, and now he was fumbling at the catch on her jeans. He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. Naked to the waist, she looked like a little girl despite the firm lines of her breasts. She seemed defenseless and weak and in need of protection.

  This was not the way.

  Leland knew, suddenly, that if he just tied her up and put her on ice until he had dealt with Doyle and the boy, she would be all right.

  When they were dead, she would realize that Leland was all she had.

  And then they could be together.

  Lifting her as easily as he would have an infant, he carried her upstairs and put her on the bed in the master bedroom. He retrieved her sweater from the living-room floor and somehow slipped it onto her again.

  Fifteen minutes later he had tied her hands and feet with rope that he found on the junk heap in the guest bedroom, and he had used a length of adhesive tape to seal her mouth.

  He was sitting on the bed beside her, staring into her eyes, when they fluttered open and found him.

  "Don't be afraid," he said.

  She cried out behind the gag.

  "I won't hurt you," he said. "I love you."

  He touched her long, fine hair. "In a little while everything will be okay. We'll be happy together, because we won't have anyone else in the world but each other."

  Twenty-three "This is our street?" Colin asked as the T hunderbird labored up the steep lane toward a cluster of lights near the top.

  "That's right."

  Beyond an aisle of well-shaped cherry trees, the darkness of Lincoln Park lay on their left. To the right, the land shelved down through more darkness to the city's lights and the glimmering necklace of the harbor and the bay bridge. It was a stunning sight, even at three o'clock in the morning.

  "This is some place," the boy said.

  "You like it, huh?"

  "It beats Philadelphia."

  Doyle laughed. "It sure does."

  "That our house up there?" Colin asked, pointing toward the only lights ahead of them.

  "Yes. And a real nice lot with plenty of big trees." Coming home to the place for the first time now, he knew that it was worth every penny they had paid for it, though the price had initially seemed exorbitant. He thought of Courtney there, waiting. He remembered the tree outside the bedroom window, and he wondered if they would keep each other awake until dawn, when they could see the morning sun slanting down on the blue bay . . .

  "I hope Courtney isn't too mad about the lies we told her," Colin said, still looking out across the edge of the city toward the dark ocean. "If she was, it would spoil this."

  "She won't be angry," Doyle said, knowing that she would be, just a little and for just a few minutes. "She'll be glad we're safe and sound.

  The house lights were close now, though the outline of the structure was hidden by a wall of deeply shadowed trees that rose behind it.

  Doyle slowed down, looking for the entrance to the driveway. He found it and turned in. Thousands of small oval stones crunched under the tires.

  He had to drive clear around to the side of the house before he saw the Chevrolet van parked by the garage.

  Twenty-four Doyle got out of the damaged car on the passenger's side, put one hand on Colin's thin shoulder. "You get back in there," he said. "Stay here. If you see anyo
ne but me come out of the house, leave the car and run to the neighbors. The nearest ones are downhill."

  "Shouldn't we call the cops and-"

  "There isn't time for that.

  He's inside with Courtney." Alex felt his stomach twist, and he thought he was going to vomit. A bitter fluid touched the back of his throat, but he choked it down.

  "Another couple of minutes-"

  "Might make all the difference."

  Doyle turned away from the Thunderbird and hurried across the dark lawn toward the front door, which was ajar.

  How was it possible? Who was this man who could follow them wherever they went, who could catch up with them no matter how much they changed their plans? Who in the hell was he that he could drive ahead and wait for them here? He seemed more than maniacal. He was almost superhuman, satanic.

  And what had he done to Courtney? If he had hurt her in any way .

  . . Alex was caught up between rage and terror. It was frightening to realize that even when you had the courage to face up to violence, you could not protect those you loved. More than that, you couldn't know where the danger would come from or in what form.

  He reached the front door, pushed it open, and stepped into the house before he thought that he might have walked into a trap.

  Suddenly he remembered all too clearly the cunning and ferocity which the madman had shown when he had been swinging that ax . . .

  Doyle crouched against the wall, sheltering behind a telephone stand, making as small a target of himself as he could. He looked quickly around the front room.

  It was deserted.

  All the lights were blazing, but no madman-in here.

  And no Courtney.

  The house was very quiet.

  Too quiet?

  Keeping his back to the wall, he went from the living room to the dining room, the shag carpet absorbing the noise of each footstep. But the dining room was also empty.

  In the kitchen, three plates, knives, forks and spoons had been laid out on the butcherblock table along with various other utensils.

  She had planned a late-night snack for them.

  Doyle's heart was pounding painfully. His breathing was so harsh and deep that he felt certain it could be heard from one end of the house to the other.

  He kept thinking: Courtney, Courtney, Courtney . . .

  The sunken den and the screened-in back porch were also deserted.

  Everything was neat and orderly-or, rather, as neat and orderly as things could be in Courtney's house. And that must be a good sign.

  Right?

  No traces of a struggle, no overturned furniture, no blood . . .

  "Courtney!

  He had intended to remain silent. But now it seemed terribly important to call her name-as if the spoken word were a magic charm that would heal whatever the madman had done to her.

  "Courtney!

  No reply.

  "Courtney, where are you?"

  in the back of his mind, Doyle knew that he should calm down. He should shut up for a minute and rethink the situation, consider his options once more before making another move. He was not going to help either Courtney or Colin if he acted stupidly, precipitously, and got himself killed.

  However, with the silent house pressing in on him, he was temporarily incapable of rational behavior.

  "Courtney!

  Bent for-ward like a soldier landing on an enemy-held beach, he ran up the main stairs two at a time. At the top, he grabbed the head of the banister to keep his balance, and he gasped for breath.

  Along the second-floor hallway, all the doors were closed, each like the lid of a surprise package.

  The guest bedroom was the nearest. He took three steps across the hall and threw that door open.

  For a moment he could not understand what he was seeing. Boards, boxes, papers, and other junk were stacked in the middle of the room, a pile of rubble in the center of the nice new carpet. He took several steps forward, past the threshold, curiously disquieted by the incongruity of what lay there.

  The thick, slow voice came from the doorway immediately behind him: "You took her away from me."

  Alex made himself fall to the left as he turned. But it was hopeless. In spite of that maneuver, the bullet slammed into him and knocked him all the way down.

  The tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, smiling. He held a pistol quite like the one which Doyle had bought in Carson City-and had thoughtlessly left in the car when he needed it most.

  He thought: it just proves that you can't turn a pacifist into a violent man overnight. You can pump him up with courage, but you can't make him think in terms of guns . . .

  It was a ridiculous thing to be running through his mind just then. Therefore, he stopped thinking about it and gave himself up to the ruby-colored darkness.

  When George Leland came back from a daydream about the farm and his father, he was sitting on the edge of Courtney's bed. He was caressing her face with one hand.

  Her body was as stiff as a plaster statue as she strained against her bonds. She was trying to say something behind the adhesive tape, and she had begun to weep.

  "It's okay," Leland said. "I took care of him. " She tossed back and forth, trying to shake off his hand.

  Leland looked at the pistol in his other hand, and he realized that he had only shot Doyle once. Maybe the sonofabitch was not dead.

  He ought to go back and make sure.

  But he did not want to leave Courtney. He wanted to touch her some more, maybe even make love to her. Feel her soft, warm skin gliding over the calloused pads of his fingers. Enjoy her. Enjoy being with her. The two of them together again . . . He spread his hands on her chest and pressed down with enough force to make her be still. He petted her face and sifted her golden hair through his fingers.

  For the moment he had all but forgotten Alex Doyle.

  He did not think of Colin at all.

  The boy heard the shot. It was muffled by the walls of the house, but it was instantly identifiable.

  He opened the door and jumped out of the car. He ran halfway down the drive, then stopped when he suddenly realized that he had nowhere to go.

  Downhill, the houses remained dark, as did those uphill. Apparently no one had been awakened by the shot.

  Okay. But he could still go wake them up and tell them what happened, couldn't he?

  Even as he considered that, he knew it was useless. He thought of the way Captain Ackridge had treated Alex. And while he knew that the neighbors would be friendly, he also knew that they would not believe him-at least not in time to help Alex and Courtney. An eleven-year-old boy? He would be humored, perhaps scolded. But never believed.

  He turned and ran back to the car, stopped at the open door and looked at the house. No one had come outside.

  Get on with it, he thought. Alex wouldn't hesitate. He went right in after Courtney, didn't he? You want to be an adult or a frightened child?

  He sat on the edge of the car seat and opened the glove compartment, took out the small pasteboard box. He lifted out the pistol and put it on the seat, fumbled for ammunition. In his eleven years he had never handled a gun before, but he thought the loading procedure looked pretty elementary. The safety was marked by tiny letters which he could just make out in the dim overhead light: SAFETY ON-OFF. He pushed it to OFF.

  Twenty-five Alex stared at the broken crates, shredded newspapers, and other garbage for a minute or two before he realized where he was and remembered what had happened. The madman, with a gun this time . . .

  "Courtney?" he asked softly.

  When he moved, he triggered the pain. It came in waves and made him feel old and weak. He had been hit high in the left shoulder blade, and he felt as if someone had liberally salted the wound.

  Missed the heart, at least, he thought. Must have missed everything vital. But that was o nly slightly comforting.

  He got one hand under himself and pushed up to his knees, dripping blood on the carp
et under him. The pain increased; the waves crashed through him with greater force and more speed.

  He kept expecting to hear another shot and to be knocked forward into the boxes and newspapers. But he climbed laboriously to his feet and turned around to find the doorway empty, the madman gone.

  Clutching his shoulder with his good hand, blood bubbling between his fingers, he started across the room. He was halfway to the hall door when he thought it would be a good idea to have some sort of weapon before he went looking for the man. But what? He turned around again and looked at the stack of junk, saw just what he needed. He went back and picked up a four-foot-long, three-inch-wide board from a broken wooden packing crate. Three long bent nails protruded from one side of it. It would do. Again he turned toward the doorway and crossed the room.

  Those eight steps seemed more like eight hundred. By the time he had taken them, he needed to stop and rest. His chest was tight, and his breath did not come easily. He leaned against the wall just inside the door, out of sight of anyone in the second-floor hallway.

  You've got to do better than this, he told himself, closing his eyes to block out the dizzying movement of the room. Even if you do find him, you won't be able to stop him from doing whatever he pleases to Courtney and Colin. You can't be this weak.

  It's shock. You were shot. You're bleeding. And you're suffering from shock. Anyone would be. But you have to overcome it soon, or you might as well sit down and bleed to death.

  Leland pulled the tape off her mouth and touched her bloodless lips. "It's all right now, Courtney. Doyle is dead. We don't have to worry about him. It's just you and me against everyone.

  She was unable to speak. She was no longer the golden girl, but was as pale as milk.

  "I'm going to let you up now," he said, smiling. "If you're good, that is. If you behave yourself, I'll untie your feet and hands-so that we can make love. Would you like that?" She shook her head no.

  "Sure you would. On the first level, toward the back of the house, a window broke and crashed across a bare floor.

  "It's the police," she said, not knowing for sure who it was, wanting to frighten him.