Children of the Storm

by Dean Koontz

  "Then you've not been able to call the Doughertys?"

  "No," he said. "But I'm sending Bill Peterson to Guadeloupe to make the call and to bring back some island police officials. Our man has gotten suddenly bold, and I don't want to take any more chances; I don't want to give him even the slightest opening at the children."

  "Of course," Sonya said. And though she longed for the big, comfortable bed and a lengthy, deep sleep, she said, "What can I do to help, until the police get here?"

  "Nothing," Saine said.

  "I'm really feeling all right," she protested. "I probably look worse than I actually am."

  "I'll be with Alex and Tina," he said. "In their room, with the door locked and my revolver un-holstered. No one's going to get to them before we get some help here. I just wanted everyone in the house to know what's happened. And I wanted to recommend that you keep your door latched, as I see you already had done."

  She nodded, feeling slightly numb.

  She recalled, against her will, Lynda Spaulding's warnings, and she wondered when, on top of everything else that had gone wrong, they could expect the hurricane...

  "And one other thing," Saine said.

  "Yes?"

  He smiled thinly. "I wanted you to know that I no longer consider you much of a suspect, Sonya."

  "Unless I choked myself to throw you off the track," she said.

  He smiled more warmly. "I hope, however, that this admission on my part will not lead to a corresponding laxity in your attitude toward me."

  "It won't," she said. "I still suspect you."

  "Good."

  "I'm serious," she said.

  "I know you are. I urge you to continue to suspect me, to suspect everyone here. If we are all somewhat paranoid, we may survive this affair. Otherwise, we're sure to lose." He stepped back from the door. "I must go now. Remember to slide your latch in place."

  "I will."

  She closed the door and bolted it. Only when the bolt snicked into place did Rudolph Saine turn and walk heavily away, down the hall.

  In the space of a few hours, they had gone from a state of uneasy anticipation to a stage of seige.

  BOOK THREE

  * * *

  THIRTEEN

  The man was upset by the need to improvise. After all, he had spent a great deal of time, long nights lying awake, planning it all out in detail, such perfect detail, not a single factor overlooked: how long he would wait, biding his time until the family had been lulled into a false sense of security; when to strike; how to gain entrance to the children's locked room without alerting them or anyone else; how to kill both of them without letting them cry out for help; what sort of alibi would be iron clad, satisfactory to both the island police and the family... His plan, indeed, was like a gleaming, well-oiled machine which he tended to with profound dedication; all that it wanted was the flip of a single switch, and it would run so smoothly, like a Swiss watch, soundlessly, efficiently, a plan to end all plans, a plan to end two small lives... But now he was improvising, because he felt that his plan had become suddenly inadequate, that events on Distingue had taken away the usefulness of his marvelous plan and demanded, instead of carefully thought-out strategy, flexibility, freshness of mind, quick and accurate insight into all new developments, and even quicker action.

  With the Doughertys gone, the time seemed most ripe. There were two less watchful antagonists to deal with now. And if he could kill the children while they were away, frolicking in California, he would not only ruin their lives, but laden them with an unbearable pack of guilt: they would never be able to forget that, while they were in California having fun, their children were destroyed in a most unmerciful manner...

  Improvise...

  He was now forced to improvise, because he had been careless in the gardens and had stumbled right into the girl. She had thrown him off his time table, she sure had. Now everyone knew that he was on the island, and he could not afford to hesitate any longer. Fortunately, he had smashed the radio earlier in the day, but now there were other things to attend to, other precautions he must make. Improvisations...

  He should have killed the girl.

  He hated himself for his failure.

  He should have used the knife instead of his hands.

  The knife would have been surer.

  Somehow, he had panicked, and he had let her get away.

  Had he only followed her far enough, he would have found her lying unconscious in the middle of the path, and he could have killed her with ease then. She deserved it for what she'd done to his foot. Thank God that she hadn't drawn blood and that he was still able to walk without limping. A limp would have ruined him, marked him at the start.

  He paced back and forth in his room, keeping his foot limber, stopping now and again to look at his reflection in the mirror.

  He thought he was a handsome man.

  He spoke to his reflection, too. He said, "Jeremy, you're just right for the part of the avenging angel. You've got a righteous jawline, a look of strength about you, of tremendous competence."

  Jeremy was not his real name. Sometimes, he forgot this. He had been talking to the nonexistent Jeremy for years now and, at times, he felt that he was Jeremy and no one else.

  He liked being Jeremy.

  Jeremy was colorful and daring.

  And composed.

  Jeremy was afraid of nothing.

  Jeremy had the courage to strike out at those who deserved to suffer, had the tremendous, admirable strength of character required for him to act as both judge and jury, to mete out the proper punishment, no matter how severe it had to be. He had a knack for seeing, at a glance, who had led a life that was far too easy; he had a talent for picking those who simply must have their lives balanced by some pain. God had meant everyone to live through some pain, even the rich. Jeremy could act as God's instrument. He could put people in their place, he sure could, real fast.

  And he would.

  Soon.

  Maybe tonight yet.

  "Jeremy," he told the mirror, "this is a big night for you. Tonight, you're going to make fools of everyone. You're going to make fools of Saine and Peterson and Mills and Dalton and everyone else in this house. Not to mention Kenneth Blenwell, or the vacationing Doughertys, who're going to look like even bigger fools..."

  He chuckled to himself.

  He was happy.

  He was a child on Christmas morning, with a single gift to give: death. He would give them death, just punishment, pain.

  He stood before the mirror a moment longer, talking to himself, to his. Jeremy-self. As before, when he named those he would make fools of, he included his own, real name in the list. After all, when he was Jeremy, he was not his real self; he hated his real self as much as he hated nearly everyone else on Distingue. He was only Jeremy now, no one else. When Jeremy mentioned the killer's real name, real self, he spoke of another individual, someone else altogether. And when the murders were committed, and when Jeremy faded out, relinquished control of the mind, when the real man and real identity returned, the real man would never understand that he had killed with his own hands.

  Basically, though neither the Jeremy-self or the real self would understand this, he was not an evil person. He was simply schizophrenic, completely and totally insane.

  * * *

  FOURTEEN

  Despite her injuries, and despite the immediate danger which hung over Seawatch like a black cloud, Sonya managed to fall asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. She slept soundly, dreamlessly, and she woke shortly before nine o'clock Monday morning, stiff and sore but decidedly better than she had been when she crawled between the sheets the night before. She had felt as if she were a hundred years old, then; now, overnight, she had lost seventy-five years, anyway, and was almost her old self. Her headache was gone, and her eyes no longer felt red and grainy. Her throat was less swollen than it had been, but it was still quite sore, a condition which she knew she would have to endu
re for a few days yet.

  Her drapes were drawn tightly shut, still, and they prevented all but a few tiny streams of sunlight from entering the gloomy chamber. She lay there in the shadows, staring at the ceiling, wanting to think out her situation before she got up to face another day.

  The big question in her mind, now, was whether or not she should remain as the Dougherty governess and tutor...

  Originally, she had taken the position, because it had seemed like a fun thing, working for a millionaire, living in a mansion on a private island in the Caribbean... She had always gone out of her way to avoid bad scenes, depression, sadness... And she had been sure that here on Distingue, she would meet only happy people, people who were on top of the world, who knew how best to enjoy everything life had to offer, who had little or no reason to be gloomy. She had expected much laughter, many interesting friendships, perhaps a few parties, for diversion, of the sort you read about on the society pages of all the better, metropolitan newspapers.

  Actually, she had expected almost anything but what she had found when she arrived on Distingue.

  Of course, once this horrible business about the children was over and done with, perhaps they would be much happier and more pleasant to know than they now were. Everyone was under tremendous pressure over this affair, waiting for the worst and praying for the best, passing time like cattle under the swaying blade of an automatic executioner. When that pressure was removed, they might be-

  No, she thought, things would not be so much better, even if the present crisis passed. Even if they caught the would-be killer and packed him off to some remote prison or asylum, there would still be a lot of negativism on the island: Henry Dalton and his grumpiness; Leroy Mills' strange, quiet, almost secretive ways that made her think he was always planning to do something of which he was utterly ashamed; the Blenwells at the far end of the island, hating everyone else, talking about killing the parrots, sitting in their dark drawing room like creatures who would ash and rot if they came into contact with direct sunlight...

  No, already there were too many bad memories associated with this island, memories that would haunt her if she remained. It was best to go.

  They'd be disappointed with her, at first.

  But they'd understand.

  She would write out her resignation that afternoon and give it to Joe Dougherty when he and Helen arrived back from California this evening.

  Then she'd be free.

  After all, they'd realize that no one wanted to live around a place full of bad memories, full of the stink of death and the threat of death. It was always better to get out, go elsewhere, slough off the bad past. You couldn't be happy if you didn't slough off the bad things that happened, stick them away in a corner of your mind, forget them, let dust cover them. Anyone could see that.

  Her decision firmly made and justified, at least to herself, she let her mind wander over the people on Distingue who might fit a murderer's shoes. She found that she suspected almost everyone, from Mills to Henry Dalton, to Saine and Peterson. They all had the opportunity, she supposed, to commit such a crime, though she could see no motivation. Even a madman, it seemed to her, would need some motivation, no matter how inconsequential it was, some spark to set him off. And that made Kenneth Blenwell the chief suspect, of course; he wanted Seawatch and all of Distingue. She let her mind wander through the memory of her first meeting with Kenneth and his grandparents, and she became convinced she was right. She would have to speak with Rudolph about it, convince him to be more serious about the possibility of Blenwell's guilt.

  At last, her mind began to return to the same thoughts, as if in a circle, and she knew it was time to get up.

  She showered, dressed, brushed her yellow hair until it shone, then went downstairs for breakfast, shortly past ten o'clock.

  In the small dining room just off the kitchen,

  Rudolph Saine sat before a large plate of bacon and eggs, keeping a watch over Alex and Tina, who were working diligently at stacks of pancakes that were smothered under blueberry syrup. Both kids had bright purple stains around their mouths and purpled fingers, but they had somehow managed not to spot the white tablecloth.

  Sonya said, "They must be good. Either that, or you've just heard that food will be outlawed as of tomorrow."

  Tina giggled and wiped at her mouth.

  Alex swallowed a mouthful of pancakes in a loud gulp, then said, "Hey, Sonya! Did you know someone wrecked Lady Jane?'

  His eyes were fever bright, his voice quick and excited.

  She frowned. "Wrecked it?"

  "Chopped a hole in her," Tina explained.

  "Right in the bottom," Alex said. "She sank."

  "You can still see her," Tina said. "But she's mostly sunk."

  "Same thing happened to the neighbor's two boats," Alex said, chattering like a magpie. "Someone chopped holes in 'em."

  "Sunk 'em," Tina said.

  "Whoa, there," Sonya said. "You two are going too fast for me. I can't keep up with you."

  She looked at Saine.

  He didn't look happy.

  "Is this true?" she asked.

  "Too true."

  She went to the kitchen door, opened it, saw Helga working on a pie crust at the central table. "When you have time, Helga, would you get me some coffee and maybe a couple of sweet rolls?"

  "Sure, right away," Helga said.

  "Take your time."

  Sonya closed the door and went back to the table, sat down across from Saine. "Is it very bad?"

  "Last night," the big man said, "I told you that Bill was going to boat over to Guadeloupe and get the police. Well, he didn't make it. Someone opened the sea cocks and scuttled the Lady Jane."

  "Scuttled?"

  "Sank her, flooded her hold." He forked eggs into his mouth, chewed and swallowed them. "She was down with her keel on the ocean floor and her pilot's cabin barely above the waterline."

  "A hole chopped in her too?"

  "No, that's Alex being melodramatic."

  "Being what?" Alex asked.

  Saine smiled. "Eat your pancakes before you wither up from lack of nourishment."

  Sonya said, "Couldn't the hold be pumped out?"

  "Bill was going to do just that-until he found out that the electric pump was smashed."

  "A hand pump, then-"

  "He's working on that," Saine said. "But it'll take two days of steady work to empty out those hundreds of gallons with a hand pump. Anything could happen in a couple of days, anything at all."

  Bess brought Sonya's coffee and rolls. "You're looking better this morning," she told Sonya.

  "Feeling better, too."

  Bess gingerly touched Sonya's bruised neck. "Hurt bad?"

  "Not much. Not so long as I don't turn it too suddenly."

  "The best thing for that is an onion salve."

  "Oh?" Sonya said.

  "I make it myself," Bess explained.

  "I've never heard of that."

  "It's the best thing for strained muscles which is, after all, about what you have. Strained muscles. The only difference is, in your case, someone else strained them for you."

  "Onion salve," Sonya repeated. "I think I'll forgo the pleasure."

  "I'll make some anyway," Bess said. "You may change your mind. It really works. Draws the pain right out."

  "How?" Rudolph asked, smiling at her. "Does the stink make the patient forget about the pain?"

  "Doubting Thomas," Bess said. "You see if it doesn't work." She turned to Sonya. "It'll take about an hour or so."

  "Really-" Sonya said.

  Bess touched her shoulder to stop her. "You'll thank me afterwards," she said. Then she returned to the kitchen.

  "Some woman," Rudolph said.

  Alex said, "She used onion salve on Tina once."

  "I smelled bad," Tina said.

  "For days," Alex said.

  "Like a liver dinner," Tina said.

  Sonya laughed out loud, as delighted by the childre
n's good spirits in the face of their predicament as she was by the little girl's sense of humor.

  The children returned to their pancakes.

  To Saine, Sonya said, "What's this about the Blenwells' boats?"

  "Both scuttled," Saine said. "Their cabin cruiser was hit the same way as Lady Jane. And Ken's catamaran had a hole chopped in the bottom. Three holes, in fact. Bill went down to borrow one of their boats last night, and that's when the damage was found."

  He had stopped eating, even though he had more than half his breakfast on his plate.

  Sonya wished she could look away from him and talk only with the kids, for they were, in their innocence, still fun to be with. Saine, on the other hand, was going to depress her even further.

  "So how did you get word to Joe and Helen about what's going on here?" she asked.

  She had not touched her food yet, and now she realized that she hadn't really wanted it.

  "We were going to use the Blenwells' radiotelephone," Saine said. "But it was damaged, just like ours."

  Sonya felt dizzy.

  Saine said, "They keep it on the ground floor, in the back of the house, in a rather isolated room. It was easy enough for someone to pry open a window, slip in and do the job."

  "That wouldn't be necessary if the man who did the job already lived in Hawk House," Sonya observed.

  "You believe Ken Blenwell would isolate himself along with us, chop up his own boat, scuttle the other?"

  "I forgot," she said. "You and Ken are good friends, aren't you? And you're reluctant to finger a good friend."

  Saine colored. "I wouldn't say we're good friends."

  "Kenneth Blenwell said it."

  "Oh?"

  "He respects you quite a bit. I don't remember his exact words, but he implied that he liked you, and that the feeling is mutual."

  "It is," Saine admitted. "He's a very levelheaded man, a good man."

  "Who wants to kill the parrots."