by Dean Koontz
He puts aside the silver-framed portrait and withdraws a few of these novels from the shelves, surprised to see that some of the dust-jacket illustrations are familiar because the original paintings are hanging on the gallery wall that so fascinated him. Each title appears in a variety of translations: French, German, Italian, Dutch, Swedish, Danish, Japanese, and several other languages.
But nothing is as interesting as the author’s photo on the back of each jacket. He studies them for a long time, tracing Stillwater’s features with one finger.
Intrigued, he peruses the copy on the jacket flaps. Then he reads the first page of a book, the first page of another, and another.
He happens upon a dedication page in the front of one book and reads what is printed there: This opus is for my mother and father, Jim and Alice Stillwater, who taught me to be an honest man—and who can’t be blamed if I am able to think like a criminal.
His mother and father. He stares in astonishment at their names. He has no memory of them, cannot picture their faces or recall where they might live.
He returns to the desk to consult the Rolodex. He discovers Jim and Alice Stillwater in Mammoth Lakes, California. The street address means nothing to him, and he wonders if it is the house in which he grew up.
He must love his parents. He dedicated a book to them. Yet they are ciphers to him. So much has been lost.
He returns to the bookshelves. Opening the U.S. or British edition of every title in the collection to study the dedication, he eventually finds: To Paige, my perfect wife, on whom all of my best female characters are based—excluding, of course, the homicidal psychopaths.
And two volumes later: To my daughters, Charlotte and Emily, with the hope they will read this book one day when they are grown up and will know that the daddy in this story speaks my own heart when he talks with such conviction and emotion about his feelings for his own little girls.
Putting the books aside, he picks up the photograph once more and holds it in both hands with something like reverence.
The attractive blonde is surely Paige. A perfect wife. The two girls are Charlotte and Emily, although he has no way of knowing which is which. They look sweet and obedient.
Paige, Charlotte, Emily.
At last he has found his life. This is where he belongs. This is home. The future begins now.
Paige, Charlotte, Emily.
This is the family toward which destiny has led him.
“I need to be Marty Stillwater,” he says, and he is thrilled to have found, at last, his own warm place in this cold and lonely world.
Two
1
Dr. Paul Guthridge’s office suite had three examination rooms. Over the years, Marty had been in all of them. They were identical to one another, indistinguishable from rooms in doctors’ offices from Maine to Texas: pale-blue walls, stainless-steel fixtures, otherwise white-on-white; scrub sink, stool, an eye chart. The place had no more charm than a morgue—though a better smell.
Marty sat on the edge of a padded examination table that was protected by a continuous roll of paper sheeting. He was shirtless, and the room was cool. Though he was still wearing his pants, he felt naked, vulnerable. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself having a catatonic seizure, being unable to talk or move or even blink, whereupon the physician would mistake him for dead, strip him naked, wire an ID tag to his big toe, tape his eyelids shut, and ship him off to the coroner for processing.
Although it earned him a living, a suspense writer’s imagination made him more aware of the constant proximity of death than were most people. Every dog was a potential rabies carrier. Every strange van passing through the neighborhood was driven by a sexual psychopath who would kidnap and murder any child left unattended for more than three seconds. Every can of soup in the pantry was botulism waiting to happen.
He was not particularly afraid of doctors—though he was not comforted by them, either.
What troubled him was the whole idea of medical science, not because he distrusted it but because, irrationally, its very existence was a reminder that life was tenuous, death inescapable. He didn’t need reminders. He already possessed an acute awareness of mortality, and spent his life trying to cope with it.
Determined not to sound like an hysteric while describing his symptoms to Guthridge, Marty recounted the odd experiences of the past three days in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. He tried to use clinical rather than emotional terms, beginning with the seven-minute fugue in his office and ending with the abrupt panic attack he had suffered as he had been leaving the house to drive to the doctor’s office.
Guthridge was an excellent internist—in part because he was a good listener—although he didn’t look the role. At forty-five, he appeared ten years younger than his age, and he had a boyish manner. Today he wore tennis shoes, chinos, and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. In the summer, he favored colorful Hawaiian shirts. On those rare occasions when he wore a traditional white smock over slacks, shirt, and tie, he claimed to be “playing doctor” or “on strict probation from the American Medical Association’s dress-code committee,” or “suddenly overwhelmed by the godlike responsibilities of my office.”
Paige thought Guthridge was an exceptional physician, and the girls regarded him with the special affection usually reserved for a favorite uncle.
Marty liked him too.
He suspected the doctor’s eccentricities were not calculated entirely to amuse patients and put them at ease. Like Marty, Guthridge seemed morally offended by the very fact of death. As a younger man, perhaps he’d been drawn to medicine because he saw the physician as a knight battling dragons incarnated as illnesses and diseases. Young knights believe that noble intentions, skill, and faith will prevail over evil. Older knights know better—and sometimes use humor as a weapon to stave off bitterness and despair. Guthridge’s quips and Mickey Mouse sweatshirts might relax his patients, but they were also his armor against the hard realities of life and death.
“Panic attack? You, of all people, suffering a panic attack?” Paul Guthridge asked doubtfully.
Marty said, “Hyperventilating, heart pounding, felt like I was going to explode—sounds like a panic attack to me.”
“Sounds like sex.”
Marty smiled. “Trust me, it wasn’t sex.”
“You could be right,” Guthridge said with a sigh. “It’s been so long, I’m not sure what sex was like exactly. Believe me, Marty, this is a bad decade to be a bachelor, so many really nasty diseases out there. You meet a new girl, date her, give her a chaste kiss when you take her home—and then wait to see if your lips are going to rot and fall off.”
“That’s a swell image.”
“Vivid, huh? Maybe I should’ve been a writer.” He began to examine Marty’s left eye with an ophthalmoscope. “Have you been having unusually intense headaches? ”
“One headache over the weekend. But nothing unusual.”
“Repeated spells of dizziness?”
“No.”
“Temporary blindness, noticeable narrowing of peripheral vision?”
“Nothing like that.”
Turning his attention to Marty’s right eye, Guthridge said, “As for being a writer—other doctors have done it, you know. Michael Crichton, Robin Cook, Somerset Maugham—”
“Seuss.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. Next time I have to give you an injection, I might use a horse syringe.”
“It always feels like you do anyway. I’ll tell you something, being a writer isn’t half as romantic as people think.”
“At least you don’t have to handle urine samples,” Guthridge said, setting aside the ophthalmoscope.
With squiggly ghost images of the instrument light still dancing in his eyes, Marty said, “When a writer’s first starting out, a lot of editors and agents and movie producers treat him as if he is a urine sample.”
“Yeah, but now you’re a celebrity,” Guthridge said, plugging his stethoscope ear tips in place.
/> “Far from it,” Marty objected.
Guthridge pressed the icy steel of the stethoscope diaphragm against Marty’s chest. “Okay, breathe deeply . . . hold . . . breathe out . . . and again.” After listening to Marty’s lungs as well as his heart, the doctor put the stethoscope aside. “Hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Strange smells?”
“No.”
“Things taste the way they should? I mean, you haven’t been eating ice cream and it suddenly tasted bitter or oniony, nothing like that?”
“Nothing like that.”
As he wrapped the pressure cuff of a sphygmomanometer around Marty’s arm, Guthridge said, “Well, all I know is, to get into People magazine, you’ve got to be a celebrity of one kind or another—rock singer, actor, smarmy politician, murderer, or maybe the guy with the world’s largest collection of ear wax. So if you think you aren’t a celebrity author, then I want to know who you’ve killed and exactly how much damn ear wax you own.”
“How’d you know about People?”
“We subscribe for the waiting room.” He pumped air into the cuff until it was tight, then read the falling mercury on the gauge before he continued: “The latest copy was in this morning’s mail. My receptionist showed it to me, really amused. She said you were the least likely Mr. Murder she could imagine.”
Confused, Marty said, “Mr. Murder?”
“You haven’t seen the piece?” Guthridge asked as he pulled off the pressure cuff, punctuating his question with the ugly sound of a Velcro seal tearing open.
“Not yet, no. They don’t show it to you in advance. You mean, in the article, they call me Mr. Murder?”
“Well, it’s sort of cute.”
“Cute?” Marty winced. “I wonder if Philip Roth would think it was cute to be ‘Mr. Litterateur’ or Terry McMillan ‘Ms. Black Saga.’ ”
“You know what they say—all publicity is good publicity. ”
“That was Nixon’s first reaction to Watergate, wasn’t it?”
“We actually take two subscriptions to People. I’ll give you one of our copies when you leave.” Guthridge grinned impishly. “You know, until I saw the magazine, I never realized what a really scary guy you are.”
Marty groaned. “I was afraid of this.”
“It’s not bad really. Knowing you, I suspect you’ll find it a little embarrassing. But it won’t kill you.”
“What is going to kill me, Doc?”
Frowning, Guthridge said, “Based on this exam, I’d say old age. From all outward signs, you’re in good shape.”
“The key word is ‘outward,’ ” Marty said.
“Right. I’d like you to have some tests. It’ll be on an out-patient basis at Hoag Hospital.”
“I’m ready,” Marty said grimly, though he was not ready at all.
“Oh, not today. They won’t have an opening until at least tomorrow, probably Wednesday.”
“What’re you looking for with these tests?”
“Brain tumors, lesions. Severe blood chemistry imbalances. Or maybe a shift in the position of the pineal gland, putting pressure on surrounding brain tissue—which could cause symptoms similar to some of yours. Other things. But don’t worry about it because I’m pretty sure we’re going to draw a blank. Most likely, your problem is simply stress.”
“That’s what Paige said.”
“See? You could’ve saved my fee.”
“Be straight with me, Doc.”
“I am being straight.”
“I don’t mind saying this scares me.”
Guthridge nodded sympathetically. “Of course it does. But listen, I’ve seen symptoms far more bizarre and severe than yours—and it turns out to be stress.”
“Psychological.”
“Yes, but nothing long-term. You aren’t going mad, either, if that’s what you’re worried about. Try to relax, Marty. We’ll know where we stand by the end of the week.” When he needed it, Guthridge could call upon a demeanor as reassuring—and a bedside manner as soothing—as that of any gray-haired medical eminence in a three-piece suit. He slipped Marty’s shirt from one of the clothes hooks on the back of the door and handed it to him. The faint gleam in his eye betrayed another shift in mood: “Now, when I book time at the hospital, what patient name should I give to them? Martin Stillwater or Martin Murder?”
2
He explores his home. He is eager to learn about his new family.
Because he is most intrigued by the thought of himself as a father, he begins in the girls’ bedroom. For a while he stands just inside the door, studying the two distinctly different sides of the room.
He wonders which of his young daughters is the effervescent one who decorates her walls with posters of dazzlingly colorful hot-air balloons and leaping dancers, who keeps a gerbil and other pets in wire cages and glass terrariums. He still holds the photograph of his wife and children, but the smiling faces in it reveal nothing of their personalities.
The second daughter is apparently contemplative, favoring quiet landscapes on her walls. Her bed is neatly made, the pillows plumped just-so. Her storybooks are shelved in orderly fashion, and her corner desk is free of clutter.
When he slides open the mirrored closet door, he finds a similar division in the hanging clothes. Those to the left are arranged both according to the type of garment and color. Those to the right are in no particular order, askew on the hangers, and jammed against one another in a way that virtually assures wrinkling.
Because the smaller jeans and dresses are on the left side of the closet, he can be sure that the neat and contemplative girl is the younger of the two. He raises the photograph and stares at her. The pixie. So cute. He still does not know whether she is Charlotte or Emily.
He goes to the desk in the older daughter’s side of the room and stares down at the clutter: magazines, schoolbooks, one yellow hair ribbon, a butterfly barrette, a few scattered sticks of Black Jack chewing gum, colored pencils, a tangled pair of pink kneesocks, an empty Coke can, coins, and a Game Boy.
He opens one of the textbooks, then another. Both of them have the same name penciled in front: Charlotte Stillwater.
The older and less disciplined girl is Charlotte. The younger girl who keeps her belongings neat is Emily.
Again, he looks at their faces in the photograph.
Charlotte is pretty, and her smile is sweet. However, if he is going to have trouble with either of his children, it will be with this one.
He will not tolerate disorder in his house. Everything must be perfect. Neat and clean and happy.
In lonely hotel rooms in strange cities, awake in the darkness, he has ached with need and has not understood what would satisfy his longing. Now he knows that being Martin Stillwater—father to these children, husband to this wife—is the destiny that will fill the terrible void and at last bring him contentment. He is grateful to whatever power has led him here, and he is determined to fulfill his responsibilities to his wife, his children, and society. He wants an ideal family like those he has seen in certain favorite movies, wants to be kind like Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life and wise like Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird and revered like both of them, and he will do whatever is necessary to ensure a loving, harmonious, and orderly home.
He has seen The Bad Seed, too, and he knows that some children can destroy a home and all hope of harmony because they are seething with the potential for evil. Charlotte’s slovenly habits and strange menagerie strongly indicate that she is capable of disobedience and possibly violence.
When snakes appear in movies, they are always symbols of evil, dangerous to the innocent; therefore, the snake in the terrarium is chilling proof of this child’s corruption and her need for guidance. She keeps other reptiles as well, a couple of rodents, and an ugly black beetle in a glass jar—all of which the movies have taught him to associate with the powers of darkness.
He studies the photograph again, marveling at how innocent Charlotte
looks.
But remember the girl in The Bad Seed. She appeared to be an angel yet was thoroughly evil.
Being Martin Stillwater may not prove as easy as he had first thought. Charlotte might be a real handful.
Fortunately, he has seen Lean on Me in which Morgan Freeman is a high school principal bringing order to a school overwhelmed by anarchy, and he has seen The Principal starring Jim Belushi, so he knows that even bad kids really want discipline. They will respond properly if adults have the guts to insist upon rules of behavior.
If Charlotte is disobedient and stubborn, he will punish her until she learns to be a good little girl. He will not fail her. At first she will hate him for denying her privileges, for confining her to her room, for hurting her if that becomes necessary, but in time she will see that he has her best interests at heart, and she will learn to love him and understand how wise he is.
In fact he can visualize the triumphant moment when, after so much struggle, her rehabilitation is ensured. Her realization that she has been wrong and that he has been a good father will culminate in a touching scene. They will both cry. She will throw herself in his arms, remorseful and ashamed. He will hug her very tightly and tell her it’s all right, all right, don’t cry. She will say, “Oh, Daddy,” in a tremulous voice, and cling fiercely to him, and thereafter everything will be perfect between them.
He yearns for that sweet triumph. He can even hear the soaring and emotional music that will accompany it.
He turns away from Charlotte’s side of the room, goes to his younger daughter’s neat bed.
Emily. The pixie. She will never give him any trouble. She is the good daughter.
He will hold her on his lap and read to her from storybooks. He will take her to the zoo, and her little hand will be lost in his. He will buy her popcorn at the movies, and they will sit side by side in the darkness, laughing at the latest Disney animated feature.
Her big dark eyes will adore him.
Sweet Emily. Dear Emily.
