by Dean Koontz
“No, of course not.”
“I see.”
Marty sipped his Pepsi.
Under the table, Paige sought his hand again. He was grateful for the contact.
The new doodle was taking shape. A pair of handcuffs.
Lowbock said, “Are you a gun enthusiast, a collector?”
“No, not really.”
“But you have a lot of guns.”
“Not so many.”
Lowbock enumerated them on the fingers of one hand. “Well, the Smith and Wesson, the Korth—the Colt M16 assault rifle in the foyer closet.”
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Looking up from his hand, meeting Marty’s eyes with that cool, intense gaze, Lowbock said, “Were you aware the M16 was also loaded?”
“I’ve bought all the guns primarily for research, book research. I don’t like to write about a gun without having used it.” It was the truth, but even to Marty it sounded like flimflam.
“And you keep them loaded, tucked into drawers and closets all over the house?”
No safe answer occurred to Marty. If he said he knew the rifle was loaded, Lowbock would want to know why anyone would need to keep a military weapon in such a state of readiness in a peaceful, quiet residential neighborhood. An M16 was sure as hell not a suitable home-defense gun except, perhaps, if you lived in Beirut or Kuwait City or South Central Los Angeles. On the other hand, if he said that he hadn’t known the rifle was loaded, there would be more snide questions about his carelessness with guns and bolder insinuations that he was lying.
Besides, whatever he said might seem foolish or deceptive in the extreme if they had also found the Mossberg shotgun under the bed in the master bedroom or the Beretta that he had stashed in a kitchen cabinet.
Trying not to lose his temper, he said, “What do my guns have to do with what happened today? It seems to me we’ve gotten way off the track, Lieutenant.”
“Is that how it seems?” Lowbock asked, as if genuinely puzzled by Marty’s attitude.
“Yes, that’s how it seems,” Paige said sharply, obviously realizing she was in a better position than Marty to be harsh with the detective. “You make it seem as if Marty’s the one who broke into somebody’s home and tried to strangle them to death.”
Marty said, “Do you have men searching the neighborhood, have you put out an APB?”
“An APB?”
Marty was irritated by the detective’s intentional obtuseness. “An APB for The Other.”
Frowning, Lowbock said, “For the what?”
“For the look-alike, the other me.”
“Oh, yes, him.” That wasn’t actually an answer, but Lowbock went on with his agenda before Marty or Paige could insist on a more specific reply: “Is the Heckler and Koch another one of the weapons you purchased for research?”
“Heckler and Koch?”
“The P7. Fires nine-millimeter ammunition.”
“I don’t own a P7.”
“You don’t? Well, it was lying on the floor of your office upstairs.”
“That was his gun,” Marty said. “I told you he had a gun.”
“Did you know the barrel on that P7 is threaded for a silencer?”
“He had a gun, that’s all I knew. I didn’t take time to notice if it had a silencer. I didn’t exactly have the leisure to catalogue all its features.”
“Wasn’t a silencer on it, actually, but it’s threaded for one. Mr. Stillwater, did you know it’s illegal to equip a firearm with a silencer?”
“It’s not my gun, Lieutenant.”
Marty was beginning to wonder if he should refuse to answer any more questions without an attorney present. But that was crazy. He hadn’t done anything. He was innocent. He was the victim, for God’s sake. The police wouldn’t even have been there if he hadn’t told Paige to call them.
“A Heckler and Koch P7 threaded for a silencer—that’s very much a professional’s weapon, Mr. Stillwater. Hitman, assassin, whatever you want to call him. What would you call him?”
“What do you mean?” Marty asked.
“Well, I was wondering, if you were writing about such a man, a professional, what are the various terms you’d use to refer to him?”
Marty sensed an unspoken implication in the question, something that was getting close to the heart of whatever agenda Lowbock was promoting, but he was not quite sure what it was.
Apparently Paige sensed it, too, for she said, “Exactly what are you trying to say, Lieutenant?”
Frustratingly, Cyrus Lowbock edged away from confrontation again. In fact, he lowered his gaze to his notes and pretended as if there had been nothing more to his question than casual curiosity about a writer’s choice of synonyms. “Anyway, you’re very lucky that a professional like this, a man who would carry a P7 threaded for a silencer, wasn’t able to get the best of you.”
“I surprised him.”
“Evidently.”
“By having a gun in my desk drawer.”
“It always pays to be prepared,” Lowbock said. Then quickly: “But you were lucky to get the best of him in hand-to-hand combat, too. A professional like that would be a good close-in fighter, maybe even know Tae Kwon Do or something, like they always do in books and movies. ”
“He was slowed a little. Two shots in the chest.”
Nodding, the detective said, “Yes, that’s right, I remember. Ought to’ve brought down any ordinary man.”
“He was lively enough.” Marty tenderly touched his throat.
Changing subjects with a suddenness meant to be disconcerting, Lowbock said, “Mr. Stillwater, were you drinking this afternoon?”
Giving in to his anger, Marty said, “It can’t be explained away that easily, Lieutenant.”
“You weren’t drinking this afternoon?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“I don’t mean to be argumentative, Mr. Stillwater, really I don’t, but when we first met, I smelled alcohol on your breath. Beer, I believe. And there’s a can of Coors lying in the living room, beer spilled on the wood floor.”
“I drank some beer after.”
“After what?”
“After it was over. He was lying on the foyer floor with a broken back. At least I thought it was broken.”
“So you figured, after all that shooting and fighting, a cold beer was just the thing.”
Paige glared at the detective. “You’re trying so hard to make the whole business sound silly—”
“—and I wish to hell you’d just come right out and tell us why you don’t believe me,” Marty added.
“I don’t disbelieve you, Mr. Stillwater. I know this is all very frustrating, you feel put-upon, you’re still shaken up, tired. But I’m still absorbing, listening and absorbing. That’s what I do. It’s my job. And I really haven’t formed any theories or opinions yet.”
Marty was certain that was not the truth. Lowbock had carried with him a set of fully formed opinions when he’d first sat down at the dining-room table.
After draining the last of the Pepsi in the mug, Marty said, “I almost drank some milk, orange juice, but my throat was so sore, hurt like hell, as if it was on fire. I couldn’t swallow without agony. When I opened the refrigerator, the beer just looked a lot better than anything else, the most refreshing.”
With his Montblanc pen, Lowbock was again doodling on one corner of a page in his notebook. “So you only had that one can of Coors.”
“Not all of it. I drank half, maybe two-thirds. When my throat was feeling a little better, I went back to see how The Other . . . how the look-alike was doing. I was carrying the beer with me. I was so surprised to see the bastard gone, after he’d looked half dead, the can of Coors just sort of slipped out of my hand.”
Even though it was upside-down, Marty was able to see what the detective was drawing. A bottle. A long-necked beer bottle.
“So then half a can of Coors,” Lowbock said.
“That’s right.”
“Maybe two-thirds.”
“Yes.”
“But nothing more.”
“No.”
Finishing his doodle, Lowbock looked up from the notebook and said, “What about the three empty bottles of Corona in the trash can under the kitchen sink?”
3
“Rest area, this exit,” Drew Oslett read. Then he said to Clocker, “You see that sign?”
Clocker did not reply.
Returning his attention to the SATU screen in his lap, Oslett said, “That’s where he is, all right, maybe taking a leak in the men’s room, maybe even stretched out on the back seat of whatever car he’s driving, catching a few winks.”
They were about to go into action against an unpredictable and formidable adversary, but Clocker appeared unperturbed. Even though driving, he seemed to be lost in a meditative state. His bearlike body was as relaxed as that of a Tibetan monk in a transcendental swoon. His enormous hands rested on the steering wheel, the thick fingers only slightly curled, maintaining the minimum grip. Oslett wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the big man was steering the car mostly with some arcane power of the mind. Nothing in Clocker’s broad, blunt-featured face indicated that he knew what the word “tension” meant: pale brow as smooth as polished marble; cheeks unlined; sapphire-blue eyes softly radiant in the reflected light of the instrument panel, gazing into the distance, not merely at the road ahead but possibly beyond this world. His wide mouth was open just enough to accept a thin communion wafer. His lips were curved in the faintest of smiles, but it was impossible to know if he was pleased by something he was contemplating in a spiritual reverie or by the prospect of imminent violence.
Karl Clocker had a talent for violence.
For that reason, in spite of his taste in clothes, he was a man of his times.
“Here’s the rest area,” Oslett said as they neared the end of the access road.
“Where else would it be?” Clocker responded.
“Huh?”
“It is where it is.”
The big man wasn’t much of a talker, and when he did have something to say, half the time it was cryptic. Oslett suspected Clocker of being either a closet existentialist or—at the other end of the spectrum—a New Age mystic. Though the truth might be that he was so totally self-contained, he didn’t need much human contact or interaction; his own thoughts and observations adequately engaged and entertained him. One thing was certain: Clocker was not as stupid as he looked; in fact, he had an IQ well above average.
The rest-area parking lot was illuminated by eight tall sodium-vapor lamps. After so many grim miles of unrelieved darkness, which had begun to seem like the blasted black barrens of a post-nuclear landscape, Oslett’s spirits were lifted by the glow of the tall lamps, though it was a sickly urine-yellow reminiscent of the sour light in a bad dream. No one would ever mistake the place for any part of Manhattan, but it confirmed that civilization still existed.
A large motorhome was the only vehicle in sight. It was parked near the concrete-block building that housed the comfort stations.
“We’re right on top of him now.” Oslett switched off the SATU screen and placed the unit on the floor between his feet. Popping the suction cup off the windshield, dropping it on the electronic map, he said, “No doubt about it—our Alfie’s snug in that road hog. Probably ripped it off some poor schmuck, now he’s on the run with all the comforts of home.”
They drove past a grassy area with three picnic tables and parked about twenty feet away from the Road King, on the driver’s side.
No lights were on in the motorhome.
“No matter how far off the tracks Alfie’s gone,” Oslett said, “I still think he’ll respond well to us. We’re all he has, right? Without us, he’s alone in the world. Hell, we’re like his family.”
Clocker switched off the lights and the engine.
Oslett said, “Regardless of what condition he’s in, I don’t think he’d hurt us. Not old Alfie. Maybe he’d waste anyone else who got in his way but not us. What do you think?”
Getting out of the Chevy, Clocker plucked both his hat and his Colt .357 Magnum off the front seat.
Oslett took a flashlight and the tranquilizer gun. The bulky pistol had two barrels, over and under, each loaded with a fat hypodermic cartridge. It was designed for use in zoos and wasn’t accurate at more than fifty feet, which was good enough for Oslett’s purpose, since he wasn’t planning to go after any lions on the veldt.
Oslett was grateful that the rest area was not crowded with travelers. He hoped that he and Clocker could finish their business and get away before any cars or trucks pulled in from the highway.
On the other hand, when he got out of the Chevy and eased the door shut behind him, he was disturbed by the emptiness of the night. Except for the singing of tires and the air-cutting whoosh of passing traffic on the interstate, the silence was as oppressive as it must be in the vacuum of deep space. A copse of tall pines stood as backdrop to the entire rest area, and, in the windless darkness, their heavy boughs drooped like swags of funeral bunting.
He craved the hum and bustle of urban streets, where ceaseless activity offered continuous distractions. Commotion provided escape from contemplation. In the city, the flash-clatter-spin of daily life allowed his attention to be directed forever outward if he wished, sparing him the dangers inherent in self-examination.
Joining Clocker at the driver’s door of the Road King, Oslett considered making as stealthy an entrance as possible. But if Alfie was inside, as the SATU electronic map specifically indicated, he was probably already aware of their arrival.
Besides, on the deepest cognitive levels, Alfie was conditioned to respond to Drew Oslett with absolute obedience. It was almost inconceivable that he would attempt to harm him.
Almost.
They had also been certain that the chances of Alfie going AWOL were so small as to be nonexistent. They had been wrong about that. Time might prove them wrong about other things.
That was why Oslett had the tranquilizer gun.
And that was why he didn’t try to dissuade Clocker from bringing the .357 Magnum.
Steeling himself for the unexpected, Oslett knocked on the metal door. Knocking seemed a ludicrous way to announce himself under the circumstances, but he knocked anyway, waited several seconds, and knocked again, louder.
No one answered.
The door was unlocked. He opened it.
Enough yellow light from the parking-lot lamps filtered through the windshield to illuminate the cockpit of the motorhome. Oslett could see that no immediate threat loomed.
He stepped up onto the door sill, leaned in, and looked back through the Road King, which tunneled away into a swarming darkness as deep as the chambers of ancient catacombs.
“Be at peace, Alfie,” he said softly.
That spoken command should have resulted in an immediate ritual response, as in a litany: I am at peace, Father.
“Be at peace, Alfie,” Oslett repeated less hopefully.
Silence.
Although Oslett was neither Alfie’s father nor a man of the cloth, and therefore in no way could lay a legitimate claim to the honorific, his heart nevertheless would have been gladdened if he had heard the whispered and obedient reply: I am at peace, Father. Those five simple words, in an answering murmur, would have meant that all was essentially well, that Alfie’s deviation from his instructions was less a rebellion than a temporary confusion of purpose, and that the killing spree on which he had embarked was something that could be forgiven and put behind them.
Though he knew it was useless, Oslett tried a third time, speaking louder than before: “Be at peace, Alfie.”
When nothing in the darkness answered him, he switched on the flashlight and climbed into the Road King.
He couldn’t help but think what a waste and humiliation it would be if he got himself shot to death in a strange motorhome along an interstate in the O
klahoma vastness at the tender age of thirty-two. Such a bright young man of such singular promise (the mourners would say), with two degrees—one from Princeton, one from Harvard—and an enviable pedigree.
Moving out of the cockpit as Clocker entered behind him, Oslett swept the beam of the flashlight left and right. Shadows billowed and flapped like black capes, ebony wings, lost souls.
Only a few members of his family—fewer still among that circle of Manhattan artists, writers, and critics who were his friends—would know in what line of duty he had perished. The rest would find the details of his demise baffling, bizarre, possibly sordid, and they would gossip with the feverishness of birds tearing at carrion.
The flashlight revealed Formica-sheathed cabinets. A stove top. A stainless-steel sink.
The mystery surrounding his peculiar death would ensure that myths would grow like coral reefs, incorporating every color of scandal and vile supposition, but leaving his memory with precious little tint of respect. Respect was one of the few things that mattered to Drew Oslett. He had demanded respect since he was only a boy. It was his birthright, not merely a pleasing accoutrement of the family name but a tribute that must be paid to all of the family’s history and accomplishments embodied in him.
“Be at peace, Alfie,” he said nervously.
A hand, as white as marble and as solid-looking, had been waiting for the flashlight beam to find it. The alabaster fingers trailed on the carpet beside the padded booth of a dining nook. Higher up: the white-haired body of a man slumped over the bloodstained table.
4
Paige got up from the dining-room table, went to the nearest window, tilted the shutter slats to make wider gaps, and stared out at the gradually fading storm. She was looking into the backyard, where there were no lights. She could see nothing clearly except the tracks of rain on the other side of the glass, which seemed like gobs of spit, maybe because she wanted to spit at Lowbock, right in his face.
She had more hostility in her than did Marty, not just toward the detective but toward the world. All her adult life, she had been struggling to resolve the conflicts of childhood that were the source of her anger. She had made considerable progress. But in the face of provocation like this, she felt the resentments and bitterness of her childhood rising anew, and her directionless anger found a focus in Lowbock, making it difficult for her to keep her temper in check.
