by Dean Koontz
Though the day is increasingly dreary, he drives with the sun visor down. He is wearing a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead and a fleece-lined varsity jacket that belong to the young man who actually delivers for Murchison’s Flowers. Masked by the sun visor and the cap, he will be unidentifiable to anyone observing him behind the wheel.
He pulls to the curb and parks directly behind the recreational van in which he suspects a stakeout team is ensconced. He gets out of his own vehicle and walks quickly to the back of it, giving them no time to observe him.
It has a single rear door. The hinges need lubrication; they squeak.
The dead deliveryman is lying on his back on the floor of the cargo hold. His hands are folded on his chest, and he is surrounded by flowers, as if he is already embalmed and available for viewing by mourners.
From a plastic bag beside the cadaver, he removes the ice axe that he purchased from an extensive display of climbing gear in the sporting-goods store. The one-piece steel tool has a rubber grip around the handle. One head on the business end is the shape and the size of a tack hammer, while the other head is wickedly pointed. He tucks the handle under the waistband of his jeans.
From the same plastic bag he removes an aerosol can of deicing chemical. If sprayed on existing ice, it will melt through in swift order. If applied to car glass, locks, and windshield wipers prior to a freeze, it is guaranteed to prevent an ice build-up. At least that is what the label promises. He doesn’t really care whether it works for its intended purpose or not.
He removes the cap from this pressurized can, exposing the nozzle. There are two settings: SPRAY and STREAM. He sets it on STREAM, then slips it into one pocket of his varsity jacket.
Between the legs of the corpse is a huge arrangement of roses, carnations, delicate baby’s breath, and ferns in a celadon container. He slides it out of the van and, holding it in both hands, pushes the door shut with one shoulder.
Carrying the arrangement in an entirely natural fashion that nonetheless shields his face from the observers in the red van, he walks to the door of the house in front of which both vehicles are parked. The flowers are not meant for anyone at this address. He hopes no one is home. If someone answers the door, he will pretend to discover that he has the wrong house, so he can return to the street with the arrangement still held in front of him.
He is in luck. No one responds to the doorbell. He rings it several times and, through body language, exhibits impatience.
He turns away from the door. He follows the front walk to the street.
Looking through the spray of flowers and greenery that he holds in front of himself, he sees this side of the red van also sports two mirrored windows on the rear compartment. Considering how deserted and quiet the street is, he knows they are watching him, for want of anything better to do.
That’s okay. He’s just a florist’s frustrated deliveryman. They will see no reason to fear him. Better that they watch him, dismiss him, and turn their attention again to the white clapboard house.
He angles past the side of the surveillance vehicle. However, instead of following the cracked and hoved sidewalk to the back of the florist’s van, he steps off the curb in front of it and behind the red “fun truck.”
There is a smaller mirrored porthole in the back door of the surveillance vehicle, and in case they are still watching, he fakes an accident. He stumbles, lets the arrangement slip out of his hands, and sputters in anger as it smashes to ruin on the blacktop. “Oh, shit! Son of a bitch. Nice, real nice. Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
Even as the expletives are flying from him, he’s dropping below the rear porthole and pulling the can of deicing chemical out of his jacket pocket. With his left hand, he grasps the door handle.
If the door is locked, he will have revealed his intentions by the attempt to open it. Failing, he will be in deep trouble because they will probably have guns.
They have no reason to expect an attack, however, and he assumes the door will be unlocked. He assumes correctly. The lever handle moves smoothly.
He does not check to see if anyone has come out on the street and is watching him. Looking over his shoulder would only make him appear more suspicious.
He jerks the door open. Clambering up into the comparatively dark interior of the van, before he is sure anyone’s inside, he jams his index finger down on the nozzle of the aerosol can, sweeping it back and forth.
A lot of electronic equipment fills the vehicle. Dimly lit control boards. Two swivel chairs bolted to the floor. Two men on the surveillance team.
The nearest man appears to have gotten out of his chair and turned to the rear door a split second ago, intending to look through the porthole. He is startled as it flies open.
The thick stream of deicing chemical splashes across his face, blinding him. He inhales it, burning his throat, lungs. His breath is choked off before he can cry out.
Blur of motion now. Like a machine. Programmed. In high gear.
Ice axe. Freed from his waistband. Smooth, powerful arc. Swung with great force. To the right temple. A crunch. The guy drops hard. Jerk the weapon loose.
Second man. Second chair. Wearing earphones. Sitting at a bank of equipment behind the cab, his back to the door. Headset muffles his partner’s wheezing. Senses commotion. Feels the van rock when first operative goes down. Swivels around. Surprised, reaching too late for gun in shoulder holster. Makeshift Mace showers his face.
Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
First man on the floor, spasming helplessly. Step on him, over him, keep moving, moving, a blur, straight at the second man.
Axe. Again. Axe. Axe.
Silence. Stillness.
The body on the floor is no longer spasming.
That went nicely. No screams, no shouts, no gunfire.
He knows he is a hero, and the hero always wins. Nevertheless, it’s a relief when triumph is achieved rather than just anticipated.
He is more relaxed than he has been all day.
Returning to the rear door, he leans out and looks around the street. No one is in sight. Everything is quiet.
He pulls the door shut, drops the ice axe on the floor, and regards the dead men with gratitude. He feels so close to them because of what they have shared. “Thank you,” he says tenderly.
He searches both bodies. Although they have identification in their wallets, he assumes it’s phony. He finds nothing of interest except seventy-six dollars in cash, which he takes.
A quick examination of the van turns up no files, notebooks, memo pads, or other papers that might identify the organization that owns the vehicle. They run a tight, clean operation.
A shoulder holster and revolver hang from the back of the chair in which the first operative had been sitting. It’s a Smith & Wesson .38 Chief’s Special.
He strips out of his varsity jacket, puts on the holster over his cranberry sweater, adjusts it until he is comfortable, and dons the jacket once more. He draws the revolver and breaks open the cylinder. Case heads gleam. Fully loaded. He snaps the cylinder shut and holsters the weapon again.
The dead man on the floor has a leather pouch on his belt. It contains two speedloaders.
He takes this and affixes it to his own belt, which gives him more ammunition than he should need merely to deal with the false father. However, his faceless superiors seem to have caught up with him, and he cannot guess what troubles he may encounter before he has regained his name, his family, and the life stolen from him.
The second dead man, slumped in his chair, chin on his chest, never managed to draw the gun he was reaching for. It remains in the holster.
He removes it. Another Chief’s Special. Because of the short barrel, it fits in the relatively roomy pocket of the varsity jacket.
Acutely aware that he is running out of time, he leaves the van and closes the door behind him.
The first snowflakes of the storm spiral out of the northwest sky on a chill breeze.
They are few in number, at first, but large and lacy.
As he crosses the street toward the white clapboard house with green shutters, he sticks out his tongue to catch some of the flakes. He probably had done the same thing when, as a boy living on this street, he had delighted in the first snow of the season.
He has no memories of snowmen, snowball battles with other kids, or sledding. Though he must have done those things, they have been expunged along with so much else, and he has been denied the sweet joy of nostalgic recollection.
A flagstone walkway traverses the winter-brown front lawn.
He climbs three steps and crosses the deep porch.
At the door, he is paralyzed by fear. His past lies on the other side of this threshold. The future as well. Since his sudden self-awareness and desperate break for freedom, he has come so far. This may be the most important moment of his campaign for justice. The turning point. Parents can be staunch allies in times of trouble. Their faith. Their trust. Their undying love. He is afraid he will do something, on the brink of success, to alienate them and destroy his chances for regaining his life. So much is at stake if he dares to ring the bell.
Daunted, he turns to look at the street and is enchanted by the scene, for snow is falling much faster than when he approached the house. The flakes are still huge and fluffy, millions of them, whirling in the mild northwest wind. They are so intensely white that they seem luminous, each lacy crystalline form filled with a soft inner light, and the day is no longer dreary. The world is so silent and serene—two qualities rare in his experience—that it no longer seems quite real, either, as if he has been transported by some magic spell into one of those glass globes that contain a diorama of a quaint winter scene and that will fill with an eternal flaky torrent as long as it is periodically shaken.
That fantasy is appealing. A part of him yearns for the stasis of a world under glass, a benign prison, timeless and unchanging, at peace, clean, without fear and struggle, without loss, where the heart is never troubled.
Beautiful, beautiful, the falling snow, whitening the sky before the land below, an effervescence in the air. It’s so lovely, touches him so profoundly, that tears brim in his eyes.
He is keenly sensitive. Sometimes the most mundane experiences are so poignant. Sensitivity can be a curse in an abrasive world.
Summoning all his courage, he turns again to the house. He rings the bell, waits only a few seconds, and rings it again.
His mother opens the door.
He has no memory of her, but he knows intuitively that this is the woman who gave him life. Her face is slightly plump, relatively unlined for her age, and the very essence of kindness. His features are an echo of hers. She has the same shade of blue eyes that he sees when he looks into a mirror, though her eyes seem, to him, to be windows on a soul far purer than his own.
“Marty!” she says with surprise and a quick warm smile, opening her arms to him.
Touched by her instant acceptance, he crosses the threshold, into her embrace, and holds fast to her as if to let go would be to drown.
“Honey, what is it? What’s wrong?” she asks.
Only then does he realize that he is sobbing. He is so moved by her love, so grateful to have found a place where he belongs and is welcome, that he cannot control his emotions.
He presses his face into her white hair, which smells faintly of shampoo. She seems so warm, warmer than other people, and he wonders if that is how a mother always feels.
She calls to his father: “Jim! Jim, come here quick!”
He tries to speak, tries to tell her that he loves her, but his voice breaks before he can form a single word.
Then his father appears in the hallway, hurrying toward them.
Distorting tears can’t prevent his recognition of his dad. They resemble each other to a greater extent than do he and his mother.
“Marty, son, what’s happened?”
He trades one embrace for the other, inexpressibly thankful for his father’s open arms, lonely no more, living now in a world under glass, appreciated and loved, loved.
“Where’s Paige?” his mother asks, looking through the open door into the snow-filled day. “Where are the girls?”
“We were having lunch at the diner,” his father says, “and Janey Torreson said you were on the news, something about you shot someone but maybe it’s a hoax. Didn’t make any sense.”
He is still choked with emotion, unable to reply.
His father says, “We tried to call you as soon as we walked in the door, but we got the answering machine, so I left a message.”
Again his mother asks about Paige, Charlotte, Emily.
He must gain control of himself because the false father might arrive at any minute. “Mom, Dad, we’re in bad trouble,” he tells them. “You’ve got to help us, please, my God, you’ve got to help.”
His mother closes the door on the cold December air, and they lead him into the living room, one on each side of him, surrounding him with their love, touching him, their faces filled with concern and compassion. He is home. He is finally home.
He does not remember the living room any more than he remembers his mother, his father, or the snows of his youth. The pegged-oak floor is more than half covered by a Persian-style carpet in shades of peach and green. The furniture is upholstered in a teal fabric, and visible wood is a dark red-brown cherry. On the mantel, flanked by a pair of vases on which are depicted Chinese temple scenes, a clock ticks solemnly.
As she leads him to the sofa, his mother says, “Honey, whose jacket are you wearing?”
“Mine,” he says.
“But that’s the new style varsity jacket.”
“Are Paige and the kids all right?” Dad asks.
“Yes, they’re okay, they haven’t been hurt,” he says.
Fingering the jacket, his mother says, “The school only adopted this style two years ago.”
“It’s mine,” he repeats. He takes off the baseball cap before she can notice that it is slightly too large for him.
On one wall is an arrangement of photographs of him, Paige, Charlotte, and Emily at different ages. He averts his eyes from that gallery, for it affects him too deeply and threatens to wring more tears from him.
He must recover and maintain control of his emotions in order to convey the essentials of this complex and mysterious situation to his parents. The three of them have little time to devise a plan of action before the imposter arrives.
His mother sits beside him on the sofa. She holds his right hand in both of hers, squeezing gently, encouragingly.
To his left, his father perches on the edge of an armchair, leaning forward, attentive, frowning with worry.
He has so much to tell them and does not know where to begin. He hesitates. For a moment he is afraid he’ll never find the right first word, fall mute, oppressed by a psychological block even worse than the one that afflicted him when he sat at the computer in his office and attempted to write the first sentence of a new novel.
When he suddenly begins to talk, however, the words gush from him as storm waters might explode through a bursting barricade. “A man, there’s a man, he looks like me, exactly like me, even I can’t see any difference, and he’s stolen my life. Paige and the girls think he’s me, but he’s not me, I don’t know who he is or how he fools Paige. He took my memories, left me with nothing, and I just don’t know how, don’t know how, how he managed to steal so much from me and leave me so empty.”
His father appears startled, and well might he be startled by these terrifying revelations. But there’s something wrong with Dad’s startlement, some subtle quality that eludes definition.
Mom’s hands tighten on his right hand in a way that seems more reflexive than conscious. He dares not look at her.
He hurries on, aware that they are confused, eager to make them understand. “Talks like me, moves and stands like me, seems to be me, so I’ve thought hard about it, trying to understand who he could
be, where he could’ve come from, and I keep going back to the same explanation, even if it seems incredible, but it must be like in the movies, you know, like with Kevin McCarthy, or Donald Sutherland in the remake, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, something not human, not of this world, something that can imitate us perfectly and bleed away our memories, become us, except somehow he failed to kill me and get rid of my body after he took what was in my mind.”
Breathless, he pauses.
For a moment, neither of his parents speak.
A look passes between them. He does not like that look. He does not like it at all.
“Marty,” Dad says, “maybe you better go back to the beginning, slow down, tell us exactly what’s happened, step by step.”
“I’m trying to tell you,” he says exasperatedly. “I know it’s incredible, hard to believe, but I am telling you, Dad.”
“I want to help you, Marty. I want to believe. So just calm down, tell me everything from the beginning, give me a chance to understand.”
“We don’t have much time. Don’t you understand? Paige and the girls are coming here with this . . . this creature, this inhuman thing. I’ve got to get them away from it. With your help I’ve got to kill it somehow and get my family back before it’s too late.”
His mother is pale, biting her lip. Her eyes blur with nascent tears. Her hands have closed so tightly over his that she is almost hurting him. He dares to hope that she grasps the urgency and dire nature of the threat.
He says, “It’ll be all right, Mom. Somehow we’ll handle it. Together, we have a chance.”
He glances at the front windows. He expects to see the BMW arriving in the snowy street, pulling into the driveway. Not yet. They still have time, perhaps only minutes, seconds, but time.
Dad clears his throat and says, “Marty, I don’t know what’s happening here—”
“I told you what’s happening!” he shouts. “Damn it, Dad, you don’t know what I’ve been going through.” Tears well up again, and he struggles to repress them. “I’ve been in such pain, I’ve been so afraid, for as long as I can remember, so afraid and alone and trying to understand.”
