City of Night

by Dean Koontz

  After the theater, she explored the music room, the reception lounge, the formal living room, the informal living room, the jewel box of a breakfast room, the trophy room, the billiards room, the indoor pool with surrounding mosaic-tile deck, and came at last to the library.

  The sight of all those books made her uneasy, for she knew that books were corrupting, perhaps evil. They had been the death of Erika Four, who had absorbed dangerous knowledge from them.

  Nevertheless, Erika had to familiarize herself with the library because there would be social evenings when Victor would invite his important Old Race guests—mostly powerful politicians and business leaders—to repair to the library for cognac and other after-dinner drinks. As hostess, she would need to feel comfortable here in spite of the dreadful books.

  As she walked through the library, she dared to touch a book now and then to accustom herself to the sinister feel of them. She even took one off a shelf and examined it, her two hearts racing.

  In the event that a guest some evening said, Erika, darling, would you hand me that book with the lovely binding, I’d like to have a look at it, she must be prepared to present the volume as casually as a snake-handler of long experience would pick up any serpent.

  Christine had suggested that Erika browse the several shelves of psychology texts and bone up on sexual sadism. She couldn’t, however, bring herself to actually open a book.

  As she moved across the big room, sliding her hand along the underside of a shelf, enjoying the satiny feel of the exquisitely finished wood, she discovered a hidden switch. She had flicked it before she quite realized what she had done.

  A section of shelves proved to be a hidden door, which swung open on pivot hinges. Beyond lay a secret passageway.

  In the tank, she had not been informed of the existence of this concealed door or of what lay beyond it. But she’d not been forbidden to explore, either.

  CHAPTER 31

  AFTER SWITCHING ON the kitchen lights, prior to preparing dinner, Vicky Chou washed her hands at the sink, and discovered that the soiled towel needed to be replaced. She blotted her hands on it anyway before fetching a clean towel from a drawer.

  She crossed to the laundry-room door and pushed it open. Without turning on the lights, she tossed the soiled towel into the clothes basket.

  Detecting a faint moldy scent, she made a mental note to inspect the room for mildew first thing in the morning. Poorly ventilated spaces like this required special diligence in the humid climate of the bayou.

  She put two plastic place mats on the dinette table. She set out flatware for herself and Arnie.

  The urgency with which Carson had left the house, after sleeping through the morning, suggested she would not be home for dinner.

  Arnie’s plate was different from Vicky’s: larger, rectangular instead of round, and divided into four compartments. He didn’t like different foods to be touching one another.

  He couldn’t tolerate orange and green items on the same plate. Although he would cut meat and other foods himself, he insisted that sliced tomatoes be cut into bite-size chunks for him.

  “Squishy,” he would say, grimacing in disgust when confronted with a piece of tomato that needed a knife. “Squishy, squishy.”

  Many other autistics had more rules than did Arnie. Because the boy spoke so little, Vicky knew him more by his eccentricities than by his words, and tended to find them more endearing than frustrating.

  In an effort to socialize Arnie whenever possible, she insisted as best she could that he eat his meals with her, and always with his sister when Carson was home. Sometimes Vicky’s insistence didn’t move him, and she had to allow him to eat in his room, near his Lego-block castle.

  When the table was set, she opened the freezer to get a box of Tater Tots—and discovered that the chocolate mint ice cream had not been put away properly. The lid was half off; a spoon had been left in the container.

  Arnie had never done anything like this before. Usually he waited for food to be placed before him; he rarely served himself. He had an appetite but not much of an active interest in when and what he ate.

  On those occasions when he raided the pantry or refrigerator, Arnie was neat. He never left spills or crumbs.

  The boy’s high standards of culinary hygiene bordered on the obsessive. He would never take a taste of anything from another person’s plate, not even from his sister’s, nor from any fork or spoon but his own.

  Vicky could not imagine that he would eat from a container. And if he had done so in the past without her knowledge, he had never before left his spoon behind.

  She was inclined to think that Carson had indulged a sudden craving just before hurriedly leaving the house.

  When Vicky took a closer look, however, she discovered that the ice cream on the surface was soft and glistening with melt. The container had been out of the freezer for a while—and had been put away only a few minutes ago.

  She closed the lid as it should have been, shut the freezer door, and took the spoon to the sink, where she rinsed it.

  Putting the spoon in the dishwasher, she called, “Arnie? Where are you, sweetie?”

  The back door was double locked, as she had left it, but she was nevertheless worried. The boy had never before wandered out of the house, but neither had he ever previously left a spoon in an ice-cream container.

  From the kitchen, she followed a short hall to the living room. The blinds and curtains indulged shadows. She switched on a lamp.

  “Arnie? Are you downstairs, Arnie?”

  The house boasted nothing as grand as a foyer, only an entry alcove at one end of the living room. The front door, too, remained double locked.

  Sometimes, when Carson was on a demanding case and Arnie was missing his sister, the boy liked to sit quietly in the armchair in her room, among her things.

  He was not there now.

  Vicky went upstairs and was relieved to find him safely in his room. He did not react to her entrance.

  “Honey,” she said, “you shouldn’t eat ice cream so close to dinnertime.”

  Arnie did not reply, but clicked a Lego block into place in the castle ramparts, which he was modifying.

  Considering the severe limitations with which the boy lived, Vicky was reluctant to scold him. She didn’t press the issue of the ice cream, but instead said, “I should have dinner ready in forty-five minutes. It’s one of your favorites. Will you come downstairs then?”

  As his only answer, Arnie glanced toward the digital clock on his nightstand.

  “Good. We’ll have a nice dinner together, and afterward I’ll read you a few more chapters of Podkayne of Mars, if you’d like.”

  “Heinlein,” the boy said softly, almost reverently, naming the author of the novel.

  “That’s right. When we left poor Podkayne, she was in a lot of trouble.”

  “Heinlein,” Arnie repeated, and then continued to work on the castle.

  Downstairs again, following the hallway to the kitchen, Vicky pushed shut the coat-closet door, which was ajar.

  She had reached the kitchen threshold when she realized that in the hall she detected the same moldy scent that she had smelled in the laundry room. She turned, looked back the way she had come, and sniffed.

  Although the house stood on pilings, the air circulating under the structure did not prevent colonies of fungi, mostly molds, from scheming to invade these elevated rooms. They flourished in the damp dark crawl space. The concrete pilings drew water from the ground by osmosis, and the molds crept up those damp surfaces, spooring their way toward the house.

  In the morning, she would definitely do a thorough inspection of every shadowy corner in the ground-floor closets, armed with the finest mold-killer known to man.

  As a teenager, Vicky had read a story by O. Henry that left her forever with a phobia about molds. In a rooming house, in the moist heat and darkness behind an old-fashioned radiator, a bloodstained and filthy rag, colonized by mold, had somehow
come to life, an eager but stupid kind of life, and one night, in a quiet slithering ameboid fashion, had gone in search of other life when the lamp was turned off, smothering the roomer in his sleep.

  Vicky Chou didn’t quite see herself as Sigourney Weaver in Aliens or as Linda Hamilton in The Terminator, but she was grimly determined to do battle with any mold that threatened her turf. In this unending war, she would entertain no exit strategy; the only acceptable outcome of each battle was total victory.

  In the kitchen once more, she got the box of Tater Tots out of the freezer. She sprayed a baking sheet with Pam and spread the Tots on it.

  She and Arnie would have dinner together. Then Podkayne of Mars. He liked to have her read to him, and she enjoyed story time as much as he did. They felt like family. This would be a nice evening.

  CHAPTER 32

  DEUCALION HAD SPENT the afternoon walking from church to church, from cathedral to synagogue, but nowhere between, taking advantage of his special understanding of time and space to step from nave to nave, from a place of Catholics to a place of Protestants, to another place of Catholics, through the many neighborhoods and faiths of the city, from sanctuary to narthex, to sacristy. He also intruded secretly into rectories and parsonages and pastoriums, observing clergymen at their work, seeking one that he felt sure belonged to the New Race.

  A few of these men of the cloth—and one woman—raised his suspicions. If they were monsters to an extent greater than even he himself was, they hid it well. They were masters of the masquerade, in private as well as in public.

  Because of their positions, they would of course be among the best that Victor produced, his Alphas, exceptionally intelligent and cunning.

  In Our Lady of Sorrows, the priest seemed wrong. Deucalion could not put his finger on the reason for his suspicion. Intuition, beyond mere knowledge and reason, told him that Father Patrick Duchaine was not a child of God.

  The priest was about sixty, with white hair and a sweet face, a perfect clone, perhaps, of a real priest now rotting in an unmarked grave.

  Mostly singles, only a few pairs, primarily older than young, fewer than two dozen parishioners had gathered for vespers. With the service not yet begun, they sat in silence and did not disturb the hush of the church.

  On one side of the nave, the stained-glass windows blazed in the hot light of the westering sun. Colorful geometric patterns were projected on the worshipers, the pews.

  Our Lady of Sorrows opened her confessionals each morning before Mass and on those evenings, as now, when vespers were celebrated.

  Staying to the shadowy aisle on the east side of the nave, out of the stained-glass dazzle, Deucalion approached a confessional, closed the door, and knelt.

  When the priest slid open the privacy panel that covered the screen between them, and invited confession, Deucalion said softly, “Does your god live in Heaven, Father Duchaine, or in the Garden District?”

  The priest was silent for a moment, but then said, “That sounds like the question of a particularly troubled man.”

  “Not a man, Father. More than a man. And less than a man. Like you, I think.”

  After a hesitation, the priest said, “Why have you come here?”

  “To help you.”

  “Why should I need help?”

  “You suffer.”

  “This world is a vale of tears for all of us.”

  “We can change that.”

  “Changing it isn’t within our power. We can only endure.”

  “You preach hope, Father. But you have no hope yourself.”

  The priest’s silence damned and identified him.

  Deucalion said, “How difficult it must be for you to assure others that God will have mercy on their immortal souls, knowing as you do that even if God exists, you have no soul upon which He might bestow His grace, and everlasting life.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “A private conversation. Consideration. Discretion.”

  After a hesitation, Father Duchaine said, “Come to the rectory following the service.”

  “I’ll be waiting in your kitchen. What I bring you, priest, is the hope you do not think will ever be yours. You need only have the courage to believe it, and grasp it.”

  CHAPTER 33

  CARSON PARKED THE CAR on the shoulder of the service road, and they carried the suitcases through a stand of Southern pines, up a slight sunny incline, into a grove of well-crowned live oaks. Beyond the oaks lay a vast expanse of grass.

  Twice the size of New York’s Central Park, City Park served a population only a fraction as large as that of Manhattan. Within its reaches, therefore, were lonely places, especially in the last ruddy hours of a fast-condensing summer afternoon.

  Across the sweep of the meadow, not one person was walking or communing with nature, or playing with a dog, or throwing a Frisbee, or disposing of a corpse.

  Putting down his suitcase, Michael pointed to a grassy spot ten feet beyond the oaks. “That’s where we found the accountant’s head, propped against that rock. That’s sure one you never forget.”

  “If Hallmark made a remembrance card suitable for the occasion,” Carson said, “I would send you one each year.”

  “I was impressed by the cocky angle at which he wore his cowboy hat,” Michael recalled, “especially considering his circumstances.”

  “Wasn’t it their first date?” Carson asked.

  “Right. They went to a costume party together. That’s why he was wearing a midnight-blue leather cowboy outfit with rhinestones.”

  “His boots had mother-of-pearl inlays.”

  “They were fine, those boots. I’ll bet he looked really cool with his body and head together, but of course we never got to see the full effect.”

  “Did we ever know the killer’s costume?” she asked as she knelt in the crisp dead oak leaves to open her suitcase.

  “I think he went as a bullfighter.”

  “He cut off the cowboy’s head with an ax. A bullfighter doesn’t carry an ax.”

  “Yeah, but he always kept an ax in the trunk of his car,” he reminded her.

  “Probably next to the first-aid kit. How wrong can a first date go that it ends in a beheading?”

  Opening the suitcase that contained the shotguns, Michael said, “The problem is everybody has unrealistically high expectations for a first date. Inevitably, they’re disappointed.”

  While Michael checked out the Urban Sniper shotguns and fitted each of them with a three-way sling, Carson worked the slide on each pistol and inserted a cartridge in the breach.

  Except for the small noises that she and Michael made, a cathedral quiet filled the grove, and mantled the meadow beyond.

  She loaded the nine-round magazines of the two Desert Eagle Magnums with .50-caliber Action Express cartridges.

  “Before we blast our way into his place,” she said, “we have to be sure Helios is home. We’ll only have one chance to surprise him.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking the same thing. We need to huddle with Deucalion on this one. He might have an idea.”

  “You think Arnie’s in any danger?” Carson worried.

  “No. We’re the threat to Helios, not Arnie. And he’s not going to try to silence you by grabbing your brother. He’ll figure it’s easier just to waste us.”

  “I hope that’s right,” she said. “It gives me some comfort.”

  “Yeah, nothing makes my day like being the primary target of an archfiend.”

  “Look at this—Godot threw in two holsters for the Eagles, no charge.”

  “What style?”

  “Belt scabbards.”

  “Custom to the piece?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Gimme. That monster would feel awkward in a shoulder rig.”

  “You gonna hip-carry the Eagle out of here?” she asked.

  “It’s not that easy to reach in a suitcase, is it? If Helios has people—or whatever they are—looking for us, we m
ay need these monster-stoppers long before we go to his house.”

  While Michael loaded the shotguns, Carson loaded four spare magazines for the .50 Magnums.

  They belted on the custom scabbards and sheathed the Eagles. Both chose the left hip for a cross-body, under-the-jacket draw.

  At the right hip, each of them carried a pouch containing two spare magazines for the Eagle and eight spare rounds for the Urban Sniper.

  Their sport jackets provided acceptable concealment; but this new weight was going to feel awkward for a while.

  They closed the suitcases and slung the shotguns over their right shoulders—stocks up, muzzles down. They picked up the two nearly empty cases and retraced their route through the grove of oaks.

  When they had descended two thirds of the open slope between the oaks and the Southern pines, they put down the suitcases and faced back the way they had just come.

  “Gotta get the feel of the beast,” Carson said.

  “One pop with each, and then out of here before park security comes looking.”

  The sloping earth before them would both stop the bullets from traveling and prevent ricochets.

  They took two-hand grips on their Eagles and squeezed off shots all but simultaneously. The reports were loud, war-zone loud.

  Gouts of earth and grass marked the impact, as if two invisible and furious golfers had clubbed divots from the turf.

  Carson felt the recoil knock all the way back to her shoulder sockets; but she had kept the muzzle down.

  “Loud enough for you?” Michael asked.

  “You ain’t heard nothing yet,” she said, holstering the Eagle.

  They swung up their shoulder-slung shotguns, and the twin blasts were thunderclaps that shivered the air and seemed even to vibrate in the ground beneath their feet.

  “Feel good?” he asked.

  “Felt sweet.”

  “A slug like that would take off a man’s leg.”

  “Maybe not one of their legs.”

  “Whatever it does to them, it won’t leave them smiling. Better move on.”