From the Corner of His Eye

by Dean Koontz

  option. Muscle rehabilitation had been ineffective.

  The sleeves of the pajama top were pushed up, revealing more of the disease’s vicious work. The muscles of her useless left arm had atrophied; the once graceful hand curled in upon itself, as though holding an invisible object, perhaps the hope she never abandoned.

  Because she’d enjoyed some limited use of her right arm, it was less wasted than her left, although not normal. Paul pulled down that sleeve of her pajamas.

  He gently drew the covers over his wife’s ruined body, to her thin shoulders, but arranged her right arm on top of the blankets. He straightened and smoothed the folded-back flap of the top sheet.

  The disease hadn’t corrupted her heart, and it had left her face untouched, as well. Lovely, she was, as she had always been.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and held her right hand. She had passed away such a short time ago that her skin was still warm.

  Without a word, Joshua Nunn and the paramedic retreated to the foyer. The parlor doors slid shut.

  So many years together and yet such a short time…

  Paul couldn’t remember when he began to love her. Not at first sight. But before she contracted polio. Love came gradually, and by the time it flowered, its roots were deep.

  He could recall clearly when he had known that he would marry her: during his first year of college, when he’d returned home for the Christmas break. Away at school, he had missed her every day, and the moment that he saw her again, an abiding tension left him, and he felt at peace for the first time in months.

  She lived with her parents then. They had converted the dining room to a bedroom for her.

  When Paul arrived with a Christmas gift, Perri was abed, wearing Chinese-red pajamas, reading Jane Austen. A clever contraption of leather straps, pulleys, and counterweights assisted her in moving her right arm more fluidly than would otherwise have been possible. A lap stand held the book, but she could turn the pages.

  He spent the afternoon with her and stayed for dinner. He ate at her bedside, feeding both himself and her, balancing the progress of his meal with hers, so they finished together. He’d never fed her before, yet he wasn’t awkward with her, or she with him, and later what he remembered of dinner was the conversation, not the logistics.

  The following April, when he proposed to her, she wouldn’t have him. “You’re sweet, Paul, but I can’t let you throw your life away on me. You’re this…this beautiful ship that will sail a long way, to fascinating places, and I’d only be your anchor.”

  “A ship without an anchor can never be at rest,” he answered. “It’s at the mercy of the sea.”

  She protested that her ruined body had neither any comforts to offer a man nor the strength to be a bride.

  “Your mind is as fascinating as ever,” he said. “Your soul as beautiful. Listen, Per, since we were thirteen, I was never primarily interested in your body. You flatter yourself shamelessly if you think it was all that special even before the polio.”

  Frankness and tough talk pleased her, because too many people dealt with her as though her spirit were as frail as her limbs. She laughed with delight—but still refused him.

  Ten months later, he finally wore her down. She accepted his proposal, and they set a date for the wedding.

  Through tears, that night, she asked him if the commitment he was making didn’t frighten him.

  In truth, he was terrified. Although his need for her company was so profound that it seemed to arise from his marrow, a part of him marveled—and trembled—at his dedicated pursuit of her.

  Yet that evening, when she’d accepted his proposal and asked if he wasn’t frightened, he said, “Not anymore.”

  The terror he hid from her vanished with the recital of their vows. He knew from their first kiss as husband and wife that this was his destiny. What a great adventure they’d had together these past twenty-three years, one that Doc Savage might have envied.

  Caring for her, in every sense of that word, had made him a far happier man than he would otherwise have been—and a far better one.

  And now she didn’t need him anymore. He gazed at her face, held her cooling hand; his anchor was slipping away from him, leaving him adrift.

  Chapter 48

  FOLLOWING A SECOND NIGHT at the Sleepie Tyme Inne, waking at dawn, Junior felt rested, refreshed—and in control of his bowels.

  He didn’t quite know what to make of the recent unpleasantness.

  Symptoms of food poisoning usually appear within two hours of dining. The hideous intestinal spasms had rocked him at least six hours after he’d eaten. Besides, if the culprit were food poisoning, he would have vomited; but he hadn’t felt any urge to spew.

  He suspected the blame lay with his exceptional sensitivity to violence, death, and loss. Previously it manifested as an explosive emptying of the stomach, this time as a purging of lower realms.

  Tuesday morning, while he showered with a swimming cockroach that was as exuberant as a golden retriever in the motel’s lukewarm water, Junior vowed never to kill again. Except in self-defense.

  He had sworn this vow before. An argument could be made that he had broken it.

  Unquestionably, if he hadn’t killed Vanadium, the maniac cop would have blown him away. That was clearly an act of self-defense.

  Only a dishonest or delusional man, however, could justify Victoria’s killing as self-defense. To a degree, he’d been motivated by anger and passion, and Junior was forthright enough to admit this.

  As Zedd taught, in this world where dishonesty is the currency of social acceptance and financial success, you must practice some deceit to get along in life, but you must never lie to yourself, or you are left with no one to trust.

  This time, he vowed never to kill again, except in self-defense, regardless of the provocation. This tougher condition pleased him. No one achieved significant self-improvement by setting low standards for himself.

  When he slid aside the shower curtain and got out of the bath, he left the cockroach basking in the wet tub, alive and untouched.

  Before leaving the motel, Junior quickly scanned four thousand more names in the phone book, seeking Bartholomew. The previous day, confined to this room, he’d sought his enemy through twelve thousand listings. Cumulatively, forty thousand had been searched.

  On the road again, with no luggage other than the boxed works of Caesar Zedd, Junior drove south toward San Francisco. He was excited by the prospect of city life.

  His years in sleepy Spruce Hills had been rich with romance, a happy marriage, and financial success. But that small town was lacking in intellectual stimulation. To be fully alive, he must experience not merely physical pleasures aplenty, not only a satisfying emotional life, but a life of the mind, as well.

  He chose a route that brought him through Marin County and across the Golden Gate Bridge. The metropolis, which he had never before visited, rose in splendor on hills above the sparkling bay.

  For one glorious hour, he followed an impetuous, random route through the city, marveling at the architecture, the stunning vistas, the thrilling plunge of the steeper streets. Soon Junior was as drunk on San Francisco as ever he had been on wine.

  Here, intellectual pursuits and prospects for self-improvement were unlimited. Great museums, art galleries, universities, concert halls, bookstores, libraries, the Mount Hamilton observatory…

  Less than a year ago, at a cutting-edge establishment in this very city, the first topless dancers in the United States appeared onstage. Now this compelling art form was practiced in many major cities, which had followed San Francisco’s avant-garde daring, and Junior was eager to enlighten himself by attending such a performance right here where the dance innovation of the century had been born.

  By three o’clock, he checked into a famous hotel on Nob Hill. His room offered a panoramic view.

  In a fashionable men’s shop off the lobby, he purchased several changes of clothes to replace what had been sto
len. Alterations were completed and everything was delivered to his room by six o’clock.

  By seven, he was savoring a cocktail in the hotel’s elegant lounge. A tuxedoed pianist played romantic music with high style.

  Several beautiful women, in the company of other men, flirted surreptitiously with Junior. He was accustomed to being an object of desire. This night, however, the only lady he cared about was San Francisco herself, and he wanted to be alone with her.

  Dinner was available in the lounge. Junior enjoyed a superb filet mignon with a split of fine Cabernet Sauvignon.

  The only bad moment in the evening came when the pianist played “Someone to Watch over Me.”

  In his mind, Junior saw a quarter turning knuckle over knuckle, and he heard the maniac cop’s droning voice: There’s a fine George and Ira Gershwin song called “Someone to Watch over Me.” You ever hear it, Enoch? I’m that someone for you, although not, of course, in a romantic sense.

  Junior had almost fumbled his fork when he recognized the tune. His heart raced. His hands were suddenly clammy.

  From time to time, customers had crossed the cocktail lounge to drop folding money into a fishbowl atop the piano, tips for the musician. A few had requested favorite tunes.

  Junior hadn’t paid attention to everyone who visited the pianist—though surely he’d have noticed a certain stump in a cheap suit.

  The lunatic lawman was not at any of the tables. Junior was sure of that, because indulging his appreciation for lovely women, he had roamed the room repeatedly with his gaze.

  He hadn’t paid close attention to those patrons seated at the bar behind him. Now, he turned in his chair to study them.

  One manly woman. Several womanly men. But no blocky figure that could have been the crazed cop even in disguise.

  Slow deep breaths. Slow. Deep. A sip of wine.

  Vanadium was dead. Pounded with pewter and sunk in a flooded quarry. Gone forever.

  The detective wasn’t the only person in the world who liked “Someone to Watch over Me.” Anyone in the lounge might have requested it. Or maybe this number was part of the pianist’s usual repertoire.

  After the song concluded, Junior felt better. His heartbeat soon returned to normal. The damp palms of his hands grew dry.

  By the time he ordered crème brûlée for dessert, he was able to laugh at himself. Had he expected to see a ghost enjoying a cocktail and free cashews at the bar?

  Chapter 49

  WEDNESDAY, fully two days after delivering honey-raisin pear pies with Agnes, Edom worked up the nerve to visit Jacob.

  Although their apartments were above the garage, back to back, each was served by a separate exterior staircase. As often as either man entered the other’s domain, they might as well have lived hundreds of miles apart.

  When together in Agnes’s company, Edom and Jacob were brothers, comfortable with each other. But together, just the two, no Agnes, they were more awkward than strangers, because strangers had no shared history to overcome.

  Edom knocked, Jacob answered.

  Jacob backed away from the threshold, Edom stepped inside.

  They stood not quite facing each other. The apartment door remained open.

  Edom felt uneasy in this kingdom of a strange god. The god that his brother feared was humanity, its dark compulsions, its arrogance. Edom, on the other hand, trembled before Nature, whose wrath was so great that one day she would destroy all things, when the universe collapsed into a superdense nugget of matter the size of a pea.

  To Edom, humanity was obviously not the greater of these two destructive forces. Men and women were part of nature, not above it, and their evil was, therefore, just one more example of nature’s malignant intent. They had stopped debating this issue years ago, however, neither man conceding any credibility to the other’s dogma.

  Succinctly, Edom told Jacob about visiting Obadiah, the magician with the mangled hands. Then: “When we left, I followed Agnes, and Obadiah held me back to say, ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’”

  “What secret?” Jacob asked, frowning at Edom’s shoes.

  “I was hoping you might know,” said Edom, studying the collar of Jacob’s green flannel shirt.

  “How would I know?”

  “It occurred to me that he might have thought I was you.”

  “Why would he think that?” Jacob frowned at Edom’s shirt pocket.

  “We do look somewhat alike,” Edom said, shifting his attention to Jacob’s left ear.

  “We’re identical twins, but I’m not you, am I?”

  “That’s obvious to us, but not always to others. Apparently, this would have been some years ago.”

  “What would have been some years ago?”

  “When you met Obadiah.”

  “Did he say I’d met him?” Jacob asked, squinting past Edom toward the bright sunlight at the open door.

  “As I explained, he might have thought I was you,” Edom said, staring at the neatly ordered volumes on the nearby bookshelves.

  “Is he addled or something?”

  “No, he’s got all his wits.”

  “Supposing he’s senile, wouldn’t he possibly think you were his long-lost brother or someone?”

  “He’s not senile.”

  “If you ranted at him about earthquakes, tornadoes, erupting volcanoes, and all that stuff, how could he mistake you for me?”

  “I don’t rant. Anyway, Agnes did all the talking.”

  Returning his attention to his own shoes, Jacob said, “So…what am I supposed to do about this?”

  “Do you know him?” Edom asked, gazing longingly now at the open door, from which Jacob had turned away. “Obadiah Sepharad?”

  “Having spent most of the last twenty years in this apartment, not being the one who has a car, how would I meet a Negro magician?”

  “All right then.”

  As Edom crossed the threshold, moving outside to the landing at the top of the stairs, Jacob followed, proselytizing for his faith: “Christmas Eve, 1940, St. Anselmo’s Orphanage, San Francisco. Josef Krepp killed eleven boys, ages six through eleven, murdering them in their sleep and cutting a different trophy from each—an eye here, a tongue there.”

  “Eleven?” Edom asked, unimpressed.

  “From 1604 through 1610, Erzebet Bathory, sister of the Polish king, with the assistance of her servants, tortured and killed six hundred girls. She bit them, drank their blood, tore their faces off with tongs, mutilated their private parts, and mocked their screams.”

  Descending the stairs, Edom said, “September 18, 1906, a typhoon slammed into Hong Kong. More than ten thousand died. The wind was blowing with such incredible velocity, hundreds of people were killed by sharp pieces of debris—splintered wood, spear-point fence staves, nails, glass—driven into them with the power of bullets. One man was struck by a windblown fragment of a Han Dynasty funerary jar, which cleaved his face, cracked through his skull, and embedded itself in his brain.”

  As Edom reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard the door close above him.

  Jacob was hiding something. Until he had spoken of Josef Krepp, his every response had been formed as a question, which had always been his preferred method of avoidance when conversation involved a subject that made him uncomfortable.

  Returning to his apartment, Edom had to pass under the limbs of the majestically crowned oak that dominated the deep yard between the house and the garage.

  Head lowered, as if his visit to Jacob were a weight that bowed him, his attention was on the ground. Otherwise, he might not have noticed, might not have been halted by, the intricate and beautiful pattern of sunlight and shadow over which he walked.

  This was a California live oak, green even in winter, although its leaves were fewer now than they would be in warmer seasons. The elaborate branch structure, reflected around him, was an exquisite and harmonious maze overlaying a mosaic of sunlight green on grass, and something in its patterns suddenly touched him, moved him, se
ized his imagination. He felt as if he were balanced on the brink of an astonishing insight.

  Then he looked up at the massive limbs overhead, and the mood changed: A sense of impending insight at once gave way to the fear that an unsuspected fissure in a huge limb might crack through at this precise moment, crushing him under a ton of wood, or that the Big One, striking now, would topple the entire oak.

  Edom fled back to his apartment.

  Chapter 50

  AFTER SPENDING Wednesday as a tourist, Junior began to look for a suitable apartment on Thursday. In spite of his new wealth, he did not intend to pay hotel-room rates for an extended period.

  Currently, the rental market was extremely tight. The first day of his search resulted only in the discovery that he was going to have to pay more than he expected even for modest quarters.

  Thursday evening, his third in the hotel, he returned to the lounge for cocktails and another steak. The same tuxedoed pianist provided the entertainment.

  Junior was vigilant. He took note of all those who approached the piano, whether they dropped money in the fishbowl or not.

  When the pianist eventually launched into “Someone to Watch over Me,” he didn’t appear to be responding to a request, considering that a few other numbers had been played since the most recent gratuity. The tune was, after all, in his nightly repertoire.

  A residual tension drained out of Junior. He was somewhat surprised that he had still been concerned about the song.

  Through the remainder of his dinner, he was entirely future-focused, the past put safely out of mind. Until…

  As Junior was enjoying a postprandial brandy, the pianist took a break, and conversation among the customers fell into a lull. When the bar phone rang, though it was muted, he heard it at his table.

  The modulated electronic brrrrr was similar to the sound of the telephone in Vanadium’s cramped study, on Sunday night. Junior was transported back to that place, that moment in time.

  The Ansaphone.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the answering machine with uncanny clarity. That curious gadget. Sitting atop the scarred pine desk.

  In reality, it had been a homely device, a mere box. In memory, it seemed ominous, charged with the evil portent of a nuclear bomb.

  He’d listened to the message and thought it incomprehensible, of no import. Suddenly, tardy intuition told him that it could not have been any more important to him if it had been dead Naomi calling from beyond the grave to leave testimony for the detective.

  On that busy night, with Vanadium’s corpse in the Studebaker and Victoria’s cadaver awaiting a fiery disposal at her house, Junior was too distracted to recognize the pertinence of the message. Now it tormented him from a dark nook in his subconscious.

  Caesar Zedd teaches that every experience in our lives, unto the smallest moment and simplest act, is preserved in memory, including every witless conversation we’ve ever endured with the worst dullards we’ve met. For this reason, he wrote a book about why we must never suffer bores and fools and about how we can be rid of them, offering hundreds of strategies for scouring them from our lives, including homicide, which he claims to favor, though only tongue-in-cheek.

  Although Zedd counsels living in the future, he recognizes the need to have full recollection of the past when absolutely needed. One of his favorite techniques for jolting memories loose when the subconscious stubbornly withholds them is to take a bitterly cold shower while pressing ice against one’s genitals, until the desired facts are recalled or hypothermic collapse ensues.

  In the glamorous cocktail lounge of this elegant hotel, Junior was necessarily forced to use other of Zedd’s techniques—and more brandy—to liberate from his subconscious the name of the caller on the Ansaphone. Max. The caller