From the Corner of His Eye

by Dean Koontz

  paintings displayed to passersby, appalled by their beauty, when suddenly the door had opened and a gallery employee had invited him to come in. No printed invitation needed, no cool test to pass, no bouncers keeping the gate. Such easy accessibility served as proof, if you needed it, that this was not real art.

  Caution discarded, Junior went inside, for the same reason that a dedicated opera aesthete might once a decade attend a country-music concert: to confirm the superiority of his taste and to be amused by what passed for music among the great unwashed. Some might call it slumming.

  Celestina White was the center of attention, always surrounded by champagne-swilling, canapé-gobbling bourgeoisie who would have been shopping for paintings on velvet if they’d had less money.

  To be fair, with her exceptional beauty, she would have been the center of attention even in a gathering of real artists. Junior had little chance of getting at Seraphim’s bastard boy without going through this woman and killing her as well; but if his luck held and he could eliminate Bartholomew without Celestina realizing who had done the deed, then he might yet have a chance to discover if she was as lubricious as her sister and if she was his heart mate.

  Once he had toured the exhibition, managing not to shudder openly, he tried to hang out within hearing distance of Celestina White, but without appearing to be listening with special intensity.

  He heard her explain that the title of the exhibition had been inspired by one of her father’s sermons, which aired on a nationally syndicated weekly radio program more than three years ago. This wasn’t a religious program, per se, but rather one concerned with a search for meaning in life; it usually broadcast interviews with contemporary philosophers as well as speeches by them, but from time to time featured a clergyman. Her father’s sermon received the greatest response from listeners of anything aired on the program in twenty years, and three weeks later, it was rerun by popular demand.

  Recalling how the title of the exhibition had resonated with him when first he’d seen the gallery brochure, Junior felt certain now that a tape-recorded early draft of this sermon was the kinky “music” that accompanied his evening of passion with Seraphim. He couldn’t remember one word of it, let alone any element that would have deeply moved a national radio audience, but this didn’t mean that he was shallow or incapable of being touched by philosophical speculations. He’d been so distracted by the erotic perfection of Seraphim’s young body and so busy jumping her that he wouldn’t have remembered a word, either, if Zedd himself had been sitting on the bed, discussing the human condition with his customary brilliance.

  Most likely, Reverend White’s ramblings were as greasy with sentiment and oily with irrational optimism as were his daughter’s paintings, so Junior was in no hurry to learn the name of the radio program or to write for a transcript of the sermon.

  He was about to go in search of the canapés when he half heard one of the guests mention Bartholomew to the reverend’s daughter. Only the name rang on his ear, not the words that surrounded it.

  “Oh,” Celestina White replied, “yes, every day. I’m currently engaged on an entire series of works inspired by Bartholomew.”

  These would no doubt be cloyingly sentimental paintings of the bastard boy, with impossibly large and limpid eyes, posed cutely with puppies and kittens, pictures better suited for cheap calendars than for gallery walls, and dangerous to the health of diabetics.

  Nevertheless, Junior was thrilled to hear the name Bartholomew, and to know that the boy of whom Celestina spoke was the Bartholomew of Bartholomews, the menacing presence in his unremembered dream, the threat to his fortune and future that must be eliminated.

  As he edged closer, to better hear the conversation, he became aware of someone staring at him. He looked up into anthracite eyes, into a gaze as sharp as that of any bird, set in the lean face of a thirty-something man thinner than a winter-starved crow.

  Fifteen feet separated them, with guests intervening. Yet this stranger’s attention could have felt no more disturbingly intense to Junior if they had been alone in the room and but a foot apart.

  More alarming still, he suddenly realized this was no stranger. The face looked familiar, and he sensed that he had seen it before in a disquieting context, although the man’s identity eluded him.

  With a nervous twitch of his avian head and a wary frown, the watcher broke eye contact and slipped into the chattering crowd, lost as quickly as a slender sandpiper skittering among a herd of plump seagulls.

  Just as the man turned away, Junior got a glimpse of what he wore under a London Fog raincoat. Between the lapels of the coat: a white shirt with a wing collar, a black bow tie, the suggestion of black-satin lapels like those on a tuxedo jacket.

  A tune clinked off the keys of a phantom piano in Junior’s mind, “Someone to Watch over Me.” The hawk-eyed watcher was the pianist at the elegant hotel lounge where Junior had enjoyed dinner on his first night in San Francisco, and twice since.

  Clearly, the musician recognized him, which seemed unlikely, even extraordinary, considering that they’d never spoken to each other, and considering that Junior must be only one of thousands of customers who had passed through that lounge in the past three years.

  Odder yet, the pianist had studied him with a keen interest that was inexplicable, since they were essentially strangers. When caught staring, he’d appeared rattled, turning away quickly, eager to avoid further contact.

  Junior had hoped not to be recognized by anyone at this affair. He regretted that he hadn’t stuck to his original plan, maintaining surveillance of the gallery from his parked car.

  The musician’s behavior required explanation. After wending through the crowd, Junior located the man in front of a painting so egregiously beautiful that any connoisseur of real art could hardly resist the urge to slash the canvas to ribbons.

  “I’ve enjoyed your music,” Junior said.

  Startled, the pianist turned to face him—and backed off a step, as though his personal space had been too deeply invaded. “Oh, well, thank you, that’s kind. I love my work, you know, it’s so much fun it hardly qualifies as work at all. I’ve been playing the piano since I was six, and I was never one of those children who whined about having to take lessons. I simply couldn’t get enough.”

  Either this chatterbox was at all times a babbling airhead or Junior particularly disconcerted him.

  “What do you think of the exhibition,” Junior asked, taking one step toward the musician, crowding him.

  Striving to appear casual, but obviously unnerved, the pencil-thin man backed off again. “The paintings are lovely, wonderful, I’m enormously impressed. I’m a friend of the artist’s, you know. She was a tenant of mine, I was her landlord during her early college years, in her salad days, a nice little studio apartment, before the baby. A lovely girl, I always knew she’d be a success, it was so apparent in even her earliest work. I just had to come tonight, even though a friend’s covering two of my four sets. I couldn’t miss this.”

  Bad news. Having been identified by another guest put Junior at risk of later being tied to the killing; having been recognized by a close personal friend of Celestina White’s was even worse. It had become imperative now that he know why the pianist had been watching him from across the room with such intensity.

  Once more crowding his quarry, Junior said, “I’m amazed you’d recognize me, since I haven’t been to the lounge often.”

  The musician had no talent for deception. His hopping-hen eyes pecked at the nearest painting, at other guests, down at the floor, everywhere but directly at Junior, and a nerve twitched in his left cheek. “Well, I’m very good, you know, at faces, they stick with me, I don’t know why. Goodness knows, my memory is otherwise shot.”

  Extending his hand, watching the pianist closely, Junior said, “My name’s Richard Gammoner.”

  The musician’s eyes met Junior’s for an instant, widening with surprise. Obviously he knew that Gammoner was a
lie. So he must be aware of Junior’s real identity.

  Junior said, “I should know your name from the playbill at the lounge, but I’m as bad with names as you are good with faces.”

  Hesitantly, the ivory tickler shook hands. “I’m…uh…I’m Ned Gnathic. Everyone calls me Neddy.”

  Neddy favored a quick greeting, two curt pumps, but Junior held fast after the handshake was over. He didn’t grind the musician’s knuckles, nothing so crude, just held on pleasantly but firmly. His intention was to confuse and further rattle the man, taking advantage of his obvious dislike of having his personal space encroached upon, in the hope that Neddy would reveal why he’d been watching Junior so intently from across the room.

  “I’ve always wanted to learn the piano myself,” Junior claimed, “but I guess you really have to start young.”

  “Oh, no, it’s never too late.”

  Visibly nonplussed by Junior’s blithe failure to terminate the handshake when the shaking stopped, the fussy Neddy didn’t want to be so rude as to yank his hand loose, or to cause a scene regardless of how small, but Junior, smiling and pretending to be as socially dense as concrete, failed to respond to a polite tug. So Neddy waited, allowing his hand to be held, and his face, previously as white as piano keys, brightened to a shade of pink that clashed with his red boutonniere.

  “Do you give lessons?” Junior inquired.

  “Me, oh, well, no, not really.”

  “Money’s no object. I can afford whatever you’d like to charge. And I’d be a diligent student.”

  “I’m sure you would be, yes, but I’m afraid I don’t have the patience to teach, I’m a performer, not an instructor. I suppose I could give you the name of a good teacher.”

  Although Neddy had flushed to a rich primrose-pink, Junior still held his hand, crowding him, lowering his face even closer to the musician’s. “If you vouched for a teacher, I’d feel confident that I was in good hands, but I’d still much rather learn from you, Neddy. I really wish you would reconsider—”

  His patience exhausted, the pianist wrenched his hand out of Junior’s grip. He glanced around nervously, certain that they must be the center of attention, but of course the reception guests were lost in their witless conversations, or they were gaga over the maudlin paintings, and no one was aware of this quiet little drama.

  Glaring and red-faced, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, Neddy said, “I’m sorry, but you’ve got me all wrong. I’m not like Renee and you.”

  For a moment, Junior drew a blank on Renee. Reluctantly, he trolled the past and fished up the painful memory: the gorgeous transvestite in the Chanel suit, heir or heiress to an industrial-valve fortune.

  “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it, you understand,” Neddy whispered with a sort of fierce conciliation, “but I’m not gay, and I’m not interested in teaching you the piano or anything else. Besides, after the stories Renee told about you, I can’t imagine why you think any friend of his…hers would get near you. You need help. Renee is what she is, but she’s not a bad person, she’s generous and she’s sweet. She doesn’t deserve to be beaten, abused, and…and all those horrible things you did. Excuse me.”

  In a swirl of London Fog and righteous indignation, Neddy turned his back on Junior and drifted away through the nibbling, nattering crowd.

  As though the blush were transmitted by a virus, Junior caught the primrose-pink contagion from the pianist.

  Since Renee Vivi lived in the hotel, she probably considered the cocktail lounge to be her personal pickup spot. Naturally, people who worked the lounge knew her, were friendly with her. They would remember any man who accompanied the heiress to her penthouse.

  Worse, the vengeful and vicious bitch—or bastard, whatever—evidently had made up vile stories about him, which on a slow evening she’d shared with Neddy, with the bartender, with anyone who would listen. The staff of the lounge believed Junior was a dangerous sadist. No doubt she had concocted other lurid stories, as well, charging him with everything from a degenerate interest in bodily wastes to the self-mutilation of his genitalia.

  Wonderful. Oh, perfect. So Neddy, a friend of Celestina’s, knew that Junior, reputed to be a vicious sadist, had attended this reception under a false name. If Junior really was a sleazy pervert of such rococo tastes that he would be shunned even by the scum of the world, even by the deranged mutant offspring of a self-breeding hermaphrodite, then surely he was capable of murder, too.

  On hearing of Bartholomew’s—and/or Celestina’s—death, Neddy would be on the phone to the police, pointing them toward Junior, in twelve seconds. Maybe fourteen.

  Unobtrusively, Junior followed the musician across the large front room, but by an indirect arc, using the babbling bourgeoisie for cover.

  Neddy cooperated by not deigning to look back. Eventually, he stopped a young man who, judging by the name tag on the lapel of his blazer, was a gallery employee. They put their heads together in conversation, and then the musician headed through an archway into the second showroom.

  Curious to know what Neddy had said, Junior quickly approached the same gallery staffer. “Excuse me, but I’ve been looking for my friend ever so long in this mob, and then I saw him talking to you—the gentleman in the London Fog and the tux—and now I’ve lost him again. He didn’t say if he was leaving, did he? He’s my ride home.”

  The young man raised his voice to be heard above the gobbling of the art turkeys. “No, sir. He just asked where the men’s room was.”

  “And where is it?”

  “At the back of the second gallery, on the left, there’s a corridor. The rest rooms are at the end of it, beyond the offices.”

  By the time Junior passed the three offices and found the men’s room, Neddy had occupied it. The door was locked, which must mean this was a single-occupant john.

  Junior leaned against the door casing.

  The hall was deserted. Then a woman came out of one of the offices and walked toward the gallery, without glancing at him.

  The 9-mm pistol rested in the complementary shoulder holster, under Junior’s leather coat. But the sound-suppressor hadn’t been attached; it was in one of his coat pockets. The extended barrel, too long to lay comfortably against his left side, would most likely have hung up on the holster when drawn.

  He didn’t want to risk marrying weapon and silencer here in the hall, where he might be seen. Besides, complications could arise from being splattered with Neddy’s blood. Aftermath was disgusting, but it was also highly incriminating. For the same reason, he was loath to use a knife.

  A toilet flushed.

  For the past two days, Junior had eaten only binding foods, and late this afternoon, he had taken a preventive dose of paregoric, as well.

  Through the door came the sound of running water splashing in a sink. Neddy washing his hands.

  The hinges weren’t on the outside. The door would open inward.

  The water shut off, and Junior heard the ratcheting noise of a paper-towel dispenser.

  No one in the hall.

  Timing was everything.

  Junior no longer leaned casually on the casing. He put both hands flat against the door.

  When he heard the snick of the lock being disengaged, he rammed into the men’s room.

  In a rustle of raincoat, Neddy Gnathic stumbled, off balance and startled.

  Before the pianist could cry out, Junior drove him between the toilet and the sink, slamming him against the wall hard enough to knock loose his breath and to cause the water to slosh audibly in the nearby toilet tank.

  Behind them, the door rebounded forcefully from a rubber-tipped stopper and closed with a thud. The lock wasn’t engaged, however, and they might be interrupted momentarily.

  Neddy possessed all the musical talent, but Junior had the muscle. Pinned against the wall, his throat in the vise of Junior’s hands, Neddy needed a miracle if he were ever again to sweep another glissando from a keyboard.

  U
p flew his hands, as white as doves, flapping as though trying to escape from the sleeves of his raincoat, as if he were a magician rather than a musician.

  Maintaining a brutal strangling pressure, Junior turned his head aside, to protect his eyes. He kneed Neddy in the crotch, crunching the remaining fight out of him.

  The dying-dove hands fluttered down Junior’s arms, plucking feebly at his leather coat, and at last hung limp at Neddy’s sides.

  The musician’s bird-sharp gaze grew dull. His pink tongue protruded from his mouth, like a half-eaten worm.

  Junior released Neddy and, letting him slide down the wall to the floor, returned to the door to lock it. Reaching for the latch, he suddenly expected the door to fly open, revealing Thomas Vanadium, dead and risen. The ghost didn’t appear, but Junior was shaken by the mere thought of such a supernatural confrontation in the middle of this crisis.

  From the door to the sink, nervously fishing a plastic pharmacy bottle out of a coat pocket, Junior counseled himself to remain calm. Slow deep breaths. What’s done is done. Live in the future. Act, don’t react. Focus. Look for the bright side.

  As yet, he hadn’t taken either an antiemetic or antihistamine to ward off vomiting and hives, because he wanted to medicate against those conditions as shortly before the violence as was practical, to ensure maximum protection. He’d intended to dose himself only after he followed Celestina home from the gallery and could be reasonably certain that he had located the lair of Bartholomew.

  He shook so badly that he couldn’t remove the cap from the bottle. He was proud to be more sensitive than most people, to be so full of feeling, but sometimes sensitivity was a curse.

  Off with the cap. Yellow capsules in the bottle, also blue. He managed to shake one of each color into the palm of his left hand without spilling the rest on the floor.

  The end of his quest was near, so near, the right Bartholomew almost within bullet range. He was furious with Neddy Gnathic for possibly screwing this up.

  He capped the bottle, pocketed it, and then kicked the dead man, kicked him again, and spat on him.

  Slow deep breaths. Focus.

  Maybe the bright side was that the musician hadn’t either wet his pants or taken a dump while in his death throes. Sometimes, during a comparatively slow death like strangulation, the victim lost control of all bodily functions. He’d read it in a novel, something from the Book-of-the-Month Club and therefore both life-enriching and reliable. Probably not Eudora Welty. Maybe Norman Mailer. Anyway, the men’s room didn’t smell as fresh as a flower shop, but it didn’t reek, either.

  If that was the bright side, however, it was a piss-poor bright side (no pun intended), because he was still stuck in this men’s room with a corpse, and he couldn’t stay here for the rest of his life, surviving on tap water and paper-towel sandwiches, but he couldn’t leave the body to be found, either, because the police would be all over the gallery before the reception ended, before he had a chance to follow Celestina home.

  Another thought: The young gallery employee would remember that Junior had asked after Neddy and had followed him toward the men’s room. He would provide a description, and because he was an art connoisseur, therefore visually oriented, he’d most likely provide a good description, and what the police artist drew wouldn’t be some cubist vision in the Picasso mode or a blurry impressionistic sketch, but a portrait filled with vivid and realistic detail, like a Norman Rockwell painting, ensuring apprehension.

  Looking earnestly for the bright side, Junior had discovered a darker one.

  When his stomach rolled uneasily and his scalp prickled, he was seized by panic, certain that he was going to suffer both violent nervous emesis and severe hives, breaking out and chucking up at the same time. He popped the capsules into his mouth but couldn’t produce enough saliva to swallow them, so he turned on the faucet, filled his cupped hands with water, and drank, dribbling down the front of his jacket and sweater.

  Looking up at the mirror above the sink, he saw reflected not the self-improved and fully realized man that he’d worked so hard to become, but the pale, round-eyed little boy who had hidden from his mother when she had been in the deepest and darkest end of one of her cocaine-assisted, amphetamine-spiced mood swings, before she traded cold reality for the warm coziness of the asylum. As if some whirlpool of time was spinning him backward into the hateful past, Junior felt his hard-won defenses being stripped away.

  Too much, far too much to contend with, and so unfair: finding the Bartholomew needle in the haystack, hives, seizures of vomiting and diarrhea, losing a toe, losing a beloved wife, wandering alone through a cold and hostile world without a heart mate, humiliated by transvestites, tormented by vengeful spirits, too intense to enjoy the benefits of meditation, Zedd dead, the prospect of prison always looming for one reason or another, unable to find peace in either needlework or sex.

  Junior needed something in his life, a missing element without which he could never be complete, something more than a heart mate, more than German or French, or karate, and for as long as he could remember, he’d been searching for this mysterious substance, this enigmatic object, this skill, this thingumajigger, this dowhacky, this flumadiddle, this force or person, this insight, but the problem was that he didn’t know what he was searching for, and so often when he seemed to have found it, he hadn’t found it after all, therefore he worried that if ever he did find it, then he might throw it away, because he would not realize that it was, in fact, the very jigger or gigamaree that he’d been in search of since childhood.

  Zedd endorses self-pity, but only if you learn to use it as a springboard to anger, because anger—like hatred—can be a healthy emotion when properly channeled. Anger can motivate you to heights of achievement you otherwise would never know, even just the simple furious determination to prove wrong the bastards who mocked you, to rub their faces in the fact of your success. Anger and hatred have driven all great political leaders, from Hitler to Stalin to Mao, who wrote their names indelibly across the face of history, and who were—each, in his own way—eaten with self-pity when young.

  Gazing into the mirror, which ought to have been clouded with self-pity as though with steam, Junior Cain searched for his anger and found it. This was a black and bitter anger, as poisonous as rattlesnake venom; with little difficulty, his heart was distilling it into purest rage.

  Lifted from his despair by this exhilarating wrath, Junior turned away from the mirror, looking for the bright side once more. Perhaps it was the bathroom window.