From the Corner of His Eye

by Dean Koontz

  She bent down and kissed his cheek, his right eye, his left, his brow, his dry cracked lips. “I love you so much. I wanted to die when I thought you weren’t with me anymore.”

  “Never say die,” he admonished.

  Blotting her eyes on a Kleenex, she said, “All right. Never.”

  “Was it…Angel’s father?”

  She was surprised by his intuition. Three years ago, when first she moved to Pacific Heights, Celestina had shared with him the fear that the beast would find them one day, but she hadn’t spoken of that possibility in perhaps two and a half years.

  She shook her head. “No. It wasn’t Angel’s father. You’re her father. He was just the son of a bitch who raped Phimie.”

  “They get him?”

  “I almost did. With his own gun.”

  Wally raised his eyebrows.

  “And I hit him with a chair, hurt him some.”

  “Wow.”

  She said, “Didn’t know you were going to marry an Amazon, huh?”

  “Sure did.”

  “He got away just as the police arrived. And they think he’s psychotic, plenty crazy enough to try again if they don’t find him soon.”

  “Me too,” he said worriedly.

  “They don’t want me to go back to the apartment.”

  “Listen to them.”

  “And they’re even worried about me hanging around St. Mary’s too long, ’cause he’ll expect me to be here with you.”

  “I’ll be okay. Lots of friends here.”

  “You’ll be out of ICU tomorrow, I bet. You’ll have a phone, I’ll call. And I’ll come soon as I can.”

  He found the strength to squeeze her hand tighter than before. “Be safe. Keep Angel safe.”

  She kissed him again. “Two weeks,” she reminded him.

  He smiled ruefully. “Might be ready for a wedding by then, but not a honeymoon.”

  “We’ve got the rest of our lives for the honeymoon.”

  Chapter 74

  WHEN AT LAST Paul Damascus reached the parsonage late Friday afternoon, January 12, he arrived on foot, as he arrived everywhere these days.

  A cold wind raised a haunting groan as it harried itself around and around in the bronze hollow of the bell atop the church steeple, shook dead needles from the evergreens, and resisted Paul’s progress with what seemed to be malicious intent. Miles ago, between the towns of Brookings and Pistol River, he had decided that he wouldn’t again walk this far north at this time of year, even if the guidebooks did claim that the Oregon coast was a comparatively temperate zone in winter.

  Although he was a stranger, arriving unannounced, and something of an eccentric by anyone’s definition, Paul was received by Grace and Harrison White with warmth and fellowship. At their doorstep, raising his voice to compete with the wailing weather, he hurriedly blurted out his mission, as if they might reel back from his wild windblown presence if he didn’t talk quickly enough: “I’ve walked here from Bright Beach, California, to tell you about an exceptional woman whose life will echo through the lives of countless others long after she’s gone. Her husband died the night their son was born, but not before naming the boy Bartholomew, because he’d been so impressed by ‘This Momentous Day.’ And now the boy is blind, and I hope you’ll be able and willing to give some comfort to his mother.” The Whites failed to reel backward, didn’t even flinch from his unfortunately explosive statement of purpose. Instead, they invited him into their home, later invited him to dinner, and later still asked him to stay the night in their guest room.

  They were as gracious as any people he had ever met, but they also seemed genuinely interested in his story. He wasn’t surprised that Agnes Lampion would enthrall them, for hers was a life of clear significance. That they seemed equally interested in Paul’s story, however, surprised him. Perhaps they were merely being kind, and yet with apparent fascination, they drew out of him so many details of his long walks, of the places he had been and the reasons why, of his life with Perri.

  Friday night, he slept more soundly than he’d slept since coming home from the pharmacy to discover Joshua Nunn and the paramedic in solemn silence at Perri’s bedside. He didn’t dream of trekking across a wasteland, neither salt flats nor snow-whipped plains of ice, and when he woke in the morning, he felt rested in body, mind, and soul.

  Harrison and Grace had welcomed him in spite of the fact that a friend and parishioner had died on Thursday, leaving them both bereft and with church obligations.

  “You’re heaven-sent,” Grace assured Paul at breakfast Saturday morning. “With all your stories, you lifted our hearts when we most needed to be lifted.”

  The funeral was at two o’clock, after which family and friends of the deceased would gather here in the parsonage for a social, to break bread together and to share their memories of the loved one lost.

  Saturday morning, Paul made himself useful by assisting Grace with food preparation and by setting out the plates, flatware, and glasses on the dining-room sideboard.

  He was in the kitchen at 11:20, spreading frosting on a large chocolate sheet cake while the reverend expertly frosted a coconut-layer job.

  Grace, having just finished washing a sinkful of dishes, stood monitoring the application of the icing and drying her hands, when the telephone rang. She picked it up, and as she said, “Hello,” the front of the house exploded.

  A great boom. Concussion rocked the floor and shuddered the walls and made the roof timbers squeal as though unsuspected colonies of bats had taken flight by the thousands all in the same instant.

  Grace dropped the phone. Harrison let the frosting knife slip out of his fingers.

  Through the cacophony of shattering glass, splintering wood, and cracking plaster, Paul heard the hard roar of an engine, the blare of a horn, and suspected what must have happened. Some drunk or reckless driver had crashed at high speed into the parsonage.

  Having arrived at this same astonishing but nonetheless obvious conclusion, Harrison said, “Someone has to’ve been hurt.” He hurried out of the kitchen, through the dining room, with Paul close behind him.

  In the front wall of the living room, where once had been a fine bay window, the parsonage lay open to the sunny day. Torn shrubbery, carried in from outside, marked the path of destruction. In the very middle of the room, plowed against a toppled sofa and a thick drift of broken furniture, a battered red Pontiac sagged to the left on broken springs and blown tires. A portion of the crazed windshield quivered and collapsed inward, while plumes of steam hissed from under the buckled hood.

  Though they had expected the cause of the explosion, both Paul and Harrison were halted by shock at the sight of all this ruination. They had expected to find the car jammed into the wall of the house, never this far inside. The speed required to penetrate this distance into the structure beggared Paul’s skills of calculation and made him wonder if even recklessness and alcohol were sufficient to produce such a catastrophe.

  The driver’s door opened, shoving aside a damaged tea table, and a man climbed out of the Pontiac.

  Two things about him were remarkable, beginning with his face. His head was wrapped with white gauze bandages, so he looked like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man or like Humphrey Bogart in that movie about the escaped convict who has plastic surgery to foil the police and to start a new life with Lauren Bacall. Blond hair sprouted from the top of the elaborate wrappings. Otherwise, only his eyes, his nostrils, and his lips were uncovered.

  The second remarkable thing was the gun in his hand.

  The sight of the heavily bandaged face apparently pressed all of the compassion buttons in the reverend, because he broke out of his paralytic shock and started forward—before he registered the weapon.

  For a driver who had just engaged in a demolition derby with a house, the mummified man was steady on his feet and unhesitant in his actions. He turned to Harrison White and shot him twice in the chest.

  Paul didn’t realize that Grac
e had followed them into the living room until she screamed. She started to push past him, heading toward her husband even as Harrison went down.

  Holding the pistol, fully extending his right arm in execution style, the gunman approached the fallen minister.

  Grace White was petite, and Paul wasn’t. Otherwise he might not have been able to halt her determined rush toward her husband, might not have been able to scoop her off her feet and, carrying her in his arms, spirit her to safety.

  The parsonage was a clean, respectable, and even charming house, but nothing about it might be called grand. No sweeping staircase offered a glamorous showcase adequate for Scarlett O’Hara. Instead, the stairs were enclosed, accessed by a door in one corner of the living room.

  Paul was nearest to that corner when he halted Grace in her rush toward certain death. Before he quite realized what he was doing, he found that he’d flung open the door and climbed half the single long flight of steps, as surefooted as Doc Savage or the Saint, or the Whistler, or any of the other pulp-fiction heroes whose exploits had for so long been his adventures by proxy.

  Behind them, two shots roared, and Paul knew that the reverend was no longer of this world.

  Grace knew it, too, because she went limp with misery in his arms, ceased struggling against him.

  Yet when he put her down in the upstairs hall, she cried out for her husband—“Harry!”—and tried to plunge once more into the narrow stairwell.

  Paul pulled her back. He gently but firmly thrust her through the open door of the guest room in which he’d spent the night. “Stay here, wait.”

  At the foot of the bed: a cedar chest. Four feet long, two feet wide, perhaps three high. Brass handles.

  Judging by Grace’s expression when Paul plucked the chest off the floor, he figured it was heavy. He had no way of knowing for sure, because he was in a weird state, so saturated with adrenaline that his heart squirted blood through his arteries at a speed Zeus couldn’t have matched with the fastest lightning bolts in his quiver. The chest felt no heavier than a pillow, which couldn’t be right, even if it was empty.

  With no clear awareness of having left the guest room, Paul looked down the enclosed stairs.

  The bandaged man stormed up from the ruin of the living room, gauze fluttering around his lips as his hard exhalations seemed to prove that he wasn’t a long-dead pharaoh reanimated to punish some heedless archaeologist who had ignored all warnings and violated his tomb. So this wasn’t a Weird Tales moment.

  Paul pitched the chest into the stairwell.

  A gunshot. Cedar shrapnel.

  With a bark of pain, chest to chest with defeat, the killer was borne downward by the fragrant weight, in a clink and clatter of brass handles.

  Paul in the guest room again. Sweeping a bedside lamp to the floor, lifting the nightstand.

  Then once more at the head of the stairs.

  At the bottom, the killer had pushed the cedar chest aside and clambered to his feet. From out of his raveled Tutankhamen windings, he peered up at Paul and fired one shot without taking aim, almost halfheartedly, before disappearing into the living room.

  Paul set the nightstand down but waited, ready to shove the furniture into the stairwell if the swaddled gunman dared return.

  Downstairs, two shots cracked, and an instant after the second, an explosion shook the parsonage as though the long-promised Judgment were at hand. This was a real explosion, not the impact of another runaway Pontiac.

  Orange firelight bloomed in the living room below, a wave of heat washed over Paul, and immediately behind the heat came greasy masses of roiling black smoke, drawn to the stairwell as to a flue.

  The guest room. Bring Grace to the window. Disengage the latch. No good. Warped or painted shut. Small panes, sturdy mullions too difficult to break out.

  “Hold your breath and hurry,” he urged, drawing her with him into the hall.

  Choking fumes, blinding soot. A licking heat told him that slithering fire had followed the smoke up the stairs and now coiled perilously close in the murk.

  Toward the front of the house, along a hallway suddenly as dark as a tunnel, toward a vague light in the seething gloom. And here a window at the end of the hall.

  This one slid easily up. Fresh cold air, welcome daylight.

  Outside, flames churned to the left and right of the opening. The front of the house was afire.

  No turning back. In the fuming blackness, they would become disoriented in seconds, fall, and suffocate as surely as they would burn. Besides, the open window, providing draft, would draw the fire rapidly down the hallway at their backs.

  “Quick, very quick,” he warned, helping Grace through the fire-framed window and onto the roof of the porch.

  Coughing, spitting saliva that was bitter with toxic chemicals, Paul followed her, slapping frantically at his clothes when fire singed his shirt.

  Like autumn-red ivy, lushly leafed vines of flame crawled up the house. The porch under them was ablaze, as well. Shingles smoldered beneath their feet, and flames ringed the roof on which they stood.

  Grace headed toward the edge.

  Paul shouted, halting her.

  Although the distance to the ground was only ten feet, she would be risking too much by running blindly off the roof and leaping to clear the fringe of fire at the edge. A landing on the lawn might end well. But if she fell onto the walkway, she might break a leg or her back, depending on the angle of impact.

  She was in Paul’s arms again, as though by magic, and he ran as fire broke through the cedar-shake shingles and as the roof shuddered under them. Airborne through billowing smoke. Across flames that briefly caressed the soles of his shoes.

  He tried to lean back as he dropped, with the hope that he would fall under her, providing cushion if they met with sidewalk instead of lawn.

  Apparently, he didn’t lean back far enough, because amazingly he landed on his feet in the winter-faded grass. The shock buckled him, and he dropped to his knees. Still cradling Grace, he lowered her to the ground as gently as he’d ever lowered fragile Perri onto her bed—quite as if he had planned it this way.

  He sprang to his feet, or maybe only staggered up, depending on whether his image of himself right now was pulp or real, and surveyed the scene, looking for the bandaged man. A few neighbors crossed the lawn toward Grace, and others approached along the street. But the killer was gone.

  The sirens shrieked so loud that he felt a sympathetic vibration in his dental fillings, and with a sharp cry of brakes, a great red truck turned the corner, at once followed by a second.

  Too late. The parsonage was fully engulfed. With luck, they would save the church.

  Only now, as the tide of adrenaline began to ebb, Paul wondered who could possibly have wanted to kill a man of peace and God, a man as good as Harrison White.

  This momentous day, he thought, and he shook with sudden terror at the inevitability of new beginnings.

  Chapter 75

  THE GENEROUS EXPENSE allowance provided by Simon Magusson paid for a three-room suite at a comfortable hotel. One bedroom for Tom Vanadium, one for Celestina and Angel.

  Having booked the suite for three nights, Tom expected that he would spend far fewer late hours in his bed than sitting watch in the shared living room.

  At eleven o’clock Saturday morning, having just settled in the hotel after arriving from St. Mary’s, they were waiting for the SFPD to deliver suitcases of clothes and toiletries that Rena Moller, Celestina’s neighbor, had packed according to her instructions. While waiting, the three of them took an early lunch—or a late breakfast—at a room-service table in the living room.

  For the next few days, they would eat all their meals in the suite. Most likely, Cain had left San Francisco. And even if the killer hadn’t fled, this was a big city, where a chance encounter with him was unlikely. Yet having assumed the role of guardian, Tom Vanadium had a zero tolerance for risk, because the inimitable Mr. Cain had proved himself to be a
master of the unlikely.

  Tom didn’t attribute supernatural powers to this killer. Enoch Cain was mortal, not all-seeing and all-knowing. Evil and stupidity often go together, however, and arrogance is the offspring of their marriage, as Tom had earlier told Celestina. An arrogant man, not half as smart as he thinks, with no sense of right and wrong, with no capacity for remorse, can sometimes be so breathtakingly reckless that, ironically, his recklessness becomes his greatest strength. Because he is capable of anything, of taking risks that mere madmen wouldn’t consider, his adversaries can never predict his actions, and surprise serves him well. If he also possesses animal cunning, a kind of deep intuitional shrewdness, he can react quickly to the negative consequences of his recklessness—and can indeed appear to be more than human.

  Prudence required that they strategize as though Enoch Cain were Satan himself, as though every fly and beetle and rat provided eyes and ears for the killer, as though ordinary precautions could never foil him.

  In addition to mulling over strategy, Tom had spent a lot of time lately brooding about culpability: his own, not Cain’s. By seizing on the name that he heard Cain speak in a dream, by making use of it in this psychological warfare, had he been the architect of the killer’s Bartholomew obsession, or if not the architect, then at least an assisting draftsman? Having never been nudged in that direction, would Cain have followed a different path that took him far from Celestina and Angel?

  The wife killer was evil; and his evil would be expressed one way or another, regardless of the forces that affected his actions. If he’d not killed Naomi on the fire tower, he would have killed her elsewhere, when another opportunity for enrichment presented itself. If Victoria hadn’t become a victim, some other woman would have died instead. If Cain hadn’t become obsessed with the strange conviction that someone named Bartholomew might be the death of him, he would have filled his hollow heart with an equally strange obsession that might have led him, anyway, to Celestina, but that would surely have brought violence down on someone else if not on her.

  Tom had acted with the best intentions—but also with the intelligence and the good judgment that God had given him and that he had spent a lifetime honing. Good intentions alone can be the cobblestones from which the road to Hell is built; however, good intentions formed through much self-doubt and second-guessing, as Tom’s always were, guided by wisdom acquired from experience, are all that can be asked of us. Unintended consequences that should have been foreseeable are, he knew, the stuff of damnation, but those that we can’t foresee, he hoped, are part of some design for which we can’t be held responsible.

  Yet he brooded even at breakfast, in spite of the consolation of clotted cream and berries, raisin scones and cinnamon butter. In better worlds, wiser Tom Vanadiums chose different tactics that resulted in less misery than this, in a far swifter conveyance of Enoch Cain to the halls of justice. But he was none of those Tom Vanadiums. He was only this Tom, flawed and struggling, and he couldn’t take comfort in the fact that elsewhere he had proved to be a better man.

  Perched on a chair with two plump bed pillows to boost her, Angel extracted one crisp strip from her club sandwich and asked Tom, “Where’s bacon come from?”

  “You know where it comes from,” her mother said with a yawn that betrayed her exhaustion after a night with no sleep and too much drama.

  “Yeah, but I wanna see if he knows,” the girl explained.

  Fresh from sedative-assisted sleep, which hadn’t ended until they were in the taxi between the hospital and the hotel, Angel had proved as fully resilient as only children could be when they still retained their innocence. She didn’t understand how seriously Wally had been hurt, of course, but if the attack by Cain had terrorized her while she’d watched it from beneath her mother’s bed, she didn’t seem in danger of being permanently traumatized.

  “Do you know where bacon comes from?” she asked Tom again.

  “From the supermarket,” Tom said.

  “Where’s the supermarket get it?”

  “From farmers.”

  “Where do farmers get it?”

  “They grow it on bacon vines.”

  The girl giggled. “Is that what you think?”

  “I’ve seen them,” Tom assured her. “My dear, you’ve never smelled anything better than a field full of bacon vines.”

  “Silly,” Angel judged.

  “Well, where do you think bacon comes from?”

  “Pigs!”

  “Really? You really think that?” he asked in his flat voice, which he sometimes wished were more musical, but which he knew lent a sober conviction to anything he said. “You think something so delicious could come from a fat, smelly, dirty, snorting old pig?”

  Frowning, Angel studied the tasty strip of meat pinched between her fingers, reevaluating everything she thought she knew about the source of bacon.