by Dean Koontz
outside the front door, she retrieved the plastic-wrapped morning newspaper. In the kitchen, she squeezed two large oranges to make a glass of fresh juice, put a pan of water on the stove to boil, took a box of raisin oatmeal from a cupboard, and popped two slices of bread in the toaster. She was actually humming a tune—Elton John’s “Daniel”—when she sat at the table.
Her daughter was coming home.
The front-page stories in the paper—the turmoil in the Middle East, the fighting in Central America, the scheming of politicians, the muggings and robberies and senseless killings—did not discourage or concern her as they usually did. The murders of Dylan, Hoffritz, and the unknown man were not reported: That story had broken too late to make the early edition. If she had seen that slaughter recounted in the Times, perhaps she wouldn’t have felt so lighthearted. But she saw not a word about those murders, and Melanie would be released from the hospital this afternoon, and all things considered, she had known worse mornings.
Her daughter was coming home.
When she finished her breakfast, she pushed aside the newspaper and sat looking out the window at the damp rose garden. The sodden blooms seemed impossibly bright in the slanting sun, as unnaturally colorful as flowers in a vivid dream.
She lost track of time, might have been sitting there two minutes or ten, when she was snapped out of her reverie by a thump and clatter elsewhere in the house. She sat straight up, rigid, tense, scared, her mind filled with images of blood-spattered walls and cold dead forms in opaque plastic bags.
Then Pepper broke the ominous spell by dashing out of the dining room, into the kitchen, claws clicking on the tile. She scampered into a corner, stood there, the hair raised along her back, ears flattened, staring at the doorway through which she had come. Then with a sudden self-consciousness that was comical, the cat pretended nonchalance, curled up in a furry puddle on the floor, yawned, and turned sleepy eyes on Laura, as if to say, “Who me? Lose my feline dignity? Even for a moment? Never! Scared? Ridiculous!”
“What’d you do, puss? Knock something over, spook yourself?”
The calico yawned again.
“It better not have been anything breakable,” Laura said, “or I might finally get those cat-skin earmuffs I’ve been wanting.”
She went through the house, looking for the damage that Pepper had done, and she found it in the guest bedroom. The teddy bear and the Raggedy Ann doll were lying on the floor. Fortunately, the cat had not clawed the stuffing out of them. The alarm clock had been knocked off the nightstand. Laura picked it up and saw that it was still ticking; the glass face wasn’t cracked, either. She put the clock back where it belonged, returned the doll and the bear to the bed.
Strange. Pepper had gotten over the reckless-kitten stage three years ago. She was now slightly plump, content, and thoroughly self-satisfied. This rambunctiousness was out of character, yet another indication that she knew her place in the McCaffrey household was no longer second to Laura.
In the kitchen, the cat was still in the corner.
Laura put food in the calico’s dish. “Lucky for you nothing broke. You wouldn’t like being made into earmuffs.”
Pepper rose to a crouch, and her ears perked up.
Tapping the dish with the empty can of 9 Lives, Laura said, “Chow-time, you ferocious mouse-mauler.”
Pepper didn’t move.
“You’ll eat it when you want it,” Laura said, taking the empty can to the sink to rinse it before tossing it in the garbage.
Abruptly, Pepper exploded from the corner, streaked across the kitchen, through the doorway, into the living room, gone.
“Crazy cat,” Laura said, frowning at the untouched 9 Lives. Usually Pepper was pushing in at the yellow dish, trying to eat even as Laura was scraping the food from the can.
Strange.
part two
ENEMIES WITHOUT FACES
WEDNESDAY
1:00 P.M.–7:45 P.M.
chapter eleven
At one o’clock, when Laura drove her blue Honda to Valley Medical, a uniformed policeman at the entrance to the main parking lot barred the way. He directed her to the staff lot, which had been opened to the public “until we straighten out the mess here.” Eighty to a hundred feet behind him was a cluster of LAPD cruisers and other official vehicles, some with emergency beacons rotating and flashing.
As she followed the patrolman’s directions and headed toward the staff lot, Laura glanced to the right, through the fence, and saw Lieutenant Haldane. He was the tallest and biggest man among those at the scene. She suddenly realized that the commotion might have a connection with Melanie and with the murders in Studio City the previous night.
By the time she slotted the Honda between two cars with MD plates and ran back down the hospital driveway to the fence that encircled the public parking lot, Laura had half convinced herself that Melanie was hurt or missing or dead. The patrolman at the gate would not let her through, not even when she told him who she was, so she shouted to Dan Haldane.
He hurried across the macadam, favoring his left leg. Not much, only slightly. She might not have noticed if her senses hadn’t been sharply honed by fear. He took her by the arm and led her away from the gate, along the fence, to a spot where they could talk privately.
As they walked, she said, “What’s happened to Melanie?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me the truth!”
“That is the truth. She’s in her room. Safe. Just the way you left her.”
They stopped, and she stood with her back to the fence, staring past Haldane toward the pulsing emergency beacons. She saw a morgue wagon with the patrol cars.
No. It wasn’t fair. To find Melanie after all these years and then to lose her again so soon—it was unthinkable.
A tightness in her chest. A throbbing in her temples.
She said, “Who’s dead?”
“I’ve been calling your house—”
“I want—”
“—trying to get hold of you—”
“—to know—”
“—for the past hour and a half.”
—who’s dead!” she demanded.
“Listen, it’s not Melanie. Okay?” His voice was unusually soft and gentle and reassuring for a man his size. She always expected a roar, but he purred. “Melanie’s fine. Really.”
Laura studied his face, his eyes. She believed that he was telling her the truth. Melanie was all right. But Laura was still scared.
Haldane said, “I didn’t get home until seven this morning, fell into bed. Eleven o’clock, my phone rings, and they want me at Valley Medical. They think maybe there’s some link between this homicide and Melanie because—”
“Because what?”
“Well, after all, she’s a patient here. So I’ve been trying to get hold of you—”
“I was out shopping, buying new clothes for her,” Laura said. “What happened? Who’s dead? Are you going to tell me, for God’s sake?”
“A guy in his car. That Volvo over there. Dead in the front seat of his Volvo.”
“Who?”
“According to his ID, his name’s Ned Rink.”
She leaned back against the chain-link fence, her pulse rate gradually slowing from the frantic beat it had attained.
“You ever hear of him?” Haldane asked. “Ned Rink?”
“No.”
“I wondered if maybe he was an associate of your husband’s. Like Hoffritz.”
“Not that I’m aware. The name’s not familiar. Why would you think he knew Dylan? Because of the way he died? Is that it? Was he beaten to death like the others?”
“No. But it was odd.”
“Tell me.”
He hesitated, and from the look in his blue eyes she could see that it was another particularly brutal homicide.
“Tell me,” she said again.
“His throat was crushed, as if someone gave him one hell of a whack with a lead pipe, caught him right acro
ss the Adam’s apple. More than one whack. Lots of damage. Literally pulverized the guy’s windpipe, crushed the Adam’s apple, the vocal cords. Broke his neck. Cracked his spine.”
“Okay,” she said, dry-mouthed. “I get the picture.”
“Sorry. Anyway, it’s not like the bodies in Studio City, but it’s unusual. You can see why we might figure they’re connected. In both cases, the murders involved an unusual degree of violence. This one wasn’t as bad as those, not nearly, but nevertheless . . .”
She pushed away from the fence. “I want to see Melanie.”
Suddenly she had to see Melanie. It was a strong physical need. She had to touch the girl, hold her, be reassured that her child was all right.
She headed away from the parking lot, toward the front entrance of the hospital.
Haldane walked beside her, limping slightly but apparently not in pain.
“You have an accident?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Your leg.”
“Oh. No. Just an old football injury from college. Banged the knee up pretty bad my senior year. Sometimes it acts up in humid weather. Listen, there’s more about the guy in the Volvo, Rink.”
“What?”
“He had an attaché case with him. Inside, there was a white lab coat, a stethoscope, and a pistol fitted with a silencer.”
“He shoot his assailant? Are you looking for someone with a bullet wound?”
“Nope. The piece wasn’t fired. But do you see what I’m driving at? The lab coat? The stethoscope?”
“He wasn’t a doctor, was he?”
“No. What it looks like to us is that maybe he was going to go into the hospital, put on the lab coat, hang the stethoscope around his neck, and pretend to be a doctor.”
She glanced at him as they reached the curb and stepped up onto the sidewalk. “Why would he do that?”
“From a preliminary look, the assistant medical examiner thinks Rink was killed between four and six o’clock this morning, though he wasn’t found until nine forty-five. Now, if he was figuring to visit someone in the hospital at, say, five o’clock in the morning, he’d almost have to try to pass himself off as a doctor, because visiting hours don’t start until one in the afternoon. If he tried to get on one of the medical floors in civilian clothes at that hour, there’s a good chance a nurse or maybe a security guard would stop him. But in a lab coat, with a stethoscope, he could probably breeze right through.”
They had reached the front entrance of the hospital. Laura stopped on the sidewalk. “When you say ‘visit’ you don’t mean ‘visit.’”
“No.”
“So you believe he intended to go into the hospital and kill someone.”
“A man doesn’t carry a pistol with a silencer unless he means to use it. A silencer’s illegal. Law comes down on you hard for that. You get caught with one, you’re in deep sh . . . in deep soup. Besides, I haven’t learned any details yet, but I’m told Rink has a criminal record. He’s suspected of being a freelance hitman for the past few years.”
“A hired killer?”
“I’d almost bet on it.”
“But that doesn’t mean he came here to kill Melanie. Could be someone else in the hospital . . .”
“We already considered that. We’ve been checking the patient list to see if there’s anyone here with a criminal record, or maybe someone who’s a material witness in a case that’s going to trial soon. Or any known dope dealers or members of any organized-crime family. We haven’t found anything so far. Nobody who might’ve been Rink’s target . . . except Melanie.”
“Are you saying maybe this Rink killed Dylan and Hoffritz and the other man in Studio City—then came here to kill Melanie because she saw him do the others?”
“Could be.”
“But then who killed Rink?”
He sighed. “That’s where the logic falls apart.”
“Whoever killed him didn’t want him to kill Melanie,” Laura said.
Haldane shrugged.
She said, “If that’s the case, I’m glad.”
“What’s to be glad about?”
“Well, if someone killed Rink to stop him from killing Melanie, it must mean she doesn’t only have enemies out there. It means she has friends too.”
With unconcealed pity, Haldane said, “No. That isn’t necessarily what it means. The people who killed Rink probably want Melanie just as much as he did—except they want her alive.”
“Why?”
“Because she knows too much about the experiments conducted in that house.”
“Then they’d want her dead too, just like Rink.”
“Unless they need her to continue those experiments.”
Laura knew it was true as soon as he said it, and her shoulders slumped under the weight of this new fear. Why had Dylan been working with a discredited fanatic like Hoffritz? And who was financing them? No legitimate foundation, university, or research institute would give a grant to Hoffritz, not since he had been forced out of UCLA. Nor would any reputable institution fund Dylan, a man who had stolen his own child and was hiding from his wife’s attorneys, a man who was using his daughter as a guinea pig in experiments that had left her on the verge of autism. Whoever provided the money to support Dylan and to conduct that kind of research was insane, every bit as insane as Dylan and Hoffritz.
She wanted it to be over and done with. She wanted to take Melanie out of the hospital, go home, and live happily ever after, because if anyone on earth deserved peace and happiness it was her little girl. But now “they” weren’t going to allow it. “They” were going to try to snatch Melanie away again. “They” wanted the child for reasons and purposes that only “they” understood. And who in the hell were they, anyway? Faceless. Nameless. Laura couldn’t fight an enemy she couldn’t see or, seeing, recognize.
“They’re well informed,” she said. “And they don’t waste time, either.”
Haldane blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Melanie was here at the hospital only a couple of hours before Rink came after her. Didn’t take him long to find out where she’d gotten to.”
“Not long at all,” he agreed.
“Makes you think he had his sources.”
“Sources? In the police department, you mean?”
“Could be. And it didn’t take Rink’s enemies long to learn he was after her,” Laura said. “They all move damn fast, both groups, whoever they are.”
She stood at the front doors of the hospital and studied the traffic moving on the street, as well as the shops and the offices on the other side of the avenue. Sun shining in big plate-glass windows. Sun glinting off the windshields and chrome of the passing cars and trucks. In all that revealing sunlight, she hoped to spot someone suspicious, someone Haldane could chase and catch, but there were only ordinary people doing ordinary things. She was angered by their ordinariness, by the enemy’s failure to step up and identify himself.
Irrationally, even the sunshine and the warm air angered her. Haldane had just told her that someone out there wanted her daughter dead and that someone else wanted to snatch Melanie and shove her back into a sensory-deprivation chamber or maybe into another jerry-built electric chair where they could continue to torture her for God knew what purpose. For that kind of news, the atmosphere was all wrong. The storm shouldn’t have passed already. The sky should still be low, gray, full of churning clouds; rain should be falling, and the wind should be cold and blustery. It just didn’t seem right that the world around her was balmy, that other people were whistling and smiling and strolling in sunshine and having fun, while she was plunging deeper into a bleak, dark, living nightmare.
She looked at Dan Haldane. A breeze stirred his sandy hair, and sunlight sharpened his pleasant features, rendering him more handsome than he really was. Even disregarding the flattery of sun and shadow, however, he was good-looking. In other circumstances, she might have been interested in him. The contrast between his brutish size
and gentleness lent him a certain mystique. The lost potential of this relationship was one more thing she held against the unknown “them.”
“Why were you so eager to reach me?” she asked. “Why were you calling my place for an hour and a half? It wasn’t just to tell me about Rink. You knew I’d be showing up here. You could’ve waited till then to give me the bad news.”
He glanced toward the parking lot, where the morgue wagon was pulling away from the crime scene. When he focused on Laura again, his face was lined, his mouth grim, his eyes direct and dark with worry. “I wanted to tell you to call a private security firm and arrange for an around-the-clock guard at your house, for after you take Melanie home.”
“A bodyguard?”
“More or less, yeah.”
“But if her life’s in danger, won’t the police department provide protection?”
He shook his head. “Not in this case. There’s not been any direct threat against her. No phone calls. No notes.”
“Rink—”
“We don’t know he was here to get Melanie. We only suspect.”
“Just the same—”
“If the state and city weren’t always going through a budget crisis, if police funding hadn’t been cut, if we weren’t chronically short of manpower, maybe we could stretch a point and have your house put under surveillance. But given the current situation, I couldn’t justify it. And if I arrange the surveillance without my captain’s approval, he’ll sell my butt to the Alpo people, and I’ll wind up in cans of dog food. He and I don’t get along so well to begin with. But a security service, professional bodyguards . . . that’s as good as any protection we could supply you even if we had the men to do it. Can you afford to hire them, just for a few days?”
“I suppose so. I don’t know how much something like that costs, but I’m not poor. If you think it’ll be for only a few days—”
“I have a hunch this one’s going to unravel fast. All this killing, all the chances someone’s been taking—it indicates they’re under a lot of pressure, that there’s a time limit of some kind. I haven’t the faintest goddamned idea what they’ve been doing to your kid or why they’re so desperate to get their hands on her again, but I sense this situation’s like a giant snowball, rolling fast down a mountain, fast as an express train, getting bigger and bigger as it goes. Right now, already, it’s real big, gigantic, and it’s not far from the bottom of the mountain. When it finally hits, it’s going to bust into hundreds of pieces.”
As a pediatric psychiatrist, Laura was self-confident, never uncertain as to how she should proceed with a new patient. Of course she deliberated before choosing a course of therapy, but once she had decided on her approach, she implemented it without hesitation. She was a successful healer, a mender, a repairman of the psyche, and her success had given her the confidence and authority that generated more success. But now she was lost. She felt small, vulnerable, powerless. That was a feeling that she hadn’t known for a few years, not since she had learned to accept Melanie’s disappearance.
She said, “I . . . I don’t even know how you . . . how a person goes about finding bodyguards.”
Haldane pulled out his wallet, fished in it, withdrew a card. “Most of the private investigators you sent after Dylan, years ago, probably also offer bodyguard service. We’re not supposed to make recommendations. But I know these guys are good, and their rates are competitive.”
She took the card, looked at it:CALIFORNIA PALADIN, INC.
PRIVATE INVESTIGATION
