by Dean Koontz
“They’re just dead.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
The boy’s expression was still calm, but his face was flushed. The arteries were throbbing visibly in his temples, as if his blood pressure had soared off the scale.
“Tell me!”
Jack was shaking uncontrollably, increasingly frightened by the cryptic nature of their exchanges, worried that he understood even less of the situation than he thought he did and that his ignorance might lead him to say the wrong thing and somehow put Toby into even greater danger than he already was.
“Tell me!”
Overwhelmed by fear and confusion and frustration, Jack grabbed Toby by the shoulders, stared into his strange eyes. “Who are you?”
No answer.
“What’s happened to my Toby?”
After a long silence: “What’s the matter, Dad?”
Jack’s scalp prickled. Being called “Dad” by this thing, this hateful intruder, was the worst affront yet.
“Dad?”
“Stop it.”
“Daddy, what’s wrong?”
But he wasn’t Toby. No way. His voice still didn’t have its natural inflections, his face was slack, and his eyes were wrong.
“Dad, what’re you doing?”
The thing in possession of Toby apparently hadn’t realized that its masquerade had come undone. Until now it had thought that Jack believed he was speaking with his son. The parasite was struggling to improve its performance.
“Dad, what did I do? Are you mad at me? I didn’t do anything, Dad, really I didn’t.”
“What are you?” Jack demanded.
Tears slid from the boy’s eyes. But the nebulous something was behind the tears, an arrogant puppetmaster confident of its ability to deceive.
“Where’s Toby? You sonofabitch, whatever the hell you are, give him back to me.”
Jack’s hair fell across his eyes. Sweat glazed his face. To anyone coming upon them just then, his extreme fear would appear to be dementia. Maybe it was. Either he was talking to a malevolent spirit that had taken control of his son or he was insane. Which made more sense?
“Give him to me—I want him back!”
“Dad, you’re scaring me,” the Toby-thing said, trying to tear loose of him.
“You’re not my son.”
“Dad, please!”
“Stop it! Don’t pretend with me—you’re not fooling me, for Christ’s sake!”
It wrenched free, turned, stumbled to Tommy’s headstone, and leaned against the granite.
Toppled onto all fours by the force with which the boy broke away from him, Jack said fiercely, “Let him go!”
The boy squealed, jumped as if surprised, and spun to face Jack. “Dad! What’re you doing here?” He sounded like Toby again. “Jeez, you scared me! What’re you sneaking in a cemetery for? Boy, that’s not funny!” They weren’t as close as they had been, but Jack thought the child’s eyes no longer seemed strange; Toby appeared to see him again. “Holy Jeez, on your hands and knees, sneaking in a cemetery.”
The boy was Toby again, all right. The thing that had controlled him was not a good enough actor to be this convincing.
Or maybe he had always been Toby. The unnerving possibility of madness and delusion confronted Jack again.
“Are you all right?” he asked, rising onto his knees once more, wiping his palms on his jeans.
“Almost pooped my pants,” Toby said, and giggled.
What a marvelous sound. That giggle. Sweet music.
Jack clasped his hands to his thighs, squeezing hard, trying to stop shaking. “What’re you…” His voice was quavery. He cleared his throat. “What are you doing up here?”
The boy pointed to the Frisbee on the dead grass. “Wind caught the flying saucer.”
Remaining on his knees, Jack said, “Come here.”
Toby was clearly dubious. “Why?”
“Come here, Skipper, just come here.”
“You going to bite my neck?”
“What?”
“You going to pretend to bite my neck or do something and scare me again, like sneaking up on me, something weird like that?”
Obviously, the boy didn’t remember their conversation while he’d been…possessed. His awareness of Jack’s arrival in the graveyard began when, startled, he’d spun away from the granite marker.
Holding his hands out, arms open, Jack said, “No, I’m not going to do anything like that. Just come here.”
Skeptical and cautious, puzzled face framed by the red hood of the ski suit, Toby came to him.
Jack gripped the boy by the shoulders, looked into his eyes. Blue-gray. Clear. No smoky spiral under the color.
“What’s wrong?” Toby asked, frowning.
“Nothing. It’s okay.”
Compulsively, he pulled the boy close, hugged him.
“Dad?”
“You don’t remember, do you?”
“Huh?”
“Good.”
“Your heart’s really wild,” Toby said.
“That’s all right, I’m okay, everything’s okay.”
“I’m the one scared poopless. Boy, I sure owe you one!”
Jack let go of his son and struggled to his feet. The sweat on his face felt like a mask of ice. He combed his hair back with his fingers, wiped his face with both hands, and blotted his palms on his jeans. “Let’s go back to the house and get some hot chocolate.”
Picking up the Frisbee, Toby said, “Can’t we play awhile first, you and me? A Frisbee’s more fun with two.”
Frisbee tossing, hot chocolate. Normality hadn’t merely returned to the day; it had crashed down like a ton weight. Jack doubted he could have convinced anyone that he and Toby had so recently been deep in the muddy river of the supernatural. His own fear and his perception of uncanny forces were fading so rapidly that already he could not quite recall the power of what he’d felt. Hard gray sky, every scrap of blue chased away beyond the eastern horizon, trees shivering in the frigid breeze, brown grass, velvet shadows, Frisbee games, hot chocolate: the whole world waited for the first spiraling flake of winter, and no aspect of the November day admitted the possibilities of ghosts, disembodied entities, possession, or any otherworldly phenomena whatsoever.
“Can we, Dad?” Toby asked, brandishing the Frisbee.
“All right, for a little while. But not here. Not in this…”
It would sound so stupid to say not in this graveyard. Might as well segue into one of those grotesque Stepin Fetchit routines from old movies, do a double take and roll his eyes and shag his arms at his sides and howl, Feets don’t fail me now.
Instead, he said, “…not so near the woods. Maybe…down there closer to the stables.”
Carrying the flying-saucer Frisbee, Toby sprinted between the gateless posts, out of the cemetery. “Last one there’s a monkey!”
Jack didn’t chase after the boy.
Hunching his shoulders against the chill wind, thrusting his hands in his pockets, he stared at the four graves, again troubled that only Quartermass’s plot was flat and grass-covered. Freakish thoughts flickered in his mind. Scenes from old Boris Karloff movies. Graverobbers and ghouls. Desecration. Satanic rituals in cemeteries by moonlight. Even considering the experience he’d just had with Toby, his darkest thoughts seemed too fanciful to explain why only one grave of four appeared long undisturbed; however, he told himself that the explanation, when he learned it, would be perfectly logical and not in the least creepy.
Fragments of the conversation he’d had with Toby echoed in his memory, out of order:
What are they doing down there? What is dead? What is life?
Nothing lasts forever.
Everything lasts.
Nothing.
Everything becomes.
Becomes what?
Me. Everything becomes me.
Jack sensed that he had enough pieces to put together at least part of the
puzzle. He just couldn’t see how they interlocked. Or wouldn’t see. Perhaps he refused to put them together because even the few pieces he possessed would reveal a nightmare face, something better not encountered. He wanted to know, or thought he did, but his subconscious overruled him.
As he raised his eyes from the mauled earth to the three stones, his attention was caught by a fluttering object on Tommy’s marker. It was stuck in a narrow crack between the horizontal base and the vertical slab of granite: a black feather, three inches long, stirred by the breeze.
Jack tilted his head back and squinted uneasily into the wintry vault directly overhead. The heavens hung low. Gray and dead. Like ashes. A crematorium sky. However, nothing moved above except great masses of clouds.
Big storm coming.
He turned toward the sole break in the low stone wall, walked to the posts, and looked downhill toward the stable.
Toby had almost reached that long rectangular building. He skidded to a halt, glanced back at his laggardly father, and waved. He tossed the Frisbee straight into the air.
On edge, the disc knifed high, then curved toward the south and caught a current of wind. Like a spacecraft from another world, it whirled across the somber sky.
Much higher than the greatest altitude reached by the Frisbee, under the pendulous clouds, a lone bird circled above the boy, like a hawk maintaining surveillance of potential prey, though it was likely a crow rather than a hawk. Circling and circling. A puzzle piece in the shape of a black crow. Gliding on rising thermals. Silent as a stalker in a dream, patient and mysterious.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After sending Jack to discover what Toby was doing among the gravestones, Heather returned to the spare bedroom where she had been working with her computers. She watched from the window as Jack climbed the hill to the cemetery. He stood with the boy for a minute, then knelt beside him. From a distance, everything seemed all right, no sign of trouble.
Evidently, she’d been worried for no good reason. A lot of that going around lately.
She sat in her office chair, sighed at her excessive maternal concern, and turned her attention to the computers. For a while she searched the hard disc of each machine, ran tests, and made sure the programs were in place and that nothing had crashed during the move.
Later, she grew thirsty, and before going to the kitchen to get a Pepsi, she stepped to the window to check on Jack and Toby. They were almost out of her line of view, near the stables, tossing the Frisbee back and forth.
Judging by the heavy sky and by how icy cold the window was when she touched it, snow would begin to fall soon. She was eager for it.
Maybe the change of weather would bring a change in her mood, as well, and help her finally shed the city jitters that plagued her. It ought to be hard to cling to the old paranoia-soaked expectations of life in Los Angeles when they were living in a white wonderland, sparkling and pristine, like a sequined scene on a Christmas card.
In the kitchen, as she opened a can of Pepsi and poured it into a glass, she heard a heavy engine approaching. Thinking it might be Paul Youngblood paying an unexpected visit, she took the tablet from the top of the refrigerator and put it on the counter, so she would be less likely to forget to give it to him before he went home.
By the time she went down the hall, opened the door, and stepped onto the front porch, the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the garage doors. It wasn’t Paul’s white Bronco; it was a similar, metallic-blue wagon, as large as the Bronco, larger than their own Explorer, but of yet another model, with which she wasn’t familiar.
She wondered if anyone in those parts ever drove cars. But of course she had seen plenty of cars in town and at the supermarket. Even there, however, pickup trucks and four-wheel-drive truck-style wagons outnumbered automobiles.
She went down the steps and crossed the yard to the driveway to greet the visitor, wishing she’d paused to put on a jacket. The bitter air pierced even her comfortably thick flannel shirt.
The man who climbed out of the wagon was about thirty, with an unruly mop of brown hair, craggy features, and light-brown eyes kinder than his rugged looks. Closing the driver’s door behind him, he smiled and said, “Howdy. You must be Mrs. McGarvey.”
“That’s right,” she said, shaking the hand he offered.
“Travis Potter. Pleased to meet you. I’m the vet in Eagle’s Roost. One of the vets. A man could go to the ends of the earth, there’d still be competition.”
A big golden retriever stood in the back of the wagon. Its bushy tail wagged nonstop, and it grinned at them through the side window.
Seeing the direction of Heather’s gaze, Potter said, “Beautiful, isn’t he?”
“They’re such gorgeous dogs. Is he a purebred?”
“Pure as they come.”
Jack and Toby rounded the corner of the house. White clouds of breath steamed from them; they had evidently run from the hillside west of the stable, where they’d been playing. Heather introduced them to the vet. Jack dropped the Frisbee and shook hands. But Toby was so enchanted by the sight of the dog that he forgot his manners and went directly to the wagon to stare delightedly through the window at the occupant of the cargo space.
Shivering, Heather said, “Dr. Potter—”
“Travis, please.”
“Travis, can you come in for some coffee?”
“Yeah, come on in and visit a spell,” Jack said, as if he had been a country boy all his life. “Stay to dinner if you can.”
“Sorry, can’t,” Travis said. “But thanks for the invitation. I’ll take a rain check, if you don’t mind. Right now I’ve got calls to make—a couple of sick horses that need tending to, a cow with an infected hoof. With this storm coming, I want to get home early as I can.” He checked his watch. “Almost four o’clock already.”
“Ten-inch snowfall, we hear,” said Jack.
“You haven’t heard the latest. First storm’s built strength, and the second’s no longer a day behind it, more like a couple hours. Maybe two feet accumulation before it’s all done.”
Heather was glad they had gone shopping that morning and that their shelves were well stocked.
“Anyway,” Travis said, indicating the dog, “this fella’s the real reason I stopped by.” He joined Toby at the side of the wagon.
Jack put an arm around Heather to help her keep warm, and they stepped behind Toby.
Travis pressed two fingers against the window, and the dog licked the other side of the glass enthusiastically, whined, and wagged his tail more furiously than ever. “He’s a sweet-tempered fella. Aren’t you, Falstaff. His name’s Falstaff.”
“Really?” Heather said.
“Hardly seems fair, does it? But he’s two years old and used to it now. I hear from Paul Youngblood you’re in the market for just such an animal as Falstaff here.”
Toby gasped. He gaped at Travis.
“Hold your mouth open that wide,” Travis warned him, “and some critter is going to run in there and build a nest.” He smiled at Heather and Jack. “Was this what you had in mind?”
“Just about exactly,” Jack said.
Heather said, “Except, we thought a puppy…”
“With Falstaff, you get all the joy of a good dog and none of that puppy mess. He’s two years old, mature, housebroken, well behaved. Won’t spot the carpet or chew up the furniture. But he’s still a young dog, lots of years ahead of him. Interested?”
Toby looked up worriedly, as if it was beyond conception that such an enormous great good thing as this could befall him without his parents objecting or the ground opening and swallowing him alive.
Heather glanced up at Jack, and he said, “Why not?”
Looking at Travis, Heather said, “Why not?”
“Yes!” Toby made it a one-word expression of explosive ecstasy.
They went to the back of the wagon, and Travis opened the tailgate.
Falstaff bounded out of the wagon to the ground and immediately
began excitedly sniffing everyone’s feet, turning in circles, one way and then the other, slapping their legs with his tail, licking their hands when they tried to pet him, a jubilation of fur and warm tongue and cold nose and heart-melting brown eyes. When he calmed down, he chose to sit in front of Toby, to whom he offered a raised paw.
“He can shake hands!” Toby exclaimed, and proceeded to take the paw and pump it.
“He knows a lot of tricks,” Travis said.
“Where’d he come from?” Jack asked.
“A couple in town, Leona and Harry Seaquist. They had goldens all their lives. Falstaff here was the latest.”
“He seems too nice to just be given up.”
Travis nodded. “Sad case. A year ago, Leona got cancer, was gone in three months. Few weeks back, Harry suffered a stroke, lost the use of his left arm. Speech is slurred, and his memory isn’t so good. Had to go to Denver to live with his son, but they didn’t want the dog. Harry cried like a baby when he said goodbye to Falstaff. I promised him I’d find a good home for the pooch.”
Toby was on his knees, hugging the golden around the neck, and it was licking the side of his face. “We’ll give him the best home any dog ever had anywhere anytime ever, won’t we, Mom, won’t we, Dad?”
To Travis, Heather said, “How sweet of Paul Youngblood to call you about us.”
“Well, he heard mention your boy wanted a dog. And this isn’t the city, everyone living in a rat race. We have plenty of time around here to meddle in other people’s business.” He had a broad, engaging smile.
The chilling breeze had grown stronger as they talked. Suddenly it gusted into a whistling wind, flattened the brown grass, whipped Heather’s hair across her face, and drove needles of cold into her.
“Travis,” she said, shaking hands with him again, “when can you come for dinner?”
“Well, maybe Sunday a week.”
“A week from Sunday it is,” she said. “Six o’clock.” To Toby, she said, “Come on, peanut, let’s get inside.”
“I want to play with Falstaff.”
“You can get to know him in the house,” she insisted. “It’s too cold out here.”
“He’s got fur,” Toby protested.
“It’s you I’m worried about, dummkopf. You’re going to get a frostbitten nose, and then it’ll be as black as Falstaff’s.”