by Dean Koontz
alcohol and then hydrogen peroxide. He applied Neosporin and covered the wounds with gauze pads fixed with adhesive tape.
At 4:27 A.M., according to the nightstand clock, Billy went to bed. A double bed, two sets of pillows. His head on one soft pillow, the hard revolver under the other.
May the judgment not be too heavy upon us….
As his eyelids fell shut of their own weight, he saw Barbara in his mind’s eye, her pale lips forming inscrutable statements.
I want to know what it says, the sea. What it is that it keeps on saying.
He was asleep before the clock counted the half hour.
In his dream, he lay in a coma, unable to move or to speak, but nonetheless aware of the world around him. Doctors in white lab coats and black ski masks loomed, working on his flesh with steel scalpels, carving clusters of bloody acanthus leaves.
Resurgent pain, dull but persistent, woke him at 8:40 Wednesday morning.
At first, he could not remember which of his recent nightmarish experiences had been dreamed, which real. Then he could.
He wanted another Vicodin. Instead, in the bathroom, he shook two aspirin from a bottle.
Intending to take the aspirins with orange juice, he went into the kitchen. He had neglected to put the baking pan, crusted with the residue of lasagna, in the dishwasher. The empty bottle of Elephant beer stood on Dr. Ferrier’s stationery.
Morning light flooded the room. The blinds had been raised. The windows had been covered when he’d gone to bed.
Taped to the refrigerator was a folded sheet of paper, the fourth message from the killer.
chapter 18
HE KNEW BEYOND DOUBT THAT HE HAD engaged the deadbolt in the back door when he had returned from the garage with the needle-nose pliers. Now it was unlocked.
Stepping onto the porch, he surveyed the western woods. A few elms in the foreground, pines beyond.
The morning sun bent all tree shadows in upon the grove and probed those dusky reaches without much illuminating them.
As his gaze traveled the greenwood, seeking the telltale flare of sunlight off the lenses of binoculars, he saw movement. Mysterious forms whidded among the trees, as fluid as the shadows of birds in flight, flickering palely when sunlight dappled them.
A sense of the uncanny overcame Billy. Then the forms broke from the trees, and they were only deer: a buck, two does, a fawn.
He thought that something must have spooked them in the woods, but they gamboled only a few yards onto the lawn before coming to a halt. As serene as deer in Eden, they grazed upon the tender grass.
Returning to the house, leaving the deer to their breakfast, Billy locked the back door even though he gained no safety from the deadbolt. If the killer didn’t possess a key, then he owned lock picks and was experienced in their use.
Leaving the note undisturbed, Billy opened the fridge. He took out a quart of orange juice.
As he drank juice from the carton, washing down the aspirins, he stared at the note taped to the refrigerator. He did not touch it.
He put two English muffins in the toaster. When they were crisp, he spread peanut butter on them and ate at the kitchen table.
If he never read the note, if he burned it in the sink and washed the ashes down the drain, he would be removing himself from the game.
The first problem with that idea was the same that had pricked his conscience before: Inaction counted as a choice.
The second problem was that he himself had become a victim of assault. And he had been promised more.
Are you prepared for your first wound?
The freak had not underlined or italicized first, but Billy understood where the emphasis belonged. Although he had his faults, self-delusion wasn’t one of them.
If he didn’t read the note, if he tried to opt out, he would be even less able to imagine what might be coming than he was now. When the ax fell on him, he would not even hear the blade cutting the air above his head.
Besides, this was in no way a game to the killer, which Billy had realized the previous night. Denied a playmate, the freak would not simply pick up his ball and go home. He would see this through to whatever end he had in mind.
Billy would have liked to carve acanthus leaves.
He wanted to work a crossword puzzle. He was good at them.
Laundry, yard work, cleaning out the rain gutters, painting the mailbox: He could lose himself in the mundane chores of daily life, and take solace in them.
He wanted to work at the tavern and let the hours pass in a blur of repetitive tasks and inane conversations.
All the mystery he needed—and all the drama—was to be found in his visits to Whispering Pines, in the puzzling words that Barbara sometimes spoke and in his persistent belief that there was hope for her. He needed nothing more. He had nothing more.
He had nothing more until this, which he didn’t need and didn’t want—but could not escape.
Finished with the muffins, he took the plate and knife to the sink. He washed them, dried them, and put them away.
In the bathroom, he peeled the bandage off his forehead. Each hook had torn him twice. The six punctures looked red and raw.
Gently he washed the wounds, then reapplied alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, and Neosporin. He fashioned a fresh bandage.
His brow was cool to the touch. If the hook had been dirty, an infection might not be prevented by his precautions, especially if the points and barbs had scored the bone.
He was safe from tetanus. Four years previously, renovating the garage to accommodate a woodworking shop, he’d sustained a deep cut in his left hand, from a hinge that corrosion had made brittle and sharp. He’d gotten a booster shot of DPT vaccine. Tetanus didn’t worry him. He would not die of tetanus.
Neither would he die of infected hook wounds. This was a false worry to give his mind a rest from real and greater threats.
In the kitchen, he peeled the note off the refrigerator. He wadded it in his fist and took it to the waste can.
Instead of throwing the note away, he smoothed it on the table and read it.
Stay home this morning. An associate of mine will come to see you at 11:00. Wait for him on the front porch.
If you don’t stay home, I will kill a child.
If you inform the police, I will kill a child.
You seem so angry. Have I not extended to you the hand of friendship? Yes, I have.
Associate. The word troubled Billy. He did not like that word at all.
In rare cases, homicidal sociopaths worked in pairs. The cops called them kill buddies. The Hillside Strangler in Los Angeles had proved to be a pair of cousins. The D.C. Sniper had been two men.
The Manson Family numbered more than two.
A simple bartender might rationally hope to get the best of one ruthless psychopath. Not two.
Billy did not consider going to the police. The freak had twice proved his sincerity; if disobeyed, he would kill a child.
In this instance, at least, a choice was open to him that did not entail selecting anyone for death.
Although the first five lines of the note were straightforward, the meaning of the last two lines could not be easily interpreted.
Have I not extended to you the hand of friendship?
The mockery was evident. Billy also detected a taunting quality suggesting that information had been offered here that would prove helpful to him if only he could understand it.
Rereading the message six times—eight, even ten—did not bring clarity. Only frustration.
With this note, Billy had evidence again. Although it did not amount to much and would not itself impress the police, he intended to keep it safe.
In the living room, he surveyed the book collection. In recent years, it had been nothing to him except something to be dusted.
He selected In Our Time. He tucked the killer’s note between the copyright page and the dedication page, and he returned the volume to the shelf.
He thou
ght of Lanny Olsen sitting dead in an armchair with an adventure novel in his lap.
In the bedroom, he fetched the .38 Smith Wesson from under the pillow.
As he handled the revolver, he remembered how it felt when it discharged. The barrel wanted to rake up. The backstrap hardened against the meat of the palm, and the recoil traveled the bones of the hand and arm, seeming to churn the marrow as a school of fish churned water.
In a dresser drawer was an open box of ammunition. He put three spare cartridges in each of the front pockets of his chinos.
That seemed to be enough insurance. Whatever might be coming, it would not be a war. It would be violent and vicious, but brief.
He smoothed the night out of the bedclothes. Although he didn’t use a spread, he plumped the pillows and tucked in the sheets so they were as taut as a drum skin.
When he picked up the gun from the nightstand, he remembered not only the recoil but also what it felt like to kill a man.
chapter 19
JACKIE O’HARA ANSWERED HIS CELL PHONE with a line he sometimes used when he worked behind the bar. “What can I do ya for?”
“Boss, it’s Billy.”
“Hey, Billy, you know what they were talking about in the tavern last night?”
“Sports?”
“The hell they were. We’re not a damn sports bar.”
Looking out a kitchen window toward the lawn from which the deer had vanished, Billy said, “Sorry.”
“The guys in sports bars—the drinking doesn’t mean anything to them.”
“It’s just a way to get high.”
“That’s right. They’d as soon smoke a little pot or even get a Starbucks buzz. We’re not a damn sports bar.”
Having heard this before, Billy tried to move the discussion along: “To our customers, the drinking is a kind of ceremony.”
“Beyond ceremony. It’s an observance, a solemnity, almost a kind of sacrament. Not to all of them, but to most. It’s communion.”
“All right. So were they talking about Big Foot?”
“I wish. The best, the really intense barroom talk used to be about Big Foot, flying saucers, the lost continent of Atlantis, what happened to the dinosaurs—”
“—what’s on the dark side of the moon,” Billy interjected, “the Loch Ness monster, the Shroud of Turin—”
“—ghosts, the Bermuda Triangle, all that classic stuff,” Jackie continued. “But it’s not like that so much anymore.”
“I know,” Billy acknowledged.
“They were talking about these professors at Harvard and Yale and Princeton, these scientists who say they’re going to use cloning and stem cells and genetic engineering to create a superior race.”
“Smarter and faster and better than we are,” Billy said.
“So much better than we are,” Jackie said, “they won’t be human at all. It’s in Time or maybe Newsweek, these scientists smiling and proud of themselves right in a magazine.”
“They call it the posthuman future,” Billy said.
“What happens to us when we’re post?” Jackie wondered. “Post is toast. A master race? Haven’t these guys heard of Hitler?”
“They think they’re different,” Billy said.
“Don’t they have mirrors? Some idiots are crossing human and animal genes to create new…new things. One of them wants to create a pig that’s got a human brain.”
“How about that.”
“The magazine doesn’t say why a pig, like it should be obvious why a pig instead of a cat or a cow or a chipmunk. For God’s sake, Billy, isn’t it hard enough being a human brain in a human body? What kind of hell would it be, a human brain in a pig body?”
“Maybe we won’t live to see it,” Billy said.
“Unless you’re planning to die tomorrow, you will. I liked Big Foot better. I liked the Bermuda Triangle and ghosts a lot better. Now all the crazy shit is real.”
“Why I called,” Billy said, “is to let you know I can’t make it to work today.”
With genuine concern, Jackie said, “Hey, what, are you sick?”
“I’m kind of queasy.”
“You don’t sound like you have a cold.”
“I don’t think it’s a cold. It’s like a stomach thing.”
“Sometimes a summer cold starts that way. Better take zinc. They’ve got this zinc gel you squeeze up your nose. It really works. It stops a cold dead.”
“I’ll get some.”
“Too late for vitamin C. You gotta be taking that all along.”
“I’ll get some zinc. Did I call too early, did you close up the tavern last night?”
“No. I went home at ten o’clock. All that talk about pigs with human brains, I just wanted to go home.”
“So Steve Zillis closed up?”
“Yeah. He’s a reliable boy. That stuff I told you, I wish now I hadn’t. If he wants to chop up mannequins and watermelons in his backyard, that’s his business, as long as he does his job.”
Tuesday night was often slow in the bar business. If the traffic grew light, Jackie preferred to lock the tavern before the usual 2:00 A.M. closing time. An open bar with few or no customers in the wee hours is a temptation to a stickup artist, putting employees at risk.
“Busy night?” Billy asked.
“Steve said after eleven it was like the world ended. He had to open the front door and look outside to be sure the tavern hadn’t been teleported to the moon or somewhere. He turned off the lights before midnight. Thank God there aren’t two Tuesdays in a week.”
Billy said, “People like to spend some time with their families. That’s the curse of a family bar.”
“You’re a funny guy, aren’t you?”
“Not usually.”
“If you put that zinc gel up your nose and you don’t feel any better,” Jackie said, “call me back, and I’ll tell you somewhere else you can stuff it.”
“I think you’d have made a fine priest. I really do.”
“Get well, okay? The customers miss you when you’re off.”
“Do they?”
“Not really. But at least they don’t say they’re glad you’re gone.”
Under the circumstances, perhaps only Jackie O’Hara could have made Billy Wiles crack a smile.
He hung up. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty-one.
The “associate” would be here in less than half an hour.
If Steve Zillis had left the tavern shortly before midnight, he would have had plenty of time to go to Lanny’s place, kill him, and move the body to the armchair in the master bedroom.
If Billy had been handicapping suspects, he would have given long odds on Steve. But once in a while, a long shot won the race.
chapter 20
ON THE FRONT PORCH WERE TWO TEAK ROCKING chairs with dark-green cushions. Billy seldom needed the second chair.
This morning, wearing a white T-shirt and chinos, he occupied the one farthest from the porch steps. He didn’t rock. He sat quite still.
Beside him stood a teak cocktail table. On the table, on a cork coaster, was a glass of cola.
He hadn’t drunk any of the cola. He had prepared it as a prop, to distract the eye from consideration of the box of Ritz crackers.
The box contained nothing but the snub-nosed revolver. The only crackers were a stack of three on the table, beside the box.
Bright and clear and hot, the day was too dry to please the grape growers, but it was all right with Billy.
From the porch, between deodar cedars, he could see a long way down the rural road that sloped up toward his house and far beyond.
Not much traffic passed. He recognized some of the vehicles, but he didn’t know to whom they belonged.
Rising off the sun-scorched blacktop, shimmering heat ghosts haunted the morning.
At 10:53, a figure appeared in the distance, on foot. Billy did not expect the associate to hike in for the meeting. He assumed this was not the man.
At first the figure m
ight have been a mirage. The furnace heat distorted him, made him ripple as if he were a reflection on water. Once he seemed to evaporate, then reappeared.
In the hard light, he looked tall and thin, unnaturally thin, as if he had recently hung on a cross in a cornfield, glaring the birds away with his button eyes.
He turned off the county road and followed the driveway. He left the driveway for the grass and, at 10:58, arrived at the bottom of the porch steps.
“Mr. Wiles?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I believe you’re expecting me.”
He had the raw, rough voice of one who had marinated his larynx in whiskey and slow-cooked it in years of cigarette smoke.
“What’s your name?” Billy asked.
“I’m Ralph Cottle, sir.”
Billy had thought the question would be ignored. If the man were hiding behind a false name, John Smith would have been good enough. Ralph Cottle sounded real.
Cottle was as thin as the distorting heat had made him appear to be from a distance, but not as tall. His scrawny neck looked as if it might snap with the weight of his head.
He wore white tennis shoes dark with age and filth. Shiny in spots and frayed