by Dean Koontz
“Good,” Winton said, “‘cause I’m sure not planning on dying.”
The wounded policeman was not only fully conscious but alert and apparently suffering no pain. His bed was raised to a sitting position. Although his broad chest was heavily bandaged, and although a cardiac telemetry device hung around his neck, and in spite of the IV line that was dripping glucose and antibiotics into the median basilic vein in his left arm, he looked remarkably well considering his recent misadventure.
Father Wycazik stood at the foot of the bed, his tension betrayed only by the way he kept turning his black fedora around and around in his strong hands. When he realized what he was doing, he quickly put the hat on a chair.
He said, “Mr. Tolk, if you feel up to it, I’ve come to ask you a few questions about what happened yesterday.”
Both Tolk and his wife looked puzzled by Stefan’s curiosity.
The priest gave a partial explanation for his interest—though only partial. “The fellow who cruised the uptown district with you for the past week, Brendan Cronin, was in my employ,” he said, maintaining Brendan’s cover as a lay worker for the Church.
“Oh, I’d like to meet him,” Raynella said, her face brightening.
“He saved my life,” Tolk said. “He did a crazy-brave thing, which he shouldn’t have done in a million years, but I’m sure glad he did it.”
Raynella said, “Mr. Cronin walked into that sandwich shop not knowing if all the gunmen were dead, not knowing if he might be shot.”
“It’s strictly against police procedure to walk into a situation like that,” Winton said. “I’d have handled it by the book myself if I’d been one of those outside. I can’t exactly applaud what Brendan did, Father, but I owe him my life for doing it.”
“Amazing,” Father Wycazik said, as if this were the first time he had heard of Brendan’s bravery. In fact, yesterday he had spoken at length with Winton Tolk’s precinct captain, an old friend, and had heard Brendan praised for courage and damned for foolishness. “I’ve always known Brendan’s a dependable fellow. Did he also provide first aid?”
“He might have,” Winton said. “Don’t really know. I remember regaining consciousness ... and there he was ... sort of looming over me ... calling my name ... but I was still in a haze, you see.”
“It’s a miracle Win survived,” Raynella said in a tremulous voice.
“Now, now, honey,” Winton said softly. “I did make it, and that’s all that counts.” When he was sure his wife would be all right, he looked at Stefan and said, “Everyone’s amazed that I could lose so much blood and pull through. From what I hear, I must’ve lost buckets.”
“Did Brendan apply a tourniquet?”
Tolk frowned. “Don’t know. Like I said, I was in a haze, a daze.”
Father Wycazik hesitated, wondering how to find out what he needed to know without revealing the extraordinary possibility that motivated this visit. “I know you’re not very clear about what happened but ... did you notice anything peculiar about ... Brendan’s hands?”
“Peculiar? What do you mean?”
“He touched you, didn’t he?”
“Sure. I guess he felt for a pulse ... then checked around to see where the bleeding was coming from.”
“Well, did you feel anything ... anything unusual when he touched you ... anything odd?” Stefan asked carefully, frustrated by the need to be vague.
“I don’t seem to be following your line of thought, Father.”
Stefan Wycazik shook his head. “Never mind. The important thing is that you’re well.” He glanced at his watch and, feigning surprise, said, “Good heavens, I’m late for an appointment.” Before they could respond, he snatched his hat from the chair, wished them godspeed, and hurried out, no doubt leaving them astonished by his behavior.
When people saw Father Wycazik walking toward them, they were usually reminded of drill sergeants or football coaches. His solid body and the self-confident, aggressive way he used it were not what one expected of a priest. And when he was in a hurry, he was not so much like a drill sergeant or a football. coach as he was like a tank.
From Tolk’s room, Father Wycazik blitzed down the hall, shoved through a pair of heavy swinging doors, then through another pair, into the intensive care unit, where the wounded policeman had been until just an hour ago. He asked to speak to the physician on duty, Dr. Royce Albright. With the hope that God would forgive a few little white lies told in a good cause, Stefan identified himself as the Tolk family’s priest and implied that Mrs. Tolk had sent him to get the full story of her husband’s condition, about which she was not yet entirely clear.
Dr. Albright looked like Jerry Lewis and had a deep rumbling voice like Henry Kissinger, which was disconcerting, but he was willing to answer whatever questions Father Wycazik wished to pose. He was not Winton Tolk’s personal physician, but he was interested in the case. “You can assure Mrs. Tolk that there’s almost no danger of a setback. He’s coming along marvelously. Shot twice in the chest, point-blank, with a .38. Until yesterday, no one here would’ve believed that anyone could take two shots in the chest from a large-caliber handgun and be out of intensive care in twenty-four hours! Mr. Tolk is incredibly lucky.”
“The bullets missed the heart, then ... and all vital organs?”
“Not only that,” Albright said, “but neither round did major damage to any veins or arteries. A .38-caliber slug has lots of punch, Father. Ordinarily, it chews up the victim. In Tolk’s case, one major artery and vein were nicked, but neither was severed. Very fortunate, indeed.”
“Then I suppose the bullet was stopped by bone at some point.”
“Deflected, yes, but not stopped. Both slugs were found in soft tissue. And that’s another amazing thing—no shattered bones, not even a small fracture. A very lucky man.”
Father Wycazik nodded. “When the two slugs were removed from his body, was there any indication they were underweight for .38-caliber ammunition? I mean, maybe the cartridges were faulty, with too little lead in the bullets. That would explain why, even though it was a .38 revolver, the shots did less damage than a pair of .22s.”
Albright frowned. “Don’t know. Could be. You’d have to ask the police ... or Dr. Sonneford, the surgeon who took the slugs out of Tolk.”
“I understand Officer Tolk lost a great deal of blood.”
Grimacing, Albright said, “Must be a mistake about that on his chart. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Dr. Sonneford today, it being Christmas, but according to the chart, Tolk received over four liters of whole blood in the operating room. Of course, that can’t be correct.”
“Why not?”
“Father, if Tolk actually lost four liters of blood before they got him to the hospital, there wouldn’t be enough in him to maintain even minimal circulation. He’d have been dead. Stone cold dead.”
Las Vegas, Nevada.
Mary and Pete Monatella, Jorja’s parents, arrived at her apartment at six on Christmas morning, bleary-eyed and grumpy from too little sleep, but determined to take up their rightful posts by the brightly trimmed tree before Marcie awoke. Mary, as tall as Jorja, had once been almost as shapely as her daughter too; now she was heavy, girdled. Pete was shorter than his wife, barrel-chested, a bantam rooster who seemed to strut when he walked but was one of the most self-effacing men Jorja had ever known. They came burdened with presents for their only grandchild.
They had a present for Jorja—plus the usual gifts they brought every time they visited: well-meant but annoying criticism, unwanted advice, guilt. Mary was hardly through the door before she announced that Jorja should clean the ventilation hood above the range, and she rummaged under the sink until she found a spray bottle of Windex and a rag, with which she performed the chore herself. She also observed that the tree looked underdecorated—“It needs more lights, Jorja!”—and when she saw how Marcie’s presents were wrapped, she professed despair. “My God, Jorja, the wrapping papers aren’t bright enough. Th
e ribbons aren’t big enough. Little girls like bright papers with Santa Claus on them and lots of ribbons.”
For his part, her father was content to focus all of his discontent upon the huge tray of cookies on the kitchen counter. “These are all store-bought, Jorja. Didn’t you make any homemade cookies this year?”
“Well, Dad, I’ve been working a little overtime lately, and then there’re the classes I’m taking at UNLV, and—”
“I know it’s hard being a single mother, baby,” he said, “but we’re talking fundamentals here. Homemade cookies are one of the best parts of Christmas. It’s an absolute fundamental.”
“Fundamental,” Jorja’s mother agreed.
The Christmas spirit had been late in coming to Jorja this year, and even now she had a tenuous grip on it. Subject to her parents’ well-intentioned but infuriating nonstop commentary on her shortcomings, she might have lost the holiday mood altogether if Marcie had not put in a timely appearance at six-thirty, just after Jorja had slipped a fourteen-pound turkey into the oven for the big meal later in the day. The girl shuffled into the living room in her pajamas, as cute as any idealized child in a Norman Rockwell painting.
“Did Santa bring my Little Ms. Doctor kit?”
Pete said, “He brought you more than that, pumpkin. Look here! Just look at all Santa brought.”
Marcie turned and saw the tree—which “Santa” had put up during the night—and the mountain of gifts. She gasped. “Wow!”
The child’s excitement was transmitted to Jorja’s parents, and for the time being they forgot about such things as dusty ventilation hoods and store-bought cookies. For a while the apartment was filled with joyous, busy sounds.
But by the time Marcie had opened half her gifts, the celebratory mood began to change, and in crept a little of the darkness that would reappear in a far more frightening form later in the day. In a whiny voice that was out of character, the girl grumped that Santa had not remembered the Little Ms. Doctor kit. She discarded a much-wanted doll without even taking it out of its box, moving to the next package in the hope that it contained Little Ms. Doctor, clawing at the wrappings. Something in the child’s demeanor, a queerness in her eyes, disquieted Jorja. Soon Mary and Pete noticed it as well. They began urging Marcie to take more time with each present, to get more pleasure out of each before rushing on to the next, but their entreaties were not successful.
Jorja had not put the doctor play-kit under the tree; it was hidden in a closet as a final surprise. But with only three boxes left, Marcie was pale and trembling in anticipation of Little Ms. Doctor.
In God’s name, what was so important about it? Many of the toys already unwrapped were more expensive and more interesting than the play-doctor’s bag. Why was her attention so intently and unnaturally focused on that single item? Why was she so obsessed with it?
When the last of the gifts beneath the tree and the last of those from Mary and Pete were opened, Marcie let out a sob of purest misery. “Santa didn’t bring it! He forgot! He forgot!”
Considering all the wondrous presents strewn across the room, the girl’s despondency was shocking. Jorja was disconcerted and displeased by Marcie’s rudeness, and she saw that her own parents were startled, dismayed, and impatient with this unexpected and unjustified tantrum.
Suddenly afraid that Christmas was collapsing into ruins around her, Jorja ran to the bedroom closet, plucked the crucial gift from behind the shoe boxes, and returned to the living room with it.
With frenzied desperation, Marcie snatched the box from her mother.
“What’s gotten into the child?” Mary asked.
“Yeah,” Pete said, “what’s so important about this Little Doctor?”
Marcie tore frantically at the wrappings until she saw that the package contained the item she most desired. Immediately, she grew calm, stopped trembling. “Little Ms. Doctor. Santa didn’t forget!”
“Honey, maybe it’s not from Santa,” Jorja said. She was relieved to see the child she loved emerging from that strange and unpleasant mood. “Not all your gifts came from Santa. Better look at the tag.”
Marcie dutifully searched for the tag, read the few words on it, and looked up with an uncertain smile. “It’s from ... Daddy.”
Jorja felt her parents’ staring at her, but she did not meet their eyes. They knew that Alan had gone off to Acapulco with his latest bimbo, the airhead blond named Pepper, and that he had not bothered to leave so much as a card for Marcie, and they no doubt disapproved of Jorja letting him off the hook like this.
Later, when Jorja was in the kitchen, squatting in front of the oven, checking on the turkey, her mother stooped down beside her and said softly, “Why’d you do it, Jorja? Why’d you put that louse’s name on the gift she wanted most of all?”
Jorja slid the rack partway out of the oven, bringing the turkey into the light. With a ladle, she scooped the drippings from the pan and basted the roasting bird. Finally she said, “Marcie shouldn’t have her Christmas ruined just because her father’s a jackass.”
“You shouldn’t protect her from the truth,” Mary said quietly.
“The truth’s too ugly for a seven-year-old.”
“The sooner she knows what a louse her father is, the better. You know what your dad heard about this woman Alan’s living with?”
“I sure hope this bird’s going to be done by noon.”
Mary would not drop the subject. “She’s on the call list of two casinos, Jorja. That’s what Pete heard. You know what I mean? She’s a call girl. Alan’s living with a call girl. What’s wrong with him?”
Jorja closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Mary said, “Well, if he wants nothing to do with Marcie, that’s fine. God knows what diseases he’s picked up living with that woman.”
Jorja pushed the turkey back into the oven, closed the door, and stood up. “Could we not talk about this any more?”
“I thought you’d want to know what the woman is.”
“So now I know.”
Their voices dropped lower, became more intense: “What if he comes around some day and says, ‘Pepper and I want Marcie to go to Acapulco with us,’ or Disneyland, or maybe just stay at their place for a while?”
Exasperated, Jorja said, “Mother, he doesn’t want anything to do with Marcie because she reminds him of his responsibilities.”
“But what if—”
“Mother, damn it!”
Although Jorja had not raised her voice, there was such anger in those three words that the effect on her mother was immediate. A hurt look crossed Mary’s face. Stung, she turned away from Jorja. She went quickly to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked over the contents of the overloaded shelves. “Oh, you made gnocchi.”
“Not store-bought,” Jorja said shakily. “Homemade.” She meant to be conciliatory, but she realized that her comment might be misconstrued as a snide reference to her father’s dismay over store-bought cookies. She bit her lip, and fought back scalding tears.
Still looking into the refrigerator, a tremor still in her voice, Mary said, “You’re going to have potatoes, too? And what’s this—oh, you’ve already grated the cabbage for coleslaw. I thought you’d need help, but I guess you’ve thought of everything.” She closed the refrigerator door and looked for something she could do to occupy her and get them through this awkward moment. Tears were visible in her eyes.
Jorja virtually flung herself away from the counter and threw her arms around her mother. Mary returned the hug, and for a while they clung to each other, finding speech both unnecessary and impossible.
Holding fast, Mary said, “I don’t know why I’m like this. My mother was the same with me. I swore I’d never be like this with you.”
“I love you just the way you are.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re my only. If I’d been able to have a couple others, I wouldn’t be so tough on you.”
“It’s partly my fault, Mom. I’ve been so touchy late
ly.”
“And why shouldn’t you be?” her mother said, holding her tight. “That louse walks out on you, you’re supporting yourself and Marcie, going to school.... You got every right to be touchy. We’re so proud of you, Jorja. It takes such courage to do what you’re doing.”
In the living room, Marcie began shrieking.
What now? Jorja wondered.
When she got to the living room archway, she saw her father trying to persuade Marcie to play with a doll. “Look here,” Pete said, “dolly cries when you tilt her this way, giggles when you tilt her that way!”
“I don’t want to play with the dumb doll,” Marcie pouted. She was holding the make-believe plastic-and-rubber hypodermic syringe from the Little Ms. Doctor kit, and that unsettling intensity and urgency had taken possession of her again. “I want to give you another shot.”
“But honey,” Pete said, “you’ve already given me twenty shots.”
“I’ve got to practice,” Marcie said. “I’ll never grow up to be my own doctor if I don’t start practicing now.”
Pete looked at Jorja with exasperation.
Mary said, “What is it with this Little Ms. Doctor thing?”
“I wish I knew,” Jorja said.
Marcie grimaced as she pushed the plunger of the fake hypodermic. Perspiration glistened on her brow.
“I wish I knew,” Jorja repeated uneasily.
Boston, Massachusetts.
It was the worst Christmas of Ginger Weiss’s life.
Although Jewish, her beloved father had always celebrated Christmas in a secular spirit, because he liked the harmony and good will that the holiday promoted, and after his death, Ginger had continued to regard December 25 as a special day, a time of joy. Until today, Christmas had never depressed her.
George and Rita did all they could to make Ginger feel a part of their celebration, but she was acutely aware that she was an outsider. The Hannabys’ three sons had brought their families to Baywatch for several days, and the huge house was filled with the silvery laughter of children. Everyone made an effort to include Ginger in all the Hannaby traditions, from popcorn-stringing to neighborhood caroling.
Christmas morning, she was there to watch the children attack the mountain of gifts, and following the example of the other adults, she crawled around on the floor with the kids, helping them assemble and play with their new toys. For a couple of hours, her despair abated, and she was assimilated by the Hannaby family in spite of herself.
However, at lunch—rich with holiday delicacies yet essentially a light meal, just a hint of the extravagant dinner feast to come that evening—Ginger felt out of place again. Much conversation involved reminiscences of previous holidays of which she’d not been a part.
After lunch, she pleaded a headache and escaped to her room. The splendid view of the bay calmed her but couldn’t arrest her spiral into depression. She desperately hoped Pablo Jackson would call tomorrow and say that he had studied the problem of memory blocks and was ready to hypnotize her again.
Ginger’s visit to Pablo had distressed George and Rita less than she had expected. They were upset that she had gone out alone, risking an amnesic seizure with no friend to help her, and they made her promise she would allow either Rita or one of the servants to drive her to and from Pablo’s apartment in the future, but they did not attempt to argue against the unconventional treatment she had sought from the magician.
The bay view’s capacity to calm Ginger was limited. She turned from the window, got up, and went to the bed, where she was surprised to find two books on the nightstand. One was a fantasy by Tim Powers, an author she had read before, the other a copy of something called Twilight in Babylon, and she had no idea where they had come from.
There were half a dozen other books in the room, borrowed from the library downstairs, for during the past few weeks she had had little to do but read. But this was the first time she’d seen Powers’ book and Twilight in Babylon. The former, a tale of time-traveling trolls fighting their own secret war against British goblins during the American revolution, looked delightful, the type of exotic story that her father had enjoyed. A slip of paper laid loosely in the front identified it as a review copy. Rita had a friend who was a reviewer for the Globe, and who sometimes passed along intriguing books before they were available in the stores. Evidently, these had come within the last day or two, and Rita, aware of Ginger’s tastes in fiction, had put them in her room.
She set the Powers book aside for later delectation, and she took a closer look at Twilight in Babylon. She had never heard of the author, Dominick Corvaisis, but the brief summary of the story was intriguing, and when she had read the first page, she was hooked. However, before continuing, she moved from the bed to one of the comfortable chairs and, only then, glanced at the author’s photograph on the back of the jacket.
Her breath caught in her throat. Fear filled her.
For a moment she thought the photograph was going to be the kicker that knocked her into another fugue. She tried to fling the book aside but could not, tried to stand up but could not. She drew deep breaths, closed her eyes, and waited for her pulse rate to sink toward normal.
When she opened her eyes and looked at the author’s photograph again, it still disturbed her, though not as badly as it had at first. She knew that she had seen this man before, had met him somewhere, and not in the best of