by Dean Koontz
“I know,” Max said gently. “I know.”
She went to the bar and jerked the stopper from the bottle of brandy. “I don’t want to be a funnel for other people’s misery! I want to be a mechanism for the destruction of that misery, for the amelioration of that misery, for the prevention of it.” She poured herself a brandy. “If I’m going to have the all-seeing eye of a god, then dammit, I should have the power of a god, too. I should be able to reach out with that power right this minute and find the man we’re after. I should be able to squeeze his heart in a vise of power until it bursts. But I’m not a god. I’m not even a complete mechanism. I’m like half a radio set. I can receive, but I can’t transmit. I can be affected, but I can’t cause an effect.” She drank the brandy as quickly and smoothly as Lou might have done. “I hate it. Hate it. Why do I have to have this power? Why me?”
Later, at the front door, Lou said, “I wish you’d stay here tonight.”
“We’ve seen your guest room,” Max said. “Magazines and books, but no furniture. We appreciate your intellect and the size of your library, but we don’t relish sleeping on stacks of old paperbacks.”
“I could use the living room sofa tonight,” Lou said. “You two could sleep in my room.”
Mary kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a darling man. But we’ll be fine. Really we will. At least until tomorrow night.”
Thursday, December 24
12
AT ONE O’CLOCK in the morning, rain slashed inland from the sea. It made the bare earth slick, flattened the dry grass, bounced off the macadam roadway.
He parked the Mercedes at the end of the paved lane, switched off the engine. Darkness wrapped the car. There was so little light that he could not even see his own hands on the steering wheel. The only sound was the incessant drumming of the rain on the hood and roof.
He decided to wait until the storm passed. The rainy season had come to Southern California; however, sudden cloudbursts like this one seldom lasted long.
The butcher knife was on the seat beside him. He felt for it, picked it up. He could barely see it in the poor light; but he was thrilled by the feel of it as much as by the sight of the well-honed blade. He pressed one finger to the cutting edge, not firmly enough to draw his own blood but hard enough to feel the energy of death lying inert but ready within the tempered steel.
At one-ten the rain slowed to a drizzle. Five minutes after that, it stopped altogether. He opened the car door and got out.
The air was clean and cool. The wind had died down.
Three quarters of a mile to his left and below him, the night around the harbor was strung with lights like Christmas decorations.
The only nearby light came from one of three cottages that stood two hundred yards to the west. These houses were lined up along the cliff, facing seaward, presenting their back doors to the dead-end macadam road. The northernmost cottage, which belonged to Erika Larsson, was seventy yards from its neighbor and stood in a cluster of trees; lights shone from many of its windows.
As he had expected, Erika was awake. Probably working. One of her somber watercolors. Or a disquieting oil painting full of brooding faces rendered in blues and deep greens. She did most of her painting in the calm, early morning hours and went to bed at dawn.
He walked around the back of the Mercedes and opened the trunk. It was littered with guns—an Italian shotgun, two rifles, and seven hand-guns—and boxes of ammunition. He chose a .45 Auto Colt, a custom-made collector’s piece, all the metalwork heavily engraved with wild animals fleeing from the muzzle back toward the handgrip. It was already loaded. All of the guns were loaded. He put the Colt in his jacket pocket and closed the trunk.
Holding the knife at his side, he walked down the dirt lane toward the lighted house. The night was so unrelievedly dark that he occasionally stumbled over the driveway ruts. His shoes squished in the mud.
Mary murmured in her sleep.
In her dream she was with her father. He looked as he had when she was nine years old; and she was a child again. They were sitting on a velvety green lawn. The sun was high; it came straight down on top of them; and they cast no shadows.
“If I help people with my ESP, maybe they’ll love me. I want people to love me, Daddy. ”
“Well, Sweetcakes, I love you. ”
“But you’ll leave me. ”
“Leave my little girl? Nonsense. ”
“You’ll die in the car. Die and leave me. ”
“You mustn’t say things like that. ”
“But—”
“If I did die, you’d still have your mother. ”
“She’s left me already. Left me for her whiskey. ”
“No, no. Your mother still loves you. ”
“She loves whiskey. She forgets my name. ”
“Your brother loves you. ”
“No, he doesn’t. ”
“Mary, what a terrible thing to say!”
“I don’t blame Alan for not loving me. All his pets die because of me. ”
“That’s not your fault. ”
“You know it is. But even if Alan loves me, he’ll leave me someday. Then I’ll be alone. ”
“Someday you’ll meet a man who’ll marry you and love you. ”
“Maybe he’ll love me for a little while. But then he’ll leave, won’t he? Like everyone leaves. I need protection against being left alone. I’m scared of being alone. I need lots of people who love me. If lots and lots of people love me, they won’t all be able to go away at the same time. ”
“Look at the time! I’ve got to be going. ”
“Daddy, you can’t leave me. ”
“I don’t have any choice. ”
“I found Elmo this morning.”
“Alan’s cat?”
“I found him all bloody. ”
“Found him where?”
“At the playhouse. ”
“Not another dead animal?”
“Someone cut him to pieces. ”
“Does Alan know?”
“Not yet. Daddy, he’ll cry. ”
“Jesus, the poor kid. ”
“He’ll be awful mad at me. ”
“Mary... you didn’t...”
“No! Daddy, I wouldn’t do something like that. ”
“After what happened last week...”
“It wasn’t me! It wasn’t!”
“Okay, then it was the Mitchell boy again. ”
“I wish Mrs. Mitchell would move out of town. ”
“Berton Mitchell’s boy cut up Elmo. Alan won’t be mad at you. ”
“But it’s because I had his daddy sent away that he’s coming here and killing all of Alan’s pets. ”
“Alan understands. He doesn’t hold you responsible. ”
“Alan’s still mad because I threw his turtles in the creek last week. ”
“You haven’t explained why you did that. ”
“Something told me to. ”
“You deserved your punishment, you know. They were Alan’s turtles, not yours. ”
“Something told me to. ”
“Who told you to?”
“Something. Something. ”
“Mary, you’re a strange child at times. ”
“Stay here, and I’ll be good. ”
“Got to go. ”
“I’ll be alone if you go. ”
“Got to go. ”
“I’ll be alone with the wings. ”
“Good-bye. ”
“Daddy, the wings!”
Whimpering, weighted down in sleep by the sedative she’d taken, Mary turned over, unaware that she was alone in bed.
He pushed up the unlocked bedroom window and slipped inside without making a sound.
Toward the front of the cottage a stereo was playing one of Joan Baez’ most soulful albums.
He crossed the bedroom and went down the narrow hall to the living room. Erika Larsson was sitting on a high wooden stool with her back to him. She was at a large ease
l, working on an oil painting.
The girl’s black cat, Samantha, was curled up on an easy chair. It raised its head and stared at him with yellow eyes as he came out of the hallway.
There was a pleasant odor in the air. She had made herself some popcorn not long ago.
He was only ten feet from her when she sensed him and turned. “You,” she said.
She was as beautiful as he remembered her. Thick, kinky blond hair. Pale, almost translucent skin. Huge blue eyes. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and her dark nipples were prominent against the thin white material.
She got up from the stool. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer.
The black cat knew something was terribly wrong. It jumped down from the chair and ran into the kitchen.
He took another step toward Erika.
She edged around the easel. “Get out of here.”
He knocked over the easel.
“What do you want?” she asked.
He held up the knife.
“No. Oh, no.”
She backed up against the windows that looked out on the Pacific Ocean.
She held her hands in front of her, as if she would push him away when he tried to close the last few feet between them.
“Mary will know,” Erika said.
He said nothing.
“Mary will see who did it,” she said.
He reached for her.
“She’ll turn you over to the cops. Mary will know! ”
Near dawn.
The black cat named Samantha came out of the kitchen cabinet in which she had hidden and fallen asleep. She yawned and stretched. Then she stood for a minute with her head held high, listening.
The cottage was quiet. The wind soughed softly across the roof.
At last, Samantha padded into the living room. The Christmas tree had been knocked on its side. Ornaments were strewn across the floor; and many of them had been stamped to slivers and dust. Samantha sniffed at a broken glass angel, pushed at its head with one paw. She tasted a crushed candy cane and investigated a broken crucifix that had once hung on the living room wall above the hall door. She nosed around a discarded pair of jeans and a rumpled white T-shirt.
Finally, warily, Samantha circled the body of Erika Larsson and tasted the blood as she had tasted the candy cane.
13
LIKE SCARECROWS FLAPPING on an empty snow-covered field, nightmares had studded her sleep. Most of them were based upon the worst moments of her childhood. This morning filthy rags of those dreams hung around her and made her uneasy, nervous.
Ordinarily, after she showered and before she dressed, she half dried her hair with a towel, then applied one hundred vigorous brush strokes. Now, curiously disturbed by her nakedness, she counted the twenty-eighth stroke and knew that she couldn’t wait through seventy-two more before putting on her clothes.
She usually enjoyed performing this and other morning rituals in the nude. She admitted to being an exhibitionist. (See me, see my lovely breasts and ass and legs, see how unmarked, see how very pretty, like me, love me, love me.) But she was motivated by more than exhibitionism. She felt that by beginning the day unclothed, she acquired a sense of lightness and freedom that stayed with her through the afternoon. Dr. Cauvel said that perhaps by starting each day naked, she was trying to prove to herself that her nightly dreams had left no sign on her, that Berton Mitchell had left no sign on her; but she couldn’t see the logic in that bit of analysis.
Sometimes Max would sit in perfect silence and watch as she brushed her hair and exercised in the nude. He could make her blush by referring to his voyeurism as “reading beautiful poetry.”
But now Max was in the shower. There was no one in the motel room to read her poetry. Yet she felt that someone was staring at her.
Shivering, she put on a brassiere and panties.
When she opened the closet to get slacks and a blouse, she saw Max’s muddy shoes and mud-streaked, blood-stained jacket. As she was examining the dark reddish blots on the jacket, Max came out of the bathroom. He was drying his hair with a towel, and another towel was wrapped around his waist.
“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.
“All I did was take a shower.”
She didn’t smile. She held up the soiled jacket.
“Oh,” he said. “The cut on my finger came open.”
“How did that happen?”
“The bandage tore loose when I tripped and fell.”
“Fell? When was this?”
“Last night,” he said. “After you took your sedative you went right to sleep, but I couldn’t keep my eyes closed. I went for a walk. I was three blocks from the hotel when it started to rain. It was a regular cloudburst. Surprised the hell out of me. I started to run back. Took a short cut through the vacant lot next door, tripped on a stone and fell. Pretty stupid of me. The bandage came off my finger and the cut popped open.”
She winced. Looking down at the jacket in her hands, she said, “You bled a lot.”
“Like a stuck pig.” He held up his hand. The injured finger was swatched in clean gauze and adhesive tape. “It still aches.”
He tossed aside the towel with which he’d been drying his hair, took the jacket from her, turned it over in his hands. “I don’t think any dry cleaner is going to make this look like new.” He took the jacket to the wastebasket and threw it away.
“You should have awakened me when you came in last night,” Mary said.
“You were a mile under.”
“You should have tried.”
“What for? It wasn’t anything serious. I applied pressure for fifteen minutes, until the bleeding completely stopped. Then I put on a new bandage. Nothing to worry about.”
“You should see a doctor.”
He shook his head. “No need.”
“Well, it’s apparently not healing.”
“Give it time. It had just begun to heal when I fell and pulled it open,” he said. “I’ll be more careful.”
“The next time you change bandages,” she said, “I want to see the cut. If it isn’t healing, you’ll go to a doctor even if I have to drag you there.”
He came to her and put his hands on her slender shoulders. “Yes, Mother.” He had a charming smile which he reserved almost exclusively for her.
She sighed and leaned against his chest, where she could hear the slow, steady beat of his heart. “I worry about you.”
“I know,” he said.
“Because I love you.”
“I know.”
“Because I’d die if I lost you.”
He unhooked her brassiere.
“But we don’t have time,” she said.
“We’ll skip breakfast.”
She moved her hands over him. He was solid, powerful. His size and strength had tremendous impact on her. She felt drugged and excited at the same time. Her eyes grew heavy, her legs weak; yet, in her breasts and belly and thighs, she felt an extraordinary heat and tension. The texture of his skin, the steeliness of his muscle and sinew and bone mesmerized her.
He stripped her, then took off the towel he had been wearing around his waist. He kissed her throat. She felt weightless. His hands slid down her back and cupped her buttocks.
“You could hold me so tight,” she said, “squeeze me so tight that you’d cut off my breath. You’re strong enough to break my neck.”
“I don’t want to break your neck,” he murmured.
“But you could. So easily.”
He took her earlobe between his lips.
“If you... broke my neck... I don’t think... I’d care.”
He moved one hand between them and touched the moist center of her.
“You’d be so gentle,” she said dreamily. “Even as you broke me, you’d be gentle. There wouldn’t be pain. You wouldn’t allow pain.”
He took her to the bed.
As he entered her, as the piston of lovemaking grew slick with her clear oils, sh
e thought about being crushed to death in his arms, and she thought how odd it was for her to consider such a thing, and how much stranger still to consider it without fear and with something very like desire, a melancholy longing, a curiously pleasant anticipation, not a death wish but a sweet resignation, and she knew that Dr. Cauvel would say this was a sign of her sickness, that now she was prepared to surrender even her ultimate responsibility (the fundamental responsibility for her own life, for deciding whether or not she was worthy of life), and he would say that she needed to rely more on herself and less on Max, but she didn’t care, didn’t care at all; she just felt the power, Max’s power, and began to call his name, dug her fingers into his unyielding muscle and surrendered willingly.
“Roger Fullet speaking.”
“Your name fits. Fullet, you’re full of it.”
“Lou? Is that you? Lou Pasternak?”
“I called and asked for Roger Fullet, the reporter, and was promptly told it’s now Roger Fullet, the editor.”
“It happened a month ago.”
“The Los Angeles Times is degenerating swiftly.”
“They finally recognized brilliance.”
“Oh? You mean after just promoting you they’re giving your job to someone else?”
“Very funny.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re a funny man.”
“Thank you.”
“Plastic surgery might help.”
“Watch it, Fullet. You’re no match for me.”
“Sorry. Lost my head.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Hey, Lou, I’ve got an office with this job that’s almost as large as your whole shop.”
“They gave you an office so they could lock you in it and keep you out from under foot.”
“I dine with the brass.”