trouble seeing how intimately flesh and machine had joined.
Fear was the only emotion Dora had felt in weeks. She thought she had
known it in all its shades and degrees. But now it fell over her with
greater force, darker and more intense, than anything she had
experienced before.
A glistening probe erupted from the wall to Dora's right, le was more
metallic than not, yet it dripped what appeared to b* yellowish mucus.
The thing shot straight to one of the secretaries and bloodlessly
pierced the back of her head. From the top one of the other women's
heads, another probe erupted, r( like a snake to the music of a
charmer's flute, hesitated, then with tremendous speed snapped to the
ceiling, piercing t4 acoustic tile without disturbing it, and vanished
toward the room above.
Dora sensed that all of the computers and people of Nev Wave had somehow
linked into a single entity and that the building 379 itself was swiftly
being incorporated into it. She wanted to but couldn't move-maybe
because she knew any escape attempt would prove futile.
A moment later they plugged her into the network.
Soldonna was carefully taping up a sign on the wall behind the front
desk at the Moonlight Cove Town Library. It was part of Fascinating
Fiction Week, a campaign to get kids to read more fiction.
She was the assistant librarian, but on Tuesdays, when her boss, Cora
Danker, was off, Betsy worked alone. She liked Cora, but Betsy also
liked being by herself. Cora was a talker, filling every free minute
with gossip or her boring observations on the characters and plots of
her favorite TV programs. Betsy, a lifelong bibliophile obsessed with
books, would have been delighted to talk endlessly about what she'd
read, but Cora, though head librarian, hardly read at all.
Betsy tore a fourth piece of Scotch tape off the dispenser and fixed the
last corner of the poster to the wall. She stepped back to admire her
work.
She had made the poster herself. She was proud of her modest artistic
talent. In the drawing, a boy and a girl were holding books and staring
bug-eyed at the open pages before them. Their hair was standing on end.
The girl's eyebrows appeared to have jumped off her face, as had the
boy's ears. Above them was the legend BOOKS ARE PORTABLE FUNHOUSES,
FILLED WITH THRILLS AND SURPRISES.
From back in the stacks at the other end of the library came a curious
sound-a grunt, a choking cough, and then what might have been a snarl.
Next came the unmistakable clatter of a row of books falling from a
shelf to the floor.
The only person in the library, other than Betsy, was Dale Foy, a
retiree who'd been a cashier at Lucky's supermarket until three years
ago when he'd turned sixty-five. He was always searching for thriller
writers he had never read before and complaining that none of them was
as good as the really old-time tale-spinners, by which he meant John
Buchan rather than Robert Louis Stevenson.
Betsy suddenly had the terrible feeling that Mr. Foy had suffered a
heart attack in one of the aisles, that she had heard him
gurgling for help, and that he had pulled the books to the floor when
he'd grabbed at a shelf. In her mind she could see him writhing in
agony, unable to breathe, his face turning blue an( his eyes bulging, a
bloody foam bubbling at his lips. . . .
Years of heavy reading had stropped Betsy's imagination until it was as
sharp as a straight razor made from fine German steel She hurried around
the desk and along the head of the aisles looking into each of the
narrow corridors, which were flanked by nine-foot-high shelves.
"Mr. Foy? Mr. Foy, are you alright?
" In the last aisle she found the fallen books but no sign of Dale Foy.
Puzzled, she turned to go back the way she had come, and there was Foy
behind her. But changed. And even Betsy So donna's sharp imagination
could not have conceived of the thing that Foy had become-or of the
things that he was about to do to her. The next few minutes were as
filled with surprises as a hundred books she had ever read, though there
was not a happy) ending.
Because of the dark storm clouds that clotted the sky, an dead twilight
crept over Moonlight Cove, and the entire town seemed to be celebrating
Fascinating Fiction Week at the library. The dying day was, for many,
filled with thrills and surprises, just like a funhouse in the most
macabre carnival that had ever pitched its tents.
Sam swept the beam of the flashlight around the attic. It had a
rough board floor but no light fixture. Nothing was stored there except
dust, spider webs, and a multitude of dead, dry bees that had built
nests in the rafters during the summer and had died - 381 due to the
work of an exterminator or at the end of their satisfied, he returned to
the trapdoor and went backward down - wooden rungs, into the closet of
Harry's third-floor bedroom. They had removed many of the hanging
clothes to be able to open the trap and draw down the collapsible
ladder.
Tessa, Chrissie, Harry, and Moose were waiting for him just outside the
closet door, in the steadily darkening bedroom.
Sam said, "Yeah, it'll do.
" - -I haven't been up there since before the war," Harry said.
"A little dirty, a few spiders, but you'll be safe. If you're not at
the end of their list, if they do come for you early, they'll find the
house empty, and they'll never think of the attic. Because how could a
man with two bad legs and one bad arm drag himSelf up there?"
Sam was not sure that he believed what he was saying. But for his own
peace of mind as well as Harry's, he wanted to believe.
"Can I take Moose up there with me?"
"Take that handgun you mentioned," Tessa said, "but not Moose.
Well-behaved as he is, he might bark at just the wrong moment.
"
"Will Moose be safe down here . . . when they come?"
Chrissie wondered.
"I'm sure he will be," Sam said.
"They don't want dogs.
Only people."
"We better get you up there, Harry," Tessa said.
"It's twenty Past five. We've got to be out of here soon."
The bedroom was filling with shadows almost as rapidly as a Ous filling
with blood-dark wine.
THE NIGHT BELONGS TO THEM Montgomery told me that's the Law. became
oddly weakened about nightfall; that then the animal was at its
strongest; a spirit of adventure sprang up in them at the dusk they
would dare things they never seemed to dream about by day.
-H. G. WELLS, The Island of Dr. Moreau The scrub-covered hills that
surrounded the abandoned Icarus colony coyotes gophers and field mice
and rabbits and a few foxes .=tumbled out of their burrows and shivered
in the rain, listen. In the two nearest stands of pine, sweet gum, and
autumn birch, one just to the south and one immediately east of the old
colony, squirrels and raccoons stood to attention.
The birds were the first to respond. In spite of the rain, they flew
from their sheltered nests in the
trees, in the dilapidated old barn,
and in the crumbling eaves of the main building itself. Cowing and
screeching, they spiraled into the sky, darted and ramped, then streaked
directly to the house. Starlings, wrens, owls, and hawks all came in
shrill and flapping profusely". Some flew against the walls, as if
struck blind, battening constantly until they broke their necks, or
until they snapped their wings and fell to the ground where they
fluttered and flapped until they were exhausted or had perished. Others,
equally frenzied, found open doorways and windows through which they
entered without damaging themselves.
Though wildlife within a two-hundred-yard radius had heard the call,
only the nearer animals responded obediently. Rabbits hopped, squirrels
scurried, coyotes loped, foxes dashed, and raccoons waddled in that
curious way of theirs, through wet grass rain-bent weeds and mud, toward
the source of the siren song. Some were predators and some, by nature,
were timid creatures, but they moved side by side without conflict. It
might have been a scene from an animated Disney film-the neighborly and
harmonious folk of field and forest responding to the sweet guitar Or
harmonica music of some elderly black man who, when they gathered around
him, would tell them stories of magic and adventure- But there was no
kindly, tale-spinning Negro where they were going, and the music that
drew them was cold, and without melody.
While Sam struggled to lift Harry up the ladder and into the attic,
Tessa and Chrissie took the wheelchair to the basement garage. It was a
heavy-duty motorized model, not a light colapsible chair, and would not
fit through the trap. Tessa Chrissie parked it just inside the big
garage door, so it looked as if Harry had gotten this far in his chair
and had left the house, perhaps in a friend's car.
"You think they'll fall for it?" Chrissie asked worriedly.
"There's a chance," Tessa said.
"Maybe they'll even think Harry left town yesterday before the
roadblocks went up."
Tessa agreed, but she knew-and suspected Chrissie knew that the chance
of the ruse working was slim. If Sam and Harry really had been as
confident in the attic trick as they pretended they would have wanted
Chrissie to be tucked up there, instead of sent out into the
storm-lashed, nightmare world of Moonlight Cove.
They rode the elevator back to the third floor, where Sam was just
folding the ladder and pushing the trapdoor into place. Moose watched
him curiously.
"Five forty-two," Tessa said, checking her watch.
Sam snatched up the closet pole, which he'd had to remove to pull down
the trap, and he reinserted it into its braces.
They put the clothes back."
Shirts and slacks, still on hangers, had been transferred to the bed.
Working together, passing the garments like amateur firemen relaying
pails of water, they quickly restored the closet to its former
appearance.
- 387 Tessa noticed that traces of fresh blood were soaking through the
baandage on Sam's right wrist. His wounds were pulling exertion.
Although they weren't mortal injuries, they hurt a lot, and anything
that weakened or distracted him during the ordeal ahead decreased their
chances of success.
At the door, Sam said, "God, I hate to leave him there.
thirty-six, " Tessa reminded him. She pulled on a leatherjacket, and
while Chrissie slipped into a too-large but waterproof blue nylon
windbreaker that belonged to Harry, Sam reloaded his revolver. He had
used up all the rounds in his pockets while at the Coltranes'. But
Harry owned a .45 revolver and a .38 pistol, both of which he had taken
with him into the attic, and he had a box of ammunition for each, so Sam
had taken a score or so of the .38 cartridges.
holstering the gun, he went to the telescope and studied the - terrane
that lay west and south toward Central School.
"Still lots of cops off-duty," he reported.
-"Patrols?" Tessa asked.
"But also lots of rain. And fog's coming in faster, thicker."
Thanks to the storm, an early twilight was upon them and day was fading.
Although some bleak light still burned above the churning clouds, night
might as well have fallen, for cloaks of gloom lay over the wet and
huddled town.
"Five fifty," Tessa said.
Chrissie said, "If Mr. Talbot's at the top of their list, they could be
here any minute."
Turning from the telescope, Sam said, "All right. Let's go."
Tessa and Chrissie followed him out of the bedroom. They took the
stairs down to the first floor.
Moose used the elevator.
Shaddack was a child tonight.
Circling repeatedly through Moonlight Cove, from the sea the the hills,
from Holliwell Road on the north to Paddock Lane on the south, he could
not remember ever having been in a better mood. He altered the patterns
of his patrol, largely to be sure that eventually he would cover every
block of every street in town; the sight of each house and every citizen
on foot in the storm affected him in a way they never had previously,
because soon they would be his to do with as he pleased.
He was filled with excitement and anticipation, the likes of which he
had not felt since Christmas Eve when he was a young boy. Moonlight
Cove was a huge toy, and in a few hours, when midnight struck, when this
dark evening ticked over into the hole( he would be able to have so much
fun with his marvelous toy. He would indulge in games which he had long
wanted to but which he had denied himself. Henceforth, no urge or
desire would be denied, for despite the bloodiness or outrageousness of
whatever game he chose, there would be no referees, no authorities, to
penalize him.
And like a child sneaking into a closet to filch coins from his father's
coat to buy ice cream, he was so completely transformed by contemplation
of the rewards that he had virtually forgotten there was a potential for
disaster. Minute by minute, the threat of the regressives faded from
his awareness. He did not entirely forget about Loman Watkins, but he
no longer was able to remember exactly why he had spent the day hiding
from the police chief in the garage at the Parkins house.
More than thirty years of unrelenting self-control, stamina and
undeviating application of his mental and physical resources, beginning
with the day he had murdered his - parents and 389 Runningdeer, thirty
years of repressing his needs and desires, sublimating them in his work,
had at last led him to the brink of his dream's realization. He could
not doubt. To question his mission or worry about its outcome would be
to doubt his sacred destiny and insult the great spirits who had
fashioned him. He was now incapable of even seeing a downside; he
turned his
mind away from any incipient thought of disaster.
He sensed the great spirits in the storm.
He sensed them moving secretly through his town.
They were there to witness and approve his ascension to the throne of
destiny.
He had eaten no cactus candy since the day he had killed his mother,
father, and the Indian, but over the years he had been subject to vivid
flashbacks. They came upon him unexpectedly.
one moment he would be in this world, and the next instant he would be
in that other place, the eerie world parallel to this one, where the
cactus candy had always conveyed him, a reality in which colors were
simultaneously more vivid and more subtle, where every object seemed to
have more angles and dimensions than in the ordinary world, where he
seemed to be strangely weightless-buoyant as a helium-filled balloon-and
where the voices of spirits spoke to him- The flashbacks had been
frequent during the year following the murders, striking him about twice
a week, then had gradually declined in number-though not in
intensity-through his teenage years. Those dreamy, fugue-like spells,
which usually lasted an hour or two but could occasionally last half a
day, were responsible in part for his reputation, with family and
teachers, of being a somewhat detached child. They all had sympathy for
him, naturally, because they assumed that whatever detachment he
displayed was a result of the shattering trauma that he had endured.
Now, cruising in his van, he was phasing slowly into that Cactus-candy
condition. This flashback was unexpected, too, but it didn't snap upon
Dean Koontz - (1989) Page 51