by Dean Koontz
Crispin is blind, but perhaps the dog is not. The boy fumbles for the light switch at the bottom of the steps. The dog, standing on its hind feet, finds it first, and the overhead fixtures brighten.
On one shelf, Crispin discovers a stack of quilted blue moving blankets. With them, he makes a bed in a corner, on the floor.
While Crispin strips the rubber bands from the wads of cash and places the flattened bills in three stacks according to denomination, he feeds the dog some of the cookies that he bought at the pet shop.
Together they count their fortune. Crispin announces the total—“Six thousand, seven hundred, forty-five dollars”—and the dog seems to agree with his math. He rolls the money into tight bundles again and returns them to the stuffsacks.
They will not starve. With this much money, they will be able to hide out for a long time, moving every night to a new refuge.
Exhausted, the boy lies back in the pile of blankets. The dog curls up beside him, its head on his abdomen.
Crispin gently rubs behind the dog’s ears.
As sleep is descending upon him, the boy thinks of the dead drug addict, mouth yawning and teeth yellow in the candlelight. He shivers but surrenders to his weariness.
In the dream, Crispin’s younger brother lies on a long white-marble table. His hands and feet are shackled to steel rings. A hard green apple is crammed into his mouth, stretching his jaws painfully. The apple is held in place by an elastic strap that is tied securely at the back of the boy’s head. His teeth are sunk into the fruit, but he isn’t able to bite through it and spit out the pieces.
The raised dagger has a remarkable serpentine blade.
Like a shining liquid, light drizzles along the cutting edge.
The cords of muscle in Crispin’s brother’s neck are taut. The arteries swell and throb as his heart slams great tides of blood through his body.
The apple stifles his screams. He seems also to be choking on a flood of his own saliva.
Crispin wakes in a sweat, crying his brother’s name: “Harley!”
For a moment he doesn’t know where he is. But then he realizes that he is under the shop of magic and games.
You can undo what has been done and still save them.
Those words whisper through his mind, but they seem like nothing more than wishful thinking.
When the terror recedes, he knows that he has found the perfect name for the dog. It is a name that will protect the animal from any malevolent spirit that might wish to enter him.
“Harley,” Crispin repeats softly. He names the dog for his lost brother. “Harley.”
The dog gently but insistently licks his hand.
3
All these years later …
The night is cool, the sky deep, the stars as sharp as stiletto points.
At twelve, Crispin is strong and tougher than any boy his age should have to be. His senses are sharp, as is his intuition, as if from his association with four-legged Harley, he has acquired some of the dog’s keen perceptions.
This October night, the streets are filled with goblins and witches, vampires and zombies, sexy Gypsy women and superheroes. Some hide behind masks that look like certain despised politicians, and others wear the faces of leering swine, red-eyed goats, and serpents with forked tongues.
These people are on their way to parties in seedy lounges, in modest workingmen’s clubs, and in the ballrooms of older hotels that are desperate to have a profitable night in this economy that has been a mean Halloween for more than three years.
In this lower-middle-class district, Crispin feels safe enough to wander the streets, scoping the scene, enjoying the costumes and the bustle and the decorations. Halloween is swiftly becoming one of the biggest holidays of the year.
The people whom he fears are not of this neighborhood. They are not likely to descend to these streets for any celebration. Their tastes are more expensive and more exotic than anything that can be provided here.
Three months have passed since his most recent encounter with them. They had almost caught him in an old elementary school slated for eventual demolition.
His mistake then was to spend too many nights in the same place. If he remains on the move, they have greater difficulty locating him.
Crispin doesn’t know why being stationary too long puts him at risk. It’s as if his scent becomes concentrated when he lingers in one place.
He knows the legend of the Wandering Jew who struck Christ on the day of the crucifixion and was then condemned to roam the world forever without rest. Some say this condemnation was in fact an act of grace because the devil can’t find and take a man whose remorse drives him to wander ceaselessly in search of absolution.
In addition to his good dog, Crispin’s constant companion is remorse. That he could not save his brother. That he could not save his little sister. That he was so long blind to the truth of their stepfather and to the treachery of their unloving mother.
Now he and Harley pass a two-story buff-brick building that houses the local VFW post. The structure seems to tremble and swell with the muffled backbeat of a band playing an old Beatles tune, as if such rock and roll can’t be constrained without risk of explosion.
A wave of laughter and chatter and louder music washes across the sidewalk when two men, fumbling packs of cigarettes from their pockets, push open the door and step outside for a smoke. One is dressed as a pirate. The other wears a tuxedo, a fake goatee, and a pair of horns.
They glance at Crispin. The devil thumbs flame from a butane lighter.
The boy looks away from them. He takes up the slack in the leash, and brings the dog to his side.
Fifty yards or so from the VFW post, he dares to look back, half expecting the men to be following him. They are where he last saw them, smoke pluming from their mouths as if their souls must be on fire.
At the end of the block is a nightclub called Narcissus. No smokers loiter outside. The windows are two-way mirrors, offering no view of the interior.
A tall man stands beside a taxi. He assists a woman from the vehicle.
His dark hair is slicked back. His cheeks are rouged, his lips bright red. His face is painted like that of a ventriloquist’s dummy, with prominent laugh lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth. The woman’s makeup matches the man’s.
Attached to their white clothes at key points are thick black strings that have been broken. They are not costumed as ventriloquists’ dummies but instead as marionettes freed from their puppet master.
The man says to Crispin, “What a handsome dog,” and the woman says, “Your sister tasted so sweet.”
The encounter is by chance, but you can be killed by chance as easily as by someone’s design.
The dog runs, the boy runs, the man snares the boy by his jacket, the leash jerks from the boy’s hand, and the boy falls …
4
Before Crispin went on the run …
He lives with his younger brother, Harley, and his little sister, Mirabell. They share a house with their mother, Clarette.
Each child has a different father because many men are drawn to their mother.
Clarette is so beautiful that one of her in-between boyfriends — in between the rich ones — tells Crispin, “Kid, your mom she’s like the magical princess in some fairy-tale cartoon movie, how she can charm kings and princes, even make animals and trees and flowers swoon and sing for her. But I never did see a cartoon princess as smokin’ hot as she is.”
At that time Crispin is seven years old. He understands the princes, animals, trees, and flowers part. Years will pass before he knows what “smokin’ hot” means.
Their mother is drawn to many men, not because their beauty matches hers but because of what they are able to do for her. She says that she has expensive tastes and that her “little bastards” are her ticket to the good life.
Each of their fathers is a man of great prominence for whom the existence of a little bastard would not only be an embarrass
ment but also a wrecking ball that might smash apart his marriage and lead to an expensive divorce.
In return for specifying on each birth certificate that the father is unknown, Clarette receives a one-time cash payment of considerable size and a smaller monthly stipend. The children live well, though not nearly as well as their mother, because she spends far more freely on herself than on them.
One night, she enjoys too much lemon vodka and cocaine. She insists that eight-year-old Crispin cuddle with her in an armchair.
He would rather be anywhere else but in her too-clingy arms and within range of her exotic breath. When she is in this condition, her embrace seems spidery, and for all her expressions of affection, he expects that something terrible will happen to him.
She tells him then that he ought to be grateful that she is so smart, so cunning, and so tough. Other women who make their living by giving birth to little bastards are likely sooner or later to have a well-planned accident or to become a victim of a supposedly random act of violence. Rich men do not like to be played for fools.
“But I’m too quick and bright and clever for them, Crispie. No one will take your mommy from you. I’ll always be here. Always and always.”
Time passes and change comes.…
The change is named Giles Gregorio. He makes the other rich men in Clarette’s life seem like paupers. His wealth is inherited and so immense as to be almost immeasurable.
Giles has palatial residences all over the world. In this city, he lives atop Shadow Hill, directly across the street from the fabled Pendleton. His mansion — called Theron Hall — is not as large as the Pendleton, but large enough: fifty-two rooms, eighteen baths, and a maze of hallways.
When Giles intends to be in town, twenty servants precede him by a week, readying the great house. Among them are one of his personal chefs, his junior butler, and his junior valet.
Two weeks after Clarette meets the multibillionaire, cuddling again with her oldest son, once more under the spell of lemon vodka, she speaks of a glorious future. “I’ve changed my business model, Crispie. No more little bastards. No more, no more. Mommy’s going to be richer than she ever dreamed of being.”
Just a week later, three weeks after Giles met Clarette, they are married in a private ceremony so exclusive that even her three children are not in attendance. In fact, watching arrivals from a high window, Crispin thinks that fewer than twenty people come to Theron Hall on the day and that more servants than guests must be witness to the wedding.
Crispin is nine then, Harley seven, Mirabell six.
He and his younger siblings are confined to a second-floor drawing room for the duration of the celebration, where they are showered with fabulous new toys, fed all their favorite foods, and watched over by Nanny Sayo, who is Japanese. Petite and pretty, with a soft, musical voice, Nanny Sayo is quick to laugh, but any test of her authority is met with the displeasure of a stern disciplinarian.
Following the wedding, all the many servants at Theron Hall are respectful of the children and even treat them with affection. But it seems to Crispin that when these people smile, the expression in their eyes does not match the curve of their lips.
Yet life is good. Oh, it is grand.
The children eat only what they like.
They go to bed only when they wish.
Each rises to his or her own clock.
They are schooled at home by a tutor, Mr. Mordred. He is deeply knowledgeable in all subjects. He is most entertaining and can make any topic interesting.
Mr. Mordred is a jolly man, not exactly fat but well-rounded, and sometimes he tells little Mirabell that she looks good enough to eat, which always makes her giggle.
Perhaps the best thing about Mr. Mordred is that he doesn’t press them hard on their lessons. He allows them to break frequently for play, in which he often leads them.
When they are mischievous, he sometimes encourages them. When they are in a lazy mood, Mr. Mordred says that any child who isn’t lazy must not be a child at all but instead a dwarf masquerading as one.
On his left temple, Mr. Mordred has a black birthmark shaped exactly like a horsefly. When any of the children puts a finger to this oddity, Mr. Mordred makes a buzzing sound.
Now and then he pretends to mistake this image of a fly for the real thing. He twitches as if annoyed and slaps at the imagined insect with the flat of his hand, which always makes the children burst into laughter.
If Crispin were burdened with such a birthmark, he would be self-conscious about it, even embarrassed. He admires Mr. Mordred for finding reason to be amused even by this disfigurement.
One day, three weeks after the wedding, Crispin and Harley and Mirabell spend a couple of hours sprawled on the library floor with bundles of new children’s picture books and lots of cool comic books that Giles has bought for them. When at last they become bored, Nanny Sayo retrieves the scattered reading material to stack it on a table.
At one point, Crispin turns and finds himself standing over the woman as she kneels to gather the discarded comics. He is looking down the scooped neck of her blouse, where he sees on the curve of one breast a birthmark identical to that on Mr. Mordred’s forehead.
As if she is aware of his attention, Nanny Sayo begins to raise her head. Crispin turns away, flustered, before their eyes can meet.
Although he is only nine, he is embarrassed to have been staring at her breasts, the sight of which has affected him in some new and disturbing way that he can’t define. His face burns. His heart knocks so loud he thinks Nanny Sayo must hear it.
Later, in bed, he wonders how Mr. Mordred and Nanny Sayo can have the same birthmark. Maybe it’s something contagious, like a head cold or the flu.
He feels sorry for Nanny Sayo, though at least her disfigurement is in a less visible place than Mr. Mordred’s.
That night he dreams of Nanny Sayo dancing naked in firelight. She has several horsefly birthmarks, not just one, and they are not fixed. They crawl across her skin.
Crispin wakes in the morning with a fever, plagued by nausea and aching muscles.
His mother says that he’s just caught a virus. Antibiotics won’t help him cast off a virus. He must remain in bed a day or two until it passes. She sees no need to call a doctor.
During the day, Crispin reads and takes short naps and reads again. The book is an adventure story set at sea and on various tropical islands.
Although the author has kept the tone light and has never put the young leads in any danger that they couldn’t handily escape, although no characters in the novel are named Crispin or Harley or Mirabell, near twilight he turns the last page and reads this line: And so the little bastards were slaughtered, Mirabell and then Harley and last of all young Crispin, slaughtered and left to rot, to be fed upon by rats and sharp-beaked birds.
In disbelief, Crispin reads the line again.
His heart races, and he cries out, but the cry largely dies in his throat. He drops the book, throws off the covers and erupts from bed. As he gets to his feet, dizziness overcomes him. He totters a few steps, collapses.
When he regains consciousness, he knows that little time has passed because the formerly pending twilight has just arrived. The sky beyond the windows is purple pressing toward a red horizon.
His dizziness has passed, but he feels weak.
He gets to his knees, claws the book from the bed, and dares to read the last page again. The words he saw before are gone. No mention is made of Mirabell, Harley, Crispin, slaughter, rats, or sharp-beaked birds.
With trembling hands, he closes the book and puts it on the nightstand.
Wondering if a delusion born of fever had put the words before him on the page, he returns to bed. He is more worried than afraid, but then more confused than worried, and finally exhausted.
A chill overtakes him. He pulls the covers up to his chin.
When Nanny Sayo rolls a service cart into his room with a bed tray that holds his dinner, Crispin first intends to
tell her about the threatening words in the book. But he is embarrassed to have been so frightened by something that, in the end, proved to be entirely imaginary.
He doesn’t want Nanny Sayo to think he is, at nine years of age, still a big baby. He wants her to be proud of him.
His sick-boy dinner consists of lime Jell-O, buttered toast, hot chocolate, and chicken noodle soup. Anticipating that her patient might not have much appetite, that he might take his dinner in fits and starts, Nanny Sayo has put the chocolate and the soup in separate thermos bottles to ensure that they stay warm.
When Crispin expresses disinterest in the food, Nanny Sayo leaves the footed tray on the cart.
She perches on the edge of his bed and urges him to sit up. As Crispin leans against the headboard, Nanny Sayo takes his hand to time his pulse.
He likes watching her face as she stares solemnly at his wrist, counting his heartbeats.
“Just a little fast,” she says.
A curious disappointment overcomes him when she lets go of his wrist. He wishes she would continue to hold his hand, though he does not know why he has this desire.
He is consoled when she presses one hand to his forehead.
“Just a little fever,” she says, though it seems to him that her palm and slender fingers are hotter than his brow.
To his surprise, she undoes the first two buttons of his pajama top and places her delicate hand on his chest. She has already taken his pulse. He doesn’t understand why she would need to feel the thump of his heart, if that is indeed what she’s doing.
She moves her hand slowly back and forth. Slowly and smoothly. Smoothly.
He almost feels that she could make him well just by her touch.
Removing her hand from his chest, leaving the buttons undone, she says, “You’re a strong boy. You’ll be well soon. Just rest and eat all your dinner. You need to eat to get well.”
“All right,” he says.
She stares into his eyes. Her eyes are very dark.