The Servants of Twilight

by Dean Koontz

“No,” Mother Grace said.

  “No? But you’ve always told me I’d be allowed to—”

  “The boy won’t be easy to kill,” Mother Grace said.

  “So?”

  “He isn’t fully human. Demonic blood flows in his veins.”

  “He doesn’t frighten me,” Kyle said.

  “He should. His powers are great and growing every day.”

  “But I’ve got the power of Almighty God behind me.”

  “Nevertheless, this first attack will almost surely fail.”

  “I’m prepared to die,” he said.

  “I know, dear boy. I know. But I mustn’t risk losing you at the very beginning of this battle. You’re too valuable. You’re my link between this world and the spirit realm.”

  “I’m also the hammer,” he said petulantly.

  “I’m aware of your strength.”

  She took the shotgun away from him, returned it to the table.

  He felt a terrible need to strike out at something—as long as he was striking out in the name of God, of course. He no longer needed to wreak pain and destruction on the innocent merely for the satisfaction of it. Those days were gone forever. But he longed to be a soldier for God. His chest tightened and his stomach twisted with his need.

  He had been looking forward to the attack tonight. Anticipation had rubbed his nerves raw. “The hammer of God,” he reminded her.

  “And in time you’ll be used,” she assured him.

  “When?”

  “When there’s a real chance of destroying the child.”

  “Huh? If there’s no chance of destroying him tonight, then why go after the little bastard? Why not wait?”

  “Because, if we’re lucky, we might at least hurt him, wound him,” Mother Grace said. “And that will shake his confidence. Right now, the little beast believes that we can never really cause him harm. If he begins to think he’s vulnerable, then he’ll become more vulnerable. We must first weaken his self-confidence. Do you see?”

  Reluctantly, Kyle nodded.

  “And if we’re very fortunate,” Grace said, “if God is with us and the devil is off guard, we might be able to kill the mother. Then the boy will be alone. The dog is already gone. If the mother is removed, as well, the boy will have no one, and his confidence will collapse, and he’ll become extremely vulnerable.”

  “Then let me kill the mother,” Kyle pleaded.

  She smiled at him and shook her head. “Dear boy, when God wants you to be His hammer, I’ll tell you. Until then, you must be patient.”

  Charlie stood at the window with a pair of high-power binoculars that doubled as a camera. He focused on the man standing by the white van on the street below.

  The stranger was about six feet tall, thin, pale, with a tightly compressed mouth, a narrow nose, and thick dark eyebrows that grew together in the center of his face. He was an intense-looking man, and he couldn’t keep his hands still. One hand tugged at his shirt collar. The other hand smoothed his hair, then pinched one earlobe. Scratched his chin. Picked lint from his jacket. Smoothed his hair again. He would never pass for an ordinary workman taking a leisurely lunch break.

  Charlie snapped several pictures of him.

  When Christine Scavello and Henry drove away in the woman’s gray Firebird, the watcher almost got in the van to follow them. But he hesitated, looked around, puzzled, and finally decided to stay where he was.

  Joey stood beside Charlie. He was just tall enough to see out the window. “He’s waiting for me, huh?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Why don’t we go out there and shoot him?” Joey asked.

  Charlie laughed. “Can’t go around shooting people. Not in California, anyway. Maybe if this was New York . . .”

  “But you’re a private eye,” Joey said. “Don’t you have a license to kill?”

  “That’s James Bond.”

  “You know him, too?” Joey asked.

  “Not really. But I know his brother,” Charlie said.

  “Yeah? I never heard of his brother. What’s his name?”

  “Municipal Bond,” Charlie said.

  “That’s a weird name,” Joey said, not getting the joke.

  He’s only six, Charlie reminded himself. Sometimes the kid behaved as if he were a few years older, and he expressed himself with clarity that you didn’t expect of a preschooler.

  The boy looked out the window again. For a moment he was silent as Charlie snapped two final photographs of the man at the white van, and then he said, “I don’t see why we can’t shoot him. He’d shoot me if he got the chance.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’d really go that far,” Charlie said, trying to discourage the boy from frightening himself.

  But with an equanimity and a steadiness of voice that, given the circumstances, were beyond his years, Joey said, “Oh, yeah. He would. He’d shoot me if he could get away with it. He’d shoot me and cut my heart out, that’s what he’d do.”

  Five stories below, the watcher smoothed his hair with one pale, long-fingered hand.

  PART TWO

  The Attack

  Is the end of the world a-coming?

  Is that the devil they hear humming?

  Are those doomsday bells a-ringing?

  Is that the Devil they hear singing?

  Or are their dark fears exaggerated?

  Are these doom-criers addlepated?

  Those who fear the coming of all Hells

  are those who should be feared themselves.

  —The Book of Counted Sorrows

  A fanatic does what he thinks the Lord

  would do if He knew the facts of the case.

  —Finley Peter Dunne

  15

  Wine & Dine was located in an attractive, upscale, brickand-timber shopping center, half a block from Newport Beach’s yacht harbor. Even on a Monday, the shop was busy, with a steady flow of customers through the imported foods section and almost as many in the wine department. At any one time there were at least two or three people browsing in the cookware department, inspecting the pots and pans, imported ice cream machines, food processors, and other kitchen tools. During the afternoon, in addition to food and wine and small culinary implements, Christine and Val and their clerk, Tammy, sold two top-of-the-line pasta makers, an expensive set of cutlery, one Cuisinart, a beautiful copper buffet warmer with three serving compartments, and an ornate copper and brass cappuccino machine that was priced at nine hundred dollars.

  Although the shop had done uncannily well almost from the day they had opened the doors, and although it had actually become profitable in the third week of operation (an unheard-of situation for a new business), Christine was still surprised and delighted every day that the cash register kept ringing. Six and a half years of dependable profitability had still not made her blasé about success.

  The hustle and bustle of Wine & Dine made Monday afternoon pass a lot faster than she had thought possible when, reluctantly, she had left Joey with Charlie Harrison. The crazy old woman was in the back of her mind, of course. Several times she thought of Brandy’s decapitated corpse on the back porch, and she felt weak and dry-mouthed for a few minutes. And Henry Rankin was ever-present, helping bag purchases, putting price tags on some new merchandise, assisting them wherever he could, pretending to be an employee, but surreptitiously keeping an eye on the customers, prepared to tackle one of them if Christine appeared to be threatened. Nevertheless, in spite of the bloody images of the dog that haunted her, and in spite of the constant reminder of danger that Henry’s presence provoked, the hours flitted past, and it was a relief to be kept busy.

  Val Gardner was a help, too. With some misgivings, Christine had told her the situation, although she had expected Val to pester her with questions all day long and drive her half crazy by five o’clock. Val seemed to thrive on the smallest adversity, claiming to be “traumatized” by even such minor setbacks as a leaky bathroom faucet or a run in her stockings. Val found drama
and even tragedy in a head cold or a broken fingernail, but she was never really upset or depressed by any of the little twists of fate that brought on her histrionics; she just enjoyed being the heroine of her own soap opera, dramatizing her life, making it more colorful for herself. And if she was temporarily without a trauma to brighten her day, she could make do with the problems of her friends, taking them upon herself as if she were a combination of Dear Abby and Atlas with the world on her shoulders. But she was a well-meaning woman, with a good sense of humor, honest, hardworking. And now, somewhat to Christine’s surprise, Val was sensitive enough to avoid dwelling on the crazy woman and the threats on Joey’s life; she held her tongue even though she must have been eaten up by a thousand nibbling questions.

  At five o’clock, Charlie Harrison showed up with Joey and two guys who looked as if they were on their way to a casting call for a new Hercules movie. They were the bodyguards who would be on duty until another team replaced them at midnight.

  The first was Pete Lockburn, who was six-three, with curly blond hair, a solemn face, and watchful eyes. The shoulders of his suit jacket looked as if they were padded out with a couple of railroad ties, but it was only Pete himself under there. The other was Frank Reuther, a black man, every bit as formidable as Lockburn, handsome, with the biggest hands Christine had ever seen. Both Lockburn and Reuther were neatly dressed in suits and ties, and both were soft-spoken and polite, yet you would somehow never mistake them for Baptist ministers or advertising account executives. They looked as if they wrestled grizzly bears and broke full-grown oak trees in half just to keep in shape.

  Val stared at them, amazed, and a new look of concern took possession of her face when she turned to Christine. “Oh, Chris, baby, listen, I guess maybe it didn’t really hit me until your army here showed up. I mean, this is really serious, isn’t it?”

  “Really serious,” Christine agreed.

  The two men Grace chose for the mission were Pat O’Hara and Kevin Baumberg. O’Hara was a twenty-four-year-old Irishman, husky, slightly overweight, a convert from Catholicism. Baumberg was a short, stocky man with a thick black beard. He had walked away from a lifetime of Judaism—as well as from a family and a prosperous jewelry store—to help Mother Grace prepare the world for Twilight, the coming of the Antichrist. She selected them for the assassination attempt because they symbolized two important things: the universal appeal of her message, and the brotherhood of all good men, which was the only power that had a chance of delaying or preventing the end of the world.

  A few minutes after five o’clock, O’Hara and Baumberg carried a couple of laundry bags out of the church basement in Anaheim. They climbed a set of concrete steps into a macadam parking lot.

  The early winter night, sailing across the sky like a vast black armada, had already driven most of the light toward the western horizon. A few threatening clouds had come in from the sea, and the air was cool and damp.

  O’Hara and Baumberg put the laundry bags into the trunk of a white Chrysler sedan that belonged to the church. The bags contained two shotguns, two revolvers, and ammunition that had been blessed by Mother Grace.

  Tense, frightened, preoccupied with thoughts of mortality, neither man felt like talking. In silence, they drove out of the parking lot and into the street, where a newborn wind suddenly stirred the curbside trees and blew dry leaves along the gutters.

  16

  As Tammy dealt with the last customers of the day, Charlie said to Christine, “Any problems? Anybody cause any trouble?”

  “No. It was peaceful.”

  Henry Rankin said, “What did you dig up on The True Word?”

  “It’ll take too long to tell you,” Charlie said. “I want to take Christine and Joey home, make sure their house is secure, get them settled in for the night. But I brought your car. It’s outside, and on the front seat there’s a copy of the file to date. You can read it later and get caught up.”

  “You need me anymore tonight?” Henry asked.

  “Nope,” Charlie said.

  And Joey said, “Mom, come on. Come out to the car. I want to show you something really neat.”

  “In a second, honey.”

  Although both Lockburn and Reuther were, at least physically, the kind of men about whom most women fantasized, Val Gardner hardly gave either of them a second glance. She zeroed in on Charlie as soon as he was finished talking to Henry Rankin, and she turned up her charm until it was as hot as a gas flame.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet a detective,” Val said breathlessly. “It must be such an exciting life.”

  “Actually, it’s usually boring,” Charlie said. “Most of our work is research or stakeout, hour after hour of boredom.”

  “But once in a while . . .” Val said teasingly.

  “Well, sure, now and then there’s some fireworks.”

  “I’ll bet those are the moments you live for,” Val said.

  “No one looks forward to being shot at or punched in the face by the husband in a nasty divorce case.”

  “You’re just being modest,” Val said, shaking a finger at him, winking as cute as she knew how.

  And she sure knows how, Christine thought. Val was an extremely attractive woman, with auburn hair, luminous green eyes, and a striking figure. Christine envied her lush good looks. Although a few men had told Christine that she was beautiful, she never really believed those who paid the compliment. She had never been attractive in her mother’s eyes; in fact, her mother had referred to her as a “plain” child, and although she knew her mother’s standards were absurdly high and that her mother’s opinions were not always rational or fair, Christine still had an image of herself as a somewhat pretty woman, in the most modest sense, more suited to being a nun than a siren. Sometimes, when Val was dressed in her finest and being coquettish, Christine felt like a boy beside her.

  To Charlie, Val said, “I’ll bet you’re the kind of man who needs a little danger in his life to spice it up, the kind of man who knows how to deal with danger.”

  “You’re romanticizing me, I’m afraid,” Charlie said.

  But Christine could see that he enjoyed Val’s attentions.

  Joey said, “Mom, please, come on. Come out to the car. We got a dog. A real beauty. Come see him.”

  “From the pound?” Christine asked Charlie, cutting in on Val’s game.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I tried to get Joey to go for a hundredand-forty-pound mastiff named Killer, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Christine grinned.

  “Come on and see him, Mom,” Joey said. “Please.” He took her hand and pulled on it, urging her toward the door.

  “Do you mind closing up by yourself, Val?” Christine asked.

  “I’m not by myself. I’ve got Tammy,” Val said. “You go on home.” She looked wistfully at Charlie, obviously wishing she had more time to work on him. Then, to Christine: “And if you don’t want to come in tomorrow, don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh,” Christine said, “I’ll be here. It’ll help the day pass. I’d have gone crazy if I hadn’t been able to work this afternoon.”

  “Nice meeting you,” Charlie said to Val.

  “Hope to see you again,” she said, giving him a hundred-kilowatt smile.

  Pete Lockburn and Frank Reuther left the shop first, surveying the promenade in front of the rows of stores, suspiciously studying the parking lot. Christine was self-conscious in their company. She didn’t think of herself as important enough to need bodyguards. The presence of these two hired guns made her feel awkward and strangely pretentious, as if she were putting on airs.

  Outside, the sky to the east was black. Overhead, it was deep blue. To the west, over the ocean, there was a gaudy orange-yellow-red-maroon sunset back-lighting an ominous bank of advancing storm clouds. Although the day had been warm for February, the air was already chilly. Later, it would be downright cold. In California, a warm winter day was not an infrequent gift of nature, but nature’s gene
rosity seldom extended to the winter nights.

  A dark green Chevrolet, a Klemet-Harrison company car, was parked next to Christine’s Firebird. There was a dog in the backseat, peering out the window at them, and when Christine saw it her breath caught in her throat.

  It was Brandy. For a second or two, she stood in shock, unable to believe her eyes. Then she realized it wasn’t Brandy, of course, but another golden retriever virtually the same size and age and coloration as Brandy.

  Joey ran ahead and pulled open the door, and the dog leaped out, emitting one short, deep, happy-sounding bark. He sniffed at the boy’s legs and then jumped up, putting paws on his shoulders, almost knocking him to the ground.

  Joey laughed, ruffled the dog’s fur. “Isn’t he neat, Mom? Isn’t he something?”

  She looked at Charlie, whose grin was almost as big as Joey’s. Still thirty feet away from the boy, out of his hearing, she spoke softly, with evident irritation: “Don’t you think some other breed would’ve been a better choice?”

  Charlie seemed baffled by her accusatory tone. “You mean it’s too big? Joey told me it was the same size as the dog . . . you lost.”

  “Not only the same size. It’s the same dog.”

  “You mean Brandy was a golden retriever?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You never mentioned the breed.”

  “Oh. Well, didn’t Joey mention it?”

  “He never said a word.”

  “This dog’s an exact double for Brandy,” Christine said worriedly. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea—psychologically, I mean.”

  Turning to them, holding the retriever by its collar, Joey confirmed her intuition when he said, “Mom, you know what I’m gonna call him? Brandy! Brandy the Second!”

  “I see what you mean,” Charlie said to Christine.

  “He’s trying to deny that Brandy was ever killed,” she said, “and that’s not healthy.”