The Servants of Twilight

by Dean Koontz

  Charlie couldn’t understand why Boothe, who could uncover and treat the neuroses even of those patients highly resistant to treatment, could not deal with his own compulsive eating. It was a puzzlement.

  But his unusual size and the psychological problems underlying it did nothing to change the fact that he was a delightful man, kind and amusing and quick to laugh. Although he was fifteen years older than Charlie and infinitely better educated, they had hit it off on first encounter and had been friends for several years, getting together for dinner once or twice a month, exchanging gifts at Christmas, making an effort to keep in touch that, sometimes, surprised both of them.

  Boo welcomed Charlie and Henry into his office, part of a corner suite in a glass high-rise in Costa Mesa, and insisted on showing them his latest antique bank. He collected animated banks with clockwork mechanisms that made a little adventure out of the deposit of each coin. There were at least two dozen of them displayed at various points in the office. This one was an elaborate affair the size of a cigar humidor; standing on the lid were hand-painted metal figurines of two bearded gold prospectors flanking a comically detailed donkey. Boo put a quarter in the hand of one prospector and pushed a button on the side of the bank. The prospector’s hand came up, holding the coin out to the second prospector, but the donkey’s hinged head lowered, and its jaws clamped shut on the quarter, which the prospector relinquished. The donkey raised its head again, and the quarter dropped down its gullet and into the bank underneath, while both prospectors shook their heads in dismay. The name on the donkey’s saddlebags was Uncle Sam.

  “It was made in 1903. So far as anyone knows, there are only eight working models in the world,” Boo said proudly. “It’s titled ‘The Tax Collector,’ but I call it ‘There Is No Justice in a Jackass Universe.’ ”

  Charlie laughed, but Henry looked baffled.

  They adjourned to a corner of the room where large comfortable armchairs were grouped around a glass-topped coffee table. Boo’s chair groaned softly as he settled into it.

  Being a corner office, the room had two exterior walls that were largely glass. Because this building faced away from the other high-rise structures in Costa Mesa, toward one of the few remaining tracts of agricultural land in this part of the county, there seemed to be nothing outside but a gray void composed of churning clouds, gauzy veils of lingering fog, and rain that streamed down the glass walls in a vertical river. The effect was disorienting, as if Boothe’s office didn’t exist in this world but in an alternate reality, another dimension.

  “You say this is about Grace Spivey?” Boothe asked.

  He had a special interest in religious psychoses and had written a book about the psychology of cult leaders. He found Grace Spivey intriguing and intended to include a chapter about her in his next book.

  Charlie told Boo about Christine and Joey, about their encounter with Grace at South Coast Plaza and the attempts on their lives.

  The psychologist, who didn’t believe in being solemn with patients, who used cajolery and humor as part of his therapy, whose face seldom played host to a frown, was now scowling. He said, “This is bad. Very bad. I’ve always known Grace is a true believer, not just a phony, mining the religious rackets for a buck. She’s always been convinced that the world really was coming to an end. But I never believed she was sunk this deep in psychotic fantasy.” He sighed and looked out at his twelfth-floor view of the storm. “You know, she talks a lot about her ‘visions,’ uses them to whip her followers into a frenzy. I’ve always thought that she doesn’t really have them, that she merely pretends to have them because she realizes they’re a good tool for making converts and keeping disciples in line. By using the visions, she can have God tell her people to do the things she wants them to do, things they might not accept if they didn’t think the orders were coming straight down from Heaven.”

  “But if she’s a true believer,” Henry said, “how would she justify fakery to herself?”

  “Oh, easily, easily,” the psychologist said, looking away from the rain-filled February morning. “She’d justify it by saying she was only telling her followers things that God would’ve told them, anyway, if He actually had appeared to her in visions. The second possibility, which is more disturbing, is that she actually is seeing and hearing God.”

  “You don’t mean literally seeing Him,” Henry said, surprised.

  “No, no,” Boo said, waving one pudgy hand. He was an agnostic, flirting with atheism. He sometimes told Charlie that, considering the miserable state of the world, God must be on extended vacation in Albania, Tahiti, Cleveland or some other remote corner of the universe, where the news just wasn’t getting to Him. He said, “I mean that she’s seeing and hearing God, but, of course, He’s merely a figment of her own sick mind. Psychotics, if they’re far enough over the line, often have visions, sometimes of a religious nature and sometimes not. But I wouldn’t have thought Grace had gone that far ’round the bend.”

  Charlie said, “She’s so far gone that they don’t even have Taco Bells where she’s at.”

  Boo laughed, not as heartily as Charlie would have liked, but he did laugh, which was better than the scowl that made Charlie nervous. Boo had no pretensions about his profession and held nothing sacred; he was as likely to use the term “fruitcake” as “mentally disturbed.” He said, “But if Grace has slipped her moorings altogether, then there’s something about this situation that’s hard to explain.”

  To Henry, Charlie said, “He loves to explain things. A born pedant. He’ll explain beer to you while you’re trying to drink it. And don’t ask him to explain the meaning of life, or we’ll be here until our retirement funds start to pay off.”

  Boothe remained uncharacteristically solemn. “It isn’t the meaning of life that puzzles me right now. You say Grace has gone ’round the bend, and it certainly sounds as if you may be correct. But you see, if she really believes all this Antichrist stuff, and she’s willing to kill an innocent child, then she’s evidently a paranoid schizophrenic with apocalyptic fantasies and delusions of grandeur. But it’s hard to imagine someone in that condition would be able to function as an authority figure or conduct the business of her cult.”

  “Maybe someone else is running the cult,” Henry said. “Maybe she’s just a figurehead now. Maybe someone else is using her.”

  Boothe shook his head. “It’s damned difficult to use a paranoid schizophrenic the way you’re suggesting. They’re too unpredictable. But if she’s really turned violent, has begun to act on her doomsday prophecies, she doesn’t have to be crazy. Could be another explanation.”

  “Such as?” Charlie asked.

  “Such as . . . maybe her followers are disillusioned with her. Maybe the cult is falling apart, and she’s resorting to these drastic measures to renew her disciples’ excitement and keep them faithful.”

  “No,” Charlie said. “She’s nuts.” He told Boo about his macabre meeting with Grace just a short while ago.

  Boothe was startled. “She actually drove nails into her hands?”

  “Well, we didn’t see her do it,” Charlie admitted. “Maybe one of her followers wielded the hammer. But she obviously cooperated.”

  Boo shifted, and his chair creaked. “There’s another possibility. The spontaneous appearance of crucifixion stigmata on the hands and feet of psychotics with religious persecution complexes is a rare phenomenon but not entirely unheard of.”

  Henry Rankin was astonished. “You mean they were real? You mean . . . God did that to her?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t mean to imply this was a genuine holy sign or anything of that sort. God had nothing to do with it.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Charlie told him. “I was afraid you were suddenly going mystical on me. And if there are two things I’d never expect you to do, one is to go mystical on me, and the other is to become a ballet dancer.”

  The worried look on the fat man’s face did not soften.

  Charli
e said, “Jesus, Boo, I’m already scared, but if the situation worries you this much, I’m not half as frightened as I ought to be.”

  Boothe said, “I am worried. As for the stigmata phenomenon, there is some evidence that, in a Messianic frenzy, a psychotic may exert a control on his body . . . on tissue structure . . . an almost, well, psychic control that medical science can’t explain. Like those Indian holy men who walk on hot coals or lie on nails and prevent injury by an act of will. Grace’s wounds would be the other side of that coin.”

  Henry, who liked everything to be reasonable and orderly and predictable, who expected the universe to be as neat and well-pressed as his own wardrobe, was clearly disturbed by talk of psychic abilities. He said, “They can make themselves bleed just by thinking about it?”

  “They probably don’t even have to think about it, at least not consciously,” Boo said. “The stigmata are the result of a strong unconscious desire to be a religious figure or symbol, to be venerated, or to be a part of something bigger than self, something cosmic.” He folded his hands on his ample stomach. “For instance . . . how much do you know about the supposed miracle at Fatima?”

  “Not much,” Charlie said.

  “The Virgin Mary appeared to a lot of people there, thousands of people,” Henry said, “back in the twenties, I think.”

  “A stunning and moving divine visitation—or one of the most incredible cases of mass hysteria and self-hypnosis ever recorded,” Boo said, clearly favoring the second explanation. “Hundreds of people reported seeing the Virgin Mary and described a turbulent sky seething with all the colors of the rainbow. Among those in the huge crowd, two people developed crucifixion stigmata; one man’s hands began to bleed, and nail holes appeared in a woman’s feet. Several people claimed to have spontaneously acquired tiny punctures in a ring around their heads, as if from a crown of thorns. There’s a documented case of an onlooker weeping tears of blood; subsequent medical examination showed no eye damage whatsoever, no possible source of blood. In short, the mind is still largely an uncharted sea. There are mysteries in here”—he tapped his head with one thick finger—“that we may never understand.”

  Charlie shivered. It was creepy to think Grace had descended so far into madness that she could make her body bleed spontaneously for the sole purpose of lending substance to her sick fantasies.

  “Of course,” Boo said, “you’re probably right about the hammer and nails. Spontaneous crucifixion stigmata are rare. Grace probably did it to herself—or had one of her people do it.”

  The rain streamed down the walls of glass, and a miserably wet black bird swooped close, seeking escape from the cold downpour, then darted away an instant before crashing through the window.

  Considering what Boothe had told them about tears of blood and mentally inflicted stigmata, Charlie said, “I think I’ve stumbled across the meaning of life.”

  “What’s that?” Boo asked.

  “We’re all just actors in a cosmic horror film in God’s private movie theater.”

  “Could be,” Boo said. “If you read your Bible, you’ll see that God can think up more horrible punishments than anything Tobe Hooper or Steven Spielberg or Alfred Hitchcock ever dreamed of.”

  33

  With his binoculars, Sandy Breckenstein had gotten the license plate number the third time the blue Dodge van with the surfing murals had driven by the house. While Christine Scavello had hurried into the kitchen to report the presence of a suspicious vehicle to Max, Sandy had phoned Julie Gethers, the police liaison at Klemet-Harrison, and had asked her to get a make on the Dodge.

  While he waited for a response from Julie, he stood tensely by the window, binoculars in hand.

  Within five minutes, the van made a fourth pass, heading up the hill this time.

  Sandy used the binoculars and saw, indistinctly, two men behind the rain-washed windshield.

  They seemed to be studying this house in particular.

  Then they were gone. Sandy almost wished they’d parked out front. At least there he could keep an eye on them. He didn’t like having them out of sight.

  While Sandy stood at the window, chewing on his lip, wishing he had become a certified public accountant like his father, Julie at HQ made contact with the Department of Motor Vehicles and then with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. Thanks to computerization at both agencies, the information was obtained quickly, and she returned Sandy’s call in twelve minutes. According to the DMV, the blue van was registered to Emanuel Luis Spado of Anaheim. According to the Sheriff’s office, which shared hot sheet data with all other police agencies in the county, Mr. Spado had reported his vehicle stolen as of six o’clock this morning.

  As soon as he had that information, Sandy went into the kitchen to share it with Max, who was equally uneasy about it.

  “It’s trouble,” Max said bluntly.

  Christine Scavello, who had moved her son out of the line of fire, into the corner by the refrigerator, said, “But it doesn’t belong to the church.”

  “Yeah, but it could’ve been someone from the church who stole it,” Sandy said.

  “To put distance between the church and any attack they might make on us here,” Max explained.

  “Or it could just be coincidence that someone in a stolen van is cruising this street,” the woman said, though she sounded as if she didn’t believe it.

  “Never met a coincidence I liked,” Max said, keeping a watch on the garden behind the house.

  “Me either,” Sandy said.

  “But how did they find us?” Christine demanded.

  “Beats me,” Sandy said.

  “Damned if I know,” Max said. “We took every precaution.”

  They all knew the most likely explanation: Grace Spivey had an informer planted at Klemet-Harrison. None of them wanted to say it. The possibility was too unnerving.

  “What’d you tell them at HQ?” Max asked.

  “To send help,” Sandy said.

  “You think we should wait for it?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. We’re sitting ducks here. This place was a good idea only as long as we figured they’d never find it. Now, our best chance is to get out, get moving, before they know we’ve spotted them. They won’t be expecting us to suddenly pull up and light out.”

  Sandy agreed. He turned to Christine. “Get your coats on. You can take only two suitcases, ’cause you’ll have to carry them both. Max and I can’t be tied down with luggage on the way to the car; we’ve got to keep our hands free.”

  The woman nodded. She looked stricken. The boy was pale and waxy. Even the dog seemed to be worried; it sniffed the air, cocked its head, and made a peculiar whining noise.

  Sandy didn’t feel so good himself. He knew what had happened to Frank Reuther and Pete Lockburn.

  34

  Thunder shook the window-walls.

  Rain fell harder than ever.

  Heat streamed from the ceiling vents, but Charlie couldn’t get rid of a chill that made his hands clammy.

  Denton Boothe said, “I’ve talked with people who knew Grace before this religious fanaticism. Many of them mention how close she and her husband were. Married fortyfour years, she idolized the man. Nothing was too good for her Albert. She kept his house exactly as he liked it, cooked only his favorite foods, did everything the way he preferred. The only thing she was never able to give him was the thing he would have liked the most—a son. At his funeral, when she broke down, she kept saying, over and over, ‘I never gave him a son.’ It’s conceivable that, to Grace, a male child—any male child—is a symbol of her failure to give her husband what he most desired. While he was alive, she could make up for that failure by treating him like a king, but once he was gone she had no way to atone for her barrenness, and perhaps she began to hate little boys. Hate them, then fear them, then fantasize that one of them was the Antichrist, here to destroy the world. It’s an understandable if regrettable progression for psychosis.�
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  Henry said, “If I recall, they did adopt a daughter—”

  “The one who had Grace committed for psychiatric evaluation when this Twilight business first came up,” Charlie said.

  “Yes,” Boo said. “Grace sold her house, liquidated investments, and put the money into this church. It was irrational, and the daughter was correct in seeking to preserve her mother’s estate. But Grace came through the psychiatric evaluation with flying colors—”

  “How?” Charlie wondered.

  “Well, she was cunning. She knew what the psychiatric examiner was looking for, and she had sufficient control of herself to hide all those attitudes and tendencies that would have set off the alarm bells.”

  “But she was liquidating property to form a church,” Henry said. “Surely the doctor could see that wasn’t the act of a rational person.”

  “On the contrary. Provided she understood the risks of her actions and had a firm grip on all the potential consequences, or at least as long as she convinced the examining doctor that she had a firm grip, the mere fact that she wanted to give everything to God’s work would not be sufficient to declare her mentally incompetent. We have religious liberty in this country, you know. It’s an important constitutional freedom, and the law steps respectfully around it in cases like this.”

  “You’ve got to help me, Boo,” Charlie said. “Tell me how this woman thinks. Give me a handle on her. Show me how to turn her off, how to make her change her mind about Joey Scavello.”

  “This kind of psychopathic personality is not frightened, shaky, about to collapse. Just the opposite. With a cause she believes in, supported by delusions of grandeur that are intensely religious in nature . . . well, despite appearances to the contrary, she’s a rock, utterly resistant to pressure and stress. She lives in a reality that she made for herself, and she’s made it so well that there’s probably no way you can shake it or pull it apart or cause her to lose faith in it.”

  “Are you saying I can’t change her mind?”

  “I would think it’s impossible.”