Eyes of Darkness

by Dean Koontz

  “They probably couldn’t provide enough protection to stop it.”

  “What kind of government agency would have the authority to circumvent the law like this? What kind of agency would be empowered to kill innocent civilians who got in its way?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that one. It scares the hell out of me.”

  They stopped at another red traffic light.

  “So what are you saying?” Tina asked. “That we’ll have to handle this all by ourselves?”

  “At least for the time being.”

  “But that’s hopeless! How can we?”

  “It isn’t hopeless.”

  “Just two ordinary people against them?”

  Elliot glanced in the rearview mirror, as he had been doing every minute or two since they’d turned onto Charleston Boulevard. No one was following them, but he kept checking.

  “It isn’t hopeless,” he said again. “We just need time to think about it, time to work out a plan. Maybe we’ll come up with someone who can help us.”

  “Like who?”

  The traffic light turned green.

  “Like the newspapers, for one,” Elliot said, accelerating across the intersection, glancing in the rearview mirror. “We’ve got proof that something unusual is happening: the silencer-equipped pistol I took off Vince, your house blowing up. . . . I’m pretty sure we can find a reporter who’ll go with that much and write a story about how a bunch of nameless, faceless people want to keep us from reopening Danny’s grave, how maybe something truly strange lies at the bottom of the Sierra tragedy. Then a lot of people are going to be pushing for an exhumation of all those boys. There’ll be a demand for new autopsies, investigations. Kennebeck’s bosses want to stop us before we sow any seeds of doubt about the official explanation. But once those seeds are sown, once the parents of the other scouts and the entire city are clamoring for an investigation, Kennebeck’s buddies won’t have anything to gain by eliminating us. It isn’t hopeless, Tina, and it’s not like you to give up so easily.”

  She sighed. “I’m not giving up.”

  “Good.”

  “I won’t stop until I know what really happened to Danny.”

  “That’s better. That sounds more like the Christina Evans I know.”

  Dusk was sliding into night. Elliot turned on the headlights.

  Tina said, “It’s just that . . . for the past year I’ve been struggling to adjust to the fact that Danny died in that stupid, pointless accident. And now, just when I’m beginning to think I can face up to it and put it behind me, I discover he might not have died accidentally after all. Suddenly everything’s up in the air again.”

  “It’ll come down.”

  “Will it?”

  “Yes. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  He glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Nothing suspicious.

  He was aware of her watching him, and after a while she said, “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I think . . . in a way . . . you’re actually enjoying this.”

  “Enjoying what?”

  “The chase.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t enjoy taking guns away from men half again as big as I am.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. That isn’t what I said.”

  “And I sure wouldn’t choose to have my nice, peaceful, quiet life turned upside down. I’d rather be a comfortable, upstanding, boring citizen than a fugitive.”

  “I didn’t say anything about what you’d choose if it were up to you. But now that it’s happened, now that it’s been thrust upon you, you’re not entirely unhappy. There’s a part of you, deep down, that’s responding to the challenge with a degree of pleasure.”

  “Baloney.”

  “An animal awareness . . . a new kind of energy you didn’t have this morning.”

  “The only thing new about me is that I wasn’t scared stiff this morning, and now I am.”

  “Being scared—that’s part of it,” she said. “The danger has struck a chord in you.”

  He smiled. “The good old days of spies and counterspies? Sorry, but no, I don’t long for that at all. I’m not a natural-born man of action. I’m just me, the same old me that I always was.”

  “Anyway,” Tina said, “I’m glad I’ve got you on my side.”

  “I like it better when you’re on top,” he said, and he winked at her.

  “Have you always had such a dirty mind?”

  “No. I’ve had to cultivate it.”

  “Joking in the midst of disaster,” she said.

  “ ‘Laughter is a balm for the afflicted, the best defense against despair, the only medicine for melancholy.’ ”

  “Who said that?” she asked. “Shakespeare?”

  “Groucho Marx, I think.”

  She leaned forward and picked something up from the floor between her feet. “And then there’s this damn thing.”

  “What did you find?”

  “I brought it from my place,” she said.

  In the rush to get out of her house before the gas explosion leveled it, he hadn’t noticed that she’d been carrying anything. He risked a quick look, shifting his attention from the road, but there wasn’t enough light in the car for him to see what she held. “I can’t make it out.”

  “It’s a horror-comics magazine,” she said. “I found it when I was cleaning out Danny’s room. It was in a box with a lot of other magazines.”

  “So?”

  “Remember the nightmares I told you about?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “The monster in my dreams is on the cover of this magazine. It’s him. Detail for detail.”

  “Then you must have seen the magazine before, and you just—”

  “No. That’s what I tried to tell myself. But I never saw it until today. I know I didn’t. I pored through Danny’s collection. When he came home from the newsstand, I never monitored what he’d bought. I never snooped.”

  “Maybe you—”

  “Wait,” she said. “I haven’t told you the worst part.”

  The traffic thinned out as they drove farther from the heart of town, closer to the looming black mountains that thrust into the last electric-purple light in the western sky.

  Tina told Elliot about The Boy Who Was Not Dead.

  The similarities between the horror story and their attempt to exhume Danny’s body chilled Elliot.

  “Now,” Tina said, “just like Death tried to stop the parents in the story, someone’s trying to stop me from opening my son’s grave.”

  They were getting too far out of town. A hungry darkness lay on both sides of the road. The land began to rise toward Mount Charleston where, less than an hour away, pine forests were mantled with snow. Elliot swung the car around and started back toward the lights of the city, which spread like a vast, glowing fungus on the black desert plain.

  “There are similarities,” he said.

  “You’re damned right there are. Too many.”

  “There’s also one big difference. In the story, the boy was buried alive. But Danny is dead. The only thing in doubt is how he died.”

  “But that’s the only difference between the basic plot of this story and what we’re going through. And the words Not Dead in the title. And the boy in the story being Danny’s age. It’s just too much,” she said.

  They rode in silence for a while.

  Finally Elliot said, “You’re right. It can’t be coincidence.”

  “Then how do you explain it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  A roadside diner stood on the right, and Elliot pulled into the parking lot. A single mercury-vapor pole lamp at the entrance shed fuzzy purple light over the first third of the parking lot. Elliot drove behind the restaurant and tucked the Mercedes into a slot in the deepest shadows, between a Toyota Celica and a small motor home, where it could not be seen from the street.

  “Hungry?” he ask
ed.

  “Starving. But before we go in, let’s check out that list of questions they were going to make you answer.”

  “Let’s look at it in the café,” Elliot said. “The light will be better. It doesn’t seem to be busy in there. We should be able to talk without being overheard. Bring the magazine too. I want to see that story.”

  As he got out of the car, his attention was drawn to a window on the side of the motor home next to which he had parked. He squinted through the glass into the perfectly black interior, and he had the disconcerting feeling that someone was hiding in there, staring out at him.

  Don’t succumb to paranoia, he warned himself.

  When he turned from the motor home, his gaze fell on a dense pool of shadows around the trash bin at the back of the restaurant, and again he had the feeling that someone was watching him from concealment.

  He had told Tina that Kennebeck’s bosses were not omniscient. He must remember that. He and Tina apparently were confronted with a powerful, lawless, dangerous organization hell-bent on keeping the secret of the Sierra tragedy. But any organization was composed of ordinary men and women, none of whom had the all-seeing gaze of God.

  Nevertheless . . .

  As he and Tina walked across the parking lot toward the diner, Elliot couldn’t shake the feeling that someone or something was watching them. Not necessarily a person. Just . . . something . . . weird, strange. Something both more and less than human. That was a bizarre thought, not at all the sort of notion he’d ordinarily get in his head, and he didn’t like it.

  Tina stopped when they reached the purple light under the mercury-vapor lamp. She glanced back toward the car, a curious expression on her face.

  “What is it?” Elliot asked.

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “See something?”

  “No.”

  They stared at the shadows.

  At length she said, “Do you feel it?”

  “Feel what?”

  “I’ve got this . . . prickly feeling.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “You do feel it, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As if we aren’t alone.”

  “It’s crazy,” he said, “but I feel eyes on me.”

  She shivered. “But no one’s really there.”

  “No. I don’t think anyone is.”

  They continued to squint at the inky blackness, searching for movement.

  She said, “Are we both cracking under the strain?”

  “Just jumpy,” he said, but he wasn’t really convinced that their imagination was to blame.

  A soft cool wind sprang up. It carried with it the odor of dry desert weeds and alkaline sand. It hissed through the branches of a nearby date palm.

  “It’s such a strong feeling,” she said. “And you know what it reminds me of? It’s the same damn feeling I had in Angela’s office when that computer terminal started operating on its own. I feel . . . not just as if I’m being watched but . . . something more . . . like a presence . . . as if something I can’t see is standing right beside me. I can feel the weight of it, a pressure in the air . . . sort of looming.”

  He knew exactly what she meant, but he didn’t want to think about it, because there was no way he could make sense of it. He preferred to deal with hard facts, realities; that was why he was such a good attorney, so adept at taking threads of evidence and weaving a good case out of them.

  “We’re both overwrought,” he suggested.

  “That doesn’t change what I feel.”

  “Let’s get something to eat.”

  She stayed a moment longer, staring back into the gloom, where the purple mercury-vapor light did not reach.

  “Tina . . . ?”

  A breath of wind stirred a dry tumbleweed and blew it across the blacktop.

  A bird swooped through the darkness overhead. Elliot couldn’t see it, but he could hear the beating of its wings.

  Tina cleared her throat. “It’s as if . . . the night itself is watching us . . . the night, the shadows, the eyes of darkness.”

  The wind ruffled Elliot’s hair. It rattled a loose metal fixture on the trash bin, and the restaurant’s big sign creaked between its two standards.

  At last he and Tina went into the diner, trying not to look over their shoulders.

  21

  THE LONG L-SHAPED DINER WAS FILLED WITH glimmering surfaces: chrome, glass, plastic, yellow Formica, and red vinyl. The jukebox played a country tune by Garth Brooks, and the music shared the air with the delicious aromas of fried eggs, bacon, and sausages. True to the rhythm of Vegas life, someone was just beginning his day with a hearty breakfast. Tina’s mouth began to water as soon as she stepped through the door.

  Eleven customers were clustered at the end of the long arm of the L, near the entrance, five on stools at the counter, six in the red booths. Elliot and Tina sat as far from everyone as possible, in the last booth in the short wing of the restaurant.

  Their waitress was a redhead named Elvira. She had a round face, dimples, eyes that twinkled as if they had been waxed, and a Texas drawl. She took their orders for cheeseburgers, French fries, coleslaw, and Coors.

  When Elvira left the table and they were alone, Tina said, “Let’s see the papers you took off that guy.”

  Elliot fished the pages out of his hip pocket, unfolded them, and put them on the table. There were three sheets of paper, each containing ten or twelve typewritten questions.

  They leaned in from opposite sides of the booth and read the material silently:

  1. How long have you known Christina Evans?

  2. Why did Christina Evans ask you, rather than another attorney, to handle the exhumation of her son’s body?

  3. What reason does she have to doubt the official story of her son’s death?

  4. Does she have any proof that the official story of her son’s death is false?

  5. If she has such proof, what is it?

  6. Where did she obtain this evidence?

  7. Have you ever heard of “Project Pandora”?

  8. Have you been given, or has Mrs. Evans been given, any material relating to military research installations in the Sierra Nevada Mountains?

  Elliot looked up from the page. “Have you ever heard of Project Pandora?”

  “No.”

  “Secret labs in the High Sierras?”

  “Oh, sure. Mrs. Neddler told me all about them.”

  “Mrs. Neddler?”

  “My cleaning woman.”

  “Jokes again.”

  “At a time like this.”

  “Balm for the afflicted, medicine for melancholy.”

  “Groucho Marx,” she said.

  “Evidently they think someone from Project Pandora has decided to rat on them.”

  “Is that who’s been in Danny’s room? Did someone from Project Pandora write on the chalkboard . . . and then fiddle with the computer at work?”

  “Maybe,” Elliot said.

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “Well, if someone had a guilty conscience, why wouldn’t he approach you directly?”

  “He could be afraid. Probably has good reason to be.”

  “Maybe,” Elliot said again. “But I think it’s more complicated than that. Just a hunch.”

  They read quickly through the remaining material, but none of it was enlightening. Most of the questions were concerned with how much Tina knew about the true nature of the Sierra accident, how much she had told Elliot, how much she had told Michael, and with how many people she had discussed it. There were no more intriguing tidbits like Project Pandora, no more clues or leads.

  Elvira brought two frosted glasses and icy bottles of Coors.

  The jukebox began to play a mournful Alan Jackson song.

  Elliot sipped his beer and paged through the horror-comics magazine that had belonged to Danny. “Amazing,” he said when he finished skimming The Boy Who Was Not Dead.

/>   “You’d think it was even more amazing if you’d suffered those nightmares,” she said. “So now what do we do?”

  “Danny’s was a closed-coffin funeral. Was it the same with the other thirteen scouts?”

  “About half the others were buried without viewings,” Tina said.

  “Their parents never saw the bodies?”

  “Oh, yes. All the other parents were asked to identify their kids, even though some of the corpses were in such a horrible state they couldn’t be cosmetically restored for viewing at a funeral. Michael and I were the only ones who were strongly advised not to look at the remains. Danny was the only one who was too badly . . . mangled.”

  Even after all this time, when she thought about Danny’s last moments on earth—the terror he must have known, the excruciating pain he must have endured, even if it was of brief duration—she began to choke with sorrow and pity. She blinked back tears and took a swallow of beer.

  “Damn,” Elliot said.

  “What?”

  “I thought we might make some quick allies out of those other parents. If they hadn’t seen their kids’ bodies, they might have just gone through a year of doubt like you did, might be easily persuaded to join us in a call for the reopening of all the graves. If that many voices were raised, then Vince’s bosses couldn’t risk silencing all of them, and we’d be safe. But if the other people had a chance to view the bodies, if none of them has had any reason to entertain doubts like yours, then they’re all just finally learning to cope with the tragedy. If we go to them now with a wild story about a mysterious conspiracy, they aren’t going to be anxious to listen.”

  “So we’re still alone.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said we could go to a reporter, try to get media interest brewing. Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “I know a couple of local guys,” Elliot said. “But maybe it’s not wise to go to the local press. That might be just what Vince’s bosses are expecting us to do. If they’re waiting, watching—we’ll be dead before we can tell a reporter more than a sentence or two. I think we’ll have to take the story out of town, and before we do that, I’d like to have a few more facts.”