by Dean Koontz
Hanes waited, as still as sculpture. He never fidgeted. He never made a sweeping gesture when a raised eyebrow would do as well.
John said, “I know he was transferred here only four days ago. But is there anything you’ve noticed he does that’s … strange?”
“Besides trying to pee on you?”
“Not that it happens to me all the time, but that isn’t what I mean by strange. I expect him to be aggressive one way or another. What I’m looking for is … anything quirky.”
Hanes considered, then said, “Sometimes he talks to himself.”
“Most of us do, a little.”
“Not in the third person.”
John leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me.”
“Well, I guess it’s usually a question. He’ll say, ‘Isn’t it a nice day, Billy?’ Or ‘This is so warm and cozy, Billy. Isn’t it warm and cozy?’ The thing he most often asks is if he’s having fun.”
“Fun? What does he say exactly?”
“ ‘Isn’t this fun, Billy? Are you having fun, Billy? Could this be any more fun, Billy?’ ”
John’s coffee had gone cold. He pushed the cup aside. “Does he ever answer his own questions aloud?”
Coleman Hanes thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”
“He doesn’t take two sides of a conversation?”
“No. Mostly just asks himself questions. Rhetorical questions. They don’t really need an answer. It doesn’t sound all that strange, I guess, until you’ve heard him do it.”
John found himself turning his wedding band around and around on his finger. Finally he said, “He told me that he likes books.”
“He’s allowed paperbacks. We have a little hospital library.”
“What kind of thing does he read?”
“I haven’t paid attention.”
“True-crime stories? True murder?”
Hanes shook his head. “We don’t have any of those. Not a good idea. Patients like Billy find books like that … too exciting.”
“Has he asked for true-crime books?”
“He’s never asked me. Maybe someone else.”
From a compartment in his ID wallet, John extracted a business card and slid it across the table. “Office number’s on the front. I wrote my home and cell numbers on back. Call me if anything happens.”
“Like what?”
“Anything unusual. Anything that makes you think of me. Hell, I don’t know.”
Tucking the card in his shirt pocket, Hanes said, “How long you been married?”
“It’ll be fifteen years this December. Why?”
“The whole time we’ve been sitting here, you’ve been turning the ring on your finger, like reassuring yourself it’s there. Like you wouldn’t know what to do without it.”
“Not the whole time,” John said, because he had only a moment earlier become aware of playing with the wedding band.
“Pretty much the whole time,” the orderly insisted.
“Maybe you should be the detective.”
As they rose to their feet, John felt as if he wore an iron yoke. Coleman had a burden, too. John flattered himself to think he carried his weight with a grace that matched that of the orderly.
The war against humanity has begun.…
DON’T MISS ANY OF THE
VOLUMES IN DEAN KOONTZ’S
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OF ONE OF THE CLASSIC
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“One of the master storytellers of this or any age.” —The Tampa Tribune
“Koontz is a superb plotter and wordsmith. He chronicles the hopes and fears of our time in broad strokes and fine detail, using popular fiction to explore the human condition [and] demonstrating that the real horror of life is found not in monsters, but within the human psyche.” —USA Today
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