by Dean Koontz
The mood was set.
This was the happiest part of Marty’s day. Story time. No matter what else might happen after rising to meet the morning, he could always look forward to story time.
He wrote the tales himself in a notebook labeled Stories for Charlotte and Emily, which he might actually publish one day. Or might not. Every word was a gift to his daughters, so the decision to share the stories with anyone else would be entirely theirs.
Tonight marked the beginning of a special treat, a story in verse, which would continue through Christmas Day. Maybe it would go well enough to help him forget the unsettling events in his office.
“Well, now Thanksgiving is safely past, more turkey eaten this year than last—”
“It rhymes!” Charlotte said with delight.
“Sssshhhhh!” Emily admonished her sister.
The rules of story time were few but important, and one of them was that the two-girl audience could not interrupt mid-sentence or, in the case of a poem, mid-stanza. Their feedback was valued, their reactions cherished, but a storyteller must receive his due respect.
He began again:
“Well, now Thanksgiving is safely past, more turkey eaten this year than last, more stuffing stuffed, more yams jammed into our mouths, and using both hands, coleslaw in slews, biscuits by twos, all of us too fat to fit in our shoes.”
The girls were giggling just where he wanted them to giggle, and Marty could barely restrain himself from turning around in his chair to see how Paige liked it so far, as she had heard none of it until this moment. But no one would respond to a storyteller who couldn’t wait until the end for his plaudits; an unshakable air of confidence, whether faked or genuinely felt, was essential to success.
“So let’s look ahead to the big holiday that’s coming, coming, coming our way. I’m sure you know just what day I mean. It’s not Easter Sunday, not Halloween. It’s not a day to be sad and listless. I ask you, young ladies, what is it—?”
“It’s Christmas!” Charlotte and Emily answered in unison, and their immediate response confirmed that he had them in his spell.
“Someday soon, we’ll put up a tree. Why only one? Maybe two, maybe three! Deck it with tinsel and baubles bright. It’ll be an amazing and wonderful sight. String colored lights out on the roof— pray none are broken by anything’s hoof. Salt down the shingles to melt the ice. If Santa fell, it just wouldn’t be nice. He might fracture a leg or get a cut, perhaps even break his big jolly butt.”
He glanced at the girls. Their faces seemed to shine in the shadows. Without saying a word, they told him: Don’t stop, don’t stop!
God, he loved this. He loved them.
If heaven existed, it was exactly like this moment, this place.
“Oh, wait! I just heard terrible news. Hope it won’t give you Christmas blues. Santa was drugged, tied up, and gagged, blindfolded, ear-stoppled, and bagged. His sleigh is waiting out in the yard, and someone has stolen Santa’s bank card. Soon his accounts will be picked clean by the use of automatic-teller machines.”
“Uh-oh,” Charlotte said, snuggling deeper into her covers, “it’s going to be scary.”
“Well, of course it is,” Emily said. “Daddy wrote it.”
“Will it be too scary?” Charlotte asked, pulling the blankets up to her chin.
“Are you wearing socks?” Marty asked.
Charlotte usually wore socks to bed except in summer, because otherwise her feet got cold.
“Socks?” she said. “Yeah? So?”
Marty leaned forward in his chair and lowered his voice to a spooky whisper: “Because this story won’t end until Christmas Day, and by then it’s gonna scare your socks off maybe a dozen times.”
He made a wicked face.
Charlotte pulled the covers up to her nose.
Emily giggled and demanded: “Come on, Daddy, what’s next?”
“Hark, the sound of silver sleigh bells echoes over the hills and the dells. And look—reindeer high up in the sky! Some silly goose has taught them to fly. The driver giggles quite like a loon— madman, goofball, a thug, and a goon.
Something is wrong—any fool could tell. If this is Santa, then Santa’s not well. He hoots, gibbers, chortles, and spits, and seems to be having some sort of fits His mean little eyes spin just like tops. So somebody better quick call the cops. A closer look confirms his psychosis. And—oh, my dears—really bad halitosis!”
“Oh, jeez,” Charlotte said, pulling the covers up just below her eyes. She professed to dislike scary stories, but she was the quicker to complain if something frightening didn’t happen in a tale sooner or later.
“So who is it?” Emily asked. “Who tied Santa up and robbed him and ran off in his sleigh?”
“Beware when Christmas comes this year, because there’s something new to fear. Santa’s twin—who is evil and mean— stole the sleigh, will make the scene, pretending to be his good brother. Guard your beloved children, Mother! Down the chimney, into your home, here comes that vile psychotic gnome!”
“Eeep!” Charlotte cried, and pulled the covers over her head.
Emily said, “What made Santa’s twin so evil?”
“Maybe he had a bad childhood,” Marty said.
“Maybe he was born that way,” Charlotte said under her covers.
“Can people be born bad?” Emily wondered. Then she answered her own question before Marty could respond. “Well, sure, they can. ’Cause some people are born good, like you and Mommy, so then some people must be born bad.”
Marty was soaking up the girls’ reactions, loving it.
On one level, he was a writer, storing away their words, the rhythms of their speech, expressions, toward the day when he might need to use some of this for a scene in a book. He supposed it wasn’t admirable to be so constantly aware that even his own children were material; it might be morally repugnant, but he couldn’t change. He was what he was. He was also a father, however, and he reacted primarily on that level, mentally preserving the moment because one day memories were all he would have of their childhood, and he wanted to be able to recall everything, the good and the bad, simple moments and big events, in Technicolor and Dolby sound and with perfect clarity, because it was all too precious to him to be lost.
Emily said, “Does Santa’s evil twin have a name?”
“Yes,” Marty said, “he does, but you’ll have to wait until another night to hear it. We’ve reached our first stopping place.”
Charlotte poked her head out from beneath the covers, and both girls insisted that he read the first part of the poem again, as he had known they would. Even the second time through, they would be too involved to be ready to sleep. They would demand a third reading, and he would oblige, for then they would be familiar enough with the words to settle down. Later, by the end of the third reading, they finally would be either deep in sleep or on the drowsy edge of it.
As he started with the first line again, Marty heard Paige turn out of the doorway and walk toward the stairs. She would be waiting for him in the family room, perhaps with flames crackling in the fireplace, perhaps with red wine and a snack of some kind, and they would curl up together and tell each other about their day.
Any five minutes of the evening, now or later, would be more interesting to him than a trip around the world. He was a hopeless homebody. The charms of hearth and family had more allure than the enigmatic sands of Egypt, the glamour of Paris, and the mystery of the Far East combined.
Winking at each of his daughters, reciting again, “Well, now Thanksgiving is safely past,” he had for the moment forgotten that something disturbing had happened earlier in his office and that the sanctity of his home had been violated.
8
In the Blue Life Lounge, a woman brushes against the killer and slides onto the bar stool beside him. She is not as beautiful as the dancers, but she is attractive enough for his purposes. Wearing tan jeans and a tight red T-shirt, she could be just another customer, but sh
e is not. He knows her type—a discount Venus with the skills of a natural-born accountant.
They conduct a conversation by leaning close to each other to be heard above the band, and soon their heads are almost touching. Her name is Heather, or so she says. She has wintermint breath.
By the time the dancers retreat and the band takes a break, Heather has decided he isn’t a vice cop on stakeout, so she grows bolder. She knows what he wants, she has what he wants, and she lets him know that he is a buyer in a seller’s market.
Heather tells him that across the highway from the Blue Life Lounge is a motel where, if a girl is known to the management, rooms can be rented by the hour. This is no surprise to him, for there are laws of lust and economics as immutable as the laws of nature.
She pulls on her lambskin-lined jacket, and together they go out into the chilly night, where her wintermint breath turns to steam in the crisp air. They cross the parking lot and then the highway, hand-in-hand as if they are high school sweethearts.
Though she knows what he wants, she does not know what he needs any more than he does. When he gets what he wants, and when it does not quench the hot need in him, Heather will learn the pattern of emotion that is now so familiar to him: need fosters frustration; frustration grows into anger; anger leads to hatred; hatred generates violence—and violence sometimes soothes.
The sky is a massive slab of crystal-clear ice. The trees stand leafless and sere at the end of barren November. The wind makes a cold, mournful sound as it sweeps off the vast surrounding prairie, through the city. And violence sometimes soothes.
Later, having spent himself in Heather more than once, no longer in the urgent grip of lust, he finds the shabbiness of the motel room to be an intolerable reminder of the shallow, grubby nature of his existence. His immediate desire is sated, but his desire for more of a life, for direction and meaning, is undiminished.
The naked young woman, on top of whom he still lies, seems ugly now, even disgusting. The memory of intimacy with her repels him. She can’t or won’t give him what he needs. Living on the edge of society, selling her body, she is an outcast herself, and therefore an infuriating symbol of his own alienation.
She is taken by surprise when he punches her in the face. The blow is hard enough to stun her. As Heather goes limp, nearly unconscious, he slips both hands around her throat and chokes her with all the force of which he is capable.
The struggle is quiet. The blow, followed by extreme pressure on her windpipe and diminishment of the blood supply to her brain through the carotid arteries, renders her incapable of resistance.
He is concerned about drawing the unwanted attention of other motel guests. But a minimum of noise is also important because quiet murder is more personal, more intimate, more deeply satisfying.
So quietly does she succumb that he is reminded of nature films in which certain spiders and mantises kill their mates subsequent to a first and final act of intercourse, always without a sound from either assailant or victim. Heather’s death is marked by a cold and solemn ritual equal to the stylized savagery of those insects.
Minutes later, after showering and dressing, he crosses the highway from the motel to the Blue Life Lounge and gets in his rental car. He has business to conduct. He was not sent to Kansas City to murder a whore named Heather. She was merely a diversion. Other victims await him, and now he is sufficiently relaxed and focused to deal with them.
9
In Marty’s office, by the party-colored light of the stained-glass lamp, Paige stood beside the desk, staring at the small tape recorder, listening to her husband chant two unsettling words in a voice that ranged from a melancholy whisper to a low snarl of rage.
After less than two minutes, she couldn’t tolerate it any longer. His voice was simultaneously familiar and strange, which made it far worse than if she’d been unable to recognize it at all.
She switched off the recorder.
Realizing she was still holding the glass of red wine in her right hand, she took too large a swallow. It was a good California cabernet that merited leisurely sipping, but suddenly she was more interested in its effect than its taste.
Standing across the desk from her, Marty said, “There’s at least five more minutes of the same thing. Seven minutes in all. After it happened, before you and the girls came home, I did some research.” He gestured toward the bookshelves that lined one wall. “In my medical references. ”
Paige did not want to hear what he was going to tell her. The possibility of serious illness was unthinkable. If anything happened to Marty, the world would be a far darker and less interesting place.
She was not sure that she could deal with the loss of him. She realized her attitude was peculiar, considering that she was a child psychologist who, in her private practice and during the hours she donated to child-welfare groups, had counseled dozens of children about how to conquer grief and go on after the death of a loved one.
Coming around the desk toward her, his own wine glass already empty, Marty said, “A fugue can be symptomatic of several things. Early-stage Alzheimer’s disease, for instance, but I believe we can rule that out. If I’ve got Alzheimer’s at thirty-three, I’d probably be the youngest case on record by about a decade.”
He put his glass on the desk and went to the window to stare out at the night between the slats of the plantation shutters.
Paige was struck by how vulnerable he suddenly appeared. Six feet tall, a hundred and eighty pounds, with his easy-going manner and limitless enthusiasm for life, Marty had always before struck her as being more solid and permanent than anything in the world, oceans and mountains included. Now he seemed as fragile as a pane of glass.
With his back toward her, still studying the night, he said, “Or it might have been an indication of a small stroke.”
“No.”
“Though according to the references I checked, the most likely cause is a brain tumor.”
She raised her glass. It was empty. She could not remember having finished the wine. A little fugue of her own.
She set the glass on the desk. Beside the hateful cassette recorder. Then she went to Marty and put a hand on his shoulder.
When he turned to her, she kissed him lightly, quickly. She laid her head against his chest and hugged him, and he put his arms around her. Because of Marty, she had learned that hugs were as essential to a healthy life as were food, water, sleep.
Earlier, when she had caught him systematically checking window locks, she’d insisted, with only a scowl and a single word—“Well?”—that he not hide anything. Now she wished she hadn’t insisted on hearing about his one bad moment in an otherwise fine day.
She looked up and met his eyes at last, still embracing him, and said, “It might be nothing.”
“It’s something.”
“But I mean, nothing physical.”
He smiled ruefully. “It’s so comforting to have a psychologist in the house.”
“Well, it could be psychological.”
“Somehow, it doesn’t help that maybe I’m just crazy.”
“Not crazy. Stressed.”
“Ah, yes, stress. The twentieth-century excuse, the favorite of goldbrickers filing fake disability claims, politicians trying to explain why they were drunk in a motel with naked teenage girls—”
She let go of him, turned away, angry. She wasn’t upset with Marty, exactly, but with God or fate or whatever force had suddenly brought turbulent currents into their smoothly flowing lives.
She started toward the desk to get her glass of wine before she remembered she had already drunk it. She turned to Marty again.
“All right . . . except when Charlotte was so sick that time, you’ve always been about as stressed out as a clam. But maybe you’re just a secret worrier. And lately, you’ve had a lot of pressures.”
“I have?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“The deadline on this book is tighter than usual.”
“But I’
ve still got three months, and I think I’ll need one.”
“All the new career expectations—your publisher and agent and everyone in the business watching you in a different way now.”
The paperback reprints of his two most recent novels had placed on the New York Times bestseller list, each for eight weeks. He had not yet enjoyed a hardcover bestseller, but that new level of success seemed imminent with the release of his new novel in January.
The sudden sales growth was exciting but also daunting. Though Marty wanted a larger audience, he also was determined not to tailor his writing to have wider appeal and thereby lose what made his books fresh. He knew he was in danger of unconsciously modifying his work, so lately he was being unusually hard on himself, even though he had always been his own toughest critic and had always revised each page of a story as many as twenty and thirty times.
“Then there’s People magazine,” she said.
“That’s not stressful. It’s over and done with.”
A writer for People had come to the house a few weeks ago, and a photographer followed two days later for a ten-hour shoot. Marty being Marty, he liked them and they liked him, although first he had desperately resisted his publisher’s entreaties to do the piece.
Given his friendly relationship with the People people, he had no reason to think the article would be negative, but even favorable publicity usually made him feel cheap and grasping. To him, the books were what mattered, not the person who wrote them, and he did not want to be, as he put it, “the Madonna of the mystery novel, posing nude in a library with a snake in my teeth to hype sales.”
“It’s not over and done with,” Paige disagreed. The issue with the article about Marty would not hit the news-stands until Monday. “I know you’re dreading it.”
He sighed. “I don’t want to be—”