by Dean Koontz
Appreciate the moment, Marty would tell her. He was a born therapist. Sometimes she thought she’d learned more from him than from the courses she had taken to earn her doctorate in psychology.
Appreciate the moment.
In truth the constant bustle of the scene beyond the window was invigorating. And whereas she had once been so predisposed to gloom that bad weather could negatively affect her mood, all of these years with Marty and his usually unshakable good cheer had made it possible for her to see the somber beauty in an oncoming storm.
She had been born and raised in a loveless house as grim and cold as any arctic cavern. But those days were far behind her, and the effect of them had long ago diminished.
Appreciate the moment.
Checking her watch, she pulled the drapes shut because the mood of her next two clients was not likely to be immune to the influence of gray weather.
When the windows were covered, the place was as cozy as any parlor in a private home. Her desk, books, and files were in the third office, rarely seen by those she counseled. She always met with them in this more welcoming room. The floral-pattern sofa with its variety of throw pillows lent a lot of charm, and each of three plushly upholstered armchairs was commodious enough to permit young guests to curl up entirely on the seat with their legs tucked under them if they wished. Celadon lamps with fringed silk shades cast a warm light that glimmered in the bibelots on the end tables and in the glazes of Lladro porcelain figurines in the mahogany breakfront.
Paige usually offered hot chocolate and cookies, or pretzels with a cold glass of cola, and conversation was facilitated because the overall effect was like being at Grandma’s house. At least it was how Grandma’s house had been in the days when no grandma ever underwent plastic surgery, had herself reconfigured by liposuction, divorced Grandpa, went on singles’ cruises to Cabo San Lucas, or flew to Vegas with her boyfriend for the weekend.
Most clients, on their first visit, were astonished not to find the collected works of Freud, a therapy couch, and the too-solemn atmosphere of a psychiatrist’s office. Even when she reminded them that she was not a psychiatrist, not a medical doctor at all, but a counselor with a degree in psychology who saw “clients” rather than “patients,” people with communication problems rather than neuroses or psychoses, they remained bewildered for the first half an hour or so. Eventually the room—and, she liked to think, her relaxed approach—won them over.
Paige’s two o’clock appointment, the last of the day, was with Samantha Acheson and her eight-year-old son, Sean. Samantha’s first husband, Sean’s father, had died shortly after the boy’s fifth birthday. Two and a half years later, Samantha remarried, and Sean’s behavioral problems began virtually on the wedding day, an obvious result of his misguided conviction that she had betrayed his dead father and might one day betray him as well. For five months, Paige had met twice a week with the boy, winning his trust, opening lines of communication, so they could discuss the pain and fear and anger he was unable to talk about with his mother. Today, Samantha was to participate for the first time, which was an important step because progress was usually swift once the child was ready to say to the parent what he had said to his counselor.
She sat in the armchair she reserved for herself and reached to the end table for the reproduction-antique telephone, which was both a working phone and an intercom to the reception lounge. She intended to ask Millie, her secretary, to send in Samantha and Sean Acheson, but the intercom buzzed before she lifted the receiver.
“Marty’s on line one, Paige.”
“Thank you, Millie.” She pressed line one. “Marty?”
He didn’t respond.
“Marty, are you there?” she asked, looking to see if she had punched the correct button.
Line one was lit, but there was only silence on it.
“Marty?”
“I like the sound of your voice, Paige. So melodic.”
He sounded . . . odd.
Her heart began to knock against her ribs, and she struggled to suppress the fear that swelled in her. “What did the doctor say?”
“I like your picture.”
“My picture?” she said, baffled.
“I like your hair, your eyes.”
“Marty, I don’t—”
“You’re what I need.”
Her mouth had gone dry. “Is something wrong?”
Suddenly he spoke very fast, running sentences together: “I want to kiss you, Paige, kiss your breasts, hold you against me, make love to you, I will make you very happy, I want to be in you, it will be just like the movies, bliss.”
“Marty, honey, what—”
He hung up, cutting her off.
As surprised and confused as she was worried, Paige listened to the dial tone before returning the handset to the cradle.
What the hell?
It was two o’clock, and she doubted that his appointment with Guthridge had lasted an hour; therefore, he hadn’t phoned her from the doctor’s office. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have had time to drive all the way home, which meant he had called her en route.
She lifted the handset and punched in the number of his car phone. He answered on the second ring, and she said, “Marty, what the hell’s wrong?”
“Paige?”
“What was that all about?”
“What was what all about?”
“Kissing my breasts, for God’s sake, just like the movies, bliss.”
He hesitated, and she could hear the faint rumble of the Ford’s engine, which meant he was in transit. After a beat he said, “Kid, you’ve lost me.”
“A minute ago, you call here, acting as if—”
“No. Not me.”
“You didn’t call here?”
“Nope.”
“Is this a joke?”
“You mean, somebody called, said he was me?”
“Yes, he—”
“Did he sound like me?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly like me?”
Paige thought about that for a moment. “Well, not exactly. He sounded a lot like you and then . . . not quite like you. It’s hard to explain.”
“I hope you hung up on him when he got obscene.”
“You—” She corrected herself: “He hung up first. Besides, it wasn’t an obscene call.”
“Oh? What was that about kissing your breasts?”
“Well, it didn’t seem obscene ’cause I thought he was you.”
“Paige, refresh my memory—when was the last time I called you at work to talk about kissing your breasts?”
She laughed. “Well . . . never, I guess,” and when he laughed, too, she added, “but maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea now and then, liven up the day a little.”
“They are very kissable.”
“Thank you.”
“So’s your tush.”
“You’ve got me blushing,” she said, and it was true.
“So’s your—”
“Now this is getting obscene,” she said.
“Yeah, but I’m the victim.”
“How do you figure?”
“You called me and pretty much demanded that I talk dirty.”
“I guess I did. Women’s liberation, you know.”
“Where will it all end?”
A disturbing possibility had occurred to Paige, but she was reluctant to express it: Perhaps the call had been from Marty, made on his car phone while he was in a fugue state similar to the one on Saturday afternoon when he’d monotonously repeated those two words into a tape recorder for seven minutes and later had no memory of it.
She suspected the same thought had just occurred to him because his sudden reticence matched hers.
At last Paige broke the silence. “What did Paul Guthridge have to say?”
“He thinks it’s probably stress.”
“Thinks?”
“He’s setting up tests for tomorrow or Wednesday.”
“But he wasn’t worr
ied?”
“No. Or he pretended he wasn’t.”
Paul’s informal style was not reflected in the way he imparted essential information to his patients. He was always direct and to the point. Even when Charlotte had been so ill, when some doctors might have soft-pedaled the more alarming possibilities to let the parents adjust slowly to the worst-case scenario, Paul had bluntly assessed her situation with Paige and Marty. He knew that no half-truth or false optimism should ever be mistaken for compassion. If Paul didn’t appear to be more than ordinarily concerned about Marty’s condition and symptoms—that was good news.
“He gave me his spare copy of the new People,” Marty said.
“Uh-oh. You say that as if he handed you a bag of dog poop.”
“Well, it isn’t what I was hoping for.”
“It’s not as bad as you think,” she said.
“How do you know? You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“But I know you and how you are about these things.”
“In the one photo, I look like the Frankenstein monster with a bad hangover.”
“I’ve always loved Boris Karloff.”
He sighed. “I suppose I can change my name, have some plastic surgery, and move to Brazil. But before I book a flight to Rio, do you want me to pick up the kids at school?”
“I’ll get them. They’ll be an hour later today.”
“Oh, that’s right, Monday. Piano lessons.”
“We’ll be home by four-thirty,” she said. “You can show me People and spend the evening crying on my shoulder.”
“To hell with that. I’ll show you People and spend the evening kissing your breasts.”
“You’re special, Marty.”
“I love you, too, kid.”
When she hung up, Paige was smiling. He could always make her smile, even in darker moments.
She refused to think about the strange phone call, about illness or fugues or pictures that made him look like a monster.
Appreciate the moment.
She did just that for a minute or so, then called Millie on the intercom and asked her to send in Samantha and Sean Acheson.
6
In his office, he sits in the executive chair behind the desk. It is comfortable. He can almost believe he has sat in it before.
Nevertheless, he is nervous.
He switches on the computer. It is an IBM PC with substantial hard-disk storage. A good machine. He can’t remember purchasing it.
After the system runs a data-management program, the oversize screen presents him with a “Main Selection Menu” that includes eight choices, mostly word-processing software. He chooses WordPerfect 5.1, and it is loaded.
He doesn’t recall being instructed in the operation of a computer or in the use of WordPerfect. This training is cloaked in amnesiac mists, as is his training in weaponry and his uncanny familiarity with the street systems of various cities. Evidently, his superiors believed he would need to understand basic computer operation and be familiar with certain software programs in order to carry out his assignments.
The screen clears.
Ready.
In the lower right-hand corner of the blue screen, white letters and numbers tell him that he is in document one, on page one, at line one, in the tenth position.
Ready. He is ready to write a novel. His work.
He stares at the blank monitor, trying to start. Beginning is more difficult than he had expected.
He has brought a bottle of Corona from the kitchen, suspecting he might need to lubricate his thoughts. He takes a long swallow. The beer is cold, refreshing, and he knows that it is just the thing to get him going.
After finishing half the bottle, confidence renewed, he begins to type. He bangs out two words, then stops:
The man
The man what?
He stares at the screen for a minute, then types “entered the room.” But what room? In a house? An office building? What does the room look like? Who else is in it? What is this man doing in this room, why is he here? Does it have to be a room? Could he be entering a train, a plane, a graveyard?
He deletes “entered the room” and replaces it with “was tall.” So the man is tall. Does it matter that he is tall? Will tallness be important to the story? How old is he? What color are his eyes, his hair? Is he Caucasian, black, Asian? What is he wearing? As far as that goes, does it have to be a man at all? Couldn’t it be a woman? Or a child?
With these questions in mind, he clears the screen and starts the story from the beginning:
The
He stares at the screen. It is terrifyingly blank. Infinitely blanker than it was before, not just three letters blanker with the deletion of “man.” The choices to follow that simple article, “the,” are limitless, which makes the selection of the second word a great deal more daunting than he would have supposed before he sat in the black leather chair and switched on the machine.
He deletes “The.”
The screen is clear.
Ready.
He finishes the bottle of Corona. It is cold and refreshing, but it does not lubricate his thoughts.
He goes to the bookshelves and pulls off eight of the novels bearing his name, Martin Stillwater. He carries them to the desk, and for a while he sits and reads first pages, second pages, trying to kick-start his brain.
His destiny is to be Martin Stillwater. That much is perfectly clear.
He will be a good father to Charlotte and Emily.
He will be a good husband and lover to the beautiful Paige.
And he will write novels. Mystery novels.
Evidently, he has written them before, at least a dozen, so he can write them again. He simply has to re-acquire the feeling for how it is done, relearn the habit.
The screen is blank.
He puts his fingers on the keys, ready to type.
The screen is so blank. Blank, blank, blank. Mocking him.
Suspecting that he is merely inhibited by the soft persistent hum of the monitor fan and the demanding electronic-blue field of document one, page one, he switches off the computer. The resultant silence is a blessing, but the flat gray glass of the monitor is even more mocking than the blue screen; turning the machine off seems like an admission of defeat.
He needs to be Martin Stillwater, which means he needs to write.
The man. The man was. The man was tall with blue eyes and blond hair, wearing a blue suit and white shirt and red tie, about thirty years old, and he didn’t know what he was doing in the room that he entered. Damn. No good. The man. The man. The man . . .
He needs to write, but every attempt to do so leads quickly to frustration. Frustration soon spawns anger. The familiar pattern. Anger generates a specific hatred for the computer, a loathing of it, and also a less focused hatred of his unsatisfactory position in the world, of the world itself and every one of its inhabitants. He needs so little, so pathetically little, just to belong, to be like other people, to have a home and a family, to have a purpose that he understands. Is that so much? Is it? He does not want to be rich, rub elbows with the high and mighty, dine with socialites. He is not asking for fame. After much struggle, confusion, and loneliness, he now has a home and wife and two children, a sense of direction, a destiny, but he feels it slipping away from him, through his fingers. He needs to be Martin Stillwater, but in order to be Martin Stillwater, he needs to be able to write, and he can’t write, can’t write, damn it all, can’t write. He knows the street layout of Kansas City, other cities, and he knows all about weaponry, about picking locks, because they seeded that knowledge in him—whoever “they” are—but they haven’t seen fit also to implant the knowledge of how to write mystery novels, which he needs, oh so desperately needs, if he is ever to be Martin Stillwater, if he is to keep his lovely wife, Paige, and his daughters and his new destiny, which is slipping, slipping, slipping through his fingers, his one chance at happiness swiftly evaporating, because they are against him, all of them, the whole
world, set against him, determined to keep him alone and confused. And why? Why? He hates them and their schemes and their faceless power, despises them and their machines with such bitter intensity that—
—with a shriek of rage, he slams his fist through the dark screen of the computer, striking out at his own fierce reflection almost as much as at the machine and all that it represents. The sound of shattering glass is loud in the silent house, and the vacuum inside the monitor pops simultaneously with a brief hiss of invading air.
He withdraws his hand from the ruins even as fragments of glass are still clinking onto the keyboard, and he stares at his bright blood. Sharp slivers bristle from the webs between his fingers and from a couple of knuckles. An elliptical shard is embedded in the meat of his palm.
Although he is still angry, he is gradually regaining control of himself. Violence sometimes soothes.
He swivels the chair away from the computer to face the opposite side of the U-shaped work area, where he leans forward to examine his wounds in the light of the stained-glass lamp. The glass thorns in his flesh sparkle like jewels.
He is experiencing only mild pain, and he knows it will soon pass. He is tough and resilient; he enjoys splendid recuperative powers.
Some of the fragments of the screen have not pierced his hand deeply, and he is able to pry them out with his fingernails. But others are firmly wedged in the flesh.
He pushes the chair away from the desk, gets to his feet, and heads for the master bathroom. He will need tweezers to extract the more stubborn splinters.
Although he bled freely at first, already the flow is subsiding. Nevertheless he holds his arm in the air, his hand straight up, so the blood will trickle down his wrist and under the sleeve of his shirt rather than drip on the carpet.
After he has plucked out the glass, perhaps he will telephone Paige at work again.
He was so excited when he found her office number on the Rolodex in his study, and he was thrilled to speak with her. She sounded intelligent, self-assured, gentle. Her voice had a slightly throaty timbre that he found sexy.
It will be a wonderful bonus if she is sexy. Tonight, they will share a bed. He will take her more than once. Recalling the face in the photograph and the husky voice on the phone, he is confident that she will satisfy his needs as they have never been satisfied before, that she will not leave him unfulfilled and frustrated as have so many other women.