by Dean Koontz
The only other people to whom he could turn were his grandparents. All four of them were alive. His mother’s folks lived in Sarasota, Florida, in a big white stucco place with lots of windows and shiny terrazzo floors. His father’s people had a small farm in Vermont. Colin hadn’t seen his grandparents in three years, and he’d never been close to any of them. If he called them, they would call Weezy. His relationships with them were not such that they would keep a secret for him. And they certainly wouldn’t come across country to take his side in this little war, not in a million years; that was a pipe dream.
Heather? Perhaps it was time to tell her, to ask for her help and suggestions. He could not hide his separation from Roy forever. But what could she do? She was a slender, rather timid girl, very pretty and nice and smart, but not much good in a fight like this.
He sighed.
“Jeez.”
He took his hand off the telephone.
There was no one on earth from whom he could hope to get help. No one.
He was as alone as if he had been standing at the North Pole. Utterly, perfectly, unrelievedly alone. But he was accustomed to that.
When had it ever been different?
He went upstairs.
In the past, whenever the world seemed too harsh and difficult to handle, he simply retreated from it. He had squirreled away with his monster models, his comic-book collection, and his shelves of science-fiction and horror novels. His room had been a sanctuary, the eye of the hurricane, where the storm could not touch him, where it could even be forgotten for a while. His room had always done for him what a hospital did for a sick man and what a monastery did for a monk: It healed him and it made him feel that in some mystical way he was part of something far, far more important and better than everyday life. His room had been filled with magic. It had been his refuge and his stage, where he could either hide from the world and from himself, too—or act out his fantasies for an audience of one. His room had been his place to weep and his playground, his church and his laboratory, the repository of his dreams.
Now it was just a room like any other. A ceiling. Four walls. A floor. A window. A door. Nothing more than that. Just one more place to be.
When Roy had come in here alone, uninvited, unwanted, he had broken the delicate spell that made this place unique. He had surely snooped through all the drawers and books and monster model kits, and in doing that he had also pawed through Colin’s soul without ever realizing it. With his crude touch he had drained the magic out of everything in the room, just as a lightning rod draws magnificent bolts of energy from the sky and disperses them so widely in the earth that they cease to exist at all. Nothing here was special any longer, and none of it would ever be special again. Colin felt violated, raped; he felt used and discarded. But Roy Borden had stolen a great deal more than privacy and pride; he had also made off with what remained of Colin’s shaky sense of security. And even more than that, much worse than that, he was a thief of illusions; he had taken all of those false but wonderfully comforting beliefs that Colin had long cherished.
Colin was depressed, yet he was also aware of a strange new power that was beginning to shine within him. Although he nearly had been killed just minutes ago, he was less afraid at this moment than at any time in memory. For the first time in his life, he did not feel weak or inferior. He was still the same second-rate physical specimen that he had always been—skinny, myopic, poorly co-ordinated—but inside he felt all new, fresh, and capable of anything.
He did not cry, and he was proud of that.
At the moment there was no room in him for tears; he was filled with a need for revenge.
PART THREE
35
Colin spent the rest of Friday in his room. He read parts of the three psychology books that he’d brought home from the library, and he reread some pages as often as half a dozen times. When he wasn’t studying, he stared at the wall, sometimes for as long as an hour, just thinking. And planning.
When he left the house early the next morning, the sky was high and bright and cloudless. He intended to meet Heather at twelve o‘clock, spend the afternoon at the beach, and be home by nightfall; nevertheless, he took a flashlight with him.
He rode his bicycle down to the beach, then to the harbor, even though he didn’t have any immediate business in either of those places. He was taking a roundabout route to his real destination in order to make certain that he wasn’t followed. He could see that Roy wasn’t close behind him, but perhaps the boy was watching from a distance through the same pair of high-power binoculars they had used when they were spying on Sarah Callahan. From the harbor, Colin cycled to the tourist information center at the north end of town. Satisfied that he had no tail, he finally struck out directly for Hawk Drive and the Kingman place.
Even in bright daylight, the abandoned house loomed threateningly at the top of the hill. Colin approached it with uneasiness that changed to quiet fear by the time he entered the gate and started up the broken flagstone walk. If he had been the state official in charge of the property, or the mayor of Santa Leona, he would have called for the complete and immediate destruction of the place for the good of the community. He still thought the house exuded a tangible evil, a menace that could be felt and seen as clearly as the California sunshine that now dazzled his eyes and warmed his face. Three large, black birds circled over the roof and finally perched on a chimney. The house seemed to be aware, watchful, infused with a malignant life force. The weathered gray walls looked scabrous, diseased, cancerous. Rusting nails resembled old wounds: stigmata. Sunlight seemed unable to penetrate the mysterious spaces beyond the missing windowpanes, and from outside, at least, the inside of the mansion appeared to be as dark now as it would be at midnight.
Colin put his bicycle down in the grass, climbed the sagging porch steps, and looked through the shattered window where he and Roy had stood one night not long ago. On closer inspection, Colin saw that some light did reach into the house. The drawing room was visible in every detail. At one time it must have served as a clubhouse for a group of boys—for candy wrappers, empty soda cans, and cigarette butts were strewn across the bare, scarred floor. A faded and tattered Playboy centerfold was fixed above the fireplace, over the same mantel on which Mr. Kingman had lined up the blood-splashed heads of his slaughtered family. The kids who had been using the house as a hangout had not been around for many months—a thick, undisturbed layer of dust covered everything.
The front entrance was unlocked, but the corroded hinges squealed as Colin pushed on the warped door. The wind rushed in around him and stirred up a small cloud of dust in the foyer. Inside, the air was heavily tinted with the odors of mildew and dry rot.
As Colin prowled from room to room, he saw that vandals had been at work in every comer of the huge house. Boys’ names, obscene words, dirty limericks, and crude drawings of male and female genitalia were scrawled wherever there was bare plaster or fairly plain wallpaper. Ragged holes—some only as large as a hand, others nearly as big as a door—had been knocked in the walls. Piles of plaster and splintered laths littered the place.
When Colin stood perfectly still, the old house was ethereally quiet. But when he moved, the arthritic structure responded to each step he took; its joints groaned on all sides of him.
Several times he thought he heard something creeping up behind him, but when he looked he was always alone. For the most part, he moved through the ruins without a thought for ghosts and monsters. He was surprised and pleased by his newly acquired bravery—and just a bit uncomfortable with it. Only a few weeks ago, he would have refused to cross the Kingman threshold by himself, even if there had been a million-dollar prize at stake.
He was in the mansion more than two hours. He did not overlook a room or even a closet. In those chambers where all the windows were boarded shut, he used the flashlight that he had brought along. He spent most of the time on the second floor, exploring every nook—and planning a surprise or two for R
oy Borden.
36
There was, after all, something that Heather could do to help him. In fact, she was perhaps the most essential part of the revenge plot that he concocted. Without her co-operation, he would have to find another way to get Roy. Colin didn’t intend that she fight at his side. He wasn’t relying on her strength or agility. He wanted to use her as bait.
If she agreed to help him, she would be in some danger. But he was certain that he could protect her. He was not the same weak and ineffectual Colin Jacobs who had moved to Santa Leona at the beginning of the summer, and his new aggressiveness would come as a surprise to Roy. A nasty surprise. And surprise was very definitely to his advantage.
Heather was waiting at the beach, in the shadow of the pier. She was wearing a one-piece blue swimsuit. She didn’t like two-piece suits or bikinis or anything like that because she didn’t think she looked good enough in them. Colin thought she would have looked as appealing as any other teen-age girl on the beach, better than many of them, and he told her that. He could see that the compliment pleased her, but it was equally obvious that she did not really believe it.
They chose a spot on the hot sand to spread their beach towels. For a while they lay on their backs, in companionable silence, basking in the sun.
At last Colin turned on his side and rose up slightly, supporting himself on one bent elbow, and said, “How much does it matter to you that I’m Roy Borden’s friend?”
She frowned, but she didn’t open her eyes or turn away from the sun. “What do you mean?”
“How much does it matter?” he persisted, his heart beginning to pound.
“Why should it matter to me?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”
Colin took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Would you still like me if I wasn’t Roy’s friend?”
Now she turned her head toward him and opened her eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
She rolled onto her side and rose on one elbow to face him. The wind stirred her hair. “You mean you think maybe I’m interested in you only because you’re the best friend of the school big shot?”
Colin blushed. “Well...”
“That’s a terrible thing to think,” she said, but she didn’t sound angry.
He shrugged, embarrassed but still anxious to hear her answer.
“And it’s insulting,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, placatingly. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just... I had to ask. It’s important to know if you—”
“I like you because you’re you,” Heather said. “I’m here right now because you’re fun to be with. Roy Borden doesn’t have anything to do with it. Actually, I’m here in spite of the fact that you’re his buddy.”
“Huh?”
“I’m one of the few people at school who doesn’t really care what Roy does or says or thinks. Most everyone wants to be his friend, but I don’t particularly care if he even knows I exist.”
Colin blinked, surprised. “You don’t like Roy?”
She hesitated, then said, “He’s your friend. I don’t want to talk against him.”
“But that’s just it,” Colin said excitedly. “He isn’t my friend any more. He hates me.”
“What? What happened?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Don’t worry about that. I’ve been just about bursting to tell someone.” Colin sat up on his beach towel. “But first I’ve got to know what you think of him. I thought you liked him. One of the first things you said to me was that you’d seen me with Roy. So I figured—”
“I was just curious about you and him,” she said. “You didn’t seem like the kind of guy who usually hangs around with him. And the better I’ve gotten to know you, the stranger it seems.”
“Tell me why you don’t like him.”
She sat up, too.
The ocean wind was warm and salt-scented.
“Well,” she said, “I don’t exactly dislike him. Not a lot. I mean, not actively or passionately or anything. I don’t really know him well enough for that. But I do know him well enough to know I could never be a fan of his. There’s something sleazy about him.”
“Sleazy?”
“It’s hard to put into words,” Heather said. “But I always get the feeling that Roy’s never... sincere. Not ever. Not about anything. Most of the time he seems to be putting on an act. Apparently, no one else ever notices it. But I get the feeling he’s always manipulating people, using them one way or another, and then laughing about it inside.”
“Yeah!” Colin said. “Oh yeah! Exactly. That’s exactly what he’s doing. And he’s good at it. Not just with other kids. He can manipulate adults, too.”
“My mother met him once,” Heather said. “I didn’t think she was ever going to stop talking about him. She thought he was so charming, so polite.”
“My mother, too,” Colin said. “She’d rather have him for a son than me.”
“So what happened?” Heather asked. “Why aren’t you and Roy friends any more?”
He told her everything, beginning with the day he had first met Roy. He told her about the cat in the birdcage. The games with the electric trains. Roy’s story about killing two other boys just for kicks. Roy’s desire to rape and kill Sarah Callahan, his neighbor. The nightmare at Hermit Hobson’s automobile graveyard. The lighter-fluid attack. He told her everything that he’d learned in the library, the entire story of Belinda Jane Borden’s hideous accidental death—and the eventual hospitalization of both Roy and Mrs. Borden.
Heather listened in stunned silence. Initially, her face registered doubt, but the skepticism gradually faded and was replaced by a look of growing if reluctant belief. She was horrified, and when Colin finally finished, she said, “You’ve got to tell the police.”
He looked out at the rolling sea and the sky with its swooping gulls. “No,” he said. “They won’t believe me.”
“Sure they will. You convinced me.”
“That’s different. You’re a kid, like me. They’re adults. Besides, when they call my mother to ask her if she knows anything about it, she’ll tell them I’m lying and that I’ve got a drug problem. God knows what they’ll do to me then.”
“We’ll tell my folks,” Heather said. “They’re not really all that bad. Better than yours, I guess. They actually listen now and then. We can convince them. I know we can.”
He shook his head. “No. Roy charmed your mother before. Remember? He’ll charm her all over again if he has to. She’ll believe him, not us. And if your folks call Weezy to discuss it with her, she’ll convince them I’m a crazed doper. They’ll split us up. You won’t be allowed to come near me. Then if Roy knows you believe me, he’ll try to kill both of us.”
She was silent for a while. Then she shuddered and said, “You’re right.”
“Yeah,” he said miserably.
“What are we going to do?”
He looked at her. “Did you say ‘we’?”
“Well, of course I said ‘we.’ What do you think—that I’d turn my back on you at a time like this? You can’t handle it alone. No one could.”
Relieved, he said, “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She reached out, took hold of his hand.
“I’ve got a plan,” he said.
“A plan for what?”
“For trapping Roy. There’s a part in it for you.”
“What do I have to do?”
“You’re the bait,” Colin said. He told her about his scheme.
When he was finished, she said, “It’s clever.”
“It’ll work.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t make very good bait,” she said. “You need to use a girl that Roy would find... desirable ... sexy. A girl he’d want real bad.” Her face colored. “I’m just not... enough. ”
“You’re wrong about that,” Colin said. “You’re enough. You’re more than enough. Yo
u’re plenty.”
She looked away from him, looked down at her knees.
“Pretty knees,” Colin said.
“Knobby.”
“No.”
“Knobby and red.”
“No.”
Sensing that it was what she wanted him to do, he put a hand on her knee, moved it up her thigh a few inches, then down again, stroking softly.
She closed her eyes, trembled slightly.
He felt his own body responding.
“It would be dangerous,” she said.
He couldn’t lie to her. He couldn’t minimize the risk just to secure her co-operation. “Yes,” he said. “It would be very, very dangerous.”
She picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle slowly through her fingers.
He gently stroked her knee, her thigh. He couldn’t believe he was touching her like that. He stared at his bold hand with excitement and amazement, as if it had acquired a will of its own.
“On the other hand,” she said, “we’d have the advantage of planning.”
“And surprise.”
“And the gun,” she said.
“Yes. And the gun.”
“You’re sure you can get the gun?”
“Positive.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it. We’ll trap him. Together.”
Colin’s stomach rolled unpleasantly, powered by a strange mixture of energies: desire and fear in equal measure.
“Colin?”
“What?”
“Do you really think I’m... enough?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty?”
“Yes.”
She looked deep into his eyes, and then she smiled and turned away, stared out to sea.
He thought he saw tears in her eyes.
“You’d better go now,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’ll work better if Roy doesn’t realize you and I know each other. If he happens to see us here, together, he might not fall for the trick later.”
She was right. Besides, he had things to do, preparations to make. He got up and folded his beach towel.