by Dean Koontz
“Not well drawn, you understand, more or less just the outline of a cockroach, but you could see what it was meant to be,” Theda said. “Just a sort of line drawing but ugly all the same. What on earth were those nitwits trying to prove, scrawling on the walls?”
Spencer was pretty sure that Hannah-Valerie herself had drawn the cockroach—just as she had nailed the textbook photograph of a roach to the wall of the bungalow in Santa Monica. He sensed it was meant to taunt and aggravate the men who had come looking for her, though he had no idea what it signified or why she knew that it would anger her pursuers.
Sitting at her desk in her windowless jurisdiction, Eve Jammer telephoned the operations office, upstairs, on the ground floor of the Las Vegas quarters of Carver, Gunmann, Garrote & Hemlock. The morning duty officer was John Cottcole, and Eve alerted him to the situation at Theda Davidowitz’s apartment.
Cottcole was electrified by the news and unable to conceal his excitement. He was shouting orders to people in his office even while he was still on the line with Eve.
“Ms. Jammer,” Cottcole said, “I’ll want a copy of that disc, every word on that disc, you understand?”
“Sure,” she said, but he hung up even as she was replying.
They thought that Eve didn’t know who Hannah Rainey had been before becoming Hannah Rainey, but she knew the whole story. She also knew that there was an enormous opportunity for her in that case, a chance to hasten the growth of her fortune and power, but she hadn’t quite yet decided how to exploit it.
A fat spider scurried across her desk.
She slammed one hand down, crushing the bug against her palm.
Driving back to Spencer Grant’s cabin in Malibu, Roy Miro opened the Tupperware container. He needed the mood boost that the sight of Guinevere’s treasure was sure to give him.
He was shocked and dismayed to see a bluish-greenish-brownish spot of discoloration spreading from the web between the first and second fingers. He hadn’t expected anything like that for hours yet. He was irrationally upset with the dead woman for being so fragile.
Although he told himself that the spot of corruption was small, that the rest of the hand was still exquisite, that he should focus more on the unchanged and perfect form of it than on the coloration, Roy could not rekindle his previous passion for Guinevere’s treasure. In fact, though it didn’t yet emit a foul odor, it wasn’t a treasure any longer: It was just garbage.
Deeply saddened, he put the lid on the plastic box.
He drove another couple of miles before pulling off Pacific Coast Highway and parking in the lot at the foot of a public pier. But for his sedan, the lot was empty.
Taking the Tupperware container with him, he got out of the car, climbed the steps to the pier, and walked toward the end.
His footsteps echoed hollowly off the boardwalk. Under those tightly set beams, breakers rolled between the pilings, rumbling and sloshing.
The pier was deserted. No fishermen. No young lovers leaning against the railing. No tourists. Roy was alone with his corrupted treasure and with his thoughts.
At the end of the pier he stood for a moment, gazing at the vast expanse of glimmering water and at the azure heavens that curved down to meet it at the far horizon. The sky would be there tomorrow and a thousand years from tomorrow, and the sea would roll eternally, but all else passed away.
He strove to avoid negative thoughts. It wasn’t easy.
He opened the Tupperware container and threw the five-fingered garbage into the Pacific. It disappeared into the golden spangles of sunlight that gilded the backs of the low waves.
He wasn’t concerned that his fingerprints might be lifted by laser from the pallid skin of the severed hand. If the fish didn’t eat that last bit of Guinevere, the salt water would scrub away evidence of his touch.
He tossed the Tupperware container and its lid into the sea as well, although he was stricken with a pang of guilt even as the two objects arced toward the waves. He was usually sensitive to the environment, and he never littered.
He was not concerned about the hand, because it was organic. It would become a part of the ocean, and the ocean would not be changed.
Plastic, however, would take more than three hundred years to completely disintegrate. And throughout that period, toxic chemicals would leach from it into the suffering sea.
He should have dumped the Tupperware in one of the trash cans that stood at intervals along the pier railing.
Well. Too late. He was human. That was always the problem.
For a while Roy leaned against the railing. He stared into an infinity of sky and water, brooding about the human condition.
As far as Roy was concerned, the saddest thing in the world was that human beings, for all their ardent striving and desire, could never achieve physical, emotional, or intellectual perfection. The species was doomed to imperfection; it thrashed forever in despair or denial of that fact.
Though she had been undeniably attractive, Guinevere had been perfect in only one regard. Her hands.
Now those were gone too.
Even so, she had been one of the fortunate, because the vast majority of people were imperfect in every detail. They would never know the singular confidence and pleasure that must surely arise from the possession of even one flawless feature.
Roy was blessed with a repetitive dream, which came to him two or three nights every month, and from which he always woke in a state of rapture. In the dream, he searched the world over for women like Guinevere, and from each he harvested her perfect feature: from this one, a pair of ears so beautiful that they made his foolish heart pound almost painfully; from that one, the most exquisite ankles that it was within the mind of man to contemplate; from yet another, the snow-white, sculptured teeth of a goddess. He kept these treasures in magic jars, where they did not in the least deteriorate, and when he had collected all the parts of an ideal woman, he assembled them into the lover for whom he had always longed. She was so radiant in her unearthly perfection that he was half blinded when he looked upon her, and her slightest touch was purest ecstasy.
Unfortunately, he always woke from the paradise of her arms.
In life he would never know such beauty. Dreams were the only refuge for a man who would settle for nothing less than perfection.
Gazing into the sea and sky. A solitary man at the end of a deserted pier. Imperfect in every aspect of his own face and form. Aching for the unattainable.
He knew that he was both a romantic and a tragic figure. There were those who would even call him a fool. But at least he dared to dream and to dream big.
Sighing, he turned away from the uncaring sea and walked back to his car in the parking lot.
Behind the steering wheel, after he switched on the engine but before he put the car in gear, Roy allowed himself to withdraw the color snapshot from his wallet. He had carried it with him for more than a year, and he had studied it often. Indeed, it had such power to mesmerize him that he could have spent half the day staring at it in dreamy contemplation.
The photo was of the woman who had most recently called herself Valerie Ann Keene. She was attractive by anyone’s standards, perhaps even as attractive as Guinevere.
What made her special, however, what filled Roy with reverence for the divine power that had created humankind, was her perfect eyes. They were more arresting and compelling than even the eyes of Captain Harris Descoteaux of the Los Angeles Police Department.
Dark yet limpid, enormous yet perfectly proportioned to her face, direct yet enigmatic, they were eyes that had seen what lay at the heart of all meaningful mysteries. They were the eyes of a sinless soul yet somehow also the eyes of a shameless voluptuary, simultaneously coy and direct, eyes to which every deceit was as transparent as glass, filled with spirituality and sexuality and a complete understanding of destiny.
He was confident that in reality her eyes would be more, not less, powerful than they were in the snapshot. He had seen other phot
ographs of her, as well as numerous videotapes, and each image had battered his heart more punishingly than the one before it.
When he found her, he would kill her for the agency and for Thomas Summerton and for all those well-meaning others who labored to make this a better country and a better world. She had earned no mercy. Except for her single perfect feature, she was an evil woman.
But after Roy had fulfilled his duty, he would take her eyes. He deserved them. For too brief a time, those enchanting eyes would bring him desperately needed solace in a world that was sometimes too cruel and cold to bear, even for someone with an attitude as positive as that which he cultivated.
By the time Spencer was able to make it to the front door of the apartment with Rocky in his arms (the dog might not have left under his own power), Theda filled a plastic bag with the remaining ten chocolate-chip cookies from the plate beside the armchair, and she insisted that he take them. She also toddled into the kitchen and returned with a homemade blueberry muffin in a small brown paper bag—and then made another trip to bring him two slices of lemon-coconut cake in a Tupperware container.
Spencer protested only the cake, because he wouldn’t be able to return the container to her.
“Nonsense,” she said. “You don’t need to return it. I’ve got enough Tupperware to last two lifetimes. For years I collected and collected it, because you can keep just anything in Tupperware, it has so many uses, but enough is enough, and I have more than enough, so just enjoy the cake and throw the container away. Enjoy!”
In addition to all the edible treats, Spencer had acquired two pieces of information about Hannah-Valerie. The first was Theda’s story about the portrait of the cockroach on the wall of Hannah’s bedroom, but he still didn’t know what to make of that. The second concerned something that Theda remembered Hannah saying during idle dinner conversation one evening shortly before packing up her things and dusting Vegas off her heels. They had been discussing places in which they had always dreamed of living, and although Theda couldn’t make up her mind between Hawaii and England, Hannah had been adamant that only the small coastal town of Carmel, California, had all the peace and beauty that anyone could ever desire.
Spencer supposed that Carmel was a long shot, but at the moment it was the best lead he had. On one hand, she hadn’t gone straight there from Las Vegas; she had stopped in the Los Angeles metropolitan area and tried to make a life as Valerie Keene. On the other hand, perhaps now, after her mysterious enemies had found her twice in large cities, she would decide to see if they could locate her as easily in a far smaller community.
Theda had not informed the band of loud, rude, window-shattering nitwits about Hannah’s mention of Carmel. Maybe that gave Spencer an advantage.
He was loath to leave her alone with the memories of her beloved husband, long-mourned children, and vanished friend. Nevertheless, thanking her effusively, he stepped across the threshold onto the balcony and walked to the stairs that led down into the courtyard.
The mottled gray-black sky and the blustery wind surprised him, for when he had been in Thedaworld, he had all but forgotten that anything else existed beyond its walls. The crowns of the palms still thrashed, and the air was chillier than before.
Carrying a seventy-pound dog, a plastic bag full of cookies, a blueberry muffin in a paper sack, and a Tupperware container heavy with cake, he found the stairs precarious. He lugged Rocky all the way to the bottom, however, because he was certain that the dog would race straight back to Thedaworld if put down on the balcony.
When Spencer finally released the mutt, Rocky turned and gazed longingly up the stairs toward that little piece of canine heaven.
“Time to plunge back into reality,” Spencer said.
The dog whined.
Spencer walked toward the front of the complex, under the windwhipped trees. Halfway past the swimming pool he looked back.
Rocky was still at the stairs.
“Hey, pal.”
Rocky looked at him.
“Whose hound are you anyway?”
An expression of doggy guilt overcame the mutt, and at last he padded toward Spencer.
“Lassie would never leave Timmy, even for God’s own grandmother.”
Rocky sneezed, sneezed, and sneezed again at the pungent scent of chlorine.
“What if,” Spencer said as the dog caught up to him, “I’d been trapped here, under an overturned tractor, unable to save myself, or maybe cornered by an angry bear?”
Rocky whined as if in apology.
“Accepted,” Spencer said.
On the street, in the Explorer again, Spencer said, “Actually, I’m proud of you, pal.”
Rocky cocked his head.
Starting the engine, Spencer said, “You’re getting more sociable every day. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve been raiding my cash supply to pay for some high-priced Beverly Hills therapist.”
Half a block ahead, a mold-green Chevy rounded the corner in a high-speed slide, tires screaming and smoking, and almost rolled like a stock car in a demolition derby. Somehow it stayed on two wheels, accelerated toward them, and shrieked to a stop at the curb on the other side of the street.
Spencer assumed the car was driven by a drunk or by a kid hopped up on something stronger than Pepsi—until the doors flew open and four men, of a type he recognized too well, exploded out of it. They hurried toward the entrance to the apartment-house courtyard.
Spencer popped the hand brake and shifted into drive.
One of the running men spotted him, pointed, shouted. All four of them turned toward the Explorer.
“Better hold tight, pal.”
Spencer tramped on the accelerator, and the Explorer shot into the street, away from the men, toward the corner.
He heard gunfire.
TEN
A bullet smacked into the tailgate of the Explorer. Another ricocheted off metal with a piercing whine. The fuel tank didn’t explode. No glass shattered. No tires blew out. Spencer hung a hard right turn past the coffee shop on the corner, felt the truck lifting, trying to tip over, so he pushed it into a slide instead. Rubber barked against blacktop as the rear tires stuttered sideways across the pavement. Then they were into the side street, out of sight of the gunmen, and Spencer accelerated.
Rocky, who was afraid of darkness and wind and lightning and cats and being seen at his toilet, among a dauntingly long list of other things, was not in the least frightened by the gunfire or by Spencer’s stunt driving. He sat up straight, his claws sunk into the upholstery, swaying with the movement of the truck, panting and grinning.
Glancing at the speedometer, Spencer saw that they were doing sixty-five in a thirty-mile-per-hour zone. He accelerated.
In the passenger seat, Rocky did something that he had never done before: He began to bob his head up and down, as if encouraging Spencer to greater speed, yesyesyesyes.
“This is serious stuff,” Spencer reminded him.
Rocky chuffed, as though scoffing at the danger.
“They must have been running audio surveillance on Theda’s apartment.”
Yesyesyesyesyes.
“Wasting precious resources monitoring Theda—and ever since last November? What the hell do they want with Valerie, what’s so damned important that it’s worth all this?”
Spencer looked at the rearview mirror. One and a half blocks behind them, the Chevy rounded the corner at the coffee shop.
He had wanted to get two blocks away before swinging left, out of sight, hoping that the trigger-happy torpedoes in the mold-green sedan would be deceived into thinking that he had turned at the first cross street rather than the second. Now they were on to him again. The Chevy was closing the distance between them, and it was a hell of a lot faster than it looked, a souped-up street rod disguised as one of the stripped-down wheezemobiles that the government assigned to Agriculture Department inspectors and agents of the Bureau of Dental Floss Management.
Though in their
sights, Spencer hung a left at the end of the second block, as planned. This time he entered the new street in a wide turn to avoid another time-wasting, tire-stressing slide.
Nevertheless, he was going so fast that he spooked the driver of an approaching Honda. The guy wheeled hard right, bounced up onto the sidewalk, grazed a fire hydrant, and rammed a sagging chain-link fence that surrounded an abandoned service station.
From the corner of his eye, Spencer saw Rocky leaning against the passenger door, pushed there by centrifugal force, yet bobbing his head enthusiastically: Yesyesyesyesyes.
Pillowy hammers of cold wind buffeted the Explorer. From out of several empty acres on the right, dense clouds of sand churned into the street.
Vegas had grown haphazardly across the floor of a vast desert valley, and even most of the developed sectors of the city embraced big expanses of barren land. At a glance they seemed to be only enormous vacant lots—but, in fact, they were manifestations of the brooding desert, which was just biding its time. When the wind blew hard enough, the encircled desert angrily flung off its thin disguise, storming into the surrounding neighborhoods.
Half blinded by the seething tempest of sand, with shatters of dust hissing across the windshield, Spencer prayed for more: more wind, more clouds of grit. He wanted to vanish like a ghost ship disappearing into a fog.
He glanced at the rearview mirror. Behind him, visibility was limited to ten or fifteen feet.
He started to accelerate but reconsidered. Already he was plunging into the dry blizzard at suicidal speed. The street was no more visible ahead than it was behind. If he encountered a stopped or slow-moving vehicle, or if he suddenly crossed an intersection against the flow of traffic, the least of his worries would be the four homicidal men in the supercharged fedwagon.
One day, when the axis of the earth shifted just the tiniest fraction of a degree or when the jet streams of the upper troposphere suddenly deepened and accelerated for reasons mysterious, the wind and desert would no doubt conspire to tumble Vegas into ruin and bury the remains beneath billions of cubic yards of dry, white, triumphant sand. Maybe that moment had arrived.