by Dean Koontz
If Spencer Grant and the woman had been delayed in their flight, as Roy hoped, they were still in ideal territory to be located and tracked by Earthguard 3. Barren, unpopulated desert.
Saturday afternoon through evening, as suspect vehicles were spotted, they were either studied and eliminated or maintained on an under-observation list until a determination could be made that their occupants didn’t fit the fugitive-party profile: woman, man, and dog.
After watching the big wall display for hours, Roy was impressed by how perfect their part of the world appeared to be from orbit. All colors were soft and subdued, and all shapes appeared harmonious.
The illusion of perfection was more convincing when Earthguard was surveying larger rather than smaller areas and was, therefore, using the lowest magnification. It was most convincing when the image was in infrared. The less he was able to detect obvious signs of human civilization, the closer to perfection the planet appeared.
Perhaps those extremists who insisted that the population of the earth be expediently reduced by ninety percent, by any means, to save the ecology were onto something. What quality of life could anyone have in a world that civilization had utterly despoiled?
If such a program of population reduction was ever instituted, he would take deep personal satisfaction in helping to administer it, although the work would be exhausting and often thankless.
The day waned without either the ground or air search turning up a trace of the fugitives. At nightfall the hunt was called off until dawn. And Earthguard 3, with all its eyes and all its ways of seeing, was no more successful than the men on foot and the helicopter crews, though at least it could continue searching throughout the night.
Roy remained in the satellite-surveillance center until almost eight o’clock, when he left with Eve Jammer for dinner at an Armenian restaurant. Over a tasty fattoush salad and then superb rack of lamb, they discussed the concept of massive and rapid population reduction. They imagined ways in which it might be achieved without undesirable side effects, such as nuclear radiation and uncontrollable riots in the streets. And they conceived several fair methods of determining which ten percent of the population would survive to carry on a less chaotic and drastically perfected version of the human saga. They sketched possible symbols for the population-reduction movement, composed inspiring slogans, and debated what the uniforms ought to look like. They were in a state of high excitement by the time they left the restaurant to go to Eve’s place. They might have killed any cop who had been foolish enough to stop them for doing seventy miles an hour through hospital and residential zones.
The stained and shadowed walls had faces. Strange, embedded faces. Half-seen, tortured expressions. Mouths open in cries for mercy that were never answered. Hands. Reaching hands. Silently beseeching. Ghostly white tableaux, streaked gray and rust-red in some places, mottled brown and yellow in others. Face by face and body beside body, some limbs overlapping, but always the posture of the supplicant, always the expressions of despairing beggars: pleading, imploring, praying.
“Nobody knows…nobody knows…”
“Spencer? Can you hear me, Spencer?”
Valerie’s voice echoed down a long tunnel to him as he walked in a place between wakefulness and true sleep, between denial and acceptance, between one hell and another.
“Easy now, easy, don’t be afraid, it’s okay, you’re dreaming.”
“No. See? See? Here in the catacombs, here, the catacombs.”
“Only a dream.”
“Like in school, in the book, pictures, like in Rome, martyrs, down in the catacombs, but worse, worse, worse…”
“You can walk away from there. It’s only a dream.”
He heard his own voice diminishing from a shout to a withered, miserable cry: “Oh God, oh my God, oh my God!”
“Here, take my hand. Spencer, can you hear me? Hold my hand. I’m here. I’m with you.”
“They were so afraid, afraid, all alone and afraid. See how afraid they are? Alone, no one to hear, no one, nobody ever knew, so afraid. Oh, Jesus, Jesus, help me, Jesus.”
“Come on, hold my hand, that’s it, that’s good, hold tight. I’m right here with you. You aren’t alone anymore, Spencer.”
He held on to her warm hand, and somehow she led him away from the blind white faces, the silent cries.
By the power of her hand, Spencer drifted, lighter than air, up from the deep place, through darkness, through a red door. Not the door with wet handprints on the aged-white background. This door was entirely red, dry, with a film of dust. It opened into sapphire-blue light, black booths and chairs, polished-steel trim, mirrored walls. Deserted bandstand. A handful of people drinking quietly at tables. In jeans and a suede jacket instead of slit skirt and black sweater, she sat on a barstool beside him, because business was slow. He was lying on an air mattress, sweating yet chilled, and she was perched on a stool, yet they were at the same level, holding hands, talking easily, as though they were old friends, with the hiss of the Coleman lantern in the background.
He knew he was delirious. He didn’t care. She was so pretty.
“Why did you go into my house Wednesday night?”
“Already told you?”
“No. You keep avoiding an answer.”
“Needed to know about you.”
“Why?”
“You hate me?”
“Of course not. I just want to understand.”
“Went to your place, sting grenades coming through the windows.”
“You could’ve walked away when you realized what trouble I was.”
“No, can’t let you end up in a ditch, eighty miles from home.”
“What?”
“Or in catacombs.”
“After you knew I was trouble, why’d you wade in deeper?”
“Told you. I liked you first time we met.”
“That was just Tuesday night! I’m a stranger to you.”
“I want…”
“What?”
“I want…a life.”
“You don’t have a life?”
“A life…with hope.”
The cocktail lounge dissolved, and the blue light changed to sour yellow. The stained and shadowed walls had faces. White faces, death masks, mouths open in voiceless terror, silently beseeching.
A spider followed the electrical cord that hung in loops from the ceiling, and its exaggerated shadow scurried across the stained white faces of the innocent.
Later, in the cocktail lounge again, he said to her, “You’re a good person.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Theda.”
“Theda thinks everyone’s a good person.”
“She was so sick. You took care of her.”
“Only for a couple of weeks.”
“Day and night.”
“Wasn’t that big a deal.”
“Now me.”
“I haven’t pulled you through yet.”
“More I learn about you, the better you are.”
She said, “Hell, maybe I am a saint.”
“No. Just a good person. Too sarcastic to be a saint.”
She laughed. “I can’t help liking you, Spencer Grant.”
“This is nice. Getting to know each other.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
Impulsively, he said, “I love you.”
Valerie was silent for so long that Spencer thought he’d lost consciousness again.
At last she said, “You’re delirious.”
“Not about this.”
“I’ll change the compress on your forehead.”
“I love you.”
“You better be quiet, try to get some rest.”
“I’ll always love you.”
“Be quiet, you strange man,” she said with what he believed and hoped was affection. “Just be quiet and rest.”
“Always,” he repeated.
Having confessed that the hope he sought was her, Spencer was so
greatly relieved that he sank into a darkness without catacombs.
A long time later, not certain if he was awake or asleep, in a half-light that might have been dawn, dusk, lamp glow, or the cold and sourceless luminosity of a dream, Spencer was surprised to hear himself say, “Michael.”
“Ah, you’re back,” she said.
“Michael.”
“No one here’s named Michael.”
“You need to know about him,” Spencer warned.
“Okay. Tell me.”
He wished he could see her. There was only light and shadow, not even a blurred shape anymore.
He said, “You need to know if…if you’re going to be with me.”
“Tell me,” she encouraged.
“Don’t hate me when you know.”
“I’m not an easy hater. Trust me, Spencer. Trust me and talk to me. Who is Michael?”
His voice was fragile. “Died when he was fourteen.”
“Michael was a friend?”
“He was me. Died fourteen…wasn’t buried till he was sixteen.”
“Michael was you?”
“Walking around dead two years, then I was Spencer.”
“What was your…what was Michael’s last name?”
He knew then that he must be awake, not dreaming, because he had never felt as bad in a dream as he felt at that moment. The need to reveal could no longer be repressed, yet revelation was agony. His heart beat hard and fast, though it was pierced by secrets as painful as needles. “His last name…was the devil’s name.”
“What was the devil’s name?”
Spencer was silent, trying to speak but unable.
“What was the devil’s name?” she asked again.
“Ackblom,” he said, spitting out the hated syllables.
“Ackblom? Why do you say that’s the name of the devil?”
“Don’t you remember? Didn’t you ever hear?”
“I guess you’ll have to tell me.”
“Before Michael was Spencer,” said Spencer, “he had a dad. Like other boys…had a dad…but not like other dads. His f-father’s name was…was…his name was Steven. Steven Ackblom. The artist.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Don’t be afraid of me,” he pleaded, his voice breaking apart, word by desperate word.
“You’re the boy?”
“Don’t hate me.”
“You’re that boy.”
“Don’t hate me.”
“Why would I hate you?”
“Because…I’m the boy.”
“The boy who was a hero,” she said.
“No.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I couldn’t save them.”
“But you saved all those who might’ve come after them.”
The sound of his own voice chilled him deeper than cold rain had chilled him earlier. “Couldn’t save them.”
“It’s all right.”
“Couldn’t save them.” He felt a hand upon his face. Upon his scar. Tracing the hot line of his cicatricial brand.
She said, “You poor bastard. You poor, sweet bastard.”
Saturday night, perched on the edge of a chair in Eve Jammer’s bedroom, Roy Miro saw examples of perfection that even the best-equipped surveillance satellite could not have shown him.
This time, Eve didn’t pull the satin sheets back to reveal black rubber and didn’t use scented oils. She had a new—and stranger—set of toys. And although Roy was surprised to discover that it was possible, Eve achieved greater heights of self-gratification and had a greater erotic impact on him than she had managed the night before.
After a night of cataloguing Eve’s perfections, Roy required the greatest patience for the imperfect day that followed.
Through Sunday morning and afternoon, satellite surveillance, helicopters, and on-foot search teams had no more success locating the fugitives than they’d had on Saturday.
Operatives in Carmel, California—sent there following Theda Davidowitz’s revelation to Grant that “Hannah Rainey” had thought it was the ideal place to live—were enjoying the natural beauty and the refreshing winter fog. Of the woman, however, they had seen no sign.
From Orange County, John Kleck issued another important-sounding report to the effect that he had come up with no leads whatsoever.
In San Francisco, the agent who had tracked down the Porths, only to discover that they had died years ago, had gained access to probate records. He’d learned that Ethel Porth’s estate had passed entirely to George; George’s estate had passed to their grandson—Spencer Grant of Malibu, California, sole issue of the Porths’ only child, Jennifer. Nothing had been found to indicate that Grant had ever gone by another name or that his father’s identity was known.
From a corner of the satellite-surveillance control center, Roy spoke by telephone with Thomas Summerton. Although it was Sunday, Summerton was in his office in Washington rather than at his estate in Virginia. As security conscious as ever, he treated Roy’s call as a wrong number, then phoned back on a deep-cover line a while later, using a scrambling device matched to Roy’s.
“Hell of a mess in Arizona,” Summerton said. He was furious.
Roy didn’t know what his boss was talking about.
Summerton said, “Rich asshole activist out there, thinks he can save the world. You see the news?”
“Too busy,” Roy said.
“This asshole—he’s gotten some evidence that would embarrass me on the Texas situation last year. He’s been feeling out some people about how best to break the story. So we were going to hit him quick, make sure there was evidence of drug dealing on his property.”
“The asset-forfeiture provision?”
“Yeah. Seize everything. When his family has nothing to live on and he doesn’t have the assets to pay for a serious defense, he’ll come around. They usually do. But then the operation went wrong.”
They usually do, Roy thought wearily. But he didn’t speak his mind. He knew Summerton wouldn’t appreciate candor. Besides, that thought had been a prime example of shamefully negative thinking.
“Now,” Summerton said dourly, “an FBI agent’s dead, out there in Arizona.”
“A real one or a floater like me?”
“A real one. The asshole activist’s wife and boy are dead in the front yard too, and he’s sniping from the house, so we can’t hide the bodies from the TV cameras down the block. And anyway, a neighbor has it all on videotape!”
“Did the guy kill his own wife and kid?”
“I wish. But maybe it can still look that way.”
“Even with videotape?”
“You’ve been around long enough to know photographic evidence rarely clinches anything. Look at the Rodney King video. Hell, look at the Zapruder film of the Kennedy hit.” Summerton sighed. “So I hope you’ve got good news for me, Roy, something to cheer me up.”
Being Summerton’s right-hand man was getting to be dreary work. Roy wished that he could report some progress on his current case.
“Well,” Summerton said, just before hanging up, “right now no news seems like good news to me.”
Later, prior to leaving the Vegas offices on Sunday evening, Roy decided to ask Mama to use NEXIS and other data-search services to scan for “Jennifer Corrine Porth” in all media data banks that were offered on various information networks—and to report by morning. The past fifteen to twenty years’ issues of many major newspapers and magazines, including the New York Times, were electronically stored and available for on-line research. In a previous perusal of those resources, Mama had turned up the name “Spencer Grant” only related to the killing of the two carjackers in Los Angeles a few years ago. But she might have more luck with the mother’s name.
If Jennifer Corrine Porth had died in a colorful fashion—or if she’d had even a middle-level reputation in business, government, or the arts—her death would have made a few major newspapers. And if Mama located any stories about her or any long obitu
aries, a valuable reference to Jennifer’s only surviving child might be buried in them.
Roy stubbornly clung to positive thinking. He was confident that Mama would find a reference to Jennifer and break the case wide open.
The woman. The boy. The barn in the background. The man in the shadows.
He didn’t have to take the photographs out of the envelope in which he was keeping them to recall those images with total clarity. The pictures teased his memory, for he knew that he’d seen the people in them before. A long time ago. In some compelling context.
Sunday night, Eve helped to keep Roy’s spirits high and his thoughts on a positive track. Aware that she was adored and that Roy’s adoration gave her total power over him, she worked herself into a frenzy that exceeded anything he had seen before.
For part of their unforgettable third encounter, he sat on the closed lid of the toilet, watching, while she proved that a shower stall could be as conducive to erotic games as any fur-draped, satin-sheeted, or rubber-covered bed.
He was astounded that anyone would have thought to invent and manufacture many of the water toys in her collection. Those devices were cleverly designed, intriguingly flexible, glistening with such lifelike need, convincingly biological in their battery-or hand-powered throbbing, mysterious and thrilling in their serpentine-knobby-dimpled-rubbery complexity. Roy was able to identify with them as if they were extensions of the body—part human, part machine—that he sometimes inhabited in dreams. When Eve handled those toys, Roy felt as though her perfect hands were fondling portions of his own anatomy by remote control.
In the blurring steam, the hot water, and the lather of scented soap, Eve seemed to be ninety percent perfect rather than just sixty percent. She was as unreal as an idealized woman in a painting.
Nothing this side of death could have been more fulfilling for Roy than watching Eve methodically stimulate one exquisite anatomical feature at a time, in each case with a device that seemed to be the amputated but functioning organ of a superlover from the future. Roy was able to focus his observations so tightly that Eve herself ceased to exist for him, and each sensuous encounter in the large shower stall—with bench and grab bars—was between one perfect body part and its fleshless analogue: erotic geometry, prurient physics, a study in the fluid dynamics of insatiable lust. The experience was untainted by personality or by any other human trait or association. Roy was transported into extreme realms of voyeuristic pleasure so intense that he almost screamed with the pain of his joy.