The Servants of Twilight (35 page)

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Authors: Dean Koontz

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: The Servants of Twilight
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The telephone woke him. He fumbled for it in the darkness.
“Hello?”
“Kyle?” Mother Grace.
“It’s me,” he said, sleep instantly dispelled.
“Much has been happening,” she said.
He looked at the illuminated dial of the clock. It was 4:06 in the morning.
He said, “What? What’s been happening?”
“We’ve been burning out the infidels,” she said cryptically.
“I wanted to
be
there if anything was going to happen.”
“We’ve burned them out and salted the earth so they can’t return,” she said, her voice rising.
“You promised me. I wanted to
be
there.”
“I haven’t needed you—until now,” Mother Grace said.
He threw off the covers, sat up on the edge of the bed, grinning at the darkness. “What do you want me to do?”
“They’ve taken the boy away. They’re trying to hide him from us until his powers increase, until he’s untouchable.”
“Where have they taken him?” Kyle asked.
“I don’t know for sure. As far as Ventura. I know that much. I’m waiting for more news or for a vision that’ll clarify the situation. Meanwhile, we’re going north.”
“Who?”
“You, me, Edna, six or eight of the others.”
“After the boy?”
“Yes. You must pack some clothes and come to the church. We’re leaving within the hour.”
“I’ll be there right away,” he said.
“God bless you,” she said, and she hung up.
Barlowe was scared. He remembered the dream, remembered how
good
it had felt in that dream, and he thought he knew what it meant: He was losing his taste for violence, his thirst for blood. But that was no good because, now, for the first time in his life, he had an opportunity to use that talent for violence in a good cause. In fact his salvation depended upon it.
He must kill the boy. It was the right thing. He must not entirely lose the bitter hatred that had motivated him all his life.
The hour was late; Twilight drew near. And now Grace needed him to be the hammer of God.
43
 
Wednesday morning, rain
was no longer falling, and the sky was only half obscured by clouds.
Charlie got up first, showered, and was making coffee by the time Christine and Joey woke.
Christine seemed surprised that they were still alive. She didn’t have a robe, so she wrapped a blanket around herself and came into the kitchen looking like an Indian squaw. A beautiful Indian squaw. “You didn’t wake me for guard duty,” she said.
“This isn’t the marines,” Charlie said, smiling, determined to avoid the panic that had infected them yesterday.
When they were
too
keyed up, they didn’t act; they only
re
acted. And that was the kind of behavior that would eventually get them killed.
He had to think; he had to plan. He couldn’t do either if he spent all his time looking nervously over his shoulder. They were safe here in Santa Barbara, as long as they were just a little cautious.
“But we were all asleep at the same time,” Christine said.
“We needed our rest.”
“But I was sleeping so deeply . . . they could’ve broken in here, and the first thing I would’ve known about it was when the shooting started.”
Charlie looked around, frowning. “Where’s the camera? Are we filming a Sominex commercial?”
She sighed, smiled. “You think we’re safe?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“We made it through the night, didn’t we?”
Joey came into the kitchen, barefoot, in his underpants, his hair tousled, his face still heavy with sleep. He said, “I dreamed about the witch.”
Charlie said, “Dreams can’t hurt you.”
The boy was solemn this morning. There was no sparkle in his bright blue eyes. “I dreamed she used her magic to turn you into a bug, and then she just stepped on you.”
“Dreams don’t mean anything,” Charlie said. “I once dreamed I was President of the United States. But you don’t see any Secret Service men hanging around me, do you?”
“She killed . . . in the
dream
she killed my mom, too,” Joey said.
Christine hugged him. “Charlie’s right, honey. Dreams don’t mean anything.”
“Nothing I’ve
ever
dreamed about has ever happened,” Charlie said.
The boy went to the window. He stared out at the parking lot. He said, “She’s out there somewheres.”
Christine looked at Charlie. He knew what she was thinking. The boy had thus far been amazingly resilient, bouncing back from every shock, recovering from every horror, always able to smile one more time. But maybe he had exhausted his resources; maybe he wasn’t going to bounce back very well anymore.
Chewbacca padded into the kitchenette, stopped at the boy’s side, and growled softly.
“See?” Joey said. “Chewbacca knows. Chewbacca knows she’s out there somewheres.”
The boy’s usual verve was gone. It was disturbing to see him so gray-faced and bereft of spirit.
Charlie and Christine tried to kid him into a better mood, but he was having none of it.
 
 
Later, at nine-thirty,
they ate breakfast in a nearby coffee shop. Charlie and Christine were starved, but they repeatedly had to urge Joey to eat. They were in a booth by one of the big windows, and Joey kept looking out at the sky, where a few strips of blue seemed like gaily colored ropes holding the drab clouds together. He looked as glum as a six-year-old could look.
Charlie wondered why the boy’s eyes were drawn repeatedly to the sky. Was he expecting the witch to come sailing in on her broom?
Yes, in fact, that was probably just what he was worried about. When you were six years old, it wasn’t always possible to distinguish between real and imaginary dangers. At that age you
believed
in the monster- that-lives -in- the - closet, and you are convinced that something even worse was crouching under your bed. To Joey, it probably made as much sense to search for broomsticks in the sky as to look for white Ford vans on the highway.
Chewbacca had been left in the car outside the coffee shop. When they were finished with breakfast, they brought him an order of ham and eggs, which he devoured eagerly.
“Last night it was hamburgers, this morning ham and eggs,” Christine said. “We’ve got to find a grocery store and buy some real dog food before this mutt gets the idea that he’s
always
going to eat this well.”
They went shopping again for clothes and personal effects in a mall just off East State Street. Joey tried on some clothes, but listlessly, without the enthusiasm he had shown yesterday. He said little, smiled not at all.
Christine was obviously worried about him. So was Charlie.
 
 
They were finished
shopping before lunch. The last thing they bought was a small electronic device at Radio Shack. It was the size of a pack of cigarettes, a product of the paranoid’70s and ’80s that would not have had any buyers in a more trusting era: a tap detector that could tell you if your telephone line was being monitored by a recorder or a tracing mechanism of any kind.
In a phone booth near the side entrance of Sears, Charlie unscrewed the earpiece on the handset, screwed on another earpiece that came with the tap detector. He removed the mouthpiece, used a car key to short the inhibitor that made it impossible to place a long-distance call without operator assistance, and dialed Klemet-Harrison in Costa Mesa, tollfree. If his equipment indicated a tap, he’d be able to hang up in the first fraction of a second after the connection was made and, most likely, cut the line before anyone had a chance even to determine that the call was from another area code.
The number rang twice, then there was a click on the line.
The meter in Charlie’s hand gave no indication of a tap.
But instead of Sherry Ordway’s familiar voice, the call was answered by a telephone company recording: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please consult your directory for the correct number or dial the operator for . . .”
Charlie hung up.
Tried it again.
He got the same response.
With a presentiment of disaster chewing at him, he dialed Henry Rankin’s home number. It was picked up on the first ring, and again the meter indicated no tap, but this time the voice was not a recording.
“Hello?” Henry said.
Charlie said, “It’s me, Henry. I just called the office—”
“I’ve been waiting here by the phone, figuring you’d try me sooner or later,” Henry said. “We got trouble, Charlie. We got lots of trouble.”
 
 
From outside the
booth, Christine couldn’t hear what Charlie was saying, but she could tell something bad had happened. When he finally hung up and opened the folding door, he was ashen.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He glanced at Joey and said, “Nothing’s wrong. I talked to Henry Rankin. They’re still working on the case, but there’s nothing new to report yet.”
He was lying for Joey’s sake, but the boy sensed it just as Christine did, and said, “What’d she do now? What’d the witch do now?”
“Nothing,” Charlie said. “She can’t find us, so she’s throwing tantrums down there in Orange County. That’s all.”
“What’s a tantrum?” Joey asked.
“Don’t worry about it. We’re okay. Everything’s ticking along as planned. Now let’s go back to the car, find a supermarket, and stock up on groceries.”
Walking through the open-air mall and all the way out to the car, Charlie looked around uneasily, with a visible tension he hadn’t shown all morning.
Christine had begun to accept his assurances that they were safe in Santa Barbara, but now fear crawled up out of her subconscious and took possession of her once more.
As if it were an omen of renewed danger, the weather worsened again. The sky began to clot up with black clouds.
They found a supermarket, and as they shopped, Joey moved down the aisles ahead of them. Ordinarily, he scampered ahead, searching for items on their shopping list, eager to help. Today he moved slowly and studied the shelves with little interest.
When the boy was far enough away, Charlie said softly, “Last night my offices were torched.”
“Torched?” Christine said. There was suddenly a greasy, roiling feeling in her stomach. “You mean . . . burned?”
He nodded, taking a couple of cans of Mandarin orange slices from the shelf and putting them in the shopping cart. “Everything’s . . . lost . . . furniture, equipment, all the files . . . gone.” He paused while two women with carts moved past them. Then: “The files were in fireproof cabinets, but someone got the drawers open anyway, pulled out all the papers, and poured gasoline on them.”
Shocked, Christine said, “But in a business like yours, don’t you have burglar alarms—”
“Two systems, each independent of the other, both with backup power sources in case of a blackout,” Charlie said.
“But that sounds foolproof.”
“It was supposed to’ve been, yeah. But her people got through somehow.”
Christine felt sick. “You think it was Grace Spivey.”
“I know it was Grace. You haven’t heard everything that happened last night. Besides, it had to be her because there’s such a quality of rage about it, such an air of desperation, and she must be angry and desperate right now because we’ve given her the slip. She doesn’t know where we’ve gone, can’t get her hands on Joey, so she’s striking out wherever she can, flailing away in a mad frenzy.”
She remembered the Henredon desk in his office, the Martin Green paintings, and she said, “Oh, dammit, Charlie, I’m so sorry. Because of me, you’ve lost your business and all your—”
“It can all be replaced,” he said, although she could see that the loss disturbed him. “The important files are on microfilm and stored elsewhere. They can be re-created. We can find new offices. Insurance will cover most everything. It’s not the money or the inconvenience that bothers me. It’s the fact that, for a few days at least, until Henry gets things organized down there, my people won’t be able to keep after Grace Spivey—and we won’t have them behind us, supporting us. Temporarily, we’re pretty much on our own.”
That
was
a disturbing thought.
Joey came back with a can of pineapple rings. “Can I have these, Mom?”
“Sure,” she said, putting the can in the cart. If it would have brought a smile to his small glum face, she’d have allowed him to get a whole package of Almond Joys or some other item he was usually not permitted to have.

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