The Servants of Twilight (46 page)

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Authors: Dean Koontz

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: The Servants of Twilight
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“Oh Jesus.”
The mountain wasn’t a haven, after all, but a dead end. A trap.
Suddenly the loneliness of the snow-blasted slopes and forests made their retreat to the cabin appear short-sighted, foolish. It seemed like such a good idea to get away from people, where they would not be spotted, but they had also removed themselves from all chance of help, from everyone who might have come to their assistance if they were attacked. Here, in these cold high places, they could be slaughtered and buried, and no one but their murderers would ever know what had happened to them.
“Do you see . . .
her
?” Christine asked.
“Spivey? I think . . . yeah . . . the only one still sitting in a snowmobile. I’m sure that’s her.”
“But
how
could they find us?”
“Somebody who knew I was part owner of the cabin. Somebody remembered it and told Spivey’s people.”
“Henry Rankin?”
“Maybe. Very few people know about this place.”
“But still . . . so quickly!”
Charlie said, “Six . . . seven . . . nine of them. No. Ten. Ten of them.”
We’re going to die, she thought. And for the first time since leaving the convent, since losing her religion, she wished that she had not turned entirely away from the Church. Suddenly, by comparison with the insanity of Spivey’s cult beliefs, the ancient and compassionate doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church were immeasurably appealing and comforting, and she wished she could turn to them now without feeling like a hypocrite, wished she could beg God for help and ask the Blessed Virgin for her divine intercession. But you couldn’t just reject the Church, put it entirely out of your life—then go running back when you needed it, and expect to be embraced without first making penance. God required your faith in the good times as well as the bad. If she died at the hands of Spivey’s fanatics, she would do so without making a final confession to a priest, without the last rites or a proper burial in consecrated ground, and she was surprised that those things mattered to her and seemed important after all these years during which she had discounted their value.
Charlie put the binoculars back into the case, snapped it shut. He unslung the rifle from his shoulder.
He said, “You head back to the cabin. Fast as you can. Stay in the trees until you reach the bend in the trail. After that they can’t see you from the lower meadow. Get Joey suited up. Pack some food in your knapsack. Do whatever you can to get ready.”
“You’re staying here? Why?”
“To kill a few of them,” he said.
He unzipped one of the pockets in his insulated jacket. It was filled with loose cartridges. When he exhausted the rounds already in the rifle, he would be able to reload quickly.
She hesitated, afraid to leave him.
“Go!” he said. “Hurry! We haven’t much time.”
Heart racing, she nodded, turned, and made her way through the trees, heading upslope, shuffling as fast as the snowshoes would allow, which wasn’t nearly fast enough, repeatedly raising her arms to push branches out of her way. She was thankful that the huge trees blocked the sun and prevented much undergrowth because it would have tangled in the snowshoes and snagged her ski suit and held her back.
 
 
Successful rifle shooting
requires two things: the steadiest possible position for the gunman, and the letting-off of the trigger at exactly the right time and with the easiest possible pull. Very few riflemen—hunters, military men, whatever— are any good at all. Too many of them try to shoot off-hand when a better position is available, or they exert all the pull on the trigger in one swift movement that throws their aim entirely off.
A rifleman shoots best from a prone position, especially when he is aiming down a slope or into a basin. After taking off his snowshoes, Charlie moved to the perimeter of the forest, to the very edge of the meadow, and dropped to the ground. The snow was only about two inches deep here, for the wind came across the meadow from the west and scoured the land, pushing most of the snow eastward, packing it in drifts along that flank of the woods. The slope was steep at this point, and he was looking down at the people below, where they were still milling around the Jeep station wagon. He raised the rifle, resting it on the heel of the palm of his left hand; his left arm was bent, and the left elbow was directly under the rifle. In this position the rifle wouldn’t wobble, for it was well supported by the bones of the forearm, which served as a pillar between the ground and the weapon.
He aimed at the dark figure in the lead snowmobile, though there were better targets, for he was almost certain it was Grace Spivey. Her head was above the vehicle’s windscreen, which was one less thing to worry about: no chance of the shot being deflected by the Plexiglas. If he could take her out, the others might lose their sense of commitment and come apart psychologically. It ought to be devastating for a fanatic to see his little tin God die right in front of his eyes.
His gloved finger was curled around the trigger, but he didn’t like the feel, couldn’t get the right sense of it, so he stripped the glove off with his teeth, put his bare finger on the trigger, and that was a great deal better. He had the crosshairs lined up on the center of Grace Spivey’s forehead because, at this distance, the bullet would fall past the sight line by the time it hit its target and would come in about an inch lower. With luck—right between her eyes. Without luck but with skill, it would still take her in the face or throat.
In spite of the sub-zero air, he was perspiring. Inside his ski suit, sweat trickled down from his armpits.
Could you call this self-defense? None of them had a gun on him at the moment. He wasn’t in imminent danger of his life. Of course, if he didn’t eliminate a few of them before they got closer, they would overwhelm him. Yet he hesitated. He had never before done anything this . . . cold blooded. A small inner voice told him that, if he resorted to an ambush of this sort, he would be no better than the monsters against which he found himself pitted. But if he didn’t resort to it, he would eventually die—as would Christine and Joey.
The crosshairs were on Spivey’s forehead.
Charlie squeezed the trigger but didn’t take up all the pull in one tug because the initial pressure would throw the rifle off target just a little, so he kept the trigger mostly depressed, on the wire-edge of firing, until he brought the crosshairs back onto target, and then, almost as an afterthought but with a clean quick squeeze, he took up the last few ounces of pull. The rifle fired, and he flinched but not in anticipation of the blast, only in delayed reaction to it, by which time it was too late for the bullet to be deflected, for it was already out of the barrel. An anticipatory flinch was what you had to avoid, and the two-stage pull always fooled the subconscious a little, just enough that the muzzle blast was a slight surprise.
There was another surprise, a bad one, when he thought he saw Spivey lean forward in the snowmobile, reaching for something, lowering her profile, just as he let off the shot. Now, lining up the scope again, he couldn’t see her, which meant either that he had hit her and that she had collapsed below the windscreen of the snowmobile—
or
that she had, indeed, bent down at the penultimate moment, saved by fate, and was now crouching out of the line of fire.
He immediately brought the rifle around on one of the others.
A man standing by the Jeep. Just turning this way in reaction to the shot. Not gifted with split-second reactions, confused, not fully aware of the danger.
Charlie fired. This time he was rewarded by the sight of his target pitching back, sprawling in the snow, dead or mortally wounded.
 
 
Moving at the
edge of the woods, Christine had reached the bend in the open land and, out of sight of those below, had moved out onto the easier ground, when she heard a shot and then, a second or two later, another. She wanted to go back to Charlie, wanted to be there helping him, knew she couldn’t do a damn thing for him. She didn’t even have time to
look
back. Instead she doubled her efforts, huffing out a fog of breath, trying to walk lightly on the snow, breaking through the crust because of her haste, searching frantically for wind-scoured stretches of ground where she could make better time.
But what if something happened to Charlie? What if he was never able to rejoin her and Joey?
She wasn’t an outdoors type. She wouldn’t know how to survive in these wintry wastes. If they had to leave the cabin without Charlie, they’d get lost in the wilderness, either starve or freeze to death.
Then, as if nature was intent on honing Christine’s fear to a razor’s edge, as if in mocking glee, snow flurries began to fall again.
 
 
When the first
man was hit and went down, most of the others dived for cover alongside the Jeep wagon, but two men started toward the snowmobiles, making perfect targets of themselves, and Charlie lined up on one of them. This shot, too, was well placed, taking the man high in the chest, pitching him completely over one of the snowmobiles, and when he went down in a drift he stayed there, unmoving.
The other man dropped, making a hard target of himself. Charlie fired anyway. He couldn’t tell if he had scored this time because his prey was now hidden by a mound of snow.
He reloaded.
He wondered if any of them were hunters or ex-military men with enough savvy to have pinpointed his position. He considered moving along the tree line, finding another good vantage point, and he knew the shadows under the trees would probably cover his movement. But he had a hunch that most of them were not experienced in this sort of thing, were not cut out for guerrilla warfare, so he stayed where he was, waiting for one of them to make a mistake.
He didn’t have to wait long. One of those who had taken shelter by the Jeep proved too curious for his own good. When half a minute had passed with no gunfire, the Twilighter rose slightly to look around, still in a half-crouch, ready to drop, probably figuring that a half-crouch made him an impossible target when, in fact, he was giving Charlie plenty at which to aim. Most likely, he also figured he could fall flat and hug the ground again at the slightest sound, but he was hit and dead before the sound of the shot could have reached him.
Three down. Seven left. Six—if he had also killed Spivey.
For the first time in his life, Charlie Harrison was glad that he had served in Vietnam. Fifteen years had passed, but battlefield cunning had not entirely deserted him. He felt the heart-twisting terror of both the hunter and the hunted, the battle stress that was like no other kind of stress, but he still knew how to
use
that tension, how to take advantage of that stress to keep himself alert and sharp.
The others remained very still, burrowing into the snow, hugging the Jeep and the snowmobiles. Charlie could hear them shouting to one another, but none of them dared move again.
He knew they would remain pinned down for five or ten minutes, and maybe he should get up now, head back to the cabin, use that lead time. But there was a chance that if he outwaited them he would get another clear shot the next time they regained a little confidence. For the moment, anyway, there was no danger of
losing
any advantage by staying put, so he remained at the perimeter of the woods. He reloaded again. He stared down at them, exhilarated by his marksmanship but wishing he wasn’t so proud of it, savagely delighted that he had brought down three of them but also ashamed of that delight.
The sky looked hard, metallic. Light snow flurries were falling.
No wind yet. Good. Wind would interfere with his shooting.
Below, Spivey’s people had stopped talking. Preternatural silence returned to the mountain.
Time ticked by.
They were scared of him down there.
He dared to hope.
56
 
At the cabin,
Christine found Joey standing in the living room. His face was ashen. He had heard the shooting. He knew. “It’s her.”
“Honey, get your ski suit on, your boots. We’re going out soon.”
“Isn’t it?” he said softly.
“We’ve got to be ready to leave as soon as Charlie comes.”
“Isn’t it her?”
“Yes,” Christine said. Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes, and she held him. “It’ll be okay. Charlie will take care of us.”
She was looking into his eyes, but he was not looking into hers. He was looking
through
her, into a world other than this one, a place of his own, and the emptiness in his eyes sent a chill up her spine.
She had hoped that he could dress himself while she stuffed things into her backpack, but he was on the verge of catatonia, just standing there, face slack, arms slack. She grabbed his ski suit and dressed him, pulling it on over the sweater and jeans he already wore. She pulled two pair of thick socks onto his small feet, put his boots on for him, laced them up. She put his gloves and ski mask on the floor by the door, so she wouldn’t forget them when it was time to leave.

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