The Servants of Twilight (64 page)
How easily it could happen: one lunatic spreads her delusions to the gullible, and soon there is a hysterical mob, or in this case a cult, believing itself to be driven by the best intentions and, therefore, armored against doubt by steely self-righteousness.
There
was evil, she realized: not in her little boy but in mankind’s fatal attraction to easy, even if irrational, answers.
There
was evil, she realized: not in her little boy but in mankind’s fatal attraction to easy, even if irrational, answers.
From across the room, Charlie said, “You trust Barlowe?”
“I think so,” Christine said.
“He could have another change of heart on the way down.”
“I think he’ll send help,” she said.
“If he changes his mind about Joey, he wouldn’t even have to come back. He could just leave us here, let cold and hunger do the job for him.”
“He’ll come back, I bet,” Joey said, dusting his small hands together after adding the branches to the fire. “I think he’s one of the good guys, after all. Don’t you, Mom? Don’t you think he’s one of the good guys?”
“Yeah,” Christine said. She smiled. “He’s one of the good guys, honey.”
“Like us,” Joey said.
“Like us,” she said.
Hours later, but
well before nightfall, they heard the helicopter.
well before nightfall, they heard the helicopter.
“The chopper will have skis on it,” Charlie said. “They’ll land in the meadow, and the rescue team will walk in from there.”
“We’re going home?” Joey asked.
Christine was crying with relief and happiness. “We’re going home, honey. You better get your jacket and gloves, start getting dressed.”
The boy ran to the pile of insulated sportswear in the corner.
To Charlie, Christine said, “Thank you.”
“I failed you,” he said.
“No. We had a bit of luck there at the end . . . Barlowe’s indecision, and then the bats. But we wouldn’t have gotten that far if it hadn’t been for you. You were great. I love you, Charlie.”
He hesitated to reply in kind, for any embrace of her was also an embrace of the boy; there was no escaping that. And he was not entirely comfortable with the boy, even though he was trying hard to believe that Barlowe’s explanation was the right one.
Joey went to Christine, frowning. The drawstring on his hood was too loose, and he could not undo the clumsy knot he had put it in. “Mommy, why’d they have to put a
shoe
lace under my chin like this?”
shoe
lace under my chin like this?”
Smiling, Christine helped him. “I thought you were getting really good at tying shoelaces.”
“I am,” the boy said proudly. “But they gotta be on my
feet
.”
feet
.”
“Well, I’m afraid we can’t think of you as a big boy until you’re able to tie a shoelace no matter
where
they put it.”
where
they put it.”
“Jeez. Then I guess I’ll never be a big boy.” Christine finished retying the hood string. “Oh, you’ll get there one day, honey.”
Charlie watched as she hugged her son. He sighed. He shook his head. He cleared his throat. He said, “I love you, too, Christine. I really do.”
Two days later,
in the hospital in Reno, after enduring the attention of uncountable doctors and nurses, after several interviews with the police and one with a representative of the press, after long phone conversations with Henry Rankin, after two nights of much-needed drug-induced sleep, Charlie was left to find unassisted rest on the third night. He had no difficulty getting to sleep, but he dreamed.
in the hospital in Reno, after enduring the attention of uncountable doctors and nurses, after several interviews with the police and one with a representative of the press, after long phone conversations with Henry Rankin, after two nights of much-needed drug-induced sleep, Charlie was left to find unassisted rest on the third night. He had no difficulty getting to sleep, but he dreamed.
He dreamed of making love to Christine, and it was not a fantasy of sex but more a memory of their lovemaking at the cabin. He had never given himself so completely as he had to her that night, and the next day she had gone out of her way to tell him that she had done things with him that she had never contemplated doing with another man. Now, in the dream, they coupled with that same startling fervor and energy, casting aside all inhibitions. But in the dream, as it had been in reality, there was also something . . .
savage
about it, something fierce and animalistic, as if the sex they shared were more than an expression of love or lust, as if it were a . . . ceremony, a bonding, which was somehow committing him totally to Christine and, therefore, to Joey as well. As Christine straddled him, as he thrust like a bull deep within her, the floor under them began to split open—and here the dream departed from reality—and the couch began to slip into a widening aperture, and although both he and Christine recognized the danger, they could not do anything about it, could not cease their rutting even to save themselves, but continued to press flesh to flesh as the crack in the floor grew ever wider, as they became aware of something in the darkness below, something that was
hungry
for them, and Charlie wanted to pull away from her, flee, wanted to scream, but could not, could only cling to her and thrust within her, as the couch collapsed through the yawning hole, the cabin floor vanishing above them. And they fell away into—
savage
about it, something fierce and animalistic, as if the sex they shared were more than an expression of love or lust, as if it were a . . . ceremony, a bonding, which was somehow committing him totally to Christine and, therefore, to Joey as well. As Christine straddled him, as he thrust like a bull deep within her, the floor under them began to split open—and here the dream departed from reality—and the couch began to slip into a widening aperture, and although both he and Christine recognized the danger, they could not do anything about it, could not cease their rutting even to save themselves, but continued to press flesh to flesh as the crack in the floor grew ever wider, as they became aware of something in the darkness below, something that was
hungry
for them, and Charlie wanted to pull away from her, flee, wanted to scream, but could not, could only cling to her and thrust within her, as the couch collapsed through the yawning hole, the cabin floor vanishing above them. And they fell away into—
He sat up in the hospital bed, gasping.
The patient in the other bed grunted softly but did not rouse from his deep sleep.
The room was dark except for a small light at the foot of each bed and vague moonglow at the window.
Charlie leaned back against the headboard.
Gradually, his rapid heartbeat and frantic breathing subsided.
He was damp with sweat.
The dream had brought back all his doubts about Joey. Val Gardner had flown up from Orange County and had taken Joey home with her this afternoon, and Charlie had been genuinely sorry to see the kid go. The boy had been so cute, so full of good humor and unconsciously amusing banter, that the hospital staff had taken him to their hearts, and his frequent visits had made the time pass more quickly and agreeably for Charlie. But now, courtesy of his nightmare, which was courtesy of his subconscious, he was in an emotional turmoil again.
Charlie had always thought of himself as a good man, a man who always did the right thing, who tried to help the innocent and punish the guilty. That was why he had wanted to spend his life playing Mr. Private Investigator. Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, Lew Archer, Charlie Harrison: moral men, admirable men, maybe even heroes. So. So what if? What if
Joey
had called forth those bats? What if Chewbacca was Brandy, dead twice and resurrected by his master both times? What if Joey was less the unaware psychic that Barlowe believed and more the . . . more the demon that Spivey claimed? Crazy. But what if? What was a good man supposed to do in such a case? What was the right course of action?
Joey
had called forth those bats? What if Chewbacca was Brandy, dead twice and resurrected by his master both times? What if Joey was less the unaware psychic that Barlowe believed and more the . . . more the demon that Spivey claimed? Crazy. But what if? What was a good man supposed to do in such a case? What was the right course of action?
Weeks later, on
a Sunday evening in April, Charlie went to the pet cemetery where Brandy had been buried. He arrived after closing time, well after dark, and he took a pick and shovel with him.
a Sunday evening in April, Charlie went to the pet cemetery where Brandy had been buried. He arrived after closing time, well after dark, and he took a pick and shovel with him.
The small grave with its little marker was right at the top of a knoll, where Christine had said it was, between two Indian laurels, where the grass looked silver in the light of a three-quarter moon.
BRANDY
BELOVED DOG
PET AND FRIEND
BELOVED DOG
PET AND FRIEND
Charlie stood beside the plot, staring down at it, not really wanting to proceed, but aware that he had no choice. He would not be at peace until he knew the truth.
The night-mantled graveyard full of eternally slumbering cats, dogs, hamsters, parrots, rabbits, and guinea pigs was preternaturally silent. The mild breeze was cool. The branches of the trees stirred slightly, but with only an infrequent rustle.
Reluctantly, he stripped off his lightweight jacket, put his flashlight aside, and set to work. The bullet wound in his shoulder had healed well, more quickly than the doctors had expected, but he was not yet back in shape, and his muscles began to ache from his labors. Suddenly his spade produced a hollow
thunk-clonk
when it struck the lid of a solidly made though unfinished and unadorned pine box, a little more than two feet below ground. A few minutes later he had bared the entire coffin; in the moonlight it was visible as a pale, undetailed rectangle surrounded by black earth.
thunk-clonk
when it struck the lid of a solidly made though unfinished and unadorned pine box, a little more than two feet below ground. A few minutes later he had bared the entire coffin; in the moonlight it was visible as a pale, undetailed rectangle surrounded by black earth.
Charlie knew that the cemetery offered two basic methods of burial: with or without coffin. In either case, the animal was wrapped in cloth and tucked into a zippered canvas bag. Evidently, Christine and Joey had opted for the full treatment, and one of those zippered bags now lay within this box.
But did the bag contain Brandy’s remains—or was it empty?
He perceived no stench of decomposition, but that was to be expected if the canvas sack was moisture-proof and tightly sealed.
He sat at the edge of the grave for a moment, pretending that he needed to catch his breath. Actually, he was just delaying. He dreaded opening the dog’s casket, not because he was sickened by the thought of uncovering a maggotriddled golden retriever but because he was sickened by the thought of
not
uncovering one.
not
uncovering one.
Maybe he should stop right now, refill the grave, and go away. Maybe it did not matter
what
Joey Scavello was.
what
Joey Scavello was.
After all, there were those theologians who argued that the devil, being a fallen angel and therefore inherently good, was not evil in any degree but merely
different
from God.
different
from God.
He suddenly remembered something that he had read in college, a line from Samuel Butler, a favorite of his:
An apology for the devil—it must be remembered that we have heard only one side of the case. God has written all the books.
An apology for the devil—it must be remembered that we have heard only one side of the case. God has written all the books.
The night smelled of damp earth.
The moon watched.
At last he pried the lid off the small casket.
Inside was a zippered sack. Hesitantly, he stretched out on the ground beside the grave, reached down into it, and put his hands on the bag. He played a macabre game of blindman’s buff, exploring the contours of the thing within, and gradually convinced himself that it was the corpse of a dog about the size of a full-grown golden retriever.
All right. This was enough. Here was the proof he had needed. God knows
why
he had thought he needed it, but here it was. He had felt that he was being . . .
commanded
to discover the truth; he had not been driven only by curiosity, but by an obsessive compulsion that seemed to come from outside of him, a motivating urge that some might have said was the hand of God pushing him along, but which he preferred not to analyze or define. The past few weeks had been shaped by that urge, by an inner voice compelling him to make a journey to the pet cemetery. At last he had succumbed, had committed himself to this silly scheme, and what he had found was not proof of a hellborn plot but, instead, merely evidence of his own foolishness. Although there was no one in the pet cemetery to see him, he flushed with embarrassment. Brandy had not come back from the grave. Chewbacca was an altogether different dog. It had been stupid to suspect otherwise. This was sufficient evidence of Joey’s innocence; there was no point in opening the bag and forcing himself to confront the disgusting remains.
why
he had thought he needed it, but here it was. He had felt that he was being . . .
commanded
to discover the truth; he had not been driven only by curiosity, but by an obsessive compulsion that seemed to come from outside of him, a motivating urge that some might have said was the hand of God pushing him along, but which he preferred not to analyze or define. The past few weeks had been shaped by that urge, by an inner voice compelling him to make a journey to the pet cemetery. At last he had succumbed, had committed himself to this silly scheme, and what he had found was not proof of a hellborn plot but, instead, merely evidence of his own foolishness. Although there was no one in the pet cemetery to see him, he flushed with embarrassment. Brandy had not come back from the grave. Chewbacca was an altogether different dog. It had been stupid to suspect otherwise. This was sufficient evidence of Joey’s innocence; there was no point in opening the bag and forcing himself to confront the disgusting remains.
He wondered what he would have done if the grave had been empty. Would he then have had to kill the boy, destroy the Antichrist, save the world from Armageddon? What utter balderdash. He could not have done any such thing, not even if God had appeared to him in flowing white robes, with a beard of fire, and with the death order written on tablets of stone. His own parents had been child beaters, child abusers, and he the victim. That was the one crime that most outraged him—a crime against a child. Even if the grave had been empty, even if that emptiness had convinced him that Spivey was right about Joey, Charlie could not have gone after the boy. He could not outdo his own sick parents by
killing
a child. For a while, maybe, he would be able to live with the deed because he would feel sure that Joey was
more
than just a little boy, was in fact an evil being. But as time went on, doubts would arise. He would begin to think that he had imagined the inexplicable behavior of the bats, and the empty grave would have less significance, and all the other signs and portents would seem to have been self-delusion. He would begin to tell himself that Joey wasn’t demonic, only gifted, not possessed of supernatural powers but merely psychic abilities. He would inevitably determine that he had killed nothing evil, that he had destroyed a special but altogether innocent child. And then, at least for him, Hell on earth would be reality, anyway.
killing
a child. For a while, maybe, he would be able to live with the deed because he would feel sure that Joey was
more
than just a little boy, was in fact an evil being. But as time went on, doubts would arise. He would begin to think that he had imagined the inexplicable behavior of the bats, and the empty grave would have less significance, and all the other signs and portents would seem to have been self-delusion. He would begin to tell himself that Joey wasn’t demonic, only gifted, not possessed of supernatural powers but merely psychic abilities. He would inevitably determine that he had killed nothing evil, that he had destroyed a special but altogether innocent child. And then, at least for him, Hell on earth would be reality, anyway.
He lay facedown on the cool, damp ground.
He stared into the dog’s grave.
The canvas-wrapped lump was framed by the pale pine boards. It was a perfectly black bundle that might have contained anything, but which his hands told him contained a dog, so there was no need to open it, no need whatsoever.
The tab of the bag’s zipper was caught in a moonbeam. Its silvery glint was like a single, cold, staring eye.
Even if he opened the bag and found only rocks, or even if he found something worse, something unimaginably horrible that was proof positive of Joey’s sulphurous origins, he could not act as God’s avenger. What allegiance did he owe to a god who allowed so much suffering in the world to begin with? What of his own suffering as a child, the terrible loneliness and the beatings and the constant fear he had endured? Where had God been then? Could life be all that much worse just because there had been a change in the divine monarchy?
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