The Servants of Twilight (8 page)

Read The Servants of Twilight Online

Authors: Dean Koontz

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: The Servants of Twilight
5.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Charlie’s private office was even somewhat plusher than the reception area, yet it avoided the ponderous and solemn look favored by attorneys and many other professionals. Bleached-wood paneling reached halfway up the walls. There were bleached-wood shutters on the windows, a contemporary desk by Henredon, armchairs covered in an airy green print from Brunschwig & Fils. On the walls were two large, light-filled paintings by Martin Green, undersea scenes of ethereal plant life fluttering gracefully in mysterious currents and tides. A few large plants, mostly ferns and pothos, hung from the ceiling or rested on rosewood stands. The effect was almost subtropical yet cool and rich.
But when Christine Scavello walked through the door, Charlie suddenly felt that the room was woefully inadequate. Yes, it was light and well-balanced and expensive and truly exquisite; nevertheless, it seemed hopelessly heavy, clunky, and even garish when compared to this striking woman.
Coming out from behind his desk, he said, “Ms. Scavello, I’m Charlie Harrison. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
She accepted his hand and said she was pleased to meet him, too.
Her hair was thick, shiny, dark-dark brown, almost black. He wanted to run his fingers through it. He wanted to put his face in her hair and smell it.
Unaccustomed to having such a strong and immediate reaction to anyone, Charlie reined himself in. He looked at her more closely, as dispassionately as possible. He told himself that she wasn’t perfect, certainly not breathtakingly beautiful. Pretty, yes, but not a total knockout. Her brow was somewhat too high, and her cheekbones seemed a little heavy, and her nose was slightly pinched.
Nevertheless, with a breathless and ingratiating manner that wasn’t like him, he said, “I apologize for the condition of the office,” and was surprised and dismayed to hear himself make such a statement.
She looked puzzled. “Why should you apologize? It’s lovely.”
He blinked. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. It’s unexpected. Not at all what I thought a private detective’s office would look like. But that just makes it even more interesting, appealing.”
Her eyes were huge and dark. Clear, direct eyes. Each time he met them, his breath caught for an instant.
“Did it myself,” he said, deciding the room didn’t look so bad, after all. “Didn’t use an interior decorator.”
“You’ve got a real flair for it.”
He showed her to a chair and noticed, as she sat down, that she had lovely legs and perfectly shaped ankles.
But I’ve seen other legs as lovely, other ankles as well shaped, he thought with some bafflement, and I haven’t ever before been swept away by this adolescent longing, haven’t felt this ridiculously sudden surge in hormone levels.
Either he was hornier than he thought, or he was reacting to more than her appearance.
Perhaps her appeal was as much in the way she walked and shook hands and carried herself (with an easy, graceful minimum of movement), and in her voice (soft, earthy, feminine, yet unaffected, with a note of strength), and in the way she met his eyes (forthrightly), as it was in the way she looked. In spite of the circumstances in which he was meeting her, in spite of the fact that she had a serious problem about which she must be worried, she possessed an uncommon inner tranquility that intrigued him.
That doesn’t quite explain it either, he thought. Since when have I ever wanted to jump into bed with a woman because of her uncommon inner tranquility?
All right, so he wasn’t going to be able to analyze this feeling, not yet. He would just have to go with it and try to understand it later.
Stepping behind his desk, sitting down, he said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you I’m interested in interior design. Maybe that’s really the wrong image for a private detective.”
“On the contrary,” she said, “what it tells me is that you’re observant, perceptive, probably quite sensitive, and you have an excellent eye for details. Those are the qualities I’d hope for in any man in your line of work.”
“Right! Exactly,” he said, beaming at her, delighted by her approval.
He was stricken by an almost irresistible urge to kiss her brow, her eyes, the bridge of her nose, the tip of her nose, her cheeks, her chin, and last of all her sculpted lips.
But all he did was say, “Well, Ms. Scavello, what can I do for you?”
She told him about the old woman.
He was shocked, intrigued, and sympathetic, but he was also uneasy because you never knew what to expect from flaky types like this old woman. Anything might happen, and it probably would. Furthermore, he knew how difficult it was to track down and deal with any perpetrator of this type of irrational harassment. He much preferred people with clear, understandable motivations. Understandable motivations were what made his line of work possible: greed, lust, envy, jealousy, revenge, love, hate—they were the raw material of his industry. Thank God for the weaknesses and imperfections of mankind, for otherwise he would have been without work. He was also uneasy because he was afraid he might fail Christine Scavello, and if he failed her, she would walk out of his life forever. And if she walked out of his life forever, he would have to be satisfied with only dreams of her, and he was just too damn old for dreams of that kind.
When Christine finished recounting the events of this morning—the murder of the dog, the call from the old woman—Charlie said, “Where’s your son now?”
“Out in your waiting room.”
“All right. He’s safe there.”
“I’m not sure he’s safe anywhere.”
“Relax. It’s not the end of the world. It’s really not.”
He smiled at her to show her that it wasn’t the end of the world. He wanted to make her smile back at him because he was certain that her smile would make her lovely face even lovelier, but she didn’t seem to have a smile in her.
He said, “All right, about this old woman . . . You’ve given me a pretty detailed description of her.” He had made notes as she talked. Now he glanced at them. “But is there anything else about her that might help us make an identification?”
“I’ve told you everything I remember.”
“What about scars? Did she have any scars?”
“No.”
“Did she wear glasses?”
“No.”
“You said she was in her late sixties or early seventies—”
“Yes.”
“—yet her face was hardly lined.”
“That’s right.”
“Unnaturally smooth, somewhat puffy, you said.”
“Her skin, yes. I had an aunt who took cortisone injections for arthritis. Her face was like this woman’s face.”
“So you think she’s being treated for some form of arthritis?”
Christine shrugged. “I don’t know. Could be.”
“Was she wearing a copper bracelet or any copper rings?”
“Copper?”
“It’s only a wives’ tale, of course, but a lot of people think copper jewelry helps arthritis. I had an aunt with arthritis, too, and she wore a copper necklace, two copper bracelets on each wrist, a couple of copper rings, and even a copper ankle bracelet. She was a thin little bird of a woman, weighed down with crummy-looking jewelry, and she swore by it, said it did her a world of good, but she never moved any easier and never had any relief from the pain.”
“This woman didn’t have any copper jewelry. Lots of other jewelry, like I said, but nothing copper.”
He stared at his notes. Then: “She didn’t tell you her name—”
“No.”
“—but was she wearing a monogram, like maybe on her blouse—”
“No.”
“—or were her initials spelled out on one of her rings?”
“I don’t think so. If they were, I didn’t notice.”
“And you didn’t see where she came from?”
“No.”
“If we knew what kind of car she got out of—”
“I’ve no idea. We were almost to our car, and she just stepped out from beside it.”
“What kind of car was parked next to yours?”
She frowned, trying to remember.
While she thought, Charlie studied her face, looking for imperfections. Nothing in this world was free of imperfections. Everything had at least one flaw. Even a bottle of Lafite Rothschild could have a bad cork or too much tannic acid. Not even a Rolls-Royce had an unblemished paint job. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups were unquestionably delicious—but they made you fat. However, no matter how carefully he studied Christine Scavello’s face, he could find nothing whatsoever wrong with it. Oh, yes, well, the pinched nose, and the heavy cheekbones, and the too-high brow, but in her case those didn’t strike him as imperfections; they were merely . . . well, deviations from the ordinary definition of beauty, minor deviations that gave her character, a look of her own—
And what the hell is wrong with me? he wondered. I’ve got to stop mooning over her as if I were a lovesick schoolboy.
On one hand, he liked the way he felt; it was a fresh, exhilarating feeling. On the other hand, he
didn’t
like it because he didn’t understand it, and it was his nature to want to understand everything. That was why he’d become a detective—to find answers, to
understand
.
She blinked, looked up at him. “I remember. It wasn’t a car parked next to us. It was a van.”
“A paneled van? What kind?”
“White.”
“I mean, what make?”
She frowned again, trying to recall.
“Old or new?” he asked.
“New. Clean, sparkling.”
“Did you notice any dents, scrapes?”
“No. And it was a Ford.”
“Good. Very good. Do you know what year?”
“No.”
“A recreational vehicle, was it? With one of those round windows on the side or maybe a painted mural?”
“No. Very utilitarian. Like a van somebody would use for work.”
“Was there a company name on the side?”
“No.”
“Any message at all painted on it?”
“No. It was just plain white.”
“What about the license plate?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“You passed by the back of the van. You noticed it was a Ford. The license plate would’ve been right there.”
“I guess. But I didn’t look at it.”
“If it becomes necessary, we can probably get it out of you with hypnosis. At least now we have a little something to start with.”
“
If
she got out of the van.”
“For starters, we’ll assume she did.”
“And that’s probably a mistake.”
“And maybe it isn’t.”
“She could’ve come from anywhere in the parking lot.”
“But since we have to start somewhere, we might as well begin with the van,” he said patiently.
“She might’ve come from another row of cars altogether. We might just be wasting time. I don’t want to waste time.
She
isn’t wasting time. I have an awful feeling we don’t
have
much time.”
Her nervous, fidgety movements escalated into uncontrollable shivers that shook her entire body. Charlie realized that she had been maintaining her composure only with considerable effort.
“Easy,” he said. “Easy now. Everything’ll work out fine. We won’t let anything happen to Joey.”
She was pale. Her voice quavered when she spoke: “He’s so sweet. He’s such a sweet little boy. He’s the center of my life . . . the center of everything. If anything happened to him . . .”
“Nothing’s going to happen to him. I guarantee you that.”
She began to cry. She didn’t sob or wail or get hysterical. She just took deep, shuddery breaths, and her eyes grew watery, and tears slipped down her cheeks.
Pushing his chair back from the desk, getting up, wanting to comfort her, feeling awkward and inadequate, Charlie said, “I think you need a drink.”
She shook her head.
“It’ll help,” he said.
“I don’t drink much,” she said shakily, and the tears poured from her even more copiously than before.
“Just one drink.”
“Too early,” she said.
“It’s past eleven-thirty. Almost lunchtime. Besides, this is medicinal.”
He went to the bar that stood in the corner by one of the two big windows. He opened the lower doors, took out a bottle of Chivas Regal and one glass, put them on the marble-topped counter, poured two ounces of Scotch.
As he was capping the bottle, he happened to look out the window beside him—and froze. A white Ford van, clean and sparkling, with no advertising on it, was parked across the street. Looking over the tops of the uppermost fronds of an enormous date palm that rose almost to his fifth-floor window, Charlie saw a man in dark clothing leaning against the side of the van.

Other books

The Awakening by Nicole R. Taylor
(in)visible by Talie D. Hawkins
Fiendish Deeds by P. J. Bracegirdle
Psycho Killer by Cecily von Ziegesar
Keeping Pace by Dee Carney
Nobody Runs Forever by Richard Stark