Authors: Dean Koontz

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

The Servants of Twilight (12 page)

BOOK: The Servants of Twilight

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“No sweat,” Rankin said.

“Once you’ve got the number, get on the line to the DMV and find out who holds the registration.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you report to me.”

“I’m leaving now.”

Charlie hung up. He went to the window again.

Christine said, “Let’s hope it’s just a coincidence.”

“On the contrary—let’s hope it’s the same van. It’s the best lead we could’ve asked for.”

“But if it is the same van, and if that guy’s with it—”

“He’s with it, all right.”

“—then it’s not just the old woman who’s a threat to Joey. There’re
two
of them.”

“Or more.”

“Huh?”

“Might be another one or two we don’t know about.”

A bird swooped past the window.

The palm fronds stirred in the unseasonably warm breeze.

Sunshine silvered the windows of the cars parked along the street.

At the van, the stranger waited.

Christine said, “What the
hell
is going on?”

In the windowless
basement, eleven candles held the insistent shadows at bay.

The only noise was Mother Grace Spivey’s increasingly labored breathing as she settled deeper into a trance. The eleven disciples made no sound whatsoever.

Kyle Barlowe was silent, too, and perfectly still even though he was uncomfortable. The oak chair on which he sat was too small for him. That wasn’t the fault of the chair, which would have provided adequate seating for anyone else in the room. But Barlowe was so big that, to him, most furniture seemed to have been designed and constructed for use by dwarves. He liked deep-seated, overstuffed easy chairs and old-fashioned wing-backed armchairs but only if the wings were angled wide enough to accommodate his broad shoulders. He liked king-sized beds, La-Z-Boy recliners, and ancient claw-foot bathtubs that were so large they didn’t force him to sit with his legs drawn up as if he were a baby taking a bath in a basin. His apartment in Santa Ana was furnished to his dimensions, but when he wasn’t at home he was usually uncomfortable to one degree or another.

However, as Mother Grace slipped deeper into her trance, Barlowe became increasingly eager to hear what message she would bring from the spirit world, and gradually he ceased to notice that he seemed to be perched on a child’s playroom chair.

He adored Mother Grace. She had told him about the coming of Twilight, and he had believed every word. Twilight. Yes, it made sense. The world was long overdue for Twilight. By warning him that it was coming, by soliciting his help to prepare mankind for it, Mother Grace had given him an opportunity to redeem himself before it was too late. She had saved him, body and soul.

Until he met her, he had spent most of his twenty-nine years in the single-minded pursuit of self-destruction. He’d been a drunkard, a barroom brawler, a dope addict, a rapist, even a murderer. He’d been promiscuous, bedding at least one new woman every week, most of them junkies or prostitutes or both. He’d contracted gonorrhea seven or eight times, syphilis twice, and it was amazing he hadn’t gotten both diseases more often than that.

On rare occasions, he had been sober and clearheaded enough to be disgusted or even frightened by his lifestyle. But he had rationalized his behavior by telling himself that self-loathing and anti-social violence were simply the natural responses to the thoughtless—and sometimes intentional—cruelty with which most people treated him.

To the world at large, he was a freak, a lumbering giant with a Neanderthaloid face that would scare off a grizzly bear. Little children were usually frightened of him. People of all ages stared, some openly and some surreptitiously. A few even laughed at him when they thought he wasn’t looking, joked about him behind his back. He usually pretended not to be aware of it—unless he was in a mood to break arms and kick ass. But he was
always
aware, and it hurt. Certain teenagers were the worst, especially certain girls, who giggled and laughed openly at him; now and then, when they were at a safe distance, they even taunted him. He had never been anything but an outsider, shunned and alone.

For many years, his violent and self-destructive life had been easy to justify to himself. Bitterness, hatred, and rage had seemed to be essential armor against society’s cruelty. Without his reckless disregard for personal well-being and without his diligently nurtured lust for revenge, he would have felt defenseless. The world insisted on making an outcast of him, insisted on seeing him as either a seven-foot buffoon with a monkey’s face or a threatening monster. Well, he wasn’t a buffoon, but he didn’t mind playing the monster for them; he didn’t mind showing them just how viciously, shockingly monstrous he could be when he really put his mind to it.
They
had made him what he was. He wasn’t responsible for his crimes. He was bad because they had
made
him bad. For most of his life, that’s what he had told himself.

Until he met Mother Grace Spivey.

She showed him what a self-pitying wretch he was. She made him see that his justifications for sinful and self-indulgent behavior were pitifully flimsy. She taught him that an outcast could gain strength, courage, and even pride from his condition. She helped him see Satan within himself and helped him throw the devil out.

She helped him understand that his great strength and his singular talent for destruction were to be used only to bring terror and punishment to the enemies of God.

Now, sitting in front of Mother Grace as she drifted in a trance, Kyle Barlowe regarded her with unqualified adoration. He didn’t see that her untrimmed mane of gray hair was frizzy, knotted, and slightly greasy; to him, in the flickering golden light, her shining hair was a holy nimbus framing her face, a halo. He didn’t see that her clothes were badly wrinkled; he didn’t notice the threads and lint and dandruff and food stains that decorated her. He saw only what he wanted to see, and he wanted to see salvation.

She groaned. Her eyelids fluttered but did not open.

Still sitting on the floor and holding their candles steady, the eleven disciples of the inner council became tense, but none of them spoke or made any sound that might break the fragile spell.

“Oh God,” Mother Grace said as if she had just seen something awesome or perhaps terrifying. “Oh God oh God oh
God
!”

She winced. She shuddered. She licked her lips nervously.

Sweat broke out on her brow.

She was breathing harder than before. She gasped, openmouthed, as if she were drowning. Then she drew breath through clenched teeth, with a cold hissing sound.

Barlowe waited patiently.

Mother Grace raised her hands, grabbed at the empty air. Her rings gleamed in the candlelight. Then her hands fell back into her lap, fluttered briefly like dying birds, and were still.

At last she spoke in a weak, strained, tremulous voice that was barely recognizable as her own. “Kill him.”

“Who?” Barlowe asked.

“The boy.”

The eleven disciples stirred, looked at one another meaningfully, and the movement of their candles caused shadows to twist and flap and shift all over the room.

“You mean Joey Scavello?” Barlowe asked.

“Yes. Kill him,” Mother Grace said from a great distance.
“Now.”

For reasons that neither Barlowe nor Mother Grace understood, he was the only person who could communicate with her when she was in a trance. If others spoke to her, she wouldn’t hear them. She was the only contact they had with the spirit world, the sole conduit for all messages from the other side, but it was Barlowe, through his careful and patient questioning, who made certain that those messages were always clear and fully detailed. More than anything else, it was this function, this precious gift that convinced him he was one of God’s chosen people, just as Mother Grace said he was.

“Kill him . . . kill him,” she chanted softly in a raspy voice.

“You’re sure this boy is the one?” Barlowe asked.

“Yes.”

“There’s no doubt?”

“None.”

“How can he be killed?”

Mother Grace’s face was slack now. Lines had appeared in her usually creaseless skin. Her pale flesh hung like wrinkled, lifeless cloth.

“How can we destroy him?” Barlowe inquired again.

Her mouth hung open wide. Breath rattled in her throat. Saliva glistened at one corner of her lips, welled up, and drooled slowly onto her chin.

“Mother Grace?” Barlowe prodded.

Her voice was even fainter than before: “Kill him . . . any way you choose.”

“With a gun, a knife? Fire?”

“Any weapon . . . will succeed . . . but only if . . . you act soon.”

“How soon?”

“Time is running out. Day by day . . . he becomes . . . more powerful . . . less vulnerable.”

“When we kill him, is there a ritual we must follow?” Barlowe asked.

“Only that . . . once dead . . . his heart . . .”

“What about his heart?”

“Must be . . . cut
out
,” she said, her voice becoming somewhat stronger, sharper.

“And then?”

“It will be black.”

“His heart will be black?”

“As coal. And rotten. And you will see . . .”

She sat up straighter in her chair. The sweat from her brow was trickling down her face. Tiny beads of perspiration had popped out of her upper lip. Like a pair of stricken moths, her white hands fluttered in her lap. Color returned to her face, although her eyes remained closed. She was no longer drooling, but spittle still shone on her chin.

“What will we see when we cut his heart out?” Barlowe asked.

“Worms,” she said with disgust.

“In the boy’s heart?”

“Yes. And beetles. Squirming.”

A few of the disciples murmured to one another. It didn’t matter. Nothing could disturb Mother Grace’s trance now. She was thoroughly caught up in it, swept away by her visions.

Leaning forward in his chair, his big hands clamped on his meaty thighs, Barlowe said, “What must we do with the heart once we’ve cut it out of him?”

She chewed on her lip so hard he was afraid she would draw blood. She raised her spastic hands again and worked them in the empty air as if she could wring the answer from the ether.

Then: “Plunge the heart into . . .”

“Into what?” Barlowe asked.

“A bowl of holy water.”

“From a church?”

“Yes. The water will remain cool . . . but the heart . . . will boil, turn to dark steam . . . and evaporate.”

“And then we can be certain the boy is dead?”

“Yes. Dead. Forever dead. Unable to return through another incarnation.”

“Then there’s hope?” Barlowe asked, hardly daring to believe that it was so.

“Yes,” she said thickly. “Hope.”

“Praise God,” Barlowe said.

“Praise God,” the disciples said.

Mother Grace opened her eyes. She yawned, sighed, blinked, and looked around in confusion. “Where’s this? What’s wrong? I feel all clammy. Did I miss the six o’clock news? I mustn’t miss the six o’clock news. I’ve got to know what Lucifer’s people have been up to.”

“It’s only a few minutes till noon,” Barlowe said. “The six o’clock news is hours away.”

She stared at him with that familiar, blurry-eyed, muddleheaded look that always marked her return from a deep trance. “Who’re you? Do I know you? I don’t think I do.”

“I’m Kyle, Mother Grace.”

“Kyle?” she said as if she’d never heard of him. A suspicious glint entered her eyes.

“Just relax,” he said. “Relax and think about it. You’ve had a vision. You’ll remember it in a moment. It’ll come back to you.”

He held out both of his large, calloused hands. Sometimes, when she came out of a trance, she was so frightened and lost that she needed friendly contact. Usually, when she gripped his hands, she drew from his great reservoir of physical strength and soon regained her senses, as if he were a battery that she was tapping.

But today she pulled away from him. She frowned. She wiped at her spittle-damp chin. She looked around at the candles, at the disciples, clearly baffled by them. “God, I’m so thirsty,” she said.

One of the disciples hurried to get her a drink.

She looked at Kyle. “What do you want from me? Why’d you bring me here?”

“It’ll all come back to you,” he said patiently, smiling reassuringly.

“I don’t like this place,” she said, her voice thin and querulous.

BOOK: The Servants of Twilight

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