The Servants of Twilight (25 page)

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Authors: Dean Koontz

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: The Servants of Twilight
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The curtain covering the window in the center of the door was abruptly drawn aside. A florid-faced, overweight woman with protuberant green eyes stared at them for a long moment, then let the curtain fall into place, unlocked the door, and ushered them into a drab entry hall.
When the door was closed and the susurrous voice of the storm faded somewhat, Charlie said, “My name is—”
“I know who you are,” the woman replied curtly. She led them back down the hall to a chamber on the right, where the door was ajar. She opened the door all the way and indicated that they were to enter. She didn’t come with them, didn’t announce them, just closed the door after them, leaving them to their own introductions. Evidently, common courtesy was not an ingredient in the bizarre stew of Christianity and doomsday prophecy that Spivey’s followers had cooked up for themselves.
Charlie and Henry were in a room twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide, sparsely and cheaply furnished. Filing cabinets lined one wall. In the center were a simple metal table on which lay a woman’s purse and an ashtray, one metal folding chair behind the table, and two chairs in front of it. Nothing else. No draperies at the windows. No tables or cabinets or knickknacks. There were no lamps, either, just the ceiling fixture, which cast a yellowish glow that, blending with the gray storm light coming through the tall windows, gave the room a muddy look.
Perhaps the oddest thing of all was the complete lack of religious objects: no paintings portraying Christ, no plastic statues of Biblical figures or angels, no needlepoint samplers bearing religious messages, none of the sacred objects—or kitsch, depending on your point of view—that you expected to find among cult fanatics. There had been none in the hallway, either, or in any of the rooms they had passed.
Grace Spivey was standing at the far end of the room, at a window, her back to them, staring out at the rain.
Henry cleared his throat.
She didn’t move.
Charlie said, “Mrs. Spivey?”
Finally she turned away from the window and faced them. She was dressed all in yellow: pale yellow blouse, a gay yellow polka-dot scarf knotted at her neck, deep yellow skirt, yellow shoes. She was wearing yellow bracelets on each wrist and half a dozen rings set with yellow stones. The effect was ludicrous. The brightness of her outfit only accentuated the paleness of her puffy face, the withered dullness of her age-spotted skin. She looked as if she were possessed by senile whimsy and thought of herself as a twelve-year-old girl on the way to a friend’s birthday party.
Her gray hair was wild, but her eyes were wilder. Even from across the room, those eyes were riveting and strange.
She was curiously rigid, shoulders drawn up tight, arms straight down at her sides, hands curled into tight fists.
“I’m Charles Harrison,” Charlie said because he’d never actually met the woman before, “and this is my associate, Mr. Rankin.”
As unsteady as a drunkard, she took two steps away from the window. Her face twisted, and her white skin became even whiter. She cried out in pain, almost fell, caught herself in time, and stood swaying as if the floor were rolling under her.
“Is something wrong?” Charlie asked.
“You’ll have to help me,” she said.
He hadn’t figured on anything like this. He had expected her to be a strong woman with a vital, magnetic personality, a take-charge type who would keep them off balance from the start. Instead it was she who was off balance, and quite literally.
She was standing in a partial crouch now, as if pain were bending her in half. She was still stiff, and her hands were still fisted.
Charlie and Henry went to her.
“Help me to that chair before I fall,” she said weakly. “It’s my feet.”
Charlie looked down at her feet and was shocked to see blood on them. He took her left arm, and Henry took her right, and they half carried her to the chair that stood behind the metal table. As she sat down, Charlie realized there was a bleeding wound on the bridge of each foot, just above the tongue of each shoe, twin holes, as if she had been stabbed, not by a knife but by something with a very narrow blade—perhaps an ice pick.
“Can I get you a doctor?” he asked, disconcerted to find himself being so solicitous to her.
“No,” she said. “No doctor. Please sit down.”
“But—”
“I’ll be all right. I’ll be fine. God watches over me, you know. God is good to me. Sit. Please.”
Confused, they went to the two chairs on the other side of the table, but before either of them could sit, the old woman opened her fisted hands and held her palms up to them. “Look,” she said in a demanding whisper. “Look at
this
! Behold
this
!”
The gruesome sight stopped Charlie from sitting down. In each of the woman’s palms, there was another bleeding hole, like those in her feet. As he stared at her wounds, the blood began to ooze out faster than before.
Incredibly, she was smiling.
Charlie glanced at Henry and saw the same question in his friend’s eyes that he knew must be in his own:
What the hell is going on here?
“It’s for you,” the old woman said excitedly. She leaned toward them, stretching her arms across the table, holding her hands out to them, urging them to look.
“For us?” Henry said, baffled.
“What do you mean?” Charlie asked.
“A sign,” she said.
“Sign?”
“A holy sign.”
Charlie stared at her hands.
“Stigmata,” she said.
Jesus. The woman belonged in an institution.
A chill worked its way assiduously up Charlie’s spine and curled at the base of his neck, flicking its icy tail.
“The wounds of Christ,” she said.
What have we walked into? Charlie wondered.
Henry said, “I better call a doctor.”
“No,” she said softly but authoritatively. “These wounds ache, yes, but it’s a sweet pain, a good pain, a cleansing pain, and they won’t become infected; they’ll heal well on their own. Don’t you understand? These are the wounds Christ endured, the holes made by the nails that pinned Him to the cross.”
She’s mad, Charlie thought, and he looked uneasily at the door, wondering where the florid-faced woman had gone. To get some other crazies? To organize a death squad? A human sacrifice? They had the nerve to call
this
Christianity?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Grace Spivey said, her voice growing louder, stronger. “You don’t think I look like a prophet. You don’t think God would work through an old, crazy-looking woman like me. But that
is
how He works. Christ walked with the outcasts, befriended the lepers, the prostitutes, the thieves, the deformed, and sent them forth to spread His word. Do you know why? Do you
know
?”
She was speaking so loudly now that her voice rebounded from the walls, and Charlie was reminded of a television evangelist who spoke in hypnotic rhythms and with the projection of a well-trained actor.
“Do you know why God chooses the most unlikely messengers?” she demanded. “It’s because He wants to test you.
Anyone
could bring himself to believe the preachings of a pretty-boy minister with Robert Redford’s face and Richard Burton’s voice! But only the
righteous
, only those who truly
want
to believe in the Word . . . only those with enough
faith
will recognize and accept the Word regardless of the messenger!”
Her blood was dripping on the table. Her voice had risen until it vibrated in the window glass.
“God is testing you. Can you hear His message regardless of what you think of the messenger? Is your soul pure enough to allow you to
hear
? Or is there corruption within you that makes you deaf ?”
Both Charlie and Henry were speechless. There was a mesmerizing quality to her tirade that was numbing and demanding of attention.
“Listen, listen, listen!” she said urgently. “Listen to what I
tell
you. God visited these stigmata upon me the moment you rang the doorbell. He has given you a
sign
, and that can mean only one thing: You aren’t yet in Satan’s thrall, and the Lord is giving you a chance to
redeem
yourselves. Apparently you don’t realize what the woman is, what her
child
is. If you knew and still protected them, God wouldn’t be offering you redemption. Do you know what they are? Do you
know
?”
Charlie cleared his throat, blinked, freed himself from the fuzziness that had briefly affected his thoughts. “I know what
you
think they are,” Charlie said.
“It’s not what I think. It’s what I know. It’s what God has told me. The boy is the Antichrist. The mother is the black Madonna.”
Charlie hadn’t expected her to be so direct. He was sure she would deny any interest in Joey, just as she had denied it to the police. He was startled by her forthrightness and didn’t know what to make of it.
“I know you’re not recording this conversation,” she said. “We have instruments that would have detected a recorder. I would have been alerted. So I can speak freely. The boy has come to rule the earth for a thousand years.”
“He’s just a six-year-old boy,” Charlie said, “like any other six-year-old boy.”
“No,” she said, still holding her hands up to reveal the blood seeping from her wounds. “No, he is more, worse. He must die. We must kill him. It is God’s wish, God’s work.”
“You can’t really mean—”
She interrupted him. “Now that you have been told, now that God has made the truth clear to you, you must cease protecting them.”
“They’re my clients,” Charlie said. “I—”
“If you persist in protecting them, you’re damned,” the old woman said worriedly, begging them to accept redemption.
“We have an obligation—”
“Damned, don’t you see? You’ll rot in Hell. All hope lost. Eternity spent in suffering. You must listen. You must learn.”
He looked into her fevered eyes, which challenged him with berserk intensity. His pity for her was mixed with a disgust that left him unable and unwilling to debate with her. He realized it had been pointless to come. The woman was beyond the reach of reason.
He was now more afraid for Christine and Joey than he had been last night, when one of Grace Spivey’s followers had been shooting at them.
She raised her bleeding palms an inch or two higher. “This sign is for you, for
you
, to convince you that I am, in fact, a herald bearing a true message. Do you see? Do you believe now? Do you
understand
?”
Charlie said, “Mrs. Spivey, you shouldn’t have done this. Neither of us is a gullible man, so it’s all been for nothing.”
Her face darkened. She curled her hands into fists again.
Charlie said, “If you used a nail that was at all rusty or dirty, I hope you’ll go immediately to your doctor and get tetanus shots. This could be very serious.”
“You’re lost to me,” she said in a voice as flat as the table to which she lowered her bleeding hands.
“I came here to try to reason with you,” Charlie said. “I see that’s not possible. So just let me warn you—”
“You belong to Satan now. You’ve had your chance—”
“—if you don’t back off—”
“—and you’ve thrown your chance away—”
“—if you don’t leave the Scavellos alone—”
“—and now you’ll pay the terrible price!”
“—I’ll dig into this and hang on. I’ll keep at it come Hell or high water, until I’ve seen you put on trial, until I’ve seen your church lose its tax exemption, until everyone knows you for what you really are, until your followers lose their faith in you, and until your insane little cult is crushed. I mean it. I can be as relentless as you, as determined. I can finish you. Stop while you have a chance.”
She glared at him.
Henry said, “Mrs. Spivey, will you put an end to this madness?”
She said nothing. She lowered her eyes.
“Mrs. Spivey?”
No response.
Charlie said, “Come on, Henry. Let’s get out of here.”
As they approached the door, it opened, and an enormous man entered the room, ducking his head to avoid rapping it on the frame. He had to be almost seven feet tall. He had a face from a nightmare. He didn’t seem real; only images from the movies were suitable to describe him, Charlie thought. He was like a Frankenstein monster with the hugely muscled body of Conan the Barbarian, a shambling hulk spawned by a bad script and a low budget. He saw Grace Spivey weeping, and his face knotted with a look of despair and rage that made Charlie’s blood turn to icy slush. The giant reached out, grabbed Charlie by the coat, and nearly hauled him off the floor.
Henry drew his gun, and Charlie said, “Hold it, hold it,” because although the situation was bad it wasn’t necessarily lethal.

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