Dean R. Koontz - The Servants of Twilight

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THE SERVANTS OF TWILIGHT [065-4.9]
BY DEAN R. KOONTZ
Synopsis:
A wretched hag who is head of a crack pot religious cult targets
Christine's six-year-old son, Joey, as the anti-Christ. Every member of
the cult then sets out to destroy the boy and the only person Christine
can find to really help her is a private detective. Grace (the cult
leader) seems to be able to locate them with her psychic powers no
matter what they do or where they go. Lots of violence and a little
explicit sex. Excellent supernatural thriller from a master
storyteller.
It began in sunshine, not on a dark and stormy night.
She wasn't prepared for what happened, wasn't on guard. Who would have
expected trouble on a lovely Sunday afternoon like that?
The sky was clear and blue. It was surprisingly warm, for the end of
February, even in southern California. The breeze was gentle and
scented with winter flowers. It was one of those days when everyone
seemed destined to live forever.
Christine Scavello had gone to South Coast Plaza in Costa Mesa to do
some shopping, and she had taken Joey with her. He liked the big mall.
He was fascinated by the stream that splashed through one wing of the
building, down the middle of the public promenade and over a gentle
waterfall. He was also intrigued by the hundreds of trees and plants
that thrived indoors, and he was a born people-watcher. But most of all
he liked the carousel in the central courtyard. In return for one ride
on the carousel, he would tag along happily and quietly while Christine
spent two or three hours shopping.
Joey was a good kid, the best. He never whined, never threw tantrums or
complained. Trapped in the house on a long, rainy day, he could
entertain himself for hour after hour and not once grow bored or
restless or crabby the way most kids would.
To Christine, Joey sometimes seemed to be a little old man in a
six-year-old boy's small body. Occasionally he said the most amazingly
grown-up things, and he usually had the patience of an adult, and he was
often wiser than his years.
But at other times, especially when he asked where his daddy was or why
his daddy had gone away-or even when he didn't ask but just stood there
with the question shimmering in his eyes-he looked so innocent, fragile,
so heartbreakingly vulnerable that she just had to grab him and hug him.
Sometimes the hugging wasn't merely an expression of her love for him,
but also an evasion of the issue that he had raised.
She had never found a way to tell him about his father, and it was a
subject she wished he would just drop until she was ready to bring it
up. He was too young to understand the truth, and she didn't want to
lie to him-not too blatantly, anyway-or resort to cutesy euphemisms.
He had asked about his father just a couple of hours ago, on the way to
the mall. She had said, "Honey, your daddy just wasn't ready for the
responsibility of a family."
"Didn't he like me?"
"He never even knew you, so how could he not like you? He was gone
before you were born."
"Oh, yeah? How could I have been borned if he wasn't here?"
the boy had asked skeptically.
"That's something you'll learn in sex education class at school," she
had said, amused.
"When? "
"Oh, in about six or seven more years, I guess."
"That's a long time to wait." He had sighed ." I'll bet he didn't like
me and that's why he went away."
Frowning, she had said, "You put that thought right out of your mind,
sugar. It was me your daddy didn't like."
"You? He didn't like you?"
"That's right."
Joey had been silent for a block or two, but finally he had said, "Boy,
if he didn't like you, he musta been just plain dumb."
Then, apparently sensing that the subject made her uneasy, he had
changed it. A little old man in a six-year-old boy's small body.
The fact was that Joey was the result of a brief, passionate, reckless,
and stupid affair. Sometimes, looking back on it, she couldn't believe
that she had been so naive . . . or so desperate to prove her
womanhood and independence. It was the only relationship in Christine's
life that qualified as a "fling," the only time she had ever been swept
away. For that man, for no other man before or since, for that man
alone, she had put aside her morals and principles and common sense,
heeding only the urgent desires of her flesh. She had told herself that
it was Romance with a capital R, not just love but the Big Love, even
Love At First Sight. Actually she had just been weak, vulnerable, and
eager to make a fool of herself. Later, when she realized that Mr.
Wonderful had lied to her and used her with cold, cynical disregard for
her feelings, when she discovered that she had given herself to a man
who was utterly without respect for her and who lacked even a minimal
sense of responsibility, she had been deeply ashamed. Eventually she
realized there was a point at which shame and remorse became
self-indulgent and nearly as lamentable as the sin that had occasioned
those emotions, so she put the shabby episode behind her and vowed to
forget it.
Except that Joey kept asking who his father was, where his father was,
why his father had gone away. And how did you tell a six-year-old about
your libidinous urges, the treachery of your own heart, and your
regrettable capacity for occasionally making a complete fool of
yourself? If it could be done, she hadn't seen the way. She was just
going to have to wait until he was grown up enough to understand that
adults could sometimes be just as dumb and confused as little kids.
Until then, she stalled him with vague answers and evasions that
satisfied neither of them.
She only wished he wouldn't look quite so lost, quite so small and
vulnerable when he asked about his father. It made her want to cry.
She was haunted by the vulnerability she perceived in him .
He was never ill, an extremely healthy child, and she was grateful for
that. Nevertheless, she was always reading magazine and newspaper
articles about childhood diseases, not merely polio and measles and
whooping cough-he had been immunized for those and more-but horrible,
crippling, incurable illnesses, often rare although no less frightening
for their rarity. She memorized the early-warning signs of a hundred
exotic maladies and was always on the watch for those symptoms in Joey.
Of course, like any active boy, he suffered his share of cuts and
bruises, and the sight of his blood always scared the hell out of her,
even if it was only one drop from a shallow scratch. Her concern about
Joey's health was almost an obsession, but she never quite allowed it to
actually become an obsession, for ,he was aware of the psychological
problems that could develop in a child with an overly protective mother.
That Sunday afternoon in February, when death suddenly stepped up and
grinned at Joey, it wasn't in the form of the viruses and bacteria about
which Christine worried. It was just an old woman with stringy gray
hair, a pallid face, and gray eyes the shade of dirty ice.
When Christine and Joey left the mall by way of Bullock's Department
Store, it was five minutes past three. Sun glinted off automobile
chrome and windshield glass from one end of the broad parking lot to the
other. Their silver-gray Pontiac Firebird was in the row directly in
front of Bullock's doors, the twelfth car in the line, and they were
almost to it when the old woman appeared.
She stepped out from between the Firebird and a white Ford van, directly
into their path.
She didn't seem threatening at first. She was a bit odd, sure, but
nothing worse than that. Her shoulder-length mane of thick gray hair
looked windblown, although only a mild breeze washed across the lot. She
was in her sixties, perhaps even early seventies, forty years older than
Christine, but her face wasn't deeply lined, and her skin was
baby-smooth; she had the unnatural puffiness that was often associated
with cortisone injections. Pointed nose. Small mouth, thick lips. A
round, dimpled chin. She was wearing a simple turquoise necklace, a
long-sleeved green blouse, green skirt, green shoes. On her plump hands
were eight rings, all green: turquoise, malachite, emeralds. The
unrelieved green suggested a uniform of some kind.
She blinked at Joey, grinned, and said, "My heavens, aren't you a
handsome young man?"
Christine smiled. Unsolicited compliments from strangers were nothing
new to Joey. With his dark hair, intense blue eyes, and well-related
features, he was a strikingly good-looking child.
"Yes, sir, a regular little movie star," the old woman said.
"Thank you," Joey said, blushing.
Christine got a closer look at the stranger and had to revise her
initial impression of grandmotherliness. There were specks of lint on
the old woman's badly wrinkled skirt, two small food stains on her
blouse, and a sprinkling of dandruff on her shoulders. Her stockings
bagged at the knees, and the left one had a run in it. She was holding
a smoldering cigarette, and the fingers
of her right hand were yellow with nicotine. She was one of those
people from whom kids should never accept candy or cookies or any other
treat-not because she seemed the type to poison or molest children
(which she did not), but because she seemed the type to keep a dirty
kitchen. Even on close inspection, she didn't appear dangerous, just
unkempt.
Leaning toward Joey, grinning down at him, paying no attention whatever
to Christine, she said, "What's your name, young man? Can you tell me
your name?"
"Joey," he said shyly.
"How old are you, Joey?"
"Six."
"Only six and already pretty enough to make the ladies swoon! "
Joey fidgeted with embarrassment and clearly wished he could bolt for
the car. But he stayed where he was and behaved courteously, the way
his mother had taught him.
The old woman said, "I'll bet a dollar to a doughnut that I know your
birthday."
"I don't have a doughnut," Joey said, taking the bet literally, solemnly
warning her that he wouldn't be able to pay off if he lost.
"Isn't that cute?" the old woman said to him ." So perfectly,
wonderfully cute. But I know. You were born on Christmas Eve."
"Nope," Joey said ." February second."
"February second? Oh, now, don't joke around with me," she said, still
ignoring Christine, still grinning broadly at Joey, wagging one
nicotine-yellowed finger at him ." Sure as shootin', you were born
December twenty-fourth ."
Christine wondered what the old woman was leading up to.
Joey said, "Mom, you tell her. February second. Does she owe me a
dollar?"
"No, she doesn't owe you anything, honey," Christine said .
"It wasn't a real bet ."
"Well," he said, 'if I'd lost, I couldn'tve given her any doughnut
anyway, so I guess it's okay if she don't give me a dollar ."
Finally the old woman raised her head and looked at Christine.
Christine started to smile but stopped when she saw the stranger's eyes.
They were hard, cold, angry. They were neither the eyes of a
grandmother nor those of a harmless old bag lady .
There was power in them-and stubbornness and flinty resolve .
The woman wasn't smiling any more. either.
What'.9 going on here?
Before Christine could speak, the woman said, "He was born on Christmas
Eve, wasn't he? Hmmm? Wasn't he'?" She spoke with such urgency, with
such force that she sprayed spittle at Christine. She didn't wait for
an answer, either, but hurried on: "You're lying about February second.
You're just trying to hide, both of you, but I know the truth. I know.
You can't fool me .
Not me."
Suddenly she seemed dangerous, after all.
Christine put a hand on Joey's shoulder and urged him around the crone,
toward the car.
But the woman stepped sideways, blocking them. She waved her cigarette
at Joey, glared at him, and said, "I know who you are. I know what you
are, everything about you, everything .
Better believe it. Oh, yes, yes, I know, yes."
A nut, Christine thought, and her stomach twisted. Jesus. A crazy old
lady, the kind who might be capable of anything. God, please let her be
harmless.
Looking bewildered, Joey backed away from the woman, grabbed his
mother's hand and squeezed tight.
"Please get out of our way," Christine said, trying to maintain a calm
and reasonable tone of voice, wanting very much not to antagonize.
The old woman refused to move. She brought the cigarette to her lips.
Her hand was shaking.
Holding Joey's hand, Christine tried to go around the stranger.
But again the woman blocked them. She puffed nervously on her cigarette
and blew smoke out her nostrils. She never took her eyes off Joey.
Christine looked around the parking lot. A few people were getting out
of a car two rows away, and two young men were at the end of this row,
heading in the other direction, but no one was near enough to help if
the crazy woman became violent.
Throwing down her cigarette, hyperventilating, eyes bulging,
looking like a big malicious toad, the woman said, "Oh, yeah, I know
your ugly, vicious, hateful secrets, you little fraud."
Christine's heart began to hammer.
"Get out of our way," she said sharply, no longer trying to remain-or
even able to remain-calm.
" You can't fool me with your play-acting-"
Joey began to cry.
-and your phony cuteness. Tears won't help, either."
For the third time, Christine tried to go around the woman and was
blocked again.
The harridan's face hardened in anger ." I know exactly what you are,
you little monster."
Christine shoved, and the old woman stumbled backward.
Pulling Joey with her, Christine hurried to the car, feeling as if she
were in a nightmare, running in slow-motion.
The car door was locked. She was a compulsive door-locker .
She wished that, for once, she had been careless .
The old woman scuttled in behind them, shouting something that Christine
couldn't hear because her ears were filled with the frantic pounding of
her heart and with Joey's crying.
" Mom!"
Joey was almost jerked out of her grasp. The old woman had her talons
hooked in his shirt.
"Let go of him, damn you!" Christine said.
"Admit it!" the old woman shrieked at him ." Admit what you are!"
Christine shoved again.
The woman wouldn't let go.
Christine struck her, open-handed, first on the shoulder, then across
the face.
The old woman tottered backward, and Joey twisted away from her, and his
shirt tore.
Somehow, even with shaking hands, Christine fitted the key into the
lock, opened the car door, pushed Joey inside. He scrambled across to
the passenger's seat, and she got behind the wheel and pulled the door
shut with immense relief. Locked it.
The old woman peered in the driver's-side window ." Listen to me!" she
shouted ." Listen!"
Christine jammed the key in the ignition, switched it on, pumped the
accelerator. The engine roared.
With one milk-white fist, the crazy woman thumped the roof of the car.
Again. And again.
Christine put the Firebird in gear and backed out of the parking space,
moving slowly, not wanting to hurt the old woman, just wanting to get
the hell away from her.
The lunatic followed, shuffling along, bent over, holding on to the door
handle, glaring at Christine ." He's got to die. He's got to die."
Sobbing, Joey said, "Mom, don't let her get met"
"She won't get you, honey," Christine said, her mouth so dry that she
was barely able to get the words out.
The boy huddled against his locked door, eyes streaming tears but open
wide and fixed on the contorted face of the stringyhaired harpy at his
mother's window.
Still in reverse, Christine accelerated a bit, turned the wheel, and
nearly backed into another car that was coming slowly down the row. The
other driver blew his horn, and Christine stopped just in time, with a
harsh bark of brakes.
"He's got to die!" the old woman screamed. She slammed the side of one
pale fist into the window almost hard enough to break the glass.
This can't be happening, Christine thought. Not on a sunny Sunday. Not
in peaceful Costa Mesa.
The old woman struck the window again.
"He's got to die! "
Spittle sprayed the glass.
Christine had the car in gear and was moving away, but the old woman
held on. Christine accelerated. Still, the woman kept a grip on the
door handle, slid and ran and stumbled along with the car, ten feet,
twenty, thirty feet, faster, faster still. Christ, was she human? Where
did such an old woman find the strength and tenacity to hold on like
this? She leered in through the side window, and there was such
ferocity in her eyes that it wouldn't have surprised Christine if, in
spite of her size and age, the hag had torn the door off. But at last
she let go with a howl of anger and frustration.
At the end of the row, Christine turned right. She drove too
fast through the parking lot, and in less than a minute they were away
from the mall, on Bristol Street, heading north.
Joey was still crying, though more softly than before.
"It's all right, sweetheart. It's okay now. She's gone."
She drove to MacArthur Boulevard, turned right, went three blocks,
repeatedly glancing in the rearview mirror to see if they were being
followed, even though she knew there wasn't much chance of that. Finally
she pulled over to the curb and stopped.
She was shaking. She hoped Joey wouldn't notice.
Pulling a Kleenex from the small box on the console, she said, "Here you
are, honey. Dry your eyes, blow your nose, and be brave for Mommy.
Okay?"
"Okay," he said, accepting the tissue. Shortly, he was composed.
"Feeling better?" she asked.
"Yeah. Sorta.
"Scared?"
"I was ."
"But not now?"
He shook his head.
"You know," Christine said, "she really didn't mean all those nasty
things she said to you."
He looked at her, puzzled. His lower lip trembled, but his voice was
steady ." Then why'd she say it if she didn't mean it?"
"Well, she couldn't help herself. She was a sick lady."
"You mean . . . like sick with the flu?"
"No, honey. I mean . . . mentally ill . . . disturbed.
"She was a real Looney bin, huh?"
He had gotten that expression from Val Gardner, Christine's business
partner. This was the first time she'd heard him speak it, and she
wondered what other, less socially acceptable words he might have picked
up from the same source.
"Was she a real Looney Tone, Mom? Was she crazy?""Mentally disturbed,
yes."
He frowned.
She said, "That doesn't make it any easier to understand, huh? "
"Nope. 'Cause what does crazy really mean, anyway, if it doesn't mean
being locked up in a rubber room? And even if
she was a crazy old lady, why was she so mad at me? Huh? I never even
saw her before."
"Well . . ."
How do you explain psychotic behavior to a six-year-old? She could
think of no way to do it without being ridiculously simplistic; however,
in this case, a simplistic answer was better than none.
"Maybe she once had a little boy of her own, a little boy she loved very
much, but maybe he wasn't a good little boy like you. Maybe he grew up
to be very bad and did a lot of terrible things that broke his mother's
heart. Something like that could . . . unbalance her a little."
"So now maybe she hates all little boys, whether she knows them or not,"
he said.
"Yes, perhaps."
"Because they remind her of her own little boy? is that it'?"
"That's right."
He thought about it for a moment, then nodded ." Yeah. I can sorta see
how that could be."
She smiled at him and mussed his hair ." Hey, I'll tell you what-let's
stop at Baskin-Robbins and get an ice cream cone. I think their flavor
of the month is peanut butter and chocolate .
That's one of your favorites, isn't it?"
He was obviously surprised. She didn't approve of too much fat in his
diet, and she planned his meals carefully. Ice cream wasn't a frequent
indulgence. He seized the moment and said, "Could I have one scoop of
that and one scoop of lemon custard? "
"Two scoops?"
"It's Sunday," he said.
"Last time I looked, Sunday wasn't so all-fired special .
There's one of them every week. Or has that changed while I wasn't
paying attention?"
"Well . . . but . . . see, I've just had He screwed up his face,
thinking hard. He worked his mouth as if chewing on a piece of taffy,
then said, "I've just had a . . . a traumamatatic experience ."
"Traumatic experience?"
"Yeah. That's it."
She blinked at him ." Where'd you get a big word like that?
Oh. Of course. Never mind. Val."
According to Valerie Gardner, who was given to theatrics, just getting
up in the morning was a traumatic experience. Val had about half a
dozen traumatic experiences every day-and thrived on them.
"So it's Sunday, and I had this traumatic experience," Joey said, "and I
think maybe what I better do is, I better have two scoops of ice cream
to make up for it. You know?"
"I know I'd better not hear about another traumatic experience for at
least ten years."
"What about the ice cream?"
She looked at his torn shirt ." Two scoops," she agreed.
"Wow! This is some terrific day, isn't it? A real Looney Tune and a
double-dip ice cream!"
Christine never ceased to be amazed by the resiliency of children,
especially the resiliency of this child. Already, in his mind, he had
transmuted the encounter with the old woman, had changed it from a
moment of terror to an adventure that was not quite-but almost-as good
as a visit to an ice cream parlor.
"You're some kid," she said.
"You're some mom."
He turned on the radio and hummed along happily with the music, all the
way to Baskin-Robbins.
Christine kept checking the rearview mirror. No one was following them.
She was sure of that. But she kept checking anyway.
After a light dinner at the kitchen table with Joey, Christine went to
her desk in the den to catch up on paperwork. She and Val Gardner owned
a gourmet shop called Wine & Dine in Newport Beach, where they sold fine
wines, specialty foods from all over the world, high quality cooking
utensils, and slightly exotic appliances like pasta-makers and expresso
machines The store
was in its sixth year of operation and was solidly established; in fact,
摘要：

THESERVANTSOFTWILIGHT[065-4.9]BYDEANR.KOONTZSynopsis:AwretchedhagwhoisheadofacrackpotreligiousculttargetsChristine'ssix-year-oldson,Joey,astheanti-Christ.EverymemberofthecultthensetsouttodestroytheboyandtheonlypersonChristinecanfindtoreallyhelpherisaprivatedetective.Grace(thecultleader)seemstobeable...

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