The Servants of Twilight (47 page)

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Authors: Dean Koontz

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: The Servants of Twilight
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As she went into the kitchen and began choosing food and other items for the backpack, Joey came with her, stood beside her. Abruptly he shook off his trance, and his face contorted with fear, and he said, “Brandy? Where’s Brandy?”
“You mean Chewbacca, honey.”
“Brandy. I mean
Brandy
!”
Shocked, Christine stopped packing, stooped beside him, put a hand to his face. “Honey . . . don’t do this . . . don’t worry your mommy like this. You remember. I know you do. You remember . . . Brandy’s dead.”
“No.”
“The witch—”
“No!”
“—killed him.”
He shook his head violently. “No. No! Brandy!” He called desperately for his dead dog. “Brandy!
Braaannndeeeee!
”
She held him. He struggled. “Honey, please, please . . .”
At that moment Chewbacca padded into the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about, and the boy wrenched free of Christine, seized the dog joyfully, hugged the furry head. “Brandy! See? It’s Brandy. He’s still here. You lied. Brandy’s not hurt. Brandy’s okay. Nothin’ wrong with good old Brandy.”
For a moment Christine couldn’t breathe or move because pain immobilized her, not physical pain but emotional pain, deep and bitter. Joey was slipping away. She thought he had accepted Brandy’s death, that all of this had been settled when she’d forced him to name the dog Chewbacca instead of Brandy Two. But now . . . When she spoke his name, he didn’t respond or look at her, just murmured and cooed to the dog, stroked it, hugged it. She shouted his name; still he didn’t respond.
She should never have let him keep this look-alike. She should have made him take it back to the pound, should have made him choose another mutt, anything but a golden retriever.
Or maybe not. Maybe there was nothing she could have done to save his sanity. No six-year-old could be expected to hold himself together when his whole world was crumbling around him. Many adults would have cracked sooner. Although she had tried to pretend otherwise, the boy’s emotional and mental problems had been inevitable.
A good psychiatrist would be able to help him. That’s what she told herself. His retreat from reality wasn’t permanent. She had to believe that was true. She had to
believe
. Or there was no point in going on from here.
She lived for Joey. He was her world, her
meaning
. Without him . . .
The worst thing was that she didn’t have time to hold and cuddle and talk to him now, which was something he desperately needed and something she needed, as well. But Spivey was coming, and time was running out, so she had to ignore Joey, turn away from him when he needed her most, get control of herself, and ram things into the backpack. Her hands shook, and tears streamed down her face. She had never felt worse. Now, even if Charlie saved Joey’s life, she might still lose her boy and be left with only the living but empty shell of him. But she kept on working, yanking open cupboard doors, looking for things they would need when they went into the woods.
She was filled with the blackest hatred for Spivey and the Church of the Twilight. She didn’t just want to kill them. She wanted to torture them first. She wanted to make the old bitch scream and beg for mercy; the disgusting, filthy, rotten, crazy old
bitch
!
Softly, cooingly, Joey said, “Brandy . . . Brandy . . . Brandy,” and stroked Chewbacca.
57
 
Seven minutes passed
before any of Spivey’s people dared rise up to test whether Charlie was still sighting down on them.
He was, and he opened fire. But though this was the opportunity he had been waiting for, he was sloppy, too tense and too eager. He jerked the trigger instead of squeezing it, threw the sights off target, and missed.
Instantly, there was return fire. He had figured they were armed, but he hadn’t been absolutely sure until now. Two rifles opened up, and the fire was directed toward the upper end of the meadow. But the first rounds entered the woods fifty yards to the left of him; he heard them cracking through the trees. The next shots hit closer, maybe thirty-five yards away, still to his left, but the gunmen kept shooting, and the shots grew closer. They knew in general—though not precisely—where he was, and they were trying to elicit a reaction that would pinpoint his location.
As the shots came closer, he put his head down, pressed into the thinning shadows at the edge of the forest. He heard bullets slamming through the branches directly overhead. Scraps of bark, a spray of needles, and a couple pinecones rained down around him, and a few bits and pieces even fell on his back, but if the riflemen below were also hoping for a lucky hit, they would be disappointed. The fire slowly moved off to his right, which indicated they knew only that the shots had come from above and did not know for sure which corner of the meadow harbored their assailant.
Charlie raised his head, lifted the rifle again, brought his eye to the scope—and discovered, with a start, that their shooting had another purpose, too. It was meant to cover two Twilighters who were running pell-mell for the forest at the east end of the meadow.
“Shit!”
he said, quickly trying to line up a shot on one of the two. But they were moving fast, in spite of the drifting snow, kicking up clouds of crystalline flakes. Just as he got the crosshairs on one of them, both men plunged into the darkness between the trees and were gone.
The Twilighters down by the Jeep stopped firing.
Charlie wondered how long it would take the two in the woods to work their way up through the trees and come in behind him. Not long. There wasn’t a lot of underbrush in these forests. Five minutes. Less.
He could still do some damage, even if those remaining in the meadow did not show themselves. He brought one of the snowmobiles into the bull’s-eye in his scope and pumped two rounds through the front of it, hoping to smash something vital. If he could put them on foot, he would slow them down, make the chase more fair. He targeted another snowmobile, pumped two slugs into the engine. The third machine was half hidden by the other two, offering less of a target, and he fired five times at that one, reloading the rifle as needed, and all his shooting finally made it possible for them to pinpoint him. They began blasting from below, but this time all the shots were coming within a few yards of him.
The fourth snowmobile was behind the Jeep, out of reach, so there was nothing more he could do. He put on the glove he had stripped off a few minutes ago, then slithered on his belly, deeper into the woods, until he found a big hemlock trunk to put between himself and the incoming bullets. He had taken off his snowshoes earlier, when he had needed to be in a prone position to get the most from his rifle. Now he put them on again, working as rapidly as possible, trying to make as little noise as he could, listening intently for any sounds made by the two men coming up through the eastern arm of the forest.
He had expected to hear or see them by this time, but now he realized they would be extremely cautious. They would figure he had seen them making a break for the trees, and they would be sure he was lying in wait for them. And they knew he enjoyed the advantage of familiarity with the terrain. They would move slowly, from one bit of cover to the next, thoroughly studying every tree and rock formation and hollow that lay ahead of them, afraid of an ambush. They might not be here for another five or even ten minutes, and once they got here they’d waste another ten minutes, at least, searching the area until they were sure he had pulled back. That gave him, Christine, and Joey maybe a twenty- or twenty-five-minute lead.
As fast as he could, he moved through the woods, heading toward the upper meadow and the cabin.
Snow flurries were still falling.
A wind had risen.
The sky had darkened and lowered. It was still morning, but it felt like late afternoon. Hell, it felt later than that, much later; it felt like the end of time.
 
Chewbacca stayed beside
Joey, as if he sensed that his young master needed him, but the boy no longer paid attention to the dog. Joey was lost in an inner world, oblivious of this one.
Biting her lip, repressing her concern for her son, Christine had finished stuffing provisions into her backpack, had made a pile of everything that ought to go into Charlie’s pack, and had loaded the shotgun by the time he returned to the cabin. His face was flushed from the bitter air, and his eyebrows were white with snow, but for a moment his eyes were the coldest thing about him.
“What happened?” she asked as he came across the living room to the dining table, leaving clumps of melting snow in his wake.
“I blew them away. Like ducks in a barrel, for God’s sake.” Helping him off with his backpack and spreading it on the table, she said, “All of them?”
“No. I either killed or badly wounded three men. And I might’ve nipped a fourth, but I doubt it.”
She began frantically tucking things into the waterproof vinyl pack. “Spivey?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I hit her. I don’t know.”
“They’re still coming?”
“They will be. We’ve got maybe a twenty minute head start.”
The pack was half full. She paused, a can of matches in her hand. Staring hard at him, she said. “Charlie? What’s wrong?”
He wiped at the melting snow trickling down from his eyebrows. “I . . . I’ve never done anything like that. It was . . . slaughter. In the war, of course, but that was different. That was war.”
“So is this.”
“Yeah. I guess so. Except . . . when I was shooting them . . . I
liked
it. And even in the war, I never liked it.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” she said, continuing to stuff things into the backpack. “After what they’ve put us through, I’d like to shoot a few of them, too. God, would I ever!”
Charlie looked at Joey. “Get your gloves and mask on, Skipper.”
The boy didn’t respond. He was standing by the table, his face expressionless, his eyes dead.
“Joey?” Charlie said.
The boy didn’t react. He was staring at Christine’s hands as she jammed various items into the second backpack, but he didn’t really seem to be watching her.
“What’s wrong with him?” Charlie asked.
“He . . . he just . . . went away,” Christine said, fighting back the tears that she had only recently been able to overcome.
Charlie went to the boy, put a hand under his chin, lifted his head. Joey looked up, toward Charlie but not at him, and Charlie spoke to him but without effect. The boy smiled vaguely, humorlessly, a ghastly smile, but even that wasn’t meant for Charlie; it was for something he had seen or thought of in the world where he had gone, something that was light-years away. Tears shimmered in the corners of the boy’s eyes, but the eerie smile didn’t leave his face, and he didn’t sob or make a sound.
“Damn,” Charlie said softly.
He hugged the boy, but Joey didn’t respond. Then Charlie picked up the first backpack, which was already full, and he put his arms through the straps, shrugged it into place, buckled it across his chest.
Christine finished with the second pack, made sure all the flaps were securely fastened, and took that burden upon herself.
Charlie put Joey’s gloves and ski mask on for him. The boy offered little or no assistance.
Picking up the loaded shotgun, Christine followed Charlie, Joey, and Chewbacca out of the cabin. She looked back inside before she closed the door. A pile of logs blazed in the fireplace. One of the brass lamps was on, casting a circle of soft amber light. The armchairs and sofas looked comfortable and enticing.
She wondered if she would ever sit in a chair again, ever see another electric light. Or would she die out there in the woods tonight, in a grave of drifted snow?
She closed the door and turned to face the gray, frigid fastness of the mountains.
 
 
Carrying Joey, Charlie
led Christine around the cabin and into the forest behind it. Until they were into the screen of trees, he kept glancing around nervously at the open meadow behind them, expecting to see Spivey’s people come into sight at the far end of it.

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