Dean Koontz - The Servants of Twilight

"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 copperjewelry 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 monogtam, 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 hind, 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?"

I '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 mightve 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 wall 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.

Coincidence.

The man seemed to be eating. Just a workman stopped on a quiet side-street to grab an early lunch. That's all. Surely, it couldn't be anything more than that.

Coincidence.

Or maybe not. The man down there also seemed to be watching the front of this building. He appeared to be having a bite of lunch and running a stakeout at the same time. Charlie had been involved in dozens of stakeouts over the years. He knew what a stakeout looked like, and this sure as hell looked like one, although it was a bit obvious and amateurish.

Behind him, Christine said, "Is something wrong?"

He was surprised by her perspicacity, by how sharply attuned to him she was, especially since she was still highly agitated, still crying.

He said, "I hope you like Scotch."

He turned away from the window and took the drink to her.

She accepted it without further protestations. She held the glass in both hands but still couldn't keep it from shaking. She sipped rather daintily at the whiskey.

Charlie said, "Drink it straight down. Two swallows. Get it inside you where it can do some good."