Dean Koontz: The Servants of Twilight

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.