Dean Koontz - The Servants of Twilight

"I'm prepared to die," he said.

"I know, dear boy. I know. But I mustn't risk losing you at the very beginning of this battle. You're too valuable. You're my link between this world and the spirit realm."

"I'm also the hammer," he said petulantly.

"I'm aware of your strength."

She took the shotgun away from him, returned it to the table.

He felt a terrible need to strike out at something-as long as he was striking out in the name of God, of course. He no longer needed to wreak pain and destruction on the innocent merely for the satisfaction of it. Those days were gone forever. But he longed to be a soldier for God. His chest tightened and his stomach twisted with his need.

He had been looking forward to the attack tonight. Anticipation had rubbed his nerves raw." The hammer of God," he reminded her.

"And in time you'll be used," she assured him.

"When? "

"When there's a real chance of destroying the child."

"Huh? If there's no chance of destroying him tonight, then why go after the little bastard? Why not wait?"

"Because, if we're lucky, we might at least hurt him, wound him," Mother Grace said." And that will shake his confidence.

Right now, the little beast believes that we can never really cause him harm. If he begins to think he's vulnerable, then he'll become more vulnerable. We must first weaken his self-confidence.

Do you see?"

Reluctantly, Kyle nodded.

"And if we're very fortunate," Grace said, "if God is with us and the devil is off guard, we might be able to kill the mother.

Then the boy will be alone. The dog is already gone. If the mother is removed, as well, the boy will have no one, and his confidence will collapse, and he'll become extremely vulnerable."

" Then let me kill the mother," Kyle pleaded.

She smiled at him and shook her head." Dear boy, when God wants you to be His hammer, I'll tell you. Until then, you must be patient."

Charlie stood at the window with a pair of high-power binoculars that doubled as a camera. He focused on the man standing by the white van on the street below.

The stranger was about six feet tall, thin, pale, with a tightly compressed mouth, a narrow nose, and thick dark eyebrows that grew together in the center of his face. He was an intense-looking man, and he couldn't keep his hands still. One hand tugged at his shirt collar.

The other hand smoothed his hair, then pinched one ear lobe. Scratched his chin. Picked lint from his jacket.

Smoothed his hair again. He would never pass for an ordinary workman taking a leisurely lunch break.

Charlie snapped several pictures of him.

When Christine Scavello and Henry drove away in the woman's gray Firebird, the watcher almost got in the van to follow them. But he hesitated, looked around, puzzled, and finally decided to stay where he was.

Joey stood beside Charlie. He was just tall enough to see out the window." He's waiting for me, huh?"

"Looks that way."

"Why don't we go out there and shoot him?" Joey asked.

Charlie laughed." Can't go around shooting people. Not in California, anyway. Maybe if this was New York. "

"But you're a private eye," Joey said." Don't you have a license to kill?"

"That's James Bond."

"You know him, too?" Joey asked.

"Not really. But I know his brother," Charlie said.

"Yeah? I never heard of his brother. What's his name?"

"Municipal Bond," Charlie said.

"That's a weird name," Joey said, not getting the joke.

He's only six, Charlie reminded himself. Sometimes the kid behaved as if he were a few years older, and he expressed himself with clarity that you didn't expect of a preschooler.

The boy looked out the window again. For a moment he was silent as Charlie snapped two final photographs of the man at the white van, and then he said, "I don't see why we can't shoot him. He'd shoot me if he got the chance."

"Oh, I don't think he'd really go that far," Charlie said, trying to discourage the boy from frightening himself.

But with an equanimity and a steadiness of voice that, given the circumstances, were beyond his years, Joey said, "Oh, yeah.

He would. He'd shoot me if he could get away with it. He'd shoot me and cut my heart out, that's what he'd do."

Five stories below, the watcher smoothed his hair with one pale, long-fingered hand.

Wine & Dine was located in an attractive, upscale, brick-and timber shopping center, half a block from Newport Beach's yacht harbor. Even on a Monday, the shop was busy, with a steady flow of customers through the imported foods section and almost as many in the wine department. At any one time there were at least two or three people browsing in the cookware department, inspecting the pots and pans, imported ice cream machines, food processors, and other kitchen tools. During the afternoon, in addition to food and wine and small culinary implements, Christine and Val and their clerk, Tammy, sold two top-of-the-line pasta makers, an expensive set of cutlery, one Cuisinart, a beautiful copper buffet warmer with three serving compartments, and anornate copper and brass cappuccino machine that was priced at nine hundred dollars.

Although the shop had done uncannily well almost from the day they had opened the doors, and although it had actually become profitable in the third week of operation (an unheard-of situation for a new business), Christine was still surprised and delighted every day that the cash register kept ringing. Six and a half years of dependable profitability had still not made her blas6 about success.

The hustle and bustle of Wine & Dine made Monday afternoon pass a lot faster than she had thought possible when, reluctantly, she had left Joey with Charlie Harrison. The crazy old woman was in the back of her mind, of course. Several times she thought of Brandy's decapitated corpse on the back porch, and she felt weak and dry-mouthed for a few minutes. And Henry Rankin was ever-present, helping bag purchases, putting price tags on some new merchandise, assisting them wherever he could, pretending to be an employee, but surreptitiously keeping an eye on the customers, prepared to tackle one of them if Christine appeared to be threatened. Nevertheless, in spite of the bloody images of the dog that haunted her, and in spite of the constant reminder of danger that Henry's presence provoked, the hours flitted past, and it was a relief to be kept busy.

Val Gardner was a help, too. With some misgivings, Christine had told her the situation, although she had expected Val to pester her with questions all day long and drive her half crazy by five o'clock. Val seemed to thrive on the smallest adversity, claiming to be "traumatized" by even such minor setbacks as a leaky bathroom faucet or a run in her stockings. Val found drama and even tragedy in a head cold or a broken fingernail, but she was never really upset or depressed by any of the little twists of fate that brought on her histrionics; she just enjoyed being the heroine of her own soap opera, dramatizing her life, making it more colorful for herself. And if she was temporarily without a trauma to brighten her day, she could make do with the problems of her friends, taking them upon herself as if she were a combination of Dear Abby and Atlas with the world on her shoulders. But she was a well-meaning woman, with a good sense of humor, honest, hardworking. And now, somewhat to Christine's surprise, Val was sensitive enough to avoid dwelling on the crazy woman and the threats on Joey's life; she held her tongue even though she must have been eaten up by a thousand nibbling questions.