Dean Koontz - The Servants of Twilight

Joey laughed, ruffled the dog's fur." Isn't he neat, Mom? Isn't he something?"

She looked at Charlie, whose grin was almost as big as Joey's.

Still thirty feet away from the boy, out of his hearing, she spoke softly, with evident irritation: "Don't you think some other breed would've been a better choice?"

Charlie seemed baffled by her accusatory tone." You mean it's too big?

Joey told me it was the same size as the dog.

you lost."

"Not only the same size. It's the same dog."

"You mean Brandy was a golden retriever?"

"Didn't I tell you?"

"You never mentioned the breed."

"Oh. Well, didn't Joey mention it?"

"He never said a word."

"This dog's an exact double for Brandy," Christine said worriedly." I don't know if that's such a good idea-psychologically, I mean."

Turning to them, holding the retriever by its collar, Joey confinned her intuition when he said, "Mom, you know what I'm gonna call him? Brandy!

Brandy the Second!"

"I see what you mean," Charlie said to Christine.

"He's trying to deny that Brandy was ever killed," she said, "and that's not healthy."

As the parking lot's sodium-vapor lamps came on, casting yellowish light into the deepening twilight, she went to her son and stooped beside him.

The dog snuffled at her, checking her out, cocked its head, looked at her as if it was trying to figure how she fit in, and finally put one paw on her leg, as if seeking her assurance that she would love it as much as its new young master did.

Sensing that she was already too late to take the dog back and get another breed, unhappily aware that Joey was already attached to the animal, she decided at least to stop him from calling the dog Brandy."

Honey, I think itd be a good idea to come up with another name."

"I like Brandy," he said.

"But using that name again it's like an insult to the first Brandy."

"It is?"

"Like you're trying to forget our Brandy."

"No!" he said fiercely." I couldn't ever forget." Tears came to his eyes again.

"This dog should have his own name," she insisted gently.

"I really like the name Brandy."

"Come on. Think of another name."

"Well. "

"How about. Prince.

"Yuck. But maybe. Randy.

She frowned and shook her head." No, honey. Think of something else.

Something totally different. How about.

something from Star Wars? Wouldn't it be neat to have a dog named Chewbacca?"

His face brightened." Yeah! Chewbacca! Thatd be great."

As if it had understood every word, as if voicing approval, the dog barked once and licked Christine's hand.

Charlie said, "Okay, let's put Chewbacca in your Firebird. I want to get out of here. You and Joey and I will ride in the Chevy, and Frank will drive. Pete'll follow us in your car, with Chewbacca. And by the way, we still have company."

Christine looked in the direction that Charlie indicated. The white van was at the far end of the parking lot, half in the yellowish light from the tall lampposts, half in shadow. The driver wasn't visible beyond the black windshield, but she knew he was in there, watching.

Night had fallen.

The storm clouds were still rolling in from the west. They were blacker than the night itself. They rapidly blotted out the stars.

In the white Chrysler, O'Hara and Baumberg cruised slowly, studying the well-maintained, expensive houses on both sides of the street. O'Hara was driving, and his hands kept slipping on the steering wheel because he was plagued by a cold sweat. He knew he was an agent of God in this matter because Mother Grace had told him so. He knew that what he was doing was good and right and absolutely necessary, but he still couldn't picture himself as an assassin, holy or otherwise. He knew that Baumberg felt the same way because the ex-jeweler was breathing too fast for a man who hadn't yet exerted himself. The few times that Baumberg had spoken, his voice had been shaky and higher-pitched than usual.

They weren't having doubts about their mission or about Mother Grace.

Both of them had a deep and abiding faith in the old woman. Both of them would do what they were told. O'Hara knew the boy must die, and he knew why, and he believed in the reason. Murdering this particular child did not disturb him.

He knew Baumberg felt the same way. They were sweat-damp and nervous merely because they were scared.

Along the tree-shrouded street, several houses were dark, and one of those might serve their purpose. But it was early in the evening, and a lot of people were still on their way back from work. O'Hara and Baumberg didn't want to select a house, break in, and then be discovered and perhaps trapped by some guy coming home with a briefcase in one hand and Chinese take-out in the other.

O'Hara was prepared to kill the boy and the boy's mother and any bodyguards hired to protect the boy, for all of them were in the service of Lucifer. Grace had convinced him of that. But O'Hara wasn't prepared to kill just any innocent bystander who happened to get in his way. Therefore, they would have to choose the house carefully.

What they were looking for was a place where a few days' worth of newspapers were piled up on the porch, or where the mailbox was overflowing, or where there was some other sign that the occupants were away from home. It had to be in this block, and they probably wouldn't find what they were looking for. In that case they'd have to shift to another plan of attack.

They had almost reached the north end of the block when Baumberg said,

"There. What about that place?"

It was a two-story Spanish house, light beige stucco with a tile roof, half hidden by large trees, banks of veronica, and rows of azaleas. The streetlight shone on a real estate company's sign that stood on the lawn, near the sidewalk. The house was for sale, and no lights glowed in any of its rooms.

"Maybe it's unoccupied," Baumberg said.

"No such luck," O'Hara said.

"It's worth taking a look."

"I guess so."

O'Hara drove to the next block and parked at the curb. Carrying an airline flight bag that he had packed at the church, he got out of the car, accompanied Baumberg to the Spanish house, hurried up a walkway bordered by flourishing begonias, and stopped at a gated atrium entrance. Here they were in deep shadow. O'Hara was confident they wouldn't be spotted from the street.

A cold wind soughed in the branches of the benjaminas and rustled the shiny-leafed veronicas, and it seemed to O'Hara that the night itself was watching them with hostile intent. Could it be that some demonic entity had followed them and was with them now, at home in these shadows, an emissary of Satan, waiting to catch them off guard and tear them to pieces?

Mother Grace had said Satan would do anything he could to wreck their mission. Grace saw these things. Grace knew. Grace spoke the truth.

Grace was the truth.

His heart hammering, Pat O'Hara gazed blindly into the most impenetrable pockets of darkness, expecting to catch a glimpse of some lurking monstrosity. But he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Baumberg stepped away from the wrought-iron atrium gate, onto the lawn, then into a planting bed filled with azaleas and dark-leafed begonias that, in the gloom, appeared to be utterly black. He peered in a window and said softly, "No drapes.

and I don't think there's any furniture, either."

O'Hara went to another window, put his face to the pane, squinted, and found the same signs of vacancy.

"Bingo," Baumberg said.

They had found what they were looking for.

At the side of the house, the entrance to the rear lawn was also gated, but that gate wasn't locked. As Baumberg pushed it open, the wrought-iron barrier squealed on unoiled hinges.