Dean Koontz - The Servants of Twilight

"How?"

"God will Iead. Now go. Sleep."

He stood, stepped into the aisle." Will you sleep, too? You need your rest," he said worriedly.

Her voice had faded to a reedy whisper once more, and there was exhaustion in it." I can't sleep, dear boy. An hour a night.

Then I wake, and my mind is filled with visions, with messages from the angels, contacts from the spirit world, with worries and fears and hopes, with glimpses of the promised land, scenes of glory, with the awful weight of the responsibilities God has settled upon me." She wiped at her mouth with the back of one hand." How I wish I could sleep, how I long for sleep, for surcease from all these demands and anxieties! But He has transformed me so that I can function without sleep during this crisis.

I will not sleep well again until the Lord wills it. For reasons I don't understand, He needs me awake, insists upon it, gives me the strength to endure without sleep, keeps me alert, almost too alert." Her voice was shaking, and Barlowe imagined it was both awe and fear that put the tremor in it." I tell you, dear Kyle, it's both glorious and terrible, wonderful and frightful, exhilarating and exhausting to be the instrument of God's will."

She opened her purse, withdrew a handkerchief, and blew her nose.

Suddenly she noticed that the hankie was stained brown and yellow, disgustingly knotted and crusted with dried snot.

"Look at this," she said, indicating the handkerchief." It's horrible.

I used to be so neat. So clean. My husband, bless his soul, always said my house was cleaner than a hospital operating room. And I was always very conscious of grooming; I dressed well. And I never would have carried a revolting handkerchief like this, never, not before the Gift was given to me and crowded out so many ordinary thoughts." Tears glimmered in her gray eyes." Sometimes. I'm frightened.

grateful to God for the Gift, yes. grateful for what I've gained but frightened about what I've lost. "

He wanted to understand what it must be like for her, to be the instrument of God's will, but he couldn't comprehend her state of mind or the mighty forces working within her. He did not know what to say to her, and he was depressed that he couldn't conifort her.

She said, "Go home, sleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, we'll kill the boy.

In the car, speeding through the storm-sodden streets, Charlie insisted on having a look at Christine's wound, although she said it wasn't serious. He was relieved to discover that she was right; she had only been grazed; the bullet had left a shallow furrow, two inches long, just above her hip. It was more of an abrasion than a wound, mostly cauterized by the beat of the bullet; the slug wasn't in her, and there was only minor bleeding. Nevertheless, they stopped at an all-night market, where they picked up alcohol and iodine and bandages, and Charlie dressed the wound while Vince, behind the wheel, got them on the road again. They switched from street to street, doubled back, circled through the rain-lashed darkness, like a flying insect reluctant to light anywhere for fear of being swatted, crushed.

They took every possible precaution to insure that they weren't followed, and they didn't arrive at the safe-house in Laguna Beach until almost one o'clock in the morning. It was halfway up a long street, with (in daylight) a view of the ocean; a small place, almost a bun alow, two bedrooms and one bath; quaint, about forty years old but beautifully maintained, with a trellised front porch, gingerbread shutters; shrouded in bougainvillaea that grew up one wall and most of the way across the roof. The house belonged to Henry Rankin's aunt, who was vacationing in Mexico, and there was no way Grace Spivey or anyone from the Church of the TWilight could know about it.

Charlie wished they had come here earlier, that he had never allowed Christine and Joey to return to their own house. Of course, he'd had no way of knowing that Grace Spivey would take such drastic and violent action so soon. Killing a dog was one thing, but dispatching assassins armed with shotguns, sending them boldly into a quiet residential neighborhood. well, he hadn't imagined she was that crazy. Now he had lost two of his men, two of his friends. An emotional acid, part grief and part self-reproach, ate at him. He had known Pete Lockburn for nine years, Frank Reuther for six, and liked both of them a great deal. Although he knew he wasn't at fault for what had happened, he couldn't help blaming himself, he felt as bleak as a man could feel without contemplating suicide.

He tried to conceal the depth of his grief and rage because he didn't want to upset Christine further. She was distraught about the murders and seemed determined to hold herself, in part, accountable. He tried to reason with her: Frank and Pete knew the risk when they took the job; if she hadn't hired Klemet Harrison, the bodies now on the way to the morgue would be hers and Joey's, so she'd done the right thing by seeking help.

Regardless of the arguments he presented, she couldn't shake off her dark sense of responsibility.

Joey had fallen asleep in the car, so Charlie carried him through the slanting rain, through the drizzling night quiet of the Laguna hills, into the house. He put him down on the bed in the master bedroom, and the boy didn't even stir, only murmured softly and sighed. Together, Charlie and Christine undressed him and put him under the covers.

"I guess it won't hurt if he misses brushing his teeth just one night," she said worriedly.

Charlie couldn't suppress a smile, and she saw him smiling, and she seemed to realize how ironic it was to be fretting about cavities only hours after the boy had escaped three killers.

She blushed and said, "I guess, if God spared him from the bullets, He'll spare him from tooth decay, huh?"

"It's a good bet."

Chewbacca curled up at the side of the bed and yawned heartily. He'd had a rough day, too.

Vince Fields came to the doorway and said, "Where do you want me, boss?"

Charlie hesitated, remembering Pete and Frank. He had put them in the line of fire. He didn't want to put Vince in the line of fire, too.

But, of course, it was ridiculous of him to think that way. He couldn't tell Vince to hide in the back of the closet where it was safe. It was Vince's job to be in the line of fire if necessary; Vince knew that, and Charlie knew that, and they both knew it was Charlie's job to give the orders, regardless of the consequences. So what was he waiting for?

Either you had the guts to accept the risks in this job, or you didn't.

He cleared his throat and said, "Uh. I want you right here, Vince. Sitting on a chair. Beside the bed."

Vince sat down.

Charlie took Christine to the small tidy kitchen, where George Swarthout had made a large pot of coffee and had poured cups for himself and Vince. Charlie sent Geor,e to the living room windows, to keep watch on the street, poured some of the coffee for himself and Christine.

"Miriam-Henry's aunt-is a brandy drinker. Would you like a slug in that coffee?"

"Might be a good idea," Christine said.

He found the brandy in the cabinet by the refrigerator and laced both cups of coffee.

They sat across from each other at a small table by a window that looked out on a rain-hammered garden where, at the moment, only shadows bloomed.

He said, "How's your hip?"

"Just a twinge.

"Sure?"

"Positive. Listen, what happens now? Will the police make arrests?"

"They can't. The assailants are all dead."

"But the woman who sent them isn't dead. She's a party to attempted murder. A conspirator. She's as guilty as they were."

"We've no proof Grace Spivey sent them."

"If all three of them are members of her church-"