Dean Koontz - The Servants of Twilight

"No," Charlie said." She's nuts." He told Boo about his macabre meeting with Grace just a short while ago.

Boothe was startled." She actually drove nails into her hands? "

"Well, we didn't see her do it," Charlie admitted." Maybe one of her followers wielded the hammer. But she obviously cooperated."

Boo shifted, and his chair creaked." There's another possibility. The spontaneous appearance of crucifixion stigmata on the hands and feet of psychotics with religious persecution complexes is a rare phenomenon but not entirely unheard of."

Henry Rankin was astonished." You mean they were real.?

You mean… God did that to her?"

"Oh, no, I don't mean to imply this was a genuine holy sign or anything of that sort. God had nothing to do with it."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Charlie told him." I was afraid you were suddenly going mystical on me. And if there are two things I'd never expect you to do, one is to go mystical on me, and the other is to become a ballet dancer."

The worried look on the fat man's face did not soften.

Charlie said, "Jesus, Boo, I'm already scared, but if the situation worries you this much, I'm not half as frightened as I ought to be."

Boothe said, "I am worried. As for the stigmata phenomenon, there is some evidence that, in a Messianic frenzy, a psychotic may exert a control on his body. on tissue structure. an almost, well, psychic control that medical science can't explain.

Like those Indian holy men who walk on hot coals or lie on nails and prevent injury by an act of will. Grace's wounds would be the other side of that coin."

Henry, who liked everything to be reasonable and orderly and predictable, who expected the universe to be as neat and wellpressed as his own wardrobe, was clearly disturbed by talk of psychic abilities. He said, "They can make themselves bleed just by thinking about it?"

"They probably don't even have to think about it, at least not consciously," Boo said." The stigmata are the result of a strong unconscious desire to be a religious figure or symbol, to be venerated, or to be a part of something bigger than self, something cosmic." He folded his hands on his ample stomach." For instance. how much do you know about the supposed miracle at Fatima?"

"Not much," Charlie said.

"The Virgin Mary appeared to a lot of people there, thousands of people," Henry said, "back in the twenties, I think."

"A stunning and moving divine visitation-or one of the most incredible cases of mass hysteria and self-hypnosis ever recorded," Boo said, clearly favoring the second explanation.

"Hundreds of people reported seeing the Virgin Mary and described a turbulent sky seething with all the colors of the rainbow. Among those in the huge crowd, two people developed crucifixion stigmata; one man's hands began to bleed, and nail holes appeared in a woman's feet. Several people claimed to have spontaneously acquired tiny punctures in a ring around their heads, as if from a crown of thorns. There's a documented case of an onlooker weeping tears of blood; subsequent medical examination showed no eye damage whatsoever, no possible source of blood. In short, the mind is still largely an uncharted sea.

There are mysteries in here"-he tapped his head with one thick finger-"that we may never understand."

Charlie shivered. It was creepy to think Grace had descended so far into madness that she could make her body bleed spontaneously for the sole purpose of lending substance to her sick fantasies.

"Of course," Boo said, "you're probably right about the hammer and nails. Spontaneous crucifixion stigmata are rare.

Grace probably did it to herself-or had one of her people do it."

The rain streamed down the walls of glass, and a miserably wet black bird swooped close, seeking escape from the cold downpour, then darted away an instant before crashing through the window.

Considering what Boothe had told them about tears of blood and mentally-inflicted stigmata, Charlie said, "I think I've stumbled across the meaning of life."

"What's that?" Boo asked.

"We're all just actors in a cosmic horror film in God's private movie theater."

"Could be," Boo said." If you read your Bible, you'll see that God can think up more horrible punishments than anything Tobe Hooper or Steven Spielberg or Alfred Hitchcock ever dreamed of."

With his binoculars, Sandy Breckenstein had gotten the license plate number the third time the blue Dodge van with the surfing murals had driven by the house. While Christine Scavello had hurried into the kitchen to report the presence of a suspicious vehicle to Max, Sandy had phoned Julie Gethers, the police liaison at Klemet-Harrison, and had asked her to get a make on the Dodge.

While he waited for a response from Julie, he stood tensely by the window, binoculars in hand.

Within five minutes, the van made a fourth pass, heading up the hill this time.

Sandy used the binoculars and saw, indistinctly, two men behind the rain-washed windshield.

They seemed to be studying this house in particular.

Then they were gone. Sandy almost wished they'd parked out front. At least there he could keep an eye on them. He didn't like having them out of sight.

While Sandy stood at the window, chewing on his lip, wishing he had become a certified public accountant like his father, Julie at HQ made contact with the Department of Motor Vehicles and then with the Orange County Sheriffs Department. Thanks to computerization at both agencies, the information was obtained quickly, and she returned Sandy's call in twelve minutes. According to the DMV, the blue van was registered to Emanuel Luis Spado of Anaheim. According to the Sheriffs office, which shared hot sheet data with all other police agencies in the county, Mr.

Spado had reported his vehicle stolen as of six o'clock this morning.

As soon as he had that information, Sandy went into the kitchen to share it with Max, who was equally uneasy about it.

"It's trouble," Max said bluntly.

Christine Scavello, who had moved her son out of the line of fire, into the corner by the refrigerator, said, "But it doesn't belong to the church."

"Yeah, but it could've been someone from the church who stole it," Sandy said.

"To put distance between the church and any attack they might make on us here," Max explained.

"Or it could just be coincidence that someone in a stolen van is cruising this street," the woman said, though she sounded as if she didn't believe it.

"Never met a coincidence I liked," Max said, keeping a watch on the garden behind the house.

"Me either," Sandy said.

"But how did they find us?" Christine demanded.

"Beats me," Sandy said.

"Damned if I know," Max said." We took every precaution."

They all knew the most likely explanation: Grace Spivey had an informer planted at Klemet-Harrison. None of them wanted to say it. The possibility was too unnerving.

"What'd you tell them at HQ?" Max asked.

"To send help," Sandy said.

"You think we should wait for it?"

"No."

"Me neither. We're sitting ducks here. This place was a good idea only as long as we figured they'd never find it. Now, our best chance is to get out, get moving, before they know we've spotted them. They won't be expecting us to suddenly pull up and light out."

Sandy agreed. He turned to Christine." Get your coats on.

You can take only two suitcases, 'cause you'll have to carry them both.

Max and I can't be tied down with luggage on the way to the car; we've got to keep our hands free."

The woman nodded. She looked stricken. The boy was pale and waxy. Even the dog seemed to be worried; it sniffed the air, cocked its head, and made a peculiar whining noise.

Sandy didn't feel so good himself. He knew what had happened to Frank Reuther and Pete Lockburn.