Dean Koontz - The Servants of Twilight

"No, you haven't," Charlie said as he carribd one of the heavy backpacks into the kitchen." Nobody sells those hats because nobody wants witches coming in their stores all the time. Witches smell like the wings of bats and tails of newts and salamander tongue and all those other weird things they're always cooking in their cauldrons. Nothing will chase off a storekeeper's customers faster than a witch who reeks of boiled pig's snout."

"Yuck," Joey said.

"Exactly," Charlie said.

Christine was so happy and relieved to see Joey acting like a six-year-old again that she had trouble holding back tears. She wanted to put her arms around Charlie, squeeze him tight, and thank him for his strength, for his way with children, for just being the man he was.

Outside, the wind howled and huffed and wailed and whistled.

Night hugged the cabin. Snow dressed it.

In the living room fireplace, the big logs sputtered and crackled.

They worked together to make dinner. Afterwards, they sat on the floor in the living room, where they played Old Maid and Tic-Tac-Toe, and Charlie told knock-knock jokes that Joey found highly amusing.

Christine felt snug. Secure.

In South Lake Tahoe, the snowmobile shop was about to close when Grace Spivey, Barlowe, and the eight others arrived. They had come from just down the street, where they had all purchased ski suits and other insulated winter clothing. They had changed into their new gear and now looked as if they belonged in Tahoe. To the surprise and delight of the owner of Mountain Country Sportmobile-a portly man whose name was Orley Treat and who said his friends called him "Skip"-they purchased four Skidoos and two custom-designed flatbed trailers to haul them.

KyIe Barlowe and a churchman named George Westvec did most of the talking because Westvec knew a lot about snowmobiles, and Barlowe had a knack for getting the best price possible on anything he bought. His great size, forbidding appearance, and air of barely controlled violence gave him an advantage in any bargaining session, of course, but his negotiating skills were not limited to intimidation. He had a first-rate businessman's knack of sensing an adversary's strengths, weaknesses, limits, and intentions. This was something he had learned about himself only after Grace had converted him from a life of self-hatred and sociopathic behavior, and it was a discovery that was as gratifying as it was surprising. He was in Mother Grace's everlasting debt not only because she had saved his soul but because she had provided him the opportunity to discover and explore the talents which, without her, he would never have known were there, within himself.

Orley Treat, who was too beefy to have such a boyish nickname as "Skip," kept trying to figure out who they were. He kept asking questions of Grace and Barlowe and the others, such as whether they belonged to a club of some kind or whether they were all related.

Keeping in mind that the police were still interested in talking to Grace about certain recent events in Orange County, worried that one of the disciples would inadvertently say too much to Treat, Barlowe sent everyone but George Westvec to scout the nearby motels along the main road and find one with sufficient vacancies to accommodate them.

When they paid for the snowmobiles with stacks of cash, Treat gaped at their money in disbelief. Barlowe saw greed in the man's eyes, and figured Treat had already thought of a way to doctor his books and hide this cash from the IRS. Even though his curiosity had an almost physically painful grip on him, Treat stopped prying into their business because he was afraid of queering the deal.

The white Ford vans weren't equipped with trailer hitches, but Treat said he could arrange to have the welding done overnight.

"They'll be ready first thing in the morning. say. ten o'clock."

"Earlier," Grace said." Much earlier than that. We want to haul these up to the north shore come first light."

Treat smiled and pointed to the showroom windows, beyond which winddriven snow was falling heavily in the sodium-glow of the parking lot lights." Weatherman's calling for maybe eighteen inches. Stormfront won't pass until four or five o'clock tomorrow morning, so the road crews won't have the highway open around to the north shore until ten, even eleven o'clock.

No point you folks starting out earlier."

Grace said, "If you can't have the hitches on our trucks and the Skidoos ready to go by four-thirty in the morning, the deal's off."

Barlowe knew she was bluffing because this was the only place they could get the machines they needed. But judging from the tortured expression on Treat's face, he took her threat seriously.

Barlowe said, "Listen, Skip, it's only a couple of hours worth of welding. We're willing to pay extra to have it done tonight."

"But I've got to prep the Skidoos and-"

"Then prep them."

"But I was just closing for the day when you-"

"Stay open a couple more hours," Barlowe said." I know it's inconvenient. I appreciate that. I really do. But, Skip, how often do you sell four snowmobiles and two trailers in one clip?"

Treat sighed." Okay, it'll be ready for pickup at four-thirty in the morning. But you'll never get up to the north shore at that hour."

Grace, George Westvec, and Barlowe went outside, where the others were waiting.

Edna Vanoff stepped forward and said, "We've found a motel with enough spare rooms to take us, Mother Grace. It's just a quarter of a mile up the road here. We can walk it easy."

Grace looked up into the early-night sky, squinting as the snow struck her face and frosted her eyebrows. Long tangled strands of wet frizzy gray hair escaped the edges of her knitted hat, which she had pulled down over her ears." Satan brought this storm. He's trying to delay us. Trying to keep us from reaching the boy until it's too late. But God will get us through."

By nine-thirty Joey was asleep. They put him to bed between clean sheets, under a heavy blue and green quilt. Christine wanted to stay in the bedroom with him, even though she wasn't ready for bed, but Charlie wanted to talk to her and plan for certain contingencies.

He said, "You'll be all right by yourself, won't you, Joey?"

"I guess so," the boy said. He looked tiny, elfin, under the huge quilt and with his head propped on an enormous feather pillow.

"I don't want to leave him alone," Christine said.

Charlie said, "No one can get him here unless they come up from downstairs, and we'll be downstairs to stop them."

"The window-"

"It's a second-story window. They'd have to put a ladder up against the house to reach it, and I doubt they'd be carrying a ladder."

She frowned at the window, undecided.

Charlie said, "We're socked in here, Christine. Listen to that wind.

Even if they knew we were in these mountains, even if they knew about this particular cabin-which they don't-they wouldn't be able to make it up here tonight."

"I'll be okay, Mom," Joey said." I got Chewbacca. And like Charlie said, it's against FWA rules for witches to fly in a storm."

She sighed, tucked the covers in around her son, and kissed him goodnight. Joey wanted to give Charlie a goodnight kiss, too, which was a new experience for Charlie, and as he felt the boy's lips smack his cheek, a flood of emotions washed through him: a poignant sense of the child's profound vulnerability; a fierce desire to protect him; an awareness of the purity of the kid's affection; a heart-wrenching impression of innocence and sweet simplicity; a touching and yet quite frightening realization of the complete trust the boy had in him. The moment was so warm, so disarming and satisfying, that Charlie couldn't understand how he could have come to be thirty-six without having started a family of his own.