Dean Koontz - The Servants of Twilight

Grace had given him purpose and acceptance, and in time he had discovered affection, and after affection had come the first indications of an ability to love and be loved. And now, if he used the knife, if he killed the boy, he might be launching himself on an inevitable slide back down to the depths from which he'd climbed. He feared the knife.

But he was afraid of the boy, too. He knew Grace had psychic power, for he had seen her do things that no ordinary person could have done. Therefore, she must be right when she said the boy was the Antichrist. If he failed to kill the demonic child, he would be failing God, Grace, and all mankind.

But wasn't he being asked to throw away his soul in order to gain salvation? Kill in order to be blessed? Did that make sense?

"Please don't hurt my little boy. Please," Christine Scavello said.

Kyle looked down at her, and his quandary deepened. She didn't look like the dark Madonna, with the power of Satan behind her. She was hurt, scared, begging for mercy. He had hurt her, and he felt a pang of guilt at the injury he'd caused.

Sensing that something was wrong, Mother Grace said, "Kyle?"

lbrning to the boy, Kyle drew his knife hand back, so he would have all the power of his muscles behind the first blow.

If he took the last few steps in a crouch, swung the knife in low, rammed the blade into the boy's guts, it would all be over in a few seconds.

The child was still crying, and his bright blue eyes were transfixed by the point of the knife in Kyle's hand. His face was twisted into a wretched mask of terror, and sweat had broken out all over his pasty skin. His small body was slightly bent as if in anticipation of the pain to come.

" Strike him!" Mother Grace urged.

Questions raced through Kyles mind. How can God be merciful and still make me bear the burden of my monstrous face?

What kind of god would let me be saved from a meaningless life of violence and pain and hatred-just to force me to kill again?

If God rules the world, why does He allow so much suffering and pain and misery? And how could it be any worse if Satan ruled?

"The devil is putting doubt in your mind!" Grace said.

"That's where it's coming from, Kyle. Not from within you!

From the devil!"

"No," he told her." You taught me to always think about doing the right thing, to care about doing the right thing, and now I'm going to take a minute here, just a minute to think!"

"Don't think, just do!" she said." Or get out of my way and let me use this gun. How can you fail me now? After all I've done, how can you fail?"

She was right. He owed her everything. He would still be peddling dope, living in the gutter, consumed by hatred, if not for her. If he failed her now, where was his honor, his gratitude?

In failing her, wouldn't he be sliding back into his old life almost as surely as if he used the knife as she demanded?

"Please," Christine Scavello said." Oh, God, please don't hurt my baby."

"Send him back to Hell forever!" Grace shouted.

Kyle felt as if he were being torn apart. He had been making moral judgments and value decisions for only a few years, not long enough for it to be an unconscious habit, not long enough to deal easily with a dilemma like this. He realized that tears were spilling down his cheeks.

The boy's gaze rose from the point of the blade.

Kyle met the child's eyes and was jolted by them.

"Kill him!" Grace said.

Kyle was shaking violently.

The boy was shaking, too.

Their gazes had not merely locked but. fused. so it seemed to Kyle that he could see not only through his own eyes but through the eyes of the boy, as well. It was an almost magical empathy, as if he were both himself and the child, both assailant and victim. He felt large and dangerous. yet small and helpless at the same time. He was suddenly dizzy and increasingly confused. His vision swam out of focus for a moment.

Then he saw-or imagined that he saw-himself looming over the child, literally saw himself from the boy's point of view, as if he were Joey Scavello. It was a stunning moment of insight, strange and disorienting, almost a clairvoyant experience. Looking up at himself from the boy's eyes, he was shocked by his appearance, by the savagery in his own face, by the madness of this attack. A chill swept up his spine, and he could not get his breath. This unflattering vision of himself was the psychic equivalent of a blow to the head with a ball-peen hammer, psychologically concussive. He blinked, and the moment of insight passed, and he was just himself again, though with a terrible headache and a lingering dizziness. Finally, he knew what he must do.

To Christine's surprise, the giant turned away from Joey and threw the knife into the flames beyond Charlie. Sparks and embers flew up like a swarm of fireflies.

"No!" Grace Spivey shouted.

"I'm through killing," the big man said, tears pouring copiously down his cheeks, softening the hard and dangerous look of him much as rain on a windowpane blurs and softens the view beyond.

"No," Spivey repeated.

"It's wrong," he said." Even if I'm doing it for you. it's wrong."

"The devil put this thought in your mind," the old woman warned.

"No, Mother Grace. You put it there."

"The devil!" she insisted frantically." The devil put it there!"

The giant hesitated, blotting his face with his big hands.

Christine held her breath and watched the confrontation with both hope and dread. If this Frankensteinian creature actually turned against his master, he might be a formidable ally, but at the moment he did not seem sufficiently stable to deliver them from their crisis. Though he had thrown the knife away, he appeared confused, in a mental and emotional turmoil, and even slightly unsteady on his feet. When he put his hands to his head and squinted through his tears, he seemed in pain, almost as if he had been blackjacked. He might, at any moment, turn on Joey and kill him, after all.

"The devil put this doubt in your mind," Grace Spivey insisted, advancing on the giant, shouting at him." The devil, the devil, the devil!"

He took his tear-wet hands from his face and blinked at the old woman."

If it was the devil, then he's not all bad. Not all bad if he wants me never to kill again." He staggered toward the passageway that led out of the caves, stopped just his side of it, and leaned wearily against the wall, as if he needed a moment to recover from some exhausting task.

"Then I'll do it," Spivey said furiously. She had been clutching the semiautomatic rifle by its shoulder strap. Now she took it in both hands." You're my Judas, Kyle Barlows. Judas. You've failed me. But God won't fail me. And I won't fail God the way you have, no, not me, not the Chosen, not me!"

Christine looked at Joey. He still stood in the corner, with his back against the stone, his arms raised now, his small pale palms flattened and turned outward, as if warding off the bullets that Grace Spivey would fire at him. His eyes were huge and frightened and fixed on the old woman as though she had hypnotized him. Christine wanted to shout at him to run, but it was pointless because Spivey was in his way and would surely stop him. Besides, where could he go? Outside, in the subzero air, where he would quickly succumb to exposure? Deeper in the caves, where Spivey would easily follow and soon find him? He was trapped, small and defenseless, with nowhere to hide.

Christine looked at Charlie, who was weeping with frustration at his own inability to help, and she tried to launch herself up at Grace Spivey, but she was defeated by her wounded leg and damaged shoulder, and finally, in desperation, she looked back at Kyle and said, "Don't let her do it! For God's sake, don't let her hurt him!"

The giant only blinked stupidly at Christine. He seemed shellshocked, in no condition to wrest the rifle out of Spivey's hands.