Dean Koontz - False Memory

“Does it? You asked me to tell you how the rules work.”

“Those are the rules?” Dusty asked.

Skeet’s eyes twitched for a few seconds. Then: “You know the rules.”

“Pretend I don’t.”

“Those are two of them.”

“Two of the rules.” “Yes.”

“Not quite as straightforward as the rules of poker.”

Skeet said nothing.

Though it all sounded like sheer gibberish, the ramblings of a drug-soaked mind, Dusty had the uncanny conviction that this strange conversation had real — if hidden — meaning and that it was leading toward a disturbing revelation.

Watching his brother closely, he said, “Tell me how many rules there are.”

“You know,” Skeet said.

“Pretend I don’t.”

“Three.”

“What’s the third rule?”

“What’s the third rule? Blue pine needles.”

Clear cascades. Into the waves scatter Blue pine needles.

Valet, who rarely barked, who growled more rarely still, now stood at the open door, peering in from the hallway, and issued a low, menacing grumble. His hackles were raised as dramatically as those of a cartoon dog encountering a cartoon ghost. Although Dusty couldn’t identify, with certainty, the cause of Valet’s displeasure, it seemed to be poor Skeet.

After brooding for a minute or so, Dusty said, “Explain these rules to me, Skeet. Tell me what they mean.”

“I am the waves.”

“Okay,” Dusty said, although this made less sense to him than if, in the tradition of the Beatles’ psychedelic-era lyrics, Skeet had claimed, I am the walrus.

“You’re the clear cascades,” Skeet continued.

“Of course,” Dusty said, merely to encourage him.

“And the needles are missions.” “Missions.”

“Yes.”

“All this makes sense to you?” “Does it?”

“Apparently it does.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me.” Skeet was silent.

“Who is Dr. Yen Lo?” Dusty asked.

“Who is Dr. Yen Lo?” A pause. “You.”

“I thought I was the clear cascades.”

“They’re one and the same.”

“But I’m not Yen Lo.”

Frown lines reappeared in Skeet’s forehead. His hands, which had fallen slack, once more curled slowly into half-formed fists. The delicate snowflake moth flew out from among the pale clutching fingers.

After watching another REM seizure, Dusty said, “Skeet, are you awake?”

After a hesitation, the kid replied, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you’re awake. So… you must be asleep.”

“No.”

“If you’re not asleep and you’re not sure if you’re awake — then what are you?”

“What am I?”

“That was my question.”

“I’m listening.”

“There you go again.”

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“Where should I go?” Skeet asked.

Dusty had lost the gut feeling that this conversation was full of profound if mysterious meaning and that they were approaching a revelation that would suddenly make sense of it all. Though unique and extremely peculiar, it now seemed as irrational and depressing as numerous other discussions they’d had when Skeet had been brain-bruised from a self-inflicted drug bludgeoning.

“Where should I go?” Skeet inquired again.

“Ah, give me a break and go to sleep,” Dusty said irritably.

Obediently, Skeet closed his eyes. Peace descended upon his face, and his half-clenched hands relaxed. Immediately, his breathing settled into a shallow, slow, easy rhythm. He snored softly.

“What the hell happened here?” Dusty wondered aloud. He cupped his right hand around the back of his neck, to warm and smooth away a sudden stippling of goose flesh. His hand had gone cold, however, and it pressed the chill deeper, into his spine.

With hackles no longer raised, sniffing quizzically, peering into shadowy corners and under the bed, as if in search of someone or something, Valet returned from the hail. Whatever spooked him had now departed.

Apparently, Skeet had gone to sleep because he had been told to do so. But surely it wasn’t possible to fall asleep on command, in an instant.

“Skeet?”

Dusty put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and shook him gently, then less gently.

Skeet didn’t respond. He continued to snore softly. His eyelids twitched as his eyes jiggled beneath them. REM. He was without a doubt in a dream state this time.

Lifting Skeet’s right hand, Dusty pressed two fingers against the radial artery in his brother’s wrist. The kid’s pulse was strong and regular but slow. Dusty timed it. Forty-eight beats per minute. That rate seemed worrisomely slow, even for a sleeper.

Skeet was in a dream state, all right. Deep in a dream state.

The stainless-steel rack of knives hung from two hooks on the wall, like the totem of some devil-worshiping clan that used its kitchen for more sinister work than cooking dinner.

Without touching the knives, Martie unhooked the rack. She slid it onto a shelf in a lower cupboard and quickly closed the door.

Not good enough. Out of sight was not out of mind. The knives remained readily accessible. She must make them harder to reach.

In the garage, she found an empty cardboard box and a roll of strapping tape, and she returned to the kitchen.

When she squatted before the cabinet in which she had stowed the knives, Martie wasn’t immediately able to open the door. In fact, she was afraid even to touch it, as though this were not an ordinary cabinet but a satanic reliquary in which reposed a paring from one of Beelzebub’s cloven hooves. She had to work up the courage to retrieve the cutlery, and when at last she cautiously withdrew it from the shelf, her hands shook so badly that the blades rattled in the slots of the rack.

She dropped the knives into the box and folded shut the flaps of cardboard. She began to use strapping tape to seal the box — but then realized she would need to cut the tape.

When she opened a drawer and reached for a pair of scissors, she wasn’t able to pick them up. They would make a lethal weapon. She had seen uncountable movies in which a killer had used a pair of scissors instead of a butcher knife.

So many soft, vulnerable spots on the human body. The groin. The stomach. Between the ribs and straight into the heart. The throat. The side of the neck.

Like an official serial-killer deck of cards — ALL OF JACK THE RIPPER’S MURDERS DEPICTED IN GRAPHIC DETAIL! EVERY JOKER FEATURES A DIFFERENT FULL–COLOR ILLUSTRATION OF JEFFREY DAHMER’S REFRIGERATED HEAD COLLECTION! — grotesque and bloody pictures shuffled through Martie’s mind.

Slamming shut the drawer, turning her back to it, she struggled to suppress the brutal images that some demented part of her psyche dealt out with savage glee.

She was alone in the house. She could harm no one with the scissors. Except, of course, herself.

Since reacting so bizarrely to the mezzaluna in Susan’s kitchen and to the car key a few minutes thereafter, Martie had sensed that she was possessed of — or by — a strange and inexplicable new potential for violence, and she’d been afraid of what injury she might inflict on some innocent person during a spell of transient madness. Now, for the first time, she suspected that in a fit of irrationality, she might be capable of harming herself.

She stared down at the box in which she’d deposited the rack of knives. If she carried it out to the garage, put it in a corner, and piled other stuff on top of it, the box could still be retrieved in a minute. The single strip of tape — and the big roll dangling at the end of it — could be easily ripped away, the lid flaps torn open, and the knives recovered.