Dean Koontz - The Door To December

'Yes,' Dan lied. 'That's part of it. And now I've really got to go, Laura.' He wanted to put his hand to her face. He wanted to kiss the corners of her mouth and say good-bye with more feeling than he had any right to express. Instead, he looked at Earl. 'You take good care of them.'

'Like they were my own,' Earl said.

Dan got out of the car, slammed the door, and sprinted across the storm-lashed parking lot to the unmarked sedan that he had left on the other side of the restaurant. By the time Dan started the engine and switched on the windshield wipers, Earl had already pulled out of the lot and was moving off through the hesitant traffic on the rainy street.

Dan wondered if he would ever see them again.

Delmar, Carrie, Cindy Lakey…

The hated, long-remembered, dream-haunting string of failures cycled through his mind for at least the ten thousandth time.

Delmar, Carrie, Cindy Lakey… Laura, Melanie.

No.

He wouldn't fail this time.

In fact, he might be the only cop in the city — the only person within a thousand miles — who was sufficiently fascinated with murder and murderers, sufficiently well versed in their aberrant behavior and psychology, to be able to find his way into the heart of this bizarre case; he was, perhaps, the only one who had any chance of successfully resolving it. He knew more about murder than most men ever would, because he had thought more about it than anyone else he knew and because it had played such an important role in both his personal and his professional life. His contemplation of the subject had long ago brought him to the dismal realization that the capacity for murder existed in everyone, and he was not surprised when he found it in even the least likely suspects. Therefore, he was not now surprised by the suspicions that had grown even more concrete during the past several hours, although Laura and Earl would have been not only surprised but probably devastated by them.

Delmar, Carrie, Cindy Lakey.

The chain of failure ended there.

He drove away from the restaurant, and although he worked hard at keeping his confidence high, he felt almost as bleak as the gray, rain-filled day through which he moved.

* * *

The Spielberg film had come out a few weeks before Christmas, but almost three months later, it was still popular enough to fill half the large theater for a weekday matinee. Now, five minutes before the feature was scheduled to start, the audience was murmuring and laughing and shifting in their seats in happy anticipation.

Laura, Melanie, and Earl took three seats on the right side of the auditorium, halfway down the aisle. Sitting between Laura and Earl, Melanie stared at the giant black screen, expressionless, unmoving, unspeaking, hands limp in her lap, but at least she seemed awake.

Although it would be more difficult to monitor the girl in the dark, Laura wished that the lights would go down and that the movie would start, for she felt vulnerable in the light, naked and observed among all those strangers. She knew it was silly to worry that the wrong people would see them there and make trouble for them. The FBI, crooked police officers, Palmer Boothe and his associates might all be eager to find her, but that meant they would be out searching, not taking in a movie. They were safe. If any place in the world was a haven from harm, it was that ordinary theater on a rainy afternoon.

But then, of course, she had decided some time ago that nowhere in the world was safe anymore.

* * *

Having decided that a forceful, blunt, and surprise approach would be most effective with Palmer Boothe, Dan drove directly from the coffee shop to the Journal building on Wilshire Boulevard, just a couple of blocks east of the point at which Beverly Hills gave way to the enfolding, octopodal city of Los Angeles. He didn't know if Boothe was even in the city any longer, let alone in his office, but it was the best place to start.

He parked in the underground garage beneath the building and rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor, where all the executives of the Journal communications empire — which included nineteen other papers, two magazines, three radio stations, and two television stations — had their offices. The elevator opened on a plushly furnished lounge with ankledeep carpet and two original Rothko oils on the walls.

Unavoidably impressed and overwhelmed by the knowledge that there was probably four or five million dollars' worth of artwork represented in those two simply framed pieces, Dan wasn't able to slip into his Intimidating Homicide Detective role as smoothly and completely as he had planned. Nevertheless, he used his ID and authority to get by the armed security guard and past the coldly polite and supremely efficient receptionist.

A polite young man who might have been an executive secretary or an executive trainee or a bodyguard — or all three — arrived at the receptionist's summons. He led Dan back a long hall so silent that it could have been in deep space between distant stars instead of in the middle of a large city. The hallway terminated in another reception area, an exquisitely appointed decompression chamber outside the sanctum sanctorum of the starship commander himself, Palmer Boothe.

The young man introduced Dan to Mrs. Hudspeth, who was Boothe's secretary, then departed. Mrs. Hudspeth was a handsome, elegant, gray-haired woman in a plum-colored knit suit and a pastel blouse with a plum-colored bow at the throat. Though she was tall and thin and refined and obviously proud of her refinement, she was also brisk and efficient; that no-nonsense aspect of her personality reminded Dan of Irmatrude Gelkenshettle.

'Oh, Lieutenant,' she said, 'I'm so sorry, but Mr. Boothe isn't in the building right now. You've missed him by only a few minutes. He had a meeting to attend. It's been a terribly busy day for him, but then most days are, you know.'

Dan was unsettled to hear that Boothe was carrying on with work as usual. If his theory was correct, if he had correctly identified It, then Palmer Boothe should be in desperate fear for his life, on the run, perhaps barricaded in the basement of some heavily fortified castle, preferably in Tibet or the Swiss Alps, or in some other far and difficult-to-reach corner of the world. If Boothe was attending meetings and making business decisions as usual, that must mean that he was not afraid, and if he was not afraid, that meant Dan's theory about the gray room was incorrect.

He told Mrs. Hudspeth: 'I absolutely must talk with Mr. Boothe. It's an urgent matter. You might say it's even a matter of life or death.'

'Well, of course, he's most anxious to speak with you as well,' she said. 'I'm sure that must have been clear from his message.'

Dan blinked. 'What message?'

'But isn't that why you're here? Didn't you receive the message he left for you at your precinct headquarters?'

'The East Valley Division?'

'Yes, he called first thing this morning, anxious to arrange a meeting with you. But you weren't in yet. We tried your home and got no answer there.'

'I haven't been back to East Valley today,' he said. 'I didn't get any message. I came here because I must talk to Mr. Boothe as soon as possible.'

'Oh, I know he shares your desire for a conference,' she said. 'Indeed, I've got a copy of his schedule for the day — every place he'll be and the time he'll be there — and he asked me to share it with you if you showed up. He requested that you attempt to connect with him at some point that would be convenient for you.'

All right. This was more like it. Boothe was desperate, after all, so desperate that he hoped Dan would either be corruptible or would agree to act as intermediary between Boothe and the particular devil that was stalking the people from the gray room. He wasn't on the run or hiding in some foreign port because he knew perfectly well that it would do no good to run or hide. He was conducting business as usual because the alternative — staring at the walls and waiting for It to come — was simply unthinkable.