Dean Koontz - From the Corner of His Eye

“Please just call me Tom. I've been forcibly retired from the Oregon State Police, with full disability because of this face, so I'm not officially a detective anymore. Yet until Enoch Cain is behind bars, where he belongs, I'm not ready to be anything but a cop, official or not."

ANGEL WAS DRESSED in as much red as the devil himself: bright red shoes, red socks, red leggings, red skirt, red sweater, and a knee length red coat with a red hood.

She stood just inside the front door of the apartment, admiring herself in a full-length mirror, waiting patiently for Celestina, who was packing dolls, coloring books, tablets, and a large collection of crayons into a zippered satchel.

Though she was only a week past her third birthday, Angel always selected her own clothes and carefully dressed herself. Usually she preferred monochromatic outfits, sometimes with a single accent color expressed only in a belt or a hat, or a scarf. When she mixed several colors, the initial impression that she gave was of chromatic chaos-but on second look, you began to see that these unlikely combinations were more harmonious than they had first seemed.

For a while, Celestina had worried that the girl was slower to walk than other children, slower to talk, and slower to develop her vocabulary, even though Celestina read aloud to her from storybooks every day. Then, during the past six months, Angel had caught up in a rush though she traveled a road somewhat different from what the childrearing books described. Her first word was mama, which was fairly standard, but her second was blue, which for a while came out “boo.” At three, an average child would be doing exceptionally well to identify four colors; Angel could name eleven, including black and white, because she was able routinely to differentiate pink from red, and purple from blue.

Wally-Dr. Walter Lipscomb, who delivered Angel and who became her godfather-never worried when the girl seemed to be developing too slowly, counseling that every child was an individual, with his or her particular learning pace. Wally's double specialty—obstetrics and pediatrics-gave him credibility, of course, but Celestina had worried, anyway.

Worrying is what mothers do best. Celestina was her mother, as far as Angel was concerned, and the child was not yet of an age to be told, and to understand, that she had been blessed with two mothers: the one who gave birth to her, and the one who raised her.

Recently, Wally administered to Angel a set of apperception tests for three-year-olds, and the results indicated that she might not ever be a math whiz or a verbal gymnast, but that she might be highly talented in other ways. Her appreciation of color, her innate understanding of the derivation of secondary hues from the primary colors, her sense of spatial relationships, and her recognition of basic geometric forms regardless of the angle at which they were presented were all far beyond what was exhibited by other kids her age. Wally said she was visually, rather than verbally, gifted, that she would undoubtedly exhibit increasing precociousness in matters artistic, that she might follow Celestina's career path, and that she might even prove to be a prodigy.

“Red Riding-Hood,” Angel announced, studying herself in the mirror.

Celestina finally zipped shut the satchel. “You better watch out for the big bad wolf."

“Not me. Wolf better watch out,” Angel declared.

“You think you could kick some wolf butt, huh?

“Bam!” Angel said, watching her reflection as she booted an imaginary wolf.

Retrieving a coat from the closet, shrugging into it, Celestina said, “You should have worn green, Miss Hood. Then the wolf would never recognize you."

“Don't feel like a frog today."

“You don't look like one, either."

“You're pretty, Mommy."

“Why, thank you very much, sugarpie."

“Am I pretty?"

“It's not polite to ask for a compliment."

“But am I?"

“You're gorgeous."

“Sometimes I'm not sure,” said Angel, frowning at herself in the mirror.

“Trust me. You're a knockout."

Celestina dropped to one knee in front of Angel, to tie the drawstrings of the hood under the girl's chin.

“Mommy, why are dogs furry?"

“Where did dogs come from?"

“I wonder about that, too."

“No,” Celestina said, “I mean, why are we talking about dogs all of a sudden?"

” 'Cause they're like wolves."

“Oh, right. Well, God made them furry."

“Why didn't God make me furry?"

“Because He didn't want you to be a dog.” She finished tying a bow in the drawstrings. “There. You look just like an M&M."

“That's candy."

“Well, you're sweet, aren't you? And you're all bright red on the outside and milk chocolate inside,” Celestina said, gently tweaking the girl's light brown nose.

“I'd rather be a Mr. Goodbar."

“Then you'll have to wear yellow."

In the hall that served the two ground-floor apartments, they encountered Rena Moller, the elderly woman who lived in the unit across from theirs. She was polishing the dark wood of her front door with lemon oil, a sure sign that her son and his family were coming to dinner.

“I'm an M&M,” Angel proudly told their neighbor, as Celestina locked the door.

Rena was cheerful, short, and solid. Her waist measurement must have been two-thirds her height, and she favored floral dresses that emphasized her girth. With a German accent and in a voice that always seemed about to dissolve in a great gale of mirth, she said, “Madchen lieb, you look like a Christmas candle to me."

“Candles melt. I don't want to melt."

“M&M's melt, too,” Rena warned.

“Do wolves like candy?"

“Maybe. I don't know from wolves, liebling.

Angel said, “You look like a flower garden, Mrs. Moller."

“I do, don't I,” Rena agreed, as with one plump hand she spread the pleated skirt of her brightly patterned dress.

“A big garden."

“Angel!” Celestina gasped, mortified.

Rena laughed. “Oh, but true! And not just a garden. I'm a field of flowers!” She let go of her skirt, which shimmered like cascades of falling petals. “So tonight will be a famous night, Celestina."

“Wish me luck, Rena."

“Big success, total sellout. I predict!"

“I'll be relieved if we sell one painting."

“All! Good as you are. Not one left. I know."

“From your lips to God's ear."

“Wouldn't be the first time,” Rena assured her.

Outside, Celestina took Angel's hand as they descended the front steps to the street.

Their apartment was in a four-story Victorian house that dripped gingerbread, in the exclusive Pacific Heights district. It had been converted to apartments with deep respect for the architecture, years before Wally bought it.

Wally's own house was in the same neighborhood, a block and a half away, a three-story Victorian gem that he entirely occupied.

Twilight, nearly gone and purple in the west, inspired a bright violet line along the crest of an incoming bank of bay fog, as though the mist were shot through with a luminous vein of neon, transforming the entire sparkling city into a stylish cabaret just now opening for business. The night, soft as a woman come to dance, carried a steely blade of cold in its black-silk skirts.

Celestina checked her wristwatch and saw that she was running late. With Angel's short legs and layers of red, there was no point in trying to hurry.

“Where does the blue go?” the girl asked.

“What blue, sugarpie?"

“The sky blue."

“It follows the sun."

“Where does the sun go?"

“Hawaii."

“Why Hawaii?"

“It owns a house there."