Dean Koontz - From the Corner of His Eye

” she said, proceeding to the stairs.

“What if you're wrong?"

“Trust me, Joey, I'll be the first to know."

As Agnes ascended, Joey hurried into the foyer behind her and said, “Where are you going?"

“Upstairs, silly."

“What're you going to do?"

“Destroy some clothes."

"

” Oh."

"

She fetched a pair of cuticle scissors front the master bathroom, plucked a red blouse from her closet, and sat on the edge of the bed. Carefully snipping threads with the tiny, pointed blades, she turned the blouse inside out and unraveled a lot of stitches just under the shoulder yoke, ruining the front shirring.

From Joey's closet, she extracted an old blue blazer that he seldom wore anymore. The lining was sagging, worn, and half rotten. She tore it. With the small scissors, she opened the shoulder seam from the inside.

To the growing pile of ruin, she added one of Joey's cardigan sweaters, after popping loose one bone button and almost completely detaching a sewn-on patch pocket. A pair of knockabout khaki pants: quickly clip open the seat seam; cut the corner of' the wallet pocket, then rip it with both hands; snip loose some stitching and half detach the cuff on the left leg.

She damaged more of Joey's things than her own solely because he was such a big, dear giant, which made it easier to believe that he was constantly bursting out of his clothes.

Downstairs again, as Agnes reached the foot of the stairs, she began to worry that she had done too thorough a job on the khakis and that the extent of the damage would raise suspicions.

Seeing her, Joey leaped up front his armchair again. He managed to hold on to his book this time, but he stumbled into the footstool and nearly lost his balance.

“When did you have that run-in with the dog?” she asked.

Bewildered, he said, “What dog?"

“Was it yesterday or the day before?"

“Dog? There was no dog."

Shaking the ravaged khakis at him, she said, “Then what made such a mess of these?

He stared glumly at the khakis. Although they were old pants, they were a favorite pair when he was puttering around the house on weekends. “Oh,” he said, “that dog."

“It's a miracle you weren't bitten."

“Thank God,” he said, “I had a shovel."

“You didn't hit the poor dog with a shovel',” she asked with mock dismay.

Well, wasn't it attacking me?"

“But it was only a miniature collie."

He frowned. “I thought it was a big dog."

“No, no, dear. It was little Muffin, from next door. A big dog certainly would have torn up both you and the pants. We've got to have a credible story."

“Muffin seems like such a nice little dog."

“But the breed is nervous, dear. With a nervous breed, you just never know, do you?

“I guess not."

“Nevertheless, even if Muffin assaulted you, she's otherwise such a sweet little thing. What would Maria think of you if you told her you'd smashed poor Muffin with a shovel?"

“I was fighting for my life, wasn't I?"

“She'll think you're cruel."

“I didn't say I hit the dog."

Smiling, cocking her head, Agnes regarded him with amused expectation.

Scowling, Joey stared at the floor in puzzlement, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, sighed, turned his attention to the ceiling, and shifted his weight again, for all the world like a trained bear that couldn't quite remember how to perform its next trick.

Finally, he said, “What I did was grab the shovel, dig a hole really fast, and bury Muffin in it up to her neck-just until she calmed down."

“That's your story, huh?"

“And I'm sticking to it."

“Well, then, you're lucky that Maria's English is so evil."

He said, “Couldn't you just take her money?"

“Sure. Or why don't I pull a Rumpelstiltskin and demand one of her children for payment' “

“I liked those pants."

As she turned away from him and continued along the hall toward the kitchen, Agnes said, “They'll be as good as new when she's mended them.''

Behind her, he said, “And is that my gray cardigan? What did you do to my cardigan?"

“If you don't hush, I'll set it on fire."

In the kitchen, Maria was nibbling at the raisin scone.

Agnes dropped the damaged apparel on one of the breakfast-table chairs.

After carefully wiping her fingers on a paper napkin, Maria examined the garments with interest. She carried her living as the seamstress at Bright Beach Dry Cleaners. At the sight of each rent, popped button, and split seam she clucked her tongue.

Agnes said, “Joey is so hard on his clothes."

“Men,” Maria commiserated.

Rico, her own husband-a drunkard and a gambler-had run off with another woman, abandoning Maria and their two small daughters. No doubt, he had departed in a spotlessly clean, sharply pressed, perfectly mended ensemble.

The seamstress held up the khakis and raised her eyebrows.

Settling into a chair at the table, Agnes said, “He was attacked by a dog."

Maria's eyes widened. “Pit bull' German sheep',"

“Miniature collie."

“What is like such a dog?"

“Muffin. You know, next door."

“Little Muffin do this?''

“It's a nervous breed."

“Muffin was in a mood."

Agnes winced. Already, another contraction. Mild but so soon after the last. She clasped her hands around her immense belly and took slow, deep breaths until the pain passed.

“Well, anyway,” she said, as though Muffins uncharacteristic viciousness had been adequately explained, “this mending ought to cover ten more lessons."

Maria's face gathered into a frown, like a piece of brown cloth cinched by a series of whipstitches. “Six lessons."

“Ten."

“Six."

“Nine."

“Seven."

“Nine."

“Eight."

“Done,” Agnes said. “Now put away the three dollars, and let's have our lesson before my water breaks."

“Water can break?” Maria asked, looking toward the faucet at the kitchen sink. She sighed. “I have so much to be learned."

CLOUDS SWARMED THE late-afternoon sun, and the Oregon sky grew sapphire where still revealed. Cops gathered like bright-eyed crows in the lengthening shadow of the fire tower.

Because the tower stood on a ridgeline that marked the divide between county and state property, most of the attending constabulary were county deputies, but two state troopers were present, as well.

With the uniformed troopers was a stocky, late-fortyish, brush-cut man in black slacks and a gray herringbone sports jacket. His face was almost pan flat, his first chin weak, his second chin stronger than the first, and his function unknown to Junior. He would have been the least likely man to be noticed in a ten-thousand-man convention of nonentities, if not for the port-wine birthmark that surrounded his right eye, darkening most of the bridge of his nose, brightening half his forehead, and returning around the eye to stain the upper portion of his cheek.

Among themselves, the authorities spoke more often than not in murmurs. Or perhaps Junior was too distracted to hear them clearly.

He was having difficulty focusing his attention on the problem at hand. Through his mind, odd and disconnected thoughts rolled like slow, greasy, eye-of-the-hurricane waves on an ominous sea.

Earlier, after sprinting down the fire road, he had been breathing hard when he reached his Chevy, and by the time that he'd raced to Spruce Hills, the nearest town, he had spiraled down into this strange condition. His driving became so erratic that a black-and-white had tried to pull him over, but by then he was a block from a hospital, and he didn't stop until he got there, taking the entry drive too sharply, jolting across the curb, nearly slamming into a parked car, sliding to a stop in a no-parking zone at the emergency entrance, lurching like a drunkard as he got out of the Chevy, screaming at the cop to get an ambulance.