Dean Koontz - Watchers

Now, when Lem asked for their attention, they immediately fell silent.

“General Hotchkiss tells me that you’ve had another fruitless day out there,” Lem said, “and I know you’re as unhappy about that as I am. You’ve been working long hours in rugged terrain for six days now, and you’re tired, and you’re wondering how long this is going to drag on. Well, we’re going to keep looking until we find what we’re after, until we corner The Outsider and kill it. There is no way we can stop if it’s still loose. No way.”

None of the hundred even grumbled in disagreement.

“And always remember — we’re also looking for the dog.”

Every man in the room probably hoped that he would be the one to find the dog and that someone else would encounter The Outsider.

Lem said, “On Wednesday, we’re bringing in another four Marine Intelligence squads from more distant bases, and they’ll spell you on a rotating basis, giving you a couple of days off. But you’ll all be out there tomorrow morning, and the search area has been redefined.”

A county map was mounted on the wall behind the lectern, and Lem Johnson pointed to it with a yardstick. “We’ll be shifting north-northwest, into the hills and canyons around Irvine Park.”

He told them about the slaughter at the petting zoo. He gave a graphic description of the condition of the carcasses, for he did not want any of these men to get careless.

“What happened to those zoo animals,” Lem said, “could happen to any of you if you let your guard down at the wrong place and time.”

A hundred men regarded him with utmost seriousness, and in their eyes he saw a hundred versions of his own tightly controlled fear.

Tuesday night, May 25, Tracy Leigh Keeshan could not sleep. She was so excited she felt as if she might burst. She pictured herself as a dandelion gone to seed, a puffball of fragile white fuzz, and then a gust of wind would come along and all the bits of fluff would be sent spinning in every direction— poof — to the far corners of the world, and Tracy Keeshan would exist no more, destroyed by her own excitement.

She was an unusually imaginative thirteen-year-old.

Lying in bed in her dark room, she did not even have to close her eyes to see herself on horseback — on her own chestnut stallion, Goodheart, to be precise — thundering along the racetrack, the rails flashing past, the other horses in the field left far behind, the finish line less than a hundred yards ahead, and the adoring crowds cheering wildly in the grandstand.

In school, she routinely got good grades, not because she was a diligent student but because learning came easily to her, and she could do well without much effort. She didn’t really care about school. She was slender, blond, with eyes the precise shade of a clear summer sky, very pretty, and boys were drawn to her, but she didn’t spend any more time thinking about boys than she did worrying about her school work, not yet anyway, although her girlfriends were so fixated on boys, so consumed by the subject that they sometimes bored Tracy half to death.

What Tracy cared about — deeply, profoundly, passionately — was horses, racing thoroughbreds. She had been collecting pictures of horses since she was five and had been taking riding lessons since she was seven, though for the longest time her parents had not been able to afford to buy her a horse of her own. During the past two years, however, her father’s business had prospered, and two months ago they had moved into a big new house on two acres in Orange Park Acres, which was a horsey community with plenty of riding trails. At the back end of their lot was a private stable for six horses, though only one stall was occupied. Just today — Tuesday, May 25, a day of glory, a day that would live forever in Tracy Keeshan’s heart, a day that just proved there was a God — she had been given a horse of her own, the splendid and beautiful and incomparable Goodheart.

So she could not sleep. She went to bed at ten, and by midnight she was more awake than ever. By one o’clock Wednesday morning, she could not stand it any longer. She had to go out to the stables and look at Goodheart. Make sure he was all right. Make sure he was comfortable in his new home. Make sure he was real.

She threw off the sheet and thin blanket and got quietly out of bed. She

was wearing panties and a Santa Anita Racetrack T-shirt, so she just pulled on a pair of jeans and slipped her bare feet into blue Nike running shoes.

She turned the knob on her door slowly, quietly, and went out into the hail, letting the door stand open.

The house was dark and quiet. Her parents and her nine-year-old brother Bobby were asleep.

Tracy went down the hall, through the living room and the dining room, not turning on lights, relying on the moonlight that penetrated the large windows.

In the kitchen, she silently pulled open the utility drawer on the corner secretary and withdrew a flashlight. She unlocked the back door and let herself out onto the rear patio, stealthily easing the door shut behind her, not yet switching on the flashlight.

The spring night was cool but not chilly. Silvered by moonlight above but with dark undersides, a few big clouds glided like white-sailed galleons across the sea of night, and Tracy stared up at them for a while, enjoying the moment. She wanted to absorb every detail of this special time, letting her anticipation build. After all, this would be her first moment alone with the proud and noble Goodheart, just the two of them sharing their dreams of the future.

She crossed the patio, went around the swimming pool, where the reflection of the moon rippled gently in the chlorinated water, and stepped out onto the sloping lawn. The dew-damp grass seemed to shimmer in the lambent lunar beams.

Off to the left and right, the property line was defined by white ranch fencing that appeared vaguely phosphorescent in the moonglow. Beyond the fences were other properties of at least an acre and some as large as the Keeshan place, and all across Orange Park Acres the night was still but for a few crickets and nocturnal frogs.

Tracy walked slowly toward the stables at the end of the yard, thinking about the triumphs that lay ahead for her and Goodheart. He would not race again. He had placed in the money at Santa Anita, Del Mar, Hollywood Park, and other tracks throughout California, but he had been injured and could no longer race safely. However, he could still be put to stud, and Tracy had no doubt that he’d sire winners. Within a week they hoped to add two good mares to the stable, and then they’d take the horses immediately to a breeding farm, where Goodheart would impregnate the mares. All three would be brought back here, where Tracy would care for them. Next year two healthy colts would be born, and then the young ones would be boarded with a trainer near enough so Tracy could visit constantly, and she’d help out with their training, learn all there was to learn about rearing a champion, and then — and then — she and the offspring of Goodheart would make racing history, oh yes, she was quite confident of making racing history— Her fantasizing was interrupted when, about forty yards from the stables, she stepped in something mushy and slippery, and nearly fell. She didn’t smell manure, but she figured it must be a pile left by Goodheart when they’d had him out in the yard last evening. Feeling stupid and clumsy, she switched on the flashlight and directed it at the ground, and instead of manure she found the remains of a brutally mutilated cat.

Tracy made a hissing sound of disgust and instantly switched off the flashlight.

The neighborhood was crawling with cats, partly because they were useful for controlling the mouse population around everyone’s stables. Coyotes regularly ventured in from the hills and canyons to the east, in search of prey. Although cats were quick, coyotes were sometimes quicker, and at first Tracy thought a coyote had dug under the fence or leaped over it and had gotten hold of this unfortunate feline, which had probably been prowling for rodents.