Dean Koontz - Night Chills

“That might save them from prosecution if things went badly wrong. But it wouldn’t save us. We can’t wipe from our minds all memory of what we had them do. If problems develop with the field test, serious problems that throw our entire Operation in the garbage, and if it turns out that Rossner and Holbrook were seen at the reservoir or left any clues behind—

well, we don’t want the authorities to connect us with Glenn and Peter.”

“What problems could arise that would be that serious?”

“Anything. Nothing. I don’t know.”

After he bad thought about it for a while, Klinger said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I am.”

“Have you set a date yet? For the field test?”

“We should be ready by August,” Salsbury said.

Friday, August 26, 1977

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. Since his experience with Brenda Mackim on Monday,

Salsbury had been able to resist temptation. At any time he could have taken full control of another good-looking woman, could have raped her and erased all memory of the act from her mind. He took strength from the knowledge that the bitches were his for the asking. Whenever he could honestly conclude that the field test was a smashing success, and that no danger of discovery existed, he would screw every one of them that he wanted. The bitches. Animals. Little animals. Dozens of them. All of them. Because he knew the future held an almost endless orgy for him, be was able to cop; if only temporarily, with his desire. He went from house to house, using the key-lock code phrase, interviewing his subjects, observing and testing. Denying himself. Working hard. Doing his job. So strict with himself. He was proud of his will power.

This morning his will power shattered. For the past four nights, his sleep had been disturbed by grotesque dreams that featured his mother and Miriam and sudden violence and blood and an eerie, indescribable atmosphere of perverted sex. When he came awake this morning, shouting and flailing at the bedclothes, he thought of Emma Thorp — deep cleavage in an orange sweater — and she seemed to him like an antidote for the poisons that had churned through him while he slept he had to have her, was going to have her, today, soon, and to hell with self-denial.

The smooth stream of power in him was again transformed into a rhythmic, alternating current, crackling across countless arcs, a hundred million synapses. His thoughts ricocheted with great energy from one subject to another, submachine-gun thoughts: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat

At 7:45 he left Pauline Vicker’s rooming house and went to the cafe on the square.

The sky was cloudy, the air humid.

At 8:25 he finished breakfast and left the cafe.

At 8:40 he reached the Thorps’ place, the Last house on Union Road, next to the river.

He rang the doorbell twice.

The chief of police himself answered. He hadn’t gone to work yet. Good. Wonderful.

Salsbury said, “I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

“Let me in.”

Bob Thorp stepped out of his way, let him by, then closed the door after him.

“Is your wife here?” “Yes.”

“Your son?”

“He’s here too.”

“Anyone else?”

“Just you and me.” “Your son’s name?” “Jeremy.”

“Where are they?” “In the kitchen.”

“Take me to them.” Thorp hesitated.

“Take me to them!”

They went along a narrow but brightly papered hallway.

The kitchen was modem and stylish. Mediterranean cupboards and fixtures. Coppertone refrigerator and upright freezer. A microwave oven. A television set was suspended from the

ceiling in one corner and angled toward the big round table by the window.

Jeremy was at the table, eating eggs and toast, facing the hall. To the boy’s right, Emma sat with one elbow on the table, drinking a glass of orange juice. She was wearing a blue, floor-length corduroy housecoat. Her hair was as golden and full as he remembered it. As she turned to ask her husband who had rung the bell, he saw that her lovely face was still soft with sleep — and for some reason that aroused him.

She said, “Bob? Who’s this?”

Salsbury said, “I am the key.”

Two voices responded.

At 8:55, making the weekly trip into town to lay in a fresh supply of perishables, Paul Annendale braked at the end of the gravel road, looked both ways, then turned left Onto Main Street.

From the back seat Mark said, “Don’t take me all the way to Sam’s place. Let me out at the square.”

Looking in the rearview mirror, Paul said, “Where are you going?”

Mark patted the large canary cage that stood on the seat beside him. The squirrel danced about and chattered. “I want to take Buster to see Jeremy.”

Swiveling around in her seat and looking back at her brother, Rya said, “Why don’t you admit that you don’t go over to their house to see Jeremy? We all know you’ve got a crush on Emma.”

“Not so!” Mark said in such a way that he proved absolutely that what she said was true.

“Oh, Mark,” she said exasperatingly.

“Well, it’s a lie,” Mark insisted. “I don’t have a crush on Emma. I’m not some sappy kid.”

Rya turned around again.

“No fights,” Paul said. “We’ll leave Mark off at the square with Buster, and there will be no fights.”

* * *

Salsbury said, “Do you understand that, Bob?”

“I understand.”

“You will not speak unless spoken to. And you will not move from that chair unless I tell you to move.”

“I won’t move.”

“But you’ll watch.”

“I’ll watch.”

“Jeremy?”

“I’ll watch too.”

“Watch what?” Salsbury asked.

“Watch you — screw her.”

Dumb cop. Dumb kid.

He stood by the sink, leaned against the counter. “Come here, Emma.”

She got up. Came to him.

“Take off your robe.”

She took it off. She was wearing a yellow bra and yellow panties with three embroidered red flowers at the left hip.

“Take off your bra.”

Her breasts fell free. Heavy. Beautiful.

“Jeremy, did you know your mother looked so nice?”

The boy swallowed hard. “No.”

Thorp’s hands were on the table. They had curled into fists.

“Relax, Bob. You’re going to enjoy this. You’re going to love it. You can’t wait far me to have her.”

Thorp’s hands opened. He leaned back in his chair. Touching her breasts, staring into her shimmering green eyes, Salsbury had a delightful idea. Marvelous. Exciting. He said, “Emma, I think this would be more enjoyable if you resisted me a bit. Not seriously, you understand. Not physically. Just keep asking me not to hurt you. And cry.”

She stared at him.

“Could you cry for me, Emma?”

“I’m so scared.”

“Good! Excellent! I didn’t tell you to relax, did I? You should be scared. Damned scared. And obedient. Are you frightened enough to cry, Emma?”

She shivered. “You’re very firm.” She said nothing. “Cry for me.” “Bob..

“He can’t help you.” He squeezed her breasts. “My son.

“He’s watching. It’s all right if he watches. Didn’t he suck these when he was a baby?”

Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “Oh, that’s sweet.”

Mark could only carry the squirrel and the cage for fifteen or twenty steps at a time. Then he had to put it down and shake his arms to get the pain out of them.

“Cup your breasts with your hands.” She did as she was told.

She wept.

“Pull on the nipples.”

“Don’t make me do this.”