Dean Koontz - The Moonlit Mind - A Tale of Suspense

“That’s when you opened the deck the first time,” she presses, for she knows this story well.

“We had a light down there in the storeroom. The cards were something to do, to take my mind off … whatever. It was a brand-new pack. I know it had to be new because I broke the seal, stripped off the cellophane.”

He opens the box now, removes the cards, but leaves them stacked facedown.

“I shuffled them,” he remembers, “I don’t know … maybe five or six times. I was nine, the only card game I could play was five-hundred rummy, but I couldn’t even do that because I didn’t have anyone to play with but the dog.”

“So you just dealt two hands faceup, so you could play against yourself.”

“Stupid kid idea, playing against yourself. Anyway, the first four cards I deal are the sixes.”

The memory still disturbs him, and he pauses.

She can read him better than anyone has. She gives him time, but then nudges with three words: “Four moldy sixes.”

“A brand-new deck, but the sixes are dirty, creased, and moldy.”

“Like the sixes on the warehouse floor.”

“Exactly like. There were other cards scattered on the warehouse floor when the dog led me in there to the dead junkie and his money, but the sixes were all together, faceup.”

“All together when you went in.”

“Yeah. But when we came out, only one six was on the floor. All the other cards seemed to be scattered where they had been, but three of the sixes were missing.”

“Someone took them.”

“No one was there. And who would want some moldy old cards?”

In the basement storeroom of the magic-and-game shop, he had sat staring at the filthy cards for a long time, afraid to touch them.

“What I finally did was go through the rest of the deck to make sure there wasn’t a completely different set of sixes, clean ones, but there wasn’t.”

“And none of the other cards were dirty or creased, or moldy.”

“None,” he confirms. “I just didn’t want to touch those four, like there was a curse on them or something. But Harley kept sniffing them and looking at me. So I decided if they didn’t scare him, they shouldn’t scare me.”

Harley sighs and shudders, still asleep but evidently dreaming of something that pleases him.

“I put the moldy sixes on top of the deck and reached for the box to stow them away. But Harley slaps one paw down hard on the box before I can pick it up.”

“Good old Harley.”

“He gives me this stare that seems to say, What are you doing, boy? You’re not done with this yet .”

“The hairs were up on the back of your neck.”

“They were,” Crispin agrees, “but in a kind of good way. I don’t know what the dog wants me to do, so I shuffle several times and deal out four cards again.”

“The four sixes, but not the moldy ones.”

“You might as well tell it, since you know it so well.”

“I’d love to tell it if I knew anyone to trust with the story. But I like to hear you tell it.”

“With your editorial assistance.”

“No charge,” she says, and grins.

Her smile reminds him of Mirabell’s, and he loves her like a sister.

“I shuffle, deal, and right away turn up four sixes, but not moldy now. As crisp and clean as all the other cards. I go through the deck, looking for the damaged sixes, but there aren’t any.”

“Harley still has one paw on the card box.”

“He does. And for maybe an hour I keep shuffling and dealing, trying to turn up four moldy sixes again, or even four clean new ones, all in a row.”

“But it doesn’t happen.”

“It doesn’t,” Crispin agrees. “And then I hear myself say what I never thought to say. I mean, it all comes out of me like someone’s speaking through me. ‘Harley,’ I say, ‘when those four ugly ones come up again in a row, if they ever do, it’ll be time for us to go back to Theron Hall.’ ”

“So then he takes his paw off the box.”

“He does.”

“And you put the cards away.”

“I do.”

Amity leans back in the booth and crosses her arms over her chest, hugging herself. “Now comes the part I like best.”

Harley snorts, wakes, yawns, and sits up on the bench beside the Phantom of Broderick’s.

Nine-year-old Crispin on the night of archangels …

Whether the policeman on the two doorsteps is one man, twins, or something else altogether, Crispin is not going to be able to get help from outside the house.

Theron Hall seems deserted, and that means they are all in the basement. And his brother is down there with them. The feast, the celebration — whatever it is besides plain murder — will soon begin or has begun.

In his mind’s eye clearly appears one of the paintings from the book titled A Year of Saints . The three archangels. Gabriel carries a lily, and Raphael leads a young man named Tobias on some journey. Michael is the most formidable of them, clad in armor and carrying a sword.

From a rack of knives near the cooktop, Crispin selects the longest and sharpest blade.

Off the kitchen are two small offices, one belonging to the head housekeeper, the other used by the two butlers, Minos, who is now in France, and Ned. The butlers keep a wall-mounted metal box in which hang an array of spare keys, all labeled.

Crispin isn’t sure when he learned of this key collection, if he ever did, but now he takes a key labeled BASEMENT from one of the pegs. On second thought, he takes also a key labeled HOUSE. The keys and the knife, the wisdom and the sword.

On the desk lies a ledger in which Ned is balancing the petty-cash account. Beside the ledger is an envelope that contains sixty-one dollars in cash. Crispin takes only eleven dollars. He stuffs the two fives and the single in a pocket of his jeans. This isn’t stealing, this is desperate necessity. If it were theft, he would take all sixty-one bucks. And even if it might be to some degree stealing, it is also something much worse than theft, which he will in time understand.

He races down the south stairs to the basement door, glances back, but is not stalked this time by Cook Merripen. The key turns the lock, the bolt retracts, and the door opens into the lowest hall in the house.

As he crosses the threshold, he hears the chanting, which he’d been unable to hear on the farther side of the door because his heart is raising a rhythmic thunder in his ears.

The great steel slab stands open, and the light of many candles dances through the doorway into the otherwise shadowy corridor. He smells incense, too, a cloying fragrance utterly different from but somehow reminiscent of the aroma of the hideous stuff that Merripen poured into Crispin’s open mouth from the thermos.

He’s drawn forward by love for his brother, but he is at the same time hesitant, fearing not only for his own life but also for some other loss at the moment nameless but terrifying to consider. He’s never been so conflicted before, determined to spare Harley no matter how many of the enemy he must slash his way past … yet at the same time struggling with a desire to drop the knife and fall to his knees and do whatever they want of him now, right now, not five days from now on the feast of Saint Francis.

When he comes to the doorway, he discovers a chamber brightened mostly by candles standing on tiered tables around three sides of the room, a thousand candles if there’s one. The yellow-orange flames seem to quiver in time with the chanting, which is in a foreign language, maybe Latin.

Knife held out before him, Crispin crosses the threshold, past which the concrete floor leads to what seem to be numerous mattresses laid side by side and covered with black sheets. He halts when he realizes that they are all here and then some — the entire staff and perhaps a dozen strangers, Clarette and Giles, Nanny Sayo — and that they are all naked.