Dean Koontz - What the Night Knows

As his fingers found the small box from Piper’s Gallery, three knocks and three more issued from the farther end of the garage, from beyond the parked cars. Sharp, insistent, the rapping knuckles of an impatient visitor at a door.

In spite of fluorescent panels, shadows swagged here and there. None moved or resolved into a figure.

Directly overhead, the rapping came again. John looked at the plastered ceiling, startled – then relieved. Just air bubbles knocking through a copper water line, rattling the pipe against a joist.

From a pocket of the hanging raincoat, he retrieved the six cookies that Marion Dunnaway had presented to him in a OneZip bag.

He unlocked an inside door and stepped onto the landing at the foot of the back stairs. The lock engaged automatically behind him.

The door at the top opened on Nicolette’s large studio. Working on a painting, her back toward him, she didn’t know he had arrived.

Girlishly slim, brown hair almost black and tied in a ponytail, barefoot, wearing tan jeans and a yellow T-shirt, Nicky worked with the litheness and physical charm of a dancer between dances.

John smelled turpentine and under it the fainter scent of stand oil. On a small table to the right of Nicky, from an insulated mug, the aromas of black tea and currants rose on ribbons of steam.

The same table supported a vase of two dozen so-called black roses that were in fact dark red, darker than a corrupted vermilion pigment in the process of reverting to a black form of mercuric sulfide. The striking flowers had no scent that he could detect.

When painting, Nicky always kept roses nearby, in whatever color her mood required. She called them humility roses, because if she became too impressed with any canvas on her easel – which could lead to a sloppiness born of pride – she needed only to study a rose in full bloom to remind herself that her work was a pale reflection of true creation.

Her current project was a triptych, three large vertical panels, a scene that reminded John of Gustave Caillebotte’s Paris Street: Rainy Weather , though her painting depicted neither Paris nor rain. Caillebotte’s masterly work was an inspiration for her, but she had her own style and subject matter.

John liked to watch his wife at moments she thought herself unobserved. When she lacked all self-awareness, her characteristic ease of action and elegant posture were so pure and unaffected that she became the essence of grace, and so beautiful.

This time, his belief that he had arrived with perfect stealth proved wrong when she said, “What have you been staring at so long – the painting or my ass? Be careful what you answer.”

“You look so delectable in those jeans,” he said, “it’s amazing you’ve painted something that could be equally mesmerizing.”

“Ah! You’re as smooth as ever, Detective Calvino.”

He went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She turned her head, leaned back, and he kissed her throat, the delicate line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

“You’ve been eating coconut something,” she said.

“Not me.” He dangled the bag of cookies in front of her. “You could smell them through an airtight seal?”

“I’m starved. I came up here at eleven, never stopped for lunch. This bitch” – she indicated the triptych – “wants to break me.”

Occasionally, when a picture proved a special challenge to her talent, she referred to it as either a bitch or a bastard. She could not explain why, in her mind, each painting had a specific gender.

“A lovely army nurse baked these for the kids. But I’m sure they’ll share.”

“I’m not so sure, the little fiends. Why are you hanging out with army nurses?”

“She was older than your mother and just as proper. She’s a sort of witness on a case.”

John knew many cops who never discussed active investigations with their wives, for fear that evidence would be compromised during beauty-shop gossip or over coffee with the neighbors.

He could tell Nicky anything, with confidence that she would not repeat a word of what he said. She was warm and forthcoming at all times, but regarding his police work, she had the virtue of a stone.

As for his current and unofficial investigation, however, he intended to keep it to himself. At least for the moment.

Nicky said, “Better than a cookie – cabernet.”

“I’ll open a bottle, then freshen up for dinner.”

“I’ve got maybe a dozen strokes to make and one sable brush to clean, and then I’m done with this bitch for the day.”

Another door opened on a large landing at the head of the front stairs. Directly across from the studio stood the door to the master suite: beyond, a bedroom with a white-marble fireplace featuring ebony inlays, a sitting room, two walk-in closets, a spacious bath.

The retreat included a compact bar with an under-the-counter refrigerator and wine cooler. John uncorked a bottle of Cakebread cabernet sauvignon and carried it, with two glasses, into the master bathroom, where he put everything on the black-granite counter between the sinks and poured for both of them.

When he glanced at himself in the mirror, he didn’t look the least bit apprehensive.

In his closet, he took the boxed bells from his coat pocket. He put them in the jewelry drawer with his cuff links, tie chains, and spare watch.

He slipped out of his shoulder rig and put it, with the pistol still contained, on a high shelf.

He hung his sport coat on the to-iron rod and tossed his shirt in the laundry basket. He sat on a dressing bench, slipped out of his rain-wet Rockport walking shoes, and set them aside to be shined. His socks were damp. He stripped them off and put on a fresh pair.

These mundane tasks were slowly taking the supernatural shine off the day. He began to think that in time he might find logical explanations for everything that had seemed outré, that what appeared to be malevolent fate in action might look more like mere coincidence in the morning light.

At his bathroom sink, he scrubbed his hands and face. A hot washcloth, like a poultice, drew the ache out of his neck muscles.

As John was toweling dry, Nicky arrived, took her glass of wine, and sat on the wide edge of the marble tub. She wore white sneakers on the toes of which, as a joke during play with Minette a few weeks earlier, she had painted LEFT and RIGHT, each word on the wrong shoe.

Picking up his wine, leaning on the counter with his back to the mirror, John said, “Walter and Imogene are still here?”

“They had a mini-crisis with Preston this morning. He’s been hospitalized again. They didn’t get here until two o’clock.”

Preston, their thirty-six-year-old son, lived with them. He had been through rehab twice, but he still enjoyed washing down illegally obtained prescription medications with tequila.

“I told them to take the day off, no problem,” Nicky said, “but you know how they are.”

“Responsible as hell.”

She smiled. “Not much call for their type in the modern world. I told them you expected to be late, but they insisted on staying to serve dinner and do the initial cleanup.”

“Has Minette eaten?”

“Not without Daddy. No way. We’re all night owls here, and she might be the most nocturnal of us all.”

“The Cakebread’s nice.”

“Bliss.” She sipped her wine.

On her driver’s license, her eyes were said to be blue, but they were purple. Sometimes they were as bright and deep as an effulgent twilight sky. At the moment, they were iris petals in soft shadow.

She said, “Preston worries me, you know.”

“Doesn’t worry me. He’s a self-centered creep. He’ll overdose or he won’t. What worries me is the toll he’s taking on his parents.”