Darkfall by Dean Koontz
3
Rebecca drove up the Avenue of the Americas, almost to Central Park, then made an illegal U-turn in the middle of the deserted intersection and headed downtown once more, with no cause to worry about other drivers. There actually was some traffic—snow removal vehicles, an ambulance, even two or three radio cabs—but for the most part the streets were bare of everything but snow. Twelve or fourteen inches had fallen, and it was still coming down fast. No one could see the lane markings through the snow; even where the plows scraped, they didn’t make it all the way down to bare pavement. And no one was paying any attention to one-way signs or to traffic signals, most of which were on the blink because of the storm.
Davey’s exhaustion had eventually proved greater than his fear. He was sound asleep on the back seat.
Penny was still awake, although her eyes were bloodshot and watery looking. She was clinging resolutely to consciousness because she seemed to have a compulsive need to talk, as if continual conversation would somehow keep the goblins away. She was also staying awake because, in a round-about fashion, she seemed to be leading up to some important question.
Rebecca wasn’t sure what was on the girl’s mind, and when, at last, Penny got to it, Rebecca was surprised by the kid’s perspicacity.
“Do you like my father?”
“Of course,” Rebecca said. “We’re partners.”
“I mean, do you like him more than just as a partner?”
“We’re friends. I like him very much.”
“More than just friends?”
Rebecca glanced away from the snowy street, and the girl met her eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered,” Penny said.
Not quite sure what to say, Rebecca returned her attention to the street ahead.
Penny said, “Well? Are you? More than just friends?”
“Would it upset you if we were?”
“Gosh, no!”
“Really?”
“You mean, maybe I might be upset because I’d think you were trying to take my mother’s place?”
“Well, that’s sometimes a problem.”
“Not with me, it isn’t. I loved my Mom, and I’ll never forget her, but I know she’d want me and Davey to be happy, and one thing that’ll make us real happy is if we could have another mom before we’re too old to enjoy her.”
Rebecca almost laughed in delight at the sweet, innocent, and yet curiously sophisticated manner in which the girl expressed herself. But she bit her tongue and remained straight-faced because she was afraid that Penny might misinterpret her laughter. The girl was so serious.
Penny said, “I think it would be terrific—you and Daddy. He needs someone. You know ... someone ... to love.”
“He loves you and Davey very much. I’ve never known a father who loved his children—who cherished them—as much as Jack loves and cherishes the two of you.”
“Oh, I know that. But he needs more than us.” The girl was silent for a moment, obviously deep in thought. Then: “See, there’re basically three types of people. First, you’ve got your givers, people who just give and give and give and never expect to take anything in return. There aren’t many of those. I guess that’s the kind of person who sometimes ends up being made a saint a hundred years after he dies. Then there’re your givers-and-takers, which is what most people are; that’s what I am, I guess. And way down at the bottom, you’ve got your takers, the scuzzy types who just take and take and never-ever give anything to anyone. Now, I’m not saying Daddy’s a complete giver. I know he isn’t a saint. But he’s not exactly a giver-and-taker, either. He’s somewhere in between. He gives a whole lot more than he takes. You know? He enjoys giving more than he enjoys getting. He needs more than just Davey and me to love ... because he’s got a lot more love in him than just that.” She sighed and shook her head in evident frustration. “Am I making any sense at all?”
“A lot of sense,” Rebecca said. “I know exactly what you mean, but I’m amazed to be hearing it from an eleven-year-old girl.”
“Almost twelve.”
“Very grown up for your age.”
“Thank you,” Penny said gravely.
Ahead, at a cross street, a roaring river of wind moved from east to west and swept up so much snow that it almost looked as if the Avenue of the Americas terminated there, in a solid white wall. Rebecca slowed down, switched the headlights to high beam, drove through the wall and out the other side.
“I love your father,” she told Penny, and she realized she hadn’t yet told Jack. In fact, this was the first time in twenty years, the first time since the death of her grandfather, that she had admitted loving anyone. Saying those words was easier than she had thought it would be. “I love him, and he loves me.”
“That’s fabulous,” Penny said, grinning.
Rebecca smiled. “It is rather fabulous, isn’t it?”
“Will you get married?”
“I suspect we will.”
“Double fabulous.”
“Triple.”
“After the wedding, I’ll call you Mom instead of Rebecca—if that’s all right.”
Rebecca was surprised by the tears that suddenly rose in her eyes, and she swallowed the lump in her throat and said, “I’d like that.”
Penny sighed and slumped down in her seat. “I was worried about Daddy. I was afraid that witchdoctor would kill him. But now that I know about you and him ... well, that’s one more thing he has to live for. I think it’ll help. I think it’s real important that he’s got not just me and Davey but you to come home to. I’m still afraid for him, but I’m not so afraid as I was.”
“He’ll be all right,” Rebecca said. “You’ll see. He’ll be just fine. We’ll all come through this just fine.”
A moment later, when she glanced at Penny, she saw that the girl was asleep.
She drove on through the whirling snow.
Softly, she said, “Come home to me, Jack. By God, you’d better come home to me.”
4
Jack told Carver Hampton everything, beginning with the call from Lavelle on the pay phone in front of Rada, and concluding with the rescue by Burt and Leo in their Jeep, the trip to the garage for new cars, and the decision to split up and keep the kids safely on the move.
Hampton was visibly shocked and distressed. He sat very still and rigid throughout the story, not even once moving to sip his brandy. Then, when Jack finished, Hampton blinked and shuddered and downed his entire glassful of Remy Martin in one long swallow.
“And so you see,” Jack said, “when you said these things came from Hell, maybe some people might’ve laughed at you, but not me. I don’t have any trouble believing you, even though I’m not too sure how they made the trip.”
After sitting rigidly for long minutes, Hampton suddenly couldn’t keep still. He got up and paced. “I know something of the ritual he must have used. It would only work for a master, a Bocor of the first rank. The ancient gods wouldn’t have answered a less powerful sorcerer. To do this thing, the Bocor must first dig a pit in the earth. It’s shaped somewhat like a meteor crater, sloping to a depth of two or three feet. The Bocor recites certain chants ... uses certain herbs.... And he pours three types of blood into the hole—cat, rat, and human. As he sings a final and very long incantation, the bottom of the pit is miraculously transformed. In a sense ... in a way that is impossible to explain or understand, the pit becomes far deeper than two or three feet; it interfaces with the Gates of Hell and becomes a sort of highway between this world and the Underworld. Heat rises from the pit, as does the stench of Hell, and the bottom of it appears to become molten. When the Bocor finally summons the entities he wants, they pass out through the Gates and then up through the bottom of the pit. On their way, these spiritual beings acquire physical bodies, golem bodies composed of the earth through which they pass; clay bodies that are nevertheless flexible and fully animated and alive. From your vivid descriptions of the creatures you’ve seen tonight, I??
“Oh, these damned things were plenty hideous enough,” Jack assured him.
“But, supposedly, there are many Ancient Ones whose physical forms are so repulsive that the mere act of looking at them results in instant death for he who sees,” Hampton said, pacing.
Jack sipped his brandy. He needed it.
“Furthermore,” Hampton said, “the small size of these beasts would seem to support my belief that the Gates are currently open only a crack. The gap is too narrow to allow the major demons and the dark gods to slip out.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Yes,” Carver Hampton agreed. “Thank all the benevolent gods for that.”
5
Penny and Davey were still asleep. The night was lonely without their company.
The windshield wipers flogged the snow off the glass.
The wind was so fierce that it rocked the sedan and forced Rebecca to grip the steering wheel more firmly than she had done before.
Then something made a noise beneath the car. Thump, thump. It knocked against the undercarriage hard enough to startle her, though not loud enough to wake the kids.
And again. Thump, thump.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, trying to see if she’d run over anything. But the car’s back window was partially frosted, limiting her view, and the tires churned up plumes of snow so thick that they cast everything behind the car into obscurity.
She nervously scanned the lighted instrument panel in the dashboard, but she couldn’t see any indication of trouble. Oil, fuel, alternator, battery—all seemed in good shape; no warning lights, no plunging needles on the gauges. The car continued to purr along through the blizzard. Apparently, the disconcerting noise hadn’t been related to a mechanical problem.
She drove half a block without a recurrence of the sound, then an entire block, then another one. She began to relax.
Okay, okay, she told herself. Don’t be so damned jumpy. Stay calm and be cool. That’s what the situation calls for. Nothing’s wrong now, and nothing’s going to go wrong, either. I’m fine. The kids are fine. The car’s fine.
Thump-thump-thump.
6
The gas flames licked the ceramic logs.
The blown-glass lamps glowed softly, and the candles flickered, and the special darkness of the night pressed against the windows.
“Why wouldn’t those creatures bite me? Why can’t Lavelle’s sorcery harm me?”
“There can be only one answer,” Hampton said. “A Bocor has no power whatsoever to harm a righteous man. The righteous are well-armored.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. You’re righteous, virtuous. You’re a man whose soul bears the stains of only the most minor sins.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No. By the manner in which you’ve led your life, you’ve earned immunity to the dark powers, immunity to the curses and charms and spells of sorcerers like Lavelle. You cannot be touched.”
“That’s just plain ridiculous,” Jack said, feeling uncomfortable in the role of a righteous man.
“Otherwise, Lavelle would have had you murdered by now.”
“I’m no angel.”
“I didn’t say you were. Not a saint, either. Just a righteous man. That’s good enough.”
“Nonsense. I’m not righteous or—”
“If you thought of yourself as righteous, that would be a sin—a sin of self righteousness. Smugness, an unshakable conviction of your own moral superiority, a self-satisfied blindness to your own faults—none of those qualities is descriptive of you.”
“You’re beginning to embarrass me,” Jack said.
“You see? You aren’t even guilty of the sin of excessive pride.”
Jack held up his brandy. “What about this? I drink.”
“To excess?”
“No. But I swear and curse. I sure do my own share of that. I take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“A very minor sin.”
“I don’t attend church.”
“Church-going has nothing to do with righteousness. The only thing that really counts is how you treat your fellow human beings. Listen, let’s pin this down; let’s be absolutely sure this is why Lavelle can’t touch you. Have you ever stolen from anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you ever cheated someone in a financial transaction?”
“I’ve always looked out for my own interests, been aggressive in that regard, but I don’t believe I’ve ever cheated anyone.”
“In your official capacity, have you ever accepted a bribe?”
“No. You can’t be a good cop if you’ve got your hand out.”
“Are you a gossiper, a slanderer?”
“No. But forget about that small stuff.” He leaned forward in his armchair and locked eyes with Hampton and said, “What about murder? I’ve killed two men. Can I kill two men and still be righteous? I don’t think so. That strains your thesis more than a little bit.”
Hampton looked stunned but only for a moment. He blinked and said, “Oh. I see. You mean that you killed them in the line of duty.”
“Duty is a cheap excuse, isn’t it? Murder is murder. Right?”
“What crimes were these men guilty of?”
“The first was a murderer himself. He robbed a series of liquor stores and always shot the clerks. The second was a rapist. Twenty-two rapes in six months.”
“When you killed these men, was it necessary? Could you have apprehended them without resorting to a gun?”
“In both cases they started shooting first.”
Hampton smiled, and the hard lines of his battered face softened. “Self-defense isn’t a sin, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah? Then why’d I feel so dirty after I pulled the trigger? Both times. I felt soiled. Sick. Once in a while, I still have a nightmare about those men, bodies torn apart by bullets from my own revolver ... ”
“Only a righteous man, a very virtuous man, would feel remorse over the killing of two vicious animals like the men you shot down.”
Jack shook his head. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with this new vision of himself. “I’ve always seen myself as a fairly average, ordinary guy. No worse and no better than most people. I figure I’m just about as open to temptation, just about as corrupt as the next joe. And in spite of everything you’ve said, I still see myself that way.”
“And you always will,” Hampton said. “Humility is part of being a righteous man. But the point is, to deal with Lavelle, you don’t have to believe you’re really a righteous man; you just have to be one.”
“Fornication,” Jack said in desperation. “That’s a sin.”
“Fornication is a sin only if it is obsessive, adulterous, or an act of rape. An obsession is sinful because it violates the moral precept ‘All things in moderation.’ Are you obsessed with sex?”
“I like it a lot.”
“Obsessed?”
“No.”
“Adultery is a sin because it is a violation of the marriage vows, a betrayal of trust, and a conscious cruelty,” Hampton said. “When your wife was alive, did you ever cheat on her?”
“Of course not. I was in love with Linda.”
“Before your marriage or after your wife’s death, did you ever go to bed with somebody else’s wife? No? Then you aren’t guilty of either form of adultery, and I know you’re incapable of rape.”
“I just can’t buy this righteousness stuff, this idea that I’m one of the chosen or something. It makes me queasy. Look, I didn’t cheat on Linda, but while we were married I saw other women who turned me on, and I fantasized, and I wanted them, even if I didn’t do anything about it. My thoughts weren’t
“Sin isn’t in the thought but in the deed.”
“I am not a saintly character,” Jack said adamantly.
“As I told you, in order to find and stop Lavelle, you don’t need to believe—you only need to be.”
7
Rebecca listened to the car with growing dread. Now, there were other sounds coming from the undercarriage, not just the odd thumping, but rattling and clanking and grating noises, as well. Nothing loud. But worrisome.
We’re only safe as long as we keep moving.
She held her breath, expecting the engine to go dead at any moment.
Instead, the noises stopped again. She drove four blocks with only the normal sounds of the car and the overlaid moan and hiss of the storm wind.
But she didn’t relax. She knew something was wrong, and she was sure it would start acting up again. Indeed, the silence, the anticipation, was almost worse than the strange noises.
8
Still psychically linked with the murderous creatures he had summoned from the pit, Lavelle drummed his heels on the mattress and clawed at the dark air. He was pouring sweat; the sheets were soaked, but he was not aware of that.
He could smell the Dawson children. They were very close.
The time had almost come. Just minutes now. A short wait. And then the slaughter.