Read Online By the light of the moon by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dean Koontz
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unopened bag of peanuts, evidently dropped
by the smiling salesman-who-wasn't-a-salesman, and a dead but still
formidable beetle the size and shape of half an avocado. The insect
lay on its glossy shell, six stiff legs sticking straight in the
air, eliciting a far less emotional response from Jilly than would
have a kitten or puppy in the same condition.
Harboring little interest in entomology, she left the bristling
beetle untouched, but she stooped to pluck the bag of peanuts from
the pavement. Having read her share of Agatha Christie mysteries,
she had been convinced instantly upon spotting the peanuts that
here lay a valuable clue for which the police would be
grateful.
When she rose to her full height once more, she realized that
the warm dry air had not purged her of the lingering effects of the
anesthetic as completely as she'd thought. As a whirl of dizziness
came and passed, she wondered if she had been mistaken about where
she'd parked the Coupe DeVille. Perhaps it had been twenty feet to
the left of her motel room instead of to the right.
She peered in that direction and saw a white Ford Expedition,
just twelve or fifteen feet away. The Cadillac might be parked on
the far side of the SUV.
Stepping over the beetle, she returned to the covered walkway.
She approached the Expedition, realizing that she was headed in the
direction of the vending-machine alcove where she would find more
of the root beer that had gotten her in all this trouble in the
first place.
When she passed the SUV and didn't find her Coupe DeVille, she
became aware of two people hurrying toward her. She said, 'The
smiley bastard stole my car,' before she realized what an odd
couple she had encountered.
The first guy – tall, as solid as an NFL linebacker
– carried a box approximately the size of a pizza container
with a pair of shoes balanced on top. In spite of his intimidating
size, he didn't seem the least threatening, perhaps because he had
a bearish quality. Not a rip-your-guts-out grizzly bear, but a
burly Disney bear of the
gosh-how-did-I-get-my-butt-stuck-in-this-tire-swing variety. He
wore rumpled khaki pants, a yellow-and-blue Hawaiian shirt, and a
wide-eyed worried expression that suggested he'd recently robbed a
hive of honey and expected to be hunted down by a swarm of angry
bees.
With him came a smaller and younger man – maybe five feet
nine or ten, about 160 pounds – in blue jeans and a white
T-shirt featuring a portrait of Wile E. Coyote, the hapless
predator of the Road Runner cartoons. Shoeless, he accompanied the
larger man with reluctance; his right sock appeared to be snugly
fitted, but his loose left sock flapped with each step.
Although the Wile E. fan shuffled along with his arms dangling
limply at his sides, offering no resistance, Jilly assumed he would
have preferred not to go with the bearish man, because he was being
pulled by his left ear. At first she thought she heard him
protesting this indignity. When the pair drew closer and she could
hear the younger guy more clearly, however, she couldn't construe
his words as a protest.
'—electroluminescence, cathode luminescence—'
The bearish one halted in front of Jilly, bringing the smaller
man to a stop as well. In a voice much deeper – but no less
gentle – than that of Pooh, of Pooh Corners, he said, 'Excuse
me, ma'am, I didn't hear what you said.'
Head tilted under the influence of the hand that gripped his
left ear, the younger man kept talking, though perhaps not either
to his burly keeper or to Jilly: '—nimbus, aureola, halo,
corona, parhelion—'
She couldn't be certain whether this encounter was in reality as
peculiar as it seemed to be or whether the lingering anesthetic
might be distorting her perceptions. The prudent side of her argued
for silence and for a sprint toward the motel office, away from
these strangers, but the prudent side of her had hardly more
substance than a shadow, so she repeated herself: 'The smiley
bastard stole my
by the smiling salesman-who-wasn't-a-salesman, and a dead but still
formidable beetle the size and shape of half an avocado. The insect
lay on its glossy shell, six stiff legs sticking straight in the
air, eliciting a far less emotional response from Jilly than would
have a kitten or puppy in the same condition.
Harboring little interest in entomology, she left the bristling
beetle untouched, but she stooped to pluck the bag of peanuts from
the pavement. Having read her share of Agatha Christie mysteries,
she had been convinced instantly upon spotting the peanuts that
here lay a valuable clue for which the police would be
grateful.
When she rose to her full height once more, she realized that
the warm dry air had not purged her of the lingering effects of the
anesthetic as completely as she'd thought. As a whirl of dizziness
came and passed, she wondered if she had been mistaken about where
she'd parked the Coupe DeVille. Perhaps it had been twenty feet to
the left of her motel room instead of to the right.
She peered in that direction and saw a white Ford Expedition,
just twelve or fifteen feet away. The Cadillac might be parked on
the far side of the SUV.
Stepping over the beetle, she returned to the covered walkway.
She approached the Expedition, realizing that she was headed in the
direction of the vending-machine alcove where she would find more
of the root beer that had gotten her in all this trouble in the
first place.
When she passed the SUV and didn't find her Coupe DeVille, she
became aware of two people hurrying toward her. She said, 'The
smiley bastard stole my car,' before she realized what an odd
couple she had encountered.
The first guy – tall, as solid as an NFL linebacker
– carried a box approximately the size of a pizza container
with a pair of shoes balanced on top. In spite of his intimidating
size, he didn't seem the least threatening, perhaps because he had
a bearish quality. Not a rip-your-guts-out grizzly bear, but a
burly Disney bear of the
gosh-how-did-I-get-my-butt-stuck-in-this-tire-swing variety. He
wore rumpled khaki pants, a yellow-and-blue Hawaiian shirt, and a
wide-eyed worried expression that suggested he'd recently robbed a
hive of honey and expected to be hunted down by a swarm of angry
bees.
With him came a smaller and younger man – maybe five feet
nine or ten, about 160 pounds – in blue jeans and a white
T-shirt featuring a portrait of Wile E. Coyote, the hapless
predator of the Road Runner cartoons. Shoeless, he accompanied the
larger man with reluctance; his right sock appeared to be snugly
fitted, but his loose left sock flapped with each step.
Although the Wile E. fan shuffled along with his arms dangling
limply at his sides, offering no resistance, Jilly assumed he would
have preferred not to go with the bearish man, because he was being
pulled by his left ear. At first she thought she heard him
protesting this indignity. When the pair drew closer and she could
hear the younger guy more clearly, however, she couldn't construe
his words as a protest.
'—electroluminescence, cathode luminescence—'
The bearish one halted in front of Jilly, bringing the smaller
man to a stop as well. In a voice much deeper – but no less
gentle – than that of Pooh, of Pooh Corners, he said, 'Excuse
me, ma'am, I didn't hear what you said.'
Head tilted under the influence of the hand that gripped his
left ear, the younger man kept talking, though perhaps not either
to his burly keeper or to Jilly: '—nimbus, aureola, halo,
corona, parhelion—'
She couldn't be certain whether this encounter was in reality as
peculiar as it seemed to be or whether the lingering anesthetic
might be distorting her perceptions. The prudent side of her argued
for silence and for a sprint toward the motel office, away from
these strangers, but the prudent side of her had hardly more
substance than a shadow, so she repeated herself: 'The smiley
bastard stole my
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