Read Online The Servants of Twilight by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online

her late sixties or early seventies—”
    “Yes.”
    “—yet her face was hardly lined.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Unnaturally smooth, somewhat puffy, you said.”
    “Her skin, yes. I had an aunt who took cortisone injections for arthritis. Her face was like this woman’s face.”
    “So you think she’s being treated for some form of arthritis?”
    Christine shrugged. “I don’t know. Could be.”
    “Was she wearing a copper bracelet or any copper rings?”
    “Copper?”
    “It’s only a wives’ tale, of course, but a lot of people think copper jewelry helps arthritis. I had an aunt with arthritis, too, and she wore a copper necklace, two copper bracelets on each wrist, a couple of copper rings, and even a copper ankle bracelet. She was a thin little bird of a woman, weighed down with crummy-looking jewelry, and she swore by it, said it did her a world of good, but she never moved any easier and never had any relief from the pain.”
    “This woman didn’t have any copper jewelry. Lots of other jewelry, like I said, but nothing copper.”
    He stared at his notes. Then: “She didn’t tell you her name—”
    “No.”
    “—but was she wearing a monogram, like maybe on her blouse—”
    “No.”
    “—or were her initials spelled out on one of her rings?”
    “I don’t think so. If they were, I didn’t notice.”
    “And you didn’t see where she came from?”
    “No.”
    “If we knew what kind of car she got out of—”
    “I’ve no idea. We were almost to our car, and she just stepped out from beside it.”
    “What kind of car was parked next to yours?”
    She frowned, trying to remember.
    While she thought, Charlie studied her face, looking for imperfections. Nothing in this world was free of imperfections. Everything had at least one flaw. Even a bottle of Lafite Rothschild could have a bad cork or too much tannic acid. Not even a Rolls-Royce had an unblemished paint job. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups were unquestionably delicious—but they made you fat. However, no matter how carefully he studied Christine Scavello’s face, he could find nothing whatsoever wrong with it. Oh, yes, well, the pinched nose, and the heavy cheekbones, and the too-high brow, but in her case those didn’t strike him as imperfections; they were merely . . . well, deviations from the ordinary definition of beauty, minor deviations that gave her character, a look of her own—
    And what the hell is wrong with me? he wondered. I’ve got to stop mooning over her as if I were a lovesick schoolboy.
    On one hand, he liked the way he felt; it was a fresh, exhilarating feeling. On the other hand, he didn’t like it because he didn’t understand it, and it was his nature to want to understand everything. That was why he’d become a detective—to find answers, to understand .
    She blinked, looked up at him. “I remember. It wasn’t a car parked next to us. It was a van.”
    “A paneled van? What kind?”
    “White.”
    “I mean, what make?”
    She frowned again, trying to recall.
    “Old or new?” he asked.
    “New. Clean, sparkling.”
    “Did you notice any dents, scrapes?”
    “No. And it was a Ford.”
    “Good. Very good. Do you know what year?”
    “No.”
    “A recreational vehicle, was it? With one of those round windows on the side or maybe a painted mural?”
    “No. Very utilitarian. Like a van somebody would use for work.”
    “Was there a company name on the side?”
    “No.”
    “Any message at all painted on it?”
    “No. It was just plain white.”
    “What about the license plate?”
    “I didn’t see it.”
    “You passed by the back of the van. You noticed it was a Ford. The license plate would’ve been right there.”
    “I guess. But I didn’t look at it.”
    “If it becomes necessary, we can probably get it out of you with hypnosis. At least now we have a little something to start with.”
    “ If she got out of the van.”
    “For starters, we’ll assume she did.”
    “And that’s