The Servants of Twilight

There was no point in hiding it from him and no point in telling him the old woman wasn't really a witch." Yeah. It was her."

" Mommy. I'm scared."

For the past several months, ever since he had overcome his fear of the imaginary white snake that had disturbed his sleep, he had called her

"Mom" instead of "Mommy" because he was trying to be more grown-up. His reversion to "Mommy" was an indication of just how badly frightened he was.

"It'll be all right. I'm not going to let anything happen to.

either of us. If we're just careful, we'll be okay."

She kept expecting to hear a knock at the door or see a face at the window. Where had the old woman been calling from?

How long would it take her to get here now that the cops were gone, now that she had a clear shot at Joey?

" What're we gonna do?" he asked.

She put the loaded gun on top of the six-drawer highboy and dragged two suitcases from the back of the closet." I'm going to pack a bag for each of us and then we're getting out of here."

"Where're we going?"

She threw one of the suitcases onto her bed and opened it."

don't know for sure, sweetheart. Anywhere. To a hotel, probably. We'll go someplace where that crazy old hag won't be able to find us no matter how hard she looks."

"Then what?"

As she folded clothes into the open suitcase, she said, "Then we'll find someone who can help us… really help us."

"Not like the cops?"

"Not like the cops."

"Who? "

"I'm not sure. Maybe… a private detective.

"Like Magnum on TV?"

"Maybe not exactly like Magnum," Christine said.

"Like who, then?"

"We need a big firm that can provide us with bodyguards and everything while they're tracking down that old woman. A firstrate organization."

"Like in them old movies?"

"What old movies are those?"

"You know. Where they're in real bad trouble, and they say, 'We'll hire Pinkelton." "

"Pinkerton," she corrected." Yeah. Something like Pinkerton. I can afford to hire people like that and, by God, I'm going to hire them.

We're not just going to be a couple of sitting ducks the way the cops would have us."

"I'd feel a whole bunch safer if we just went and hired Magnum," Joey said.

She didn't have time to explain to a six-year-old that Magnum wasn't a real private eye. She said, "Well, maybe you're right.

Maybe we will hire Magnum."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I "He'll do a good job," Joey said soberly." He always does."

At her direction, Joey took the empty suitcase and headed toward his room. She followed, carrying the suitcase that she had already packed-and the pistol.

She decided they wouldn't go to a hotel first. They'd go straight to a detective agency and not waste any time dealing with this.

Her mouth was sandpaper-dry. Her heart thudded. She was breathing hard and fast' '

In her mind a terrible vision rose, an image of a bloody and decapitated body sprawled on the back porch. But in the vision, it wasn't Brandy she saw in gory ruin. It was Joey.

7

Charlie Harrison was proud of his accomplishments. He had started with nothing, just a poor kid from the shabby side of Indianapolis. Now, at thirty-six, he was owner of a thriving business-full owner since the retirement of the company's founder, Harvey Klemet-and was living the good life in southern California. If he wasn't exactly on top of the world yet, he was at least eighty percent of the way there, and the view from his current elevation was quite satisfying.

The offices of Klemet-Harrison were not remotely like the seedy quarters of private investigators in novels and films. These rooms, on the fifth floor of a five-story building on a quiet street in Costa Mesa, were comfortably and tastefully decorated.

The reception lounge made a good first impression on new clients. It was plushly carpeted, and the walls were covered with a subtle grass cloth. The furniture was new-and not from the low end of the manufacturer's line, either. The walls weren't adorned only with cheap prints; there were three Eyvind Earle semigraphs worth more than fifteen hundred dollars apiece.

Charlie's private office was even somewhat plusher than the reception area, yet it avoided the ponderous and solemn look favored by attorneys and many other professionals. Bleachedwood paneling reached halfway up the walls. There were bleached-wood shutters on the windows, a contemporary desk by Henredon, armchairs covered in an airy green print from Brunschwig & Fils. On the walls were two large, light-filled paintings by Martin Green, undersea scenes of ethereal plant life fluttering gracefully in mysterious currents and tides. A few large plants, mostly ferns and pothos, hung from the ceiling or rested on rosewood stands. The effect was almost subtropical yet cool and rich.

But when Christine Scavello walked through the door, Charlie suddenly felt that the room was woefully inadequate. Yes, it was light and well-balanced and expensive and truly exquisite; nevertheless, it seemed hopelessly heavy, clunky, and even garish when compared to this striking woman.