The Servants of Twilight

The dog snuffled at her, checking her out, cocked its head, looked at her as if it was trying to figure how she fit in, and finally put one paw on her leg, as if seeking her assurance that she would love it as much as its new young master did.

Sensing that she was already too late to take the dog back and get another breed, unhappily aware that Joey was already attached to the animal, she decided at least to stop him from calling the dog Brandy."

Honey, I think itd be a good idea to come up with another name."

"I like Brandy," he said.

"But using that name again it's like an insult to the first Brandy."

"It is?"

"Like you're trying to forget our Brandy."

"No!" he said fiercely." I couldn't ever forget." Tears came to his eyes again.

"This dog should have his own name," she insisted gently.

"I really like the name Brandy."

"Come on. Think of another name."

"Well. "

"How about. Prince.

"Yuck. But maybe. Randy.

She frowned and shook her head." No, honey. Think of something else.

Something totally different. How about.

something from Star Wars? Wouldn't it be neat to have a dog named Chewbacca?"

His face brightened." Yeah! Chewbacca! Thatd be great."

As if it had understood every word, as if voicing approval, the dog barked once and licked Christine's hand.

Charlie said, "Okay, let's put Chewbacca in your Firebird. I want to get out of here. You and Joey and I will ride in the Chevy, and Frank will drive. Pete'll follow us in your car, with Chewbacca. And by the way, we still have company."

Christine looked in the direction that Charlie indicated. The white van was at the far end of the parking lot, half in the yellowish light from the tall lampposts, half in shadow. The driver wasn't visible beyond the black windshield, but she knew he was in there, watching.

17

Night had fallen.

The storm clouds were still rolling in from the west. They were blacker than the night itself. They rapidly blotted out the stars.

In the white Chrysler, O'Hara and Baumberg cruised slowly, studying the well-maintained, expensive houses on both sides of the street. O'Hara was driving, and his hands kept slipping on the steering wheel because he was plagued by a cold sweat. He knew he was an agent of God in this matter because Mother Grace had told him so. He knew that what he was doing was good and right and absolutely necessary, but he still couldn't picture himself as an assassin, holy or otherwise. He knew that Baumberg felt the same way because the ex-jeweler was breathing too fast for a man who hadn't yet exerted himself. The few times that Baumberg had spoken, his voice had been shaky and higher-pitched than usual.

They weren't having doubts about their mission or about Mother Grace.

Both of them had a deep and abiding faith in the old woman. Both of them would do what they were told. O'Hara knew the boy must die, and he knew why, and he believed in the reason. Murdering this particular child did not disturb him.

He knew Baumberg felt the same way. They were sweat-damp and nervous merely because they were scared.

Along the tree-shrouded street, several houses were dark, and one of those might serve their purpose. But it was early in the evening, and a lot of people were still on their way back from work. O'Hara and Baumberg didn't want to select a house, break in, and then be discovered and perhaps trapped by some guy coming home with a briefcase in one hand and Chinese take-out in the other.

O'Hara was prepared to kill the boy and the boy's mother and any bodyguards hired to protect the boy, for all of them were in the service of Lucifer. Grace had convinced him of that. But O'Hara wasn't prepared to kill just any innocent bystander who happened to get in his way. Therefore, they would have to choose the house carefully.

What they were looking for was a place where a few days' worth of newspapers were piled up on the porch, or where the mailbox was overflowing, or where there was some other sign that the occupants were away from home. It had to be in this block, and they probably wouldn't find what they were looking for. In that case they'd have to shift to another plan of attack.

They had almost reached the north end of the block when Baumberg said,

"There. What about that place?"

It was a two-story Spanish house, light beige stucco with a tile roof, half hidden by large trees, banks of veronica, and rows of azaleas. The streetlight shone on a real estate company's sign that stood on the lawn, near the sidewalk. The house was for sale, and no lights glowed in any of its rooms.

"Maybe it's unoccupied," Baumberg said.

"No such luck," O'Hara said.

"It's worth taking a look."

"I guess so."

O'Hara drove to the next block and parked at the curb. Carrying an airline flight bag that he had packed at the church, he got out of the car, accompanied Baumberg to the Spanish house, hurried up a walkway bordered by flourishing begonias, and stopped at a gated atrium entrance. Here they were in deep shadow. O'Hara was confident they wouldn't be spotted from the street.