The Servants of Twilight

hand." How I wish I could sleep, how I long for sleep, for surcease from all these demands and anxieties! But He has transformed me so that I can function without sleep during this crisis.

I will not sleep well again until the Lord wills it. For reasons I don't understand, He needs me awake, insists upon it, gives me the strength to endure without sleep, keeps me alert, almost too alert." Her voice was shaking, and Barlowe imagined it was both awe and fear that put the tremor in it." I tell you, dear Kyle, it's both glorious and terrible, wonderful and frightful, exhilarating and exhausting to be the instrument of God's will."

She opened her purse, withdrew a handkerchief, and blew her nose.

Suddenly she noticed that the hankie was stained brown and yellow, disgustingly knotted and crusted with dried snot.

"Look at this," she said, indicating the handkerchief." It's horrible.

I used to be so neat. So clean. My husband, bless his soul, always said my house was cleaner than a hospital operating room. And I was always very conscious of grooming; I dressed well. And I never would have carried a revolting handkerchief like this, never, not before the Gift was given to me and crowded out so many ordinary thoughts." Tears glimmered in her gray eyes." Sometimes. I'm frightened.

grateful to God for the Gift, yes. grateful for what I've gained

but frightened about what I've lost. "

He wanted to understand what it must be like for her, to be the instrument of God's will, but he couldn't comprehend her state of mind or the mighty forces working within her. He did not know what to say to her, and he was depressed that he couldn't conifort her.

She said, "Go home, sleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, we'll kill the boy.

28

In the car, speeding through the storm-sodden streets, Charlie insisted on having a look at Christine's wound, although she said it wasn't serious. He was relieved to discover that she was right; she had only been grazed; the bullet had left a shallow furrow, two inches long, just above her hip. It was more of an abrasion than a wound, mostly cauterized by the beat of the bullet; the slug wasn't in her, and there was only minor bleeding. Nevertheless, they stopped at an all-night market, where they picked up alcohol and iodine and bandages, and Charlie dressed the wound while Vince, behind the wheel, got them on the road again. They switched from street to street, doubled back, circled through the rain-lashed darkness, like a flying insect reluctant to light anywhere for fear of being swatted, crushed.

They took every possible precaution to insure that they weren't followed, and they didn't arrive at the safe-house in Laguna Beach until almost one o'clock in the morning. It was halfway up a long street, with (in daylight) a view of the ocean; a small place, almost a bun alow, two bedrooms and one bath; quaint, about forty years old but beautifully maintained, with a trellised front porch, gingerbread shutters; shrouded in bougainvillaea that grew up one wall and most of the way across the roof. The house belonged to Henry Rankin's aunt, who was vacationing in Mexico, and there was no way Grace Spivey or anyone from the Church of the TWilight could know about it.

Charlie wished they had come here earlier, that he had never allowed Christine and Joey to return to their own house. Of course, he'd had no way of knowing that Grace Spivey would take such drastic and violent action so soon. Killing a dog was one thing, but dispatching assassins armed with shotguns, sending them boldly into a quiet residential neighborhood. well, he hadn't imagined she was that crazy. Now he had lost two of his men, two of his friends. An emotional acid, part grief and part self-reproach, ate at him. He had known Pete Lockburn for nine years, Frank Reuther for six, and liked both of them a great deal. Although he knew he wasn't at fault for what had happened, he couldn't help blaming himself, he felt as bleak as a man could feel without contemplating suicide.

He tried to conceal the depth of his grief and rage because he didn't want to upset Christine further. She was distraught about the murders and seemed determined to hold herself, in part, accountable. He tried to reason with her: Frank and Pete knew the risk when they took the job; if she hadn't hired Klemet Harrison, the bodies now on the way to the morgue would be hers and Joey's, so she'd done the right thing by seeking help.

Regardless of the arguments he presented, she couldn't shake off her dark sense of responsibility.

Joey had fallen asleep in the car, so Charlie carried him through the slanting rain, through the drizzling night quiet of the Laguna hills, into the house. He put him down on the bed in the master bedroom, and the boy didn't even stir, only murmured softly and sighed. Together, Charlie and Christine undressed him and put him under the covers.

"I guess it won't hurt if he misses brushing his teeth just one night,"

she said worriedly.