The Servants of Twilight

"We don't even have a car now," she said.

"Sure we do."

"A stolen car."

"It's got four wheels," he said." It runs. That's good enough."

"I feel like we're the cowboys in one of those old movies where the Indians trap them in a box canyon and keep pushing them farther and farther toward the wall."

"Remember who always won in those movies," Charlie said.

"The cowboys," Joey said.

"Exactly."

He had to stop for a red traffic light because, as luck would have it, a police cruiser was stopped on the other side of the intersection. He didn't like sitting there, vulnerable. He used the rearview mirror and the side mirror to keep a watch on the car that had followed them, afraid that someone would get out of it while they were immobilized here-someone with a shotgun.

In a weary voice that dismayed Charlie, Christine said, "I wish I had your confidence."

So do I, he thought wryly.

The light changed. He crossed the intersection. Behind him, the unknown car fell back a bit.

He said, "Everything'll seem better in the morning."

"And where will we be in the morning?" she asked.

They had come to an intersection where Wilshire Boulevard lay in front of them. He turned right, toward the freeway entrance, and said, "How about Santa Barbara?"

"Are you serious?"

"It's not that far. A couple hours. We could be there by nine-thirty, get a hotel room."

The unknown car had turned right at Wilshire, too, and was still on his tail.

"L.A."s a big city," she said." Don't you think we'd be just as safe hiding out here?"

"We probably would," he said." But I wouldn't feel as safe, and I've got to settle us down somewhere that feels right to me, so I can relax and think about the case from a calmer perspective. I can't function well in a constant panic. They won't expect us to go as far away from my operations as Santa Barbara. They'll expect me to hang around, at least as close as L.A., so I know we'll be safe up there."

He drove onto the entrance ramp of the San Diego Freeway, heading north.

Checked the rearview mirror. Didn't see the other car yet. Realized he was holding his breath.

She protested." You didn't bargain for this much trouble, this much inconvenience."

"Sure I did," he said." I thrive on it."

"Of course you do."

"Ask Joey. He knows all about us private detectives. He knows we just love danger."

"They do, Mom," the boy said." They love danger."

Charlie looked at the rearview mirror again. No other car had come onto the freeway behind him. They weren't being followed.

They drove north into the night, and after a while the rain began to fall heavily again, and there was fog. At times, because of the mist and rain that obscured the landscape and the road ahead, it seemed as if they weren't driving through the real world at all but through some haunted and insubstantial realm of spirits and dreams.

40

Kyle Barlowe's Santa Ana apartment was furnished to suit his dimensions.

There were roomy Lay-Z-Boy recliners, a big sectional sofa with a deep seat, sturdy end tables, and a solidly built coffee table on which a man could prop his feet without fear of the thing collapsing. He had searched a long time, in

countless used furniture stores, before he'd found the round table in the dining alcove; it was plain and somewhat battered, maybe not too attractive, but it was a little higher than most dining tables and gave him the kind of leg room he required. In the bathroom stood a very old, very large claw-foot tub, and in the bedroom he had one big dresser that he'd picked up for fortysix bucks and a king-size bed with an extra-long custom mattress that accommodated him, though with not an inch to spare.

This was the one place in the world in which he could be truly comfortable.

But not tonight.

He could not be comfortable when the Antichrist was still alive. He could not relax, knowing that two assassination attempts had failed within the past twelve hours.

He paced from the small kitchen to the living room, into the bedroom, back to the living room again, pausing to look out windows. Main Street was eerily lit by sickly yellow streetlamps, as well as by red and blue and pink and purple neon, all bleeding together, disguising the true colors of every object, giving the shadows fuzzy electric edges. Passing cars spewed up phosphorescent plumes of water that splashed back to the pavement, like rhinestone sequins. The failing rain looked silvery and molten, though the night was far from hot.

He tried watching television. Couldn't get interested in it.

He couldn't keep still. He sat down, got up right away, sat in another chair, got up, went into the bedroom, stretched out on the bed, heard an odd noise at the window, got up to investigate, realized it was only rainwater falling through the downspout, returned to bed, decided he didn't want to lie down, returned to the living room.

The Antichrist was still alive.

But that wasn't the only thing that was making him nervous.