The Servants of Twilight

"That's it," Christine said." Even if there was some way to squeeze out a few hundred dollars more, the banks are all closed.

So now what?"

They stopped at a small shopping center, where they bought a new purse for Christine, a briefcase in which Charlie could carry the neat stacks of cash they had amassed, and a newspaper.

A headline on the bottom half of the front page caught his attention: CULT LEADER SOUGHT IN WAKE OF ARSON, BOMBINGS.

He showed the story to Christine. Standing under an awning in front of a dress shop, they read the piece all the way through, while rain hissed and pattered and gurgled in the settling twilight. Their names-and Joey's were mentioned repeatedly, and the article said Chaflie was wanted for questioning in a related homicide investigation, but fortunately there were no pictures.

"So the police aren't just looking for me," Charlie said.

"They want to talk to Grace Spivey, too. That's some consolation, anyway."

"Yeah, but they won't be able to pin anything on her," Christine said."

She's too slippery, too clever."

" A witch isn't scared of cops," Joey said grimly.

"Don't be pessimistic," Charlie told them." If you'd seen her with those holes in her hands, if you'd heard her raving, you'd know she's teetering right on the edge. Wouldn't surprise me if she bragged about what she'd done next time the cops talk to her."

Christine said, "Listen, they're probably looking for her down in Orange County, or maybe in L.A., but not up here. Why don't we call the cops-anonymously, of course-and tell them she's in the neighborhood?"

" Excellent idea," he said.

He made the call from a pay phone and kept it brief. He spoke with a desk sergeant named Pulaski and told him that the incident at the Wile-Away Lodge, earlier in the day, had involved Grace Spivey and the Church of the T. He described the white vans and warned Pulaski that the TWilighters were armed with automatic weapons. He hung up without answering any of the sergeant's questions.

When they were in the car once more, Charlie opened the paper to the classified ads, found the "For Sale" section under the heading

"Automobiles," and began reading.

The house was small but beautifully kept. It was a Cape Codstyle structure, unusual for California, pale blue with white shutters and white window frames. The lamps at the end of the walk and those on the porch pillars were brass ship's lamps with flameshaped bulbs. It looked like a warm, snug haven against the storm and against all the other vicissitudes of life.

Charlie had a sudden longing for his own home, back in North Tkjstin.

Belatedly, he felt the terrible impact of the news that Henry had given him this morning: His house, like Christine's, had been burned to the ground. He had told himself insurance would cover the loss. He had told himself there was no use crying over spilt milk. He had told himself that he had more important things to worry about than what he had lost in the fire.

But now, no matter what he told himself, he could not dispel the dull ache that took possession of his heart. Standing here in the chilly February darkness, dripping rainwater, weary and worried, burdened by his responsibility for the safety of Christine and Joey (a crushing weight that grew heavier by the hour), he was overcome by a poignant yearning for his favorite chair, for the familiar books and furnishings of his den.

Stop it, he told himself angrily. There's no time for sentiment or self-pity. Not if we're going to stay alive.

His house was rubble.

His favorite chair was ashes.

His books were smoke.

With Christine, Joey, and Chewbacca, Charlie climbed the porch steps of the Cape Cod F, — ,use and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a white-haired, sixtyish man in a brown cardigan sweater.

Charlie said, "Mr. Madigan? I called a little while ago about-"

"You're Paul Smith," Madigan said.

"Yes," Charlie said.

"Come in, come in. Oh, you've got a dog. Well, just tie him up there on the porch."

Looking past Madigan at the light beige carpet in the living room, Charlie said, "Afraid we'll track up your carpet. Is that the station wagon there in the driveway?"

"That's it," Madigan said." Wait a moment, and I'll get the keys.

They waited in silence on the porch. The house was on a hill above Santa Barbara. Below, the city twinkled and shimmered in the darkness, beyond curtains of blowing rain.

When Madigan returned, he was wearing a raincoat, hood, and high-top galoshes. The amber light from the porch lamps softened the wrinkles in his face; if they had been making a movie and looking for a gentle grandfatherly type, Madigan would have been perfect casting. He assumed Christine and Joey were Charlie's wife and son, and he expressed concern about them being out in such foul weather.

"Oh, we're originally from Seattle," Christine lied." We're used to duck weather like this."

Joey had retreated even further into his private world. He didn't speak to Madigan, didn't smile when the old man teased him.