Velocity. Dean Koontz

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       This is Billy. I’m at home. What the hell? What’ve you done? Call me now.

      After listening to his own voice, he deleted the message.

      Maybe that was a mistake, but he didn’t see any way that it could prove his innocence. On the contrary, it would establish that he had expected to see Lanny during the evening just past and that he had been angry with him.

      Which would make him a suspect.

      He had brooded about the voice mail during the drive to the church parking lot and during the walk through the meadow. Deleting it seemed the wisest course if he found what he expected to find on the second floor.

      He switched off the cell phone and used the dishtowel to wipe it clean of prints. He returned it to the counter where he had found it.

      If someone had been watching right then, he would have figured Billy for a calm, cool piece of work. In truth, he was half sick with dread and anxiety.

      An observer might also have thought that Billy, judging by his meticulous attention to detail, had covered up crimes before. That wasn’t the case, but brutal experience had sharpened his imagination and had taught him the dangers of circumstantial evidence.

      An hour previously, at 1:44, the killer had rung Billy from this house. The phone company would have a record of that brief call.

      Perhaps the police would think it proved Billy couldn’t have been here at the time of the murder.

      More likely, they would suspect that Billy himself had placed the call to an accomplice at his house for the misguided purpose of trying to establish his presence elsewhere at the time of the murder.

      Cops always suspected the worst of everyone. Their experience had taught them to do so.

      At the moment, he couldn’t think of anything to be done about the phone-company records. He put it out of his mind.

      More urgent matters required his attention. Like finding the corpse, if one existed.

      He didn’t think he should waste time searching for the killer’s two notes. If they were still intact, he would most likely have found them on the table at which Lanny had been drinking or on the counter with his wallet, pocket change, and cell phone.

      The flames in the den fireplace, on this warm summer night, led to a logical conclusion about the notes.

      Taped to the side of a kitchen cabinet was a cartoon hand that pointed to the swinging door and the downstairs hallway.

      At last Billy was willing to take direction, but a shrinking, anxious fear immobilized him.

      Possession of a firearm and the will to use it did not give him sufficient courage to proceed at once. He did not expect to encounter the freak. In some ways the killer would have been less intimidating than what he did expect to find.

      The bottle of rum tempted him. He had felt no effect from the three bottles of Guinness. His heart had been thundering for most of an hour, his metabolism racing.

      For a man who was not much of a drinker, he’d recently had to remind himself of that fact often enough to suggest that a potential rummy lived inside him, yearning to be free.

      The courage to proceed came from a fear of failing to proceed and from an acute awareness of the consequences of surrendering this hand of cards to the freak.

      He left the kitchen and followed the hall to the foyer. At least the stairs were not dark; there was light here below, at the landing, and at the top.

      Ascending, he did not bother calling Lanny’s name. He knew that he would receive no answer, and he doubted that he could have found his voice anyway.

       12

      Opening off the upper hallway were three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a closet. Four of those five doors were closed.

      On both sides of the entrance to the master bedroom were cartoon hands pointing to that open door.

      Reluctant to be herded, thinking of animals driven up a ramp at a slaughterhouse, Billy left the master bedroom for last. He first checked the hall bath. Then the closet and the two other bedrooms, in one of which Lanny kept a drawing table.

      Using the dishtowel, he wiped all the doorknobs after he touched them.

      With only the one space remaining to be searched, he stood in the hall, listening. No pin dropped.

      Something had stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t swallow it. He couldn’t swallow it because it was no more real than the sliver of ice sliding down the small of his back.

      He entered the master bedroom, where two lamps glowed.

      The rose-patterned wallpaper chosen by Lanny’s mother had not been removed after she died and not even, a few years later, after Lanny moved out of his old room into this one. Age had darkened the background to a pleasing shade reminiscent of a light tea stain.

      The bedspread had been one of Pearl Olsen’s favorites: rose in color overall, with embroidered flowers along the borders.

      Often during Mrs. Olsen’s illness, following chemotherapy sessions, and after her debilitating radiation treatments, Billy had sat with her in this room. Sometimes he just talked to her or watched her sleep. Often he read to her.

      She had liked swashbuckling adventure stories. Stories set during the Raj in India. Stories with geishas and samurai and Chinese warlords and Caribbean pirates.

      Pearl was gone, and now so was Lanny. Dressed in his uniform, he sat in an armchair, legs propped on a footstool, but he was gone just the same.

      He had been shot in the forehead.

      Billy didn’t want to see this. He dreaded having this image in his memory. He wanted to leave.

      Running, however, was not an option. It never had been, neither twenty years ago nor now, nor any time between. If he ran, he would be chased down and destroyed.

      The hunt was on, and for reasons he didn’t understand, he was the ultimate game. Speed of flight would not save him. Speed never saved the fox. To escape the hounds and the hunters, the fox needed cunning and a taste for risk.

      Billy didn’t feel like a fox. He felt like a rabbit, but he would not run like one.

      The lack of blood on Lanny’s face, the lack of leakage from the wound suggested two things: that death had been instantaneous and that the back of his skull had been blown out.

      No bloodstains or brain matter soiled the wallpaper behind the chair. Lanny had not been drilled as he sat there, had not been shot anywhere in this room.

      As Billy had not found blood elsewhere in the house, he assumed that the killing occurred outside.

      Perhaps Lanny had gotten up from the kitchen table, from his rum and Coke, half СКАЧАТЬ