The Servants of Twilight by Dean Koontz Page A

that she had already packed—and the pistol.
    She decided they wouldn’t go to a hotel first. They’d go straight to a detective agency and not waste any time dealing with this.
    Her mouth was sandpaper-dry. Her heart thudded. She was breathing hard and fast.
    In her mind a terrible vision rose, an image of a bloody and decapitated body sprawled on the back porch. But in the vision, it wasn’t Brandy she saw in gory ruin. It was Joey.

7
     
    Charlie Harrison was proud of his accomplishments. He had started with nothing, just a poor kid from the shabby side of Indianapolis. Now, at thirty-six, he was owner of a thriving business—full owner since the retirement of the company’s founder, Harvey Klemet—and was living the good life in southern California. If he wasn’t exactly on top of the world yet, he was at least eighty percent of the way there, and the view from his current elevation was quite satisfying.
    The offices of Klemet-Harrison were not remotely like the seedy quarters of private investigators in novels and films. These rooms, on the fifth floor of a five-story building on a quiet street in Costa Mesa, were comfortably and tastefully decorated.
    The reception lounge made a good first impression on new clients. It was plushly carpeted, and the walls were covered with a subtle grass cloth. The furniture was new—and not from the low end of the manufacturer’s line, either. The walls weren’t adorned only with cheap prints; there were three Eyvind Earle serigraphs worth more than fifteen hundred dollars apiece.
    Charlie’s private office was even somewhat plusher than the reception area, yet it avoided the ponderous and solemn look favored by attorneys and many other professionals. Bleached-wood paneling reached halfway up the walls. There were bleached-wood shutters on the windows, a contemporary desk by Henredon, armchairs covered in an airy green print from Brunschwig & Fils. On the walls were two large, light-filled paintings by Martin Green, undersea scenes of ethereal plant life fluttering gracefully in mysterious currents and tides. A few large plants, mostly ferns and pothos, hung from the ceiling or rested on rosewood stands. The effect was almost subtropical yet cool and rich.
    But when Christine Scavello walked through the door, Charlie suddenly felt that the room was woefully inadequate. Yes, it was light and well-balanced and expensive and truly exquisite; nevertheless, it seemed hopelessly heavy, clunky, and even garish when compared to this striking woman.
    Coming out from behind his desk, he said, “Ms. Scavello, I’m Charlie Harrison. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
    She accepted his hand and said she was pleased to meet him, too.
    Her hair was thick, shiny, dark-dark brown, almost black. He wanted to run his fingers through it. He wanted to put his face in her hair and smell it.
    Unaccustomed to having such a strong and immediate reaction to anyone, Charlie reined himself in. He looked at her more closely, as dispassionately as possible. He told himself that she wasn’t perfect, certainly not breathtakingly beautiful. Pretty, yes, but not a total knockout. Her brow was somewhat too high, and her cheekbones seemed a little heavy, and her nose was slightly pinched.
    Nevertheless, with a breathless and ingratiating manner that wasn’t like him, he said, “I apologize for the condition of the office,” and was surprised and dismayed to hear himself make such a statement.
    She looked puzzled. “Why should you apologize? It’s lovely.”
    He blinked. “You really think so?”
    “Absolutely. It’s unexpected. Not at all what I thought a private detective’s office would look like. But that just makes it even more interesting, appealing.”
    Her eyes were huge and dark. Clear, direct eyes. Each time he met them, his breath caught for an instant.
    “Did it myself,” he said, deciding the room didn’t look so bad, after all. “Didn’t use an interior decorator.”
    “You’ve