The Eyes of Darkness by Dean Koontz

Posted by admin_akashic on Aug 7th, 2022 in Stories

wasn’t even able to attend the service. A couple weeks after the little girl was buried, the mother started feeling guilty about not paying her last respects.”

Remembering her own ordeal, Tina said, “I know. Oh, I know how it is.”

“The guilt eventually developed into serious emotional problems. Because the mother hadn’t seen the body in the funeral home, she just couldn’t bring herself to believe her daughter was really dead. Her inability to accept the truth was a lot worse than yours. She was hysterical most of the time, in a slow-motion breakdown. I arranged to have the grave reopened. In the course of preparing the exhumation request for the authorities, I discovered that my client’s reaction was typical. Apparently, when a child dies, one of the worst things a parent can do is refuse to look at the body while it’s lying in a casket. You need to spend time with the deceased, enough to accept that the body is never going to be animated again.”

“Was your client helped by exhumation?” “Oh, yes. Enormously.”

“You see?”

“But don’t forget,” Elliot said, “her daughter’s body wasn’t mutilated.” Tina nodded grimly.

“And we reopened the grave only two months after the funeral, not a whole year later. The body was still in pretty good condition. But with Danny . . . it won’t be that way.” “I’m aware of that,” she said. “God knows, I’m not happy about this, but I’m convinced it’s something I’ve got to do.”

“Okay. I’ll take care of it.”

“How long will you need?” she asked. “Will your husband contest it?”

She recalled the hatred in Michael’s face when she’d left him a few hours ago. “Yes. He probably will.”

Elliot carried their empty brandy glasses to the bar in the corner and switched on the light above the sink. “If your husband’s likely to cause trouble, then we’ll move fast and without fanfare. If we’re clever, he won’t know what we’re doing until the exhumation is a fait accompli. Tomorrow’s a holiday, so we can’t get anything done officially until Friday.”

“Probably not even then, what with the four-day weekend.”

Elliot found the bottle of liquid soap and the dishcloth that were stored under the sink. “Ordinarily I’d say we’d have to wait until Monday. But it happens I know a very reasonable judge. Harold Kennebeck. We served in Army Intelligence together. He was my senior officer. If I—”

“Army Intelligence? You were a spy?”

“Nothing as grand as that. No trench coats. No skulking about in dark alleys.” “Karate, cyanide capsules, that sort of stuff?” she asked.

“Well, I’ve had a lot of martial arts training. I still work at that a couple of days a week because it’s a good way to keep in shape. Really, though, it wasn’t like what you see in the movies. No James Bond cars with machine guns hidden behind the headlights. It was mostly dull information gathering.”

“Somehow,” she said, “I get the feeling it was considerably more . . . interesting than you make it out to be.”

“Nope. Document analysis, tedious interpretation of satellite reconnaissance photographs, that sort of thing. Boring as hell most of the time. Anyway, Judge Kennebeck and I go back a long way. We respect each other, and I’m sure he’ll do something for me if he can. I’ll be seeing him tomorrow afternoon at a New Year’s Day party. I’ll discuss the situation with him. Maybe he’ll be willing to slip into the courthouse long enough on Friday to review my exhumation request and rule on it. He’d only need a few minutes. Then we could open the grave early Saturday.”

Tina went to the bar and sat on one of the three stools, across the counter from Elliot. ‘The sooner the better. Now that I’ve made up my mind to do it, I’m anxious to get it over with.”

“That’s understandable. And there’s another advantage in doing it this weekend. If we move fast, it isn’t likely Michael will find out what we’re up to. Even if he does somehow get a whiff of it, he’ll have to locate another judge who’ll be willing to stay or vacate the exhumation order.”

“You think he’ll be able to do that?”

“No. That’s my point. There won’t be many judges around over the holiday. Those on duty will be swamped with arraignments and bail hearings for drunken drivers and for people involved in drunken assaults. Most likely, Michael won’t be able to get hold of a judge until Monday morning, and by then it’ll be too late.”

“Sneaky.”

“That’s my middle name.” He finished washing the first brandy snifter, rinsed it in hot water, and put it in the drainage rack to dry.

“Elliot Sneaky Stryker,” she said. He smiled. “At your service.” “I’m glad you’re my attorney.”

“Well, let’s see if I can actually pull it off.”

“You can. You’re the kind of person who meets every problem head-on.”

“You have a pretty high opinion of me,” he said, repeating what she had said to him earlier.

She smiled. “Yes, I do.”

All the talk about death and fear and madness and pain seemed to have taken place further back in the past than a mere few seconds ago. They wanted to have a little fun during the evening that lay ahead, and now they began putting themselves in the mood for it.

As Elliot rinsed the second snifter and placed it in the rack, Tina said, “You do that very well.”

“But I don’t wash windows.”

“I like to see a man being domestic.” “Then you should see me cook.” “You cook?”

“Like a dream.”

“What’s your best dish?” “Everything I make.”

“Obviously, you don’t make humble pie.”

“Every great chef must be an egomaniac when it comes to his culinary art. He must be totally secure in his estimation of his talents if he is to function well in the kitchen.”