The Eyes of Darkness by Dean Koontz

Posted by admin_akashic on Aug 7th, 2022 in Stories

FRIDAY

JANUARY 2

FOR THE MOST PART, RENO’S STREETS WERE CLEAN and dry in spite of a recent snowfall, though occasional patches of black ice waited for the unwary motorist. Elliot Stryker drove cautiously and kept his eyes on the road.

“We should almost be there,” Tina said.

They traveled an additional quarter of a mile before Luciano Bellicosti’s home and place of business came into sight on the left, beyond a black-bordered sign that grandiosely stated the nature of the service that he provided: FUNERAL DIRECTOR AND GRIEF COUNSELOR. It was an immense, pseudo-Colonial house, perched prominently on top of a hill, on a three- or four-acre property, and conveniently next door to a large, nondenominational cemetery. The long driveway curved up and to the right, like a width of black funeral bunting draped across the rising, snow-shrouded lawn. Stone posts and softly glowing electric lamps marked the way to the front door, and warm light radiated from several first-floor windows.

Elliot almost turned in at the entrance, but at the last moment he decided to drive by the place.

“Hey,” Tina said, “that was it.” “I know.”

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“Storming right up to the front door, demanding answers from Bellicosti—that would be emotionally satisfying, brave, bold—and stupid.”

“They can’t be waiting for us, can they? They don’t know we’re in Reno.”

“Never underestimate your enemy. They underestimated me and you, which is why we’ve gotten this far. We’re not going to make the same mistake they did and wind up back in their hands.”

Beyond the cemetery, he turned left, into a residential street. He parked at the curb, switched off the headlights, and cut the engine.

“What now?” she asked.

“I’m going to walk back to the funeral home. I’ll go through the cemetery, circle around, and approach the place from the rear.”

“We will approach it from the rear,” she said. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll wait here,” he insisted. “No way.”

Pale light from a street lamp pierced the windshield, revealing a hard-edged determination in her face, steely resolution in her blue eyes.

Although he realized that he was going to lose the argument, Elliot said, “Be reasonable. If there’s any trouble, you might get in the way of it.”

“Now really, Elliot, talk sense. Am I the kind of woman who gets in the way?” “There’s eight or ten inches of snow on the ground. You aren’t wearing boots.” “Neither are you.”

“If they’ve anticipated us, set a trap at the funeral home—”

“Then you might need my help,” she said. “And if they haven’t set a trap, I’ve got to be there when you question Bellicosti.”

“Tina, we’re just wasting time sitting here—”

“Wasting time. Exactly. I’m glad you see it my way.” She opened her door and climbed out of the car.

He knew then, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he loved her.

Stuffing the silencer-equipped pistol into one of his deep coat pockets, he got out of the Chevy. He didn’t lock the doors, because it was possible that he and Tina would need to get into the car in a hurry when they returned.

In the graveyard, the snow came up to the middle of Elliot’s calves. It soaked his trousers, caked in his socks, and melted into his shoes.

Tina, wearing rubber-soled sneakers with canvas tops, was surely as miserable as he was. But she kept pace with him, and she didn’t complain.

The raw, damp wind was stronger now than it had been a short while ago, when they’d landed at the airport. It swept through the graveyard, fluting between the headstones and the larger monuments, whispering a promise of more snow, much more than the meager flurries it now carried.

A low stone wall and a line of house-high spruce separated the cemetery from Luciano Bellicosti’s property. Elliot and Tina climbed over the wall and stood in the tree shadows, studying the rear approach to the funeral home.

Tina didn’t have to be told to remain silent. She waited beside him, arms folded, hands tucked into her armpits for warmth.

Elliot was worried about her, afraid for her, but at the same time he was glad to have her company.

The rear of Bellicosti’s house was almost a hundred yards away. Even in the dim light, Elliot could see the fringe of icicles hanging from the roof of the long back porch. A few evergreen shrubs were clustered near the house, but none was of sufficient size to conceal a man. The rear windows were blank, black; a sentry might be standing behind any of them, invisible in the darkness.

Elliot strained his eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of movement beyond the rectangles of glass, but he saw nothing suspicious.

There wasn’t much of a chance that a trap had been set for them so soon. And if assassins were waiting here, they would expect their prey to approach the funeral home boldly, confidently. Consequently, their attention would be focused largely on the front of the house.