omnipresent eyes, that it was welcoming us, and that in its welcome there was no goodwill, only a terrible hunger.
Then we drove back into town to do some research.
The county library was an imposing Gothic structure adjacent to the courthouse. The granite walls were darkened and mottled and slightly pitted by years of steel-mill effluvia, rail-yard dust, and the foul breath of coal mines. A crenelated roofline, narrow barred windows, a deeply recessed entrance, and a heavy wooden door gave the impression that the building was a vault entrusted with something of considerably greater financial value than books.
Inside, there were plain, solidly constructed oak tables and chairs where visitors could read—though not in comfort. Behind the tables were the stacks: eight-foot-high oak shelves bracketing aisles lit by amber bulbs dangling under wide cone-shaped, blue-enameled tin shades. The aisles were narrow and quite long, with angles in them, creating a maze. For some reason I thought of ancient Egyptian tombs deep under pyramidal piles of stone, breached by twentieth-century man bearing electric illumination where only oil lamps and tallow candles had burned before.
Rya and I traveled those book-walled corridors, bathed in the odor of yellowing paper and musty cloth bindings. I felt as if the London of Dickens and the Arab world of Burton and a thousand other worlds of a thousand other writers were here to be breathed in and assimilated almost without the necessity of reading, as if they were mushrooms that had thrown off pungent clouds of pollen which, on inhalation, fertilized the mind and the imagination. I longed to pluck a volume off a shelf and escape into its pages, for even the nightmare worlds of Lovecraft, Poe, or Bram Stoker would be more appealing than the real world in which we had to live.
However, we’d come primarily to peruse the Yontsdown Register, copies of which were at the back of the enormous main room, beyond the stacks. Recent issues of the newspaper were stored in large file drawers according to their dates of publication, while older issues were on spools of microfilm. We spent a couple of hours catching up on the events of the past seven months, and we learned a lot.
The decapitated bodies of Chief Lisle Kelsko and his deputy had been found in the patrol car where Joel Tuck and Luke Bendingo had abandoned it on that violent night last summer. I had expected the police to attribute the murders to a transient, which in fact they had done. But to my shock and dismay I learned that they had made an arrest: a young drifter named Walter Dembrow, who had supposedly committed suicide in his jail cell two days after making a confession and being charged with two counts of homicide. Hung himself. With a rope fashioned of his own torn shirt.
Spiders of guilt scurried up my spine and settled in my heart to feed upon me.
Simultaneously Rya and I looked away from the screen of the microfilm reader and met each other’s eyes.
For a moment neither of us could speak, cared to speak, dared to speak. Then: “Dear God,” she whispered, though there was no one near enough to overhear us.
I felt sick. I was glad I was sitting down, for I was suddenly weak. “He didn’t hang himself,” I said.
“No. They saved him the trouble by doing it for him.”
“After God knows what torture.”
She bit her lip and said nothing.
Far off in the stacks, people murmured. Soft footsteps receded in the pulp-perfumed maze.
I shuddered. “In a way . . . I killed Dembrow. He died for me.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Yes. By killing Kelsko and his deputy, by giving the goblins an excuse to persecute Dembrow—”
“He was a drifter, Slim,” she said sharply. She took my hand. “Do you think many drifters get through this town alive? These creatures thrive on our pain and suffering. They eagerly seek out victims. And the easiest victims are drifters—hoboes, beatnik types in search of enlightenment or whatever the hell beatniks are in search of, young kids who take to the roads to find themselves. Snatch one of them off the highway, beat and torture and murder him, bury the body quietly, and no one will ever know what happened to him—or care. From the goblins’ point of view it’s safer than killing locals, and every bit as satisfying, so I doubt very much if they ever pass up the chance to torment and slaughter a drifter. If you hadn’t killed Kelsko and his deputy, this Dembrow most likely would have vanished on his way through Yontsdown, and the end he’d have met would have been pretty much the same. The only difference is that he was used as a scapegoat, a convenient body to help the cops close the file on a case they found unsolvable. You aren’t responsible.”
“If not me, who?” I said miserably.
“The goblins,” she said. “The demonkind. And, by God, we’ll make them pay for Dembrow along with everything else.”
Her words and conviction made me feel somewhat (though not much) better.
The dryness of books—which was called to mind by the crisp sound of some unseen browser turning brittle pages in a hidden aisle—was transmitted to me. As I thought of Walter Dembrow dying for my sins, my heart seemed to wither within me. I felt hot and parched, and when I cleared my throat, I made a raspy noise.
Reading further, we discovered that Kelsko had been replaced by a new police chief whose name was shockingly familiar: Orkenwold, Klaus Orkenwold. He was the goblin who had once visited the very house we were now renting on Apple Lane, where his sister-in-law had lived. Just for the thrill of it, he’d tortured and dismembered her, had fed her to the furnace—then her two children after her. I had seen those bloody crimes with my sixth sense when Jim Garwood had insisted on taking us into the mildew-scented cellar; later, in the car, I had told Rya of my unsettling visions. Now we stared at each other with surprise and apprehension, wondering about the meaning of this coincidence.
As I have mentioned, I suffer bleak moods during which I believe the world must be a meaningless place of random actions and reactions, where there is no worthwhile purpose to life, where all is emptiness and ashes and pointless cruelty. In that mood I am an intellectual brother of the grim-minded author of Ecclesiastes.
This was not one of those times.
On other occasions, when I am in a more spiritual—if not exactly better—mood, I see strange and entrancing patterns to our existence that I cannot understand, encouraging glimpses of a carefully ordered universe in which nothing whatsoever occurs by chance. With Twilight Eyes, I vaguely perceive a guiding force, a higher order of intellect that has some use for us—perhaps an important purpose. I sense a design, although the precise nature of it and the meaning remain a profound mystery to me.
This was such an occasion.
We had not merely returned to Yontsdown by our own choice. We had been meant to return to deal with Orkenwold—or with the system that he represented.
In an admiring profile of Orkenwold, a Register reporter wrote of the policeman’s courage in overcoming several personal tragedies. He had married a widow with three kids—Maggie Walsh, née Penfield—and after two years of what was widely perceived as a blissfully happy marriage, he had lost his wife and adopted children in a flash fire that had swept his house one night while he had been away on duty. The fire had been so intense that only bones remained.
Neither Rya nor I bothered to voice the opinion that the fire had been no accident and that if the bodies had not been destroyed by the blaze, an honest coroner would have found evidence of brutal injuries unrelated to the flames.
A month after that tragedy, another struck. Orkenwold’s patrol-car partner and brother-in-law, Tim Penfield, had been shot and killed by a warehouse burglar who was, immediately thereafter, conveniently shot dead by Klaus.
Neither Rya nor I mentioned the obvious: that Klaus Orkenwold’s brother-in-law had not been a goblin and for some reason had begun to suspect Orkenwold of the murder of Maggie and her three children, whereupon Orkenwold had conspired to kill him.
The Register quoted Orkenwold as having said, at the time, “I really don’t know if I can go on with policework. He wasn’t
just my brother-in-law. He was my partner, my best friend, the best friend I’ve ever had, and I only wish it was me who’d been shot and killed.” It was a splendid performance, considering that Orkenwold surely had blown away both his partner and some innocent on whom he’d cleverly placed the blame. His predictably swift return to duty was viewed as yet another sign of his courage and sense of responsibility.
Hunched in front of the microfilm reader, Rya hugged herself and shivered.
I did not have to ask the cause of her chill.
I rubbed my frigid hands together.
A lion-voiced winter wind roared and cat-shrieked against the library’s high, narrow, opaque windows, but the sound of it could not make us colder than we already were.
I felt as if we were not reading an ordinary newspaper account but were deep into the forbidden Book of the Damned, in which the savage activities of the demonkind had been meticulously recorded by some Hell-born scribe.
For sixteen months Klaus Orkenwold provided financially for his widowed sister-in-law, Dora Penfield, and her two children. But he was stricken by another tragedy when the three of them disappeared without a trace.
I knew what had happened to them. I had seen—and heard and felt—their horrible suffering in the ghost-ridden cellar of the clapboard house on Apple Lane.
After marrying Tim Penfield’s sister, then torturing and killing her and her children, after killing Tim Penfield and blaming it on a burglar, Orkenwold had proceeded to wipe out the last remaining members of the Penfield line.
The goblins are the hunters.
We are the prey.
They stalk us relentlessly in a world that is, to them, nothing but an enormous game preserve.
I did not have to read any further. But I went on, anyway—as if by reading the Register’s lies I was bearing silent witness to the truth of the Penfields’ deaths and was, in some manner I could not entirely understand or explain, accepting a sacred duty to exact their retribution for them.
Upon the disappearance of Dora and her children, a two-month-long investigation was launched, until blame was finally (unjustly) laid on Winston Yarbridge, a bachelor coal-mine foreman who lived alone in a house half a mile farther along Apple Lane from the one in which Dora had resided. Yarbridge vociferously insisted upon his innocence, and his reputation as a quiet churchgoing man seemed to support him. Ultimately, however, the poor man was convicted on the massive weight of evidence that had been collected, evidence that purported to show how, in a fit of sexual psychopathy, he had stolen into the Penfield house, had abused the woman and both children, had cold-bloodedly hacked them to pieces, and then had disposed of their remains in a superheated furnace fueled by oil-soaked coal. Bloodstained underwear belonging to the children and to Mrs. Penfield were discovered in Winston Yarbridge’s house, stashed in a steamer trunk at the back of a closet. As might be expected of a homicidal maniac, he was found to have saved one severed finger from each of his victims, each grisly digit submerged in a small jar of alcohol and labeled with the victim’s name. He had the murder weapons, too, plus a collection of pornographic magazines that pandered to bondage enthusiasts and sadists. He claimed that these damning items had been planted in his house—as, of course, they had been. When two of his fingerprints were discovered on the furnace in the Penfield basement, he said the police must be lying about where they had lifted those prints—as, of course, they were. The police claimed that their case was solid and that the villainous Yarbridge, in those days of frequent capital punishment, would surely die in the electric chair—as, of course, he did.
Orkenwold himself had helped crack the infamous Yarbridge case, and according to the Register he had subsequently built a dazzling law-enforcement career with an unprecedented number of arrests and convictions. The general feeling was that Orkenwold richly deserved promotion to the highest office in the department. His suitability for the job was only confirmed by the swiftness with which he had brought the drifter, Walter Dembrow, to justice for the assassination of his predecessor.
Although I had killed Chief Lisle Kelsko, I had not given the long-suffering people of Yontsdown any respite by that act. Indeed the nightmarish political machine of goblin power had functioned smoothly, elevating another torture-master from the ranks to replace the fallen chief.
Rya turned away from the microfilm for a moment and stared up at one of the library’s high windows. Only pallid light as weak as moonbeams managed to pierce the frosted glass, and the glow from the microfilm machine did more to illuminate her troubled face. At last she said, “You’d think that, somewhere along the line, someone would have begun to suspect Orkenwold of having a hand in the endless so-called tragedies that took place around him.”
“Maybe,” I said. “And in an ordinary town perhaps another cop or a newspaper reporter or someone else of authority would decide to take a careful look at him. But here, his kind rule. They are the police. They control the courts, the city council, the mayor’s office. Very likely they own the newspaper as well. They have a tight rein on every institution that might be used as a vehicle for getting at the truth, so truth remains forever suppressed.”
Returning to the spools of microfilm and also to the hardcopy issues of the daily Register, we continued our research. Among other things, we learned that Klaus Orkenwold’s brother, Jensen Orkenwold, owned one-third of the Lightning Coal Company. The other partners, each one-third owners, were a man named Anson Corday, who was also the publisher and editor of the city’s only newspaper, and Mayor Albert Spectorsky, the florid-faced politician I had met last summer when I had come to town with Jelly Jordan on his mission as carnival patch. The web of goblin power was clear; and as I had suspected, the center of the web seemed to be the Lightning Coal Company.
When we were finally finished with our research in the library, we risked a visit to the Registrar of Deeds in the basement of the county courthouse next door. The place was crawling with goblins, though the clerks in the registrar’s office, occupying positions of no real power, were ordinary human beings. There we went through the big land-record books and, more to satisfy our curiosity than for any other reason, we confirmed what we had suspected: the house on Apple Lane, in which the Penfields had died and in which we were now ensconced, belonged to Klaus Orkenwold, Yontsdown’s new chief of police. He had inherited the property from Dora Penfield . . . after murdering her and her children.
Our landlord, in whose house we were plotting revolution against the demonkind, was one of them.
Here again was that glimpse of a mysterious pattern—as if there was such a thing as destiny, and as if our inescapable destiny included deep and perhaps deadly involvement with Yontsdown and its goblin elite.
We ate an early dinner in the city, bought a few groceries, and headed for Apple Lane shortly after nightfall, with Rya driving.
Over dinner, we had debated the wisdom of finding new quarters not owned by a goblin. But we had decided that we would call more attention to ourselves by abandoning the house after paying the rent in advance than we would by remaining there. Living in such a tainted place would perhaps require greater diligence and caution, but we believed we would be safe—as safe as we would be anywhere else in this city.
I still remembered the uneasiness that had filled me on our most recent visit to the house, but I attributed my qualms to frayed nerves and adrenaline exhaustion. Although the place disturbed me, I did not have any premonition that we would be putting ourselves in jeopardy by taking up residence there.
We were on East Duncannon Road, two miles from the turnoff to Apple Lane, when we passed through a green traffic signal and saw a Yontsdown police cruiser stopped at the red signal on our right. A mercury-vapor street lamp shed slightly purple beams through that car’s dirty windshield, providing just enough light for me to see that the cop behind the wheel was a goblin. The hateful, demonic face was vaguely visible beneath the human disguise.
However, with my special vision I saw something else
, as well, and for a moment I was breathless. Rya had driven almost half a block before I was able to speak: “Pull over!”
“What?”
“Quickly. Pull to the curb. Stop. Put out the headlights.”
She did as I demanded. “What’s wrong?”
My heart seemed to sprout wings, beat them, and swoop frantically within my chest.
“That cop at the intersection,” I said.
“I noticed him,” Rya said. “A goblin.”
I turned the rearview mirror so I could use it, and I saw that the traffic signal behind us had not yet changed. The police car was still waiting at the corner.
I said, “We’ve got to stop him.”
“The cop?”
“Yes.”
“Stop him . . . from doing what?”
“From killing,” I said. “He’s going to kill someone.”
“They’re all going to kill someone,” she said. “That’s what they do.”
“No, I mean . . . tonight. He’s going to kill someone tonight.”
“You’re sure?”
“Soon. Very soon.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he knows yet. But before long, within an hour or less, he’ll come upon . . . an opportunity. And he’ll seize it.”
Behind us, the traffic light winked yellow, blinked red. At the same time it changed to green in the other direction, so the police cruiser turned the corner, heading our way.
“Follow him,” I told Rya. “But for God’s sake, not too close. We mustn’t let him realize he’s under surveillance.”
“Slim, we’re here on a bigger mission than saving one life. We can’t risk it all just because—”
“We have to. If we let him drive away, knowing he’s going to kill an innocent person tonight . . .”
The cruiser passed us, eastbound on Duncannon.
Refusing to follow that car, Rya said, “Listen, stopping one murder is like trying to plug a huge hole in a dam with a piece of chewing gum. We’re better off laying low and doing our research, finding out how we can strike at the entire goblin network here—”
“Kitty Genovese,” I said.
Rya stared at me.
“Remember Kitty Genovese,” I said.
She blinked. She shivered. She sighed. She put the car in gear and reluctantly followed the cop.
chapter twenty-three
ABATTOIR
He cruised through an outlying neighborhood of decrepit houses: ruptured sidewalks, swaybacked steps, broken porch railings, aged and weathered walls. If possessed of voices, they were structures that would groan, sigh bitterly, wheeze, cough, and feebly complain of time’s injustice.
We followed discreetly.
Earlier in the day, after signing the lease, we had bought tire chains at a Gulf station. The steel links clinked and clattered and, at higher speeds, sang shrilly. Now and then, the residue of winter crunched under our fortified tread.
The cop drove slowly past several closed businesses—a muffler shop, a tire store, an abandoned service station, a used bookstore—and shone the patrol car’s high-intensity spotlight along the darkened flanks of the buildings, searching for would-be burglars, no doubt, but scaring up nothing more than dervish shadows that whirled and leapt and were extinguished in the dazzling beam.
We stayed at least a block behind him, letting him turn corners and disappear from sight for long seconds, so he would not notice that it was always the same car following.
In time his path crossed that of a stranded motorist parked on the berm, against a snowbank, near the junction of East Duncannon Road and Apple Lane. The broken-down car was a four-year-old green Pontiac wearing a skirt of road grime, with short, blunt, muddy icicles hanging from sections of its rear bumper. It had New York State license plates, a detail which confirmed my feeling that this was where the cop would find his victim. After all, a far-traveler passing through Yontsdown would make safe and easy prey because no one could prove that he had disappeared in that city rather than elsewhere along his route.
The patrol car pulled onto the berm and stopped behind the disabled Pontiac.
“Drive past,” I told Rya.
An attractive redhead, about thirty years old, wearing knee-high boots and jeans and a thigh-length gray plaid coat, was standing in front of the Pontiac, her breath pluming frostily in the freezing air. Having raised the hood, she was peering quizzically into the engine compartment. Although she had removed one of her gloves, she did not seem to know what to do with the pale hand that she had bared; she reached hesitantly toward something under the hood, then drew back in confusion.
Clearly hoping for assistance, she glanced at us as we slowed for the intersection.
Just for a fraction of a second I saw an eyeless skull where her face should have been. Its bony sockets seemed of great depth, bottomless.
I blinked.
To my Twilight Eyes, her mouth and nostrils appeared to be teeming with maggots.
I blinked again.
The vision passed, and so did we.
She would die tonight—unless we did something to help her.
A restaurant-bar occupied the corner of the next block, and it was the last lighted place before Duncannon Road rose into the coal-dark, tree-shrouded foothills that ringed three sides of Yontsdown. Rya swung our station wagon into the parking lot, tucked it beside a pickup truck with a camper shell, and cut the headlights. From that position, looking westward beneath the lowest bristly