WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

to get out of sight quickly.

He had no friends with whom they could take refuge. After Paula died, he had

withdrawn from his few friends, and he hadn’t maintained relationships with any

of the real-estate agents who had once worked for him. Nora had no friends,

either, thanks to Violet Devon.

The houses they passed, most with warm lights in the windows, seemed to mock

them with unattainable sanctuary.

8

Garrison Dilworth lived on the border between Santa Barbara and Montecito, on a

lushly landscaped half acre, in a stately Tudor home that did not mesh well with

the California flora but which perfectly complemented the attorney. When he

answered the door, he was wearing black loafers, gray slacks, a navy-blue sports

jacket, a white knit shirt, and half-lens tortoiseshell reading glasses over

which he peered at them in surprise but, fortunately, not with displeasure.

“Well, hello there, newlyweds!”

“Are you alone?” Travis asked as he and Nora and Einstein stepped into a large

foyer floored with marble.

“Alone? Yes.”

On the way over, Nora had told Travis that the attorney’s wife had passed away

three years ago and that he was now looked after by a housekeeper named Gladys

Murphy.

“Mrs. Murphy?” Travis asked.

“She’s gone home for the day,” the attorney said, closing the door behind them.

“You look distraught. What on earth’s wrong?”

“We need help,” Nora said.

“But,” Travis warned, “anyone who helps us may be putting himself in jeopardy

with the law.”

Garrison raised his eyebrows. “What have you done? Judging by the solemn look of

you—I’d say you’ve kidnapped the president.”

“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Nora assured him.

“Yes, we have,” Travis disagreed. “And we’re still doing it—we’re harboring the

dog.”

Puzzled, Garrison frowned down at the retriever.

Einstein whined, looking suitably miserable and lovable.

“And there’s a dead man in my house,” Travis said.

Garrison’s gaze shifted from the dog to Travis. “Dead man?”

“Travis didn’t kill him,” Nora said.

Garrison looked at Einstein again.

“Neither did the dog,” Travis said. “But I’ll be wanted as a material witness,

something like that, sure as hell.”

“Mmmmm,” Garrison said, “why don’t we go into my study and get this straightened

out?”

He led them through an enormous and only half-lit living room, along a short

hallway, into a den with rich teak paneling and a copper ceiling. The maroon

leather armchairs and couch looked expensive and comfortable. The polished teak

desk was massive, and a detailed model of a five-masted schooner, all sails

rigged, stood on one corner. Nautical items—a ship’s wheel, a brass sextant, a

carved bullock’s horn filled with tallow that held what appeared to be

sail-making needles, six types of ship lanterns, a helmsman’s bell, and sea

charts—were used as decoration. Travis saw photographs of a man and woman on

various sailboats, and the man was Garrison.

An open book and a half-finished glass of Scotch were on a small table beside

one of the armchairs. Evidently, the attorney had been relaxing here when they

had rung the doorbell. Now, he offered them a drink, and they both said they

would have whatever he was having.

Leaving the couch for Travis and Nora, Einstein took the second armchair. He sat

in it, rather than curling up, as if prepared to participate in the discussion

to come.

At a corner wet bar, Garrison poured Chivas Regal on the rocks in two glasses.

Although Nora was unaccustomed to whiskey, she startled Travis by downing her

drink in two long swallows and asking for another. He decided that she had the

right idea, so he followed suit and took his empty glass back to the bar while

Garrison was refilling Nora’s.

“I’d like to tell you everything and have your help,” Travis said, “but you

really must understand you could be putting yourself on the wrong side of the

law.”

Recapping the Chivas, Garrison said, “You’re talking as a layman now. As an

attorney, I assure you the law isn’t a line engraved in marble, immovable and

unchangeable through the centuries. Rather . . . the law is like a string, fixed

at both ends but with a great deal of play in it—very loose, the line of the

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