WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

out of him, and he relaxed, as if he had heard they would be allowed to remain

close by, and was immensely comforted.

The morning passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Dr. Keene’s living room had a

television set, books, and magazines, but neither Nora nor Travis could get

interested in TV or reading.

Every half hour or so, they slipped down the hall, one at a time, and peeked in

at Einstein. He never seemed worse, but he never seemed any better, either.

Keene came in once and said, “By the way, feel free to use the bathroom. And

there’s cold drinks in the refrigerator. Make coffee if you want.” He smiled

down at the black lab at his side. “And this fella is Pooka. He’ll love you to

death if you give him a chance.”

Pooka was, indeed, one of the friendliest dogs Nora had ever seen. Without

encouragement, he would roll over, play dead, sit up on his haunches, and then

come snuffling around, tail wagging, to be rewarded with some petting and

scratching.

All morning, Travis ignored the dog’s pleas for affection, as if petting Pooka

would in some way be a betrayal of Einstein and would insure Einstein’s death of

distemper.

However, Nora took comfort from the dog and gave it the attention it desired.

She told herself that treating Pooka well would please the gods and that the

gods would then look favorably upon Einstein. Her desperation produced in her a

superstition just as fierce as—if different from—that which gripped her husband.

Travis paced. He sat on the edge of a chair, head bowed, his face in his hands.

For long periods, he stood at one of the windows, staring out, not seeing the

street that lay out there but some dark vision of his own. He blamed himself for

what had happened, and the truth of the situation (which Nora recalled for him)

did nothing to lessen his irrational sense of guilt.

Facing a window, hugging himself as if he were cold, Travis said quietly, “Do

you think Keene saw the tattoo?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“Do you think there’s really been a description of Einstein circulated to vets?

Will Keene know what the tattoo means?”

“Maybe not,” she said. “Maybe we’re too paranoid about this.”

But after hearing from Garrison and learning of the lengths to which the

government had gone to prevent him from getting a warning to them, they knew

that an enormous and urgent search for the dog must be still under way. So there

was no such thing as being “too paranoid.”

From noon until two, Dr. Keene closed the office for lunch. He invited Nora and

Travis to eat with him in the big kitchen. He was a bachelor who knew how to

take care of himself, and he had a freezer stocked with frozen entrées that he

had prepared and packaged himself. He defrosted individually wrapped slabs of

homemade lasagna and, with their help, made three salads. The food was good, but

neither Nora nor Travis was able to eat much of it.

The more Nora knew of James Keene, the more she liked him. He was lighthearted

in spite of his morose appearance, and his sense of humor ran toward

self-deprecation. His love of animals was a light within that gave him a special

glow. Dogs were his greatest love, and when he spoke of them his enthusiasm

transformed his homely features and made of him a handsomer and quite appealing

man.

The doctor told them of the black lab, King, that had saved him from drowning

when he was a child, and he encouraged them to tell him how Einstein saved their

lives. Travis recounted a colorful story about going hiking and almost walking

into an injured and angry bear. He described how Einstein warned him off and

then, when the half-mad bear gave chase, how Einstein challenged and repeatedly

foiled the beast. Nora was able to tell a story closer to the truth: harassment

by a sexual psychopath whose attack had been interrupted by Einstein and who had

been held by the retriever until the police arrived.

Keene was impressed. “He really is a hero!”

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