WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

glove compartment in the truck to obtain the candy bar), or if no one was

watching (as when it had turned on the water faucet).

This was a preposterous idea because it suggested that the dog was not

only highly intelligent for one of its species but was aware of the

extraordinary nature of its own abilities. Dogs—all animals, in fact—simply did

not possess the high degree of self awareness required to analyze themselves in

comparison to others of their kind. Comparative analysis was strictly a human

quality. If a dog was especially bright and capable of many tricks, it would

still not be aware it was different from most of its kind. To assume this dog

was, in fact, aware of such things was to credit it not only with remarkable

intelligence but with a capacity for reason and logic, and with a facility for

rational judgment superior to the instinct that ruled the decisions of all other

animals.

“You,” Travis told the retriever, gently stroking its head, “are an enigma

wrapped in a mystery. Either that, or I’m a candidate for a rubber room.”

The dog looked at him in response to his voice, gazed into his eyes for a

moment, yawned—and suddenly jerked its head up and stared beyond him at the

bookshelves that flanked the archway between the living and dining rooms. The

satisfied, dopey, doggy expression on its face had vanished, replaced by the

keen interest Travis had seen before, which transcended ordinary canine

alertness.

Scrambling off the sofa, the retriever dashed to the bookshelves. It ran back

and forth beneath them, looking up at the colorful spines of the neatly arranged

volumes.

The rental house came fully—if unimaginatively and cheaply—furnished, with

upholstery chosen for durability (vinyl) or for the ability to conceal

ineradicable stains (eye-searing plaids). Instead of wood, there was lots of

wood-finish Formica that was resistant to chipping, scratching, abrasion, and

cigarette burns. Virtually the only things in the place reflecting Travis

Cornell’s own tastes and interests were the books—both paperbacks and

hardcovers— that filled the shelves in the living room.

The dog appeared to be intensely curious about at least some of those few

hundred volumes.

Getting to his feet, Travis said, “What is it, boy? What’s got your tail in an

uproar?”

The retriever jumped onto its hind feet, put its forepaws on one of the shelves,

and sniffed the spines of the books. It glanced at Travis, then returned to its

eager examination of his library.

He went to the shelf in question, withdrew one of the volumes to which the dog

had pressed its nose— Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson— and held it

out. “This? You’re interested in this?”

The dog studied the painting of Long John Silver and a pirate ship that adorned

the dust jacket. It looked up at Travis, then down at Long John Silver again.

After a moment, it dropped back from the shelf, onto the floor, dashed to the

shelves on the other side of the archway, leaped up again, and began sniffing

other books.

Travis replaced Treasure Island and followed the retriever. It was now applying

its damp nose to his collection of Charles Dickens’s novels. Travis Picked up a

paperback of A Tale of Two Cities.

Again, the retriever carefully studied the cover illustration as if actually

trying to determine what the book was about, then looked up expectantly at

Travis.

Utterly baffled, he said, “The French Revolution. Guillotines. Beheadings.

Tragedy and heroism. It’s . . . uh . . . well, it’s all about the importance of

valuing individuals over groups, about the need to place a far greater value on

one man’s or woman’s life than on the advancement of the masses.”

The dog returned its attention to the tomes shelved in front of it, sniffing,

sniffing.

“This is nuts,” Travis said, putting A Tale of Two Cities back where he’d gotten

it. “I’m giving plot synopses to a dog, for God’s sake!”

Dropping its big forepaws down to the next shelf, the retriever panted and

snuffled over the literature on that row. When Travis did not pull any of those

books out for inspection, the dog tilted its head to get into the shelf, gently

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230

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