WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

were backlit by the vaguely yellow glow of the sodium-vapor streetlamps. He

heard the dog get off the sofa and hurry out of the room, but he refused to

inquire into its activities. For the moment, he could not handle more

frustration.

The retriever was making noise in the kitchen. A clink. A soft clatter. Travis

figured it was drinking from its bowl.

Seconds later, he heard it returning. It came to his side and rubbed against his

leg.

He glanced down and, to his surprise, saw the retriever was holding a can of

beer in its teeth. Coors. He took the proffered can and discovered it was cold.

“You got this from the refrigerator!”

The dog appeared to be grinning.

2

When Nora Devon was in the kitchen making dinner, the phone rang again. She

prayed it would not be him.

But it was. “I know what you need,” Streck said. “I know what you need.” I’m not

even pretty, she wanted to say. I’m a plain, dumpy old maid, so what do you want

with me? I’m safe from the likes of you because I’m not pretty. Are you blind?

But she could say nothing.

“Do you know what you need?” he asked.

Finding her voice at last, she said, “Go away.”

“I know what you need. You might not know, but I do.”

This time she hung up first, slamming the handset down so hard that it must have

hurt his ear.

Later, at eight-thirty, the phone rang again. She was sitting in bed, reading

Great Expectations and eating ice cream. She was so startled by the first ring

that the spoon popped out of her hand into the dish, and she nearly spilled the

dessert.

Putting the dish and the book aside, she stared anxiously at the telephone,

which stood on the nightstand. She let it ring ten times. Fifteen. Twenty. The

strident sound of the bell filled the room, echoing off the walls, until each

ring seemed to drill into her skull.

Eventually she realized she would be making a big mistake if she did not answer.

He’d know she was here and was too frightened to pick up the receiver, which

would please him. More than anything, he desired domination. Perversely, her

timid withdrawal would encourage him. Nora had no experience at confrontation,

but she saw that she was going to have to learn to stand up for herself—and

fast.

She lifted the receiver on the thirty-first ring.

Streck said, “I can’t get you out of my mind.”

Nora did not reply.

Streck said, “You have beautiful hair. So dark. Almost black. Thick and glossy.

I want to run my hands through your hair.”

She had to say something to put him in his place—or hang up. But she could not

bring herself to do either.

“I’ve never seen eyes like yours,” Streck said, breathing hard. “Gray but not

like other gray eyes. Deep, warm, sexy eyes.”

Nora was speechless, paralyzed.

“You’re very pretty, Nora Devon. Very pretty. And I know what you need.

I do. I really do, Nora. I know what you need, and I’m going to give it to

you.,,

Her paralysis was shattered by a fit of the shakes. She dropped the phone into

its cradle. Bending forward in bed, she felt as if she were shaking herself to

pieces before the tremors slowly subsided.

She did not own a gun.

She felt small, fragile, and terribly alone.

She wondered if she should call the police. But what would she tell them? That

she was the object of sexual harassment? They’d get a big laugh out of that.

Her? A sex object? She was an old maid, as plain as mud, not remotely the type

to turn a man’s head and give him erotic dreams. The police would suppose that

she either was making it up or was hysterical. Or they would assume she had

misinterpreted Streck’s politeness as sexual interest, which is what even she

had thought at first.

She pulled a blue robe on over the roomy men’s pajamas that she wore, belted it.

Barefoot, she hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where she hesitantly withdrew a

butcher’s knife from the rack near the stove. Light trickled like a thin stream

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