WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

that one as well until he found an ad that featured a pretty brunette

real-estate saleswoman in a Century 21 jacket.

Travis looked at Paula’s photograph, at the blonde smoking the cigarette, at the

perky Century 21 agent, and he remembered the other ad with the brunette and the

automobile, and he said, “A woman? You want me to call . . . some woman?”

Einstein barked.

“Who?”

With his jaws, Einstein gently took hold of Travis’s wrist and tried to pull him

out of the chair.

“Okay, okay, let go. I’ll follow you.”

But Einstein was taking no chances. He would not let go of Travis’s wrist,

forcing his master to walk in a half-stoop all the way across the living room

and dining room, into the kitchen, to the wall phone. There, he finally released

Travis.

“Who?” Travis asked again, but suddenly he understood. There was only one woman

whose acquaintance both he and the dog had made. “Not the lady we met in the

park today?”

Einstein began to wag his tail.

“And you think that’s who just called us?”

The tail wagged faster.

“How could you know who was on the line? She didn’t say a word. And what are you

up to here, anyway? Matchmaking?”

The dog woofed twice.

“Well, she was certainly pretty, but she wasn’t my type, fella. A little

strange, didn’t you think?”

Einstein barked at him, ran to the kitchen door and jumped at it twice, turned

to Travis and barked again, ran around the table, barking all the way, dashed to

the door and jumped at it once more, and gradually it became apparent that he

was deeply disturbed about something.

About the woman.

She had been in some kind of trouble this afternoon in the park. Travis

remembered the bastard in the running shorts. He had offered to help the woman,

and she had refused. But had she reconsidered and phoned him a few minutes ago,

only to discover that she did not have the courage to explain her plight?

“You really think that’s who called?”

The tail started wagging again.

“Well . . . even if it was her, it’s not wise to get involved.”

The retriever rushed at him, seized the right leg of his jeans, and shook the

denim furiously, nearly tugging Travis off balance.

“All right, already! I’ll do it. Get me the damn directory.”

Einstein let go of him and raced out of the room, slipping on the slick

linoleum. He returned with the directory in his jaws.

Only as Travis took the phone book did he realize that he had expected the dog

to understand his request. The animal’s extraordinary intelligence and abilities

were now things that Travis took for granted.

With a jolt, he also realized that the dog would not have brought the directory

to him in the living room if it had not understood the purpose of such a book.

“By God, fur face, you have been well named, haven’t you?”

6

Although Nora usually ate dinner no earlier than seven, she was hungry. The

morning walk and the glass of brandy had given her an appetite that even

thoughts of Streck could not spoil. She didn’t feel like cooking, so she

prepared a platter of fresh fruit and some cheese, plus a croissant heated in

the oven.

Nora usually ate dinner in her room, in bed with a magazine or book, because she

was happiest there. Now, as she prepared a platter to take upstairs, the

telephone rang.

Streck.

It must be him. Who else? She received few calls.

She froze, listening to the phone. Even after it stopped, she leaned against the

kitchen counter, feeling weak, waiting for the ringing to start again.

7

When Nora Devon did not answer her telephone, Travis was ready to go back to the

evening news on TV, but Einstein was still agitated. The retriever leaped up

against the counter, pawed at the directory, pulled it to the floor again, took

it in his jaws, and hurried out of the kitchen.

Curious about the dog’s next move, Travis followed and found him waiting at the

front door with the phone book still in his mouth.

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