WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

watchfulness—and with a strange hunger that was like something you expected to

see in the eyes of a wild animal, some jungle cat, but never in the eyes of a

man. Like a cat, in spite of his tremendous energy, he was patient. He could

crouch for hours, motionless and silent, waiting for prey.

At nine-forty Tuesday morning, much later than Nasco expected, the dead-bolt

lock on the door between the garage and the house was disengaged with a single

hard clack. The door opened, and Dr. Davis Weatherby flicked on the garage

lights, then reached for the button that would raise the big sectional door.

“Stop right there,” Nasco said, rising and stepping from in front of the

doctor’s pearl-gray Cadillac.

Weatherby blinked at him, surprised. “Who the hell—”

Nasco raised a silencer-equipped Walther P-38 and shot the doctor once in the

face.

Ssssnap.

Cut off in midsentence, Weatherby fell backward into the cheery yellow and white

laundry room. Going down, he struck his head on the clothes dryer and knocked a

wheeled metal laundry cart into the wall.

Vince Nasco was not worried about the noise because Weatherby was unmarried and

lived alone. He stooped over the corpse, which had wedged the door open, and

tenderly put one hand on the doctor’s face.

The bullet had hit Weatberby in the forehead, less than an inch above the bridge

of his nose. There was little blood because death had been instantaneous, and

the slug had not been quite powerful enough to smash through the back of the

man’s skull. Weatherby’s brown eyes were open wide. He looked startled.

With his fingers, Vince stroked Weatherby’s warm cheek, the side of his neck. He

closed the sightless left eye, then the right, although he knew that postmortem

muscle reactions would pop them open again in a couple of minutes. With a

profound gratefulness evident in his tremulous voice, Vince said, “Thank you.

Thank you, Doctor.” He kissed both of the dead man’s closed eyes. “Thank you.”

Shivering pleasantly, Vince plucked the car keys off the floor where the dead

man had dropped them, went into the garage, and opened the Cadillac’s trunk,

being careful not to touch any surface on which he might leave a clear

fingerprint. The trunk was empty. Good. He carried Weatherby’s corpse out of the

laundry room, put it in the trunk, closed and locked the lid.

Vince had been told that the doctor’s body must not be discovered until

tomorrow. He did not know why the timing was important, but he prided himself on

doing flawless work. Therefore, he returned to the laundry room, put the metal

cart where it belonged, and looked around for signs of violence. Satisfied, he

closed the door on the yellow and white room, and locked it with Weatherby’s

keys.

He turned out the garage lights, crossed the darkened space, and let himself out

the side door, where he had entered during the night by quietly loiding the

flimsy lock with a credit card. Using the doctor’s keys, he relocked the door

and walked away from the house.

Davis Weatherby lived in Corona Del Mar, within sight of the Pacific Ocean.

Vince had left his two-year-old Ford van three blocks from the doctor’s house.

The walk back to the van was very pleasant, invigorating. This was a fine

neighborhood boasting a variety of architectural styles; expensive Spanish casas

sat beside beautifully detailed Cape Cod homes with a harmony that had to be

seen to be believed. The landscaping was lush and well tended. Palms and ficus

and olive trees shaded the sidewalks. Red, coral, yellow, and Orange

bougainviflaeas blazed with thousands of flowers. The bottlebrush

trees were in bloom. The branches of jacarandas dripped lacy purple blossoms.

The air was scented with star jasmine.

Vincent Nasco felt wonderful. So strong, so powerful, so alive.

3

Sometimes the dog led, and sometimes Travis took the lead. They went a long way

before Travis realized that he had been completely jolted out of the despair and

desperate loneliness that had brought him to the foothills of the Santa Ana

Mountains in the first place.

The big tattered dog stayed with him all the way to his pickup, which was parked

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