Children of the Storm Dean R. Koontz

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planning and careful calculation . . .
It was useless.
She suspected everyone.
Everyone except herself and Bill Peterson. And if she wanted to be fair about it, she would have to
add Bill to that list, for she had no proof that he wasn't the madman. What a mess, what a tedious and
awful mess this whole thing had become. Where were the parties she had expected, the people who
knew how to enjoy life? Why, instead, was she surrounded with these gloomy people, in this gloomy
place? What was her punishment for?
In time, growing increasingly nervous and far-ther from sleep by the minute, she took a sleeping tablet
and lay down again, finally succumbed to the gentle drug and fell into a chiaroscuro world of vivid
nightmares that formed in her mind, one after the other, haunting her fitful sleep.
A screaming banshee woke her.
She sat straight up in bed.
Even when she had rubbed her eyes and was fully awake, the banshee continued to scream, its voice
high and sharp, its cry a sickening ululation without meaning.
For one awful moment, she thought that it was one of the children screaming in pain and terror, and
she was certain that the madman had done the impossible, had gotten into their room and over-powered
Saine and taken out his knife . . .
Then she realized that what she heard was the wind, an incredibly powerful wind that was tear-ing at
the windows and hammering across the roof of Seawatch more than a story overhead, a wind so
relentless that the walls must be standing only by the power of a miracle. When she lay still, trying to feel
how the house was taking it, she thought she sensed a distant tremor in the floors and walls.
She looked at her bedside clock and saw that it was a quarter to five in the morning, Tuesday.
She got out of bed, somewhat wobbly from the sleeping pill, and went to the windows, pulled open
one of the shutters on a vision of Hell: rain dropping straight to the earth like a curtain of bul-lets, heavy
and thunderous; the nearest palms bent nearly to the ground, like humbled worshipers, one or two of
them already uprooted and leaning pre-posterously with the wind, kept from crashing over entirely by
nothing more than a few random tap-roots; in the distance, closer than it should be, whiter than it should
be, the sea danced high and threatening.
As she watched, mesmerized by the natural fury, a palm branch struck the window, driven there by
the wind, made a hairline crack in the glass and was whirled away.
Startled, realizing how easily the window might be broken, she swung the shutter into place again,
bolted it.
At the same moment, above the maniacal cry of the storm, someone knocked at her door.
She went to the door, leaned wearily against it, her ear pressed to the teak, and she said, Who is
it? But her sore throat had produced only a vague sound, and she was forced to repeat herself.
Rudolph! Saine shouted.
She fumbled with the lock, slipped it out of place, and swung the door wide open.
He was standing in the hallway with both the children, one of them clutching each of his huge hands.
They were pleasantly excited by the unex-pected drama Hurricane Greta had provided, still somewhat
sleepy-eyed, but waking up fast, cute and achingly innocent in their animal-decorated pajamas.
What is it? she asked.
Saine said, The storm's here, or almost here. We're retreating to the cellar.
Is it that bad?
You can hear it. And it'll be worse, shortly.
What's the radio say?
I don't think we could get anything on it, Saine said.
Of course, she said, feeling foolish.
I'll grab warmer clothes for the kids, he said. Be ready when I come back for you.
What should I bring?
Toothbrush and a jacket, he said. Then, with the children still in tow, he hurried back down the hall
again.
She was ready when he came back, and he es-corted her toward the main stairs. When they were
halfway there, a window smashed in one of the second floor rooms behind them.
Sonya said, Shouldn't we see about that?
We can't fix it now, Saine said. The shutters are tight enough to hold back most of the water. And
Mr. Dougherty can afford some damage.
They started down the stairs, to begin a new day. Sonya knew it was going to be the worst day yet in
Seawatch.
BOOK FOUR
TWENTY
The rest of the household was already in the kitchen, drinking hot coffee and making a quick
breakfast out of rolls, butter and jam. They all wore jackets or windbreakers and looked as if they
expected to make a long and unpleasant journey. None of them was pleased by the prospect of one or
two days in the storm cellar while Seawatch was blown into so many sticks of matchwood around them.
Sleep well? Bill asked, bringing Sonya a cup of coffee with sugar and cream, as she liked it.
Fairly well, she said. She knew that she had had nightmares, but at least she could not remem-ber
what they had been. Except for the bloody-mouthed banshee which had really been the wind.
We'll be all right, he assured her.
It sounds so strong, the wind.
Last weather report, before the radio became just a big static machine, said a hundred and twenty
mile-an-hour winds at the roughest points of the storm, and waves already over the seawall at [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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