Christmas morning, in his study, Ethan listened yet again to all fifty-six messages that had been recorded on Line 24.
Before Manheim and Ming du Lac had returned to Palazzo Rospo, Ethan had loaded the enhanced recordings onto a CD. Then he erased them from the computer in the white room and removed them from the phone logs. Only he would ever know that they had been received.
These messages were his, and his alone, one heart speaking to another across eternity.
In some of them, Hannah solved every element of the maniac?s riddles. In others, she only repeated Ethan?s name, sometimes with yearning, sometimes with gentle affection.
He played Call 31 more times than he could remember. In that one, she reminded him that she loved him, and when he listened to her, five years seemed no time at all, and even cancer had no power, or the grave.
He was opening a box of cookies left by Mrs. McBee when his phone rang.
Fric always set the alarm clock early on Christmas morning, not because he was eager to discover what had been left under the tree for him but because he wanted to open the stupid gifts and be done with it.
He knew what the fancy wrappings concealed: everything on the list that he had been required to give to Mrs. McBee on the fifth of December. He had never been denied the things for which he?d asked, [607] and each time that he asked for less, he had been required to amend his list until it was at least as long as the list from the previous year. Downstairs, under the drawing-room tree would be a shitload of fabulous stuff, and no surprises.
On this Christmas morning, however, he woke to a sight that he had never seen before. While he had slept, someone had crept into his room and left a gift on his nightstand, beside the clock.
A small box wrapped in white with a white bow.
The card was bigger than the box. No one had signed it, but the sender had written these words: This be magic. If there be no blink, you will have great adventures. If there be no tear shed, you will have a long and happy life. If there be no sleeping of it, you will grow up to be the man you want to be.
This was such an amazing note, so mysterious and so rich in possibilities, that Fric read it several times, puzzling over its meaning.
He hesitated to open the white box, for he did not believe that anything it contained could equal the promise of this note.
When at last he peeled away the glossy paper, lifted the lid, and folded aside the tissue paper, he found that-oh!-the contents were the equal of the note.
On a new gold chain hung a glass pendant, a sphere, and in the sphere floated an eye! He had seen nothing like this in his life and knew that he never would again. A souvenir from the lost continent of Atlantis, perhaps, the jewelry of a sorcerer, or the protective amulet worn by knights of the Round Table fighting for justice under the protection of Merlin.
If there be no blink, you will have great adventures.
No blink, no blink ever, for this eye had no lid.
If there be no tear shed, you will have a long and happy life.
No tear, no tear from now until time immemorial, for this eye could not cry.
If there be no sleeping of it, you will grow up to be the man you want to be.
[608] No sleep, no shortest nap, for this eye was always open wide with magical meaning, and needed no rest.
Fric examined the pendant by sunlight, by lamplight, by the glow of a penlight in his otherwise dark closet.
He studied the orb under a powerful magnifying glass and then by indirection through an arrangement of mirrors.
He put it in the shirt pocket of his pajamas and knew that it was not blinded.
He held it in his closed right hand and felt its wise gaze on the pads of his cupped fingers, and knew that if he kept his heart pure and dedicated his mind to the defense of what is good, just as knights were supposed to do, then one day this eye would show him the future if he wished to see it and would guide him in the path of Camelot.
After Fric had thought of a thousand things that he might say and had rejected nine hundred ninety-nine of them, he returned the pendant to the box and, while meeting its patch-eyed-pirate gaze, placed his phone call.
He grinned, hearing in his mind the first nine notes of the Dragnet theme song.
When the call was answered, Fric said, ?Merry Christmas, Mr. Truman.?
?Merry Christmas, Fric.?
With only those words, they hung up by mutual unspoken consent, for at this moment in time, no more needed to be said.
* * *
Note
In Chapter 32, Mr. Typhon counsels Dunny Whistler that he should take inspiration from Saint Duncan, for whom he was named. No Saint Duncan has ever been canonized. We can only speculate on Mr. Typhon?s motives for this seemingly minor deception.
-DK
About The Author
DEAN KOONTZ, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and their dog, Trixie, in southern California.
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Dean Koontz
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