Koontz, Dean - Time Thieves

  [Dean Koontz – Time Thieves]

  [Released as “Ace double” with Susan K. Putney – Against Arcturus]

  [Scanned by BuddyDk – August 6 2003]

  [Original typos hasn’t been corrected]

  "Mr. Mullion," one of the triplets said, looming up twenty feet away as Pete followed the smooth railing.

  He stopped, his heart racing, but he felt a break in the rail as he did so. He edged forward a foot or two and felt around with his boot until he discovered a step. In a moment, blood pounding in his temples, he was halfway down toward the lower level, taking two risers at a time, no matter what the danger of a fall.

  He heard the mechanical man start after him as he set foot on the cement floor.

  Turn this book over for

  second complete novel

  DEAN R. KOONTZ, a Pennsylvanian,

  has gained considerable recognition

  with his writings. Among them is

  an Ace double book in which two

  Koontz novels are back to back:

  DARK OF THE WOODS and

  SOFT COME THE DRAGONS,

  #13793, 75#.

  TIME

  THIEVES

  by Dean R. Koontz

  ACE BOOKS

  A Division of Charter Communications Inc.

  1120 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, N.Y. 10036

  TIME THIEVES

  Copyright ©, 1972, by Dean R. Koontz

  An Ace Book. All Rights Reserved.

  DEDICATION:

  To my favorite book pushers:

  Nancy, Merle and Lou

  AGAINST ARCTURUS

  Copyright ©, 1972, by Susan K. Putney

  Printed in U.S.A.

  I

  First, there was a purple-black emptiness the texture of moist velvet, clinging to him like the pulsing membranes of a living heart. Shimmering against this darkness was a face (God's face?) which had no eyes. No eyes at all. Its mouth was only a slit in its flesh behind which concentric rings of gums wriggled, though they showed no teeth. An eight-fingered, pale hand reached for him where he lay on a pure, white dais that floated in the currents of the endless night. He tried desperately to draw away from the clammy grasp. But he could not. Then:

  He was sitting in his Thunderbird inside his garage. The engine still thrummed powerfully, filling the place with its dull echo. He stopped that and sat staring through the windshield at the dozen or so garden implements racked against the wall. Outside, in a neighboring yard, children played; their laughter came to him through the grimy window in the right wall. It was the perfect suburban scene—except that he had no idea how he had gotten here and where he might have been coming from.

  Pete Mullion worked for Porter-Mullion Advertising in Grantsville. He was a photographer and design man, while Jerry Porter was the business head who made the company show a profit every year. But if he had been returning from work, what was he doing dressed in blue jeans, a tattered blue work shirt and sneakers? These were the clothes he wore when he drove up Old Cannon Mountain to work at the cabin.

  He looked in the back seat and found a thermos and a picnic chest. Inside the cooler, the remains of a boxed lunch Delia had packed for him looked strangely unappetizing.

  Apparently, he had been to the cabin, either painting or clearing brush. Problem solved. Yet . . . why couldn't he remember having been there or making the return drive home?

  He turned around and caught sight of the dashboard clock. It read two o'clock in the afternoon or morning. One was too early, the other too late. Yet the clock had never been more than a few minutes wrong since he had bought the car more than a year ago. He looked out the window and saw afternoon sunlight. Here it was late July with much work to be done if the cabin were to be ready for the archery season this fall. If he had gone to the cabin to work, he should have stayed until dusk.

  He felt uneasy.

  For the first time, he realized how hungry he was. His stomach growled, and he had those slight nervous tremors a man gets when he has not eaten all day. But what about the empty picnic cooler? Didn't those scraps in it prove he had eaten not long ago?

  For a time, he sat very still, as if the expenditure of energy itself was the thing which restricted his memory. He had seen a hundred television shows that dealt with amnesia, but he could not remember a single piece of advice those actor-doctors had given those actor-patients.

  At last, there was nothing to do but go in the house and see Della and find out when he had left and where, he had been going. If it were to the cabin, they would have to retrace his steps and see what he had done. Was there an accident somewhere behind him? Had he struck someone and then blocked the incident from his mind? Had something happened which was too difficult to face but quite easy to forget? Quickly, he got out of the car and examined it, but he found no marks on the deep green paint. Somewhat relieved, he went into the house through the connecting garage door.

  "Della!"

  He called several times but received no answer. After a quick check upstairs and down, he was certain that she was not about.

  In the kitchen, he made a sandwich of coldcuts and poured a glass of milk. While he ate, he tried to puzzle it out on his own. Saturday morning always began at eight o'clock unless there had been a party the night before which had kept them up later than—

  Saturday morning?

  He put down his sandwich as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. How did he know that this was Saturday at all? As far as he could tell, it could be any day of the week. What had yesterday been? Wednesday. He was surprised that he knew. But he could clearly remember yesterday's work. He had done a series of photographs of that Beecham girl who had the cute rump which Graham Textiles wanted to grace their underwear ads in all the trade journals. It had been a long session, and despite Janet Beecham's cute rump, she was a witless girl who seemed to do half of everything wrong. Today, then, was Thursday, the end of the month with no picture session scheduled. Larry had been assigned the last bits of design, and Pete had decided to take the day off to work at the cabin.

  He took a few more bites of the sandwich now that he seemed to be getting on top of things. By the time he had finished, however, he could still not remember anything more than the day of the week. He rinsed the dishes under the hot water and stacked them to dry.

  As he turned away from the sink, he saw the day-date calendar next to the message board on the wall.

  The calendar said: Monday, August 10, 1970.

  He stood there for a long while, looking at the date, not comprehending at all. How could it possibly be two weeks later than he thought? He would have been missed in all that time. They would have come looking for him. Della would have been hysterical, even though her mask of cool self-assurance seldom cracked. Then there must be something wrong with the calendar.

  As confident as he pretended to be, the fear remained, burgeoning inside him. Suddenly, the entire kitchen seemed alien, as if he were in someone else's house and not his own. The quiet of the rooms was deeper than it should have been. His skin goose-pimpled, and he had to laugh aloud to break the paralysis that had overtaken him.

  He turned to the message board, and he stopped laughing. Across the top of the board was written: "Della, Chief Langstrom called with news. Give him a ring when you come in. Cheer up, huh?" The message had not been written by Della or anyone else he knew, though it was a distinctively feminine hand.

  This time when he went through the house, he noticed the changes. His clothes had been shoved back in the wardrobe; a strange woman's clothes were there instead. In the bathroom, there was a second set of makeup utensils complete with a new tin of powder and brushes. There was a third t
oothbrush.

  He felt weak, ill. And he did not know exactly why.

  Downstairs again, he looked up the number of the police station and dialed it. When a healthy baritone voice answered, he asked for Langstrom and was told the boss would be back in an hour. Just as he dropped the phone into its cradle, the back door opened. Della stood there, her mouth open, her eyes wide with surprise.

  She was a beautiful woman in the prime of her loveliness, just turned twenty-three. Her black hair was worn long and framed a face that was freckled and pug-nosed. Large green eyes and a generous mouth finished the smooth and masterful canvas. Her breasts were high and full, her waist narrow, her legs almost too long. She wore a light summer dress which accentuated all these perfect lines. He could not help but feel a moment of pride, even in circumstances such as these, and he wondered if her pride matched his.

  "You," she said. Her voice was hoarse, cast at him like an incantation.

  "Me," he said.

  Her face paled.

  "Della, are you all right?"

  "You're alive." It was said quietly, gently.

  "Looks that way," he said, grinning.

  She ran across the kitchen, her sandals clacking on the tiles, and she was in his arms. But not for comfort, not to be kissed. She pummeled him, striking his shoulders with her small, fisted hands. Her face was furiously red and contorted, her lips strained back from white, even teeth.

  "What the hell!" he shouted, trying to fend her off and not managing it very well.

  When she had no more energy to use against him, she took two steps backwards and glared at him, green eyes flashing. "Where were you? You can't just stand there and pretend that you haven't been gone for twelve whole days!"

  "Twelve days?"

  "Damn you!"

  She kicked his shin.

  And then the fear in him became outright terror. Twelve days. He felt his knes weaken. He was trembling all over.

  II

  It had been twelve days, though she said that it had seemed like a great deal longer. He had gone up to the cabin to do some painting. When he had not returned by midnight, she had taken the other car, the VW, up the winding road that eventually reached the summit of Old Cannon, to see if anything had happened to him. When she had not found him there, she had thought they must have passed each other on the main highway between Old Cannon and home. When she returned home, however, he was still not there. And when she had no word of him by four in the morning, she called the police.

  "Who's the girl staying with you?" he asked. They sat on the living room floor drinking coffee, waiting for the doctor whom she insisted he must see.

  "My sister Barbara moved in the day after you were missing."

  He set his cup down. "Why did you attack me out there? You should try out for Golden Gloves."

  Both his shoulders were lightly bruised.

  She blushed a little. "You disappeared for almost two weeks. No sign or message. I worried about a car accident, half a hundred other dreadful things. Then I walk in here, on the edge of a breakdown, and you're standing there smiling as if nothing happened. I guess—well, I guess I thought you'd been with some other woman. The thought passed through my head more than once, actually."

  He reassured her, with hands and lips, and then he reassured her some more. But before anyone could be too assured, Dr. Billings had the gall to interrupt as he peered through the front screendoor, chuckling. "If it's free, you're losing a good chance of making a fortune from admissions."

  They pulled apart and looked up at the familiar, gray-haired, rotund physician who had delivered Pete into this world and had saved Della from leaving it a year ago when her appendix had burst.

  "We couldn't get much of an audience if we tried," Della said. "There just aren't enough of you dirty old men left around these days."

  Billings came inside. "True enough. And isn't the world less colorful without them?"

  "Just because you saved her life doesn't mean you have a perpetual license to seduce my wife," Pete said, assuming a tone of mock anger.

  "Seduce her?" Billings asked, as if taken aback by such a suggestion. "Good God, man, even if I managed to seduce her, the most I could accomplish at my age would be some very innocent hand-holding!" He winked at Della who winked back and went to get them some coffee.

  "You seem cheerful enough," Billings said, turning to Pete and placing his black bag on the floor. He sat down next to his patient, not without some grumbling.

  "I'd be a deal more cheerful if I knew what I've been up to these last twelve days."

  "Della calls it amnesia," Billings said.

  "Della isn't a doctor. But it looks that way." Briefly, he explained his return home and all that he could remember before the blackout.

  "Nothing else?" Billings asked.

  "Just before I woke up, in the garage, I had a—nightmare. I was being watched by someone without eyes."

  It sounded absurd and beside the point. Yet Billings said, "Can you remember more of the dream?"

  "I was floating in blackness on a white bed. Someone was trying to touch me, and I didn't want them to. That's it."

  At that moment, Della returned with coffee and chocolate chip cookies.

  "I rang Chief Langstrom," she said. "They thought someone had spotted the Thunderbird abandoned in the northern part of the state. Says he's glad you're back and hopes things work out."

  "Will things work out?" Pete asked Billings.

  "Maybe—maybe not." Billings blew on his coffee to cool it. "Amnesia is a strange illness, a great deal more common than most people think. In a moment, I'll check you over for bumps. But I doubt it was caused by a fall of any sort. More than likely, it was mental or emotional pressure that sprang it on you."

  "Our marriage is fine," Pete said. "Business is going great guns, though not so much it keeps me overly busy. On top of that, I'm just not the worrying type."

  "Should he see someone?" Della asked. They all knew she meant a psychiatrist.

  Billings sipped his coffee. "Perhaps. But I'd wait a few weeks first, see what happens. It may very well all come back, bit by bit. Most amnesia victims eventually recall the things that happened in their blank period."

  "If I don't?" Pete asked.

  "If you can't recall a single* thing in two weeks, you may be subconsciously repressing the memories. Then, a psychiatrist would be a good idea."

  "Until then?" Della asked.

  "I'm going to give you some sleeping pills, Pete. In case you have insomnia, which is often an aftereffect of this thing, they'll help you get the rest I'm also prescribing. Don't go back to the office for a week. Go out to dinner, see a good movie or two, try to loosen up as much as you can."

  "That's all?" Pete asked. Since Della's siege in the hospital, he had acquired an unnatural dread of having to go there himself.

  "Well," Billings said, rising as he finished his coffee, agile for his years, "maybe you could add one thing to that list."

  "What?" Della asked.

  He set his cup on an endtable and grinned. "Make some rousingly active love before you go out to dinner tonight." He chuckled at their embarrassment.

  "Dirtier and dirtier," Della said.

  "And old and older," Billings ammended. "With the age comes the degeneracy, you know."

  He took a packet of sleeping tablets out of his satchel and wrote directions for their use. He gave Pete a thorough examination but found nothing wrong outside of the bruises on his shoulders—which were Della's doing. After a final cup of coffee, he repeated his suggestions-love and dinner at a good restaurant—and kissed her on the cheek and left.

  They took both of his suggestions. The first was far more satisfactory than the second. Indeed, the dinner seemed a bad idea once they were in the restaurant and had steak and potatoes before them.

  "You're nervous," Della observed. "If you're worried about meeting someone you know, just tell them what happened. Amnesia isn't something to be ashamed of."

&nb
sp; "That's not what's bothering me."

  "What, then?"

  "See that man two tables over: pale, shock of black hair, long nose?"

  Della turned and looked unobtrusively at the man. He was tall and lean. His hands were long and slim and handled the utensils with a swift grace not unlike the manner in which a magician dealt with the tools of his trade. He was neither handsome nor ugly, but bland. His features seemed a bit too rounded for a man so thin, but they aroused no uneasiness in her.

  "What about him?" she asked.

  "I've seen him before."

  She looked again. "Not me. You sure?"

  "Positive."

  "Well, through the agency, then. You meet too many people to remember who they—"

  "Not him. I never met him through the agency."

  "Forget him," she said. She tried to sound light, but there was something in her husband's preoccupation with the stranger—coming on the heels of his amnesia—that alarmed her. Each of them cared for the other far more than they were able to admit aloud. She did not want to lose him, even for twelve days, ever again.

  But he could not avoid glancing at the stranger from time to time. The man left shortly before they were finished with their dessert and coffee. Only a minute or two after his departure, Pete said, "I have it."

  "Have what?"

  "Where I've seen him before."

  "And?"

  "Sometimes during the last two weeks, during my amnesia." He laid his napkin down and got to his feet. "I'll be back in a minute."

  He hurried across the room, through the wide archway and into the cashier's foyer.

  Della put down the chunk of steak on her fork and picked up her goblet of wine. She had only sipped a third of it all through the meal; now, she finished it off in three long swallows.

  He returned.

  "Something?" she asked.

  "Nothing." He sat down, frowning. "He was gone by the time I got out there. The cashier said he paid with exact change. He wasn't anywhere in the parking lot."