Darkness Under the Sun

on TV and in the papers, with a growing conviction that the most important aspect of the case was not being reported, perhaps because no reporter was aware of the full truth.

Six days later, Howie placed a call to the homicide division of the police department in which Calvino worked, and in a few hours the detective returned his call. Assuming Calvino must have read the journal of Alton Turner Blackwood that was available on the Internet, Howie said, “I am the boy who made good sandwiches for him. Because there’s no photo of Blackwood, you’ll know it’s true if I describe him.”

After listening to the description, John Calvino said, “All he says in his journal is that yours was the first family he intended to kill, but you saved them.”

“It’s more accurate to say they almost died because of me.”

“My family did die because of me, Mr. Dugley. Thank God you were spared that.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry for your losses. All your losses. But … may I ask, Detective Calvino, if in any way, any way whatsoever, the case just in the news — all those deaths — is it related to Blackwood?”

John Calvino’s silence was long enough to mean yes, but when at last he spoke, he said only, “I killed Alton Turner Blackwood more than twenty years ago.”

“Yes. I know. I heard about it at the time. Yet … all these years, I’ve been waiting for … something.” Howie realized he had put his hand protectively on his throat, and he thought of Bleeker pinned to the wall. “Even though I knew Blackwood was dead, if ever someone could come back … I think it would be him. I guess that sounds irrational at best.”

After another silence, Calvino said, “All I’ll tell you is that for twenty years, I’ve been waiting for something, too.”

A phantom finger, spatulate and cold, traced a line down the back of Howell Dugley’s neck.

After a silence of his own, he said, “Is it over at last?”

“In my work, Mr. Dugley, I’ve seen that good usually triumphs. But I’ve also seen that evil never dies. It’s always wise to remain vigilant.”

Later that afternoon, Howie decided against dropping the seven dollars in the poor box at his church. He took the three bills into the backyard and put a match to them.

By the following June, the pall of Blackwood had so lifted from Howie’s life that, at play in the park with his kids, he did not even realize this day marked the twenty-second anniversary of his rooftop lunch with the murderer. They were playing Frisbee with Barney, their dog, who jumped and caught the disc again and again with exuberance. The sky was cloudless, the velvet-green park dappled with the cool shadows of the trees. In the pleasure of the moment, Howie had almost forgotten that life had ever wounded him, and if someone had held up a mirror to him, he might have been surprised, just for a moment, that he was scarred.

Mia took a break from the game, but Howie and the boys were indefatigable. Minutes passed before he glanced at his daughter — and froze. Seven years old, petite and as pretty as her mother, Mia perched on the edge of a wooden bench, unaware that behind her and to her left, a raven sat on the head-rail of the bench back. Its inky eyes were as hard as buckshot and seemed to draw a bead on Howie. As if in response to his attention and apprehension, the bird spread its wings, craned its head forward, cracked its beak, but made no sound, as silent as Death himself is silent when he glides in for the kill.

Howie was holding the Frisbee, and he flung it with a snap of the wrist. The disc whizzed past Mia, grazed the bird, and sent it squawking into frightened flight, to the surprise of the girl and to the delight of her brothers. Barney barked, and Howie took a bow.

When they returned to play, he didn’t once search the sky for that bird or any other. Howell Dugley, survivor, hero to some and butt-ugly freak to others, did not fear either the darkness of the night or the darkness under the sun that can sometimes crowd in upon us when we least expect it.

He knew the bird circled above. Twice it came so low that he saw its shadow swoop across the grass. He never looked up.

That night he woke and lay listening to the distinctive calls of a raven: the hollow brronk, the deep resonant prruck, interspersed with bell-clear notes. Judging by the proximity and the direction of the voice, the bird must have been perched on a telephone wire in the nearby street. Howie did not get out of bed to look.

The next morning, he was the first downstairs to make coffee and to let the dog out to toilet. On the breakfast table in the kitchen lay a single black feather. He buried it at the bottom of the trash can and mentioned it to no one.

When the coffee was brewing, he stepped outside to get the newspaper from the front lawn. Something swooped low overhead, not so low that its talons stroked his scalp, but low enough that he felt the wind of its passage, and it entered the beech tree, causing the leaves to stir noisily.

On the way back into the house, Howie never raised his eyes from the weather report in the paper. Clear and sunny.

In this world of ours, there is always a chance that a day of fire will come, but there is nothing to be gained by extending an invitation to the arsonist, no matter how persistently he hints that he would like to have one.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEAN KOONTZ is the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers. He lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie.