Dean Koontz 2-Book Thriller Collection: Innocence, The City. Dean Koontz
but it was long and black and shaggy, so that it kind of looked as if it must be blowing even when it wasn’t.
I don’t much like the superheroes and supervillains in many of those comic books because, maybe except for Batman, the way they pose dramatically all the time really does reflect how they think of themselves. Very self-righteous, whether saving the world or blowing it up. So in the thrall of power fantasies. This girl looked like she stepped out of a comic book, but somehow I could tell that the way she posed wasn’t a reflection of how she really thought of herself.
Or maybe I was deluded. The fallow soil of loneliness is fertile ground for self-deception.
After regarding me from a distance, she took her hands from her hips and approached neither warily nor boldly, but with the same effortless grace that she had shown earlier.
As she stepped into the lamplight that fell across the books by Dickens, I said, “Please stop there.” She did. We were no more than twelve feet apart, but my hoodie and the fact that I had disabled the nearest sconce spared her from the shock of my appearance.
As for her appearance, I hadn’t realized when I glimpsed her in flight that she accessorized and painted herself so grotesquely. In her pierced right nostril, she wore a silver nose ring fashioned as a snake devouring its tail. Pinned to her lower lip, bright against the black lipstick, a polished red bead looked like a drop of blood. Her flawless skin was as pale as powdered sugar, and she emphasized that pallor by applying mascara and creme-stick makeup as thick as greasepaint. With her jet-black and curiously chopped hair, the look was Goth, I suppose, but a personalized version of the standard Goth-girl style. For one thing, the creme formed carefully drawn diamonds, the upper points at midbrow, the lower points two inches down her cheeks, which reminded me of certain harlequins but also recalled to mind a most disturbing tuxedoed marionette that I had once seen in the lighted window of an antique-toy store.
At the center of those black diamonds were eyes identical to those of the marionette. Whites as white and veinless as hard-boiled eggs, anthracite-dark irises with deep-red striations so subtle that they were visible only when the angle of her head allowed the light to find them. Because my life seldom brought me face-to-face with other people, because I was familiar with the variety of human faces and the color range of eyes only from books of photography, I could not say for certain that such eyes were uncommon, but they were so disconcerting that I imagined they must be rare.
“So you want to help me,” she said.
“Yes. Whatever I can do to help you.”
“No one can help me,” she declared with no slightest indication of bitterness or despair. “Only one person could ever help me, and he’s dead. You will die, too, if you associate with me, and you’ll die cruelly.”
I STOOD IN THE SHADOWS SHORT OF DICKENS, she in the lamplight, and I saw that her fingernails were painted black and that tattooed on the backs of her hands were curled blue lizards with forked red tongues.
“That wasn’t a threat, when I said you’ll have a cruel death,” she clarified. “It’s just the truth. You don’t want to be around me.”
“Who was the one person who could help you?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter. That’s another place, another time. I can’t bring it back by talking about it. The past is dead.”
“If it were dead, it wouldn’t smell so sweet.”
“It isn’t sweet to me,” she said.
“I think it is. When you said ‘another place, another time,’ the words softened you.”
“Imagine whatever you want. There’s nothing soft here. I’m all bone and carapace and quills.”
I smiled, but of course she couldn’t see my face. Sometimes it is my smile that most terrifies them. “What’s your name?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“No, I don’t. I’d just like to know.”
The thread-thin red striations brightened in her black-black eyes. “What’s your name again, lost boy?”
“Addison, like I said.”
“Addison what?”
“My mother’s last name was Goodheart.”
“Did she have one?”
“She was a thief and maybe worse. She wanted to be kind, kinder than she knew how to be. But I loved her.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“She never told me.”
“My mother died in childbirth,” she said, and I thought that in a sense my mother had died from childbirth, eight years after the fact, but I said nothing.
The girl looked toward the rococo ceiling, where the chandeliers hung dark, gazed up as if the rich moldings around the deep coffers and the sky scene of golden clouds within each coffer were visible to her by some spectrum of light invisible.
When she looked toward me again, she said, “What are you doing in the library after midnight?”
“I came to read. And just to be here in the grandness of it.”
She studied me for a long moment, though I presented hardly more than a silhouette. Then she said, “Gwyneth.”
“What’s your last name, Gwyneth?”
“I don’t use one.”
“But you have one.”
As I waited for her reply, I decided that all the Goth was more than fashion, that it might not be fashion at all, that it might be armor.
When at last she spoke, she didn’t give me her surname, but instead said, “You saw me running from him, but I never saw you.”
“I’m unusually discreet.”
She looked at the set of Dickens novels on the shelves to her right. She slid her fingers along the leather bindings, the titles glowing in lamplight. “Are these valuable?”
“Not really. They’re a matched set, published in the 1970s.”
“They’re wonderfully made.”
“The leather’s been hand-tooled. The lettering is gilded.”
“People make so many beautiful things.”
“Some people.”
When she turned her attention to me again, she said, “How did you know where to find me, in there with the Lebow children?”
“I saw you leaving the reading room when he was in the street looking for you. I figured you must have studied the blueprints in the basement archives. So did I.”
“Why did you study them?” she asked.
“I thought the bones of the structure might be as beautiful as the finished building. And they are. Why did you study them?”
For maybe half a minute, she considered her reply, or perhaps she considered whether to answer or not. “I like to know places. All over the city. Better than anyone knows them. People have lost their history, the what and how and why of things. They know so little of the places where they live.”
“You don’t stay here every night. I would have seen you before.”
“I don’t stay here at all. I visit now and then.”
“Where do you live?”
“Here and there. All over. I like to move around.”
Seeing through her bold