Free Moonlit Mind by Dean Koontz

name.
    The water drumming-splashing on the marble floor, the constant
slish-slish-slish
of it echoing back and forth off the three glass walls, creates such a screen of noise that he wouldn’t hear someone speak unless the speaker shouted or was in the shower with him. This voice is not a shout, but a murmur.
    The sting of shampoo blurs his vision, and the whirling steam further hampers him, but as he turns in place, squinting at the bathroom beyond the glass walls of the shower, he glimpses a hazy figure, someone watching him. Shocked by this intrusion on his privacy, he wipes at his eyes with both hands, sluicing the suds from his lashes. When his vision clears, no one is watching him, after all. He is alone in the bathroom, and the visitor must have been a figment of his imagination, a trick of light and steam.
    Dried off, dressed, he is suddenly famished. He eats the fresh strawberries and cream, the English muffin, the croissant, and the sticky bun with pecans. He drinks most of the hot chocolate, taking his time, savoring every sip.
    He’s fifteen minutes late for lessons in the library, but Mr. Mordred never expects punctuality.
    Harley has news. “Mirabell called from Paris!”
    Crispin shakes his head dismissively. “She can’t be in Paris already.”
    “Well, she is,” Harley insists.
    “They left very early,” Mr. Mordred says, “but in fact they aren’t there yet. Mirabell called from Mr. Gregorio’s private jet, somewhere above the Atlantic.”
    “She’s on a
jet
!” Harley says, thrilled by the idea. “She says it’s super-great.”
    “Are you sure it was Mirabell?” Crispin asks his brother.
    “Of course it was.”
    “How do you know—just because she said so?”
    “It was her. I know Mirabell.”
    Harley is seven and gullible. Crispin is nine and feels that he is not just two years more mature than his little brother, but three or four, or ten. “Why didn’t she call me?”
    “ ’Cause she wanted to talk to
me
,” Harley says with pride.
    “She’d want to talk to me, too.”
    “But you were snoring your head off or stuffing your face or something,” Harley says.
    “I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you the next time she calls,” Mr. Mordred assures Crispin. “Now what should we do to start? Should I read you a story or teach you some arithmetic?”
    Harley doesn’t hesitate to consider. “Read! Read us a story!”
    As Mr. Mordred chooses from several books, Crispin stares at the horsefly birthmark on his left temple. He thought he saw it move just a little. But it isn’t moving now.

11
     
    Over dinner, December 3, the eve of Crispin’s thirteenth birthday …
    Amity Onawa, formerly Daisy Jean Sims, also the Phantom of Broderick’s, has put a plate of little tea cakes on the table for dessert. They are flavorful but not too rich.
    The dog begs, receives half a cake, and lies down to sleep.
    With her black hair, compelling blue eyes, and knowing attitude, the girl looks like a Gypsy about to read someone’s fortune by the glimmering candlelight.
    “So, Crispin Gregorio.”
    “That’s not my name.”
    “Crispin Hazlett.”
    “That’s the name my mother used.”
    “And you never did?”
    “I did but not now.”
    “Why not?”
    “I never knew any man named Hazlett.”
    “So it’s what—just Crispin?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Travel light, huh?”
    “One name’s enough.”
    “So, Crispin, what do you want for your birthday dinner tomorrow night?”
    “Whatever. I don’t care.”
    “Got a walk-in refrigerator full of stuff. And for Christmas, they have an entire special department of delicacies down on the second floor.”
    “Anything. It doesn’t matter.”
    “Everything matters,” she disagrees.
    He shrugs.
    Cocking her head, Amity asks, “Still got your deck of cards?”
    “Same deck,” he confirms. “Bought the night me and Harley met.”
    “You still do with it what you used to do?”
    “That’s all it’s for.”
    “Did you turn up