Free Watchers by Dean Koontz Page A

that could not be as easily read, as if their colorful spines were the strange runes of a long-lost language and, once deciphered, would reveal wondrous secrets. But he could not decipher them.
    Having believed that he was on the trembling edge of some great revelation, Travis felt enormously let down. His own frustration was considerably worse than what the dog had exhibited, and he could not merely curl up on the sofa, put his head down, and forget the whole thing as the retriever had done.
    “What the hell was that all about?” he demanded.
    The dog looked up at him, inscrutable.
    “Was there any point to all of that stuff with the books?”
    The dog stared.
    “Is there something special about you—or have I popped the pull-tab on my brain and emptied it?”
    The dog was perfectly limp and still, as if it might close its eyes at any moment and doze off.
    “If you yawn at me, damn you, I’ll kick your butt.”
    The dog yawned.
    “Bastard,” Travis said.
    It yawned again.
    “Now there . What does that mean? Are you yawning on purpose because of what I said, because you’re playing with me? Or are you just yawning? How am I to interpret anything you do? How am I to know whether any of it has meaning?”
    The dog sighed.
    With a sigh of his own, Travis went to one of the front windows and stared out at the night, where the feathery fronds of the large Canary Island date palm were backlit by the vaguely yellow glow of the sodium-vapor streetlamps. He heard the dog get off the sofa and hurry out of the room, but he refused to inquire into its activities. For the moment, he could not handle more frustration.
    The retriever was making noise in the kitchen. A clink. A soft clatter. Travis figured it was drinking from its bowl.
    Seconds later, he heard it returning. It came to his side and rubbed against his leg.
    He glanced down and, to his surprise, saw the retriever was holding a can of beer in its teeth. Coors. He took the proffered can and discovered it was cold.
    “You got this from the refrigerator!”
    The dog appeared to be grinning.

2
    When Nora Devon was in the kitchen making dinner, the phone rang again. She prayed it would not be him .
    But it was. “I know what you need,” Streck said. “I know what you need.”
    I’m not even pretty, she wanted to say. I’m a plain, dumpy old maid, so what do you want with me? I’m safe from the likes of you because I’m not pretty. Are you blind? But she could say nothing.
    “Do you know what you need?” he asked.
    Finding her voice at last, she said, “Go away.”
    “I know what you need. You might not know, but I do.”
    This time she hung up first, slamming the handset down so hard that it must have hurt his ear.
    Later, at eight-thirty, the phone rang again. She was sitting in bed, reading Great Expectations and eating ice cream. She was so startled by the first ring that the spoon popped out of her hand into the dish, and she nearly spilled the dessert.
    Putting the dish and the book aside, she stared anxiously at the telephone, which stood on the nightstand. She let it ring ten times. Fifteen. Twenty. The strident sound of the bell filled the room, echoing off the walls, until each ring seemed to drill into her skull.
    Eventually she realized she would be making a big mistake if she did not answer. He’d know she was here and was too frightened to pick up the receiver, which would please him. More than anything, he desired domination. Perversely, her timid withdrawal would encourage him. Nora had no experience at confrontation, but she saw that she was going to have to learn to stand up for herself—and fast.
    She lifted the receiver on the thirty-first ring.
    Streck said, “I can’t get you out of my mind.”
    Nora did not reply.
    Streck said, “You have beautiful hair. So dark. Almost black. Thick and glossy. I want to run my hands through your hair.”
    She had to say something to put him in his place—or hang up. But she could not bring herself