Free Night Chills by Dean Koontz

could give it a good try.”
    Klinger laughed loudly.
    Salsbury hated him for that.
    This crude bastard was nothing more than an influence peddler, Ogden thought. He could be bought—and his price was cheap. In one way or another, he helped Futurex International in its competitive bidding for Pentagon contracts. In return, he took free vacations in Las Vegas, and some sort of stipend was paid into a Swiss bank account. There was only one element of this arrangement that Salsbury was unable to reconcile with Leonard Dawson’s personal philosophy. He said to Klinger. “Does Leonard pay for the girls too?”
    “Well, I don’t. I’ve never had to pay for it.” He stared hard at Salsbury, until he was convinced that the scientist believed him. “The hotel picks up the tab. That’s one of Futurex’s subsidiaries. But both Leonard and I pretend he doesn’t know about the girls. Whenever he asks me how I enjoyed a vacation, he acts as if all I’ve done is sit around the pool, by myself, reading the latest books.” He was amused. He sucked on his cheroot. “Leonard is a Puritan, but he knows better than to let his personal feelings interfere with business.” He shook his head. “Your boss is some man.”
    “He’s not my boss,” Salsbury said.
    Klinger didn’t seem to have heard him.
    “Leonard and I are partners,” Salsbury said.
    Klinger looked him up and down. “Partners.”
    “That’s right.”
    Their eyes met.
    Reluctantly, after a few seconds, Salsbury looked away.
    “Partners,” Klinger said. He didn’t believe it.
    We are partners, Salsbury thought. Dawson may own this helicopter, the Fortunata Hotel, Crystal, Daisy, and you. But he doesn’t own me, and he never will. Never.
    At the Las Vegas airport, the helicopter put down thirty yards from a dazzling, white Grumman Gulf Stream jet. Red letters on the fuselage spelled FUTUREX INTERNATIONAL.
    Fifteen minutes later they were airborne, on their way to an exclusive landing strip near Lake Tahoe.
    Klinger unbuckled his seat belt and said, “I understand you’re to give me a briefing.”
    “That’s right. We’ve got two hours for it.” He put his briefcase on his lap. “Have you ever heard of subliminal—”
    “Before we get going, I’d like a Scotch on the rocks.”
    “I believe there’s a bar aboard.”
    “Fine. Just fine.”
    “It’s back there.” Salsbury gestured over his shoulder.
    Klinger said, “Make mine four ounces of Scotch and four ice cubes in an eight-ounce glass.”
    At first Salsbury gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Then he got it: generals didn’t mix their own drinks. Don’t let him intimidate you, he thought. Against his will, however, he found himself getting up and moving toward the back of the plane. It was as if he were not in control of his body. When he returned with the drink, Klinger didn’t even thank him.
    “You say you’re one of Leonard’s partners?”
    Salsbury realized that, by acting more like a waiter than like a host, he had only reinforced the general’s conviction that the word “partner” did not fit him. The bastard had been testing him.
    He began to wonder if Dawson and Klinger were too much for him. Was he a bantam in a ring with heavyweights? He might be setting himself up for a knockout punch.
    He quickly dismissed that thought. Without Dawson and the general, he could not keep his discoveries from the government, which had financed them and owned them and would be jealous of them if it knew that they existed. He had no choice but to associate with these people; and he knew he would have to be cautious, suspicious, and watchful. But a man could safely make his bed with the devil so long as he slept with a loaded gun under his pillow.
    Couldn’t he?
     
Pine House, the twenty-five-room Dawson mansion that overlooked Lake Tahoe, Nevada, had won two design awards for its architect and been featured in House Beau tiful. It stood at the water’s edge on a five-acre estate, with a backdrop