The Good Guy. Dean Koontz

for a man still in the game.

      “No, no. It’s not that.”

      “She’s easy on the eyes,” said Max.

      “Truly, it’s not that. I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me, but we have a… mutual acquaintance. I have some news about him. I think she’ll want to know it.”

      The rubbery smile loosened only a little. Max didn’t want to let go of the image of himself as a facilitator of true romance.

      Everyone, Tim thought, had seen too many movies. They believed that a meet-cute relationship awaited every good heart. Because of movies, they believed a lot of other improba ble things, as well, some of them dangerous.

      “It’s a sad business,” Tim said. “Some depressing news.”

      “About your mutual acquaintance.”

      “Yes. He’s not a well man.”

      This could not be counted as a lie. The skydiver was not physically ill, but his mental condition was suspect; and his moral health had fallen to disease.

      Consideration of death relaxed all the delight out of Max Jabowski’s smile. His mouth shrank to a grim shape, and he nodded.

      Tim expected to be asked the name of the mutual acquaintance. He would have had to say that he didn’t want to provide it for fear of alarming the woman before he could be at her side to comfort her.

      The fuller truth was that he had no name to give.

      Max did not ask for a name, sparing Tim from resorting to that deception. Bushy brows beetling now over solemn eyes, he once more offered coffee, and then went away to call the woman.

      The coffered ceiling and wood-paneled walls of the foyer were dark, and the limestone floor was so light, by contrast, that the support it provided seemed illusory, as if he might at any moment fall through it like a man stepping out of a plane in flight.

      Two small chairs flanked a console, above which hung a mirror.

      He did not look at his reflection. If he met his eyes, he would see the hard truth from which he preferred to remain diverted.

      Directly met, his gaze would tell him what was coming. It was the same thing that was always coming toward him, that always would be, as long as he was alive.

      He needed to prepare for it. He did not need, however, to dwell on it.

      From elsewhere in the house arose Max’s muted voice as he spoke on the phone.

      Here at the center of the foyer, Tim stood straight, and felt as if he were suspended from the dark ceiling, like a clapper in a bell, with empty air below him, in silent anticipation of a sudden tolling.

      Max returned and said, “She’s curious. I didn’t say much, just vouched for you.”

      “Thanks. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

      “It isn’t any bother, but it is kind of peculiar.”

      “Yes, it is. I know.”

      “Why didn’t your friend call Linda and vouch for you himself? He wouldn’t have to tell her why he’s sending you around—the bad news.”

      “He’s very ill and very confused,” said Tim. “He knows the right thing to do, but he doesn’t any longer know how to do it.”

      “That’s maybe the thing I fear the most,” said Max. “The mind going, the loss of control.”

      “It’s life,” Tim said. “We all get through it.”

      They shook hands, and Max walked him out onto the porch. “She’s a nice woman. I hope this won’t be too painful.”

      “I’ll do my best for her,” Tim said.

      He returned to his Explorer and drove to Linda Paquette’s bungalow.

      The herringbone brick of the front walkway had been laid on a bed of sand. The air was fragrant with eucalyptus essence, and dry leaves crunched underfoot.

      Step by step, urgency overcame him. Time seemed to quicken, and he sensed trouble coming sooner rather than later.

      As he climbed the front steps, the door opened, and she greeted him. “Are you Tim?”

      “Yes. Ms. Paquette?”

      “Call me Linda.”

      In the porch light, her eyes were Egyptian green.

      She said, “Your mama must have had a hard nine months carrying all of you around.”

      “I was smaller then.”

      Stepping back from the door, she said, “Duck your head and come on in.”

      He crossed the threshold, and after that nothing was ever the same for him.

       Five

      Golden honey poured wall to wall, a wood floor so lustrous and warm that the humble living room appeared spacious, quietly grand.

      Built in the 1930s, the bungalow had either been meticulously maintained or restored. The small fireplace and flanking wall sconces were simple but elegant examples of Art Deco style.

      The glossy white tongue-and-groove ceiling lowered over Tim, but not unpleasantly. The place felt cozy instead of claustrophobic.

      Linda had a lot of books. With one exception, their spines were the only art in the room, an abstract tapestry of words and colors.

      The exception was a six-by-four-foot image of a television with a blank gray screen.

      “Modern art baffles me,” Tim said.

      “That’s not art. I had it done at a photo shop. To remind me why I don’t own a TV.”

      “Why don’t you?”

      “Because life is too short.”

      Tim gave the photo a chance, then said, “I don’t understand.”

      “Eventually you will. A head as big as yours has to have some brains in it.”

      He wasn’t sure if her manner indicated a breezy kind of charm or a flippancy bordering on rudeness.

      Or she might be a little screwy. Lots of people were these days.

      “Linda, the reason I’m here—”

      “Come along. I’m working in the kitchen.” Leading him across the living room, she said over her shoulder, “Max assured me you’re not the type to stab me in the back and rape my corpse.”

      “I ask him to vouch for me, and that’s what he tells you?”

      As he followed her along a hallway, she said, “He told me you were a talented mason and an honest man. I had to squeeze the rest of it out of him. He really didn’t want to commit to an opinion about your possible homicidal and necrophilic tendencies.”

      A car was parked in the kitchen.

      The wall between the kitchen and the two-car garage had been removed. The wood floor had been extended throughout the garage, as had the glossy white tongue-and-groove ceiling.

      Three precisely focused pin spots showcased a black 1939 Ford.

      “Your kitchen is in the garage,” he said.

      “No, no. My garage is in my kitchen.”

      “What’s the difference?”

      “Huge. I’m having coffee. You want some? Cream? Sugar?”

      “Black, please. Why is your car in your kitchen?”

      “I like to look at it while I’m eating. Isn’t it beautiful?