Odd Hours by Dean Koontz Page B

because if I throw a stone in the air, it falls back to the ground.”
    “Yes. That’s what I mean.”
    “You haven’t been exactly generous with empirical evidence,” I reminded her. “I don’t even know where you’re from. Or your name.”
    “You know my name.”
    “Only your first name. What’s your last?”
    “I don’t have one.”
    “Everybody has a last name.”
    “I’ve never had one.”
    The night was cold; our breath smoked from us. She had such a mystical quality, I might have been persuaded that we had exhaled the entire vast ocean of fog that now drowned all things, that she had come down from Olympus with the power to breathe away the world and, out of the resultant mist, remake it to her liking.
    I said, “You had to have a last name to go to school.”
    “I’ve never gone to school.”
    “You’re home-schooled?”
    She did not reply.
    “Without a last name, how do you get welfare?”
    “I’m not on the welfare rolls.”
    “But you said you don’t work.”
    “That’s right.”
    “What—do people just give you money when you need it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Wow. That would be even less stressful than the tire life or shoe sales.”
    “I’ve never asked anyone for anything—until I asked you if you would die for me.”
    Out there in the dissolved world, St. Joseph’s Church tower must have remained standing, for in the distance its familiar bell tolled the half-hour, which was strange for two reasons. First, the radiant dial of my watch showed 7:22, and that seemed right. Second, from eight in the morning till eight in the evening, St. Joe’s marked each hour with a single strike of the bell and the half-hour with two. Now it rang three times, a solemn reverberant voice in the fog.
    “How old are you, Annamaria?”
    “In one sense, eighteen.”
    “To go eighteen years without asking anyone for anything—you must have known you were saving up for a really big request.”
    “I had an inkling,” she said.
    She sounded amused, but this was not the amusement of deception or obfuscation. I sensed again that she was being more direct than she seemed.
    Frustrated, I returned to my former line of inquiry: “Without a last name, how do you get health care?”
    “I don’t need health care.”
    Referring to the baby she carried, I said, “In a couple months, you’ll need it.”
    “All things in their time.”
    “And, you know, it’s not good to go to term without regularly seeing a doctor.”
    She favored me with a smile. “You’re a very sweet young man.”
    “It’s a little weird when you call me a young man. I’m older than you are.”
    “But nonetheless a young man, and sweet. Where are we going?” she wondered.
    “That sure is the million-dollar question.”
    “I mean right now. Where are we going now?”
    I took some pleasure in answering her with a line that was as inscrutable as anything that she had said to me: “I have to go see a man with hair like wool-of-bat and tongue like fillet of fenny snake.”
    “Macbeth,”
she said, identifying the reference and robbing me of some of my satisfaction.
    “I call him Flashlight Guy. You don’t need to know why. It’s liable to be dicey, so you can’t go with me.”
    “I’m safest with you.”
    “I’ll need to be able to move fast. Anyway, I know this woman—you’ll like her. No one would think of looking for either of us at her place.”
    A growling behind us caused us to turn.
    For an instant it seemed to me that the hulk had followed us and, while we had been engaged in our enigmatic conversation, had by some magic separated himself into three smaller forms. In the fog were six yellow eyes, as bright as road-sign reflectors, not at the height of a man’s eyes but lower to the ground.
    When they slunk out of the mist and halted just ten feet from us, they were revealed as coyotes. Three of them.
    The fog developed six more eyes, and three more rangy specimens arrived among the initial trio.
    Evidently they had