Chapter 1

Detective Sgt. Brian Kettering pulled the two-year-old Camaro into his driveway and jammed to a stop behind his wife's neat little Honda. He got out, slammed the car door, and trudged across the thick lawn, past the carefully tended flower beds, to the front door of his brown and cream California ranch house. He shoved in through the door, peeling off his gray herringbone jacket as he crossed the living room.

In the kitchen Mavis Kettering tensed when she heard the car door slam out in front. She needed no other indication of the mood her husband was in. They had to talk, and soon, but this would not, she decided, be a good time.

Mavis dried her hands, smoothed the front of her skirt, and walked out into the dining room to be ready to meet Brian. She was a handsome woman with dark blond hair, clear Scandinavian complexion, and dazzling blue eyes. The skin tightened around her eyes when Kettering came in, and his expression confirmed her fears about his mood.

"You're home early," she said.

"Yeah."

"Trouble?"

"Trouble is my business."

He walked past her into the kitchen. Mavis followed. Idly he took a glass from the sink and held it up to the late afternoon light slanting in from the kitchen window.

"Something wrong?" she said.

"Why would there be anything wrong?"

Kettering replaced the glass and crossed to the high cupboard where they kept the liquor. He took down the bottle of Wild Turkey and studied it as though reading the label for the first time. Satisfied, he poured himself a liberal two ounces and added ice cubes. He stirred the drink with a forefinger, then took a deep swallow.

"Aren't you hitting the liquor a little early?" Mavis said.

"Any reason why I shouldn't?"

Mavis chewed her lower lip. "Do you want some soda to go with that?"

"What for?"

Kettering carried the drink back through the living room into the den, where they kept the big television set, the stereo, and a rack full of magazines. He shifted the belt holster that carried the S&W Centennial .38 to a more comfortable position and eased himself into the worn old recliner. He levered the chair all the way back, sipped deeply from the iced bourbon, and closed his eyes.

The back of Kettering's head pounded. There was a painful ringing in his ears. When he was a younger man, these headaches used to come with some regularity. His response in those days was hard physical action - running on the school track, working with his weights, a hard-fought pickup game of hoops in the gym. By concentrating on his body he was able to push the dark, not-quite-visible images out of his mind.

As he matured, the headaches hit less frequently. He had begun to think he might be rid of them forever. But about a month ago they started again. Just a feeling of pressure at first, then the pain. A little more and a little more, until today it was like a poker shoved into the base of his skull. And along with the headache, a chill, even though the temperature in the Valley was in the eighties. It could have been the beginning of the flu. Kettering would have loved for it to be the flu. But he knew better. He knew his symptoms were connected to the dream. The dream of Prescott, Indiana, and his home there and dead Uncle Bob.

And Doomstalker.

The front door banged open. Kettering jerked the recliner upright so he could watch through the archway as his son slouched across the room toward the kitchen. Why the hell couldn't teenagers walk upright?

At seventeen, Trevor Kettering was an even six feet, nearly as tall as his father, but at 155 pounds, he had some filling out to do. Today he was wearing a T-shirt advertising Coors, and a pair of faded jeans with strategically placed rips in the fabric. Trevor's hair was a lighter shade of brown than his father's, but his eyes were the same coffee color.

Kettering called out to him in his best police-officer voice. "Hold it."

The boy stopped in mid-stride, turned to face him. "Oh, hi, Dad. You're home early."

"So people keep telling me. Come over here."

Reluctantly, the boy approached the recliner.

"What happened to your head?"

"My head?"

"The knob between your shoulders there. What's that growing out of it?"

Trevor put a hand to his hair. It was moderately short, moussed upright. "I, uh, got a haircut."

"That's a haircut? Why didn't they finish it?"

"Huh?"

"They left a lot of little points sticking up. You look like an unborn porcupine."

Kettering did not like himself when he turned sarcastic with his son. Once he started, he did not seem able to stop.

"Come on, Dad, this is no big deal. It's what the guys are wearing."

"What guys? The heroes in West Hollywood?"

Trevor's face began to darken. Kettering knew the boy's temper was rising and he should knock it off, but perversely he kept the pressure on.

"You talk like this was a Mohawk or something extreme. It's not. Don Johnson had this do on Miami Vice. Bruce Willis too. Or he would if he had enough hair."

"You think that haircut will make you a television star?"

"Lighten up, Dad."

"It looks like hell."

"It's what the guys are wearing."

"You said that. At least you can comb it down a little flatter."

"Yeah, okay."

Trevor took a step toward the kitchen. Kettering knew he had pushed too far again. Why the hell couldn't he and the kid communicate? It was the damn headache. It was always something.

He released his son with the wave of a hand, and Trevor escaped through the swinging door into the kitchen. Kettering took a long pull at the Wild Turkey and cranked the chair back to recline. He balanced the glass on his chest and closed his eyes.

Kettering floated through semidarkness. Gradually his tensed muscles relaxed. His nerves uncoiled. Weightless, he let himself drift wherever the currents of his subconscious took him.

***

Dimly on the far horizon a shadow shape appeared. At first no more than an indistinct lump, but filled with menace. It grew larger. Steadily, relentlessly, the shape came toward him. Kettering strained to pull away, to retreat from the oncoming figure. His movements were agonizingly difficult and slow, like backing away through hip-deep clinging mud.

The thing gained on him steadily. The advancing shadow coalesced into a vaguely human shape, yet was like no man who had ever walked the earth. The shoulders were high, hunched up to where the ears should be. The arms dangled apelike, ending in wicked curved talons. The long powerful legs overtook him with relentless strides.

The thing caught up with him. Huge and frightening, it loomed over him. Kettering swung on it with a right arm that had lost its strength. His fist was a tiny, useless toy. His entire body shrank to child size.

The monster hovered in front of him, its outline and details shifting and swirling like a creature of smoke, yet it was solid as death. All power of movement drained away from Kettering. The shadow figure reached down for him, claws grasping and wriggling. Where the face should have been was a dark, seething emptiness.

Doomstalker.

Kettering forced his mouth open and from the depths of his chest brought up a bellow of mingled rage and fear. The iced bourbon splashed across his chest, soaking through his shirt, chilling his flesh.

He awoke with nerves taut and vibrating.

Mavis, her hands still wet from the kitchen sink, appeared beside his chair. "What is it? What's the matter?"

Kettering righted himself awkwardly. "Nothing."

"Nothing? Jesus, Brian."

"I spilled my drink."

"The way you yelled, I thought you were having a seizure of some kind."

"I was dozing off. The cold startled me, that's all."

"Did you have a bad dream?"

"I told you, I spilled my drink."

She gave him a long look. "Brian, are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. Just drop it, okay?"

Mavis flinched away from the cutting edge of his tone. "Sure. Right. Whatever you say." She turned back toward the kitchen and spoke without looking at him. "As long as we're all home, we might as well have an early dinner tonight."

"I'm not very hungry."

"You'll feel better if you eat something."

He sighed heavily. "I'll go change my shirt."

Mavis looked at him for a moment, then went back out to the kitchen.

Kettering got up and used a handkerchief to mop at his shirt. He retrieved the melting ice cubes from the chair and dropped them back into the glass. He hesitated, looking toward the kitchen, wondering if he should go out and say something to Mavis. Again he had spoken more sharply than he meant to. No, better leave it alone. He went on back to their bedroom.

***

Dinner at the Kettering house that evening was a grim and silent affair. Mavis's meat loaf, with its finely chopped green pepper and onion, and subtle combination of spices, usually drew raves from Trevor and even a compliment from Brian. Tonight it was eaten in silence.

Trevor ate quickly, glancing repeatedly at his watch, but he stayed in his chair. Kettering chewed and swallowed methodically, his thoughts somewhere else. Except for an occasional frown at his son's haircut, he might have been eating alone. Mavis watched them nervously, relieved when Kettering pushed his chair back, signaling that the meal was over.

When the dishes had been cleared away and Trevor had again escaped from the house, Kettering settled once more into his recliner, snapped on the television set, and flapped open the Valley News. He sat holding the paper in front of him without really reading it. Mavis came in and stood watching him.

"Are you going to tell me about it, or am I supposed to guess what's going on with you?" she said. "And if you tell me once more nothing's wrong, I'll scream."

"Don't start on me, Mavis."

"And don't you treat me like an intruder. We've been married eighteen years. I've got as much invested here as you. Maybe more. I saw it right away when you got up this morning. I hoped it was just a mood - you'd slept badly or something. But no, you come glooming back into the house tonight bringing your cloud of trouble with you. Something's wrong, Brian. I want to know what it is. You've gone through these moods before and I've let it pass. I can't do that anymore. If this is something we can fix, let's talk about it. And if it isn't, we'd better start thinking about alternatives."

"What's that speech supposed to mean?"

"It means communication around here is lousy, and I'm not going to take it anymore."

"You've been listening to that lady shrink on the radio again."

"Damn it, Brian, don't patronize me."

"All right, what can I say? I got up with a headache, I came home in a bad mood. It happens to everybody. I'm sorry. Okay?"

"No, not okay. If that was really the only problem, I could handle it. But it's more. I'm not blind, Brian. Something is eating you up. And it's splitting us apart. Do you know how long it's been since we made love?"

"Twenty-seven days."

Mavis faltered for a moment, then went on. "So you've been counting too. It's a bad situation, Brian. We'd better do something about it while we still can. I'm not kidding."

"So call Dr. Ruth."

"Oh, that's fine. Be sarcastic. Belittle the problem. Anything to avoid the issue."

"Mavis, I promise you we'll sit down and talk this out for as long as you want and as seriously as you want. But not right now, okay? Right now I'm tired, my head hurts, I'm no good for talking or anything else."

Mavis hesitated before speaking again. "We're getting to be like strangers sharing the house. We don't talk, we don't do anything together. We haven't for a long time."

"I told you - " he began.

She took a deep breath and plunged in. "How about coming to church with me Sunday?"

"Not that again."

"Yes, that. Again."

"You know how I feel about church. How I've always felt."

"Because of your father."

"That's right. My father, the minister. He not only preached the Gospel on Sunday, he believed in what he preached. He never questioned the rightness of God and the Church. If the Church couldn't protect my father, it sure as hell isn't going to help me."

"Your father died before you were ready, that's all," Mavis said. "You can't hold the Church responsible for that."

"That's not the whole story."

"Are you ever going to tell me the rest of it? What really happened to your father?"

"I would if I could. I was six years old when I saw him die. It wasn't an easy death, Mavis. Not for him, not for me. To this day I couldn't tell you what I saw back then, but it haunts me. It's like something just outside my field of vision, and if I turned real fast, I could see it. Hell, I even spin around sometimes when I feel like that to try and catch whatever's hiding there. There never is anything. What can I tell you?"

Mavis held his eye until he looked away. Then she turned and left him alone.

Kettering scowled at the door where she had gone out. Nice going, Mavis, he thought. Tomorrow you can call it an even four weeks without sex, because with that attitude there sure won't be any fooling around tonight.

He made a disgusted sound in his throat. Who the hell was he kidding? Sure, go ahead and blame the woman. The easy way out. Engineer a fight. The male equivalent of the woman's headache. The truth was, he simply hadn't felt like making love for a long time. Not to his wife, not to anybody. Not since the headaches started again. And the dreams. Unlike a woman, a man had to be in the mood to do it, or it was impossible. He had taken to staying up later and later at night so Mavis would be asleep when he came to bed. And on his days off, times when they used to enjoy a leisurely morning in bed, he was finding excuses to get up early.

What the hell, maybe he had simply lost it. Age forty-three really shouldn't put him over the hill, but other men had pooped out earlier than that. Not fun to think about, but there was no denying the fact that he couldn't seem to get it up and keep it up anymore. At least not when he was in a position to do something about it with his wife. Sure, there was the traditional waking-up hard-on, but that wilted as soon as he reached over and touched the familiar mounds and dips of Mavis's body. Familiar. Maybe that was the problem. There was not a square centimeter of her body that he did not know the feel of. Still firm and smooth, but too familiar. He knew her special smell, the taste of her. Maybe eighteen years was longer than a man and woman were meant to live together and still get each other excited.

Or, damn it, just maybe it was flat out his fault. Cops as a group were not the best husbands, and he had been maybe more distant than most. And since the dreams started coming again, his nerves had been constantly frayed. If he could just get a couple of good nights' sleep without the dreams, maybe everything would be okay.

And maybe not.