From the Corner of His Eye by Dean Koontz Page B

contracted rhythmically but painfully around it. “She did? She…she wrote that?”
    “Sometimes she wrote little paragraphs to God, very touching and humble notes of gratitude, thanking Him for bringing you into her life.”
    Although Junior was free of the superstitions that Naomi, in her innocence and sentimentality, had embraced, he wept without pretense.
    He was filled with bitter remorse for having suspected Naomi of poisoning his cheese sandwich or his apricots. She had in fact adored him, as he had always believed. She would never have lifted a hand against him, never. Dear Naomi would have died for him. In fact, she had.
    The coin stopped turning, pinched flat between the knuckles of the cop’s middle and ring fingers. He retrieved a box of Kleenex from the nightstand and offered it to his suspect. “Here.”
    Because Junior’s right arm was encumbered by the bracing board and the intravenous needle, he tugged a mass of tissues from the box with his left hand.
    After the detective returned the box to the nightstand, the coin began to turn again.
    As Junior blew his nose and blotted his eyes, Vanadium said, “I believe you actually loved her in some strange way.”
    “Loved her? Of course I loved her. Naomi was beautiful and so kind…and funny. She was the best…the best thing that ever happened to me.”
    Vanadium flipped the quarter into the air, caught it in his left hand, and proceeded to turn it across his knuckles as swiftly and smoothly as he had with his right hand.
    This ambidextrous display sent a chill through Junior for reasons that he could not entirely analyze. Any amateur magician—indeed, anyone willing to practice enough hours, magician or not—could master this trick. It was mere skill, not sorcery.
    “What was your motive, Enoch?”
    “My what?”
    “You appear not to have had one. But there’s always a motive, some self-interest being served. If there’s an insurance policy, we’ll track it down, and you’ll fry like bacon on a hot skillet.” As usual, the cop’s voice was flat, a drone; he had delivered not an emotional threat, but a quiet promise.
    Widening his eyes in calculated surprise, Junior said, “Are you a
police
officer?”
    The detective smiled. This was an anaconda smile, inspired by the contemplation of merciless strangulation. “Before you woke, you were dreaming. Weren’t you? A nightmare, apparently.”
    This sudden turn in the interrogation unnerved Junior. Vanadium had a talent for keeping a suspect off balance. A conversation with him was like a scene out of a movie about Robin Hood: a battle with cudgels on a slippery log bridge over a river. “Yes. I…I’m still soaked with sweat.”
    “What were you dreaming about, Enoch?”
    No one could put him in prison because of his dreams. “I can’t remember. Those are the worst, when you’re not able to remember them—don’t you think? They’re always so silly when you can recall the details. When you draw a blank…they seem more threatening.”
    “You spoke a name in your sleep.”
    More likely than not, this was a lie, and the detective was setting him up. Suddenly Junior wished that he had denied dreaming.
    Vanadium said, “Bartholomew.”
    Junior blinked and dared not speak, because he didn’t know any Bartholomew, and now he was certain the cop was weaving an elaborate web of deceit, setting a trap. Why would he have spoken a name that meant nothing to him?
    “Who is Bartholomew?” Vanadium asked.
    Junior shook his head.
    “You spoke that name twice.”
    “I don’t know anyone named Bartholomew.” He decided that the truth, in this instance, could not harm him.
    “You sounded as though you were in a lot of distress. You were frightened of this Bartholomew.”
    The ball of sodden Kleenex was gripped so tightly in Junior’s left hand that had its carbon content been higher, it would have been compacted into a diamond. He saw Vanadium staring at his clenched fist and sharp white knuckles.