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The Darkest Evening of the Year
Dean Koontz
A fast-paced and emotionally devastating suspense novel from the bestselling author of Velocity,The Husband and The Good GuyAmy Redwing recklessly risks everything in her chosen field of dog rescue. When she confronts a violent drunk in order to rescue Nickie, a beautiful golden retriever, Amy has no misgivings. Dogs always do their best, and so will she. Whatever it takes.Riding shotgun nervously is her friend and lover, Brian, an architect who would marry her if only she were not so committed to these crazy … heroics! He blames her work for her refusal to marry him. But everything is due to change in the Redwing household.Someone is trying to destroy Amy. Subtle intrusions escalate into terrifying assaults on everything she holds dear. Amy believes her attacker is Wes Greeley, just released after an eighteen-month stretch, thanks to Amy's testimony, for egregious animal cruelty. But if Greeley is the culprit, it's clear he's not working alone.At last Amy understands her need of Brian, and a lot more from her troubled past that has been hidden by her passion. Unable to turn to any authority, Amy and Brian are pressed to the edge of a precipice as Koontz's most emotionally devastating thriller races with inexorable speed to a wrenching climax.Pick up a Dean Koontz thriller and you can’t put it down: try one
DEAN KOONTZ
The Darkest Evening of the Year
Dedication (#uebf3d277-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
To Gerda, who will one day be greeted jubilantly in the next life by the golden daughter whom she loved so well and with such selfless tenderness in this world.
AND TO
Father Jerome Molokie, for his many kindnesses, for his good cheer, for his friendship, and for his inspiring devotion to what is first, true, and infinite.
Contents
Cover (#uebf3d277-1FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Title Page (#uebf3d277-2FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474) Dedication Part One (#)Chapter One (#)Chapter Two (#)Chapter Three (#)Chapter Four (#)Chapter Five (#)Chapter Six (#)Chapter Seven (#)Chapter Eight (#)Chapter Nine (#)Chapter Ten (#)Chapter Eleven (#)Chapter Twelve (#)Chapter Thirteen (#)Chapter Fourteen (#)Chapter Fifteen (#)Chapter Sixteen (#)Chapter Seventeen (#)Chapter Eighteen (#)Chapter Nineteen (#)Chapter Twenty (#)Chapter Twenty One (#)Chapter Twenty Two (#)Chapter Twenty Three (#)Chapter Twenty Four (#)Chapter Twenty Five (#)Chapter Twenty Six (#)Chapter Twenty Seven (#)Chapter Twenty Eight (#)Chapter Twenty Nine (#)Chapter Thirty (#)Chapter Thirty One (#)Chapter Thirty Two (#)Part Two (#)Chapter Thirty Three (#)Chapter Thirty Four (#)Chapter Thirty Five (#)Chapter Thirty Six (#)Chapter Thirty Seven (#)Chapter Thirty Eight (#)Chapter Thirty Nine (#)Chapter Forty (#)Chapter Forty One (#)Chapter Forty Two (#)Chapter Forty Three (#)Chapter Forty Four (#)Chapter Forty Five (#)Chapter Forty Six (#)Chapter Forty Seven (#)Chapter Forty Eight (#)Chapter Forty Nine (#)Chapter Fifty (#)Part Three (#)Chapter Fifty One (#)Chapter Fifty Two (#)Chapter Fifty Three (#)Chapter Fifty Four (#)Chapter Fifty Five (#)Chapter Fifty Six (#)Chapter Fifty Seven (#)Chapter Fifty Eight (#)Chapter Fifty Nine (#)Chapter Sixty (#)Chapter Sixty One (#)Chapter Sixty Two (#)Chapter Sixty Three (#)Chapter Sixty Four (#)Chapter Sixty Five (#)Chapter Sixty Six (#) About the Author Also by Dean Koontz Copyright About the Publisher (#)
PART ONE (#)
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep”
—ROBERT FROST
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Chapter 1 (#)
Behind the wheel of the Ford Expedition, Amy Redwing drove as if she were immortal and therefore safe at any speed.
In the fitful breeze, a funnel of golden sycamore leaves spun along the post-midnight street. She blasted through them, crisp autumn scratching across the windshield.
For some, the past is a chain, each day a link, raveling backward to one ringbolt or another, in one dark place or another, and tomorrow is a slave to yesterday.
Amy Redwing did not know her origins. Abandoned at the age of two, she had no memory of her mother and father.
She had been left in a church, her name pinned to her shirt. A nun had found her sleeping on a pew.
Most likely, her surname had been invented to mislead. The police had failed to trace it to anyone.
Redwing suggested a Native American heritage. Raven hair and dark eyes argued Cherokee, but her ancestors might as likely have come from Armenia or Sicily, or Spain.
Amy’s history remained incomplete, but the lack of roots did not set her free. She was chained to some ringbolt set in the stone of a distant year.
Although she presented herself as such a blithe spirit that she appeared to be capable of flight, she was in fact as earthbound as anyone.
Belted to the passenger seat, feet pressed against a phantom brake pedal, Brian McCarthy wanted to urge Amy to slow down. He said nothing, however, because he was afraid that she would look away from the street to reply to his call for caution.
Besides, when she was launched upon a mission like this, any plea for prudence might perversely incite her to stand harder on the accelerator.
“I love October,” she said, looking away from the street. “Don’t
you love October?”
“This is still September.”
“I can love October in September. September doesn’t care.”
“Watch where you’re going.”
“I love San Francisco, but it’s hundreds of miles away.”
“The way you’re driving, we’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’m a superb driver. No accidents, no traffic citations.”
He said, “My entire life keeps flashing before my eyes.”
“You should make an appointment with an ophthalmologist.”
“Amy, please, don’t keep looking at me.”
“You look fine, sweetie. Bed hair becomes you.”
“I mean, watch the road.”
“This guy named Marco—he’s blind but he drives a car.”
“Marco who?”
“Marco something-something. He’s in the Philippines. I read about him in a magazine.”
“Nobody blind can drive a car.”
“I suppose you don’t believe we actually sent men to the moon.”
“I don’t believe they drove there.”
“Marco’s dog sits in the passenger seat. Marco senses from the dog when to turn right or left, when to hit the brakes.”
Some people thought Amy was a charming airhead. Initially, Brian had thought so, too.
Then he had realized he was wrong. He would never have fallen in love with an airhead.
He said, “You aren’t seriously telling me that Seeing Eye dogs can drive.”
“The dog doesn’t drive, silly. He just guides Marco.”
“What bizarro magazine were you reading?”
“National Geographic. It was such an uplifting story about the human-dog bond, the empowerment of the disabled.”
“I’ll bet my left foot it wasn’t National Geographic.”
“I’m opposed to gambling,” she said.
“But not to blind men driving.”
“Well, they need to be responsible blind men.”
“No place in the world,” he insisted, “allows the blind to drive.”
“Not anymore,” she agreed.
Brian did not want to ask, could not prevent himself from asking: “Marco isn’t allowed to drive anymore?”
“He kept banging into things.”
“Imagine that.”
“But you can’t blame Antoine.”
“Antoine who?”
“Antoine the dog. I’m sure he did his best. Dogs always do. Marco just second-guessed him once too often.”
“Watch where you’re going. Left curve ahead.”
Smiling at him, she said, “You’re my own Antoine. You’ll never let me bang into things.”
In the salt-pale moonlight, an older middle-class neighborhood of one-story ranch houses seemed to effloresce out of the darkness.
No streetlamps brightened the night, but the moon silvered the leaves and the creamy trunks of eucalyptuses. Here and there, stucco walls had a faint ectoplasmic glow, as if this were a ghost town of phantom buildings inhabited by spirits.
In the second block, lights brightened windows at one house.
Amy braked to a full stop in the street, and the headlights flared off the reflective numbers on the curbside mailbox.
She shifted the Expedition into reverse. Backing into the driveway, she said, “In an iffy situation, you want to be aimed out for the fastest exit.”
As she killed the headlights and the engine, Brian said, “Iffy? Iffy like how?”
Getting out of the SUV, she said, “With a crazy drunk guy, you just never know.”
Joining her at the back of the vehicle, where she put up the tailgate, Brian glanced at the house and said, “So there’s a crazy guy in there, and he’s drunk?”
“On the phone, this Janet Brockman said her husband, Carl, he’s crazy drunk, which probably means he’s crazy from drinking.”
Amy started toward the house, and Brian gripped her shoulder, halting her. “What if he’s crazy when he’s sober, and now it’s worse because he’s drunk?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist, sweetie.”
“Maybe this is police business.”
“Police don’t have time for crazy drunk guys like this.”
“I’d think crazy drunk guys are right down their alley.”
Shrugging off his hand, heading toward the house once more, she said, “We can’t waste time. He’s violent.”
Brian hurried after her. “He’s crazy, drunk, and violent?”
“He probably won’t be violent with me.”
Climbing steps to a porch, Brian said, “What about me?”
“I think he’s only violent with their dog. But if this Carl does want to take a whack at me, that’s okay, ’cause I have you.”
“Me? I’m an architect.”
“Not tonight, sweetie. Tonight, you’re muscle.”
Brian had accompanied her on other missions like this, but never previously after midnight to the home of a crazy violent drunk.
“What if I have a testosterone deficiency?”
“Do you have a testosterone deficiency?”
“I cried reading that book last week.”
“That book makes everyone cry. It just proves you’re human.”
As Amy reached for the bell push, the door opened. A young woman with a bruised mouth and a bleeding lip appeared at the threshold.
“Ms. Redwing?” she asked.
“You must be Janet.”
“I wish I wasn’t. I wish I was you or anybody, somebody.” Stepping back from the door, she invited them inside. “Don’t let Carl cripple her.”
“He won’t,” Amy assured the woman.
Janet blotted her lips with a bloody cloth. “He crippled Mazie.”
Mouth plugged with a thumb, a pale girl of about four clung to a twisted fistful of the tail of Janet’s blouse, as if anticipating a sudden cyclone that would try to spin her away from her mother.
The living room was gray. A blue sofa, blue armchairs, stood on a gold carpet, but a pair of lamps shed light as lusterless as ashes, and the colors were muted as though settled smoke from a long- quenched fire had laid a patina on them.
