Read Dark Rivers of the Heart Online
Authors: Dean Koontz
Tags: #Horror, #Suspense, #Fiction, #General, #Thrillers
Dark Rivers of the Heart (81 page)
“Bob,” Ron said, returning to the issue at hand, “we’re living in a time when the highest of high technology makes it possible for a relative handful of totalitarians to subvert a democratic society and control large sections of its government, economy, and culture—with great subtlety. If they control too much of it for too long, unopposed, they’ll get bolder. They’ll want to control it all, every aspect of people’s lives. And by the time the general public wakes up to what’s happened, their ability to resist will have been leached away. The forces marshaled against them will be unchallengeable.”
“Then subtle control might be traded for the blatant exercise of raw power,” Ellie said. “That’s when they open the ‘reeducation’ camps to help us wayward souls learn the right path.”
Bob stared at her in shock. “You don’t really think it could ever happen here, something that extreme.”
Instead of replying, Ellie met his eyes, until he had time to think about what outrageous injustices had already been committed against him and his family to bring them to this place at this time in their lives.
“Jesus,” he whispered, and he gazed down thoughtfully at his folded hands on the table.
Jean looked at her son as the boy happily petted and scratched Killer, then glanced at Ellie’s swollen stomach. “Bob, this is where we belong. This is our future. It’s right. These people have hope, and we need hope badly.” She turned to Ellie. “When’s the baby due?”
“Two months.”
“Boy or girl?”
“We’re having a little girl.”
“You picked a name for her yet?”
“Jennifer Corrine.”
“That’s pretty,” Jean said.
Ellie smiled. “For Phil’s mother and mine.”
To Bob Padrakian, Phil said, “We
do
have hope. More than enough hope to have children and to get on with life even in the resistance. Because modern technology has its good side too. You know that. You love high technology as much as we do. The benefits to humanity far outweigh the problems. But there are always would-be Hitlers. So it’s fallen to us to fight a new kind of war, one that more often uses knowledge than guns to fight battles.”
“Though guns,” Ron said, “sometimes have their place.”
Bob considered Ellie’s swollen belly, then turned to his wife. “You’re sure?”
“They have hope,” Jean said simply.
Her husband nodded. “Then this is the future.”
Later, on the brink of twilight, Phil and Ellie and Killer went for a walk on the beach.
The sun was huge, low, and red. It quickly sank out of sight beyond the western horizon.
To the east, over the Atlantic, the sky became deep and vast and purple-black, and the stars came out to allow sailors to chart courses on the otherwise strange sea.
Phil and Ellie talked of Jennifer Corrine and of all the hopes that they had for her, of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. They took turns throwing a ball, but Killer allowed no one to take turns chasing it.
Phil, who once had been Michael and the son of evil, who once had been Spencer and for so long imprisoned in one moment of a July night, put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Staring at the ever-shining stars, he knew that human lives were free of the chains of fate except in one regard: It was the human destiny to be free.
To Gary and Zov Karamardian
for their valued friendship,
for being the kind of people who
make life a joy for others,
and for giving us a home
away from home.
We’ve decided to move in permanently
next week!
77 Shadow Street • What the Night Knows • Breathless
Relentless • Your Heart Belongs to Me
The Darkest Evening of the Year • The Good Guy
The Husband
•
Velocity
•
Life Expectancy
The Taking
•
The Face
•
By the Light of the Moon
One Door Away From Heaven
•
From the Corner of His Eye
False Memory
•
Seize the Night
•
Fear Nothing
Mr. Murder
•
Dragon Tears
•
Hideaway
•
Cold Fire
The Bad Place
•
Midnight
•
Lightning
•
Watchers
Strangers
•
Twilight Eyes
•
Darkfall
•
Phantoms
Whispers
•
The Mask
•
The Vision
•
The Face of Fear
Night Chills
•
Shattered
•
The Voice of the Night
The Servants of Twilight
•
The House of Thunder
The Key to Midnight
•
The Eyes of Darkness
Shadowfires
•
Winter Moon
•
The Door to December
Dark Rivers of the Heart
•
Icebound
•
Strange Highways
Intensity
•
Sole Survivor
•
Ticktock
The Funhouse
•
Demon Seed
ODD THOMAS
Odd Thomas
•
Forever Odd
•
Brother Odd
•
Odd Hours
FRANKENSTEIN
Prodigal Son
•
City of Night
•
Dead and Alive
Lost Souls
•
The Dead Town
A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog Named Trixie
About the Author
DEAN KOONTZ, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of their golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California.
Correspondence for the author should be addressed to:
Dean Koontz
P.O. Box 9529
Newport Beach, CA 92658
Don’t miss
any of the adventures of
Odd Thomas
,
America’s favorite hero
.
From #1 Bestselling Author
.
His mysterious journey of suspense and discovery moves to a dangerous new level in his most riveting adventure to date… .
by #1
New York Times
bestselling author
DEAN KOONTZ
On sale in hardcover
Summer 2012
Near sunset of my second full day as a guest in Roseland, crossing the immense lawn between the main house and the eucalyptus grove, I halted and pivoted, warned by instinct. Racing toward me, the great black stallion was as mighty a horse as I had ever seen. Earlier, in a book of breeds, I had identified it as a Friesian. The blonde who rode him wore a white nightgown.
As silent as any spirit, the woman urged the horse forward, faster. On hooves that made no sound, the steed ran
through
me with no effect.
I have certain talents. In addition to being a pretty good short-order cook, I have an occasional prophetic dream. And in the waking world, I sometimes see the spirits of the lingering dead who, for various reasons, are reluctant to move on to the Other Side.
This long-dead horse and rider, now only spirits in our world, knew that no one but I could see them. After appearing to me twice the previous day and once this morning, but at a distance, the woman seemed to have decided to get my attention in an aggressive fashion.
Mount and mistress raced around me in a wide arc. I turned to follow them, and they cantered toward me once more but then halted. The stallion reared over me, silently slashing the air with the hooves of its forelegs, nostrils flared, eyes rolling, a creature of such immense power that I stumbled backward even though I knew that it was as immaterial as a dream.
Spirits are solid and warm to my touch, as real to me in that way as is anyone alive. But I am not solid to them, and they can neither ruffle my hair nor strike a death blow at me.
Because my sixth sense complicates my existence, I try otherwise to keep my life simple. I have fewer possessions than a monk. I have no time or peace to build a career as a fry cook or as anything else. I never plan for the future, but wander into it with a smile on my face, hope in my heart, and the hair up on the nape of my neck.
Bareback on the Friesian, the barefoot beauty wore white silk and white lace and wild red ribbons of blood both on her gown and in her long blond hair, though I could see no wound. Her nightgown was rucked up to her thighs, and her knees pressed against the stallion’s heaving flanks. In her left hand, she twined a fistful of the horse’s mane, as if even in death she must hold fast to her mount to keep their spirits joined.
If spurning a gift weren’t ungrateful, I would at once return my supernatural sight. I would be content to spend my days whipping up omelets that make you groan with pleasure and pancakes so fluffy that the slightest breeze might float them off your plate.
Every talent is unearned, however, and with it comes a solemn obligation to use it as fully and as wisely as possible. If I didn’t believe in the miraculous nature of talent and in the sacred duty of the recipient, by now I would have gone so insane that I’d qualify for numerous high government positions.
As the stallion danced on its hind legs, the woman reached out with her right arm and pointed down at me, as if to say that she knew I saw her and that she had a message to convey to me. Her lovely face was grim with determination, and those cornflower-blue eyes that were not bright with life were nonetheless bright with anguish.