Dean Koontz has surpassed his longtime reputation as
“America’s most popular suspense novelist”Rolling Stone to become
one of the most celebrated and successful writers of our time.
Reviewers hail his boundless originality, his art, his unparalleled
ability to create highly textured, riveting drama, at once
viscerally familiar and utterly unique.
Author of one #1 The New York Times bestseller after another,
Koontz is at the pinnacle of his powers, spinning mysteries and
miracles, enthral
關於作者：
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.
內容試閱：
Chapter One
Shortly before being knocked unconscious and bound to a chair,
before being injected with an unknown substance against his will,
and before discovering that the world was deeply mysterious in ways
he''d never before imagined, Dylan O''Conner left his motel room and
walked across the highway to a brightly lighted fast-food franchise
to buy cheeseburgers, French fries, pocket pies with apple filling,
and a vanilla milkshake.
The expired day lay buried in the earth, in the asphalt. Unseen
but felt, its ghost haunted the Arizona night: a hot spirit rising
lazily from every inch of ground that Dylan crossed.
Here at the end of town that served travelers from the nearby
interstate, formidable batteries of colorful electric signs warred
for customers. In spite of this bright battle, however, an
impressive sea of stars gleamed from horizon to horizon, for the
air was clear and dry. A westbound moon, as round as a ship''s
wheel, plied the starry ocean.
The vastness above appeared clean and full of promise, but the
world at ground level looked dusty, weary. Rather than being combed
by a single wind, the night was plaited with many breezes, each
with an individual quality of whispery speech and a unique scent.
Redolent of desert grit, of cactus pollen, of diesel fumes, of hot
blacktop, the air curdled as Dylan drew near to the restaurant,
thickened with the aroma of long-used deep-fryer oil, with
hamburger grease smoking on a griddle, with fried-onion vapors
nearly as thick as blackdamp.
If he hadn''t been in a town unfamiliar to him, if he hadn''t been
tired after a day on the road, and if his younger brother,
Shepherd, hadn''t been in a puzzling mood, Dylan would have sought a
restaurant with healthier fare. Shep wasn''t currently able to cope
in public, however, and when in this condition, he refused to eat
anything but comfort food with a high fat content.
The restaurant was brighter inside than out. Most surfaces were
white, and in spite of the well-greased air, the establishment
looked antiseptic.
Contemporary culture fit Dylan O''Conner only about as well as a
three-fingered glove, and here was one more place where the
tailoring pinched: He believed that a burger joint ought to look
like a joint, not like a surgery, not like a nursery with pictures
of clowns and funny animals on the walls, not like a bamboo
pavilion on a tropical island, not like a glossy plastic replica of
a 1950s diner that never actually existed. If you were going to eat
charred cow smothered in cheese, with a side order of potato strips
made as crisp as ancient papyrus by immersion in boiling oil, and
if you were going to wash it all down with either satisfying
quantities of icy beer or a milkshake containing the caloric
equivalent of an entire roasted pig, then this fabulous consumption
ought to occur in an ambience that virtually screamed guilty
pleasure, if not sin. The lighting should be low and warm. Surfaces
should be dark—preferably old mahogany, tarnished brass,
wine-colored upholstery. Music should be provided to soothe the
carnivore: not the music that made your gorge rise in an elevator
because it was played by musicians steeped in Prozac, but tunes
that were as sensuous as the food—perhaps early rock and roll or
big-band swing, or good country music about temptation and remorse
and beloved dogs.
Nevertheless, he crossed the ceramic-tile floor to a
stainless-steel counter, where he placed his takeout order with a
plump woman whose white hair, well-scrubbed look, and candy-striped
uniform made her a dead ringer for Mrs. Santa Claus. He half
expected to see an elf peek out of her shirt pocket.
In distant days, counters in fast-food outlets had been manned
largely by teenagers. In recent years, however, a significant
number of teens considered such work to be beneath them, which
opened the door to retirees looking to supplement their
social-security checks.
Mrs. Santa Claus called Dylan "dear," delivered his order in two
white paper bags, and reached across the counter to pin a
promotional button to his shirt. The button featured the slogan
fries not flies and the grinning green face of a cartoon toad whose
conversion from the traditional diet of his warty species to such
taste treats as half-pound bacon cheeseburgers was chronicled in
the company''s current advertising campaign.
Here was that three-fingered glove again: Dylan didn''t understand
why he should be expected to weigh the endorsement of a cartoon
toad or a sports star—or a Nobel laureate, for that matter—when
deciding what to eat for dinner. Furthermore, he didn''t understand
why an advertisement assuring him that the restaurant''s French
fries were tastier than house flies should charm him. Their fries
better have a superior flavor to a bagful of insects.
He withheld his antitoad opinion also because lately he had begun
to realize that he was allowing himself to be annoyed by too many
inconsequential things. If he didn''t mellow out, he would sour into
a world-class curmudgeon by the age of thirty-five. He smiled at
Mrs. Claus and thanked her, lest otherwise he ensure an anthracite
Christmas.
Outside, under the fat moon, crossing the three-lane highway to
the motel, carrying paper bags full of fragrant cholesterol in a
variety of formats, Dylan reminded himself of some of the many
things for which he should be thankful. Good health. Nice teeth.
Great hair. Youth. He was twenty-nine. He possessed a measure of
artistic talent and had work that he found both meaningful and
enjoyable. Although he was in no danger of getting rich, he sold
his paintings often enough to cover expenses and to bank a little
money every month. He had no disfiguring facial scars, no
persistent fungus problem, no troublesome evil twin, no spells of
amnesia from which he awoke with bloody hands, no inflamed
hangnails.
And he had Shepherd. Simultaneously a blessing and a curse, Shep
in his best moments made Dylan glad to be alive and happy to be his
brother.
Under a red neon motel sign where Dylan''s traveling shadow
painted a purer black upon the neon-rouged blacktop, and then when
he passed squat sago palms and spiky cactuses and other hardy
desert landscaping, and also while he followed the concrete
walkways that served the motel, and certainly when he passed the
humming and softly clinking soda-vending machines, lost in thought,
brooding about the soft chains of family commitment—he was stalked.
So stealthy was the approach that the stalker must have matched him
step for step, breath for breath. At the door to his room,
clutching bags of food, fumbling with his key, he heard too late a
betraying scrape of shoe leather. Dylan turned his head, rolled his
eyes, glimpsed a looming moon-pale face, and sensed as much as saw
the dark blur of something arcing down toward his skull.
Strangely, he didn''t feel the blow and wasn''t aware of falling.
He heard the paper bags crackle, smelled onions, smelled warm
cheese, smelled pickle chips, realized that he was facedown on the
concrete, and hoped that he hadn''t spilled Shep''s milkshake. Then
he dreamed a little dream of dancing French fries.
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