Dean Koontz - The Forbidden Door

AT FIRST THE BREEZE WAS no more than a long sigh, breathing through the Texas high country as though expressing some sadness attendant to Nature herself.

They were sitting in the fresh air, in the late-afternoon light, because they assumed that the house was bugged, that anything they said within its rooms would be monitored in real time.

Likewise, they trusted neither the porches nor the barn, nor the horse stables.

When they had something important to discuss, they retreated to the redwood lawn chairs under the massive oak tree in the backyard, facing a flatness of grassland that rolled on to the distant horizon and, for all that the eye could tell, continued to eternity.

As Sunday afternoon became evening, Ancel and Clare Hawk sat in those chairs, she with a martini, he with Macallan Scotch over ice, steeling themselves for an upcoming television program they didnt want to watch but that might change their lives.

What bombshell can they be talking about? Clare wondered.

Its TV news, Ancel said. They pitch most every story like itll shake the foundations of the world. Its how they sell soap.

Clare watched him as he stared out at the deep, trembling grass and the vastness of sky as if he never tired of them and saw some new meaning in them every time he gave them his attention. A big man with a weathered face and work-scarred hands, he looked as if his heart might be as hard as bone, though shed never known one more tender.

After thirty-four years of marriage, they had endured hardships and shared many successes. But nowand perhaps for as long as they yet might have togethertheir lives were defined by one blessing and one unbearable loss, the birth of their only child, Nick, and his death at the age of thirty-two, the previous November.

Clare said, Im feeling like its more than selling soap, like its some vicious damn twist of the knife.

Ancel reached out with his left hand, which she held tightly. We thought it all out, Clare. We have plans. Were ready for whatever.

Im not ready to lose Jane, too. Ill never be ready.

It wont happen. Theyre who they are, shes who she is, and Id put my money on her every time.

Just when the faded-denim sky began to darkle toward sapphire overhead and took upon itself a glossy sheen, the breeze quickened and set the oak tree to whispering.

Their daughter-in-law, Jane Hawk, who was as close to them as any real daughter might have been, had recently been indicted for espionage, treason, and seven counts of murder, crimes that she hadnt committed. She would be the sole subject of this evenings Sunday Magazine, a one-hour TV program that rarely devoted more than ten minutes to a profile of anyone, either president or pop singer. The most-wanted fugitive in America and a media sensation, Jane was labeled the beautiful monster by the tabloids , a cognomen used in promos for the forthcoming special edition of Sunday Magazine.

Ancel said, Her indictment by some misled grand jury, now this TV show, all the noise about it you realize what it must mean?

Nothing good.

Well, but I think shes got evidence thatll destroy the sons of bitches, and they know shes got it. Theyre desperate. If she finds a reporter or someone in the Bureau who maybe she can trust

She tried before. The bigger the story, the fewer people she can trust. And this is as big as a story gets.

Theyre desperate, Ancel insisted. Theyre throwin all they got at her, tryin to turn the whole country against her, make her a monster no onell ever believe.

And what then? Clare worried. How does she have any hope if the whole countrys against her?

Because it wont be.

I dont know how you can be so sure.

The way they demonize her, this hysteria they ginned up in the mediaits too much piled on top of too much. People sense it.

Those who know her, but thats not a world.

People all over, theyre talkin about what the real story might be, whether maybe shes bein set up.

What people? All over where?

All over the Internet.

Since when do you spend five minutes on the Internet?

Since this latest with her.

The sun appeared to roll below the horizon, although in fact the horizon rolled away from the sun. In the instant when all the remaining light of day was indirect across the red western sky, the breeze quickened again and became a wind aborning, as if all were a clockwork.

As the looser leaves of the live oak were shaken down, Clare let go of Ancels hand and covered her glass, and he shielded his.

There was no privacy in the house, and they werent finished counseling each other in matters of grief and hope, preparing for the affront that would be the TV program. The wind brought the dark, and the dark brought a chill, but the sea of stars was a work of wonder and a source of solace.