Dean Koontz - The Darkest Evening Of The Year

AND TO

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.

Amys 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. Dont you love October?

This is still September.

I can love October in September. September doesnt care.

Watch where youre going.

I love San Francisco, but its hundreds of miles away.

The way youre driving, well be there in ten minutes.

Im 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, dont keep looking at me.

You look fine, sweetie. Bed hair becomes you.

I mean, watch the road.

This guy named Marco-hes blind but he drives a car.

Marco who?

Marco something-something. Hes in the Philippines. I read about him in a magazine.

Nobody blind can drive a car.

I suppose you dont believe we actually sent men to the moon.

I dont believe they drove there.

Marcos 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 arent seriously telling me that Seeing Eye dogs can drive.

The dog doesnt 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.

Ill bet my left foot it wasnt National Geographic.

Im 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 isnt allowed to drive anymore?

He kept banging into things.

Imagine that.

But you cant blame Antoine.

Antoine who?

Antoine the dog. Im sure he did his best. Dogs always do. Marco just second-guessed him once too often.

Watch where youre going. Left curve ahead.

Smiling at him, she said, Youre my own Antoine. Youll 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 theres a crazy guy in there, and hes drunk?

On the phone, this Janet Brockman said her husband, Carl, hes crazy drunk, which probably means hes crazy from drinking.

Amy started toward the house, and Brian gripped her shoulder, halting her. What if hes crazy when hes sober, and now its worse because hes drunk?

Im not a psychiatrist, sweetie.

Maybe this is police business.

Police dont have time for crazy drunk guys like this.

Id think crazy drunk guys are right down their alley.

Shrugging off his hand, heading toward the house once more, she said, We cant waste time. Hes violent.

Brian hurried after her. Hes crazy, drunk, and violent?

He probably wont be violent with me.

Climbing steps to a porch, Brian said, What about me?

I think hes only violent with their dog. But if this Carl does want to take a whack at me, thats okay, cause I have you.

Me? Im an architect.

Not tonight, sweetie. Tonight, youre 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 youre 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 wasnt. I wish I was you or anybody, somebody. Stepping back from the door, she invited them inside. Dont let Carl cripple her.

He wont, 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 Janets blouse, as if anticipating a sudden cyclone that would try to spin her away from her mother.