Velocity. Dean Koontz

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      When he found a sequence that particularly intrigued him, he read it aloud:

      “—soft black drizzle—”

      “—death of the sun—”

      “—the scarecrow of a suit—”

      “—livers of fat geese—”

      “—narrow street, high houses—”

      “—a cistern to hold the fog—”

      “—strange forms…ghostly motion—”

      “—clear-sounding bells—”

      His hope was that, hearing her enigmatic coma-talk read back to her, she would be spurred to speak, perhaps to expand upon those utterances and make more sense of them.

      On other nights his performance had sometimes drawn a reply from her. But never did she clarify what previously she had said. Instead she delivered a new and different sequence of equally inscrutable words.

      This evening she responded with silence, and occasionally with a sigh uncolored by emotion, as if she were a machine that breathed in a shallow rhythm with louder exhalations caused by random power surges.

      After reading aloud two sequences, Billy returned the notebook to his pocket.

      Agitated, he had read her words with too much force, too much haste. At one point he’d heard himself and thought he sounded angry, which would do Barbara no good.

      He paced the room. The window drew him.

      Whispering Pines stood adjacent to a gently sloping vineyard. Beyond the window lay regimented vines with emerald-green leaves that would be crimson come autumn, with small hard grapes still many weeks from maturity.

      The work lanes between the vine rows were mottled black with the shadows of the day’s last hour, purple with grape pomace that had been spread as fertilizer.

      Seventy or eighty feet from the window, a man alone stood in one of those lanes. He had no tools with him and did not appear to be at work.

      If he was a grower or a vintner out for a walk, he must not be in a hurry. He stood in one place, feet planted wide apart, hands in his trouser pockets.

      He seemed to be studying the convalescent home.

      From this distance and in this light, no details of the man’s appearance could be discerned. He stood in the lane between vines with his back to the declining sun, which revealed him only as a silhouette.

      Listening to running feet on hollow stairs, which was in fact the thunder of his heart, Billy warned himself against paranoia. Whatever trouble might come, he would need calm nerves and a clear mind to cope.

      He turned away from the window. He went to the bed.

      Barbara’s eyes moved under her lids. The specialists said this indicated a dream state.

      Considering that any coma was a far deeper sleep than mere sleep itself, Billy wondered if hers were more intense than ordinary dreams—full of fevered action, crashing with a thunderstorm of sound, drenched in color.

      He worried that her dreams were nightmares, vivid and perpetual.

      When he kissed her forehead, she murmured, “The wind is in the east…”

      He waited, but she said no more, though her eyes darted and rolled from phantom to phantom under her closed lids.

      Because those words contained no menace and because no sense of peril darkened her voice, he chose to believe that her current dream, at least, must be benign.

      Although he didn’t want it, he took from the nightstand a square cream-colored envelope on which his name had been written in flowing script. He tucked it in a pocket, unread, for he knew that it had been left by Barbara’s doctor, Jordan Ferrier.

      When medical issues of substance needed to be discussed, the physician always used the telephone. He resorted to written messages only when he had turned from medicine to the devil’s work.

      At the window again, Billy discovered that the watcher in the vineyard had gone.

      Moments later, when he left Whispering Pines, he half expected to find a third note on his windshield. He was spared that discovery.

      Most likely the man among the vines had been an ordinary man engaged in honest business. Nothing more. Nothing less.

      Billy drove directly home, parked in the detached garage, climbed the back-porch steps, and found his kitchen door unlocked, ajar.

       8

      Billy had not been threatened in either of the notes. The danger confronting him was not to life and limb. He would have preferred physical peril to the moral jeopardy that he faced.

      Nevertheless, when he found the back door of the house ajar, he considered waiting in the yard until Lanny arrived with Sheriff Palmer.

      That option occupied his consideration only for a moment. He didn’t care if Lanny and Palmer thought he was gutless, but he didn’t want to think it of himself.

      He went inside. No one waited in the kitchen.

      The draining daylight drizzled down the windows more than it penetrated them. Warily, he turned on lights as he went through the house.

      He found no intruder in any room or closet. Curiously, he saw no signs of intrusion, either.

      By the time that he returned to the kitchen, he had begun to wonder if he might have failed to close and lock the door when he had left the house earlier in the day.

      That possibility had to be discounted when he found the spare key on a kitchen counter, near the phone. It should have been taped to the bottom of one of twenty cans of wood stain and varnish stored on a shelf in the garage.

      Billy had last used the spare key five or six months previously. He could not possibly have been under surveillance that long.

      Suspecting the existence of a key, the killer must have intuited that the garage was the most likely place in which it would have been hidden.

      Billy’s professionally equipped woodworking shop occupied two-thirds of that space, presenting numerous drawers and cabinets and shelves where such a small item could have been hidden. The search for it might have taken hours.

      If the killer, after visiting the house, intended to announce his intrusion by leaving the spare key in the kitchen, logic argued that he would have saved himself the time and trouble of the search. Instead, why wouldn’t he have broken one of the four panes of glass in the back door?

      As Billy puzzled over this conundrum, he suddenly realized that the key lay at the very spot on the black-granite counter where he had left the first typewritten message from the killer. It was gone.

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