Velocity. Dean Koontz

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       4

      Billy did not have the isolation that Lanny enjoyed, but he lived on an acre shrouded by alders and deodar cedars, along a lane with few residences.

      He didn’t know his neighbors. He might not have known them even if they had lived closer. He was grateful for their disinterest.

      The original owner of the house and the architect had evidently negotiated each other into a hybrid structure, half bungalow, half upscale cabin. The lines were those of a bungalow. The cedar siding, silvered by the weather, belonged on a cabin, as did the front porch with rough-hewn posts supporting the roof.

      Unlike most bipolar houses, this one appeared cozy. Diamond-pane, beveled-glass windows—pure bungalow—looked bejeweled when the lights were on. In daylight the leaping-deer weather vane on the roof turned with lazy grace even in turbulent scrambles of wind.

      The detached garage, which also contained his woodworking shop, stood behind the house.

      After Billy parked the Explorer and closed the big door behind it, as he walked across the backyard toward the house, an owl hooted from its perch on the ridge line of the garage roof.

      No other owls answered. But Billy thought he heard mice squeak, and he could almost feel them shivering in the shrubbery, yearning for the tall grass beyond the yard.

      His mind felt swampy, his thoughts muddy. He paused and took a deep breath, savoring air redolent of the fragrant bark and needles of the deodars. The astringent scent cleared his head.

      Clarity proved undesirable. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but now he wanted a beer and a shot.

      The stars looked hard. They were bright, too, in the cloudless sky, but the feeling he got from them was hardness.

      Neither the back steps nor the floorboards of the porch creaked. He had plenty of time to keep the place in good, tight condition.

      After gutting the kitchen, he himself had built the cabinets. They were cherry wood with a dark stain.

      He had laid the tile floor: black-granite squares. The granite countertops matched the floor.

      Clean and simple. He had intended to do the whole house in that style, but then he had lost his way.

      He poured a cold bottle of Guinness stout into a mug, spiked it with bourbon. When he did drink, he wanted punch in both the texture and the taste.

      He was making a pastrami sandwich when the phone rang. “Hello?”

      The caller did not respond even when Billy said hello again.

      Ordinarily, he would have thought the line was dead. Not this evening.

      Listening, he fished the typewritten message from his pocket. He unfolded it and smoothed it flat on the black-granite counter.

      Hollow as a bell, but a bell without a clapper, the open line carried no fizz of static. Billy couldn’t hear the caller inhale or exhale, as if the guy were dead, and done with breathing.

      Whether prankster or killer, the man’s purpose was to taunt, intimidate. Billy didn’t give him the satisfaction of a third hello.

      They listened to each other’s silence, as if something could be learned from nothing.

      After perhaps a minute, Billy began to wonder if he might be imagining a presence on the far end of the line.

      If he was in fact ear-to-ear with the author of the note, hanging up first would be a mistake. His disconnection would be taken as a sign of fear or at least of weakness.

      Life had taught him patience. Besides, his self-image included the possibility that he could be fatuous, so he didn’t worry about looking foolish. He waited.

      When the caller hung up, the distinct sound of the disconnect proved that he had been there, and then the dial tone.

      Before continuing to make his sandwich, Billy walked the four rooms and bath. He lowered the pleated shades over all the windows.

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