The Darkest Evening of the Year
A fast-paced and emotionally devastating suspense novel from the bestselling author of Velocity,The Husband and The Good GuyAmy Redwing recklessly risks everything in her chosen field of dog rescue. When she confronts a violent drunk in order to rescue Nickie, a beautiful golden retriever, Amy has no misgivings. Dogs always do their best, and so will she. Whatever it takes.Riding shotgun nervously is her friend and lover, Brian, an architect who would marry her if only she were not so committed to these crazy … heroics! He blames her work for her refusal to marry him. But everything is due to change in the Redwing household.Someone is trying to destroy Amy. Subtle intrusions escalate into terrifying assaults on everything she holds dear. Amy believes her attacker is Wes Greeley, just released after an eighteen-month stretch, thanks to Amy's testimony, for egregious animal cruelty. But if Greeley is the culprit, it's clear he's not working alone.At last Amy understands her need of Brian, and a lot more from her troubled past that has been hidden by her passion. Unable to turn to any authority, Amy and Brian are pressed to the edge of a precipice as Koontz's most emotionally devastating thriller races with inexorable speed to a wrenching climax.Pick up a Dean Koontz thriller and you can’t put it down: try one
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DEAN KOONTZ
The Darkest Evening of the Year
To Gerda, who will one day be greeted jubilantly in the next life by the golden daughter whom she loved so well and with such selfless tenderness in this world.
AND TO
Father Jerome Molokie, for his many kindnesses, for his good cheer, for his friendship, and for his inspiring devotion to what is first, true, and infinite.
Contents
CoverTitle Page Dedication Part OneChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty OneChapter Twenty TwoChapter Twenty ThreeChapter Twenty FourChapter Twenty FiveChapter Twenty SixChapter Twenty SevenChapter Twenty EightChapter Twenty NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty OneChapter Thirty TwoPart TwoChapter Thirty ThreeChapter Thirty FourChapter Thirty FiveChapter Thirty SixChapter Thirty SevenChapter Thirty EightChapter Thirty NineChapter FortyChapter Forty OneChapter Forty TwoChapter Forty ThreeChapter Forty FourChapter Forty FiveChapter Forty SixChapter Forty SevenChapter Forty EightChapter Forty NineChapter FiftyPart ThreeChapter Fifty OneChapter Fifty TwoChapter Fifty ThreeChapter Fifty FourChapter Fifty FiveChapter Fifty SixChapter Fifty SevenChapter Fifty EightChapter Fifty NineChapter SixtyChapter Sixty OneChapter Sixty TwoChapter Sixty ThreeChapter Sixty FourChapter Sixty FiveChapter Sixty Six About the Author Also by Dean Koontz Copyright About the Publisher
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.
Amy’s 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. “Don’t
you love October?”
“This is still September.”
“I can love October in September. September doesn’t care.”
“Watch where you’re going.”
“I love San Francisco, but it’s hundreds of miles away.”
“The way you’re driving, we’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’m 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, don’t keep looking at me.”
“You look fine, sweetie. Bed hair becomes you.”
“I mean, watch the road.”
“This guy named Marco—he’s blind but he drives a car.”
“Marco who?”
“Marco something-something. He’s in the Philippines. I read about him in a magazine.”
“Nobody blind can drive a car.”
“I suppose you don’t believe we actually sent men to the moon.”
“I don’t believe they drove there.”
“Marco’s 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 aren’t seriously telling me that Seeing Eye dogs can drive.”
“The dog doesn’t 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.”
“I’ll bet my left foot it wasn’t National Geographic.”
“I’m 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.
