Koontz, Dean - Dark Rivers of the Heart Read online

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  Watch for the next thriller

  By America's most popular

  suspense novelist"*

  Available in hardcover from

  Bantam Books December 24,2002

  And don't miss these bestsellers by

  DEAN KOONTZ

  ONE DOOR AWAY FROM HEAVEN

  FROM THE CORNER OF HIS EYE

  FALSE MEMORY

  FEAR NOTHING

  SEIZE THE NIGHT

  SOLE SURVIVOR

  ICEBOUND

  INTENSITY

  TICKTOCK

  WINTER MOON

  Available wherever Bantam Books are sold

  *Rolling Stone

  Praise for

  DARK RIVERS Of THE HEART

  "A humdinger of a chase novel [that] explodes with

  all the giddy excitement of a half-dozen James Cameron

  pictures. Dark Rivers of the Heart deserves to go #1

  on the bestseller list."

  —Entertainment Weekly

  "A fresh surprise on virtually every page . . . and a

  pyrotechnic denouement full of marvelous mayhem."

  —The Washington Post

  "Mr. Koontz has succeeded where many genre writers

  have failed: He has switched gears . . . and written a

  believable high-tech thriller."

  —The New York Times

  "As usual, Koontz's writing is flawless: clean, clear

  exposition, colorful description, precise narration, and

  realistic dialogue. Dark Rivers of the Heart is exciting,

  entertaining, and thoughtful."

  —The Denver Post

  "It is difficult to imagine a reader who won't be hooked

  by this thriller about government power run amok and a

  man and woman on the run from a madman who wields

  that power. Unrelenting excitement, truly memorable

  characters, and ample food for thought."

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Please turn the page for more reviews. . . .

  "Terrifying. A heart-pounding thriller."

  —Cosmopolitan

  "As it appears, George Orwell was ten years late,

  and it is left to Dean Koontz to add the finishing touches

  to an Orwellian future that is here and now.

  One of his best novels."

  —The Orlando Sentinel

  "Turbulent, unsettling, and the pace is unrelenting.

  Despite its chilling overtones, the novel ultimately

  affirms the endurance of the human spirit."

  —Boston magazine

  "This is Koontz's darkest, most suspenseful story yet.

  Fiercely entertaining . . . Even more thought-provoking

  than usual."

  —The Flint Journal

  "Dark Rivers of the Heart is Koontz's most chilling

  book—and his most thought-provoking."

  —Detroit News-Free Press

  "An engrossing thriller . . . An awesome climax, a heart-wrenching story."

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  "Wild, teeth-clenching terror."

  —Associated Press

  "An exciting cat-and-mouse game . . . a thought-provoking chiller."

  —Kansas City Star

  "Gritty, realistic, packed with action . . .

  Heart-stopping thrills along with heart-wrenching

  revelations. Dark Rivers of the Heart promises much . .

  and delivers."

  —Mystery Scene

  "An involved and engrossing thriller . . .

  Peppered with dry humor that is black and clever."

  —Boston Sunday Herald

  "Taut suspense, deep characterization,

  black humor, and moral outrage . . . Unmistakably

  the product of Dean Koontz's singular imagination.

  When [he] opens the floodgates and pours on the suspense,

  the novel makes for a hell of a white-water ride."

  —The San Diego Union-Tribune

  "Once I started reading, I didn't come up for air for

  three hundred pages. Dark Rivers of the Heart is a

  paranoid's delight. . . . Layer upon layer of dread."

  —Arizona Tribune

  Please turn the page for more reviews. . . .

  "Dark Rivers of the Heart is Dean Koontz's

  finest novel since Watchers"

  —Rocky Mountain News

  "Continuous action, ghastly [and] humorous, with

  a surprise around every corner."

  —Milwaukee Journal

  "Truly terrifying . . . Ranks with Watchers and Strangers

  as one of his best novels."

  —Athens Daily News

  "Fascinating characters ... A relentless

  cat-and-mouse chase, never letting up on the

  intensity for one minute."

  —Fort Pierce Tribune

  "His most serious, fully realized thriller. The intensity

  and suspense of the chase make putting the book down

  impossible. This is Koontz at the top of his form."

  —The Indianapolis Star

  "The best book he has ever written . . .

  A can't-put-down tale [with] plenty of surprises.

  Enormously entertaining."

  —Locus

  "A roller-coaster ride . . . Darkly comic."

  —Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

  "A real humdinger of a book . . .

  a thought-provoking, intricate tale."

  —Lansing State Journal

  "Carefully drawn characters. Koontz displays

  powerful suspense-building capability."

  —The Wilmington News Journal

  "This superb novel of suspense will surely delight

  the author's many fans."

  —Library Journal

  "Thrills, romance, a lovable but cowardly dog,

  high-tech wizardry . . . Koontz keeps the action

  going at a breakneck pace to a shattering climax.

  The picture that Koontz paints of a government

  that has gone too far in its pursuit of what it

  considers unlawful or aberrant behavior is the

  most frightening thing he has written."

  —The Orange County Register

  "Vastly entertaining . . . Absolutely unforgettable."

  —Romantic Times

  "Another Koontz winner."

  —Orange Coast

  By Dean Koontz

  FALSE MEMORY NIGHT CHILLS

  SEIZE THE NIGHT SHATTERED

  FEAR NOTHING THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT

  MR. MURDER THE SERVANTS OF TWILIGHT

  DRAGON TEARS THE HOUSE OF THUNDER

  HIDEAWAY THE KEY TO MIDNIGHT

  COLD FIRE THE EYES OF DARKNESS

  THE BAD PLACE SHADOWFIRES

  MIDNIGHT WINTER MOON

  LIGHTNING THE DOOR TO DECEMBER

  WATCHERS DARK RIVERS OF THE HEART

  STRANGERS ICEBOUND

  TWILIGHT EYES STRANGE HIGHWAYS

  DARKFALL INTENSITY

  PHANTOMS SOLE SURVIVOR

  WHISPERS TICKTOCK

  THE MASK THE FUNHOUSE

  THE VISION DEMON SEED

  THE FACE OF FEAR

  DEAN KONTZ

  DARK

  RIVERS

  of THE

  HEART

  BANTAM BOOKS

 
new york toronto london Sydney auckland

  Correspondence to the author should be addressed to:

  Dean Koontz

  P. O. Box 9529

  Newport Beach, CA 92658

  DARK RIVERS OF THE HEART

  A Bantam Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Ballantine mass market edition / 1995

  Bantam mass market edition / August 2000

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1994 by Dean R. Koontz

  Excerpt from Intensity copyright © 1995 by Dean R. Koontz

  Cover art copyright © 2000 by Franco Accornero

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without

  permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware

  that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and

  destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the

  publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  ISBN 0-553-58289-5

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random

  House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books"

  and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and

  Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam

  Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  0PM 10 9 8 7 6 5

  To Gary and Zov Karamardian

  for their valued friendship,

  for being the kind of people who

  make life a joy for others,

  and for giving us a home

  away from home.

  We've decided to move in permanently

  next week!

  PART

  ONE

  On a Strange Sea

  All of us are travelers lost,

  our tickets arranged at a cost

  unknown but beyond our means.

  This odd itinerary of scenes

  —enigmatic, strange, unreal—

  leaves us unsure how to feel.

  No postmortem journey is rife

  with more mystery than life.

  —The Book of Counted Sorrows

  Tremulous skeins of destiny

  flutter so ethereally

  around me—but then I feel

  its embrace is that of steel.

  —The Book of Counted Sorrows

  ONE

  * * *

  With the woman on his mind and a deep uneasiness in his heart, Spencer Grant drove through the glistening night, searching for the red door. The vigilant dog sat silently beside him. Rain ticked on the roof of the truck.

  Without thunder or lightning, without wind, the storm had come in from the Pacific at the end of a somber February twilight. More than a drizzle but less than a downpour, it sluiced all the energy out of the city. Los Angeles and environs became a metropolis without sharp edges, urgency, or spirit. Buildings blurred into one another, traffic flowed sluggishly, and streets deliquesced into gray mists.

  In Santa Monica, with the beaches and the black ocean to his right, Spencer stopped at a traffic light.

  Rocky, a mixed breed not quite as large as a Labrador, studied the road ahead with interest. When they were in the truck—a Ford Explorer—Rocky sometimes peered out the side windows at the passing scene, though he was more interested in what lay before them.

  Even when he was riding in the cargo area behind the front seats, the mutt rarely glanced out the rear window. He was skittish about watching the scenery recede. Maybe the motion made him dizzy in a way that oncoming scenery did not.

  Or perhaps Rocky associated the dwindling highway behind them with the past. He had good reason not to dwell on the past.

  So did Spencer.

  Waiting for the traffic signal, he raised one hand to his face. He had a habit of meditatively stroking his scar when troubled, as another man might finger a strand of worry beads. The feel of it soothed him, perhaps because it was a reminder that he'd survived the worst terror he would ever know, that life could have no more surprises dark enough to destroy him.

  The scar defined Spencer. He was a damaged man.

  Pale, slightly glossy, extending from his right ear to his chin, the mark varied between one quarter and one half an inch in width. Extremes of cold and heat bleached it whiter than usual. In wintry air, though the thin ribbon of connective tissue contained no nerve endings, it felt like a hot wire laid on his face. In summer sun, the scar was cold.

  The traffic signal changed from red to green.

  The dog stretched his furry head forward in anticipation.

  Spencer drove slowly southward along the dark coast, both hands on the wheel again. He nervously searched for the red door on the eastern side of the street, among the many shops and restaurants.

  Though no longer touching the fault line in his face, he remained conscious of it. He was never unaware that he was branded. If he smiled or frowned, he would feel the scar cinching one half of his countenance. If he laughed, his amusement would be tempered by the tension in that inelastic tissue.

  The metronomic windshield wipers timed the rhythm of the rain.

  Spencer's mouth was dry, but the palms of his hands were damp. The tightness in his chest arose as much from anxiety as from the pleasant anticipation of seeing Valerie again.

  He was of half a mind to go home. The new hope he harbored was surely the emotional equivalent of fool's gold. He was alone, and he was always going to be alone, except for Rocky. He was ashamed of this fresh glimmer of optimism, of the naivete it revealed, the secret need, the quiet desperation. But he kept driving.

  Rocky couldn't know what they were searching for, but he chuffed softly when the red landmark appeared. No doubt he was responding to a subtle change in Spencer's mood at the sight of the door.

  The cocktail lounge was between a Thai restaurant with steam-streaked windows and an empty storefront that had once been an art gallery. The windows of the gallery were boarded over, and squares of travertine were missing from the once elegant facade, as if the enterprise had not merely failed but been bombed out of business. Through the silver rain, a downfall of light at the lounge entrance revealed the red door that he remembered from the previous night.

  Spencer hadn't been able to recall the name of the place. That lapse of memory now seemed willful, considering the scarlet neon above the entrance: THE RED DOOR. A humorless laugh escaped him.

  After haunting so many barrooms over the years, he had ceased to notice enough differences, one from another, to be able to attach names to them. In scores of towns, those countless taverns were, in their essence, the same church confessional; sitting on a barstool instead of kneeling on a prie-dieu, he murmured the same admissions to strangers who were not priests and could not give him absolution.

  His confessors were drunkards, spiritual guides as lost as he was. They could never tell him the appropriate penance he must do to find peace. Discussing the meaning of life, they were incoherent.

  Unlike those strangers to whom he often quietly revealed his soul, Spencer had never been drunk. Inebriation was as dreadful for him to contemplate as was suicide. To be drunk was to relinquish control. Intolerable. Control was the only thing he had.

  At the end of the block, Spencer turned left and parked on the secondary street.

  He went to bars not to drink but to avoid being alone— and to tell his story to someone who would not remember it in the morning. He often nursed a beer or two through a long evening. Later, in his bedroom, after staring toward the hidden heavens, he would finally close his e
yes only when the patterns of shadows on the ceiling inevitably reminded him of things he preferred to forget.

  When he switched off the engine, the rain drummed louder than before—a cold sound, as chilling as the voices of dead children that sometimes called to him with wordless urgency in his worst dreams.

  The yellowish glow of a nearby streetlamp bathed the interior of the truck, so Rocky was clearly visible. His large and expressive eyes solemnly regarded Spencer.

  "Maybe this is a bad idea," Spencer said.

  The dog craned his head forward to lick his master's right hand, which was still clenched around the wheel. He seemed to be saying that Spencer should relax and just do what he had come there to do.

  As Spencer moved his hand to pet the mutt, Rocky bowed his head, not to make the backs of his ears or his neck more accessible to stroking fingers, but to indicate that he was subservient and harmless.

  "How long have we been together?" Spencer asked the dog.

  Rocky kept his head down, huddling warily but not actually trembling under his master's gentle hand.

  "Almost two years," Spencer said, answering his own question. "Two years of kindness, long walks, chasing Frisbees on the beach, regular meals . . . and still sometimes you think I'm going to hit you."

  Rocky remained in a humble posture on the passenger seat.

  Spencer slipped one hand under the dog's chin, forced his head up. After briefly trying to pull away, Rocky ceased all resistance.

  When they were eye-to-eye, Spencer said, "Do you trust me?"

  The dog self-consciously looked away, down and to the left.

  Spencer shook the mutt gently by the muzzle, commanding his attention again. "We keep our heads up, okay? Always proud, okay? Confident. Keep our heads up, look people in the eye. You got that?"