Dean R. Koontz - False Memory

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FALSE MEMORY

DEAN KOONTZ

This book is dedicated to

Tim Hely Hutchinson.

Your faith in my work,

a long time ago

—and now for many years— gave me heart

when I most needed it.

And to

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Jane Morpeth.

Ours is the longest

editorial relationship

of my career,

which is a testament to

your exceptional patience,

kindness, and tolerance for fools!

AUTOPHOBIA is a real personality disorder. The term is used to describe three different conditions: (1) fear

of being alone; (2) fear of being egotistical; (3) fear of oneself. The third is the rarest of these conditions.

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This phantasm

of falling petals vanishes into moon and flowers.

—OKYO

Whiskers of the cat,

webbed toes on my swimming dog:

God is in details.

—THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS

In the real world as in dreams, nothing is quite what it seems.

—THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS

Life is an unrelenting comedy. Therein lies the tragedy of it.

—MARTIN STILLWATER

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On that Tuesday in January, when her life changed forever, Martine Rhodes woke with a headache,

developed a sour stomach after washing down two aspirin with grapefruit juice, guaranteed herself an epic

bad-hair day by mistakenly using Dustin’s shampoo instead of her own, broke a fingernail, burnt her

toast, discovered ants swarming through the cabinet under the kitchen sink, eradicated the pests by firing

a spray can of insecticide as ferociously as Sigourney Weaver wielded a flamethrower in one of those old

extraterrestrial-bug movies, cleaned up the resultant carnage with paper towels, hummed Bach’s Requiem

as she solemnly consigned the tiny bodies to the trash can, and took a telephone call from her mother,

Sabrina, who still prayed for the collapse of Martie’s marriage three years after the wedding. Throughout,

she remained upbeat—even enthusiastic— about the day ahead, because from her late father, Robert

“Smilin’ Bob” Woodhouse, she had inherited an optimistic nature, formidable coping skills, and a deep

love of life in addition to blue eyes, ink-black hair, and ugly toes.

Thanks, Daddy.

After convincing her ever hopeful mother that the Rhodes marriage remained happy, Martie slipped into a

leather jacket and took her golden retriever, Valet, on his morning walk. Step by step, her headache faded.

Along the whetstone of clear eastern sky, the sun sharpened

scalpels of light. Out of the west, however, a cool onshore breeze pushed malignant masses of dark

clouds.

The dog regarded the heavens with concern, sniffed the air warily, and pricked his pendant ears at the hiss-

clatter of palm fronds stirred by the wind. Clearly, Valet knew a storm was coming.

He was a gentle, playful dog. Loud noises frightened him, however, as though he had been a soldier in a

former life and was haunted by memories of battlefields blasted by cannon fire.

Fortunately for him, rotten weather in southern California was seldom accompanied by thunder. Usually,

rain fell unannounced, hissing on the streets, whispering through the foliage, and these were sounds that

even Valet found soothing.

Most mornings, Martie walked the dog for an hour, along the narrow tree-lined streets of Corona Del

Mar, but she had a special obligation every Tuesday and Thursday that limited their excursion to fifteen

minutes on those days. Valet seemed to have a calendar in his furry head, because on their Tuesday and

Thursday expeditions, he never dawdled, finishing his toilet close to home.

This morning, only one block from their house, on the grassy sward between the sidewalk and the curb,

the pooch looked around shyly, discreetly lifted his right leg, and as usual made water as though

embarrassed by the lack of privacy.

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Less than a block farther, he was preparing to conclude the second half of his morning business when a

passing garbage truck backfired, startling him. He huddled behind a queen palm, peering cautiously

around one side of the tree bole and then around the other, convinced that the terrifying vehicle would

reappear.

“No problem,” Martie assured him. “The big bad truck is gone. Everything’s fine. This is now a safe-to-

poop zone.”

Valet was unconvinced. He remained wary.

Martie was blessed with Smilin’ Bob’s patience, too, especially when dealing with Valet, whom she loved

almost as much as she might have loved a child if she’d had one. He was sweet-tempered and beautiful:

light gold, with gold-and-white feathering on his legs, soft snow-white flags on his butt, and a lush tail.

Of course, when the dog was in a doing-business squat, like now, Martie never looked at him, because he

was as self-conscious as a nun in a topless bar. While waiting, she softly sang Jim Croce’s “Time in a

Bottle,” which always relaxed him.

As she began the second verse, a sudden chill climbed the ladder of her spine, causing her to fall silent.

She was not a woman given to premonitions, but as the icy quiver ascended to the back of her neck, she

was overcome by a sense of impending danger.

Turning, she half expected to see an approaching assailant or a hurtling car. Instead, she was alone on this

quiet residential street.

Nothing rushed toward her with lethal purpose. The only moving things were those harried by the wind.

Trees and shrubs shivered. A few crisp brown leaves skittered along the pavement. Garlands of tinsel and

Christmas lights, from the recent holiday, rustled and rattled under the eaves of a nearby house.

Still uneasy, but feeling foolish, Martie let out the breath that she’d been holding. When the exhalation

whistled between her teeth, she realized that her jaws were clenched.

She was probably still spooked from the dream that awakened her after midnight, the same one she’d had

on a few other recent nights. The man made of dead, rotting leaves, a nightmare figure. Whirling, raging.

Then her gaze dropped to her elongated shadow, which stretched across the close-cropped grass, draped

the curb, and folded onto the cracked concrete pavement. Inexplicably, her uneasiness swelled into alarm.

She took one step backward, then a second, and of course her shadow moved with her. Only as she

retreated a third step did she realize that this very silhouette was what frightened her.

Ridiculous. More absurd than her dream. Yet something in her shadow was not right: a jagged distortion,

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