Dean R. Koontz - Moonlight Bay 1 - Fear Nothing

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Fear Nothing [039 5.0]
By Dean R. Koontz
Synopsis:
Christopher Snow is different from all the other residents of Moonlight
Bay, different from anyone You've ever met. For Christopher Snow has
made his peace with a very rare genetic disorder shared by only one
thousand other Americans, a disorder that leaves him dangerously
vulnerable to light. His life is filled with the fascinationg rituals
of one who must embrace the dark. He knows the night as no one else
ever will, ever can-the mystery, the beauty, the many terrors, and the
eerie, silken rhythms of the night-for it is only at night that he is
free. Until the night he witnesses a series of disturbing incidents
that sweep him into a violent mystery only he can solve, a mystery that
will force him to rise above all fears and confront the many-layered
strangeness of Moonlight Bay and its residents.
We have a weight to carry, a destination we can't know.
We have a weight to carry and can put it down nowhere.
We are the weight we carry from there to here to there.
-The Book of Counted Sorrows
On the desk in my candlelit study, the telephone rang, and I knew that
a terrible change was coming.
I am not psychic. I do not see signs and portents in the sky. To my
eye, the lines in my palm reveal nothing about my future, and I don't
have a Gypsy's ability to discern the patterns of fate in wet tea
leaves.
My father had been dying for days, however, and after spending the
previous night at his bedside, blotting the sweat from his brow and
listening to his labored breathing, I knew that he couldn't hold on
much longer. I dreaded losing him and being, for the first time in my
twenty-eight years, alone.
I am an only son, an only child, and my mother passed away two years
ago. Her death had been a shock, but at least she had not been forced
to endure a lingering illness.
Last night just before dawn, exhausted, I had returned home to sleep.
But I had not slept much or well.
Now I leaned forward in my chair and willed the phone to fall silent,
but it would not.
The dog also knew what the ringing meant. He padded out of the shadows
into the candleglow, and stared sorrowfully at me.
Unlike others of his kind, he will hold any man's or woman's gaze as
long as he is interested. Animals usually stare directly at us only
briefly-then look away as though unnerved by something they see in
human eyes. Perhaps Orson sees what other dogs see, and perhaps he,
too, is disturbed by it, but he is not intimidated.
He is a strange dog. But he is my dog, my steadfast friend, and I love
him.
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On the seventh ring, I surrendered to the inevitable and answered the
phone.
The caller was a nurse at Mercy Hospital. I spoke to her without
looking away from Orson.
My father was quickly fading. The nurse suggested that I come to his
bedside without delay.
As I put down the phone, Orson approached my chair and rested his burly
black head in my lap. He whimpered softly and nuzzled my hand. He did
not wag his tail.
For a moment I was numb, unable to think or act. The silence of the
house, as deep as water in an oceanic abyss, was a crushing,
immobilizing pressure. Then I phoned Sasha Goodall to ask her to drive
me to the hospital.
Usually she slept from noon until eight o'clock. She spun music in the
dark, from midnight until six o'clock in the morning, on KBAY, the only
radio station in Moonlight Bay. At a few minutes past five on this
March evening, she was most likely sleeping, and I regretted the need
to wake her.
Like sad-eyed Orson, however, Sasha was my friend, to whom I could
always turn. And she was a far better driver than the dog.
She answered on the second ring, with no trace of sleepiness in her
voice. Before I could tell her what had happened, she said, "Chris,
I'm so sorry," as though she had been waiting for this call and as if
in the ringing of her phone she had heard the same ominous note that
Orson and I had heard in mine.
I bit my lip and refused to consider what was coming. As long as Dad
was alive, hope remained that his doctors were wrong. Even at the
eleventh hour, the cancer might go into remission.
I believe in the possibility of miracles.
After all, in spite of my condition, I have lived more than
twenty-eight years, which is a miracle of sorts-although some other
people, seeing my life from outside, might think it a curse.
I believe in the possibility of miracles, but more to the point, I
believe in our need for them.
"I'll be there in five minutes," Sasha promised.
At night I could walk to the hospital, but at this hour I would be too
much of a spectacle and in too great a danger if I tried to make the
trip on foot.
"No," I said. "Drive carefully. I'll probably take ten minutes or
more to get ready."
"Love You, Snowman."
"Love You," I replied.
I replaced the cap on the pen with which I had been writing when the
call had come from the hospital, and I put it aside with the yellow
legal-size tablet.
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Using a long-handled brass snuffer, I extinguished the three fat
candles. Thin, sinuous ghosts of smoke writhed in the shadows.
Now, an hour before twilight, the sun was low in the sky but still
dangerous. It glimmered threateningly at the edges of the pleated
shades that covered all the windows.
Anticipating my intentions, as usual, Orson was already out of the
room, padding across the upstairs hall.
He is a ninety-pound Labrador mix, as black as a witch's cat.
Through the layered shadows of our house, he roams all but invisibly,
his presence betrayed only by the thump of his big paws on the area
rugs and by the click of his claws on the hardwood floors.
In my bedroom, across the hall from the study, I didn't bother to
switch on the dimmer-controlled, frosted-glass ceiling fixture.
The indirect, sour-yellow light of the westering sun, pressing at the
edges of the window shades, was sufficient for me.
My eyes are better adapted to gloom than are those of most people.
Although I am, figuratively speaking, a brother to the owl, I don't
have a special gift of nocturnal sight, nothing as romantic or as
thrilling as a paranormal talent. Simply this: Lifelong habituation to
darkness has sharpened my night vision.
Orson leaped onto the footstool and then curled on the armchair to
watch me as I girded myself for the sunlit world.
From a pullman drawer in the adjoining bathroom, I withdrew a squeeze
bottle of lotion that included a sunscreen with a rating of fifty. I
applied it generously to my face, ears, and neck.
The lotion had a faint coconut scent, an aroma that I associate with
palm trees in sunshine, tropical skies, ocean vistas spangled with
noontime light, and other things that will be forever beyond my
experience. This, for me, is the fragrance of desire and denial and
hopeless yearning, the succulent perfume of the unattainable.
Sometimes I dream that I am walking on a Caribbean beach in a rain of
sunshine, and the white sand under my feet seems to be a cushion of
pure radiance. The warmth of the sun on my skin is more erotic than a
lover's touch. In the dream, I am not merely bathed in the light but
pierced by it. When I wake, I am bereft.
Now the lotion, although smelling of the tropical sun, was cool on my
face and neck. I also worked it into my hands and wrists.
The bathroom featured a single window at which the shade was currently
raised, but the space remained meagerly illuminated because the glass
was frosted and because the incoming sunlight was filtered through the
graceful limbs of a metrosideros. The silhouettes of leaves fluttered
on the pane.
In the mirror above the sink, my reflection was little more than a
shadow. Even if I switched on the light, I would not have had a clear
look at myself, because the single bulb in the overhead fixture was of
low wattage and had a peach tint.
Only rarely have I seen my face in full light.
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Sasha says that I remind her of James Dean, more as he was in East of
Eden than in Rebel Without a Cause.
I myself don't perceive the resemblance. The hair is the same, yes,
and the pale blue eyes. But he looked so wounded, and I do not see
myself that way.
I am not James Dean. I am no one but me, Christopher Snow, and I can
live with that.
Finished with the lotion, I returned to the bedroom. Orson raised his
head from the armchair to savor the coconut scent.
I was already wearing athletic socks, Nikes, blue 'cans, and a black
T-shirt. I quickly pulled on a black denim shirt with long sleeves and
buttoned it at the neck.
Orson trailed me downstairs to the foyer. Because the porch was deep
with a low ceiling, and because two massive California live oaks stood
in the yard, no direct sun could reach the sidelights flanking the
front door; consequently, they were not covered with curtains or
blinds. The leaded panes-geometric mosaics of clear, green, red, and
amber glass-glowed softly like jewels.
I took a zippered, black leather jacket from the coat closet. I would
be out after dark, and even following a mild March day, the central
coast of California can turn chilly when the sun goes down.
From the closet shelf, I snatched a navy-blue, billed cap and pulled it
on, tugging it low on my head. Across the front, above the visor, in
ruby-red embroidered letters, were the words Mystery Train.
One night during the previous autumn, I had found the cap in Fort
Wyvern, the abandoned military base inland from Moonlight Bay. It had
been the only object in a cool, dry, concrete-walled room three stories
underground.
Although I had no idea to what the embroidered words might refer, I had
kept the cap because it intrigued me.
As I turned toward the front door, Orson whined beseechingly.
I stooped and petted him. "I'm sure Dad would like to see You one last
time, fella. I know he would. But there's no place for You in a
hospital."
His direct, coal-black eyes glimmered. I could have sworn that his
gaze brimmed with grief and sympathy. Maybe that was because I was
looking at him through repressed tears of my own.
My friend Bobby Halloway says that I tend to anthropomorphize animals,
ascribing to them human attributes and attitudes which they do not, in
fact, possess.
Perhaps this is because animals, unlike some people, have always
accepted me for what I am. The four-legged citizens of Moonlight Bay
seem to possess a more complex understanding of life-as well as more
kindness-than at least some of my neighbors.
Bobby tells me that anthropomorphizing animals, regardless of my
experiences with them, is a sign of immaturity. I tell Bobby to go
copulate with himself.
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I comforted Orson, stroking his glossy coat and scratching behind his
ears. He was curiously tense. Twice he cocked his head to listen
intently to sounds I could not hear-as if he sensed a threat looming,
something even worse than the loss of my father.
At that time, I had not yet seen anything suspicious about Dad's
impending death. Cancer was only fate, not murder-unless You wanted to
try bringing criminal charges against God.
That I had lost both parents within two years, that my mother had died
when she was only fifty-two, that my father was only fifty-six as he
lay on his deathbed . . . well, all this just seemed to be my poor
luck-which had been with me, literally, since my conception.
Later, I would have reason to recall Orson's tension-and good reason to
wonder if he had sensed the tidal wave of trouble washing toward us.
Bobby Halloway would surely sneer at this and say that I am doing worse
than anthropomorphizing the mutt, that now I am ascribing superhuman
attributes to him. I would have to agree-and then tell Bobby to go
copulate vigorously with himself.
Anyway, I petted and scratched and generally comforted Orson until a
horn sounded in the street and then, almost at once, sounded again in
the driveway.
Sasha had arrived.
In spite of the sunscreen on my neck, I turned up the collar of my
jacket for additional protection.
From the Stickley-style foyer table under a print of Maxfield Parrish's
Daybreak, I grabbed a pair of wraparound sunglasses.
With my hand on the hammered-copper doorknob, I turned to Orson once
more. "We'll be all right."
In fact, I didn't know quite how we could go on without my father. He
was our link to the world of light and to the people of the day.
More than that, he loved me as no one left on earth could love me, as
only a parent could love a damaged child. He understood me as perhaps
no one would ever understand me again.
"We'll be all right," I repeated.
The dog regarded me solemnly and chuffed once, almost pityingly, as if
he knew that I was lying.
I opened the front door, and as I went outside, I put on the wraparound
sunglasses. The special lenses were totally UV-proof.
My eyes are my point of greatest vulnerability. I can take no risk
whatsoever with them.
Sasha's green Ford Explorer was in the driveway, with the engine
running, and she was behind the wheel.
I closed the house door and locked it. Orson had made no attempt to
slip out at my heels.
A breeze had sprung up from the west: an onshore flow with the faint,
astringent scent of the sea. The leaves of the oaks whispered as if
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transmitting secrets branch to branch.
My chest grew so tight that my lungs felt constricted, as was always
the case when I was required to venture outside in daylight.
This symptom was entirely psychological but nonetheless affecting.
Going down the porch steps and along the flagstone walk to the
driveway, I felt weighed down. Perhaps this was how a deep-sea diver
might feel in a pressure suit with a kingdom of water overhead.
When I got into the Explorer, Sasha Goodall said quietly, "Hey,
Snowman."
"Hey."
I buckled my safety harness as Sasha shifted into reverse.
From under the bill of my cap, I peered at the house as we backed away
from it, wondering how it would appear to me when next I saw it. I
felt that when my father left this world, all of the things that had
belonged to him would look shabbier and diminished because they would
no longer be touched by his spirit.
It is a Craftsman-period structure, in the Greene and Greene tradition:
ledger stone set with a minimum of mortar, cedar siding silvered by
weather and time, entirely modern in its lines but not in the least
artificial or insubstantial, fully of the earth and formidable.
After the recent winter rains, the crisp lines of the slate roof were
softened by a green coverlet of lichen.
As we reversed into the street, I thought that I saw the shade nudged
aside at one of the living-room windows, at the back of the deep porch,
and Orson's face at the pane, his paws on the sill.
"How long since You've been out in this?"
"Daylight? A little over nine years."
"What happened nine years ago?"
"Appendicitis."
Like That time when You almost died."
"Only death brings me out in daylight."
She said, "At least You got a sexy scar from it."
"You think so?"
"I like to kiss it, don't I" "I've wondered about that."
"Actually, it scares me, that scar," she said. "You might have
died."
"Didn't."
"I kiss it like I'm saying a little prayer of thanks. That You're here
with me."
"Or maybe You're sexually aroused by deformity."
"Asshole."
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"Your mother never taught You language like that."
"It was the nuns in parochial school." I said, "You know what I
like?"
"We've been together almost two years. Yeah, I think I know what You
like."
"I like that You never cut me any slack."
"Why should I?" she asked.
"Exactly."
Even in my armor of cloth and lotion, behind the shades that shielded
my sensitive eyes from ultraviolet rays, I was unnerved by the day
around and above me. I felt eggshell-fragile in its vise grip.
Sasha was aware of my uneasiness but pretended not to notice.
To take my mind off both the threat and the boundless beauty of the
sunlit world, she did what she does so well-which is be Sasha.
"Where will You be later" she asked. "When it's over."
"If it's over. They could be wrong."
"Where will You be when I'm on the air?"
"After midnight . . . probably Bobby's place."
"Make sure he turns on his radio."
"Are You taking requests tonight?" I asked.
"You don't have to call in. I'll know what You need."
At the next corner, she swung the Explorer right, onto Ocean Avenue.
She drove uphill, away from the sea.
Fronting the shops and restaurants beyond the deep sidewalks,
eighty-foot stone pines spread wings of branches across the street.
The pavement was feathered with shadow and sunshine.
Moonlight Bay, home to twelve thousand people, rises from the harbor
and flatlands into gentle serried hills. In most California travel
guides, our town is called the Jewel of the Central Coast, partly
because the chamber of commerce schemes relentlessly to have this
sobriquet widely used.
The town has earned the name, however, for many reasons, not least of
which is our wealth of trees. Majestic oaks with hundredyear crowns.
Pines, cedars, phoenix palms. Deep eucalyptus groves.
My favorites are the clusters of lacy melaleuca luminaria draped with
stoles of ermine blossoms in the spring.
As a result of our relationship, Sasha had applied protective film to
the Explorer windows. Nevertheless, the view was shockingly brighter
than that to which I was accustomed.
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I slid my glasses down my nose and peered over the frames.
The pine needles stitched an elaborate dark embroidery on a wondrous
purple-blue, late-afternoon sky bright with mystery, and a reflection
of this pattern flickered across the windshield.
I quickly pushed my glasses back in place, not merely to protect my
eyes but because suddenly I was ashamed for taking such delight in this
rare daytime journey even as my father lay dying.
Judiciously speeding, never braking to a full stop at those
intersections without traffic, Sasha said, "I'll go in with You."
"That's not necessary."
Sasha's intense dislike of doctors and nurses and all things medical
bordered on a phobia. Most of the time she was convinced that she
would live forever; she had great faith in the power of vitamins,
minerals, antioxidants, positive thinking, and mind-body healing
techniques. A visit to any hospital, however, temporarily shook her vi
conviction that she would avoid the fate of all flesh.
"Really," she said, "I should be with You. I love your dad."
Her outer calm was belied by a quiver in her voice, and I was touched
by her willingness to go, just for me, where she most loathed to go.
I said, "I want to be alone with him, this little time we have."
"Truly? " "Truly. Listen, I forgot to leave dinner out for Orson.
Could You go back to the house and take care of that?"
"Yeah," she said, relieved to have a task. "Poor Orson. He and your
dad were real buddies."
"I swear he knows."
"Sure. Animals know things."
"Especially Orson."
From Ocean Avenue, she turned left onto Pacific View. Mercy Hospital
was two blocks away.
She said, "He'll be okay."
"He doesn't show it much, but he's already grieving in his way."
"I'll give him lots of hugs and cuddles."
"Dad was his link to the day."
"I'll be his link now," she promised.
"He can't live exclusively in the dark."
"He's got me, and I'm never going anywhere."
"Aren't You?" I asked.
"He'll be okay."
We weren't really talking about the dog anymore.
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The hospital is a three-story California Mediterranean structure built
in another age when that term did not bring to mind uninspired
tract-house architecture and cheap construction. The deeply set
windows feature patinaed bronze frames. Ground-floor rooms are shaded
by loggias with arches and limestone columns.
Some of the columns are entwined by the woody vines of ancient
bougainvillea that blanket the loggia roofs. This day, even with
spring a couple of weeks away, cascades of crimson and radiant purple
flowers overhung the eaves.
For a daring few seconds, I pulled my sunglasses down my nose and
marveled at the sun-splashed celebration of color.
Sasha stopped at a side entrance.
As I freed myself from the safety harness, she put one hand on my arm
and squeezed lightly. "Call my cellular number when You want me to
come back."
"It'll be after sunset by the time I leave. I'll walk."
"If that's what You want."
"I do."
Again I drew the glasses down my nose, this time to see Sasha Goodall
as I had never seen her. In candlelight, her gray eyes are deep but
clear-as they are here in the day world, too. Her thick mahogany hair,
in candlelight, is as lustrous as wine in crystal-but markedly more
lustrous under the stroking hand of the sun. Her creamy, rose-petal
skin is flecked with faint freckles, the patterns of which I know as
well as I know the constellations in every quadrant of the night sky,
season by season.
With one finger, Sasha pushed my sunglasses back into place.
"Don't be foolish."
I'm human. Foolish is what we are.
If I were to go blind, however, her face would be a sight to sustain me
in the lasting blackness.
I leaned across the console and kissed her.
"You smell like coconut," she said.
"I try."
I kissed her again.
"You shouldn't be out in this any longer," she said firmly.
The sun, half an hour above the sea, was orange and intense, a
perpetual thermonuclear holocaust ninety-three million miles removed.
In places, the Pacific was molten copper.
"Go, coconut boy. Away with You."
Shrouded like the Elephant Man, I got out of the Explorer and hurried
to the hospital, tucking my hands in the pockets of my leather
jacket.
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I glanced back once. Sasha was watching. She gave me a thumbs-up
sign.
When I stepped into the hospital, Angela Ferryman was waiting in the
corridor. She was a third-floor nurse on the evening shift, and she
had come downstairs to greet me.
Angela was a sweet-tempered, pretty woman in her late forties:
painfully thin and curiously pale-eyed, as though her dedication to
nursing was so ferocious that, by the harsh terms of a devilish
bargain, she must give the very substance of herself to ensure her
patients' recoveries. Her wrists seemed too fragile for the work she
did, and she moved so lightly and quickly that it was possible to
believe that her bones were as hollow as those of birds.
She switched off the overhead fluorescent panels in the corridor
ceiling. Then she hugged me.
When I had suffered the illnesses of childhood and adolescence-mumps,
flu, chicken pox-but couldn't be safely treated outside our house,
Angela had been the visiting nurse who stopped in daily to check on
me.
Her fierce, bony hugs were as essential to the conduct of her work as
were tongue depressors, thermometers, and syringes.
Nevertheless, this hug frightened more than comforted me, and I said,
"Is he?"
"It's all right, Chris. He's still holding on. Holding on just for
You, I think."
I went to the emergency stairs nearby. As the stairwell door eased
shut behind me, I was aware of Angela switching on the ground-floor
corridor lights once more.
The stairwell was not dangerously well-lighted. Even so, I climbed
quickly and didn't remove my sunglasses.
At the head of the stairs, in the third-floor corridor, Seth Cleveland
was waiting. He is my father's doctor, and one of mine.
Although tall, with shoulders that seem round and massive enough to
wedge in one of the hospital loggia arches, he manages never to be
looming over You. He moves with the grace of a much smaller man, and
his voice is that of a gentle fairy-tale bear.
"We're medicating him for pain," Dr. Cleveland said, turning off the
fluorescent panels overhead, "so he's drifting in and out.
But each time he comes around, he asks for You."
Removing my glasses at last and tucking them in my shirt pocket, I
hurried along the wide corridor, past rooms where patients with all
manner of maladies, in all stages of illness, either lay insensate or
sat before bed trays that held their dinners. Those who saw the
corridor lights go off were aware of the reason, and they paused in
their eating to stare at me as I passed their open doors.
In Moonlight Bay, I am a reluctant celebrity. Of the twelve thousand
full-time residents and the nearly three thousand students at Ashdon
College, a private liberal-arts institution that sits on the highest
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摘要：

file:///G|/rah/Dean%20R.%20Koontz/Dean%20R.%20Koontz%20-%20Moonlight%20B\ay%2001%20-%20Fear%20Nothing.txtFearNothing[0395.0]ByDeanR.KoontzSynopsis:ChristopherSnowisdifferentfromalltheotherresidentsofMoonlightBay,differentfromanyoneYou'veevermet.ForChristopherSnowhasmadehispeacewithaveryraregeneticdi...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：271 页 大小：657.86KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-03

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