The Darkest Evening of the Year. Dean Koontz

      DEAN KOONTZ

       The Darkest Evening of the Year

       Dedication

      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

Cover Title Page Dedication Part One Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six Chapter Twenty Seven Chapter Twenty Eight Chapter Twenty Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty One Chapter Thirty Two Part Two Chapter Thirty Three Chapter Thirty Four Chapter Thirty Five Chapter Thirty Six Chapter Thirty Seven Chapter Thirty Eight Chapter Thirty Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty One Chapter Forty Two Chapter Forty Three Chapter Forty Four Chapter Forty Five Chapter Forty Six Chapter Forty Seven Chapter Forty Eight Chapter Forty Nine Chapter Fifty Part Three Chapter Fifty One Chapter Fifty Two Chapter Fifty Three Chapter Fifty Four Chapter Fifty Five Chapter Fifty Six Chapter Fifty Seven Chapter Fifty Eight Chapter Fifty Nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty One Chapter Sixty Two Chapter Sixty Three Chapter Sixty Four Chapter Sixty Five Chapter Sixty Six About the Author Also by Dean Koontz Copyright About the Publisher

PART ONE

      “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep”

      —ROBERT FROST

       Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Chapter 1

      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