The Darkest Evening of the Year. Dean Koontz

      “By then, you won’t be next door anymore.”

      “Where?”

      “Over a hundred sixty people volunteer for Golden Heart. Some of them foster incoming dogs until we can find each one’s forever home.”

      “Forever home?”

      “Before we make a permanent placement of a rescued dog, we have a vet make sure it’s healthy, up-to-date on all its shots.”

      “One day when he was gone, I took Nickie for her shots. He was furious about the cost.”

      “The foster parents evaluate the dog and make a report on the extent of its training—is it housebroken, leash friendly.…”

      “Nickie’s housebroken. She’s the sweetest girl.”

      “If the dog has no serious behavioral problems, we find what we hope will be its forever home. Some of our fostering volunteers have room for more than visiting dogs. One of them will take in you and the kids for a few weeks, till you get on your feet.”

      “Why would they do that?”

      “Most golden-rescue people are a class apart. You’ll see.”

      In Janet’s lap, her hands worried at each other. “What a mess.”

      “It would have been worse to stay with him.”

      “Just me, I might’ve stayed. But not with the kids. Not anymore. I’m… ashamed, how I let him treat them.”

      “You’d need to be ashamed if you stayed. But not now. Not unless you let him sweet-talk you back.”

      “Won’t happen.”

      “Glad to hear it. There’s always a way forward. But there’s no way back.”

      Janet nodded. Perhaps she understood. Most likely not.

      To many people, free will is a license to rebel not against what is unjust or hard in life but against what is best for them and true.

      Amy said, “It might be too late to help the swelling, but you ought to try putting some ice on that split lip.”

      Rising from the arm of the chair, moving toward the bedroom door, Janet said, “All right. But I heal fast. I’ve had to.”

      Putting one hand on the woman’s shoulder, staying her for a moment, Amy said, “Your daughter, is she autistic?”

      “One doctor said so. Others don’t agree.”

      “What do the others say?”

      “Different things. Various developmental disabilities with long names and no hope.”

      “Has she had any kind of treatment?”

      “None that’s brought her out of herself. But Reesa—she’s some kind of prodigy, too. She hears a song once, she can sing it or play it note-perfect on a child’s flute I bought her.”

      “Earlier, was she singing in Celtic?”

      “Back at the house. Yes.”

      “She knows the language?”

      “No. But Maev Gallagher, our neighbor, loves Celtic music, plays it all the time. She sometimes baby-sits Reesa.”

      “So once she’s heard a song, she can also sing it word-perfect in a language she doesn’t know.”

      “It’s a little eerie sometimes,” Janet said. “That high sweet voice in a foreign tongue.”

      Amy removed her hand from Janet’s shoulder. “Has she ever…”

      “Ever what?”

      “Has she ever done anything else that strikes you as eerie?” Janet frowned. “Like what?”

      To explain, Amy would have to open door after door into herself, into places in the heart that she did not want to visit. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I meant by that.”

      “In spite of her problems, Reesa’s a good girl.”

      “I’m sure she is. And she’s lovely, too. Such beautiful eyes.”

Chapter 7

      Harrow drives, and the silver Mercedes conforms to curves with the sinuous grace of free-flowing mercury, and Moongirl simmers in the passenger seat. No matter how good the sex has been for her, Moongirl always rises in anger from the bed. Harrow is never the cause of her rage. She is furious because she can only have carnal satisfaction in a lightless room.

      She has put this condition of darkness upon herself, but she does not blame herself for it. She imagines herself to be a victim and instead blames another, and not just another but also the world.

      Drained of desire by the act, she remains empty only until the last shudder of pleasure has passed through her, whereupon she fills at once with bitterness and resentment.

      Because she has the capacity for ruthless discipline of the body and the intellect, her undisciplined emotion can be concealed. Her face remains placid, her voice soft. Always she walks without a single

      footfall thae is lithe, graceful, with no telltale twitch of tension in her stride or gestures.

      Occasionally Harrow swears that he can smell her fury: the faintest scent of iron, like that rising from ferrous rock scorched by relentless desert sun.

      Only light can vaporize this particular anger.

      If they lie together in the windowless room in the daytime, she wants afterward to be in the light. Sometimes she goes outside half clothed or even naked.

      On those days, she stands with her face turned to the sky, her mouth open, as if inviting the light to fill her.

      Although a natural blonde, she takes the sun well. Her skin is bronze even into the creases of her knuckles, and the fine hairs on her arms are bleached white.

      By contrast to her skin, the whites of her eyes are as brilliant as pure arctic snow, and the bottle-green irises dazzle.

      Most often she and Harrow make loveless love at night. Afterward, neither the stars nor the moon is bright enough to steam away her distilled fury, and though she sometimes refers to herself as a Valkyrie, she does not have wings to fly into the higher light.

      Usually a bonfire on the beach will reduce her anger to embers, but not always. Occasionally she needs to burn more than pine logs and dried seaweed and driftwood.

      As though Moongirl can will the world to meet her needs, someone ideal for burning may come to her at the opportune moment. This has happened more than once.

      On a night when a bonfire is not enough and when fate does not send her an offering, she must go out into the world and find the fire she needs.

      Harrow has driven her as far as 120 miles before she has located what requires burning. Sometimes she does not find it before dawn, and then the sun is sufficient to boil off her rage.

      This night, he drives thirty-six miles on winding roads through rural territory before she says, “There. Let’s do it.”

      An old one-story clapboard house, the only residence in sight, sits behind a well-tended lawn. No lamps brighten any window.

      The headlights reveal two birdbaths in the yard, three garden gnomes, and a miniature windmill. On the front porch are a pair of bentwood rocking chairs.

      Harrow proceeds almost a quarter of a mile past the place until, prior to a bridge, he comes to a narrow dirt lane that slants off the blacktop. He follows this dusty track down to the base of the bridge and parks near the river, where sluggish black water purls in the moonlight.

      Perhaps this short path serves fishermen who cast for bass from the bank. If so, none is currently