The Darkest Evening of the Year. Dean Koontz

cannot be seen here at the river. Although few motorists, if any, are likely to be abroad at this hour, precautions must be taken.

      Harrow retrieves the two-gallon utility can from the luggage space behind the seats.

      He does not ask her if she has remembered to bring matches. She always carries them.

      Cicadas serenade one another, and toads croak with satisfaction each time they devour a cicada.

      Harrow considers going overland to the house, across meadows and through a copse of oaks. But they will gain no advantage by taking the arduous route.

      The target house is only a quarter-mile away. Along the county road are tall grasses, gnarls of brush, and a few trees, always one kind of cover or another to which they can retreat the moment they glimpse distant headlights or hear the faraway growl of an engine.

      They ascend from the riverbank to the paved road.

      The gasoline chuckles in the can, and his nylon jacket produces soft whistling noises when one part of it rubs against another.

      Moongirl makes no sound whatsoever. She walks without a single footfall that he can hear.

      Then she says, “Do you wonder why?”

      “Why what?”

      “The burning.”

      “No.”

      “You never wonder,” she presses.

      “No. It’s what you want.”

      “That’s good enough for you.”

      “Yes.”

      The early-autumn stars are as icy as those of winter, and it seems to him that now, as in all seasons, the sky is not deep but dead, flat, and frozen.

      She says, “You know what’s the worst thing?”

      “Tell me.”

      “Boredom.”

      “Yes.”

      “It turns you outward.”

      “Yes.”

      “But toward what?”

      “Tell me,” he says.

      “Nothing’s out there.”

      “Nothing you want.”

      “Just nothing,” she corrects.

      Her madness fascinates Harrow, and he is never bored in her company. Originally, he had thought they would be done with each other in a month or two; but they have been seven months together.

      “It’s terrifying,” she says.

      “What?”

      “Boredom.”

      “Yes,” he says sincerely.

      “Terrifying.”

      “Gotta stay busy.”

      He shifts the heavy gasoline can from his right hand to his left.

      “Pisses me off,” she says.

      “What does?”

      “Being terrified.”

      “Stay busy,” he repeats.

      “All I’ve got is me.”

      “And me,” he reminds her.

      She does not confirm that he is essential to her defenses against boredom.

      They have covered half the distance to the clapboard house.

      A winking light moves across the frozen stars, but it is nothing more than an airliner, too high to be heard, bound for an exotic port that at least some perceptive passengers will discover is identical to the place from which they departed.

Chapter 8

      Having moved the Expedition from Lottie’s driveway to her own carport next door, Amy opened the tailgate, and Nickie leaped out into the night.

      Amy remembered coming out of the Brockman house and finding the tailgate open, Jimmy trying to run away and the diligent dog herding him toward home.

      He must have freed Nickie with the expectation that they would escape together. Having endured four months with Carl Brockman as its master, any other dog might have led the boy in flight.

      As Nickie landed on the driveway, Amy snatched up the red leash, but the dog had no intention of running off. She led Amy around the vehicle, into the backyard. Without any of the usual canine ritual, Nickie squatted to pee.

      Because Amy had two golden retrievers of her own—Fred and Ethel—and because often she kept rescue dogs for at least a night or two before transporting them to foster homes, she assumed that Nickie would want to spend some time sniffing around the yard—reading the local newspaper, so to speak.

      Instead, upon completion of her business, the dog went directly to the back porch, up the steps, and to the door.

      Amy unlocked the door, unclipped the leash from the collar, stepped into the house, and switched on the lights.

      Neither Fred nor Ethel was in the kitchen. They must have been asleep in the bedroom.

      From the farther end of the bungalow arose the thump of paws rushing across carpet and then hardwood, swiftly approaching.

      Fred and Ethel did not bark, because they were trained not to speak without an important reason—such as a stranger at the door—and they were good dogs.

      She most often took them with her. When she left them at home, they always greeted her return with an enthusiasm that lifted her heart.

      Usually Ethel would appear first, ebullient and grinning, head raised, tail dusting the doorjamb as she came into the room.

      She was a darker red-gold than Nickie, although well within the desirable color range for the breed. She had a thicker undercoat than usual for a retriever and looked gloriously furry.

      Fred would probably follow Ethel. Not dominant, often bashful, he would be so thrilled to see Amy that he’d not only wag his tail furiously but also wiggle his hindquarters with irrepressible delight.

      Sweet Fred had a broad handsome face and as perfectly black a nose as Amy had ever seen, not a speckle of brown to mar it.

      At Amy’s side, Nickie stood alert, ears lifted, gaze fixed on the open hall door from which issued the muffled thunder of paws.

      A sudden drop in the velocity of approach suggested that Fred and Ethel detected the presence of a newcomer. She checked her speed first, and Fred blundered into her as they came through the doorway.

      Instead of the usual meet-and-greet, including nose to nose and tongue to nose and a courteously quick sniff of butts all around, the Redwing kids halted a few feet short of Nickie. They stood panting, plumed tails swishing, with cocked-head curiosity, eyes bright with what seemed like surprise.

      Keeping her own tail in motion, Nickie raised her head, assuming a friendly but regal posture.

      “Ethel sweetie, babycakes Fred,” Amy said in her sweet-talk voice, “come meet your new sister.”

      Until she said “new sister,” she hadn’t known that she’d decided beyond doubt to keep Nickie rather than placing her with an approved family on the Golden Heart adoption list.

      Previously, both kids had reliably been suckers for their master’s squeaky sweet-talk voice, but this time they ignored Amy.

      Now Ethel did something she always did with a visiting dog but never until the meet-and-greet was concluded. She went to the open box of squeeze toys and pull toys and tennis balls inside the always-open pantry door, judiciously selected a prize, returned with it, and dropped it in front of the newcomer.

      She