Your Heart Belongs to Me (26 page)
Read Your Heart Belongs to Me Online
Authors: Dean Koontz
“You never did tell me…what was the William Holden film that you kept waking to and thinking had a message for you?”
By his smile and then his soft laugh, she knew that she had found a right question.
“God must have a sense of humor, Sam. And for sure He became so exasperated with me that He tried to hammer me over the head with a sign only less obvious than a burning bush. It’s not what the movie is about that matters. It’s the title that might have made me think—if I’d taken the clue and bothered to research it.” He paused for effect. “
Satan Never Sleeps.
”
She found a laugh in that, though of the kind that bruises.
He held her for a moment, and she held him, and she kissed his cheek, and he kissed her brow.
Driving away, she looked once in the mirror and saw him standing in the lane, watching her leave, and she could not look back again.
Along the county road, when she found a widening of the shoulder where she could park, she stopped the car.
An unfenced meadow sloped up toward a trio of oaks. She climbed the meadow to the trees and sat with her back against the largest of them, hidden from traffic on the road below.
For a long time, she wept, not so much for him and not at all for herself, but for the condition of all things and for the way the world could be but is not.
In time, she found herself thinking about nothing more than the birds and their songs, the sound of the breeze in the high branches of the oaks, and the shafts of sunlight, clear and pure, that fell through the trees and found the grass and caressed it.
She rose then and returned to the car. She needed to go home. She had a new book to write. And a life to find.
This book is dedicated to Tim and Serena Powers
for reasons obvious to anyone who knows them
77 Shadow Street • What the Night Knows • Breathless
Relentless • Your Heart Belongs to Me
The Darkest Evening of the Year • The Good Guy
The Husband
•
Velocity
•
Life Expectancy
The Taking
•
The Face
•
By the Light of the Moon
One Door Away From Heaven
•
From the Corner of His Eye
False Memory
•
Seize the Night
•
Fear Nothing
Mr. Murder
•
Dragon Tears
•
Hideaway
•
Cold Fire
The Bad Place
•
Midnight
•
Lightning
•
Watchers
Strangers
•
Twilight Eyes
•
Darkfall
•
Phantoms
Whispers
•
The Mask
•
The Vision
•
The Face of Fear
Night Chills
•
Shattered
•
The Voice of the Night
The Servants of Twilight
•
The House of Thunder
The Key to Midnight
•
The Eyes of Darkness
Shadowfires
•
Winter Moon
•
The Door to December
Dark Rivers of the Heart
•
Icebound
•
Strange Highways
Intensity
•
Sole Survivor
•
Ticktock
The Funhouse
•
Demon Seed
ODD THOMAS
Odd Thomas
•
Forever Odd
•
Brother Odd
•
Odd Hours
FRANKENSTEIN
Prodigal Son
•
City of Night
•
Dead and Alive
Lost Souls
•
The Dead Town
A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog Named Trixie
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEAN KOONTZ
is the author of many #1
New York Times
bestsellers. He lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of their golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California.
Correspondence for the author should be addressed to:
Dean Koontz
P.O. Box 9529
Newport Beach, California 92658
Don’t miss
any of the adventures of
Odd Thomas
,
America’s favorite hero
.
From #1 Bestselling Author
.
His mysterious journey of suspense and discovery moves to a dangerous new level in his most riveting adventure to date… .
by #1
New York Times
bestselling author
DEAN KOONTZ
On sale in hardcover
Summer 2012
Near sunset of my second full day as a guest in Roseland, crossing the immense lawn between the main house and the eucalyptus grove, I halted and pivoted, warned by instinct. Racing toward me, the great black stallion was as mighty a horse as I had ever seen. Earlier, in a book of breeds, I had identified it as a Friesian. The blonde who rode him wore a white nightgown.
As silent as any spirit, the woman urged the horse forward, faster. On hooves that made no sound, the steed ran
through
me with no effect.
I have certain talents. In addition to being a pretty good short-order cook, I have an occasional prophetic dream. And in the waking world, I sometimes see the spirits of the lingering dead who, for various reasons, are reluctant to move on to the Other Side.
This long-dead horse and rider, now only spirits in our world, knew that no one but I could see them. After appearing to me twice the previous day and once this morning, but at a distance, the woman seemed to have decided to get my attention in an aggressive fashion.
Mount and mistress raced around me in a wide arc. I turned to follow them, and they cantered toward me once more but then halted. The stallion reared over me, silently slashing the air with the hooves of its forelegs, nostrils flared, eyes rolling, a creature of such immense power that I stumbled backward even though I knew that it was as immaterial as a dream.
Spirits are solid and warm to my touch, as real to me in that way as is anyone alive. But I am not solid to them, and they can neither ruffle my hair nor strike a death blow at me.
Because my sixth sense complicates my existence, I try otherwise to keep my life simple. I have fewer possessions than a monk. I have no time or peace to build a career as a fry cook or as anything else. I never plan for the future, but wander into it with a smile on my face, hope in my heart, and the hair up on the nape of my neck.
Bareback on the Friesian, the barefoot beauty wore white silk and white lace and wild red ribbons of blood both on her gown and in her long blond hair, though I could see no wound. Her nightgown was rucked up to her thighs, and her knees pressed against the stallion’s heaving flanks. In her left hand, she twined a fistful of the horse’s mane, as if even in death she must hold fast to her mount to keep their spirits joined.
If spurning a gift weren’t ungrateful, I would at once return my supernatural sight. I would be content to spend my days whipping up omelets that make you groan with pleasure and pancakes so fluffy that the slightest breeze might float them off your plate.
Every talent is unearned, however, and with it comes a solemn obligation to use it as fully and as wisely as possible. If I didn’t believe in the miraculous nature of talent and in the sacred duty of the recipient, by now I would have gone so insane that I’d qualify for numerous high government positions.
As the stallion danced on its hind legs, the woman reached out with her right arm and pointed down at me, as if to say that she knew I saw her and that she had a message to convey to me. Her lovely face was grim with determination, and those cornflower-blue eyes that were not bright with life were nonetheless bright with anguish.
When she dismounted, she didn’t drop to the ground but instead floated off the horse and almost seemed to glide across the grass to me. The blood faded from her hair and nightgown, and she manifested as she had looked in life before her fatal wounds, as if she might be concerned that the gore would repel me. I felt her touch when she put one hand to my face, as though she, a ghost, had more difficulty believing in me than I had believing in her.
Behind the woman, the sun melted into the distant sea, and several distinctively shaped clouds glowed like a fleet of ancient warships with their masts and sails ablaze.
As I saw her anguish relent to a tentative hope, I said, “Yes, I can see you. And if you’ll let me, I can help you cross over.”
She shook her head violently and took a step backward, as if she feared that with some touch or spoken spell I might release her from this world. But I have no such power.
I thought I understood the reason for her reaction. “You were murdered, and before you go from this world, you want to be sure that justice will be done.”
She nodded but then shook her head, as if to say,
Yes, but not only that
.
Being more familiar with the deceased than I might wish to be, I can tell you from considerable personal experience that the spirits of the lingering dead don’t talk. I don’t know why. Even when they have been brutally murdered and are desperate to see their assailants brought to justice, they are unable to convey essential information to me either by phone or face-to-face. Neither do they send text messages. Maybe that’s because, given the opportunity, they would reveal something about death and the world beyond that we the living are not meant to know.
Anyway, the dead can be even more frustrating to deal with than are many of the living, which is astonishing when you consider that it’s the living who run the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Shadowless in the last direct light of the drowning sun, the Friesian stood with head high, as proud as any patriot before the sight of a beloved flag. But his only flag was the golden hair of his mistress. He grazed no more in this place but reserved his appetite for Elysian fields.
Approaching me again, the blonde stared at me so intensely that I could feel her desperation. She formed a cradle with her arms and rocked it back and forth.
I said, “A baby?”
Yes
.
“Your baby?”
She nodded but then shook her head.
