Final Hour (Novella) by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page B

white light.
    She is an arctic goddess, deity of ice and snow and bone-chilling cold, the light revealing such an exquisite grace that no eye can look away even though the sight of her might freeze-blind anyone who stares too long.
    This same light is not kind to Undine. Gaunt, pale, greasy, she lies like a broken hag, abashed at the glory of her twin.
    Red welts mark the places where the pellets struck her face, swelling as would the work of wasps, her mouth misshapen as her upper lip distends.
    The fallen woman raises her spread hands to protect her face, her eyes.
    Two barrages bite her exposed palms.
    Her stung fingers twitch and clutch wildly, as if they are the legs of albino spiders.
    “You left at fifteen,” Ursula says.
    Undine cowers in guilt.
    “I stayed,” Ursula says.
    Undine knows this litany, knows the truth of it.
    “You never came back except for their funerals. I never left. I did everything. You did nothing.”
    Their mother, Francine, was no good at loving, but she
demanded
to be loved, to be given affection and companionship.
    From childhood, Undine did not give what Mother wanted, but kept to her books, her drawing, hiding from the woman by pretending to be otherworldly, lost in fantasies, a dreamy soul who couldn’t focus on the grittier things Mother enjoyed.
    It is Ursula who was forced to share Mother’s passion for horses. Ursula
loathes
horses. Filthy, frightening beasts.
    Yet from a young age she had no choice but to pretend to adore them. Groom them. Ride them.
    It is Ursula who was required to learn archery and skeet shooting, because Mother enjoyed—and excelled—at both.
    As a child, Ursula was terrified of guns. Not now.
    It is Ursula who had no choice but to learn tennis, although the sport bored her. She had no talent for it.
    It is Ursula who had to endure endless sets of tennis with Mother, who played aggressively and always won, always crowed about winning, always criticized her daughter for poor coordination.
    Now, as Undine turns her face to the mattress, Ursula steps close and fires three bursts of rubber pellets at the back of her sister’s head.
    “I did everything. You did nothing.”
    It is Ursula who bided her time, who planned with such great care, who engineered the “accident” with the horse. Like this:
    Three days each week, she is expected to go riding with Mother. These rides are portrayed as little adventures, girl time, but they are a bitter duty that if shirked brings on many subtle punishments.
    Her mother is competitive. Often the ride turns into a race.
    There are three trails that they regularly follow. One of these includes a lonely field bisected by a narrow drainage ditch.
    The horses know the trail. They are trained to jump on command.
    In this field, the ride
always
becomes a race.
    A cool day. Overcast. Both riders wear light, roomy jackets.
    Ursula has added two sturdy interior pockets to her jacket. In the first is an air pistol that shoots small lead pellets.
    She conspires to trail closely behind Mother as they approach the drainage ditch.
    Francine calls back to her daughter, supposedly encouraging her but in fact mocking.
    Ursula draws the pistol. Fires three quick rounds. One hits the intended target, Mother’s mare—Saffron—in the rump.
    Stung, the horse breaks stride and rears, sees the ditch, but is unable to obey the jump command.
    Mother holds tight, goes down with her mare.
    Saffron rolls. On Mother. Scrambles up. Trots away, frightened and confused, blowing noisily.
    Mother lies on her back in the wild grass, one arm across her breast, the other flung out to one side.
    Ursula dismounts, pockets the pistol, and hurries to Mother, hoping for a broken neck.
    It isn’t that easy.
    Mother’s left leg is queerly bent and clearly fractured. She has rapped her head on the ground, in the fall, and is dazed.
    From the second interior pocket of her jacket, Ursula removes a horseshoe. Using the nail holes, she had earlier attached to this