House of Thunder by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online

as her feet touched the floor, she knew instantly that her legs would not support her if she dared to put all of her weight on them; a moment ago, they seemed to be made of lead, but now they were composed of knotted rags. Rather than collapse in a heap and be humiliated, she clutched Mrs. Baker and allowed herself to be settled into the wheelchair almost as if she were a baby being put into a stroller.
    Mrs. Baker winked at her. “Still think you can run the mile?”
    Susan was both amused and embarrassed by her own stubbornness. Smiling, blushing, she said, “Tomorrow. I’ll do so much walking tomorrow that I’ll wear big holes in my slippers. You just wait and see.”
    “Well, kid, I don’t know if you have a whole lot of common sense or not, but you’ve sure as the devil got more than your share of spunk, and I’ve always admired spunkiness.”
    Mrs. Baker stepped behind the wheelchair and pushed it out of the room. Initially, the rolling motion caused Susan’s stomach to flop and twist, but after several seconds she got control of herself.
    The hospital was T-shaped, and Susan’s room was at the end of the short, right-hand wing at the top of the T. Mrs. Baker took her out to the junction of the corridors and wheeled her into the longest wing, heading toward the bottom of the T.
    Just being out of bed and out of her room made Susan feel better, fresher. The halls had dark green vinyl-tile floors, and the walls were painted a matching shade up to the height of three feet, after which they were a pale yellow, as was the pebbly, acoustic-tile ceiling; the effect of this—darkness below, light above—was to lift one’s eyes upward, giving the hall a soaring, airy quality. The corridors were as spotlessly clean as Susan’s room. She remembered the big Philadelphia hospital in which her father had finally succumbed to cancer; that place had been ancient, dreary, in need of paint, with dust thick on the windowsills, with years of grime pressed deep into its cracked tile floors. She supposed she ought to be thankful that she had wound up in Willawauk County Hospital.
    The doctors, nurses, and orderlies here were also different from those in the hospital where her father had died. All of these people smiled at her. And they seemed genuinely concerned about the patients. As Susan was wheeled through the halls, many staff members paused in their tasks to have a word with her; every one of them expressed pleasure at seeing her awake, alert, and on the way to a full recovery.
    Mrs. Baker pushed her to the end of the long main hallway, then turned and started back. Although Susan was already beginning to tire, she was nevertheless in relatively high spirits. She felt better today than she had felt yesterday, better this afternoon than this morning. The future seemed sure to grow brighter almost by the hour.
    When the mood changed, it changed with the frightening abruptness of a shotgun blast.
    As they passed between the elevators and the nurses’ station—which faced each other midpoint in the corridor—one set of elevator doors opened, and a man stepped out directly in front of the wheelchair. He was a patient in blue- and white-striped pajamas, a dark brown robe, and brown slippers. Mrs. Baker stopped the wheelchair in order to let him pass. When Susan saw who he was, she nearly screamed. She wanted to scream but couldn’t. Chest-tightening, throat-constricting fear had stricken her dumb.
    His name was Ernest Harch. He was a squarely built man with a square face, squared-off features, and gray eyes the shade of dirty ice.
    When she had testified against him in court, he had fixed her with those chilling eyes and hadn’t glanced away from her for even the briefest moment. She had clearly read the message in his intimidating stare: You’re going to be sorry you ever took the witness stand.
    But that had been thirteen years ago. In the meantime, she had taken precautions to be sure he would not find her when he got