Intensity by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page A

something so bizarre that Chyna was as transfixed by his activity as by her fear. His hands were raised in front of him, stretched as high as he could reach, and his spread fingers languorously combed the air. He seemed to be in a trance, as though trying to seine psychic impressions from the ether.
        He was a big man. Six feet two, maybe even taller. Muscular. Narrow waist, enormous shoulders. His denim jacket stretched tautly across his broad back.
        His hair was thick and brown, neatly barbered against the nape of his bull neck, but Chyna could not see his face. She hoped never to see it.
        His seining fingers, stained with blood, looked crushingly strong. He would be able to choke the life out of her with a single-hand grip.
        "Come to me," he murmured.
        Even in a whisper, his rough voice had a timbre and a power that were magnetic.
        "Come to me."
        He seemed to be speaking not to a vision that only he could see but to Chyna , as if his senses were so acute that he had been able to detect her merely from the movement of the air that she had displaced when she'd stepped soundlessly through the doorway.
        Then she saw the spider. It dangled from the ceiling on a gossamer filament a foot above the killer's reaching hands.
        "Please."
        As if responding to the man's supplications, the spider spun out its thread, descending.
        The killer stopped reaching, turned his hand palm-up. "Little one," he breathed.
        Fat and black, the obedient spider reeled itself down into the big open palm.
        The killer brought his hand to his mouth and tipped his head back slightly. He either crushed the spider and ate it-or ate it alive.
        He stood motionless, savoring.
        Finally, without looking back, he went to the head of the stairs on the right, at the midpoint of the hallway, and descended spider-quick and almost spider-silent to the first floor.
        Chyna shuddered, stunned to be alive.

2
        
        The house held a drowning depth of stillness as a dam held water, with tremendous pent-up power and pressure on the breast.
        When Chyna found the courage to move, she cautiously approached the head of the stairs. She feared that the visitor had not fully descended to the first floor, that he was toying with her, standing just out of sight, waiting, smiling. He would reach for her, palms up, and say, Come to me .
        She held her breath, risked exposure, and looked down. The stairs curved through gradients of gloom to the foyer below. She could see just well enough to be sure that he wasn't there.
        As far as Chyna could discern, no lamps were on downstairs. She wondered what he was doing in that darkness, guided only by the pale moon glow at the windows. Perhaps he was in a corner, crouched like a spider, sensitive to the faintest changes in the patterns of the air, dreaming of silent stalkings and the frenzied rending of prey.
        She went quickly past the head of the stairs, into the last length of hallway, to the next open door and the second source of amber light, dreading what she might find. But she could cope with both the dread and the finding. It was always not knowing, turning away from truth, that caused night sweats and bad dreams.
        This room was smaller than the master suite, with no sitting area. A corner desk. A double bed. One nightstand with a brass lamp, a dresser, a vanity with a padded bench.
        On the wall above the bed was a poster-size portrait of Freud. Chyna loathed Freud. But Laura, dear of heart and idealistic, clung to a belief in many aspects of Freudian theory; she embraced the dream of a guiltless world, with everyone a victim of his troubled past and yearning for rehabilitation.
        Laura was lying facedown on the bed, atop the sheets and the blankets. Her wrists were handcuffed behind her. A second pair of handcuffs secured her ankles. Linking both of