Velocity by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page B

from coma into full oblivion, the chain would pull taut, and he would sink with her into the darkest waters.
    He came here not only to keep her company in the hope that she would recognize his presence even in her internal prison, but also to be taught how to care and not to care, how to sit still, and perhaps to find elusive peace.
    This evening, peace was more elusive than usual.
    His attention shifted often from her face to his watch, and to the window beyond which the acid-yellow day soured slowly toward a bitter twilight.
    He held his little notebook. He paged through it, reading the mysterious words that she had spoken.
    When he found a sequence that particularly intrigued him, he read it aloud:
    “—soft black drizzle—”
    “—death of the sun—”
    “—the scarecrow of a suit—”
    “—livers of fat geese—”
    “—narrow street, high houses—”
    “—a cistern to hold the fog—”
    “—strange forms…ghostly motion—”
    “—clear-sounding bells—”
    His hope was that, hearing her enigmatic coma-talk read back to her, she would be spurred to speak, perhaps to expand upon those utterances and make more sense of them.
    On other nights his performance had sometimes drawn a reply from her. But never did she clarify what previously she had said. Instead she delivered a new and different sequence of equally inscrutable words.
    This evening she responded with silence, and occasionally with a sigh uncolored by emotion, as if she were a machine that breathed in a shallow rhythm with louder exhalations caused by random power surges.
    After reading aloud two sequences, Billy returned the notebook to his pocket.
    Agitated, he had read her words with too much force, too much haste. At one point he’d heard himself and thought he sounded angry, which would do Barbara no good.
    He paced the room. The window drew him.
    Whispering Pines stood adjacent to a gently sloping vineyard. Beyond the window lay regimented vines with emerald-green leaves that would be crimson come autumn, with small hard grapes still many weeks from maturity.
    The work lanes between the vine rows were mottled black with the shadows of the day’s last hour, purple with grape pomace that had been spread as fertilizer.
    Seventy or eighty feet from the window, a man alone stood in one of those lanes. He had no tools with him and did not appear to be at work.
    If he was a grower or a vintner out for a walk, he must not be in a hurry. He stood in one place, feet planted wide apart, hands in his trouser pockets.
    He seemed to be studying the convalescent home.
    From this distance and in this light, no details of the man’s appearance could be discerned. He stood in the lane between vines with his back to the declining sun, which revealed him only as a silhouette.
    Listening to running feet on hollow stairs, which was in fact the thunder of his heart, Billy warned himself against paranoia. Whatever trouble might come, he would need calm nerves and a clear mind to cope.
    He turned away from the window. He went to the bed.
    Barbara’s eyes moved under her lids. The specialists said this indicated a dream state.
    Considering that any coma was a far deeper sleep than mere sleep itself, Billy wondered if hers were more intense than ordinary dreams—full of fevered action, crashing with a thunderstorm of sound, drenched in color.
    He worried that her dreams were nightmares, vivid and perpetual.
    When he kissed her forehead, she murmured, “The wind is in the east….”
    He waited, but she said no more, though her eyes darted and rolled from phantom to phantom under her closed lids.
    Because those words contained no menace and because no sense of peril darkened her voice, he chose to believe that her current dream, at least, must be benign.
    Although he didn’t want it, he took from the nightstand a square cream-colored envelope on which his name had been written in flowing script. He tucked it in a pocket, unread, for he knew that it had