Read Online Dark Rivers of the Heart by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online
Authors: Dean Koontz
Tags: #genre
Ads: Link
end of the driveway was not a house, really, but a cabin. 'The cedar-clad exterior, perched on a stone foundation to foil termites, weathered to a lustrous silver gray, might have appeared shabby to an unappreciative eye; to Spencer it was beautiful and full of character in the wash of the Explorer's headlights.
The cabin was sheltered-surrounded, shrouded, encased-by an eligant grove. 'The trees were red gums safe from the Australian beetles that had been devouring California blue gums for more than a decade.
They had not been topped since Spencer had bought the place.
Beyond the grove, brush and scrub oak covered the canyon floor and the steep slopes to the ridges. Summer through autumn, leeched of moisture by dry Santa Ana winds, the hills and the ravines became tinder.
Twice in eight years, firefighters had ordered Spencer to evacuate, when blazes in neighboring canyons might have swept down on him as mercilessly as judgment day. Wind-driven flames could move at express-train speeds. One night they might overwhelm him in his sleep.
But the beauty and privacy of the canyon justified the risk.
At various times in his life, he had fought hard to stay alive, but he was not afraid to die. Sometimes he even embraced the thought of going to sleep and never waking. When fears of fire troubled him, he worried not about himself but about Rocky.
That Wednesday night in February, the burning season was months away.
Every tree and bush and blade of wild grass dripped rain and seemed as if it would be forever impervious to fire.
The house was cold. It could be heated by a big river-rock fireplace in the living room, but each room also had its own in-wall electric heater.
Spencer preferred the dancing light, the crackle, and the smell of a log fire, but he switched on the heaters because he was in a hurry.
After changing from his damp clothes into a comfortable gray jogging suit and athletic socks, he brewed a pot of coffee. For Rocky, he set out a bowl of orange juice.
The mutt had many peculiarities besides a taste for orange juice.
For one thing, though he enjoyed going for walks during the day, he had none of a dog's usual frisky interest in the nocturnal world, preferring to keep at least a window between himself and the night; if he had to go outside after sunset, he stayed close to Spencer and regarded the darkness with suspicion. Then there was Paul Simon.
Rocky was indifferent to most music, but Simon's voice enchanted him; if Spencer put on a Simon album, especially Graceland, Rocky would sit in front of the speakers, staring intently, or pace the floor in lazy, looping patterns-off the beat, lost in reverie-to "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes" or "You Can Call Me Al." Not a doggy thing to do.
Less doggy still was his bashfulness about bodily functions, for he wouldn't make his toilet if watched; Spencer had to turn his back before Rocky would get down to business.
Sometimes Spencer thought that the dog, having suffered a hard life until two years ago and having had little reason to find joy in a canine',s place in the world, wanted to be a human being.
That was a big mistake. People were more likely to live a dog's life, in the negative sense of the phrase, than were most dogs.
"Greater self-awareness," he'd told Rocky on a night when sleep wouldn't come, "doesn't make a species any happier, pal. If it did, we'd have fewer psychiatrists and barrooms than you dogs have-and it's not that way, is it?"
Now, as Rocky lapped at the juice in the bowl on the kitchen floor, Spencer carried a mug of coffee to the expansive L-shaped desk in one corner of the living room. Two computers with large hard-disk capacities, a full-color laser printer, and other pieces of equipment were arrayed from one end of the work surface to the other.
That corner of the living
The cabin was sheltered-surrounded, shrouded, encased-by an eligant grove. 'The trees were red gums safe from the Australian beetles that had been devouring California blue gums for more than a decade.
They had not been topped since Spencer had bought the place.
Beyond the grove, brush and scrub oak covered the canyon floor and the steep slopes to the ridges. Summer through autumn, leeched of moisture by dry Santa Ana winds, the hills and the ravines became tinder.
Twice in eight years, firefighters had ordered Spencer to evacuate, when blazes in neighboring canyons might have swept down on him as mercilessly as judgment day. Wind-driven flames could move at express-train speeds. One night they might overwhelm him in his sleep.
But the beauty and privacy of the canyon justified the risk.
At various times in his life, he had fought hard to stay alive, but he was not afraid to die. Sometimes he even embraced the thought of going to sleep and never waking. When fears of fire troubled him, he worried not about himself but about Rocky.
That Wednesday night in February, the burning season was months away.
Every tree and bush and blade of wild grass dripped rain and seemed as if it would be forever impervious to fire.
The house was cold. It could be heated by a big river-rock fireplace in the living room, but each room also had its own in-wall electric heater.
Spencer preferred the dancing light, the crackle, and the smell of a log fire, but he switched on the heaters because he was in a hurry.
After changing from his damp clothes into a comfortable gray jogging suit and athletic socks, he brewed a pot of coffee. For Rocky, he set out a bowl of orange juice.
The mutt had many peculiarities besides a taste for orange juice.
For one thing, though he enjoyed going for walks during the day, he had none of a dog's usual frisky interest in the nocturnal world, preferring to keep at least a window between himself and the night; if he had to go outside after sunset, he stayed close to Spencer and regarded the darkness with suspicion. Then there was Paul Simon.
Rocky was indifferent to most music, but Simon's voice enchanted him; if Spencer put on a Simon album, especially Graceland, Rocky would sit in front of the speakers, staring intently, or pace the floor in lazy, looping patterns-off the beat, lost in reverie-to "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes" or "You Can Call Me Al." Not a doggy thing to do.
Less doggy still was his bashfulness about bodily functions, for he wouldn't make his toilet if watched; Spencer had to turn his back before Rocky would get down to business.
Sometimes Spencer thought that the dog, having suffered a hard life until two years ago and having had little reason to find joy in a canine',s place in the world, wanted to be a human being.
That was a big mistake. People were more likely to live a dog's life, in the negative sense of the phrase, than were most dogs.
"Greater self-awareness," he'd told Rocky on a night when sleep wouldn't come, "doesn't make a species any happier, pal. If it did, we'd have fewer psychiatrists and barrooms than you dogs have-and it's not that way, is it?"
Now, as Rocky lapped at the juice in the bowl on the kitchen floor, Spencer carried a mug of coffee to the expansive L-shaped desk in one corner of the living room. Two computers with large hard-disk capacities, a full-color laser printer, and other pieces of equipment were arrayed from one end of the work surface to the other.
That corner of the living
Similar Books
