Read Online From the Corner of His Eye by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online Page A

can't imagine any more-obvious source of extreme anxiety."
        "Guilt," said the detective. "If he killed her, wouldn't an overwhelming sense of guilt be as likely as anguish to cause acute nervous emesis?"
        "I couldn't say with any confidence. None of my degrees is in psychology."
        "Humor me with an educated guess, Doctor."
        "I'm a healer, not a prosecutor. I'm not in the habit of making accusations, especially not against my own patients."
        "Wouldn't dream of asking you to make it a habit. Just this one time. If anguish, why not guilt?"
        A Dr. Parkhurst considered the question, which he ought to have dismissed out of hand. "Well… yes, I suppose so." Spineless, unethical quack bastard, Junior thought bitterly.
        "I believe I'll just wait here until Mr. Cain wakes," Vanadium said. "I've nothing more pressing to do."
        An authoritative note came into Parkhurst's voice, that emperor-of- tone that probably was taught in a special medical-school course on intimidation, though he was striking this attitude a little too late to be entirely effective. "My patient is in a fragile state. He mustn't be agitated, Detective. I really don't want you questioning him until tomorrow at the earliest."
        "All right, of course. I won't question him. I'll just… observe."
        Judging by the sounds Vanadium made, Junior figured that the cop had settled once more into the armchair.
        Junior hoped that Parkhurst was more skilled at the practice of medicine than he was at browbeating.
        After a long hesitation, the physician said, "You could switch on that lamp."
        "I'll be fine."
        "It won't disturb the patient."
        "I like the dark," Vanadium replied.
        "This is most irregular."
        "Isn't it, though," Vanadium agreed.
        Finally wimping out completely, Parkhurst left the room. The heavy door sighed softly shut, silencing the squeak of rubber-soled shoes, the swish of starched uniforms, and other noises made by the busy nurses in the corridor.
        Mrs. Cain's little boy felt small, weak, sorry for himself, and terribly alone. The detective was still here, but his presence only aggravated Junior's sense of isolation.
        He missed Naomi. She'd always known exactly the right thing to say or do, improving his mood with a few words or with just her touch, when he was feeling down.

Chapter 12
        
        THUNDER RATTLED like hoofbeats, and dapple-gray clouds drove eastward in the slow-motion gallop of horses in a dream. Bright Beach was blurred and distorted by rain as full of tricks as funhouse mirrors.
        While sliding toward twilight, the January afternoon seemed also to have slipped out of the familiar world and into a strange dimension.
        With Joey dead beside her and the baby possibly dying in her womb, trapped in the Pontiac because the doors were torqued in their frames and wedged shut, racked by pain from the battering she had Agnes refused to indulge in either fear or tears. She gave herself to prayer instead, asking for the wisdom to understand why this was happening to her and for the strength to cope with her pain and with her loss.
        Witnesses first to the scene, unable to open either door of the coupe, spoke encouragingly to her through the broken-out windows.
        She knew some of them, not others. They were all well-meaning and concerned, some without rain gear and getting soaked, but their natural curiosity lent a special shine to their eyes that made Agnes feel as though she were an animal on exhibit, without dignity, her most private agony exposed for the entertainment of strangers.
        When the first police arrived, followed closely by an ambulance, they discussed the possibility of taking Agnes out of the car through the Missing windshield. Considering that the space was pinched by the crumpled roof, however, and in light of Agnes's pregnancy and imminent