Fear Nothing by Dean Koontz

• Table of Contents
• Interviews & Essays
• Read an Excerpt
• Read a Sample Chapter

Table of Contents

Interviews & Essays

On Tuesday, January 13, 1998, barnesandnoble.com on AOL welcomed bestselling author Dean Koontz. Weaving fear, compassion, evil, courage, hope, wonder, and suspense into every novel, Koontz has sold more than 200 million copies of his 33 books worldwide, produced a dozen No. 1 New York Times bestsellers, and earned him the devotion of fans around the world. His latest book is FEAR NOTHING.

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JainBN: Mr. Koontz, thanks so much for joining us this evening! It's truly a pleasure and an honor to have you.

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Question: Do you plan on being personally involved with any movies or miniseries based on your works?

Dean Koontz: PHANTOMS, which releases January 23rd, uses my screenplay, and I served as executive producer. I think the film works extremely well, and I'm finishing a screenplay for another project on which I intend to have equal power. ABC is currently filming MR. MURDER as a miniseries to air in May, and I chose the screenwriter, Stephen Tolkin, who has delivered a tremendous script. So to some extent, I'm turning into a movie monkey.

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Question: I love the way you use animals, particularly dogs, in your novels. Do you have any pets?

Dean Koontz: Right now, we are dogless, but that will change sometime this summer. My big problem is what to name the pooch: Einstein, Scootie, Orson (the dog in FEAR NOTHING), or Woofer.

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Question: I loved the short story "Twilight of the Dawn." Did that story reflect your own religious views?

Dean Koontz: To the extent that I believe life has meaning, purpose, and a spiritual dimension, yes, the story speaks for me.

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Question: Do you read a lot? What are you reading right now?

Dean Koontz: Lately, I've had so little time to read because of all the film work I've been doing, and because Bantam Books has the strange idea that I should remember my contract with them and deliver the sequel to FEAR NOTHING.

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Question: Was there a book that was particularly hard for you to write for some reason? Which book and why?

Dean Koontz: They're all difficult to one extent or another. But they're all a joy at the same time.

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Question: Are you a big fan of surfing the Internet?

Dean Koontz: I'm a big fan of surfing. All of the characters in FEAR NOTHING are surf mongrels. I don't dare let myself leap onto the Internet, because I am an obsessive-compulsive. I would probably not want to get up from the keyboard, and be found decomposing by the housekeeper.

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Question: Were you happy with Katherine Ramsland's biography of you?

Dean Koontz: Reading two pages about oneself is embarrassing. Reading 500 pages about oneself is mortifying. I am the last person on earth to be able to judge Kathie's book. People whose opinions I trust tell me it's a very nice job.

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Question: You used to write under a ton of pseudonyms. Was that your own idea or the publisher's?

Dean Koontz: It wasn't multiple-personality syndrome. My agents and publishers always wanted me to use a different name every time I wrote in a different style. I've absorbed all these identities within myself and will henceforth use only my name. I am, however, having a little trouble keeping all these personalities under control, and the biggest problem is that twice a year I have to buy new wardrobes of women's clothes to satisfy the Leigh Nichols in me.

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Question: Are you going to revise and release any more of your earlier novels, like you did with DEMON SEED?

Dean Koontz: Ultimately there might be a couple additional titles of that nature. Right now I am finishing book number two for Bantam, and an unusual original novel that, like TICKTOCK, might appear in paperback.

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Question: SOLE SURVIVOR was truly disturbing. Do you have any fears of flying?

Dean Koontz: Yes, I have spoken on the "Late Late Show with Tom Snyder" of an incident aboard an airplane that turned me off flying for the foreseeable future. You know your flight is in trouble when the nun across the aisle is screaming, "We're all going to die!"

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Question: I understand you researched XP [xeroderma pigmentosum] for more than six years. What exactly did that research entail?

Dean Koontz: Obtaining every medical paper I could locate on the subject, and speaking with physicians and family members of those with the affliction.

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Question: Your latest novel is about a man with a rare skin condition called xeroderma pigmentosum. How did you become acquainted with the existence of this condition?

Dean Koontz: The condition is not just of the skin, but of the eyes as well. Light of virtually any kind, even fluorescent lights and ordinary lightbulbs, can cause cumulative damage to people with this condition, leading to an early death from cancer. I read an article in an obscure journal about someone with XP, and as I became interested enough to research it, I also saw a story about two young girls similarly afflicted. The serendipity of seeing these two pieces close together seemed to me like an omen, and I knew I needed to write a book about it.

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Question: Mr. Koontz, obviously you love to write. What other creative outlets do you explore?

Dean Koontz: Some of the work I've been doing in films, as an executive producer with teeth, has proved to be creatively satisfying. My wife and I really enjoy interior design, which is why from time to time we need to gut a house and remake it. I also enjoy making statues of Richard Simmons out of such ordinary household items as sugar cubes, dried beans, toothpicks, and cocktail weenies.

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Question: Who are some of your favorite current authors?

Dean Koontz: I really like Jim Harrison, Anne Tyler, Elmore Leonard, and the host of writers who are my friends, so I dare not mention any of them, because if I mention some and not the others, I'll get no more dinner invitations.

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Question: Even though it's the first of a trilogy, does FEAR NOTHING stand on its own?

Dean Koontz: Yes. In fact, each of the books in the trilogy should be readable in any order, and each should stand entirely on its own. This is proving to be an interesting challenge, but so far, I think it's working. Of course, all of you will tell me whether I'm right or wrong about that.

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Question: Do you have any plans to return to writing short stories? I loved your collection STRANGE HIGHWAYS.

Dean Koontz: At the moment, I have no short stories planned. One of the problems is that a short story, if it's well done, takes me anywhere from two weeks to a month. A screenplay can take a month or two, and I'd much rather, at this moment, put all extra energy into screenplays rather than short stories. Writing short stories, I never get the chance to meet Peter O'Toole.

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Question: The illustrated edition of FEAR NOTHING is gorgeous. Were you pleased with how it turned out?

Dean Koontz: I am a great fan of Phil Parks. I think he did a brilliant job on this. And if you check out the FEAR NOTHING Web site, you'll see two more paintings by Phil of other characters in the book, which were not included in the limited edition.

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Question: What can we expect to see from Dean Koontz late in the year? What are you working on now?

Dean Koontz: Currently I'm polishing my shoes.

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Question: At what point in your life did you know you needed to write?

Dean Koontz: I was writing from the age of 8, but I didn't know that I needed to do it until I was about 20. By the time I was 25, the act of writing itself was nearly as necessary to me as food.

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Question: Do you retain any control of your story line when you sell the rights for a movie?

Dean Koontz: These days, I refuse to make a deal unless I've got a strong measure of control. I either want to write it myself or choose the writer, and have intimate involvement all the way through the cutting process. If I could clone myself, I would serve as the projectionist in every theater showing the movie.

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Question: I was wondering if there would ever be a movie based on your novel LIGHTNING? I have to say, that was an incredible novel!

Dean Koontz: Thank you. I have never allowed LIGHTNING to be offered to film, because there are an infinite number of ways that Hollywood could screw it up. Currently I'm working with a producer to find a way to realize a production of this book, either from a script of mine or one by a writer I admire. Stay tuned.

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Question: Have any of your books scared you as you were writing them?

Dean Koontz: I wrote half of INTENSITY while hiding under a bed.

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Question: Do you have someone whose personal opinion and critique of your work you value more than others?

Dean Koontz: My wife. And then, depending on the project, I like to have a roundtable session with the neighborhood dogs to see what they think of it.

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Question: How long does it take you usually to write a novel from start to finish?

Dean Koontz: I work from 7:30 in the morning until dinner with no lunch break, and those long sessions can be very productive, because you stay focused and more easily fall away into the story. Working under that schedule, I can spend anywhere from five months to a year on a novel. Although the average is probably between five and seven months.

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Question: Dean, have you forgiven your father, or at least exorcised him through your books?

Dean Koontz: I exorcised him by learning all the lessons he had to teach me about how not to live a life. By living a life in opposition to his, the exorcism took place. Forgiveness is not essential, and forgetting is impossible. One simply decides to move on and to choose to be happy.

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Question: Mr. Koontz, I loved TICKTOCK, and at the end of the novel you stated that you might consider writing shorter stories using the same characters. Will you still be doing that? If not, could you just do one more novel with those characters, dog and all?

Dean Koontz: I would like to write a sequel to TICKTOCK. But currently I am engaged in a series featuring the characters in FEAR NOTHING, and since one of them is also a dog, I think it might be too much of a good thing to revisit TICKTOCK in the near future.

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Question: Where do you come up with most of your ideas? (Dreams, comments, things you have seen, perhaps?)

Dean Koontz: I own a time machine. I travel forward into the future and steal all my ideas from bestselling writers in the next century. That answer, believe it or not, makes no less sense than any other I could give you. I think ideas come so easily to me because I'm always working and, therefore, always exercising imagination.

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Question: Mr. Koontz, first I would like to thank you for your company on all those nights of insomnia. Was there ever a time when you wanted the antagonist to win, where in the book he did not?

Dean Koontz: I truly believe that while evil can win in the short term, it rarely triumphs in the long term. In my experience, those people who live life in a way that causes pain to others eventually pay for it with great unhappiness of their own. People who live with consideration for others often live happier and more rewarding lives. I'm trying to take over from the late Mother Teresa. Is that what I sound like?

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Question: Mr. Koontz, I have read all of your books and enjoyed them all. My question is, Will you follow King and Saul by writing a miniseries?

Dean Koontz: The only miniseries I might write would be for television. I understand why readers might like serial novels published in volumes, but it just seems too messy and expensive to me.

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JainBN: This will be our last question for Mr. Koontz tonight.

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Question: First of all, I want to thank you for all the enjoyment I received from reading your books for the last 15 or so years. Second, I would like to know, Which of your books was your personal favorite, and why?

Dean Koontz: For many years, I said that WATCHERS was my favorite of my own books. Others that came close were LIGHTNING, THE BAD PLACE, INTENSITY, and MR. MURDER. But right now, at this minute, I feel that FEAR NOTHING is probably the best thing I've done. Why? Because I love the characters in this book, and for me, the characters count more than anything else.

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JainBN: Thank you, Mr. Koontz, and please come again upon the publication of your next book! Any closing comments?

Dean Koontz: I thank you for giving me your questions tonight. I hope you enjoy FEAR NOTHING. And please remember that extraterrestrials cannot be trusted with your credit cards.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

On the desk in my candlelit study, the telephone rang, and I knew that a terrible change was coming.

I am not psychic. I do not see signs and portents in the sky. To my eye, the lines in my palm reveal nothing about my future, and I don't have a Gypsy's ability to discern the patterns of fate in wet tea leaves.

My father had been dying for days, however, and after spending the previous night at his bedside, blotting the sweat from his brow and listening to his labored breathing, I knew that he couldn't hold on much longer. I dreaded losing him and being, for the first time in my twenty-eight years, alone.

I am an only son, an only child, and my mother passed away two years ago. Her death had been shock, but at least she had not been forced to endure a lingering illness.

Last night just before dawn, exhausted, I had returned home to sleep. But I had not slept much or well.

Now I leaned forward in my chair and willed the phone to fall silent, but it would not.

The dog also knew what the ringing meant. He padded out of the shadows into the candleglow, and stared sorrowfully at me.

Unlike the others of his kind, he will hold any man's or woman's gaze as long as he is interested. Animals usually stare directly at us only briefly—then look away as though unnerved by something they see in the human eyes. Perhaps Orson sees what other dogs see, and perhaps he, too, is disturbed by it, but he is not intimidated.

He is a strange dog. But he is my dog, my steadfast friend, and I love him.

On the seventh ring, I surrender to the inevitable and answer the phone.

The caller was anurse at Mercy Hospital. I spoke to her without looking away from Orson.

My father was quickly fading. The nurse suggested I come to his bedside without delay.

As I put down the phone, Orson approached my chair and rested his burly black head in my lap. He whimpered softly and nuzzled my hand. He did not wag his tail.

For a moment I was numb, unable to think or act. The silence of the house, as deep as water in an oceanic abyss, was a crushing, immobilizing pressure. Then I phoned Sasha Goodall to ask her to drive me to the hospital.

Usually she slept from noon until eight o'clock. She spun music in the dark, from midnight until six o'clock in the morning, on KBAY, the only radio station in Moonlight Bay. At a few minutes past five on this March evening, she was most likely asleep, and I regretted the need to wake her.

Like sad-eyed Orson, however, Sasha was my friend, to whom I could always turn. And she was a far better driver than the dog.

She answered on the second ring, with no trace of sleepiness in her voice. Before I could tell her what had happened, she said, "Chris, I am so sorry," as though she had been waiting for this call and as if in the ringing of her phone she had heard the same ominous note the Orson and I had heard in mine.

I bit my lip and refused to consider what was coming. As long as Dad was alive, hope remained that his doctors were wrong. Even at the eleventh hour, the cancer might go into remission.

I believe in the possibility of miracles.

After all, in spite of my condition, I have lived more than twenty-eight years, which is a miracle of sorts - although some other people, seeing my life from outside, might think it is a curse.

I believe in the possibility of miracles, but more to the point, I believe in our need for them.

"I'll be there in five minutes," Sasha promised.

At night I could walk to the hospital, but at this hour I would be too much of a spectacle and in too great a danger if I tried to make the trip on foot.

"No," I said. "Drive carefully. I'll probably take ten minutes or more to get ready."

"Love you, Snowman."

"Love you, " I replied.

I replaced the cap on the pen with which I had been writing when the call came from the hospital, and I put it aside with the yellow legal-size tablet.

Using a long-handled brass snuffer, I extinguished the three fat candles. Thin, sinuous ghosts of smoke writhed in the shadows.

Now, an hour before twilight, the sun was low in the sky but still dangerous. It glimmered threateningly at the edges of the pleated shades that covered all the windows.

Anticipating my intentions, as usual, Orson was already out of the room, padding across the upstairs hall.

He is a ninety-pound Labrador mix, as black as a witch's cat. Through the layered shadows of our house, he roams all but invisibly, his presence betrayed only by the thump of his big paws on the area rugs and by the click of his claws on the hardwood floors.

In my bedroom, across the hall from the study, I didn't bother to switch on the dimmer-controlled, frosted-glass ceiling fixture. The indirect, sour-yellow light of the westering sun, pressing at the edges of the window shades, was sufficient for me.

My eyes are better adapted to gloom than are those of most people. Although I am, figuratively speaking, a brother to the owl, I don't have a special gift for nocturnal sight, nothing as romantic or as thrilling as a paranormal talent. Simply this: Lifelong habituation to darkness has sharpened my night vision.

Orson leaped onto the footstool and then curled on the armchair to watch me as I girded myself for the sunlit world.

From a pullman drawer in the adjoining bathroom, I withdrew a squeeze bottle of lotion that included a sunscreen with a rating of fifty. I applied it generously to my face, ears, and neck.

The lotion had a faint coconut scent, an aroma that I associate with palm trees in sunshine, tropical skies, ocean vistas spangled with noontime light, and other things that will be forever beyond my experience. This, for me, is the fragrance of desire and denial and hopeless yearning, the succulent perfume of the unattainable.

Sometimes I dream that I am walking on a Caribbean beach in a rain of sunshine, and the white sand under my feet seems to be a cushion of pure radiance. The warmth of the sun on my skin is more erotic than a lover's touch. In the dream, I am not merely bathed in light but pierced by it. When I wake, I am bereft.

Now the lotion, although smelling of the tropical sun, was cool on my face and neck. I also worked it into my hands and wrists.

The bathroom featured a single window at which the shade was currently raised, but the space remained meagerly illuminated because the glass was frosted and because the incoming sunlight was filtered through the graceful limbs of the metrosideros. The silhouettes of leaves fluttered on the pane.

In the mirror above the sink, my reflection was little more than a shadow. Even if I switched on the light, I would not have had a clear look at myself, because the single bulb in the overhead fixture was of low wattage and had a peach tint.

Only rarely have I seen my face in full light.

Sasha says that I remind her of James Dean, more as he was in East of Eden than in Rebel Without a Cause.

I myself don't perceive the resemblance. The hair is the same, yes, and the pale blue eyes. But he looked so wounded, and I do not see myself that way.

I am not James Dean. I am no one but me, Christopher Snow, and I can live with that.

Finished with the lotion, I returned to the bedroom. Orson raised his head from the armchair to savor the coconut scent.

I was already wearing athletic socks, Nikes, blue jeans, and a black t-shirt. I quickly pulled on a black denim shirt with long sleeves and buttoned it at the neck.

Orson trailed me downstairs to the foyer. Because the porch was deep with a low ceiling, and because two massive California live oaks stood in the yard, no direct sun could reach the sidelights flanking the front door; consequently, they were not covered with curtains or blinds. The leaded panes—geometric mosaics of clear, green, red, and amber glass—glowed softly like jewels.

I took a zippered, black leather jacket from the coat closet. I would be out after dark, and even following a mild March day, the central coast of California can turn chilly when the sun goes down.

From the closet shelf, I snatched a navy blue, billed cap and pulled it on, tugging it low on my head. Across the front, above the visor, in ruby-red embroidered letters, were the words Mystery Train.

One night during the previous autumn, I had found the cap in Fort Wyvern, the abandoned military base inland from Moonlight Bay. It had been the only object in a cool, dry, concrete-walled room three stories underground.

Although I had no idea to what the embroidered words might refer, I had kept the cap because it intrigued me.

As I turned toward the front door, Orson whined beseechingly.

I stooped and petted him. "I'm sure Dad would like to see you one last time, fella. I know he would. But there's no place for you in a hospital."

His direct, coal-black eyes glimmered. I could have sworn that his gaze brimmed with grief and sympathy. Maybe that was because I was looking at him through repressed tears of my own.

My friend Bobby Halloway says that I tend to anthropomorphize animals, ascribing to them human attributes and attitudes which they do not, in fact, possess.

Perhaps this is because animals, unlike some people, have always accepted me for what I am. The four-legged citizens of Moonlight Bay seem to possess a more complex understanding of life—as well as more kindness - than at least some of my neighbors.

Bobby tells me that anthropomorphizing animals, regardless of my experiences with them, is a sign of immaturity. I tell Bobby to go copulate with himself.

I comforted Orson, stroking his glossy coat and scratching behind his ears. He was curiously tense. Twice he cocked his head to listen intently to sounds I could not hear - as if he sensed a threat looming, something even worse than the loss of my father.

At that time, I had not yet seen anything suspicious about Dad's impending death. Cancer was only fate, not murder—unless you wanted to try bringing criminal charges against God.

That I had lost both parents within two years, that my mother had died when she was only fifty-two, that my father was only fifty-six as he lay on his deathbed...well, all this just seemed to be my poor luck—which had been with me, literary, since my conception.

Later, I would have reason to recall Orson's tension—and good reason to wonder if he had sensed the tidal wave of trouble washing toward us.

Bobby Halloway would surely sneer at this and say that I am doing worse than anthropomorphizing the mutt, that now I am ascribing superhuman attributes to him. I would have to agree—and then tell Bobby to go copulate vigorously with himself.

Anyway, I petted and scratched and generally comforted Orson until a horn sounded in the street and then, almost at once, sounded again in the driveway.

Sasha had arrived.

In spite of the sunscreen of my neck, I turned up the collar of my jacket for additional protection.

From the Stickely-style foyer table under a print of Maxfield Parrish's Daybreak, I grabbed a pair of wraparound sunglasses.

With my hand on the hammered-copper doorknob, I turned to Orson once more. "We'll be all right."

In fact I didn't know quite how we could go on without my father. He was our link to the world of light and to the people of the day.

More than that, he loved me as no one left on earth could love me, as only a parent could love a damaged child. He understood me as perhaps no one would ever understand me again.

"We'll be all right," I repeated.

The dog regarded me solemnly and chuffed once, almost pityingly, as if he knew I was lying.

I opened the front door, and as I went outside, I put on the wraparound sunglasses. The special lenses were totally UV-proof.

My eyes are my point of greatest vulnerability. I can take no risk whatsoever with them.

Sasha's green Ford Explorer was in the driveway, with the engine running, and she was behind the wheel.

I closed the house door and locked it. Orson had made no attempt to slip out at my heels.

A breeze had sprung up from the west: an onshore flow with the faint, astringent scent of the sea. The leaves of the oaks whispered as if transmitting secrets branch to branch.

My chest grew so tight that my lungs felt constricted, as was always the case when I was required to venture outside in the daylight. This symptom was entirely psychological but nonetheless affecting.

Going down the porch steps and along the flagstone walk to the driveway, I felt weighed down. Perhaps this was how a deep-sea diver might feel in a pressure suit with a kingdom of water overhead.

Read a Sample Chapter

CHAPTER ONE On the desk in my candlelit study, the telephone rang, and I knew that a terrible change was coming. I am not psychic. I do not see signs and portents in the sky. To my eye, the lines in my palm reveal nothing about my future, and I don't have a Gypsy's ability to discern the patterns of fate in wet tea leaves. My father had been dying for days, however, and after spending the previous night at his bedside, blotting the sweat from his brow and listening to his labored breathing, I knew that he couldn't hold on much longer. I dreaded losing him and being, for the first time in my twenty-eight years, alone. I am an only son, an only child, and my mother passed away two years ago. Her death had been shock, but at least she had not been forced to endure a lingering illness. Last night just before dawn, exhausted, I had returned home to sleep. But I had not slept much or well. Now I leaned forward in my chair and willed the phone to fall silent, but it would not. The dog also knew what the ringing meant. He padded out of the shadows into the candleglow, and stared sorrowfully at me. Unlike the others of his kind, he will hold any man's or woman's gaze as long as he is interested. Animals usually stare directly at us only briefly - then look away as though unnerved by something they see in the human eyes. Perhaps Orson sees what other dogs see, and perhaps he, too, is disturbed by it, but he is not intimidated. He is a strange dog. But he is my dog, my steadfast friend, and I love him. On the seventh ring, I surrender to the inevitable and answer the phone. The caller was a nurse at Mercy Hospital. I spoke to her without looking away from Orson. My father was quickly fading. The nurse suggested I come to his bedside without delay. As I put down the phone, Orson approached my chair and rested his burly black head in my lap. He whimpered softly and nuzzled my hand. He did not wag his tail. For a moment I was numb, unable to think or act. The silence of the house, as deep as water in an oceanic abyss, was a crushing, immobilizing pressure. Then I phoned Sasha Goodall to ask her to drive me to the hospital. Usually she slept from noon until eight o'clock. She spun music in the dark, from midnight until six o'clock in the morning, on KBAY, the only radio station in Moonlight Bay. At a few minutes past five on this March evening, she was most likely asleep, and I regretted the need to wake her. Like sad-eyed Orson, however, Sasha was my friend, to whom I could always turn. And she was a far better driver than the dog. She answered on the second ring, with no trace of sleepiness in her voice. Before I could tell her what had happened, she said, "Chris, I am so sorry," as though she had been waiting for this call and as if in the ringing of her phone she had heard the same ominous note the Orson and I had heard in mine. I bit my lip and refused to consider what was coming. As long as Dad was alive, hope remained that his doctors were wrong. Even at the eleventh hour, the cancer might go into remission. I believe in the possibility of miracles. After all, in spite of my condition, I have lived more than twenty-eight years, which is a miracle of sorts - although some other people, seeing my life from outside, might think it is a curse. I believe in the possibility of miracles, but more to the point, I believe in our need for them. "I'll be there in five minutes," Sasha promised. At night I could walk to the hospital, but at this hour I would be too much of a spectacle and in too great a danger if I tried to make the trip on foot. "No," I said. "Drive carefully. I'll probably take ten minutes or more to get ready." "Love you, Snowman." "Love you, " I replied. I replaced the cap on the pen with which I had been writing when the call came from the hospital, and I put it aside with the yellow legal-size tablet. Using a long-handled brass snuffer, I extinguished the three fat candles. Thin, sinuous ghosts of smoke writhed in the shadows. Now, an hour before twilight, the sun was low in the sky but still dangerous. It glimmered threateningly at the edges of the pleated shades that covered all the windows. Anticipating my intentions, as usual, Orson was already out of the room, padding across the upstairs hall. He is a ninety-pound Labrador mix, as black as a witch's cat. Through the layered shadows of our house, he roams all but invisibly, his presence betrayed only by the thump of his big paws on the area rugs and by the click of his claws on the hardwood floors. In my bedroom, across the hall from the study, I didn't bother to switch on the dimmer-controlled, frosted-glass ceiling fixture. The indirect, sour-yellow light of the westering sun, pressing at the edges of the window shades, was sufficient for me. My eyes are better adapted to gloom than are those of most people. Although I am, figuratively speaking, a brother to the owl, I don't have a special gift for nocturnal sight, nothing as romantic or as thrilling as a paranormal talent. Simply this: Lifelong habituation to darkness has sharpened my night vision. Orson leaped onto the footstool and then curled on the armchair to watch me as I girded myself for the sunlit world. From a pullman drawer in the adjoining bathroom, I withdrew a squeeze bottle of lotion that included a sunscreen with a rating of fifty. I applied it generously to my face, ears, and neck. The lotion had a faint coconut scent, an aroma that I associate with palm trees in sunshine, tropical skies, ocean vistas spangled with noontime light, and other things that will be forever beyond my experience. This, for me, is the fragrance of desire and denial and hopeless yearning, the succulent perfume of the unattainable. Sometimes I dream that I am walking on a Caribbean beach in a rain of sunshine, and the white sand under my feet seems to be a cushion of pure radiance. The warmth of the sun on my skin is more erotic than a lover's touch. In the dream, I am not merely bathed in light but pierced by it. When I wake, I am bereft. Now the lotion, although smelling of the tropical sun, was cool on my face and neck. I also worked it into my hands and wrists. The bathroom featured a single window at which the shade was currently raised, but the space remained meagerly illuminated because the glass was frosted and because the incoming sunlight was filtered through the graceful limbs of the metrosideros. The silhouettes of leaves fluttered on the pane. In the mirror above the sink, my reflection was little more than a shadow. Even if I switched on the light, I would not have had a clear look at myself, because the single bulb in the overhead fixture was of low wattage and had a peach tint. Only rarely have I seen my face in full light. Sasha says that I remind her of James Dean, more as he was in East of Eden than in Rebel Without a Cause. I myself don't perceive the resemblance. The hair is the same, yes, and the pale blue eyes. But he looked so wounded, and I do not see myself that way. I am not James Dean. I am no one but me, Christopher Snow, and I can live with that. Finished with the lotion, I returned to the bedroom. Orson raised his head from the armchair to savor the coconut scent. I was already wearing athletic socks, Nikes, blue jeans, and a black t-shirt. I quickly pulled on a black denim shirt with long sleeves and buttoned it at the neck. Orson trailed me downstairs to the foyer. Because the porch was deep with a low ceiling, and because two massive California live oaks stood in the yard, no direct sun could reach the sidelights flanking the front door; consequently, they were not covered with curtains or blinds. The leaded panes - geometric mosaics of clear, green, red, and amber glass - glowed softly like jewels. I took a zippered, black leather jacket from the coat closet. I would be out after dark, and even following a mild March day, the central coast of California can turn chilly when the sun goes down. From the closet shelf, I snatched a navy blue, billed cap and pulled it on, tugging it low on my head. Across the front, above the visor, in ruby-red embroidered letters, were the words Mystery Train. One night during the previous autumn, I had found the cap in Fort Wyvern, the abandoned military base inland from Moonlight Bay. It had been the only object in a cool, dry, concrete-walled room three stories underground. Although I had no idea to what the embroidered words might refer, I had kept the cap because it intrigued me. As I turned toward the front door, Orson whined beseechingly. I stooped and petted him. "I'm sure Dad would like to see you one last time, fella. I know he would. But there's no place for you in a hospital." His direct, coal-black eyes glimmered. I could have sworn that his gaze brimmed with grief and sympathy. Maybe that was because I was looking at him through repressed tears of my own. My friend Bobby Halloway says that I tend to anthropomorphize animals, ascribing to them human attributes and attitudes which they do not, in fact, possess. Perhaps this is because animals, unlike some people, have always accepted me for what I am. The four-legged citizens of Moonlight Bay seem to possess a more complex understanding of life - as well as more kindness - than at least some of my neighbors. Bobby tells me that anthropomorphizing animals, regardless of my experiences with them, is a sign of immaturity. I tell Bobby to go copulate with himself. I comforted Orson, stroking his glossy coat and scratching behind his ears. He was curiously tense. Twice he cocked his head to listen intently to sounds I could not hear - as if he sensed a threat looming, something even worse than the loss of my father. At that time, I had not yet seen anything suspicious about Dad's impending death. Cancer was only fate, not murder - unless you wanted to try bringing criminal charges against God. That I had lost both parents within two years, that my mother had died when she was only fifty-two, that my father was only fifty-six as he lay on his deathbed...well, all this just seemed to be my poor luck - which had been with me, literary, since my conception. Later, I would have reason to recall Orson's tension - and good reason to wonder if he had sensed the tidal wave of trouble washing toward us. Bobby Halloway would surely sneer at this and say that I am doing worse than anthropomorphizing the mutt, that now I am ascribing superhuman attributes to him. I would have to agree - and then tell Bobby to go copulate vigorously with himself. Anyway, I petted and scratched and generally comforted Orson until a horn sounded in the street and then, almost at once, sounded again in the driveway. Sasha had arrived. In spite of the sunscreen of my neck, I turned up the collar of my jacket for additional protection. From the Stickely-style foyer table under a print of Maxfield Parrish's Daybreak, I grabbed a pair of wraparound sunglasses. With my hand on the hammered-copper doorknob, I turned to Orson once more. "We'll be all right." In fact I didn't know quite how we could go on without my father. He was our link to the world of light and to the people of the day. More than that, he loved me as no one left on earth could love me, as only a parent could love a damaged child. He understood me as perhaps no one would ever understand me again. "We'll be all right," I repeated. The dog regarded me solemnly and chuffed once, almost pityingly, as if he knew I was lying. I opened the front door, and as I went outside, I put on the wraparound sunglasses. The special lenses were totally UV-proof. My eyes are my point of greatest vulnerability. I can take no risk whatsoever with them. Sasha's green Ford Explorer was in the driveway, with the engine running, and she was behind the wheel. I closed the house door and locked it. Orson had made no attempt to slip out at my heels. A breeze had sprung up from the west: an onshore flow with the faint, astringent scent of the sea. The leaves of the oaks whispered as if transmitting secrets branch to branch. My chest grew so tight that my lungs felt constricted, as was always the case when I was required to venture outside in the daylight. This symptom was entirely psychological but nonetheless affecting. Going down the porch steps and along the flagstone walk to the driveway, I felt weighed down. Perhaps this was how a deep-sea diver might feel in a pressure suit with a kingdom of water overhead. CHAPTER TWO When I got into the Explorer, Sasha Goodall said quietly, "Hey, Snowman." "Hey." I buckled my safety harness as Sasha shifted into reverse. From under the bill of my cap, I peered at the house as we backed away from it, wondering how it would appear to me when next I saw it. I felt that when my father left this world, all of the things that belonged to him would look shabbier and diminished because they would no longer be touched by his spirit. It is Craftsmen-period structure, in the Greene and Greene tradition: ledger stone set with minimal mortar, cedar siding silvered by weather and time, entirely modern in its lines but not in the least artificial or insubstantial, fully on the earth and formidable. After the recent winter rains, the crisp lines of the slate roof were softened by a green coverlet of lichen. As we reversed into the street, I thought that I saw the shade nudged aside at one of the living-room windows, at the back of the deep porch, and Orson's face at the pane, his paws on the sill. As she drove away from the house, Sasha said, "How long since you've been out in this?" "Daylight? A little over nine years." "A novena to the darkness." She was also a songwriter. I said, "Damn it, Goodall, don't wax poetic on me." "What happened nine years ago?" "Appendicitis." "Ah. The time you almost died." "Only death brings me out in daylight." She said, "At least you got a sexy scar from it." "You think so?" "I like to kiss it, don't I?" "I've wondered about that." "Actually, it scares me, that scar," she said. "You might have died." "Didn't." "I kiss it like I'm saying a little prayer of thanks. That you're here with me." "Or maybe you're sexually aroused by deformity." "Asshole." "Your mother never taught you language like that." "It was the nuns in parochial school." I said, "You know what I like?" "We've been together almost two years. Yeah, I think I know what you like." "I like that you never cut me any slack." "Why should I?" she asked. "Exactly." Even in my armor of cloth and lotion, behind the shades that shielded my sensitive eyes from ultraviolet rays, I was unnerved by the day around me and above me. I felt egg shell-fragile in its vise grip. Sasha was aware of my uneasiness but pretended not to notice. To take my mind off both the threat and the boundless beauty of the sunlit world, she did what she does so well - which is be Sasha. "Where will you be later?" she asked. "When it's over." "If it's over. They could be wrong." "Where will you be when I'm on the air?" "After midnight...probably Bobby's place." "Make sure he turns on his radio." "Are you taking requests tonight?" I asked. "You don't have to call in. I'll know what you need." At the next corner, she swung the Explorer right, onto Ocean Avenue. She drove uphill, away from the sea. Fronting the shops and restaurants beyond the deep sidewalks, eighty-foot stone pines spread wings of branches across the street. The payment was feathered with shadow and sunshine. Moonlight Bay, home to twelve thousand people, rises from the harbor and flatlands into gentle serried hills. In most California travel guides, our town is called the Jewel of the Central Coast, partly because the chamber of commerce schemes relentlessly to have this sobriquet widely used. The town has earned the name, however, for many reasons, not least of which is our wealth of trees. Majestic oaks with hundred-year crowns. Pines, cedars, phoenix palms. Deep eucalyptus groves. My favorites are the clusters of lacy melaleuca luminaria draped with stoles of ermine blossoms in the spring. As a result of our relationship, Sasha has applied protective film to the Explorer windows. Nevertheless, the view was shockingly brighter than that to which I was accustomed. I slid my glasses down my nose and peered over the frames. The pine needles stitched an elaborate dark embroidery on a wondrous purple-blue, late afternoon sky bright with mystery, and a reflection of this pattern flickered across the windshield. I quickly pushed my glasses back in place, not merely to protect my eyes but because suddenly I was ashamed for taking such delight in this rare daytime journey even as my father lay dying. Judiciously speeding, never braking to a full stop at those intersections without traffic, Sasha said, "I'll go in with you." "That's not necessary." Sasha's intense dislike of doctors and nurses and all the things medical bordered on a phobia. Most of the time she was convinced that she would live forever; she had great faith in the power of vitamins, minerals, antioxidants, positive thinking, and mind-body healing techniques. A visit to any hospital, however, temporarily shook her conviction that she would avoid the fate of all flesh. "Really," she said, "I should be with you. I love your dad." Her outer calm was belied by a quiver in her voice, and I was touched by her willingness to go, just for me, where she most loathed to go. I said, "I want to be alone with him, this little time we have." "Truly?" "Truly. Listen, I forgot to leave dinner out for Orson. Could you go back to the house and take care of that?" "Yeah," she said, relieved to have a task. "Poor Orson. He and your dad were real buddies." "I swear he knows." "Sure. Animals know things." "Especially Orson." From Ocean Avenue, she turned left onto Pacific View. Mercy Hospital was two blocks away. She said, "He'll be okay." "He doesn't show it much, but he's already grieving in his way." "I'll give him lots of hugs and cuddles." "Dad was his link to the day." "I'll be his link now," she promised. "He can't live exclusively in the dark." "He's got me, and I'm not going anywhere." "Aren't you?" I asked. "He'll be okay." We weren't really talking about the dog anymore. The hospital is a three-story California Mediterranean structure built in another age when that term did not bring to mind uninspired tract-house architecture and cheap construction. The deeply set windows feature patinaed bronzed frames. Ground-floor rooms are shaded by loggias with arches and limestone columns. Some of the columns are entwined by the woody vines of ancient bougainvillea that blanket loggia roofs. This day, even with spring a couple weeks away, cascades of crimson and radiant purple flowers overhung the eaves. For a daring few seconds, I pulled my sunglasses down my nose and marveled at the sun-splashed celebration of color. Sasha stopped at a side entrance. As I freed myself from the safety harness, she put one hand on my arm and squeezed lightly. "Call my cellular number when you want me to come back." "It'll be after sunset by the time I leave. I'll walk." "If that's what you want." "I do." Again I drew the glasses down my nose, this time to see Sasha Goodall as I had never seen her. In candlelight, her gray eyes are deep but clear - as they are here in the day world, too. Her thick mahogany hair, in candlelight, is as lustrous as wine in crystal - but markedly more lustrous under the stroking hand of the sun. Her creamy, rose petal skin is flecked with faint freckles, the patterns which I know as well as I know the constellations in every quadrant of the night sky, season by season. With one finger, Sasha pushed my sunglasses back into place. "Don't be foolish." I'm human. Foolish is what we are. If I were to go blind, however, her face would be a sight to sustain me in the lasting blackness. I leaned across the console and kissed her. "You smell like coconut," she said. "I try." I kissed her again. "You shouldn't be out in this any longer," she said firmly. The sun, half an hour above the sea, was orange and intense, a perpetual thermonuclear holocaust ninety-three million miles removed. In places, the Pacific was molten copper. "Go coconut boy. Away with you." Shrouded like the Elephant man, I got out of the Explorer and hurried to the hospital, tucking my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket. I glanced back once. Sasha was watching. She gave me a thumbs up sign.