Dean Koontz

by Your Heart Belongs to Me (v5)

  Ryan opened his eyes and watched the fluoroscope as it followed the tedious progress of the catheter, which the cardiologist threaded carefully into his heart, guided by the image on the screen.

  He wondered what would happen if in the midst of this procedure he suffered a seizure as he had on the surfboard, his heart abruptly hammering two or three hundred beats a minute. He decided not to ask.

  “How are you doing?” Dr. Gupta inquired.

  “Fine. I don’t feel anything.”

  “Just relax. We’re making excellent progress.”

  Ryan realized that Ismay Clemm was quietly reporting on his heart rhythm, which evidently had become slightly unstable upon the introduction of the catheter.

  Maybe this was normal, maybe not, but the instability passed.

  And the beat goes on.

  Once the primary catheter was in place, Dr. Gupta inserted into it a second catheter, a bioptome, with tiny jaws at its tip.

  Ryan had lost all sense of time. He might have been on the table a few minutes or an hour.

  His legs ached. In spite of the sedative, the muscles in his calves were tense. His right hand had tightened into a fist; he opened it, as if hoping to receive another’s hand, a gift.

  Long he lay there, wondering, fearing.

  The jaws of the bioptome bit.

  Inhaling with a hiss through clenched teeth, Ryan didn’t think that he imagined the quick painful pinch, but perhaps he was reacting to the brief frantic stutter of his heart on the fluorescent screen.

  Dr. Gupta retrieved the first sample of Ryan’s cardiac muscle.

  Nurse Clemm said, “Don’t hold your breath, honey.”

  Exhaling, Ryan realized that he expected to die during the procedure.

  TEN

  In just seventy minutes the biopsy had been completed and the incision repaired with stitches.

  The power of the sedative was at its peak, and because Ryan had endured a sleepless night, the drug affected him more strongly than anticipated. Dr. Gupta encouraged Ryan to lie on the narrow bed in the prep room and rest awhile, until he felt fully alert and capable of driving.

  The room was windowless. The overhead fluorescent panels were off, and only a fixture in a soffit above the small sink provided light.

  The dark ceiling and shadow-hung walls inspired claustrophobia. Thoughts of caskets and the conqueror worm oppressed him, but the phobic moment quickly passed.

  Relief that the procedure had gone well and exhaustion were tranquilizing. Ryan did not expect to sleep, but he slept.

  To a discordant melody, he walked a dream road along a valley toward a palace high on a slope. Through the red-litten windows he could see vast forms that moved fantastically, and his heart began to pound, to boom, until it beat away that vision and harried in another.

  A wild lake, bound all around with black rocks and tall pines, was lovely in its loneliness. Then the inky water rose in a series of small waves that lapped the shore where he stood, and he knew the lake was a pool of poison. Its gulf would be his grave.

  Between these brief dreams and others, he half woke and always found Ismay Clemm at his bedside in the dimly lighted room, once taking his pulse, once with her hand to his forehead, sometimes just watching him, her dark face so shadowed that her oddly lit green eyes seemed to be disembodied.

  A few times she spoke to him, and on the first occasion, she murmured, “You hear him, don’t you, child?”

  Ryan had insufficient strength to ask of whom she spoke.

  The nurse answered her own question: “Yes, you hear him.”

  Later, between dreams, she said, “You must not listen, child.”

  And later still: “If you hear the iron bells, you come to me.”

  When he woke more than an hour after lying down, Ryan was alone.

  The one light, the many shadows, and the sparely appointed prep room seemed less real to him than either the palace with windows full of red light or the black lake, or the other places in his dreams.

  To confirm that he was awake and that the memory of the biopsy was real, he raised one hand to the small bandage on his neck, which covered the jugular wound, the stitches.

  He rose, took off the robe, and dressed in his street clothes.

  When Ryan entered the adjacent diagnostics lab, Ismay Clemm was nowhere to be seen. Dr. Gupta and the radiologist had gone, as well.

  Nurse Whipset asked if he was all right.

  He felt unreal, weightless and drifting, as if he were a ghost, an apparition that she mistook for flesh and blood.

  Of course, she wasn’t asking if he felt emotionally sound, only if the sedative had worn off. He answered in the affirmative.

  She informed him that the analysis of the biopsy specimens would be expedited. In the interest of greater accuracy and the collection of more precise information, however, Dr. Gupta had ordered the most detailed analysis; he didn’t expect to have the report until Tuesday.

  Initially, Ryan intended to ask where he could find Ismay Clemm. He had wanted to ask her what she meant by the strange things she said to him during the brief periods when he had been half-awake.

  Now, in the sterile brightness of the diagnostics lab, he was not certain that she had actually spoken to him. She might as easily have been merely a presence in his dreams.

  He retrieved his Mercedes from the garage and drove home.

  The clear sky presented more birds, more often, than seemed normal. Flocks were strung out in strange formations, a calligraphy of crows in which some meaning might be read if only he knew the language in which it was composed.

  At a red traffic light, when he glanced at the silver Lexus in the adjacent lane, he discovered the driver staring at him: a fortysomething man, face hard and expressionless. They locked eyes, and the stranger’s intensity caused Ryan to look away first.

  Two blocks later, at another red light, a young man behind the wheel of a chopped and customized Ford pickup was talking on a hands-free cell phone. Fitted to the guy’s ear, the phone stirred in Ryan a memory from an old science-fiction movie: an alien parasite, riding and controlling its human host.

  The pickup driver glanced at Ryan, looked immediately away, but a moment later glanced furtively at him once more; and his lips moved faster, as if Ryan were the subject of his phone conversation.

  Miles farther, when Ryan turned off Pacific Coast Highway onto Newport Coast Road, he glanced repeatedly in the rearview mirror, looking for the silver Lexus and the chopped Ford pickup.

  At home, staircase to hallway to room after room, Ryan did not encounter Lee or Kay Ting, or Lee’s assistant, Donnie, or Kay’s assistant, Renata.

  He heard fading footsteps on a limestone floor, a door close in another room. A distant voice and a single response were both unintelligible.

  In the kitchen, he swiftly prepared an early lunch. He avoided fresh foods and containers that were already open, in favor of items in vacuum-sealed cans and jars.

  A salad of button mushrooms, artichoke hearts, yellow beets, garbanzo beans, and white asparagus was enlivened with Italian dressing from a previously untapped bottle and by grated Parmesan from a new can that he opened after inspecting it for tampering.

  He put the salad on a tray with a sealed package of imported panettone and utensils. After a hesitation, he added a wineglass and a half bottle of Far Niente Chardonnay.

  As he carried the tray to his office in the west wing of the main floor, he saw no one, though a vacuum cleaner started in a far chamber.

  None of the rooms featured security cameras, but the hallways had them. A video record of hallway traffic was stored on DVDs to be reviewed only in the event that the house was invaded by burglars or victimized by a sneak thief.

  No one monitored the hallway cameras in real time. Nevertheless, Ryan felt watched.

  ELEVEN

  In his home office, Ryan ate at his desk, gazing out of the big windows at the swimming pool in the foreground, at the sea in the distance.


  The phone rang: his most private line, a number possessed by a handful of people. The caller-ID window told him it was Samantha.

  “Hey, Winky, you still aging gracefully?”

  “Well, I haven’t grown any hair in my ears yet.”

  “That’s a good sign.”

  “And I haven’t developed man breasts.”

  “You paint an irresistible portrait of yourself. Listen, I’m sorry about Wednesday night.”

  “What about Wednesday night?”

  “I brought the whole evening down, talking about Teresa, pulling her feeding tube, the starvation thing.”

  “You never bring me down, Sam.”

  “You’re sweet. But I want to make it up to you. Come over for dinner tonight. I’ll make saltimbocca alla romana.”

  “I love your saltimbocca.”

  “With polenta.”

  “This is a lot of work.”

  “Caponata to start.”

  He had no reason to distrust her.

  “Why don’t we eat out?” he suggested. “Then there’s no cleanup.”

  “I’ll do the cleaning up.”

  He loved her. She loved him. She was a good cook. He was succumbing to irrational fear.

  “It’s so much work,” he said. “I heard about this great new restaurant.”

  “What’s the name?”

  The great new restaurant was a lie. He would have to find one. He said, “I want to surprise you.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m just in a going-out mood. I want to try this new place.”

  They talked about what she should wear, what time he would pick her up.

  “Love you,” she said.

  “Love you,” he echoed, and disconnected.

  He had eaten no more than a third of his lunch, but he had lost his appetite.

  With a glass of Far Niente, he went outside, crossed the patio, and stood watching satiny ribbons of sunlight shimmer through the variegated-blue Italian-glass tiles that lined the swimming pool.

  He became aware that he was fingering the bandage on his neck.

  As Gypsies read tea leaves and palms, some shaman would read those tissue samples and tell him his fate.

  The mental image of a Gypsy by candlelight led him to think of stories in which a lock of a man’s hair was used by a practitioner of black magic to cast a curse upon him.

  In the hands of a voodooist, three moist pieces of a man’s heart—more intimate and therefore more powerful than a few strands of hair—might be used to destroy him in ways singularly horrific.

  When a centipedal chill climbed his spine, when his heart accelerated, when a thin sweat prickled along his hairline, Ryan chastised himself for surrendering to unreason. A warrantless suspicion about Sam had metastasized into superstitious nonsense.

  He went back into his office and phoned Samantha. “On second thought, I’d rather have your saltimbocca.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I don’t want to share you with a gaggle of envious men.”

  “What gaggle?”

  “The waiter, the busboy, and every man in the restaurant who would be lucky enough to lay eyes on you.”

  “Sometimes, Winky, you walk a thin line between being a true romantic and a bullshit artist.”

  “I’m only speaking from the heart.”

  “Well, sweetie, if you’re going to do more of that this evening, bring a shovel. I don’t have one.”

  She hung up, and before Ryan could lower the handset from his ear, he heard what might have been a brief, stifled laugh.

  Although Sam had disconnected, the dial tone did not return. Ryan listened to the faint hollow hiss of an open line.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  No one answered.

  The house phone was a digital hybrid system with ten lines, plus intercom and doorbell functions. None of the phone lines was shared, and no other phones in the house could eavesdrop on a line that was in use.

  He waited for another telltale sound, like guarded breathing or a background noise in the room where the listener sat, but he was not rewarded. He had nothing more than an impression of someone out there in the ether, a hostile presence that might or might not be real.

  At last he returned the handset to the cradle.

  By four o’clock Friday afternoon, sooner than promised, Wilson Mott provided by e-mail a background report on Samantha’s mother.

  As soon as Ryan had a printout, he sent the e-mail to trash, and at once deleted it from trash to ensure no one could retrieve it. He sat on a lounge chair by the pool to read Mott’s findings.

  Rebecca Lorraine Reach, fifty-six, lived in a Las Vegas apartment complex called the Oasis. She was employed as a blackjack dealer at one of the classier casinos.

  By means most likely questionable, Mott had obtained the current photo of Rebecca on file with the Nevada Gaming Control Board. She looked no older than forty—and remarkably like her daughter.

  She owned a white Ford Explorer. Her driving record was clean.

  She had never been a party to a criminal or civil action in Nevada. Her credit report indicated a responsible borrowing history.

  According to a neighbor, Amy Crocker, Rebecca rarely socialized with other tenants at the Oasis, had a “my-poop-don’t-smell attitude,” never spoke of having a daughter, either dead or alive, and was in a romantic relationship with a man named Spencer Barghest.

  Mott reported that Barghest had been indicted twice for murder, in Texas, and twice had been judged innocent. As a noted right-to-die activist, he had been present at scores of assisted suicides. There was reason to believe that some of those whom he had assisted were not terminally—or even chronically—ill, and that the signatures on their requests for surcease from suffering were forged.

  Ryan had no idea how an assisted suicide was effectuated. Maybe Barghest supplied an overdose of sedatives, which would be a painless poison but a kind of poison nonetheless.

  Mott’s report included a photo of Spencer Barghest. He had an ideal face for a stand-up comic: agreeable but rubbery features, a knowing yet ingratiating grin, and a shock of white hair cut in a punkish bristle that looked amusing on a fiftysomething guy.

  Because he might be critically ill, Ryan was troubled to find only three degrees of separation between himself and a man who would be pleased to grant him eternal peace whether he wanted it or not.

  This, however, did not confirm his intuitive sense that Sam’s mother—and perhaps Samantha herself—was linked to his sudden health problems.

  Life was often marked by synchronicities, surprising connections that seemed to be meaningful. But coincidence was only coincidence.

  Barghest might be a nasty piece of work, but there was nothing sinister in his relationship with Rebecca, nothing relating to Ryan.

  In his current state of mind, he had to guard against a tendency toward paranoia. Such a regrettable inclination had already led him to order Mott’s report on Samantha’s mother.

  Rebecca had turned out to be an ordinary person leading an unremarkable existence. Ryan’s suspicion had been irrational.

  Now that he thought about it, the presence of Spencer Barghest in Rebecca Reach’s life was not surprising. It didn’t even qualify as a coincidence, let alone a suspicious one.

  Six years ago, she had made the difficult decision to remove a feeding tube from her brain-damaged daughter. A weight of guilt might have settled on her—especially when Samantha strenuously disagreed with her decision.

  To assuage the guilt, Rebecca might have pored through right-to-die literature, seeking philosophical justification for what she had done. She might even have joined an activist organization, and at one of its meetings might have encountered Spencer Barghest.

  Because Samantha had been estranged from her mother since Teresa’s death, she probably didn’t even know that Barghest and Rebecca were an item.

  Ashamed that he had entertained any doubts about Sam,
Ryan got up from the poolside lounge chair and returned to his study.

  He sat at his desk and switched on the paper shredder. For a long moment, he listened to its motor purring, its blades scissoring.

  Finally he switched off the shredder. He put the report in a wall safe behind a sliding panel in the back of a built-in cabinet.

  Fear had gotten its teeth so firmly into him that he could not easily pry it loose.

  TWELVE

  Over the years, the immense pepper tree had conformed around the second-story deck. Consequently, the feeling of being in a tree house was even greater here than when you looked out of the apartment windows.

  Samantha had draped a red-checkered cloth over the patio table and had set out white dishes, flatware, and a red bowl of white roses.

  Filtered through the tree, late golden sunlight showered her with a wealth of bright coins as she poured for Ryan a Cabernet Sauvignon that was beyond her budget, while he lied to her about the reason for the bandage on his neck.

  Following a crimson sunset and purple twilight, she lit red candles in clear cups and served dinner as the stars came out, with a Connie Dover CD of Celtic music turned low.

  Having allowed fear to raise doubts about Sam, having ordered a background report on her mother, Ryan initially expected to feel awkward in her company. In a sense, he had betrayed her trust.

  He was at once, however, at ease with her. Her singular beauty did more to improve his mood than did the wine, and a dinner superbly prepared was less nourishing than the faultless golden smoothness of her skin.

  After dinner, after they stacked the dishes in the sink, and over the last of the wine, she said, “Let’s go to bed, Winky.”

  Suddenly Ryan was concerned that impotence might prove to be a symptom of his illness. He need not have worried.

  In bed, in motion, he wondered briefly if lovemaking would stress his heart and trigger a seizure. He survived.

  Cuddling afterward, his arm around Samantha and her head upon his chest, he said, “I’m such an idiot.”