Hideaway (52 page)

Though he continued to practice cardiovascular surgery for a while, he no longer found any satisfaction in it. Eventually he retired young and looked for a new career in which to finish out the last decades of his life.

He stopped attending Mass. He no longer believed that evil was a force in itself, a real presence that walked the world. He had learned that humanity itself was a source of evil sufficient to explain everything that was wrong with the world. Obversely, he decided humanity was its own—and only—salvation.

He became a veterinarian. Every patient seemed deserving.

He never married again.

He was neither happy nor unhappy, and that suited him fine.

Regina remained within her inner room for a couple of days, and when she came out she was never quite the same. But then no one ever is quite the same for any length of time. Change is the only constant. It’s called growing up.

She addressed them as Dad and Mom, because she wanted to, and because she meant it. Day by day, she gave them as much happiness as they gave her.

She never set off a chain reaction of destruction among their antiques. She never embarrassed them by getting inappropriately sentimental, bursting into tears, and thereby activating the old snot faucet; she unfailingly produced tears and snot only when they were called for. She never mortified them by accidentally flipping an entire plate of food into the air at a restaurant and over the head of the President of the United States at the next table. She never accidentally set the house on fire, never farted in polite company, and never scared the bejesus out of smaller neighborhood children with her leg brace and curious right hand. Better still, she stopped worrying about doing all those things (and more), and in time she did not even recall the tremendous energies that she once had wasted upon such unlikely concerns.

She kept writing. She got better at it. When she was just fourteen, she won a national writing competition for teenagers. The prize was a rather nice watch and a check for five hundred dollars. She used some of the money for a subscription to
Publishers Weekly
and a complete set of the novels of William Makepeace Thackeray. She no longer had an interest in writing about intelligent pigs from outer space, largely because she was learning that more curious characters could be found all around her, many of them native Californians.

She no longer talked to God. It seemed childish to chatter at Him. Besides, she no longer needed His constant attention. For a while she had thought He had gone away or had never existed, but she had decided that was foolish. She was aware of Him all the time, winking at her from the flowers, serenading her in the song of a bird, smiling at her from the furry face of a kitten, touching her with a soft summer breeze. She found a line in a book that she thought was apt, from Dave Tyson Gentry: “True friendship comes when silence between two people is comfortable.” Well, who was your best friend, if not God, and what did you really need to say to Him or He to you when you both already knew the most—and only—important thing, which was that you would always be there for each other.

Lindsey came through the events of those days less changed than she had expected. Her paintings improved somewhat, but not tremendously. She had never been dissatisfied with her work in the first place. She loved Hatch no less than ever, and could not possibly have loved him more.

One thing that made her cringe, which never had before, was hearing anyone say, “The worst is behind us now.” She knew that the worst was never behind us. The worst came at the end. It was the end, the very fact of it. Nothing could be worse than that. But she had learned to live with the understanding that the worst was never behind her—and still find joy in the day at hand.

As for God—she didn’t dwell on the issue. She raised Regina in the Catholic Church, attending Mass with her each week, for that was part of the promise she had made St. Thomas’s when they had arranged the adoption. But she didn’t do it solely out of duty. She figured that the Church was good for Regina—and that Regina might be good for the Church, too. Any institution that counted Regina a member was going to discover itself changed by her at least as much as she was changed—and to its everlasting benefit. She had once said that prayers were never answered, that the living lived only to die, but she had progressed beyond that attitude. She would wait and see.

Hatch continued to deal successfully in antiques. Day by day his life went pretty much as he hoped it would. As before, he was an easygoing guy. He never got angry. But the difference was that he had no anger left in him to repress. The mellowness was genuine now.

From time to time, when the patterns of life seemed to have a grand meaning that just barely eluded him, and when he was therefore in a philosophical mood, he would go to his den and take two items from the locked drawer.

One was the heat-browned issue of
Arts American.

The other was a slip of paper he had brought back from the library one day, after doing a bit of research. Two names were written on it, with an identifying line after each. “Vassago—according to mythology, one of the nine crown princes of Hell.” Below that was the name he had once claimed was his own: “Uriel—according to mythology, one of the archangels serving as a personal attendant to God.”

He stared at these things and considered them carefully, and always he reached no firm conclusions. Though he did decide, if you had to be dead for eighty minutes and come back with no memory of the Other Side, maybe it was because eighty minutes of that knowledge was more than just a glimpse of a tunnel with a light at the end, and therefore more than you could be expected to handle.

And if you had to bring something back with you from Beyond, and carry it within you until it had concluded its assignment on this side of the veil, an archangel wasn’t too shabby.

NEW AFTERWORD
BY
DEAN KOONTZ

Hideaway
was the first novel of mine that elicited a pleasing quantity of hate mail. The volume of hate was never so great that the postal service had to deliver it in eighteen-wheelers—a mere fifty letters—but it satisfied.

The first few distressed me. I was dismayed that my book had offended. I am basically a mellow guy who hopes that his work will in some humble way have a positive effect on the lives of my readers—and that I will be allowed to conduct my life without the constant company of heavily armed bodyguards.

By the time I had received ten such missives, I realized that these hate letters were badges of honor. The correspondents were intolerant cranks; if they had
agreed
with something I’d written, I would have been obliged to have my soul flushed, sanitized, and sandblasted.

The hate mail generated by
Hideaway
came entirely from atheists. I hasten to clarify that not all atheists are intolerant or cranks. Like believers, most just want to get along, to have their share of Starbucks cappuccinos and Krispy Kreme doughnuts, to know true love or at least true affection, to buy cool shoes, and to avoid being caught in the crossfire between rap stars at the Vibe Awards.

My fifty seethingly angry correspondents were furious with me because the story line of
Hideaway
assumed the existence of God and Heaven. They accused me of corrupting the minds of innocent youth, of being a paid shill for the Vatican, and of being a moron.

I found it curious that none of those letters chastised me for the fact that the story line of
Hideaway
also assumed the existence of Satan and Hell. I could only suppose that they considered it enlightened and healthy to instill in our innocent youth a belief in things demonic, though I didn’t see how that squared with atheism.

Before writing
Hideaway
(one of a small handful of my novels that deals with the genuine supernatural), I had noticed that it was common for such fiction to focus on, even to revel in, the dark side without ever suggesting—and certainly without depicting—the existence of a
light
side. This was a shortcoming of most horror and a key reason why I found a lot of the genre unconvincing.

Fantasy fiction does not make this mistake. In that genre, Good and Evil are reliably depicted as equally real. Try to imagine how
The Fellowship of the Ring
would read if Frodo and his friends were just other breeds of Orcs, answering to a different dark god from the one that ruled Mordor. Not exactly epic anymore, is it?

Pornography is the raw mechanics of sex without the emotional context: lust ceaselessly indulged, love eternally unmentioned. That is also how novels of the supernatural read to me when they make much of otherworldly horror but say nothing of otherworldly redemption.

So I wrote a novel that dealt with both sides of the equation, in the belief that the forces of darkness seem more real and scarier when they are one half of a balanced narrative that includes the forces of light—just as making love with a cherished partner is immeasurably better than finding satisfaction in a porn film.

This was a shocking and offensive point of view to my fifty correspondents, however, and thus I found myself the recipient of hate mail, none of it perfumed or decorated with stick-on yellow smiley faces. A half dozen of my pen pals wished me dead; one threatened to kill me if given the chance. But only three of the fifty letters were unsigned. Most of the writers had sufficient courage of their convictions to include their names and addresses.

One was even brave enough to challenge me: “If God is real, prove it by praying for him to strike me dead with lightning.”

If this was the correspondent’s understanding of God, no wonder he had become an atheist.
This
was a God even John Gotti could embrace:
Dear Lord, Bobby Graziano has been skimmin’ the take from cocaine sales. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I’m humbly askin’ you to break his legs. And thanks for makin’ Vito Zabaglione fall off that tall buildin’ last month. Best wishes to your Holy Mom.

Years later, when I wrote One Door Away from Heaven, I received two hundred hate letters from people in the utilitarian bioethics movement that infects our major universities and medical schools. Among other things, these folks want to deny medical care to people over a certain age (some say as young as fifty-five) because “older citizens take more from their society than they contribute,” and to deny care, as well, to even marginally disabled children, so those kids will just die when they get an infection and stop using more than “their share” of resources. These towers of moral enlightenment
routinely
did not sign their names; half of them wished me dead, and 10 percent expressed a desire to be the agent of my demise. Some of the letters came on letterhead from universities, perhaps to impress me with the erudition of those venomous writers.

Recently (as I write this), I received in excess of 120 pieces of hate mail from a number of anarchists who did not like the fact that a serial killer in
The Face
was also an anarchist. You guessed it: Most of them wished me dead!

One fellow wrote a
polite
letter about the same issue, but suggested that I was obliged to write an apology for an anarchist website. I replied in part as follows:

I do not mean to compare myself to Dickens, but I wonder whether in his day he received angry letters from the wardens of the debtors’ prisons or from furious money-lenders who were offended by Scrooge.

An employee of a major national magazine has written dozens of anti-Catholic hate letters to me. They come on general-use magazine stationery, and the envelopes have been processed through postage meters registered to the magazine. Twice this publication has given space to vicious attacks on me which featured phrases and even whole sentences from those hate letters. The editors were unmoved by my politely worded suggestion that harboring religious bigots who threaten and harass a subject in his private life and then publish attacks on him in the magazine’s pages is poor journalism even by their low standards. Indeed, I sensed that they were perversely proud of their hatemongering scamp.

In retrospect, it seems meaningful that the first hate mail I received should be in regard to
Hideaway,
for this novel is in part about the power of hate and about the power of love to defeat it.

The power of love can never defeat Hollywood, however, which grinds forward in a relentless, fevered quest to destroy the story, characters, and meaning of every Koontz property on which it can lay its hands.

The film rights to
Hideaway
were sold to Tri-Star with high hopes. I made the deal only after the head of the studio at the time, Mike Medavoy, gave me his home phone number and promised that if at any point I received a script that desecrated the novel, he would ensure the revisions I wanted would be executed; in an extreme situation, a new writer would be brought aboard to start over. “Other adaptations of your books have been dreadful,” he said, “but this time the source material will be treated with respect.”

I accepted his guarantee, and he never disappointed me. The development executives brought in a writer about whom I was dubious; the writer produced a confused and blood-soaked script, and when I complained, Mike read the script, agreed with me, and ordered a fresh start with a new writer. The second writer did a terrific job; the script had suspense, style, and heart.

Then Mike Medavoy was deposed. Some said it was a palace coup, perpetrated by people who owed their careers to him. I don’t know if that’s true or not—Hollywood politics bore me.