Icebound (36 page)
A NOTE TO THE READER
I receive over ten thousand letters a year from readers, and a significant number urge me to reissue more of my early books that have been out of print for some time. Many do more than urge. They make ominous references to voodoo curses and hit contracts placed with guys named Slash. They suggest that it would be a good idea to reissue those books before my face gets rearranged—although I might welcome some rearrangement, especially if it involved more hair. They threaten to kidnap me and force me to watch reruns of
The Partridge Family
twenty-four hours a day until I go stark, raving mad.
I’m charmed that readers care so much about my books that they want to read everything. I have already allowed a number of out-of-print books to come back into circulation, including
Shadowfires, The Servants of Twilight,
and
The Voice of the Night,
which were originally all published under pen names.
Icebound
was originally published as
Prison of Ice,
under the name “David Axton,” in a much rougher form. I have revised it and updated the technological and cultural references while trying not to get carried away and alter the entire storyline and feel of it.
This book was meant to be something of a homage to Alistair MacLean, that master of the adventure-suspense novel, whose books include
The Guns of Navarone, Where Eagles Dare,
and
Ice Station Zebra.
As a reader, I loved those books, and I wrote the original version of
Icebound
to see if I could pull one off.
In adventure-suspense of this type, the elements that count above all others are tension, pace, and plot—preferably a plot with a series of surprises and escalating physical challenges for the characters. The characters themselves generally have to be straightforward, and certainly less complex than those who appear in most of my books.
As always, I try to get the technical and background details correct—though when writing about submarines, for instance, it isn’t my intent to layer on the technological detail as heavily and brilliantly as Tom Clancy. In the MacLean-style adventure, a degree of authenticity must be sacrificed to
speed
.
I hope you liked
Icebound,
though I sort of hope you like the new books more. After all, this is the only book of its type I’ve written, and if readers wanted another, I’d have nothing to offer to protect myself from being subjected to those reruns of
The Partridge Family.
—D
EAN
K
OONTZ
, May 1994
This corrected version is still for
that special and singular lady Winona Garbrick.
I’m sure you’re up there.
Watching. Red pencil in hand.
77 Shadow Street • What the Night Knows • Breathless
Relentless • Your Heart Belongs to Me
The Darkest Evening of the Year • The Good Guy
The Husband
•
Velocity
•
Life Expectancy
The Taking
•
The Face
•
By the Light of the Moon
One Door Away From Heaven
•
From the Corner of His Eye
False Memory
•
Seize the Night
•
Fear Nothing
Mr. Murder
•
Dragon Tears
•
Hideaway
•
Cold Fire
The Bad Place
•
Midnight
•
Lightning
•
Watchers
Strangers
•
Twilight Eyes
•
Darkfall
•
Phantoms
Whispers
•
The Mask
•
The Vision
•
The Face of Fear
Night Chills
•
Shattered
•
The Voice of the Night
The Servants of Twilight
•
The House of Thunder
The Key to Midnight
•
The Eyes of Darkness
Shadowfires
•
Winter Moon
•
The Door to December
Dark Rivers of the Heart
•
Icebound
•
Strange Highways
Intensity
•
Sole Survivor
•
Ticktock
The Funhouse
•
Demon Seed
ODD THOMAS
Odd Thomas
•
Forever Odd
•
Brother Odd
•
Odd Hours
FRANKENSTEIN
Prodigal Son
•
City of Night
•
Dead and Alive
Lost Souls
•
The Dead Town
A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog Named Trixie
About the Author
DEAN KOONTZ, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of their golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California.
Correspondence for the author should be addressed to:
Dean Koontz
P.O. Box 9529
Newport Beach, CA 92658
Don’t miss
any of the adventures of
Odd Thomas
,
America’s favorite hero
.
From #1 Bestselling Author
.
His mysterious journey of suspense and discovery moves to a dangerous new level in his most riveting adventure to date… .
by #1
New York Times
bestselling author
DEAN KOONTZ
On sale in hardcover
Summer 2012
Near sunset of my second full day as a guest in Roseland, crossing the immense lawn between the main house and the eucalyptus grove, I halted and pivoted, warned by instinct. Racing toward me, the great black stallion was as mighty a horse as I had ever seen. Earlier, in a book of breeds, I had identified it as a Friesian. The blonde who rode him wore a white nightgown.
As silent as any spirit, the woman urged the horse forward, faster. On hooves that made no sound, the steed ran
through
me with no effect.
I have certain talents. In addition to being a pretty good short-order cook, I have an occasional prophetic dream. And in the waking world, I sometimes see the spirits of the lingering dead who, for various reasons, are reluctant to move on to the Other Side.
This long-dead horse and rider, now only spirits in our world, knew that no one but I could see them. After appearing to me twice the previous day and once this morning, but at a distance, the woman seemed to have decided to get my attention in an aggressive fashion.
Mount and mistress raced around me in a wide arc. I turned to follow them, and they cantered toward me once more but then halted. The stallion reared over me, silently slashing the air with the hooves of its forelegs, nostrils flared, eyes rolling, a creature of such immense power that I stumbled backward even though I knew that it was as immaterial as a dream.
Spirits are solid and warm to my touch, as real to me in that way as is anyone alive. But I am not solid to them, and they can neither ruffle my hair nor strike a death blow at me.
Because my sixth sense complicates my existence, I try otherwise to keep my life simple. I have fewer possessions than a monk. I have no time or peace to build a career as a fry cook or as anything else. I never plan for the future, but wander into it with a smile on my face, hope in my heart, and the hair up on the nape of my neck.
Bareback on the Friesian, the barefoot beauty wore white silk and white lace and wild red ribbons of blood both on her gown and in her long blond hair, though I could see no wound. Her nightgown was rucked up to her thighs, and her knees pressed against the stallion’s heaving flanks. In her left hand, she twined a fistful of the horse’s mane, as if even in death she must hold fast to her mount to keep their spirits joined.
If spurning a gift weren’t ungrateful, I would at once return my supernatural sight. I would be content to spend my days whipping up omelets that make you groan with pleasure and pancakes so fluffy that the slightest breeze might float them off your plate.
Every talent is unearned, however, and with it comes a solemn obligation to use it as fully and as wisely as possible. If I didn’t believe in the miraculous nature of talent and in the sacred duty of the recipient, by now I would have gone so insane that I’d qualify for numerous high government positions.
As the stallion danced on its hind legs, the woman reached out with her right arm and pointed down at me, as if to say that she knew I saw her and that she had a message to convey to me. Her lovely face was grim with determination, and those cornflower-blue eyes that were not bright with life were nonetheless bright with anguish.
When she dismounted, she didn’t drop to the ground but instead floated off the horse and almost seemed to glide across the grass to me. The blood faded from her hair and nightgown, and she manifested as she had looked in life before her fatal wounds, as if she might be concerned that the gore would repel me. I felt her touch when she put one hand to my face, as though she, a ghost, had more difficulty believing in me than I had believing in her.
Behind the woman, the sun melted into the distant sea, and several distinctively shaped clouds glowed like a fleet of ancient warships with their masts and sails ablaze.
As I saw her anguish relent to a tentative hope, I said, “Yes, I can see you. And if you’ll let me, I can help you cross over.”
She shook her head violently and took a step backward, as if she feared that with some touch or spoken spell I might release her from this world. But I have no such power.
I thought I understood the reason for her reaction. “You were murdered, and before you go from this world, you want to be sure that justice will be done.”
She nodded but then shook her head, as if to say,
Yes, but not only that
.
Being more familiar with the deceased than I might wish to be, I can tell you from considerable personal experience that the spirits of the lingering dead don’t talk. I don’t know why. Even when they have been brutally murdered and are desperate to see their assailants brought to justice, they are unable to convey essential information to me either by phone or face-to-face. Neither do they send text messages. Maybe that’s because, given the opportunity, they would reveal something about death and the world beyond that we the living are not meant to know.
