Dean Koontz: 77 Shadow Street

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dean Koontz

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

A signed, limited edition has been privately printed by Charnel House. Charnelhouse.com

BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Title page art from an original photograph by Dora Pete

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Koontz, Dean R. (Dean Ray)

77 Shadow Street: a novel / Dean Koontz.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-0-345-53236-7

1. Haunted places—Fiction. 2. Parapsychology—Fiction. I. Title.

II. Title: Seventy-seven Shadow Street.

PS3561.O55S38 2011

813′.54—dc22 2011031435

Jacket design: Scott Biel

Jacket images: Stephen Youll (house), David Muir/Getty Images (key)

www.bantamdell.com

v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Part One - Where the Shadows Gather

Chapter 1 - The North Elevator

Chapter 2 - The Basement Security Room

Chapter 3 - The Basement Pool

Chapter 4 - Apartment 3-C

Chapter 5 - Apartment 2-C

Chapter 6 - Apartment 3-C

Chapter 7 - Apartment 2-A

Chapter 8 - Apartment 2-C

Chapter 9 - Apartment 2-A

Chapter 10 - The Basement Security Room

Chapter 11 - Apartment 3-F

Chapter 12 - Apartment 3-A

Chapter 13 - Apartment 3-D

Chapter 14 - Apartment 2-G

Chapter 15 - Apartment 2-A

Chapter 16 - Topper’s

Chapter 17 - Apartment 3-D

Chapter 18 - Apartment 1-C

Chapter 19 - Apartment 2-G

Chapter 20 - Apartment 3-F

Chapter 21 - Here and There

Chapter 22 - Apartment 2-F

Chapter 23 - Apartment 3-H

Chapter 24 - Here and There

Part Two - Something Deeply Hidden

Chapter 25 - Topper’s

Chapter 26 - Here and There

Chapter 27 - Here and There

Chapter 28 - Topper’s

Chapter 29 - Here and There

Chapter 30 - Here and There

Chapter 31 - Here and There

Chapter 32 - Here and There

Chapter 33 - Here and There

Chapter 34 - 77 Shadow Street

Dedication

Other Books by This Author

About the Author

O dark dark dark.

They all go into the dark …

—T. S. ELIOT, East Coker

1

The North Elevator

Bitter and drunk, Earl Blandon, a former United States senator, got home at 2:15 A.M. that Thursday with a new tattoo: a two-word obscenity in blue block letters between the knuckles of the middle finger of his right hand. Earlier in the night, at a cocktail lounge, he’d thrust that stiff digit at another customer who didn’t speak English and who was visiting from some third-world backwater where the meaning of the offending gesture evidently wasn’t known in spite of countless Hollywood films in which numerous cinema idols had flashed it. In fact, the ignorant foreigner seemed to mistake the raised finger for some kind of friendly hello and reacted by nodding repeatedly and smiling. Earl was frustrated directly out of the cocktail lounge and into a nearby tattoo parlor, where he resisted the advice of the needle artist and, at the age of fifty-eight, acquired his first body decoration.

When Earl strode through the front entrance of the exclusive Pendleton, into the lobby, the night concierge, Norman Fixxer, greeted him by name. Norman sat on a stool behind the reception counter to the left, a book open in front of him, looking like a ventriloquist’s dummy: eyes wide and blue and glassy, pronounced marionette lines like scars in his face, head cocked at an odd angle. In a tailored black suit and a crisp white shirt and a black bow tie, with a fussily arranged white pocket handkerchief blossoming from the breast pocket of his coat, Norman was overdressed by the standards of the two other concierges who worked the earlier shifts.

Earl Blandon didn’t like Norman. He didn’t trust him. The concierge tried too hard. He was excessively polite. Earl didn’t trust polite people who tried too hard. They always proved to be hiding something. Sometimes they hid the fact that they were FBI agents, pretending instead to be lobbyists with a suitcase full of cash and a deep respect for the power of a senator. Earl didn’t suspect that Norman Fixxer was an FBI agent in disguise, but the concierge was for damn sure something more than what he pretended to be.

Earl acknowledged Norman’s greeting with only a scowl. He wanted to raise his newly lettered middle finger, but he restrained himself. Offending a concierge was a bad idea. Your mail might go missing. The suit you expected back from the dry cleaner by Wednesday evening might be delivered to your apartment a week later. With food stains. Although flashing the finger at Norman would be satisfying, a full apology would require doubling the usual Christmas gratuity.

Consequently, Earl scowled across the marble-floored lobby, his embellished finger curled tightly into his fist. He went through the inner door that Norman buzzed open for him and into the communal hallway, where he turned left and, licking his lips at the prospect of a nightcap, proceeded to the north elevator.

His third-floor apartment was at the top of the building. He did not have a city view, only windows on the courtyard, and seven other apartments shared that level, but his unit was sufficiently well-positioned to justify calling it his penthouse, especially because it was in the prestigious Pendleton. Earl once owned a five-acre estate with a seventeen-room manor house. He liquidated it and other assets to pay the ruinous fees of the blood-sucking, snake-hearted, lying-bastard, may-they-all-rot-in-hell defense attorneys.

As the elevator doors slid shut and as the car began to rise, Earl surveyed the hand-painted mural that covered the walls above the white wainscoting and extended across the ceiling: bluebirds soaring joyously through a sky in which the clouds were golden with sunlight. Sometimes, like now, the beauty of the scene and the joy of the birds seemed forced, aggravatingly insistent, so that Earl wanted to get a can of spray paint and obliterate the entire panorama.

He might have vandalized it if there hadn’t been security cameras in the hallways and in the elevator. But the homeowners’ association would only restore it and make him pay for the work. Large sums of money no longer came to him in suitcases, in valises, in fat manila envelopes, in grocery bags, in doughnut-shop boxes, or taped to the bodies of high-priced call girls who arrived naked under leather trench coats. These days, this former senator so frequently felt the urge to deface so many things that he needed to strive to control himself lest he vandalize his way into the poorhouse.

He closed his eyes to shut out the schmaltzy scene of sun-washed bluebirds. When the air temperature abruptly dropped perhaps twenty degrees in an instant, as the car passed the second floor, Earl’s eyes startled open, and he turned in bewilderment when he saw that the mural no longer surrounded him. The security camera was missing. The white wainscoting had vanished, too. No inlaid marble underfoot. In the stainless-steel ceiling, circles of opaque material shed blue light. The walls, doors, and floor were all brushed stainless steel.