{"product_id":"fear-nothing-isbn-9780345533302","title":"Fear Nothing","description":"\u003ci\u003eIf you’re different enough, the night is not your enemy, the darkness is not intimidating, the shadows are not terrifying. You fear nothing.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Christopher Snow is different from all the other residents of Moonlight Bay, different from anyone you’ve ever met. For Christopher Snow has made his peace with a very rare genetic disorder that leaves him dangerously vulnerable to light. His life is filled with the fascinating rituals of one who must embrace the dark. He knows the night as no one else can—its mystery, its beauty, its terrors, and the eerie silken rhythms that seduce one into believing anything—even freedom—is possible.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Until the night Christopher Snow witnesses a series of disturbing incidents that sweep him into a violent mystery only he can solve, a mystery that will force him to rise above all fears and confront the many-layered secrets of Moonlight Bay and its strange inhabitants. A place, like all places, that looks a lot different after dark.“\u003ci\u003eFear Nothing\u003c\/i\u003e will make you fear almost everything.”—San Francisco \u003ci\u003eExaminer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[An] adrenaline-pumping . . . breakneck chiller . . . \u003ci\u003eFear Nothing \u003c\/i\u003edemonstrates a master of darkness’s continuing power to scare the daylights out of us.”—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “An eerie, captivating thriller . . . packs more suspenseful excitement than a dozen novels.”\u003ci\u003e—The Flint Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eFear Nothing\u003c\/i\u003e is among the best the author has written, and it certainly whets the appetite for [more].”—\u003ci\u003eRocky Mountain News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eDean Koontz, \u003c\/b\u003ethe author of many #1\u003ci\u003e New York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the desk in my candlelit study, the telephone rang, and I knew that a terrible change was coming.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Last night just before dawn, exhausted, I had returned home to sleep. But I had  not slept much or well.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now I leaned forward in my chair and willed the phone to fall silent, but it  would not.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The dog also knew what the ringing meant. He padded out of the shadows into the  candleglow, and stared sorrowfully at me.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He is a strange dog. But he is my dog, my steadfast friend, and I love him.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On the seventh ring, I surrender to the inevitable and answer the phone.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The caller was a nurse at Mercy Hospital. I spoke to her without looking away  from Orson.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My father was quickly fading. The nurse suggested I come to his bedside without  delay.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I believe in the possibility of miracles.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I believe in the possibility of miracles, but more to the point, I believe in our  need for them.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll be there in five minutes,\" Sasha promised.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No,\" I said. \"Drive carefully. I'll probably take ten minutes or more to get  ready.\"  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Love you, Snowman.\"  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Love you, \" I replied.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Using a long-handled brass snuffer, I extinguished the three fat candles. Thin,  sinuous ghosts of smoke writhed in the shadows.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anticipating my intentions, as usual, Orson was already out of the room, padding  across the upstairs hall.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Orson leaped onto the footstool and then curled on the armchair to watch me as I  girded myself for the sunlit world.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Only rarely have I seen my face in full light.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sasha says that I remind her of James Dean, more as he was in \u003ci\u003eEast of Eden\u003c\/i\u003e than  in \u003ci\u003eRebel Without a Cause.\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am not James Dean. I am no one but me, Christopher Snow, and I can live with  that.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Finished with the lotion, I returned to the bedroom. Orson raised his head from  the armchair to savor the coconut scent.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Although I had no idea to what the embroidered words might refer, I had kept the  cap because it intrigued me.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As I turned toward the front door, Orson whined beseechingly.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sasha had arrived.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In spite of the sunscreen of my neck, I turned up the collar of my jacket for  additional protection.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From the Stickely-style foyer table under a print of Maxfield Parrish's Daybreak,   I grabbed a pair of wraparound sunglasses.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With my hand on the hammered-copper doorknob, I turned to Orson once more. \"We'll  be all right.\"  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We'll be all right,\" I repeated.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The dog regarded me solemnly and chuffed once, almost pityingly, as if he knew I  was lying.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I opened the front door, and as I went outside, I put on the wraparound  sunglasses. The special lenses were totally UV-proof.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My eyes are my point of greatest vulnerability. I can take no risk whatsoever  with them.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sasha's green Ford Explorer was in the driveway, with the engine running, and she  was behind the wheel.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I closed the house door and locked it. Orson had made no attempt to slip out at  my heels.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.New York Times bestseller","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305513636069,"sku":"NP9780345533302","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345533302.jpg?v=1767726782","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/fear-nothing-isbn-9780345533302","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}