VELOCITY（ISBN=） 英文原版

　　”Graphic, fast-paced action, well-developed
characters and relentless, nail-biting scenes show Koontz at the
top of his game.”—Publishers Weekly, starred review
　　”Genuinely terrific.”–Booklist
　　“Just in time for summer, Dean Koontz again delivers a top-notch
thriller full of well-drawn characters and anxiety-spiked
sequences.”—Chicago Tribune
　　“Koontz keeps the focus of Velocity tight….Velocity
will have readers turning the pages—and checking to make sure their
doors are locked and bolted.” —Associated Press

　　Book De*ion
Dean Koontz’s unique
talent for writing terrifying thrillers with a heart and soul is
nowhere more evident than in this latest suspense masterpiece that
pits one man against the ultimate deadline. If there were speed
limits for the sheer pulse-racing excitement allowed in one novel,
Velocity would break them all. Get ready for the ride of your
life.
　　From Publishers Weekly
　　Starred Review. A diabolic killer plays a harrowing game of cat
and mouse with a reclusive bartender in Koontz’s latest gripping
suspense thriller. Billy Wiles, a 30-something bartender and former
writer, is content with his solitary Napa County existence
listening to “beer-based psychoanalysis” from tavern regulars;
visiting his hospitalized, comatose fiancée, Barbara; and carving
wood sculptures. But the simple life gets mighty complicated when
he finds a note with a deadly, time-sensitive ultimatum: he must
choose between the death of a young schoolteacher or an elderly
humanitarian in six hours. Reluctant local sheriff Lanny Olsen
dismisses it as a joke until a comely teacher is found strangled
and another threatening note appears—offering even less time for
Billy to decide the fate of two more people. Who would have guessed
that one of those people would be Olsen? After his friend’s murder,
Billy finds that the cunning killer has gained access to every
aspect of his life as the ultimatums grow increasingly more
personal. Suppressing horrific childhood memories, Billy scrambles
to bury grisly incriminating evidence the murderer has deviously
planted. More gruesome deaths and shaky suspicions trap Billy right
in the demented killer’s lair for just the beginning of Koontz’s
serpentine showdown. Graphic, fast-paced action, well-developed
characters and relentless, nail-biting scenes show Koontz at the
top of his game. (May 24)
　　From Booklist
　　Billy Wiles tends bar in a tavern in his small California
hometown, from which he has never moved despite the horrific night
when he became an orphan at 14 and its equally horrific aftermath.
Some 15 years later, he published a well-received book of stories
and met Barbara. They were about to be married when botulism in
canned vichyssoise put her in a coma, and Billy more or less on
hold, living on the hope that she will revive some day. Some five
years further on, Billy finds, under the windshield wiper of his
car, a note offering him a hideous decision. If he doesn’t go to
the police, “a lovely blond schoolteacher” will be killed; if he
does, “an elderly woman” will be murdered. Billy doesn’t exactly go
the police. He shows the note to a cop who is probably his only
real friend and who seconds his conjecture that the note is just an
exceedingly tasteless prank. Of course, it isn’t, and for the rest
of an exceedingly tightly wound thriller stubbornly focused on him,
Billy struggles to discover the identity of the soon-serial killer,
who plants evidence incriminating Billy on his (her? their?)
victims. Eventually and all too soon, Barbara is threatened, and
Billy’s subsequent suicide predicted, in the murderer’s ostensibly
final note. Not as moving as Odd Thomas (2003), as creepy as The
Taking(2004), as darkly funny as Life Expectancy (2004), or as
thought-provoking as any of them, Velocity is, however, more
suspenseful and more grueling–genuinely terrific.
　　Ray Olson
　　From School Library Journal
　　Adult/High School–Bartender Billy Wiles’s life spirals out of
control after he finds a note on his windshield telling him that he
has a choice: involve the police, and a lovely blonde schoolteacher
dies. Do nothing, and an elderly woman active in charity work dies.
His options only become harder once the killer targets people whom
Billy knows and plants circumstantial evidence tying him to the
crimes. His greatest fear is for his comatose fiancée, and he works
frantically to find the murderer before Barbara is hurt. Koontz
keeps the plot moving at an accelerating pace, and there are enough
twists and turns to keep the story from being predictable. Billy
isn’t a hero in the traditional sense, but he is a sympathetic
protagonist, an average man pushed to his limits by an implacable
foe. Although there is a great deal of violence and an impressive
body count, the worst of it occurs off-screen. The themes aren’t
subtle, but they are worth considering–the importance of
connection and community, the enduring power of love, and the
validity of modern art. Velocity is a fast, entertaining
read.
　　–Susan Salpini, TASIS–The American School in England
　　From AudioFile
　　Billy Wiles has been forced into a game of moral jeopardy by a
lurid serial killer who forces him to choose the next victim. The
game accelerates, the deadlines grow tighter, the killer becomes
bolder and crueler with every communication, the mutilations ever
more grotesque, the decisions intensely personal . . . until they
finally involve Barbara, Billy’s fiancée, who is helpless in a
botulism-induced coma. Michael Hayden is masterful at creating the
vibrato of beer-based psychoanalysis, the garbled quality of
talking around a toothbrush, and the exquisite timing of a winch
line turning on a drum, a sound that pulls the listener further and
further into this impossible-to-wake-up-from nightmare. Prepare
yourself for a Machiavellian extravaganza. K.A.T.
　　About Author
　　When he was a senior in college, Dean Koontz won an Atlantic
Monthly fiction competition. He has been writing ever since. His
books are published in 38 languages; worldwide sales are over 300
million copies.
　　Ten of his novels have risen to number one on the New York Times
hardcover best-seller list (The Husband, One Door Away From Heaven,
From The Corner Of His Eye, Midnight, Cold Fire, Hideaway, Dragon
Tears, The Bad Place, Intensity, and Sole Survivor). Thirteen of
his books have risen to the number one position in paperback.
　　Several of his books have been adapted into feature films and TV
miniseries, including the highly rated “Intensity” on the Fox
Network. The Husband is currently in development as a major motion
picture by Focus Features/Random House Films.
　　The New York Times has called his writing “psychologically
complex, masterly and satisfying.” The New Orleans Times-Picayune
said Koontz is “lyrical without ever being naive or romantic. [He
creates] a grotesque world, much like that of Flannery O’Connor or
Walker Percy … scary, worthwhile reading.” The London Times
called him “a literary juggler,” and Publishers Weekly recently
stated in a starred review that Koontz “gives readers bright hope
in a dark world. He is a true original.”
　　Dean Koontz was born and raised in Pennsylvania. He graduated
from Shippensburg State College (now Shippensburg University), and
his first job after graduation was with the Appalachian Poverty
Program, where he was expected to counsel and tutor underprivileged
children on a one-to-one basis. His first day on the job, he
discovered that the previous occupier of his position had been
beaten up by the very kids he had been trying to help and had
landed in the hospital for several weeks. The following year was
filled with challenge but also tension, and Koontz was more highly
motivated than ever to build a career as a writer. He wrote nights
and weekends, which he continued to do after leaving the poverty
program and going to work as an English teacher in a suburban
school district outside Harrisburg. After he had been a year and a
half in that position, his wife, Gerda, made him an offer he
couldn’t refuse: “I’ll support you for five years,” she said, “and
if you can’t make it as a writer in that time, you’ll never make
it.” By the end of those five years, Gerda had quit her job to run
the business end of her husband’s writing career. Dean and Gerda
Koontz live in southern California with their golden retriever,
Trixie, who herself has written two successful books—Life Is Good
and Christmas Is Good.
　　Book Dimension
　　Height (mm) 176 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 Width (mm) 106

　　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.

　　”Graphic, fast-paced action, well-developed
characters and relentless, nail-biting scenes show Koontz at the
top of his game.”—Publishers Weekly, starred review
　　”Genuinely terrific.”–Booklist
　　“Just in time for summer, Dean Koontz again delivers a top-notch
thriller full of well-drawn characters and anxiety-spiked
sequences.”—Chicago Tribune
　　“Koontz keeps the focus
of Velocity tight….Velocity will have readers turning
the pages—and checking to make sure their doors are locked and
bolted.” —Associated Press

　　Part 1
　　The Choice is Yours
　　Chapter One
　　With draft beer and a smile, Ned Pearsall raised a toast to his
deceased neighbor, Henry Friddle, whose death greatly pleased
him.
　　Henry had been killed by a garden gnome. He had fallen off the
roof of his two-story house, onto that cheerful-looking figure. The
gnome was made of concrete. Henry wasn’t.
　　A broken neck, a cracked skull: Henry perished on impact.
　　This death-by-gnome had occurred four years previously. Ned
Pearsall still toasted Henry’s passing at least once a week.
　　Now, from a stool near the curve of the polished mahogany bar, an
out-of-towner, the only other customer, expressed curiosity at the
enduring nature of Ned’s animosity.
　　“How bad a neighbor could the poor guy have been that you’re
still so juiced about him?”
　　Ordinarily, Ned might have ignored the question. He had even less
use for tourists than he did for pretzels.
　　The tavern offered free bowls of pretzels because they were
cheap. Ned preferred to sustain his thirst with well-salted
peanuts. To keep Ned tipping, Billy Wiles, tending bar,
occasionally gave him a bag of Planters.
　　Most of the time Ned had to pay for his nuts. This rankled him
either because he could not grasp the economic realities of tavern
operation or because he enjoyed being rankled, probably the
latter.
　　Although he had a head reminiscent of a squash ball and the heavy
rounded shoulders of a sumo wrestler, Ned was an athletic man only
if you thought barroom jabber and grudge-holding qualified as
sports. In those events, he was an Olympian.
　　Regarding the late Henry Friddle, Ned could be as talkative with
outsiders as with lifelong residents of Vineyard Hills. When, as
now, the only other customer was a stranger, Ned found silence even
less congenial than conversation with a “foreign devil.”
　　Billy himself had never been much of a talker, never one of those
barkeeps who considered the bar a stage. He was a listener.
　　To the out-of-towner, Ned declared, “Henry Friddle was a
pig.”
　　The stranger had hair as black as coal dust with traces of ash at
the temples, gray eyes bright with dry amusement, and a softly
resonant voice. “That’s a strong word—pig.”
　　“You know what the pervert was doing on his roof? He was trying
to piss on my dining-room windows.”
　　Wiping the bar, Billy Wiles didn’t even glance at the tourist.
He’d heard this story so often that he knew all the reactions to
it.
　　“Friddle, the pig, figured the altitude would give his stream
more distance,” Ned explained.
　　The stranger said, “What was he—an aeronautical engineer?”
　　“He was a college professor. He taught contemporary
literature.”
　　“Maybe reading that stuff drove him to suicide,” the tourist
said, which made him more interesting than Billy had first
thought.
　　“No, no,” Ned said impatiently. “The fall was accidental.”
　　“Was he drunk?”
　　“Why would you think he was drunk?” Ned wondered.
　　The stranger shrugged. “He climbed on a roof to urinate on your
windows.”
　　“He was a sick man,” Ned explained, plinking one finger against
his empty glass to indicate the desire for another round.
　　Drawing Budweiser from the tap, Billy said, “Henry Friddle was
consumed by vengeance.”
　　After silent communion with his brew, the tourist asked Ned
Pearsall, “Vengeance? So you urinated on Friddle’s windows
first?”
　　“It wasn’t the same thing at all,” Ned warned in a rough tone
that advised the outsider to avoid being judgmental.
　　“Ned didn’t do it from his roof,” Billy said.
　　“That’s right. I walked up to his house, like a man, stood on his
lawn, and aimed at his dining-room windows.”
　　“Henry and his wife were having dinner at the time,” Billy
said.
　　Before the tourist might express revulsion at the timing of this
assault, Ned said, “They were eating quail, for God’s sake.”
　　“You showered their windows because they were eating
quail?”
　　Ned sputtered with exasperation. “No, of course not. Do I look
insane to you?” He rolled his eyes at Billy.
　　Billy raised his eyebrows as though to say What do you expect of
a tourist?
　　“I’m just trying to convey how pretentious they were,” Ned
clarified, “always eating quail or snails, or Swiss chard.”
　　“Phony bastards,” the tourist said with such a light seasoning of
mockery that Ned Pearsall didn’t detect it, although Billy
did.
　　“Exactly,” Ned confirmed. “Henry Friddle drove a Jaguar, and his
wife drove a car—you won’t believe this—a car made in
Sweden.”
　　“Detroit was too common for them,” said the tourist.
　　“Exactly. How much of a snob do you have to be to bring a car all
the way from Sweden?”
　　The tourist said, “I’ll wager they were wine connoisseurs.”
　　“Big time! Did you know them or something?”
　　“I just know the type. They had a lot of books.”
　　“You’ve got ’em nailed,” Ned declared. “They’d sit on the front
porch, sniffing their wine, reading books.”
　　“Right out in public. Imagine that. But if you didn’t pee on
their dining-room windows because they were snobs, why did
you?”
　　“A thousand reasons,” Ned assured him. “The incident of the
skunk. The incident of the lawn fertilizer. The dead
petunias.”
　　“And the garden gnome,” Billy added as he rinsed glasses in the
bar sink.
　　“The garden gnome was the last straw,” Ned agreed.
　　“I can understand being driven to aggressive urination by pink
plastic flamingos,” said the tourist, “but, frankly, not by a
gnome.”
　　Ned scowled, remembering the affront. “Ariadne gave it my
face.”
　　“Ariadne who?”
　　“Henry Friddle’s wife. You ever heard a more pretentious
name?”
　　“Well, the Friddle part brings it down to earth.”
　　“She was an art professor at the same college. She sculpted the
gnome, created the mold, poured the concrete, painted it
herself.”
　　“Having a sculpture modeled after you can be an honor.”
　　The beer foam on Ned’s upper lip gave him a rabid appearance as
he protested: “It was a gnome, pal. A drunken gnome. The nose was
as red as an apple. It was carrying a beer bottle in each
hand.”
　　“And its fly was unzipped,” Billy added.
　　“Thanks so much for reminding me,” Ned grumbled. “Worse, hanging
out of its pants was the head and neck of a dead goose.”
　　“How creative,” said the tourist.
　　“At first I didn’t know what the hell that meant—”
　　“Symbolism. Metaphor.”
　　“Yeah, yeah. I figured it out. Everybody who walked past their
place saw it, and got a laugh at my expense.”
　　“Wouldn’t need to see the gnome for that,” said the
tourist.
　　Misunderstanding, Ned agreed: “Right. Just hearing about it,
people were laughing. So I busted up the gnome with a
sledgehammer.”
　　“And they sued you.”
　　“Worse. They set out another gnome. Figuring I’d bust up the
first, Ariadne had cast and painted a second.”
　　“I thought life was mellow here in the wine country.”
　　“Then they tell me,” Ned continued, “if I bust up the second one,
they’ll put a third on the lawn, plus they’ll manufacture a bunch
and sell ’em at cost to anyone who wants a Ned Pearsall
gnome.”
　　“Sounds like an empty threat,” said the tourist. “Would there
really be people who’d want such a thing?”
　　“Dozens,” Billy assured him.
　　“This town’s become a mean place since the p?té-and-brie crowd
started moving in from San Francisco,” Ned said sullenly.
　　“So when you didn’t dare take a sledgehammer to the second gnome,
you were left with no choice but to pee on their windows.”
　　“Exactly. But I didn’t just go off half-cocked. I thought about
the situation for a week. Then I hosed them.”
　　“After which, Henry Friddle climbed on his roof with a full
bladder, looking for justice.”
　　“Yeah. But he waited till I had a birthday dinner for my
mom.”
　　“Unforgivable,” Billy judged.
　　“Does the Mafia attack innocent members of a man’s family?” Ned
asked indignantly.
　　Although the question had been rhetorical, Billy played for his
tip: “No. The Mafia’s got class.”
　　“Which is a word these professor types can’t even spell,” Ned
said. “Mom was seventy-six. She could have had a heart
attack.”
　　“So,” the tourist said, “while trying to urinate on your
dining-room windows, Friddle fell off his roof and broke his neck
on the Ned Pearsall gnome. Pretty ironic.”
　　“I don’t know ironic,” Ned replied. “But it sure was
sweet.”
　　“Tell him what your mom said,” Billy urged.
　　Following a sip of beer, Ned obliged: “My mom told me, ‘Honey,
praise the Lord, this proves there’s a God.’”
　　After taking a moment to absorb those words, the tourist said,
“She sounds like quite a religious woman.”
　　“She wasn’t always. But at seventy-two, she caught
pneumonia.”
　　…