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　　Amazon.com Review
　　Amazon.com Exclusive:
　　The Darkest Ice Cream of the Year by Dean Koontz
　　I once said writing a novel is sometimes like making love andsometimes like having a tooth pulled--and sometimes like makinglove while having a tooth pulled. I arrived at one of those joyfulyet excruciating moments while working on The Darkest Evening ofthe Year.
　　Because I am obsessive about the revision of each page--the wordfussbudget is embarrassingly apt when I am brooding over whether touse a comma or a semicolon--I have more than once held on to amanu* until the drop-dead date for delivery. When that daterolled around for this book, I had written everything, but I wasunwilling to send all of it to my editor. I withheld the last fiftypages for another four days, causing a quiet panic in those at mypublishing house who are responsible for meeting productiondeadlines.
　　Although the book was done, I felt that something was wrong withChapter 63. The action worked, the characters were in character,the mood was sustained...but something felt wrong with it, somefine point of the villain's motivation. Thursday, Friday, andSaturday, I worked 12-hour days, trying to identify the source ofmy doubt, but couldn't specify it to my satisfaction.
　　Nothing like this had ever happened to me. Previously, my worststruggles with a story had come in the first two-thirds, and thefinal third had been, if not a sweet swift toboggan run, at least asleigh ride.
　　Sunday, I got up at 6:00 and set to work, revising, looking forthe thorn I could feel but couldn't see--and ended up working 22hours, eating at my desk, before tumbling to the problem at 4:00a.m. Monday morning. "Eureka!" I cried, but I was so weary and myvoice was so weak that my shout of jubilation came out as asqueak.

Amazon.com Review 
　　Amazon.com Exclusive: 
　　The Darkest Ice Cream of the Year by Dean Koontz 
　　I once said writing a novel is sometimes like making love and
sometimes like having a tooth pulled--and sometimes like making
love while having a tooth pulled. I arrived at one of those joyful
yet excruciating moments while working on The Darkest Evening of
the Year. 
　　Because I am obsessive about the revision of each page--the word
fussbudget is embarrassingly apt when I am brooding over whether to
use a comma or a semicolon--I have more than once held on to a
manu* until the drop-dead date for delivery. When that date
rolled around for this book, I had written everything, but I was
unwilling to send all of it to my editor. I withheld the last fifty
pages for another four days, causing a quiet panic in those at my
publishing house who are responsible for meeting production
deadlines. 
　　Although the book was done, I felt that something was wrong with
Chapter 63. The action worked, the characters were in character,
the mood was sustained...but something felt wrong with it, some
fine point of the villain's motivation. Thursday, Friday, and
Saturday, I worked 12-hour days, trying to identify the source of
my doubt, but couldn't specify it to my satisfaction. 
　　Nothing like this had ever happened to me. Previously, my worst
struggles with a story had come in the first two-thirds, and the
final third had been, if not a sweet swift toboggan run, at least a
sleigh ride. 
　　Sunday, I got up at 6:00 and set to work, revising, looking for
the thorn I could feel but couldn't see--and ended up working 22
hours, eating at my desk, before tumbling to the problem at 4:00
a.m. Monday morning. "Eureka!" I cried, but I was so weary and my
voice was so weak that my shout of jubilation came out as a
squeak. 
　　The revisions required to Chapter 63 were minor, but after
working 58 hours in four days, after having passed a night without
sleep, I was unable to focus sharply enough to get them done in the
little time that remained before the production schedule would be
derailed. In desperation, I turned to that source of creative
energy and literary enlightenment that is without equal: ice
cream. 
　　I shuffled to the kitchen and snared a Dreyer's Slow-Churned
Vanilla Almond Crunch bar from the freezer. I devoured this
sweet-and-creamy muse, and felt the scales lift from my eyes;
inspiration sparkled between my ears. I finished the revisions and
e-mailed the final version of Chapter 63 to my editor with not a
minute to spare. Although the American Heart Association will take
issue with me, my advice to young writers stuck on a scene is to
stop worrying about your arteries and give your wheel-spinning
imagination what it needs to find traction: a tasty shot of fat and
sugar. 
　　--Dean Koontz, October 2007 
　　--This text refers to the Hardcover edition. 
　　From Publishers Weekly 
　　Starred Review. Set mostly in Southern California, this topnotch
thriller from bestseller Koontz (The Good Guy) depicts with
unabashed emotion and wit the magical powers of golden
retrievers—in particular, a female named Nickie, who will stop at
nothing to save innocent children and protect their guardians. Amy
Redwing, the survivor of a horrifying marriage, establishes Golden
Heart to rescue golden retrievers, rehabilitate the abused ones and
find forever homes. A supernatural chain of events ensues after Amy
and her architect boyfriend, Brian McCarthy, rescue Nickie during a
violent intervention in a family dispute. Soon the pair are on a
mission that leads to a transformative confrontation with a number
of ugly characters—Gunther Schloss, a frustrated aspiring novelist
turned killer-for-hire; Moonglow, a psychobitch in the Mommie
Dearest league; and Moonglow's lover, Harrow, a self-obsessed
sicko. This is the perfect book for thriller addicts who know the
darkest hour is just before dawn and for canine lovers who remember
dog spelled backwards is god. (Nov. 27) 
　　Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed
Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the
Hardcover edition. 
　　Review 
　　"Silence of the Lambs meets Marley & Me."—People 
　　"Compulsively readable...With a magician's expertise, Dean Koontz
sets his multiple story lines spinning."—Boston Globe 
　　[A] top-notch thriller...with unabashed emotion and wit...This is
the perfect book for thriller addicts who know the darkest hour is
just before the dawn, and for canine lovers."—Publishers Weekly,
starred review 
　　“Just barely into Koontz’s thriller, I understood why he’s a
bookselling giant.”–Entertainment Weekly

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内容简介

　　Who will be with you in the darkest hour?
Amy Redwing has devoted her life to rescuing dogs. But the unique bond she shares with Nickie, a golden retriever she saves in the most dangerous encounter of her life, is deeper than any she has ever known. In one night, their loyalty will be put to the test, and each will prove to the other how far they will go – when the stakes turn deadly serious.

作者简介

　　Dean Koontz, the author of many No.1 New York Times bestsellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of their golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California.

媒体评论

　　1. “Compulsively readable…With a magician’s expertise, Dean Koontz sets his multiple story lines spinning.”
　　----------Boston Globe
　　2. “Silence of the Lambs meets Marley & Me.”
　　-----------People
　　3. “[A] top-notch thriller… with unabashed emotion and wit…This is the perfect book for thriller addicts who know the darkest hour is just before dawn, and for canine lovers.”
　　------------Publishers Weekly

在线试读部分章节

　　Chapter One
　　Behind the wheel of the Ford Expedition, Amy Redwing drove as ifshe were immortal and therefore safe at any speed. In the fitfulbreeze, a funnel of golden sycamore leaves spun along thepost-midnight street. She blasted through them, crisp autumnscratching across the windshield.
　　For some, the past is a chain, each day a link, raveling backwardto one ringbolt or another, in one dark place or another, andtomorrow is a slave to yesterday.
　　Amy Redwing did not know her origins. Abandoned at the age oftwo, she had no memory of her mother and father. She had been leftin a church, her name pinned to her shirt. A nun had found hersleeping on a pew.
　　Most likely, her surname had been invented to mislead. The policehad failed to trace it to anyone.
　　Redwing suggested a Native American heritage. Raven hair and darkeyes argued Cherokee, but her ancestors might as likely have comefrom Armenia or Sicily, or Spain.
　　Amy’s history remained incomplete, but the lack of roots did notset her free. She waschained to some ringbolt set in the stone of adistant year.
　　Although she presented herself as such a blithe spirit that sheappeared to be capable of flight, she was in fact as earthbound asanyone.
　　Belted to the passenger seat, feet pressed against a phantombrake pedal, Brian McCarthy wanted to urge Amy to slow down. Hesaid nothing, however, because he was afraid that she would lookaway from the street to reply to his call for caution. Besides,when she was launched upon a mission like this, any plea forprudence might perversely incite her to stand harder on theaccelerator.
　　“I love October,” she said, looking away from the street. “Don’tyou love October?”
　　“This is still September.”
　　“I can love October in September. September doesn’t care.”
　　“Watch where you’re going.”

Chapter One 
　　Behind the wheel of the Ford Expedition, Amy Redwing drove as if
she were immortal and therefore safe at any speed. In the fitful
breeze, a funnel of golden sycamore leaves spun along the
post-midnight street. She blasted through them, crisp autumn
scratching across the windshield. 
　　For some, the past is a chain, each day a link, raveling backward
to one ringbolt or another, in one dark place or another, and
tomorrow is a slave to yesterday. 
　　Amy Redwing did not know her origins. Abandoned at the age of
two, she had no memory of her mother and father. She had been left
in a church, her name pinned to her shirt. A nun had found her
sleeping on a pew. 
　　Most likely, her surname had been invented to mislead. The police
had failed to trace it to anyone. 
　　Redwing suggested a Native American heritage. Raven hair and dark
eyes argued Cherokee, but her ancestors might as likely have come
from Armenia or Sicily, or Spain. 
　　Amy’s history remained incomplete, but the lack of roots did not
set her free. She waschained to some ringbolt set in the stone of a
distant year. 
　　Although she presented herself as such a blithe spirit that she
appeared to be capable of flight, she was in fact as earthbound as
anyone. 
　　Belted to the passenger seat, feet pressed against a phantom
brake pedal, Brian McCarthy wanted to urge Amy to slow down. He
said nothing, however, because he was afraid that she would look
away from the street to reply to his call for caution. Besides,
when she was launched upon a mission like this, any plea for
prudence might perversely incite her to stand harder on the
accelerator. 
　　“I love October,” she said, looking away from the street. “Don’t
you love October?” 
　　“This is still September.” 
　　“I can love October in September. September doesn’t care.” 
　　“Watch where you’re going.” 
　　“I love San Francisco, but it’s hundreds of miles away.” 
　　“The way you’re driving, we’ll be there in ten minutes.” 
　　“I’m a superb driver. No accidents, no traffic citations.” 
　　He said, “My entire life keeps flashing before my eyes.” 
　　“You should make an appointment with an ophthalmologist.” 
　　“Amy, please, don’t keep looking at me.” 
　　“You look fine, sweetie. Bed hair becomes you.” 
　　“I mean, watch the road.” 
　　“This guy named Marco–he’s blind but he drives a car.” 
　　“Marco who?” 
　　“Marco something-something. He’s in the Philippines. I read about
him in a magazine.” 
　　“Nobody blind can drive a car.” 
　　“I suppose you don’t believe we actually sent men to the
moon.” 
　　“I don’t believe they drove there.” 
　　“Marco’s dog sits in the passenger seat. Marco senses from the
dog when to turn right or left, when to hit the brakes.” 
　　Some people thought Amy was a charming airhead. Initially, Brian
had thought so, too. 
　　Then he had realized he was wrong. He would never have fallen in
love with an airhead. 
　　He said, “You aren’t seriously telling me that Seeing Eye dogs
can drive.” 
　　“The dog doesn’t drive, silly. He just guides Marco.” 
　　“What bizarro magazine were you reading?” 
　　“National Geographic. It was such an uplifting story about the
human-dog bond, the empowerment of the disabled.” 
　　“I’ll bet my left foot it wasn’t National Geographic.” 
　　“I’m opposed to gambling,” she said. 
　　“But not to blind men driving.” 
　　“Well, they need to be responsible blind men.” 
　　“No place in the world,” he insisted, “allows the blind to
drive.” 
　　“Not anymore,” she agreed. 
　　Brian did not want to ask, could not prevent himself from
asking: 
　　“Marco isn’t allowed to drive anymore?” 
　　“He kept banging into things.” 
　　“Imagine that.” 
　　“But you can’t blame Antoine.” 
　　“Antoine who?” 
　　“Antoine the dog. I’m sure he did his best. Dogs always do. Marco
just second-guessed him once too often.” 
　　“Watch where you’re going. Left curve ahead.” 
　　Smiling at him, she said, “You’re my own Antoine. You’ll never
let me bang into things.” 
　　In the salt-pale moonlight, an older middle-class neighborhood of
one-story ranch houses seemed to effloresce out of the darkness. No
streetlamps brightened the night, but the moon silvered the leaves
and the creamy trunks of eucalyptuses. Here and there, stucco walls
had a faint ectoplasmic glow, as if this were a ghost town of
phantom buildings inhabited by spirits. 
　　In the second block, lights brightened windows at one house. Amy
braked to a full stop in the street, and the headlights flared off
the reflective numbers on the curbside mailbox. She shifted the
Expedition into reverse. Backing into the driveway, she said, “In
an iffy situation, you want to be aimed out for the fastest
exit.” 
　　As she killed the headlights and the engine, Brian said, “Iffy?
Iffy like how?” 
　　Getting out of the SUV, she said, “With a crazy drunk guy, you
just never know.” 
　　Joining her at the back of the vehicle, where she put up the
tailgate, Brian glanced at the house and said, “So there’s a crazy
guy in there, and he’s drunk?” 
　　“On the phone, this Janet Brockman said her husband, Carl, he’s
crazy drunk, which probably means he’s crazy from drinking.” Amy
started toward the house, and Brian gripped her shoulder, halting
her. “What if he’s crazy when he’s sober, and now it’s worse
because he’s drunk?” 
　　“I’m not a psychiatrist, sweetie.” 
　　“Maybe this is police business.” 
　　“Police don’t have time for crazy drunk guys like this.” 
　　“I’d think crazy drunk guys are right down their alley.” 
　　Shrugging off his hand, heading toward the house once more, she
said, “We can’t waste time. He’s violent.” 
　　Brian hurried after her. “He’s crazy, drunk, and violent?” 
　　“He probably won’t be violent with me.” 
　　Climbing steps to a porch, Brian said, “What about me?” 
　　“I think he’s only violent with their dog. But if this Carl does
want to take a whack at me, that’s okay, ’cause I have you.” 
　　“Me? I’m an architect.” 
　　“Not tonight, sweetie. Tonight, you’re muscle.” 
　　Brian had accompanied her on other missions like this, but never
previously after midnight to the home of a crazy violent
drunk. 
　　“What if I have a testosterone deficiency?” 
　　“Do you have a testosterone deficiency?” 
　　“I cried reading that book last week.” 
　　“That book makes everyone cry. It just proves you’re human.” As
Amy reached for the bell push, the door opened. A young woman with
a bruised mouth and a bleeding lip appeared at the threshold. 
　　“Ms. Redwing?” she asked. 
　　“You must be Janet.” 
　　“I wish I wasn’t. I wish I was you or anybody, somebody.”
Stepping back from the door, she invited them inside. “Don’t let
Carl cripple her.” 
　　“He won’t,” Amy assured the woman. 
　　Janet blotted her lips with a bloody cloth. “He crippled Mazie.”
Mouth plugged with a thumb, a pale girl of about four clung to a
twisted fistful of the tail of Janet’s blouse, as if anticipating a
sudden cyclone that would try to spin her away from her
mother. 
　　The living room was gray. A blue sofa, blue armchairs, stood on a
gold carpet, but a pair of lamps shed light as lusterless as ashes,
and the colors were muted as though settled smoke from a
longquenched fire had laid a patina on them. 
　　If Purgatory had formal parlors for the waiting multitudes, they
might be as ordered and cheerless as this room. 
　　“Crippled Mazie,” Janet repeated. “Four months later, he . . .”
She glanced down at her daughter. “Four months later, Mazie died.”
Having begun to close the front door, Brian hesitated. He left it
half open to the mild September night. 
　　“Where is your dog?” Amy asked. 
　　“In the kitchen.” Janet put a hand to her swollen lip and spoke
between her fingers. “With him.” 
　　The child was too old to be sucking her thumb with such devotion,
but this habit of the crib disturbed Brian less than did the
character of her stare. A purple shade of blue, her eyes were wide
with expectation and appeared to be bruised by experience. The air
thickened, as it does under thunderheads and a pending
deluge. 
　　“Which way to the kitchen?” Amy asked. 
　　Janet led them through an archway into a hall flanked by dark
rooms like flooded grottoes. Her daughter glided at her side, as
firmly attached as a remora to a larger fish. 
　　The hall was shadowy except at the far end, where a thin wedge of
light stabbed in from a room beyond. 
　　The shadows seemed to ebb and flow and ebb again, but this
phantom movement was only Brian’s strong pulse, his vision
throbbing in time with his laboring heart. 
　　At the midpoint of the hallway, a boy leaned with his forehead
against a wall, his hands fisted at his temples. He was perhaps six
years old. 
　　From him came the thinnest sound of miser...

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