Free House of Thunder by Dean Koontz Page B

McGee said. “But it bled like a faucet gushing water when you were first brought in here. And it resisted healing for a while, probably because you frowned a lot while you were comatose, and the frowning wrinkled your forehead. There wasn’t much we could do about that. Blue Cross wouldn’t pay for an around-the-clock comedian in your room.” He smiled. “Anyway, after the suture marks have faded, the scar itself will just about vanish, too. It won’t look as wide as it looks now, and, of course, it won’t be discolored. When it’s fully healed, if you think it’s still too prominent, a good plastic surgeon can use dermabrasion techniques to scour away some of the scar tissue.”
    “Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Susan said. “I’m sure it’ll be almost invisible. I’m just relieved that I don’t look like Frankenstein’s monster.”
    Mrs. Baker laughed. “As if that were ever a possibility, what with your good looks. Goodness gracious, kid, it’s a crime the way you underrate yourself!”
    Susan blushed.
    McGee was amused.
    Shaking her head, Mrs. Baker picked up the scissors and the used bandages, and she left the room.
    “Now,” McGee said, “ready to talk to your boss at Milestone?”
    “Phil Gomez,” she said, repeating the name McGee had given her yesterday. “I still can’t remember a thing about him.”
    “You will.” McGee looked at his wristwatch. “It’s a bit early, but not much. He might be in his office now.”
    He used the phone on the nightstand and asked the hospital operator to dial the Milestone number in Newport Beach, California. Gomez was already at work, and he took the call.
    For a couple of minutes, Susan listened to one side of the conversation. McGee told Phil Gomez that she was out of her coma, and he explained about the temporary spottiness of her memory, always stressing the word “temporary.” Finally, he passed the receiver to her.
    Susan took it as if she were being handed a snake. She wasn’t sure how she felt about making contact with Milestone. On one hand, she didn’t want to go through the rest of her life with a gaping hole in her memory. On the other hand, however, she remembered how she had felt yesterday when the subject of Milestone had come up during her talk with McGee: She’d had the disquieting feeling that she might be better off if she never found out what her job had been. A worm of fear had coiled up inside of her yesterday. Now, again, she felt that same inexplicable fear, squirming.
    “Hello?”
    “Susan? Is that really you?”
    “Yes. It’s me.”
    Gomez had a high, quick, puppy-friendly voice. His words bumped into one another. “Susan, thank God, how good to hear from you, how very good indeed, really, I mean it, but of course you know I mean it. We’ve all been so concerned about you, worried half to death. Even Breckenridge was worried sick about you, and who would ever have thought he had any human compassion? So how are you? How are you feeling?”
    The sound of his voice kindled no memories in Susan. It was the voice of an utter stranger.
    They talked for about ten minutes, and Gomez tried hard to help her recall her work. He said that the Milestone Corporation was an independent, private-industry think tank working on contracts with ITT, IBM, Exxon, and other major corporations. That meant nothing to Susan; she had no idea what an independent, private-industry think tank was. Gomez told her that she was—or, rather, had been—working on a wide variety of laser applications for the communications industry. She couldn’t remember a thing about that. He described her office at Milestone; it sounded like no place she had ever been. He talked about her friends and co-workers there: Eddie Gilroy, Ella Haversby, Tom Kavinsky, Anson Breckenridge, and others. Not one of the names was even slightly familiar to her. By the end of the conversation, Gomez’s disappointment and concern were evident in his voice. He urged