Free Your Heart Belongs to Me by Dean Koontz

for him in the foyer was an attractive brunette with a honeymoon mouth and funereal eyes the gray of gravestone granite.
    She worked for Wilson Mott. Although entirely feminine, she gave the impression that she could protect whatever virtue she might still possess, and could leave any would-be assailant with impressions of her shoe heels in his face.
    Closing the door behind Ryan, she said, “Rebecca is a day-shift dealer. She’s at the casino for hours yet.”
    “Have you found anything unusual?”
    “I haven’t looked, sir. I don’t know what you’re after. I’m just here to guard the door and get you out quickly in a pinch.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “If I told you, it wouldn’t be the truth.”
    “Why not?”
    “What we’re doing here’s illegal. I prefer anonymity.”
    From her manner, he inferred that she did not approve of this mission or of him. Of course, his life, not hers, was in jeopardy.
    In Rebecca Reach’s absence, the air conditioner was set at seventy degrees, which suggested she did not live on a tight budget.
    Ryan started his search in the kitchen, half expecting to find an array of poisons in the pantry.

FIFTEEN
    I nitially, roaming Rebecca Reach’s apartment, Ryan felt like a burglar, although he had no intention of stealing anything. A flush burned in his face and guilt increased the tempo of his heart.
    By the time he finished with the kitchen, the dining area, and the living room, he decided he couldn’t afford shame or any strong emotion that might precipitate a seizure. He proceeded with clinical detachment.
    From the decor, he deduced that Rebecca cared little for the pleasures of hearth and home. The minimal furnishings were in drab shades of beige and gray. Only one piece of art—an abstract nothing—hung in the living room, none in the dining area.
    The lack of a single keepsake or souvenir implied that she was not a sentimental woman.
    By the lack of dust, by the alphabetical arrangement of spices in the kitchen, by the precise placement of six accent pillows on the sofa, Ryan determined that Rebecca valued neatness and order. The evidence suggested she was a solemn person with an austere heart.
    As Ryan stepped into the study, the disposable cell phone rang. No caller ID appeared on the screen.
    When he said hello, no one replied, but after he said hello a second time, a woman began softly to hum a tune. He did not recognize the song, but her crooning was sweet, melodic.
    “Who is this?” he asked.
    The soft voice became softer, faded, faint but still felicitous, and faded further until it receded into silence.
    With his free hand, he fingered the bandage on his neck, where a day previous the catheter had been inserted into his jugular.
    Although the singer had not sung a word, perhaps subconsciously Ryan recognized the voice—or imagined that he did—because into his mind unbidden came the emerald-green eyes and the smooth dark face of Ismay Clemm, the nurse from the cardiac-diagnostics lab at the hospital.
    After he had waited nearly a minute for the singer to find her voice again, he pressed END and returned the phone to a pants pocket.
    In memory, he heard what Ismay had said to him as he had dozed on and off, recovering from the sedative:
You hear him, don’t you, child? Yes, you hear him. You must not listen, child.
    A deep misgiving overcame Ryan, and for a moment he almost fled the apartment. He did not belong there.
    Inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, he strove to steady his nerves.
    He had come to Las Vegas to seek the truth of the threat against him, to determine if he had only nature to fear or, instead, a web of conspirators. His survival might depend on completing his inquiries.
    Rebecca’s study proved to be as blandly furnished and impersonal as the other rooms. The top of her desk was bare.
    About a hundred hardcover books filled a set of shelves. They were all nonfiction, concerned with self-improvement and investing.
    Closer consideration