Shadowfires. By: Dean R. Koontz

he, for the first time in his often lonely life, was a complete man with

a hope of lasting happiness.

Impulsively he put down the knife with which he had been slicing a

tomato, took the knife from her hand and set it aside, turned her toward

him, pulled her against him, slipped his arms around her, and kissed her

deeply.

Now her soft mouth tasted of champagne instead of chocolate. She still

smelled faintly of jasmine, though beneath that fragrance was her own

clean and appealing scent. He moved his hands slowly down her back,

tracing the concave arc to her bottom, feeling the firm and exquisitely

sculpted contours of her body through the silky robe. She was wearing

nothing underneath.

His warm hands grew hot-then much hotter-as the heat of her was

transmitted through the material to his own flesh.

She clung to him for a moment with what seemed like desperation, as if

she were shipwrecked and he were a raft in a tossing sea. Her body was

stiff. Her hands clutched tensely, fingers digging into him. Then,

after a moment, she relaxed against him, and her hands began to move

over his back and shoulders and upper arms, testing and kneading his

muscles. Her mouth opened wider, and their kiss became hungrier. Her

breathing quickened.

He could feel – her full breasts pressing against his chest. As if with

a will and intention of their own, his hands moved more urgently in

exploration of her.

The phone rang.

Ben remembered at once that they had forgotten to put it on the

answering machine again when they had finished contacting people with

the news of Eric’s death and funeral, and in confirmation it rang again,

stridently.

“Damn,” Rachael said, pulling back from him.

“I’ll get it.”

“Probably another reporter.”

He took the call on the wall phone by the refrigerator, and it was not a

reporter. It was Everett Kordell, chief medical examiner for the city

of Santa Ana, phoning from the morgue. A serious problem had arisen,

and he needed to speak to Mrs. Leben.

a family friend,” Ben said. “I’m taking all calls for her.”

“But I’ve got to speak to he\,personally,” the medical examiner

insisted. “It’s urgent.

“Surely you can understand that Mrs. Leben has had a difficult day.

I’m afraid you’ll simply have to deal with me.”

“But she’s got to come downtown,” Kordell said plaintively.

“Downtown? You mean to the morgue? Now?”

“Yes. Right away.”

“Why?”

Kordell hesitated. Then, “This is embarrassing and frustrating, and I

assure you that it’ll all he straightened out sooner or later, probably

very soon, but.. . well, Eric Leben’s corpse is missing.”

Certain that he’d misunderstood, Ben said, “Missing?”

“Well. .. perhaps misplaced,” Everett Kordell said nervously.

“Perhaps?”

“Or perhaps . . . stolen.”

Ben got a few more details, hung up, and turned to Rachael.

She was hugging herself, as if in the grip of a sudden chill. “The

morgue, you said?”

He nodded. “The damn incompetent bureaucrats have apparently lost the

body.”

Rachael was very pale, and her eyes had a haunted look. But, curiously,

she did not appear to be surprised by the startling news.

Ben had the strange feeling that she had been waiting for this call all

evening.

DOWN WHERE THEY KEEP THE DEAD To Rachael, the condition of the medical

examiner 5 office was evidence that Everett Kordell was an

obsessive-compulsive personality. No papers, books, or files cluttered

his desk. The blotter was new, crisp, unmarked. The pen-and-pencil

set, letter opener, letter tray, and silver-framed pictures of his

family were precisely arranged. On the shelves behind his desk were two

hundred or three hundred books in such pristine condition and so evenly

placed that they almost appeared to be part of a painted backdrop. His

diplomas and two anatomy charts were hung on the walls with an

exactitude that made Rachael wonder if he checked their alignment every

morning with ruler and plumb line.

Kordell’s preoccupation with neatness and orderliness was also evident

in his appearance. He was tall and almost excessively lean, about

fifty, with a sharpfeatured ascetic face and clear brown eyes. Not a

strand of his graying, razor-cut hair was out of place. His

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