Lightning by Dean Koontz

entered, and she did not like it. The burgundy carpet was ridiculously thick. The drapes and upholstered chairs were burgundy, too, with only minimal gold trim, and the lamps had burgundy shades, so all the rooms appeared to have been decorated by an obsessed interior designer with a burgundy fetish.
    Fetish was a new word for her. She used it too much, just as she always overused a new word, but in this case it was appropriate.
    Last month, when she’d first heard the lovely word “sequestered,” meaning “secluded or isolated,” she had used it at every opportunity, until her father had begun to tease her with silly variations: “Hey, how’s my little sequestrian this morning?” he would say, or “Potato chips are a high turnover item, so we’ll shift them into the first aisle, closer to the register, ‘cause the corner they’re in now is sort of sequesteriacious.” He enjoyed making her giggle, as with his tales of Sir Tommy Toad, a British amphibian he had invented when she was eight years old and whose comic biography he embellished nearly every day. In some ways her father had been more of a child than she was, and she had loved him for that.
    Her lower lip trembled. She bit it. Hard. If she cried, she’d be doubting what her father had always told her about the next life, the better life. By crying she would be pronouncing him dead, dead for once and all, forever, finito.
    She longed to be sequestered in her room above the grocery, in bed, the covers pulled over her head. That idea was so appealing, she figured she could easily develop a fetish for sequestering herself.
    From the funeral home they went to the cemetery.
    The graveyard had no headstones. The plots were marked by bronze plaques on marble bases set flush with the ground. The rolling green lawns, shaded by huge Indian laurels and smaller magnolias, might have been mistaken for a park, a place to play games and run and laugh—if not for the open grave over which Bob Shane’s casket was suspended.
    Last night she’d awakened twice to the sound of distant thunder, and though half asleep she had thought she’d seen lightning flickering at the windows, but if unseasonal storms had passed through during the darkness, there was no sign of them now. The day was blue, cloudless.
    Laura stood between Cora and Anita, who touched her and murmured reassurances, but she was not comforted by anything they did or said. The bleak chill in her deepened with each word of the minister’s final prayer, until she felt as if she were standing unclothed in an arctic winter instead of in the shade of a tree on a hot, windless July morning.
    The funeral director activated the motorized sling on which the casket was suspended. Bob Shane’s body was lowered into the earth.
    Unable to watch the slow descent of the casket, having difficulty drawing breath, Laura turned away, slipped out from under the caring hands of her two honorary grandmothers, and took a few steps across the cemetery. She was as cold as marble; she needed to escape the shade. She stopped as soon as she reached sunlight, which felt warm on her skin but which failed to relieve her chills.
    She stared down the long, gentle hill for perhaps a minute before she saw the man standing at the far end of the cemetery in shadows at the edge of a large grove of laurels. He was wearing light tan slacks and a white shirt that appeared faintly luminous in that gloom, as if he were a ghost who had forsaken his usual night haunts for daylight. He was watching her and the other mourners around Bob Shane’s grave near the top of the slope. At that distance Laura could not see his face clearly, but she could discern that he was tall and strong and blond—and disturbingly familiar.
    The observer intrigued her, though she did not know why. As if spellbound, she descended the hill, stepping between and across the graves. The nearer she drew to the blond, the more familiar he looked. At first he did not react to her