The voice of the night, p.1
The Voice of the Night, page 1
What the reviewers say about Dean Koontz
“Dean Koontz is a prose stylist whose lyricism heightens malevolence and tension. [He creates] characters of unusual richness and depth.”
—The Seattle Times
Dean Koontz is not only a master of our darkest dreams, but also a literary juggler.”
—The Times (London)
“Tumbling, hallucinogenic prose. ‘Serious writers’ . . . might do well to examine his techniques.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Lyrical writing and compelling characters . . . Koontz stands alone.”
—Associated Press
“Koontz has always had near-Dickensian powers of description and an ability to yank us from one page to the next that few novelists can match.”
—Los Angeles Times
“A master storyteller, sometimes humorous, sometimes shocking, but always riveting. His characters sparkle with life. And his fast-paced plots are wonderfully fiendish, taking unexpected twists and turns.”
—San Diego Union-Tribune
“Koontz is brilliant.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Dean Koontz writes page-turners, middle-of-the-night-sneak-up-behind-you suspense thrillers. He touches our hearts and tingles our spines.”
—Washington Post Book World
Copyright 1980 by Nkui, Inc.
Originally published under the
pen name “Brian Coffey.”
ALSO BY DEAN KOONTZ
The Other Emily Midnight
Elsewhere Lightning
Devoted Watchers
Ashley Bell Strangers
The City Twilight Eyes
Innocence Darkfall
77 Shadow Street Phantoms
What the Night Knows Whispers
Breathless The Mask
Relentless The Vision
Your Heart Belongs to Me The Face of Fear
The Darkest Evening of the Year Night Chills
The Good Guy Shattered
The Husband The Voice of the Night
Velocity The Servants of Twilight
Life Expectancy The House of Thunder
The Taking The Key to Midnight
The Face The Eyes of Darkness
By the Light of the Moon Shadowfires
One Door Away from Heaven Winter Moon
From the Corner of His Eye The Door to December
False Memo Dark Rivers of the Heart
Fear Nothing Icebound
Seize the Night Strange Highways
Mr. Murder Intensity
Dragon Tears Sole Survivor
Hideaway Ticktock
Cold Fire The Funhouse
The Bad Place Demon Seed
Jane Hawk Series
The Silent Corner
The Whispering Room
The Crooked Staircase
The Forbidden Door
The Night Window
Odd Thomas Series
Odd Thomas
Forever Odd
Brother Odd
Odd Hours
Odd Interlude
Odd Apocalypse
Deeply Odd
Saint Odd
Frankenstein Series
Prodigal Son
City of Night
Dead and Alive
Lost Souls
The Dead Town
Memoir
A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog Named Trixie
To old friends – Harry and Diane Recard
Paul and Mary Ann Perencevic Andy and Ann Wickstrom
– who, like wine, get better year by year.
A faint cold fear
thrills through my veins.
—Shakespeare
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part Two
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part Three
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
About the Author
PART ONE
1
‘You ever killed anything?’ Roy asked.
Colin frowned. ‘Like what?’
The two boys were on a high hill at the north end of town. The ocean lay beyond.
‘Anything,’ Roy said. ‘You ever killed anything at all?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Colin said.
Far out on the sun-dappled water, a large ship moved northward toward distant San Francisco. Nearer shore stood an oil-drilling platform. On the deserted beach a flock of birds relentlessly worked the damp sand for their lunch.
‘You must’ve killed something,’ Roy said impatiently. ‘What about bugs?’
Colin shrugged. ‘Sure. Mosquitoes. Ants. Flies. So what?’
‘How’d you like it?’
‘Like what?’
‘Killing ’em.’
Colin stared at him, finally shook his head. ‘Roy, sometimes you’re pretty weird.’
Roy grinned.
‘You like killing bugs?’ Colin asked uneasily.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a real popper.’
Anything that Roy thought was fun, anything that thrilled him, he called a ‘popper’.
‘What’s it like?’ Colin asked.
‘The way they squish.’
‘Yech.’
‘Ever pull the legs off a praying mantis and watch it try to walk?’ Roy asked.
‘Weird. Really weird.’
Roy turned to the insistently crashing sea and stood defiantly with his hands on his hips, as if he were challenging the incoming tide. It was a natural pose for him; he was a born fighter.
Colin was fourteen years old, the same age as Roy, and he never challenged anything or anyone. He rolled with life, floated where it took him, offering no resistance. Long ago he had learned that resistance caused pain.
Colin sat on the crown of the hill, in the spare dry grass. He looked up admiringly at Roy.
Without turning from the sea, Roy said, ‘Ever kill anything bigger than bugs?’
‘No.’
‘I did.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Lots of times.’
‘What’d you kill?’ Colin asked.
‘Mice.’
‘Hey,’ Colin said, suddenlyremembering, ‘my dad killed a bat once.’ Roy looked down at him.
‘When was that?’
‘Couple of years ago, down in Los Angeles. My mom and dad were still together then. We had a house in Westwood.’
‘That where he killed the bat?’
‘Yeah. Must’ve been some of them living in the attic. One of them got into my folks’ bedroom. It happened at night. I woke up and heard my mom screaming.’
‘She was really scared, huh?’
‘Terrified.’
‘I sure wish I’d seen that.’
‘I ran down the hall to see what was wrong, and this bat was swooping around their room.’
‘Was she naked?’ Colin blinked.
‘Who?’
‘Your mother.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I thought maybe she slept naked and you saw her.’
‘No,’ Colin said. He could feel his face turning red.
‘She wearing a negligee?’ Roy asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know ?’
I don’t remember,’ Colin said uneasily.
‘If I was the one who saw her,’ Roy said, ‘I’d sure as hell remember.’
‘Well, I guess she was wearing a negligee,’ Colin said. ‘Yeah. I remember now.’
Actually, he couldn’t recall whether she had been wearing pajamas or a fur coat, and he didn’t understand why it mattered to Roy.
‘Could you see through it?’ Roy asked.
‘See through what?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Colin! Could you see through her negligee?’
‘Why would I want to?’
‘Are you a moron ?’
‘Why would I want to stand around gaping at my own mom?’
‘She’s built, that’s why.’
‘You gotta be kidding!’
‘Nice tits.’
‘Roy, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Terrific legs.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Saw her in a swimsuit,’ Roy said. ‘She’s foxy.’
‘She’s what?’
‘Sexy.’
‘She’s my mother !’
‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Roy.’
‘You’re hopeless.’
‘Me? Jeez.’
‘Hopeless.’
‘I thought we were talking about the bat.’
‘So what happened to the bat?’
‘My dad got a broom and knocked it out of the air. He kept hitting it until it stopped squealing. Boy, you should have heard it squeal.’ Colin shuddered. ‘It was awful.’
‘Blood?’
‘Huh?’
‘Was there a lot of blood?’
‘No.’
Roy looked at the sea again. He didn’t seem impressed by the story about the bat.
The warm breeze stirred Roy’s hair. He had the kind of thick golden hair and the wholesome freckled face that you saw in television commercials. He was a sturdy boy, strong for his age, a good athlete.
Colin wished he looked like Roy.
Someday, when I’m rich, Colin thought, I’ll walk into a plastic surgeon’s office with maybe a million bucks in cash and a picture of Roy. I’ll get myself totally remade. Totally transformed. The surgeon will change my brown hair to corn yellow. He’ll say. Don’t want this thin, pale face any more, do you? Can’t blame you. Who would want it? Let’s make it handsome. He’ll take care of my ears, too. They won’t be so big when he’s done. And he’ll fix these damned eyes. I won’t have to wear thick glasses any more. And he’ll say, Want me to add a bunch of muscles to your chest and arms and legs? No problem. Easy as cake. And then I won’t just look like Roy; I’ll be as strong as Roy, too, and I’ll be able to run as fast as Roy, and I won’t be afraid of anything, not anything in the world. Yeah. But I better go into that office with two million.
Still studying the progress of the ship on the sea, Roy said, ‘Killed bigger things, too.’
‘Bigger than mice?’
‘Sure.’
‘Like what?’
‘A cat.’
‘You killed a cat?’
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’
‘Why’d you do that?’
‘I was bored.’
‘That’s no reason.’
‘It was something to do.’
‘Jeez.’
Roy turned away from the sea. ‘What a crock,’ Colin said.
Roy hunkered in front of Colin, locked eyes with him. ‘It was a popper, a really terrific popper.’
‘A popper? Fun? Why would killing a cat be fun?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be fun?’ Roy asked.
Colin was skeptical. ‘How’d you kill it?’
‘First I put it in a cage.’
‘What kind of cage?’
‘A big old birdcage, about three feet square.’
‘Where’d you get a thing like that?’
‘It was in our basement. A long time ago my mother owned a parrot. When it died she didn’t get a new bird, but she didn’t throw away the cage either.’
‘Was it your cat?’
‘Nah. Belonged to some people down the street.’
‘What was its name?’
Roy shrugged.
‘If there’d really been a cat, you’d remember its name,’ Colin said.
‘Fluffy. Its name was Fluffy.’
‘Sounds likely.’
‘It’s true. I put it in the cage and worked on it with my mother’s knitting needles.’
‘Worked on it?’
‘I poked at it through the bars. Christ, you should have heard it!’
‘No thanks.’
‘That was one damned mad cat. It spat and screamed and tried to claw me.’
‘So you killed it with the knitting needles.’
‘Nah. The needles just made it angry.’
‘Can’t imagine why.’
‘Later I got a long, two-pronged meat fork from the kitchen and killed it with that.’
‘Where were your folks during all this?’
‘Both of them at work. I buried the cat and cleaned up all the blood before they got home.’
Colin shook his head and sighed. ‘What a great big load of bull.’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘You never killed any cat.’
‘Why would I make up a story like that?’
‘You’re trying to see if you can gross me out. You’re trying to make me sick.’
Roy grinned. ‘Are you sick?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You look kinda pale.’
‘You can’t make me sick because I know it didn’t happen. There wasn’t any cat.’
Roy’s eyes were sharp and demanding. Colin imagined he could feel them probing like the points of that meat fork.
‘How long have you known me?’ Roy asked.
‘Since the day after Mom and I moved here.’
‘How long’s that?’
‘You know. Since the first of June. A month.’
‘In all that time, have I ever lied to you? No. Because you’re my friend. I wouldn’t lie to a friend.’
‘You’re not lying exactly. Just sort of playing a game.’
‘I don’t like games,’ Roy said.
‘But you like to joke around a lot.’
‘I’m not joking now.’
‘Sure you are. You’re setting me up. As soon as I say I believe you about the cat, you’ll laugh at me. I won’t fall for it.’
‘Well,’ Roy said, ‘I tried.’
‘Hah! You were setting me up!’
‘If that’s what you want to think, it’s okay with me.’
Roy walked away. He stopped twenty feet from Colin and faced the sea again. He stared at the hazy horizon as if he were in a trance. To Colin, who was a science-fiction buff, Roy appeared to be in telepathic communication with something that hid far out in the deep, dark, rolling water.
‘Roy? You were joking about the cat, weren’t you?’
Roy turned, stared at him coolly for a moment, then grinned.
Colin grinned, too. ‘Yeah. I knew it. You were trying to make a fool out of me.’
2
Colin stretched out on his back, closed his eyes, and roasted for a while in the sun.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the cat. He tried to conjure up pleasant images, but each of them faded and was replaced by a vision of a bloody cat in a birdcage. Its eyes were open, dead yet watchful eyes. He was certain the cat was waiting for him to get too close, waiting for a chance to strike out with razor-sharp claws.
Something bumped his foot. He sat up, startled.
Roy stared down at him. ‘What time is it?’
Colin blinked, looked at his wristwatch. ‘Almost one o’clock.’
‘Come on. Get up.’
‘Where we going?’
‘The old lady works afternoons at the gift shop,’ Roy said. ‘We’ve got my house to ourselves.’
‘What’s to do at your place?’
‘There’s something I want to show you.’
Colin stood and brushed sandy soil from his jeans. ‘Gonna show me where you buried the cat?’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in the cat.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then forget it. I want to show you the trains.’
‘What trains?’
‘You’ll see. It’s a real popper.’
‘Race into town?’ Colin asked.
‘Sure.’
‘Go!’ Colin shouted.
As usual, Roy reached his bicycle first. He was fifty yards away, racing into the wind, before Colin touched foot to pedal.
Cars, vans, campers, and lumbering motor homes jostled for position on the two-lane blacktop. Colin and Roy rode on the oiled berm. Most of the year, Seaview Road carried very little traffic. Everyone except local residents used the interstate that bypassed Santa Leona.
During the tourist season the town was crowded, teeming with vacationers who drove too fast and recklessly. They seemed to be pursued by demons. They were all so frantic, in a great hurry to relax, relax, relax.
Colin coasted down the last hill, into the outskirts of Santa Leona. The wind buffeted his face, ruffled his hair, and blew the automobile exhaust fumes away from him.
He couldn’t suppress a grin. His spirits were higher than they had been in a long, long time.
He had a lot to be happy about. Two more months of bright California summer lay ahead of him, two months of freedom before school began. And with his father gone, he no longer dreaded going home each day.
His parents’ divorce still disturbed him. But a broken marriage was better than the loud and bitter arguments that for several years had been a nightly ritual.
Sometimes, in his dreams, Colin could still hear the shouted accusations, the uncharacteristically foul language that his mother used in the heat of a fight, the inevitable sound of his father striking her, and then the weeping. No matter how warm his bedroom, he was always freezing when he woke from these nightmares – cold, shivering, yet drenched with sweat.
