More Horror from Graham Masterton
BLACK ANGEL
DEATH MASK
DEATH TRANCE
EDGEWISE
HEIRLOOM
PREY
RITUAL
SPIRIT
TENGU
THE CHOSEN CHILD
THE SPHINX
UNSPEAKABLE
WALKERS
MANITOU BLOOD
REVENGE OF THE MANITOU
FAMINE
IKON
SACRIFICE
The Katie Maguire Series
WHITE BONES
BROKEN ANGELS
RED LIGHT
TAKEN FOR DEAD
BLOOD SISTERS
BURIED
LIVING DEATH
DEAD GIRLS DANCING
DEAD MEN WHISTLING
THE LAST DROP OF BLOOD
The Scarlet Widow Series
SCARLET WIDOW
THE COVEN
Standalones
GHOST VIRUS
PLAGUE
Graham Masterton
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 1977 by W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd
This edition first published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Graham Masterton, 1977
The moral right of Graham Masterton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781800243392
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.headofzeus.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Book One: The Quick
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Book Two: The Dead
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Read on for an exclusive preview of The House of a Hundred Whispers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
About the author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Book One
The Quick
One
He was still half-asleep when the doorbell rang. The sound penetrated his head like someone dropping coins down a well. It rang again, long and urgent, and he opened his eyes and discovered it was morning.
‘Just a minute!’ he croaked, with a sleep-dry mouth. The doorbell wouldn’t wait, though, and kept on calling him. He swung his legs out of bed, groped on the floor for his discarded bathrobe, and pushed his feet uncomfortably into his slippers.
He shuffled out into the hallway. Through the frosted glass front door he could see a short stocky figure in blue, leaning on the bellpush.
‘Just a minute!’ he called again. ‘I’m coming!’
He unlocked the door and peered out. The brilliant Florida sunshine made him blink. The warm morning breeze was blowing the palms beside his driveway, and already the sky was rich and blue.
‘You Dr. Petrie?’ said the man abruptly. He was heavy-set, dressed in crumpled blue coveralls. He was holding his cap in his hand, and his face had the expression of an anxious pug-dog.
‘That’s right. What time is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the man hoarsely. ‘Maybe eight-thirty, nine. It’s my kid. He’s sick. I mean, real sick, and I think he’s gonna die or something. You have to come.’
‘Couldn’t you call the hospital?’
‘I did. They asked me what was wrong, and when I told them, they said to see a doctor. They said it didn’t sound too serious. But it keeps on getting worse and worse, and I’m real worried.’
The man was twitchy and sweating and the dark rings under his eyes showed just how little sleep he’d had. Dr. Petrie scratched his stubbly chin, and then nodded. Last night’s party had left him feeling as if someone had hit him in the face with a rubber hammer, but he recognized real anxiety when he saw it.
‘Come in and sit down. I’ll be two minutes.’
The man in the blue coveralls took a couple of steps into the hallway, but was too nervous to sit. Dr. Petrie went into the bedroom, threw off his bathrobe, and dressed hastily. He slipped his feet into sandals, ran a comb through his tousled brown hair, and then reached for his medical bag and car keys.
Outside in the hallway, the man had at last sat down, perched on the edge of a wooden trunk that Dr. Petrie used for storing old medical journals. The man was staring at the pattern on the tiled floor, with that strange dull look that Dr. Petrie had seen so many times before. Why has this happened to me? Of all people, why has it happened to me?
‘Mr.—’
‘Kelly. Dave Kelly. My son’s name is David, too. Are we ready to leave?’
‘All set. Do you want to come in my car?’
‘Sure,’ said Dave Kelly woodenly. ‘I don’t think I wanna drive any more today.’
Dr. Petrie slammed the glass front door behind them and they stepped out into the heat and the sun. His dark blue Lincoln Continental was parked in the driveway. At the kerb stood a battered red pickup which obviously belonged to Mr. Kelly. On the side it said Speedy Motors Inc.
They climbed into the car and Dr. Petrie turned on the air-conditioning. It was March, and by this time of morning the temperature was already building up to 75 degrees. All along the quiet palm-lined streets of the fashionable Miami suburb where Dr. Petrie lived and practised, the neat and elegant houses had blinds drawn and shades down.
‘Now,’ said Dr. Petrie, twisting his lanky body in the seat to reverse the Lincoln out of the drive. ‘While we’re driving, I want you to tell me everything that’s happened to your son. Symptoms, color, everything. Oh, and direct me, too.’
‘I live downtown,’ said Kelly, rubbing sweat from his eyes. ‘Just off North West 20th Street.’
Dr. Petrie swung the car around, and they bounced over the sidewalk and into the street. He gunned the engine, and they flickered through the light and shade of Burlington Drive, heading south. The air-conditioning chilled the sweat on Mr. Kelly’s face, and he began to tremble.
‘What made you choose me?’ asked Dr. Petrie. ‘There have to be a hundred doctors living nearer.’
Mr. Kelly coughed. ‘You was recommended. My brother-in-law, he’s an attorney, he used to be a patient of yours. I called him and asked him for the best. I tell you, doc – I gotta have the best for that kid. If he’s as bad as he looks, I gotta have the best.’
‘How bad does he look?’ Dr. Petrie swerved around a parked truck.
‘Right now, when I left him, he didn’t even open his eyes. He’s white, like paper. He started to shake and shiver around ten or eleven last night. He came into the bedroom and asked for a glass of water. He looked yellow and sick right then, and I gave him water, and aspiri
n. Was that okay?’
Dr. Petrie nodded. ‘They won’t do any harm. How old is he?’
‘David’s just nine years old. Last Thanksgiving.’
Dr. Petrie turned on to 441 and drove swiftly and steadily south. He glanced at his gold wristwatch. It was a little after nine. Oh well, a good abrupt start to Monday morning. He looked at himself in the driving mirror and saw a clean-cut all-American doctor with hangover written all over his face.
Some of his more critical medical colleagues had sarcastically nicknamed Dr. Petrie ‘Saint Leonard of the Geriatrics’. That was because his clientele was mainly elderly and exclusively rich – old widows with immense fortunes and skins tanned as brown as leather handbags. And it was also because of his uncomfortably saintly appearance – a look that gave you the feeling that he drew half of his healing talent from medical training, and the other half directly from God. It was to do with his tall, lean body; his clear and almost inspired blue eyes; his open, benign face – and it all contributed to his success.
The way Dr. Petrie saw it, rich old ladies needed medication just as much as anyone else, and if he could build up his income with a melting smile and a glossy clinic full of Muzak and tropical fish, then there wasn’t anything medically or morally wrong. Besides, he thought, at least I’m concerned enough to climb out of bed on a hot Monday morning to visit a sick kid whose father really needs me.
He just wished that he had been saintly enough not to drink eight vodkatinis last night at the golf club get-together.
‘Who’s with the boy now?’ Dr. Petrie asked Mr. Kelly.
‘His mother. She was supposed to work the late shift, but she stayed home.’
‘Have you given him anything to eat or drink?’
‘Just water. He was burning up one minute, and cold the next. His lips was dry, and his tongue was all furred up – I reckoned that water was probably the best.’
Dr. Petrie stopped for a red light and sat there drumming his fingers on the rim of the steering-wheel, thinking.
Mr. Kelly looked across at him, nervous and worried, and tried not to fidget. ‘Does it sound like any kind of sickness you know?’ he asked.
Dr. Petrie smiled. ‘I can’t tell you until I see the boy for myself. It could be any number of things. What about his motions?’
‘His what?’
‘His bowels. Are they loose, or what?’
Mr. Kelly nodded. ‘That’s it. Runny, like soup.’
They moved away from the lights, and Mr. Kelly gave directions.
After a couple of turns, they arrived at a busy intersection with a garage on the corner. The garage had three pumps and a greasy-looking concrete forecourt, and in the back were a broken-down truck and a heap of old fenders, jacks, wrenches, and rusted auto parts.
Mr. Kelly climbed out of the car. ‘Follow me. We live up over the garage.’
Dr. Petrie took his medical bag and locked his Lincoln. He followed Mr. Kelly around the side of the garage, and they clanged together up a shaky fire-escape, to a cluttered balcony, and then into the Kelly’s apartment. They stepped into the kitchen first. It was gloomy and smelled of sour milk.
‘Gloria, I brought the doctor!’ called Mr. Kelly. There was no answer. Mr. Kelly guided Dr. Petrie through into the dingy hallway. There was a broken-down umbrella stand, and plaques of vintage cars molded out of plastic. A grubby red pennant on the wall said ‘Miami Beach’.
‘This way,’ said Kelly. He gently opened a door at the end of the hall and ushered Dr. Petrie inside.
The boy was lying on crumpled, sweat-stained sheets. There was a suffocating smell of diarrhoea and urine, even though the window was open. The child was thin, and looked tall for his age. He had a short haircut that, with his terrible pallor, made him look like a concentration camp victim. His eyes were closed, but swollen and blue, like plums. His bony ribcage fluttered up and down, and every now and then his hands twitched. His mother had wrapped pieces of torn sheet around his middle, to act as a diaper.
‘I’m Dr. Petrie,’ Leonard said, resting his hand momentarily on the mother’s shoulder. She was a small, curly-haired woman in her mid-forties. She was dressed in a tired pink wrap, and her make-up was still half-on and half-off, just as it was when her son’s sickness had interrupted her the night before.
‘I’m glad you could come,’ she said tiredly. ‘He’s no better and no worse.’
Dr. Petrie opened his medical bag. ‘I just want to make a few tests. Blood pressure, respiration – that kind of thing. Would you like to wait outside while I do that?’
The mother stared at him with weary eyes. ‘I been here all night. I don’t see any call t’leave now.’
Dr. Petrie shrugged. ‘Whatever you like. But you look as though you could do with a cup of coffee. Mr. Kelly – would you be kind enough to make us all a cup of coffee?’
‘Surely,’ said the father, who had been hovering nervously in the doorway.
Dr. Petrie sat by the bed on a rickety wooden chair and took the boy’s pulse. It was weak and thready – worse than he would have expected.
The mother bit her lip and said, ‘Is he going to be all right? He is going to be all right, aint he? Today’s the day he was supposed to go to the Monkey Jungle.’
Dr. Petrie tried to smile. He lifted the boy’s arm again, and checked his blood pressure. Far too high for comfort. The last time he had seen vital signs as poor as this, the patient had been dead of barbiturate poisoning within three hours. He lifted David’s puffed-up eyelids, and shone his torch into the glassy eyes. Weak response. He pressed his stethoscope against the little chest and listened to the heartbeat. He could hear fluid on the lungs, too.
‘David,’ he said gently, close to the boy’s ear. ‘David, can you hear me?’
The boy’s mouth twitched, and he seemed to stir, but that was all.
‘He’s so sick,’ said Mrs. Kelly wretchedly. ‘He’s so sick.’
Dr. Petrie rested his hand on David’s skinny arm. ‘Mrs. Kelly,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to have this boy rushed straight to hospital. Can I use your phone?’
Mrs. Kelly looked pale. ‘Hospital? But we called the hospital, and they said just a doctor would be okay. Can’t you do something for him?’
Dr. Petrie stood up. ‘What did you tell the hospital? Did you say how bad he was?’
‘Well, I said he was sick, and he had a fever, and he’d messed the bed up a couple of times.’
‘And what did they say to that?’
‘They said it sounded like he’d eaten something bad, and that I oughtta keep him warm, give him plenty to drink and nothing to eat, and call a doctor. But after that, he started getting worse. That’s when Dave went out for you.’
‘This boy has to be in hospital,’ insisted Dr. Petrie. ‘I mean now. Where’s your phone?’
‘In the lounge. Straight through there.’
On the way out, Dr. Petrie almost collided with Mr. Kelly, bringing a tin tray with three mugs of coffee on it. He smiled briefly, and took one of the mugs. While he dialed the hospital, he sipped the scalding black liquid and tried not to burn his mouth.
‘Emergency unit? Hallo. Listen, this is Dr. Leonard Petrie here. I have a young boy, nine years old, seriously sick. I want to bring him in right away. I can’t tell you now, but have a blood test ready. Sputum, too. Some kind of virus, I guess. I’m not sure. It could be something like cholera. Right. Oh, sure, I’ll tell the parents. Give me five, ten minutes – I’ll be right there.’
Mr. and Mrs. Kelly were waiting at the door. ‘Cholera?’ Mr. Kelly said.
Dr. Petrie swallowed as much coffee as he could. ‘It’s like cholera,’ he said, as reassuringly as possible, ‘but it’s not exactly that. I can’t tell without a blood sample. Dr. Selmer will do that for me at the hospital. He’s a good friend of mine. We play golf together at Normandy Shores.’
Mrs. Kelly couldn’t take in what he was saying. ‘Golf?’ she asked vaguely.
Dr. Petrie went thr
ough into David’s bedroom, and helped Mr. Kelly to dress the boy in a pair of clean pajamas. David shuddered and whispered to himself while they buttoned the jacket up, but that was the only sign of life. Dr. Petrie lifted David up in his arms, and carried him out down the fire escape. Mr. Kelly followed with the medical bag.
‘I sure hope he’s going to be okay,’ said Kelly. ‘He was supposed to go on a school outing today. He’ll be sorry he missed it. He didn’t talk about nothing else, for weeks. “When I go to the Monkey Jungle…” every sentence.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr. Kelly. Once we get David to hospital, he’s going to get the best treatment going.’
They were nearly at the bottom of the fire-escape when Dr. Petrie felt something go through David’s body – a sigh, a vibration, a cough. He was a skilled doctor and he recognized it. The boy was dying. He needed to get him into a respirator as fast as he could, within the next two or three minutes, or that could be the end.
‘Mr. Kelly,’ he said tightly, ‘we have to get the hell out of here!’
Mr. Kelly frowned. He said, ‘What?’ But when he saw Dr. Petrie clattering rapidly down the rest of the fire-escape and across to his car, he came running behind without a word.
‘My car keys!’ Dr. Petrie said quickly. ‘Get them out of my pocket. No, the other side. That’s right.’
Mr. Kelly, in his panic, dropped the keys on to the sidewalk, and they skated under the car. He knelt down laboriously and scrabbled beneath the Lincoln while his son weakened in Dr. Petrie’s arms.
‘Hurry – for Christ’s sake!’
At last Mr. Kelly hooked the keys towards the gutter, picked them up and opened the car. Dr. Petrie laid David carefully on the back seat, and told Mr. Kelly to sit beside the boy and hold him, in case he rolled off. The hospital was five minutes away if you drove slow and sedate, but David didn’t have that long.
The Lincoln’s engine roared. They backed up a few feet, then swerved out into the street. Dr. Petrie crossed straight through a red light, sounding his horn and switching on his headlamps. He prayed that downtown Miami wouldn’t be jammed up with early-morning traffic. Swinging the Lincoln across a protesting stream of cars, he drove south on South West 27th Avenue at nearly fifty miles an hour. He swerved from one lane to the other, desperately trying to work his way through the traffic, leaning on his horn and flashing his lights.
Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami Page 1