Whispers

by Dean Koontz

  rocks, settled down in the deep brown armchair, and began to read.

  Twenty minutes later, when she was just beginning to lose herself thoroughly in Clavell’s story, the telephone rang. She got up and answered it. “Hello.”

  There was no response.

  “Hello?”

  The caller listened for a few seconds, then hung up.

  Hilary put down the receiver and stared at it thoughtfully for a moment.

  Wrong number?

  Must have been.

  But why didn’t he say so?

  Some people just don’t know any better, she told herself. They’re rude.

  But what if it wasn’t a wrong number. What if it was . . . something else.

  Stop looking for goblins in every shadow! she told herself angrily. Frye’s dead. It was a bad thing, but it’s over and done with. You deserve a rest, a couple of days to collect your nerves and wits. But then you’ve got to stop looking over your shoulder and get on with your life. Otherwise, you’ll end up in a padded room.

  She curled up in the armchair again, but she caught a chill that brought goosebumps to her arms. She went to the closet and got a blue and green knitted afghan, returned to the chair, and draped the blanket over her legs.

  She sipped the Dry Sack.

  She started reading Clavell again.

  In a while, she forgot about the telephone call.

  After signing out for the day, Tony went home and washed his face, changed from his suit into jeans and a checkered blue shirt. He put on a thin tan jacket and walked two blocks to The Bolt Hole.

  Frank was already there, sitting in a back booth, still in his suit and tie, sipping Scotch.

  The Bolt Hole—or simply The Hole, as regular customers referred to it—was that rare and vanishing thing: an ordinary neighborhood bar. During the past two decades, in response to a continuously fracturing and subdividing culture, the American tavern industry, at least that part of it in cities and suburbs, had indulged in a frenzy of specialization. But The Hole had successfully bucked the trend. It wasn’t a gay bar. It wasn’t a singles’ bar or a swingers’ bar. It wasn’t a bar patronized primarily by bikers or truckers or show business types or off-duty policemen or account executives; its clientele was a mixture, representative of the community. It wasn’t a topless go-go bar. It wasn’t a rock and roll bar or a country and western bar. And, thank God, it wasn’t a sports bar with one of those six-foot television screens and Howard Cosell’s voice in quadraphonic sound. The Hole had nothing more to offer than pleasantly low lighting, cleanliness, courtesy, comfortable stools and booths, a jukebox that wasn’t turned too loud, hot dogs and hamburgers served from the minuscule kitchen, and good drinks at reasonable prices.

  Tony slid into the booth, facing Frank.

  Penny, a sandy-haired waitress with pinchable cheeks and a dimpled chin, stopped by the table. She ruffled Tony’s hair and said, “What do you want, Renoir?”

  “A million in cash, a Rolls-Royce, eternal life, and the acclaim of the masses,” Tony said.

  “What’ll you settle for?”

  “A bottle of Coors.”

  “That we can provide,” she said.

  “Bring me another Scotch,” Frank said. When she went to the bar to get their drinks, Frank said, “Why’d she call you Renoir?”

  “He was a famous French painter.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I’m a painter, too. Neither French nor famous. It’s just Penny’s way of teasing me.”

  “You paint pictures?” Frank asked.

  “Certainly not houses.”

  “How come you never mentioned it?”

  “I made a few observations about fine art a time or two,” Tony said. “But you greeted the subject with a marked lack of interest. In fact, you couldn’t have shown less enthusiasm if I’d wanted to debate the fine points of Swahili grammar or discuss the process of decomposition in dead babies.”

  “Oil paintings?” Frank asked.

  “Oils. Pen and ink. Watercolors. A little bit of everything, but mostly oils.”

  “How long you been at it?”

  “Since I was a kid.”

  “Have you sold any?”

  “I don’t paint to sell.”

  “What do you do it for?”

  “My own satisfaction.”

  “I’d like to see some of your work.”

  “My museum has odd hours, but I’m sure a visit can be arranged.”

  “Museum?”

  “My apartment. There’s not much furniture in it, but it’s chockfull of paintings.”

  Penny brought their drinks.

  They were silent for a while, and then they talked for a few minutes about Bobby Valdez, and then they were silent again.

  There were about sixteen or eighteen people in the bar. Several of them had ordered sandwiches. The air was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of sizzling ground sirloin and chopped onions.

  Finally, Frank said, “I suppose you’re wondering why we’re here like this.”

  “To have a couple of drinks.”

  “Besides that.” Frank stirred his drink with a swizzle stick. Ice cubes rattled softly. “There are a few things I have to say to you.”

  “I thought you said them all this morning, in the car, after we left Vee Vee Gee.”

  “Forget what I said then.”

  “You had a right to say it.”

  “I was full of shit,” Frank said.

  “No, maybe you had a point.”

  “I tell you, I was full of shit.”

  “Okay,” Tony said. “You were full of shit.”

  Frank smiled. “You could have argued with me a bit more.”

  “When you’re right, you’re right,” Tony said.

  “I was wrong about the Thomas woman.”

  “You already apologized to her, Frank.”

  “I feel like I should apologize to you.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “But you saw something there, saw she was telling the truth. I didn’t even get a whiff of that. I was off on the wrong scent altogether. Hell, you even pushed my nose in it, and I couldn’t pick up the right smell.”

  “Well, sticking strictly to nasal imagery, you might say you couldn’t get the scent because your nose was so far out of joint.”

  Frank nodded glumly. His broad face seemed to sag into the melancholy mask of a bloodhound. “Because of Wilma. My nose is out of joint because of Wilma.”

  “Your ex-wife?”

  “Yeah. You hit it right on the head this morning when you said I’ve been a woman-hater.”

  “Must have been bad, what she did to you.”

  “No matter what she did,” Frank said, “that’s no excuse for what I’ve let happen to me.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I mean, you can’t hide from women, Tony.”

  “They’re everywhere,” Tony agreed.

  “Christ, you know how long it’s been since I slept with a woman?”

  “No.”

  “Ten months. Since she left me, since four months before the divorce came through.”

  Tony couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t feel he knew Frank well enough to engage in an intimate discussion of his sex life, yet it was obvious that the man badly needed someone to listen and care.

  “If I don’t get back in the swim pretty soon,” Frank said, “I might as well go away and be a priest.”

  Tony nodded. “Ten months sure is a long time,” he said awkwardly.

  Frank didn’t respond. He stared into his Scotch as he might have stared into a crystal ball, trying to see his future. Clearly, he wanted to talk about Wilma and the divorce and where he should go from here, but he didn’t want to feel that he was forcing Tony to listen to his trouble. He had a lot of pride. He wanted to be coaxed, cajoled, drawn out with questions and murmured sympathy.

  “Did Wilma find another man or what?” Tony asked, and knew immediately that he had gone to the hear
t of the matter much too quickly.

  Frank was not ready to talk about that part of it, and he pretended not to hear the question. “What bothers me is the way I’m screwing up in my work. I’ve always been damned good at what I do. Just about perfect, if I say so myself. Until the divorce. Then I turned sour on women, and pretty soon I went sour on the job, too.” He took a long pull on his Scotch. “And what the hell’s going on with that damned crazy Napa County Sheriff? Why would he lie to protect Bruno Frye?”

  “We’ll find out sooner or later,” Tony said.

  “You want another drink?”

  “Okay.”

  Tony could see that they were going to be sitting in The Bolt Hole for a long while. Frank wanted to talk about Wilma, wanted to get rid of all the poison that had been building up in him and eating at his heart for nearly a year, but he was only able to let it out a drop at a time.

  It was a busy day for Death in Los Angeles. Many died of natural causes, of course, and therefore were not required by law to come under a coroner’s probing scalpel. But the medical examiner’s office had nine others with which to deal. There were two traffic fatalities in an accident certain to involve charges of criminal negligence. Two men were dead of gunshot wounds. One child had apparently been beaten to death by a mean-tempered drunken father. A woman had drowned in her own swimming pool, and two young men had died of what appeared to be drug overdoses. And there was Bruno Frye.

  At 7:10 Thursday evening, hoping to catch up on the backlog of work, a pathologist at the city morgue completed a limited autopsy on the body of Bruno Gunther Frye, male, Caucasian, age forty. The doctor did not find it necessary to dissect the corpse beyond the general area of the two abdominal traumata, for he was swiftly able to determine that the deceased definitely had perished from those injuries and no other. The upper wound was not critical; the knife tore muscle tissue and grazed a lung. But the lower wound was a mess; the blade ripped open the stomach, pierced the pyloric vein, and damaged the pancreas, among other things. The victim had died of massive internal bleeding.

  The pathologist sewed up the incisions he had made as well as the two crusted wounds. He sponged blood and bile and specks of tissue from the repaired stomach and the huge chest.

  The dead man was transferred from the autopsy table (which still bore traces of red-brown gore in the stainless-steel blood gutters) to a cart. An attendant pushed the cart to a refrigerated room where other bodies, already cut open and explored and sewn up again, now waited patiently for their ceremonies and their graves.

  After the attendant left, Bruno Frye lay silent and motionless, content in the company of the dead as he had never been in the company of the living.

  Frank Howard was getting drunk. He had taken off his suit jacket and his tie, had opened the first two buttons of his shirt. His hair was in disarray because he kept running his fingers through it. His eyes were bloodshot, and his broad face was doughy. He slurred some of his words, and every once in a while he repeated himself, stressing a point so often that Tony had to gently nudge him on, as if bumping a phonograph needle out of a bad groove. He was downing two glasses of Scotch to one of Tony’s beers.

  The more he drank, the more he talked about the women in his life. The closer he got to being completely smashed, the closer he got to the central agony of his life: the loss of two wives.

  During his second year as a uniformed officer with the LAPD, Frank Howard had met his first wife, Barbara Ann. She was a salesgirl working the jewelry counter in a downtown department store, and she helped him choose a gift for his mother. She was so charming, so petite, so pretty and dark-eyed, that he couldn’t resist asking for a date, even though he was certain she would turn him down. She accepted. They were married seven months later. Barbara Ann was a planner; long before the wedding, she worked out a detailed agenda for their first four years together. She would continue to work at the department store, but they would not spend one penny of her earnings. All of her money would go into a savings account that would later be used to make a down payment on a house. They would try to save as much as they could from his salary by living in a safe, clean, but inexpensive studio apartment. They would sell his Pontiac because it was a gas hog, and because they would be living close enough to the store for Barbara Ann to walk to work; her Volkswagen would be sufficient to get him to and from divisional HQ, and his equity in his car would start the house fund. She had even planned a day-by-day menu for the first six months, nourishing meals prepared within a tight budget. Frank loved this stern accountant streak in her, partly because it seemed so out of character. She was a light-hearted, cheerful woman, quick to laugh, sometimes even giddy, impulsive in matters not financial, and a wonderful bedmate, always eager to make love and damned good at it. She was not an accountant in matters of the flesh; she never planned their love-making; it was usually sudden and surprising and passionate. But she planned that they would buy a house only after they’d acquired at least forty percent of the purchase price. And she knew exactly how many rooms it should have and what size each room should be; she drew up a floor plan of the ideal place, and she kept it in a dresser drawer, taking it out now and then to stare at it and dream. She wanted children a great deal, but she planned not to have them until she was secure in her own house. Barbara Ann planned for just about every eventuality—except cancer. She contracted a virulent form of lymph cancer, which was diagnosed two years and two days after she married Frank, and three months after that, she was dead.

  Tony sat in the booth at The Bolt Hole, with a beer getting warm in front of him, and he listened to Frank Howard with the growing realization that this was the first time the man had shared his grief with anyone. Barbara Ann had died in 1958, twenty-two years ago, and in all the time since, Frank had not expressed to anyone the pain he had felt while watching her waste away and die. It was a pain that had never dwindled; it burned within him now as fiercely as it had then. He drank more Scotch and searched for words to describe his agony; and Tony was amazed at the sensitivity and depth of feeling that had been so well-concealed behind the hard Teutonic face and those usually expressionless blue eyes.

  Losing Barbara Ann had left Frank weak, disconnected, miserable, but he had sternly repressed the tears and the anguish because he had been afraid that if he gave in to them he would not be able to regain control. He had sensed self-destructive impulses in himself: a terrible thirst for booze that he had never experienced prior to his wife’s death; a tendency to drive much too fast and recklessly, though he had previously been a cautious driver. To improve his state of mind, to save himself from himself, he had submerged his pain in the demands of his job, had given his life to the LAPD, trying to forget Barbara Ann in long hours of police work and study. The loss of her left an aching hole in him that would never be filled, but in time he managed to plate over that hole with an obsessive interest in his work and with total dedication to the Department.

  For nineteen years he survived, even thrived, on the monotonous regimen of a workaholic. As a uniformed officer, he could not extend his working hours, so he went to school five nights a week and Saturdays, until he earned a Bachelor of Science in Criminology. He used his degree and his superb service record to climb into the ranks of the plainclothes detectives, where he could labor well beyond his scheduled tour of duty each day without screwing up a dispatcher’s roster. During his ten- and twelve-and fourteen-hour workdays, he thought of nothing else but the cases to which he had been assigned. Even when he wasn’t on the job, he thought about current investigations to the exclusion of just about everything else, pondered them while standing in the shower and while trying to fall asleep at night, mulled over new evidence while eating his early breakfasts and his solitary late-night dinners. He read almost nothing but criminology textbooks and case studies of criminal types. For nineteen years he was a cop’s cop, a detective’s detective.

  In all that time, he never got serious about a woman. He didn’t have time for dating, and someh
ow it didn’t seem right to him. It wasn’t fair to Barbara Ann. He led a celibate’s life for weeks, then indulged in a few nights of torrid release with a series of paid partners. In a way he could not fully understand, having sex with a hooker was not a betrayal of Barbara Ann’s memory, for the exchange of cash for services made it strictly a business transaction and not a matter of the heart in even the slightest regard.

  And then he met Wilma Compton.

  Leaning back against the booth in The Bolt Hole, Frank seemed to choke on the woman’s name. He wiped one hand across his clammy face, pushed spread fingers through his hair, and said, “I need another double Scotch.” He made a great effort to articulate each syllable, but that only made him sound more thoroughly drunk than if he had slurred and mangled his words.

  “Sure,” Tony said. “Another Scotch. But we ought to get a bite of something, too.”

  “Not hungry,” Frank said.

  “They make excellent cheeseburgers,” Tony said. “Let’s get a couple of those and some French fries.”

  “No. Just Scotch for me.”

  Tony insisted, and finally Frank agreed to the burger but not the fries.

  Penny took the food order, but when she heard Frank wanted another Scotch, she wasn’t sure that was a good idea.

  “I didn’t drive here,” Frank assured her, again stressing each sound in each word. “I came in a taxi ’cause I intended to get stupid drunk. I’ll go home in a taxi, too. So please, you dimpled little darling, bring me another of those delicious double Scotches.”

  Tony nodded at her. “If he can’t get a cab later, I’ll take him home.”

  She brought new drinks for both of them. A half-finished beer stood in front of Tony, but it was warm and flat, and Penny took it away.

  Wilma Compton.

  Wilma was twelve years younger than Frank, thirty-one when he first met her. She was charming, petite, pretty, and dark-eyed. Slender legs. Supple body. Exciting swell of hips. A tight little ass. A pinched waist and breasts a shade too full for her size. She wasn’t quite as lovely or quite as charming or quite as petite as Barbara Ann had been. She didn’t have Barbara Ann’s quick wit or Barbara Ann’s industrious nature or Barbara Ann’s compassion. But on the surface, at least, she bore enough resemblance to the long-dead woman to stir Frank’s dormant interest in romance.

  Wilma was a waitress at a coffee shop where policemen often ate lunch. The sixth time she waited on Frank, he asked for a date, and she said yes. On their fourth date, they went to bed. Wilma had the same hunger and energy and willingness to experiment that had made Barbara Ann a wonderful lover. If at times she seemed totally concerned with her own gratification and not at all interested in his, Frank was able to convince himself that her selfishness would pass, that it was merely the result of her not having had a satisfying relationship in a long time. Besides, he was proud that he could arouse her so easily, so completely. For the first time since he’d slept with Barbara Ann, love was a part of his lovemaking, and he’d thought he perceived the same emotion in Wilma’s response to him. After they had been sleeping together for two months, he asked her to marry him. She said no, and thereafter she no longer wanted to date him; the only time he could see her and talk to her was when he stopped at the coffee shop.

  Wilma was admirably forthright about her reasons for refusing him.

  She wanted to get married; she was actively looking for the right man, but the right man had to have a substantial bankroll and a damned good job. A cop, she said, would never make enough money to provide her with the lifestyle and the security she wanted. Her first marriage had failed largely because she and her husband had always been arguing about bills and budgets. She had discovered that worries about finances could burn the love out of a relationship, leaving only an ashy shell of bitterness and anger. That had been a terrible experience, and she had made up her mind never to go through it again. She didn’t rule out marrying for love, but there had to be financial security as well. She was afraid she sounded hard, but she could not endure the kind of pain she had endured before. She got all shaky-voiced and teary-eyed when she spoke of it. She would not, she said, risk the unbearably sad and depressing dissolution of another love affair because of a lack of money.

  Strangely, her determination to marry for money did not decrease Frank’s respect for her or dampen his ardor. Because he had been lonely for so long, he was eager to continue their relationship, even if he had to wear the biggest pair of rose-colored glasses ever made in order to maintain the illusion of romance. He revealed his financial situation to her, virtually begged her to look at his savings account passbook and short-term certificates of deposit which totaled nearly thirty-two thousand dollars. He told her what his salary was and carefully explained that he would be able to retire fairly young with a fine pension, young