Whispers

by Dean Koontz

  gingerbread. It overlooked the winery that he established, later, on the highland below, and there were only two ways to reach it. The first approach was by aerial tramway, a system comprised of cables, pulleys, electric motors, and one four-seat gondola that carried you from the lower station (a second-floor corner of the main winery building) to the upper station (somewhat to the north of the house on the clifftop). The second approach was by way of a double-switchback staircase fixed to the face of the cliff. Those three hundred and twenty steps were meant to be used only if the aerial tramway broke down—and then only if it was not possible to wait until repairs were made. The house was not merely private; it was remote.

  As Joshua turned from the public road onto a very long private drive that led to the Shade Tree winery, he tried to recall everything he knew about Leo Frye. There was not much. Katherine had seldom spoken of her father, and Leo had not left a great many friends behind.

  Because Joshua hadn’t come to the valley until 1945, a few years after Leo’s death, he’d never met the man, but he’d heard just enough tales about him to form a picture of the sort of mind that hungered for the excessive privacy embodied in that clifftop house. Leo Frye had been cold, stern, somber, self-possessed, obstinate, brilliant, a bit of an egomaniac, and an iron-handed authoritarian. He was not unlike a feudal lord from a distant age, a medieval aristocrat who preferred to live in a well-fortified castle beyond the easy reach of the unwashed rabble.

  Katherine had continued to live in the house after her father died. She raised Bruno in those high-ceilinged rooms, a world far removed from that of the child’s contemporaries, a Victorian world of waist-high wainscoting and flowered wallpaper and crenelated molding and footstools and mantel clocks and lace tablecloths. Indeed, mother and son lived together until he was thirty-five years old, at which time Katherine died of heart disease.

  Now, as Joshua drove up the long macadam lane toward the winery, he looked above the fieldstone and wood buildings. He raised his eyes to the big house that stood like a giant cairn atop the cliff.

  It was strange for a grown man to live with his mother as long as Bruno had lived with Katherine. Naturally, there had been rumors, speculations. The consensus of opinion in St. Helena was that Bruno had little or no interest in girls, that his passions and affections were directed secretly toward young men. It was assumed that he satisfied his desires during his occasional visits to San Francisco, out of sight of his wine country neighbors. Bruno’s possible homosexuality was not a scandal in the valley. Local people didn’t spend a great deal of time talking about it; they didn’t really care. Although St. Helena was a small town, it could claim more than a little sophistication; winemaking made it so.

  But now Joshua wondered if the consensus of local opinion about Bruno had been wrong. Considering the extraordinary events of the past week, it was beginning to appear as if the man’s secret had been much darker and infinitely more terrible than mere homosexuality.

  Immediately after Katherine’s funeral, deeply shaken by her death, Bruno had moved out of the house on the cliff. He took his clothes, as well as large collections of paintings, metal sculptures, and books, which he had acquired on his own; but he left behind everything that belonged to Katherine. Her clothes were left hanging in closets and folded in drawers. Her antique furniture, paintings, porcelains, crystals, music boxes, enameled boxes—all of those things (and much more) could have been sold at auction for a substantial sum. But Bruno insisted that every item be left exactly where Katherine had put it, undisturbed, untouched. He locked the windows, drew the blinds and drapes, closed and bolt-locked the exterior shutters on both the first and second floors, locked the doors, sealed the place tight, as if it were a vault in which he could preserve forever the memory of his adoptive mother.

  When Bruno had rented an apartment and had begun to make plans for the construction of a new house in the vineyards, Joshua had tried to persuade him that it was foolish to leave the contents of the cliff house unattended. Bruno insisted that the house was secure and that its remoteness made it an unlikely target of burglars—especially since burglary was an almost unheard-of crime in the valley. The two approaches to the house—the switchback stairs and the aerial tramway—were deep in Frye property, behind the winery; and the tramway operated only with a key. Besides (Bruno had argued), no one but he and Joshua knew that a great many items of value remained in the old house. Bruno was adamant; Katherine’s belongings must not be touched; and finally, reluctantly, unhappily, Joshua surrendered to his client’s wishes.

  To the best of Joshua’s knowledge, no one had been in the cliff house for five years, not since the day that Bruno had moved out. The tramway was well-maintained, even though the only person who rode it was Gilbert Ulman, a mechanic employed to keep Shade Tree Vineyards’ trucks and farm equipment in good shape; Gil also had the job of regularly inspecting and repairing the aerial tramway system, which required only a couple of hours a month. Tomorrow, or Friday at the latest, Joshua would have to take the cable car to the top of the cliff and open the house, every door and window, so that it could air out before the art appraisers arrived from Los Angeles and San Francisco on Saturday morning.

  At the moment, Joshua was not the least bit interested in Leo Frye’s isolated Victorian redoubt; his business was at Bruno’s more modern and considerably more accessible house. As he drew near the end of the road that led to the winery’s public parking lot, he turned left, onto an extremely narrow driveway that struck south through the sun-splashed vineyards. Vines crowded both sides of the cracked, raggedy-edged blacktop. The pavement led him down one hill, across a shallow glen, up another slope, and ended two hundred yards south of the winery, in a clearing, where Bruno’s house stood with vineyards on all sides. It was a large, single-story, ranch-style, redwood and fieldstone structure shaded by one of the nine mammoth oak trees that dotted the huge property and gave the Frye company its name.

  Joshua got out of the car and walked to the front door of the house. There were only a few high white clouds against the electric-blue sky. The air flowing down from the piney heights of the Mayacamas was crisp and fresh.

  He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stood in the foyer for a moment, listening. He wasn’t sure what he expected to hear.

  Maybe footsteps.

  Or Bruno Frye’s voice.

  But there was only silence.

  He went from one end of the house to the other in order to get to Frye’s study. The decor was proof that Bruno had acquired Katherine’s obsessive compulsion to collect and hoard beautiful things. On some walls, so many fine paintings were hung so close together that their frames touched, and no single piece could claim the eye in that exquisite riot of shape and color. Display cases stood everywhere, filled with art glass and bronze sculpture and crystal paperweights and pre-Columbian statuary. Every room contained far too much furniture, but each piece was a matchless example of its period and style. In the huge study, there were five or six hundred rare books, many of them limited editions that had been bound in leather; and there were a few dozen perfect little scrimshaw figures in a display case; and there were six terribly expensive and flawless crystal balls, one as small as an orange, one as large as a basketball, the others in various sizes between.

  Joshua pulled back the drapes at the window, letting in a little light, switched on a brass lamp, and sat in a modern spring-backed office chair behind an enormous 18th-century English desk. From a jacket pocket he withdrew the strange letter that he had found in the safe-deposit box at the First Pacific United Bank. It was actually just a Xerox; Warren Sackett, the FBI agent, insisted on keeping the original. Joshua unfolded the copy and propped it up where he could see it. He turned to the low typing stand that was beside the desk, pulled it over his lap, rolled a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter, and quickly tapped out the first sentence of the letter.

  My mother, Katherine Anne Frye, died five years ago, but she keeps coming back to life in
new bodies.

  He held the Xerox copy next to the sample and compared them. The type was the same. In both versions, the loop of the lower case “e” was completely filled in with ink because the keys hadn’t been properly cleaned in quite a while. In both, the loop of the lower case “a” was partially occluded, and the lower case “d” printed slightly higher than any of the other characters. The letter had been typed in Bruno Frye’s study, on Bruno Frye’s machine.

  The look-alike, the man who had impersonated Frye in that San Francisco bank last Thursday, apparently possessed a key to the house. But how had he gotten it? The most obvious answer was that Bruno had given it to him, which meant that the man was an employee, a hired double.

  Joshua leaned back in the chair and stared at the Xerox of the letter, and other questions exploded like fireworks in his mind. Why had Bruno felt it necessary to hire a double? Where had he found such a remarkable look-alike? How long ago did the double start to work for him? Doing what? And how often had he, Joshua, spoken to this doppelganger, thinking the man was really Frye? Probably more than once. Perhaps more often than he’d spoken with the real Bruno. There was no way of knowing. Had the double been here, in the house, Thursday morning, when Bruno had died in Los Angeles? Most likely. After all, this was where he had typed the letter that he’d put in the safe-deposit box, so this must be where he had heard the news. But how had he learned about the death so quickly? Bruno’s body had been found next to a public telephone. . . . Was it possible that Bruno’s last act had been to call home and talk to his double? Yes. Possible. Even probable. The telephone company’s records would have to be checked. But what had those two men said to each other as the one died? Could they conceivably share the same psychosis, the belief that Katherine had come back from the grave?

  Joshua shuddered.

  He folded the letter, returned it to his coat pocket.

  For the first time, he realized how gloomy these rooms were—overstuffed with furniture and expensive ornaments, windows covered by heavy drapes, floors carpeted in dark colors. Suddenly, the place seemed far more isolated than Leo’s clifftop retreat.

  A noise. In another room.

  Joshua froze as he was walking around the desk. He waited, listened. “Imagination,” he said, trying to reassure himself.

  He walked swiftly through the house to the front door, and he found that the noise had, indeed, been imaginary. He wasn’t attacked. Nevertheless, when he stepped outside, closed the door, and locked it, he sighed with relief.

  In the car, on his way to his office in St. Helena, he thought of more questions. Who actually had died in Los Angeles last week—Frye or his look-alike? Which of them had been at the First Pacific United Bank on Thursday—the real man or the imitation? Until he knew the answer to that, how could he settle the estate? He had countless questions but damned few answers.

  When he parked behind his office a few minutes later, he realized that he would have to give serious consideration to Mrs. Willis’s advice. Bruno Frye’s grave might have to be opened to determine exactly who was buried in it.

  Tony and Hilary landed in Napa, rented a car, and arrived at the headquarters of the Napa County Sheriff’s Department by 4:20 Wednesday afternoon. The place was not somnolent like the county sheriff’s offices you saw on television. A couple of young deputies and a pair of industrious clerical workers were busy with files and paperwork.

  The sheriff’s secretary-receptionist sat at a large metal desk, identified by a name plaque in front of her typewriter: MARSHA PELETRINO. She was a starched-looking woman with severe features, but her voice was soft, silky, and sexy. Likewise, her smile was far more pleasant and inviting than Hilary had expected.

  When Marsha Peletrino opened the door between the reception area and Peter Laurenski’s private office and announced that Tony and Hilary wanted to see him, Laurenski knew immediately who they were, and he didn’t attempt to avoid them, as they thought he might. He came out of his office and awkwardly shook their hands. He seemed embarrassed. Clearly, he wasn’t looking forward to explaining why he had provided a phony alibi for Bruno Frye last Wednesday night, but in spite of his unconcealed discomfort, he invited Tony and Hilary in for a chat.

  Laurenski was somewhat of a disappointment for Hilary. He was not the sloppy, potbellied, cigar-chewing, easy to hate, small town, good old boy type that she had expected, not the sort of countrified power monger who would lie to protect a wealthy local resident like Bruno Frye. Laurenski was in his thirties, tall, blond, clean-cut, articulate, friendly, and apparently dedicated to his job, a good lawman. There was kindness in his eyes and a surprising gentleness in his voice; in some ways he reminded her of Tony. The Sheriff’s Department’s offices were clean and Spartan rooms where a lot of work got done, and the people who labored there with Laurenski, the deputies and civilians alike, were not patronage cronies but bright and busy public servants. After only one or two minutes with the sheriff, she knew there was not going to be any simple answer to the Frye mystery, no obvious and easily-exposed conspiracy.

  In the sheriff’s private office, she and Tony sat on a sturdy old railback bench that had been made comfortable with corduroy-covered foam pillows. Laurenski pulled up a chair and sat on it the wrong way, with his arms crossed on the backrest.

  He disarmed Hilary and Tony by getting straight to the point and by being hard on himself.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been less than professional about this whole thing,” he said. “I’ve been dodging your department’s phone calls.”

  “That’s the reason we’re here,” Tony said.

  “Is this an . . . official visit of some kind?” Laurenski asked, a bit puzzled.

  “No,” Tony said. “I’m here as a private citizen, not a policeman.”

  “We’ve had an extremely unusual and unsettling experience in the last couple of days,” Hilary said. “Incredible things have happened, and we hope you’ll have an explanation for them.”

  Laurenski raised his eyebrows. “Something more than Frye’s attack on you?”

  “We’ll tell you about it,” Tony said. “But first, we’d like to know why you haven’t answered the LAPD.”

  Laurenski nodded. He was blushing. “I just didn’t know what to say. I’d made a fool of myself by vouching for Frye. I guess I just hoped it would all blow away.”

  “And why did you vouch for him?” Hilary asked.

  “It’s just . . . you see . . . I really did think he was at home that night.”

  “You talked with him?” Hilary asked.

  “No,” Laurenski said. He cleared his throat. “You see, when the call came in that evening, it was taken by a night officer. Tim Larsson. He’s one of my best men. Been with me seven years. A real go-getter. Well . . . when the Los Angeles police called about Bruno Frye, Tim thought he’d better call me and see if I wanted to handle it, since Frye was one of the county’s leading citizens. I was at home that night. It was my daughter’s birthday. As far as my family was concerned, that was a pretty special occasion, and for once I was determined not to let my work intrude on my private life. I have so little time for my kids. . . .”

  “I understand,” Tony said. “I have a hunch you do a good job here. And I’m familiar enough with police work to know that doing a good job requires a hell of a lot more than eight hours a day.”

  “More like twelve hours a day, six or seven days a week,” the sheriff said. “Anyway, Tim called me that night, and I told him to handle it. You see, first of all, it sounded like such a ridiculous inquiry. I mean, Frye was an upstanding businessman, even a millionaire, for God’s sake. Why would he throw it all away trying to rape someone? So I told Tim to look into it and get back to me as soon as he had something. As I said, he’s a very competent officer. Besides, he knew Frye better than I did. Before he decided on a career in law enforcement, Tim worked for five years in the main office at Shade Tree Vineyards. During that time, he saw Frye just about every day.”

  “The
n it was Officer Larsson who checked on Frye last Wednesday night,” Tony said.

  “Yes. He called me back at my daughter’s birthday party. He said Frye was at home, not in Los Angeles. So I returned the call to the LAPD and proceeded to make a fool of myself.”

  Hilary frowned. “I don’t understand. Are you saying that this Tim Larsson lied to you?”

  Laurenski didn’t want to have to answer that one. He got up and paced, staring at the floor, scowling. Finally he said, “I trust Tim Larsson. I always have trusted him. He’s a good man. One of the best. But I just can’t explain this.”

  “Did he have any reason to cover up for Frye?” Tony asked.

  “You mean, were they buddies? No. Nothing like that. They weren’t even friends. He’d only worked for Frye. And he didn’t like the man.”

  “Did he claim to have seen Bruno Frye that night?” Hilary asked Laurenski.

  “At the time,” the sheriff said, “I just assumed he had seen him. But later, Tim said he figured he could identify Frye by phone and that there wasn’t any need to run all the way out there in a patrol car to have a look-see. As you must know, Bruno Frye had a very distinct, very odd voice.”

  “So Larsson might have talked to someone who was covering for Frye, someone who could imitate his voice,” Tony said.

  Laurenski looked at him. “That’s what Tim says. That’s his excuse. But it doesn’t fit. Who would it have been? Why would he cover for rape and murder? Where is he now? Besides, Frye’s voice wasn’t something that could be easily mimicked.”

  “So what do you think?” Hilary asked.

  Laurenski shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve been brooding about it all week. I want to believe my officer. But how can I? Something is going on here—but what? Until I can get a handle on it, I’ve laid Tim off without pay.”

  Tony glanced at Hilary, then back at the sheriff. “When you hear what we’ve got to tell you, I think you’ll be able to believe Officer Larsson.”

  “However,” Hilary said, “you still won’t be able to make sense out of it. We’re in deeper than you are, and we still don’t know what’s going on.”

  She told Laurenski about Bruno Frye being in her house Tuesday morning, five days after his death.

  In his office in St. Helena, Joshua Rhinehart sat at his desk with a glass of Jack Daniel’s Black Label and looked through the file that Ronald Preston had given him in San Francisco. It contained, among other things, clear photocopies of the monthly statements that had been blown up from microfilm records, plus similar copies of the front and back of every check Frye had written. Because Frye had kept the account a secret, tucked away in a city bank where he did no other business, Joshua was convinced that an examination of those records would yield clues to the solution of the dead ringer’s identity.

  During the first three and a half years that the account had been active, Bruno had written two checks each month, never more than that, never fewer. And the checks were always to the same people—Rita Yancy and Latham Hawthorne—names which meant nothing to Joshua.

  For reasons not specified, Mrs. Yancy had received five hundred dollars a month. The only thing Joshua could deduce from the photocopies of those checks was that Rita Yancy must live in Hollister, California, for she deposited every one of them in a Hollister bank.

  No two of the checks to Latham Hawthorne were for the same amount; they ranged from a couple of hundred dollars to five or six thousand. Apparently, Hawthorne lived in San Francisco, for all of his deposits were made at the same branch of the Wells Fargo Bank in that city. Hawthorne’s checks were all endorsed with a rubber stamp that read:

  FOR DEPOSIT ONLY

  TO THE ACCOUNT OF:

  Latham Hawthorne

  ANTIQUARIAN BOOKSELLER

  &

  OCCULTIST

  Joshua stared at that last word for a while. Occultist. It was obviously derived from the word “occult” and was intended by Hawthorne to describe his profession, or at least half of it, rare book dealing being the other half. Joshua thought he knew what the word meant, but he was not certain.

  Two walls of his office were lined with law books and reference works. He had three dictionaries, and he looked up “occultist” in all of them. The first two did not contain the word, but the third gave him a definition that was pretty much what he had expected. An occultist was someone who believed in the rituals and supernatural powers of various “occult sciences”—including, but not limited to, astrology, palmistry, black magic, white magic, demonolatry, and Satanism. According to the dictionary, an occultist could also be someone who sold the paraphernalia required to engage in any of those odd pursuits—books, costumes, cards, magical instruments, sacred relics, rare herbs, pig-tallow candles, and the like.

  In the five years between Katherine’s death and his own demise, Bruno Frye had paid more than one hundred and thirty thousand dollars to Latham Hawthorne. There was nothing on any of the checks to indicate what he had received in return for all that money.

  Joshua refilled his glass with whiskey and returned to his desk.

  The file on Frye’s secret bank accounts showed that he had written two checks a month for the first three and a half years, but then three checks a month for the past year and a half. One to Rita Yancy, one to Latham Hawthorne, as before. And now a third check to Dr. Nicholas W. Rudge. All of the checks to the doctor had been deposited in a San Francisco branch of the Bank of America, so Joshua assumed the physician lived in that city.

  He placed a call to San Francisco Directory Assistance, then another to Directory Assistance in the 408 area code, which included the town of Hollister. In less than five minutes, he had telephone numbers for Hawthorne, Rudge, and Rita Yancy.

  He called the Yancy woman first.

  She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Yancy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rita Yancy?”

  “That’s right.” She had a pleasant, gentle, melodic voice. “Who’s this?”

  “My name’s Joshua Rhinehart. I’m calling from St. Helena. I’m the executor for the estate of the late Bruno Frye.”

  She didn’t respond.