by Dean Koontz
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
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
The acclaimed bestsellers by Dean Koontz
THE EYES OF DARKNESS
“Koontz puts his readers through the emotional wringer.”—The Associated Press
THE KEY TO MIDNIGHT
“An exceptional novelist... top-notch.”
3 —Lincoln Journal-Star
MR. MURDER
“A truly harrowing tale ... superb work by a master at the top of his form.”
—The Washington Post Book World
THE FUNHOUSE
“Koontz is a terrific what-if storyteller.”—People
DRAGON TEARS
“A razor-sharp, nonstop, suspenseful story ... a first-rate literary experience.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
SHADOWFIRES
“His prose mesmerizes ... Koontz consistently hits the bull‘s-eye.” —Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
HIDEAWAY
“Not just a thriller but a meditation on the nature of good and evil.”—Lexington Herald-Leader
COLD FIRE
“An extraordinary piece of fiction ... It will be a classic.”—UPI
THE HOUSE OF THUNDER
“Koontz is brilliant.”—Chicago Sun-Times
THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT
“A fearsome tour of an adolescent’s psyche. Terrifying, knee-knocking suspense.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
THE BAD PLACE
“A new experience in breathless terror.”—UPI
THE SERVANTS OF TWILIGHT
“A great storyteller.” —New York Daily News
MIDNIGHT
“A triumph.”—The New York Times
LIGHTNING
“Brilliant ... a spine-tingling tale ... both challenging and entertaining.”—The Associated Press
THE MASK
“Koontz hones his fearful yarns to a gleaming edge.”—People
WATCHERS
“A breakthrough for Koontz ... his best ever.”
—Kirkus Reviews
TWILIGHT EYES
“A spine-chilling adventure ...will keep you turning pages to the very end.”—Rave Reviews
STRANGERS
“A unique spellbinder that captures the reader on the first page. Exciting, enjoyable, and an intensely satisfying read.”—Mary Higgins Clark
PHANTOMS
“First-rate suspense, scary, and stylish.”
—Los Angeles Times
WHISPERS
“Pulls out all the stops ... an incredible, terrifying tale.” —PublishersWeekly
NIGHT CHILLS
“Will send chills down your back.”
—The New York Times
DARKFALL
“A fast-paced tale ... one of the scariest chase scenes ever.”—The Hoaston Post
SHATTERED
“A chilling tale ... sleek as a bullet.”
—PublishersWeekly
THE VISION
“Spine-tingling—it gives you an almost lethal shock.” —San Francisco Chronicle
THE FACE OF FEAR
“Real suspense ... tension upon tension.”
—The New York Times
Berkley titles by Dean Koontz
THE EYES OF DARKNESS
THE KEY TO MIDNIGHT
MR. MURDER
THE FUNHOUSE
DRAGON TEARS
SHADOWFIRES
HIDEAWAY
COLD FIRE
THE HOUSE OF THUNDER
THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT
THE BAD PLACE
THE SERVANTS OF TWILIGHT
MIDNIGHT
LIGHTNING
THE MASK
WATCHERS
TWILIGHT EYES
STRANGERS
DEMON SEED
PHANTOMS
WHISPERS
NIGHT CHILLS
DARKFALL
SHATTERED
THE VISION
THE FACE OF FEAR
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Voice of the Nightwas previously published under the pseudonym Brian Coffey.
THE VOICE OF NIGHT
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Nkui, Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Doubleday edition published 1980
Signet edition /August 1981
Berkley edition / July 1991
Copyright © 1980 by Nkui, Inc.
All rights rexrved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-17363-3
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To old friends—Harry and Diane Recard Andy and Ann Wickstrom —who, like wine, get better year by year
A faint cold fear thrills through my veins.
—SHAKESPEARE
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 to 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, suddenly remembering, “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 knowl”
“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!”
“So what?”
“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 com 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.
“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.”