The Voice of the Night Read online

  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

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 37S Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  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.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  Visit our website at www.penguin.com.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17363-3

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. The “B” design is a trademark bel
onging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  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.
r />   “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.”