Dean Koontz - The Voice of the Night

He closed his eyes and pictured himself dancing with Heather in a magnificent ballroom. He was wearing a tuxedo. She was in a red gown. There was a crystal chandelier. They danced so well together that they seemed to be floating.

Early Monday afternoon, Colin was at the worktable in his bedroom, putting together a plastic model of Lon Chaney as the Phantom of the Opera. When the telephone rang, he had to run into his mother’s room to answer it, for he had no extension of his own.

It was Roy. “Colin, you’ve got to come right away.”

“Come where?”

“My house.”

Colin looked at the digital read-out clock on the nightstand: 1:05. He said, “We were supposed to meet at two o‘clock.”

“I know. But you’ve got to come now.”

“Why?”

“My folks aren’t home, and there’s something here that you absolutely have to see. I can’t talk about it on the phone. You’ve got to come now, right away, just as quick as you can. Hurry!”

Roy hung up.

The game continues, Colin thought.

Ten minutes later, Colin rang the bell at the Borden house.

Roy answered the door. He was flushed and excited.

“What’s up?” Colin asked.

Roy pulled him inside and slammed the door. They stood in the foyer. The immaculate living room lay beyond; the emerald-green drapes filtered the sun and fllled the place with cold light that gave Colin the feeling they were deep beneath the sea.

“I want you to get a good look at Sarah,” Roy said.

“Who?”

“I told you about her Friday night, when we were at the beach steps on the palisades, just before we split up. She’s the girl, the one who looks good enough to be in a pom movie, the one I think we can find a way to screw.”

Colin blinked. “You’ve got her here?”

“Not exactly. Come on upstairs. You’ll see.”

Colin had never been in Roy’s bedroom before, and it surprised him. It didn’t look like a kid’s room; in fact, it didn’t look like a place where anyone, either child or adult, really lived. The nap on the carpet stood up as if it had been vacuumed only minutes ago. The dark pine furniture was highly polished; Colin couldn’t see a nick or a scratch in it, but he could see his reflection. No dust. No grime. No fingerprints around the light switch. The bed was neatly made, the lines as straight and the comers as tightly tucked as those on a bunk in an Army barracks. In addition to the furniture, there was a big red dictionary and the uniform volumes of an encyclopedia. But nothing else. Nothing else at all. There were no knickknacks, no model airplanes, no comic books, no sports equipment, nothing to show that Roy had any hobbies or even any normal human interests. Quite clearly, the room was a mirror of Mrs. Borden’s personality and not her son’s.

To Colin’s eyes, the oddest thing about the place was the total absence of decoration on the walls. No paintings. No photographs. No posters. In the downstairs foyer, in the living room, and on the wall along the stairs, there were a couple of oils, a watercolor, and a few inexpensive prints, but here the walls were bare and white. Colin felt as if he were in a monk’s cell.

Roy led him to a window.

Not more than fifty feet away, in the backyard of the house next door, a woman was sunbathing. She was wearing a white bikini and was lying on a red beach towel that was draped across a cot. Small cotton pads shielded her eyes from the sun.

“She’s really a terrific piece of ass,” Roy said.

Her arms were at her sides, palms turned up as if in supplication. She was tan and lean and shapely.

“That’s Sarah?” Colin asked.

“Sarah Callahan. She lives next door.” Roy picked up a pair of binoculars that had been on the floor beneath the window. “Here. Take a closer look.”

“What if she sees me?”

“She won’t.”

He put the glasses to his eyes, focused them, and found the woman. If she actually had been as close as she suddenly appeared to be, she would have felt his breath on her skin.

Sarah was beautiful. Even in repose, her features held great sensual promise. Her lips were full, ripe; she licked them once while he watched.

A peculiar sense of power overcame Colin. In his mind he touched and caressed Sarah Callahan, but in reality she was unaware of it. The binoculars were his lips and tongue and fingers, feeling and tasting her, exploring her, surreptitiously violating the sanctity of her body. He experienced mild synesthesia: Magically, his eyes seemed to possess senses other than sight. With his eyes he smelled her fresh, thick, yellow hair. With his eyes he felt the texture of her skin, the pliancy of her flesh, the soft roundness of her breasts, and the moist warmth in the musky junction of her thighs. With his eyes he kissed her concave belly and tasted the salty beads of perspiration that ringed her like a jeweled belt. For a moment Colin felt that he could do anything to her that he wished; he had complete immunity. He was the invisible man.

“How’d you like to get in her pants?” Roy asked.

Finally Colin lowered the binoculars.

“You want her?” Roy asked.

“Who wouldn’t?”

“We can have her.”

“You’re living in a dream.”

“Her husband’s at work all day.”

“So?”

“She’s pretty much alone over there.”

“What do you mean-‘pretty much’?”

“She has a five-year-old kid.”

“Then she’s not alone at all.”

“The kid won’t give us any trouble.”

Colin knew that Roy was playing the game again, but this time he decided to play along. “What’s your plan?”

“We just go over and knock on the door. She knows me. She’ll open up.”

“And then?”

“You and me can handle her. We’ll push inside, knock her down. I’ll put a knife at her throat.”

“She’ll scream.”

“Not with a knife at her throat.”

“She’ll think you’re bluffing.”

“If she does,” Roy said, “I’ll cut her a little to show we mean business.”

“What about the kid?”

“I’ll have Sarah under control, so you’ll be free to catch the brat and tie him up.”

“What’ll I tie him with?”

“We’ll take along some clothesline.”

“After I’ve gotten him out of the way, what happens?”

Roy grinned. “Then we’ll strip her, tie her to the bed, and use her.”

“And you think she’s not going to tell anybody what we’ve done?”

“Oh, of course, when we’re finished with her, we’ll have to kill her.”

“And the kid, too?” Colin asked.

“He’s a rotten little brat. I’d like to snuff him most of all.”

“It’s a bad idea. Forget it.”

“Yesterday, you dared me to kill someone,” Roy said. “And now the idea scares you.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“What do you mean?”

Colin sighed. “You’ve protected yourself by coming up with a plan that can’t possibly work. You figured I’d shoot it down, and then you could say, ‘Well, I wanted to prove I could kill someone, but Colin chickened out on me.’”

“What’s wrong with my plan?” Roy demanded.

“First of all, you live next door to her.”

“So what?”

“The cops would suspect you right off.”

“Me? I’m just a fourteen-year-old kid.”

“Old enough to be a suspect.”

“You really think so?”

“Sure.”

“Well … you could give me an alibi. You could swear I was at your house when she was murdered.”

“Then they’d suspect both of us.”

For a long time Roy stared down at Sarah Callahan. Finally he turned away from the window and began to pace. “What we’d have to do is leave clues that pointed away from us. We’d have to mislead them.”