Dean Koontz - The Voice of the Night

He went through the papers for the next week with special care, looking for follow-up stories. There were three.

FIRE MARSHAL’S REPORT

PLAYING WITH MATCHES

According to the final, official statement, Philip Pacino had caused the blaze. He had been playing with matches near a workbench on which he constructed model airplanes. Apparently there had been a number of highly flammable items on the bench, including several tubes and pots of glue, a can of lighter fluid, and an open bottle of paint remover.

The second follow-up was a page-two report of the boy’s funeral. The story contained tributes from Philip’s teachers, teary remembrances from his friends, and excerpts from the eulogy. A photograph of the grieving parents headed the three-column piece.

Colin read it twice with great interest because one of Philip Pacino’s friends quoted in the story was Roy Borden.

Two days later there was a long editorial that was hard-hitting by the News Register’s standards.

PREVENTING TRAGEDY WHO’S RESPONSIBLE?

In none of the four pieces was there the slightest indication that the police or the fire department suspected murder and arson. From the beginning they had assumed it was an accident, the result of carelessness or adolescent foolishness.

But I know the truth, Colin thought.

He was weary. He had been at the microfilm reader for almost two hours. He switched off the machine, stood up, and stretched.

He didn’t have the library to himself any more. A woman in a red dress was looking through the magazine racks. At one of the tables in the center of the room, a chubby, balding priest was reading an enormous book and assiduously taking notes.

Colin walked to one of the two, big, mullioned windows at the east end of the room and sat sideways on the two-foot-deep sill. He stared through the dusty glass, thinking. Beyond the window lay a Roman Catholic cemetery, and at the far end of the graveyard, Our Lady of Sorrows Church watched over the remains of its ascended parishioners.

“Hi there.”

Colin looked up, surprised. It was Heather.

“Oh hi,” he said. He started to get up.

“Don’t move on my account,” she said in a soft, library voice. “I can’t stay long. I have some errands to run for my mother. I just stopped in to pick up a book, and I saw you sitting here.”

She was wearing a maroon T-shirt and white shorts.

“You look terrific,” Colin said, keeping his voice as low as hers.

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“I really mean it.”

“Thank you.”

“Absolutely terrific.”

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“Why? ‘Cause I said you look terrific?”

“Well… in a way, yeah.”

“You mean you’d feel better if I said you looked awful?”

She laughed self-consciously. “No. Of course not. It’s just that… no one ever told me I looked terrific before.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No.”

“No guy ever told you that? What are they-all blind or something?”

She was blushing. “Well, I know I’m not really all that terrific.”

“Sure you are.”

“My mouth’s too big,” she said.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve got a wide mouth.”

“I like it.”

“And my teeth aren’t the greatest.”

“They’re very white.”

“And a couple of them are kind of crooked.”

“Not so that anyone would notice,” Colin said.

“I hate my hands,” she said.

“Huh? Why?”

“My fingers are so stubby. My mother has long, elegant fingers. But mine look like little sausages.”

“That’s silly. You have nice fingers.”

“And my knees are knobby,” she said.

“Your knees are perfect,” he said.

“Just listen to me,” she said nervously. “A boy finally says I look nice, and I try to make him change his mind.”

Colin was amazed to discover that even a pretty girl like Heather could have doubts about herself. He always had thought that those kids he admired-those golden, blue-eyed, strong-limbed California boys and girls-were a race above all others, superior creatures who glided through life with perfect self-confidence, with an unshakable sense of worth and purpose. He was both pleased and displeased to discover this crack in the myth. He suddenly realized that those special, radiant kids were not really very different from him, that they were not so superior as he had thought they were, and this discovery buoyed him. On the other hand, he felt as if he had lost something important-a pleasant illusion that, at times, had warmed him.

“Are you waiting for Roy?” Heather asked.

He shifted uneasily on his windowsill seat. “Uh … no. I’m just doing some… research.”

“I thought you were looking out the window for Roy.”

“Just resting. Taking a break.”

“I think it’s nice how he shows up every day,” she said.

“Who?”

“Roy.”

“Shows up where?”

“There,” she said, gesturing toward something beyond the window.

Colin looked through the glass, then back at the girl. “You mean he goes to church every day?”

“No. The graveyard. Don’t you know about it?”

“Tell me.”

“Well… I live in the house across the street. The white one with the blue trim. See it?”

“Yeah.”

“Most times when he comes, I see him.”

“What’s he do there?”

“He visits his sister.”

“He has a sister?”

“Had. She’s dead.”

“He never said a word.”

Heather nodded. “I don’t think he likes to talk about it.”

“Not a word.”

“One time I told him it was really nice, you know, how he stopped at her grave so faithfully. He got mad at me.”

“He did?”

“Mad as hell.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Heather said. “At first I thought maybe he still felt the pain of her death. I thought maybe it still hurt him so much he didn’t want to talk about it. But then later it seemed like he was mad because I’d caught him doing something wrong. But he wasn’t doing anything wrong. It’s kind of weird.”

Colin thought about this news for a moment. He stared at the sunny graveyard. “How’d she die?”

“I don’t know. It happened before my time. I mean, we didn’t move to Santa Leona until three years ago. She was dead long before that.”

A sister.

A dead sister.

Somehow, that was the key.

“Well,” Heather said, unaware of the importance of the information she had given him, “I’ve got to be going. My mother gave me a shopping list. She expects me back with everything in an hour or so. She doesn’t like people who are late. She says tardiness is a sign of a sloppy, selfish person. I’ll see you at six o‘clock.”

“I’m sorry we have to go to the early show,” Colin said.

“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s the same movie no matter what time it’s shown.”

“And like I said, I’ve got to be home by nine o‘clock or so, before it gets completely dark. That’s a real drag.”

“No,” she said. “That’s okay, too. You’re not going to be punished forever. The curfew’s only for a month, right? Don’t worry about it. We’ll have fun. See you later.”

“Later,” he said.

He watched her walk across the quiet library. When she was gone, he turned his gaze to the graveyard once more.

A dead sister.

Colin had no trouble finding the tombstone; it was like a beacon. It was bigger and shinier and fancier than any other rock in the graveyard. Mr. and Mrs. Borden had spared no expense in the matter. It was a very elaborate stone, done in sections, constructed both of granite and marble, joined together almost seamlessly. Every aspect of it was artfully shaped and highly polished. Wide, beveled letters were cut deep into the richly veined, mirror surface of the marble.