Dean Koontz - The Voice of the Night

Roy walked his bike with his head thrust forward, shoulders hunched, muscles corded in his neck, as if he expected someone to strike him hard on the back of the head. Even in the fast-dwindling, purple-amber light of late evening, the sudden sprinkle of sweat on his forehead and upper lip was visible; darkly glistening jewels. “You can’t trust hardly anyone, hardly anyone at all. Even people who’re supposed to like you can turn on you faster than you think. Even friends. People who say they love you are the worst, the most dangerous, the most untrustworthy of all.” He was breathing harder, talking faster by the moment. “People who say they love you will pounce when they get the chance. You gotta always remember that they’re just waiting for the opportunity to get you. Love’s a trick. A cover. A way to catch you off guard. Never let down your guard. Never.” He glanced at Colin, and his eyes were wild.

“Do you think I’d turn on you, tell lies about you, snitch on you to your parents, things like that?”

“Would you?” Roy asked.

“Of course not.”

“Not even if your own neck was in the wringer, too, and the only way you could save yourself was to snitch on me?”

“Not even then.”

“What if I broke some law, some really serious law, and the cops were after me and came to you with a lot of questions?”

“I wouldn’t snitch on you.”

“I hope you wouldn’t.”

“You can trust me.”

“I hope so. I really hope so.”

“You don’t have to hope. You should know.”

“I gotta be careful.”

“Should I be careful of you?”

Roy said nothing.

“Should I be careful of you?” Colin asked again.

“Maybe. Yeah, maybe you should. When I said we were all just animals, just a bunch of selfish animals, I meant me, too.”

There was such a haunted look in Roy’s eyes, such a knowledge of pain that Colin had to look away.

He didn’t know what had sparked Roy’s diatribe, but he didn’t want to pursue the subject. He was worried that it would lead to an argument and that Roy would never want to see him again; and he desperately wanted to be friends with Roy for the rest of their lives. If he blew apart this relationship, he would never get another chance to be best buddies with anyone as terrific as Roy. He was positive of that. If he spoiled this, he would have to go back to being a loner; and now that he had experienced acceptance, companionship, and involvement, he didn’t think he could go back.

For a while they walked in silence. They crossed a busy side street under a canopy of oak trees and entered another block of the alleyway.

Gradually the extraordinary tension that had given Roy the appearance of an angry snake began to seep out of him, much to Colin’s relief. Roy lifted his head and let his shoulders down and stopped breathing like a horse at the end of an eight-furlong race.

Colin knew a bit about race horses. His father had taken him to the track half a dozen times, expecting him to be impressed with the amount of money wagered and with the sweaty manliness of the sport. Instead, Colin had been delighted by the grace of the horses and had spoken of them as if they were dancers. His father hadn’t liked that and had thereafter gone to the races alone.

He and Roy reached another comer, turned left, out of the alley, and pushed their bicycles along an ivy-framed sidewalk.

Look-alike stucco houses lay on both sides of the street, sheltering under a variety of palm trees, skirted by oleander and jade plants and dracaena and schefflera and roses and cacti and holly and ferns and poinsettia bushes-ugly houses made elegant by California’s lush natural beauty.

Finally Roy spoke. “Colin, you remember what I said about how a guy sometimes has to do things his buddy wants to do even if he himself maybe really doesn’t like it?”

“I remember.”

“That’s one of the true tests of friendship. Don’t you agree?”

“I guess so.”

“For Christ’s sake, can’t you at least once in a while have a firm opinion about something? You never say a flat yes or no. You’re always ‘guessing.’ ”

Stung, Colin said, “All right. I think it’s a true test of friendship. I agree with you.”

“Well, what if I said I wanted to kill something just for fun and I wanted you to help me.”

“You mean like a cat?”

“I’ve already killed a cat.”

“Yeah. It was in all the newspapers.”

“I did. In a cage. Like I said.”

“I just can’t believe it.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Okay, okay,” Colin said. “Let’s not go through the whole argument again. Let’s pretend I swallowed your story-hook, line, and sinker. You killed a cat in a birdcage. So what next-a dog?”

“If I wanted to kill a dog, would you help?”

“Why would you want to?”

“It might be a popper.”

“Jeez.”

“Would you help kill it?”

“Where would you get the dog? You think the humane society gives them out to people who want to torture them?”

“I’d just steal the first pooch I saw,” Roy said.

“Someone’s pet?”

“Sure.”

“How would you kill it?”

“Shoot it. Blow its head off.”

“And the neighbors wouldn’t hear?”

“We’d take it out in the hills first.”

“You expect it to just pose and smile while we plug it?”

“We’d tie it up and shoot it a dozen times.”

“Where do you expect to get the gun?”

“What about your mother?” Roy asked.

“You think my mother sells illegal guns out of the kitchen or something?”

“Doesn’t she have a gun of her own?”

“Sure. A million of ‘em. And a tank and a bazooka and a nuclear missile.”

“Just answer the question.”

“Why would she have a gun?”

“A sexy woman living alone usually has a gun for protection.”

“But she doesn’t live alone,” Colin said. “Did you forget about me?”

“If some crazy rapist wanted to get his hands on your mom, he’d walk right over you.”

“I’m tougher than I look.”

“Be serious. Does your mother have a gun?”

Colin didn’t want to admit there was a gun in the house. He had a hunch that he would save himself a lot of trouble if he lied. But at last he said, “Yeah. She has a pistol.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. But I don’t think she keeps it loaded. She could never shoot anyone. My father loves guns: ergo, my mother hates them. And so do I. I’m not going to borrow her gun to do something crazy like shoot your neighbor’s dog.”

“Well, we could kill it some other way.”

“What would we do-bite it?”

A night bird sang in the branches above them.

The sea breeze was cooler than it had been ten minutes ago.

Colin was tired of pushing the bike, but he sensed that Roy still had a lot to say and wanted to say it quietly, which he couldn’t do if they were riding.

Roy said, “We could tie the dog up and kill it with a pitchfork.”

“Jeez.”

“That would be a popper!”

“You’re making me sick.”

“Would you help me?”

“You don’t need my help.”

“But it would prove you’re not just a fair-weather friend.”

After a long while Colin said, “I suppose if it was really important to you, if you just had to do it or die, I could be there when you did it.”

“What do you mean by ‘be there’?”

“I mean… I guess I could watch.”

“What if I wanted you to do more than watch?”

“Like what?”

“What if I wanted you to take the pitchfork and stab the dog a few times yourself?”

“Sometimes you can be really weird, Roy.”

“Could you stab it?” Roy persisted.