Dean Koontz: The Voice of the Night

To old friends-Harry and Diane Recard Andy and Ann Wickstrom — who, like wine, get better year by year

“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.

“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.”