The Voice of the Night

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

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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 Night
was 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

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eISBN : 978-1-101-17363-3

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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

“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.