The Voice of the Night by Dean Koontz

friend. What a truly terrific buddy. Blood brothers. He could still feel the shallow puncture in the palm of his hand; it throbbed faintly. Roy was on his side, there to help, now and forever, always and always, or at least until one of them died. That’s what it meant to be blood brothers. Roy would protect him.
    He thought about his best friend, papered over the visions of monsters with images of Roy Borden, blocked out the voice of the night with memories of Roy’s voice, and shortly before two o‘clock he drifted into sleep. But there were nightmares.

13

    The alarm clock woke him at six-thirty.
    He got out of bed and pulled open the drapes. For a minute or two he basked in the wan early-morning sunshine, which had no voice and presented no threat.
    Twenty minutes later he was showered and dressed.
    He walked down the hall to his mother’s room and found the door ajar. He rapped lightly, but there was no response. He pushed the door open a few inches and saw her. She was out cold, lying on her belly, her face turned toward him; the knuckles of her left hand were pressed against her slack mouth. Her eyelids fluttered as if she was dreaming; she breathed shallowly and rhythmically. The sheet had pulled halfway down her body during the night. She appeared to be nude beneath the flimsy covers. Her back was bare, and he could see just a hint of her left breast, an exciting suggestion of fullness where it was squashed against the mattress. He stared at the smooth flesh, hoping she would roll over in her sleep and reveal the entire, soft, white globe.
    —She’s your own mother!
    But she’s built.
    —Close the door.
    Maybe she’ll roll over.
    —You don’t want to see.
    Like hell I don’t. Roll over!
    —Close the door.
    I want to see her breasts.
    —This is disgusting.
    Her tits.
    —Jeez.
    I’d sure like to touch them.
    —Are you crazy?
    Sneak in and touch ‘em without waking her.
    —You’re turning into a pervert. A regular goddamned pervert. You ought to be ashamed.
    Blushing, he quietly closed the door. His hands were cold and damp with sweat.
    He went downstairs and ate breakfast: two cookies and a glass of orange juice.
    Although he tried to clear his mind of it, he could think of nothing except Weezy’s bare back and the plump outline of her breast.
    “What’s happening to me?” he said aloud.

14

    His father arrived in a white Cadillac at 7:05, and Colin was waiting for him at the curb in front of the house.
    The old man slapped him on the shoulder and said, “How ya doin‘, Junior?”
    “Okay,” Colin said.
    “Ready to catch some big ones?”
    “I guess.”
    “They’re going to be biting today.”
    “They are?”
    “That’s the word.”
    “From who?”
    “From those who know.”
    “The fish?”
    His father glanced at him. “What?”
    “Who are those who know?”
    “Charlie and Irv.”
    “Who’re they?”
    “The guys who run the charter service.”
    “Oh.”
    Sometimes Colin had difficulty believing that Frank Jacobs was really his father. They were not at all alike. Frank was a big, rangy, rugged man, six-foot-two, a hundred and eighty pounds, with long arms and large, leathery hands. He was an excellent fisherman, a hunter with many trophies, and a highly skilled archer. He was a poker player, a partygoer, a hard drinker but not a drunk, an extrovert, a man’s man. Colin admired some of his father’s qualities; however, there was a great deal that he merely tolerated, and a few things that aroused anger, fear, and even hatred. For one thing, Frank routinely refused to admit to his mistakes, even when proof of them was before his eyes. On those rare occasions when he realized he could not avoid an owning up, he sulked like a spoiled child, as if it were grossly unfair for him to be held responsible for the results of his own errors. He never read books or any magazines other than those published for sportsmen, yet he had an unshakable opinion about everything from the