Whispers by Dean Koontz Page A

dialed the police, she was in no condition to give the calm and reasoned report she had planned. The events of the past hour had affected her far more profoundly than she had thought at first, and recovering from the shock might take days, even weeks.
    After she hung up the receiver, she felt better, just knowing help was on the way. As she went downstairs, she said aloud, “Stay calm. Just stay calm. You’re Hilary Thomas. You’re tough. Tough as nails. You aren’t scared. Not ever. Everything will be okay.” It was the same litany that she had repeated as a child so many nights in that Chicago apartment. By the time she reached the first door, she had begun to get a grip on herself.
    She was standing in the foyer, staring out the narrow leaded window beside the door, when a car stopped in the driveway. Two men got out of it. Although they had not come with sirens blaring and red lights flashing, she knew they were the police, and she unlocked the door, opened it.
    The first man onto the front stoop was powerfully built, blond, blue-eyed, and had the hard no-nonsense voice of a cop. He had a gun in his right hand. “Police. Who’re you?”
    “Thomas,” she said. “Hilary Thomas. I’m the one who called.”
    “This your house?”
    “Yes. There was a man—”
    A second detective, taller and darker than the first, appeared out of the night and interrupted her before she could finish the sentence. “Is he on the premises?”
    “What?”
    “Is the man who assaulted you still here?”
    “Oh, no. Gone. He’s gone.”
    “Which way did he go?” the blond man asked.
    “Out this door.”
    “Did he have a car?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Was he armed?”
    “No. I mean, yes.”
    “Which is it?”
    “He had a knife. But not now.”
    “Which way did he run when he left the house?”
    “I don’t know. I was upstairs. I—”
    “How long ago did he leave?” the tall dark one asked.
    “Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago.”
    They exchanged a look that she did not understand but which she knew, immediately, was not good for her.
    “What took you so long to call it in?” the blond asked.
    He was slightly hostile.
    She felt she was losing some important advantage that she could not identify.
    “At first I was . . . confused,” she said. “Hysterical. I needed a few minutes to get myself together.”
    “Twenty minutes?”
    “Maybe it was only fifteen.”
    Both detectives put away their revolvers.
    “We’ll need a description,” the dark one said.
    “I can give you better than that,” she said as she stepped aside to let them enter. “I can give you a name.”
    “A name?”
    “His name. I know him,” she said. “The man who attacked me. I know who he is.”
    The two detectives gave each other that look again.
    She thought: What have I done wrong?
     
Hilary Thomas was one of the most beautiful women Tony had ever seen. She appeared to have a few drops of Indian blood. Her hair was long and thick, darker than his own, a glossy raven-black. Her eyes were dark, too, the whites as clear as pasteurized cream. Her flawless complexion was a light milky bronze shade, probably largely the result of carefully measured time in the California sun. If her face was a bit long, that was balanced by the size of her eyes (enormous) and by the perfect shape of her patrician nose, and by the almost obscene fullness of her lips. Hers was an erotic face, but an intelligent and kind face as well, the face of a woman capable of great tenderness and compassion. There was also pain in that countenance, especially in those fascinating eyes, the kind of pain that came from experience, knowledge; and Tony expected that it was not merely the pain she’d suffered that night; some of it went back a long, long time.
    She sat on one end of the brushed corduroy sofa in the book-lined study, and Tony sat on the other end. They were alone.
    Frank was in the kitchen, talking on the phone to a desk man at headquarters.
    Upstairs,