The Voice of the Night by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page A

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 corner, 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