by Dean Koontz
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
part one - FRIDAY 12:01 A.M. 8:00 P.M.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
part two - FRIDAY 8:00 P.M. 8:30 P.M.
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
part three - FRIDAY 8:30 P.M. 10:30 P.M.
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
part four - FRIDAY 10:30 P.M. SATURDAY 4:00 A.M.
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
epilogue
THE ACCLAIMED BESTSELLERS BY DEAN KOONTZ
The Eyes of Darkness
“Koontz puts his readers through the emotional wringer!”—Associated Press
“An exceptional novelist... top-notch!”
—Lincoln Star-Journal
“A truly harrowing tale... superb work by a master at the top of his form.”
—Washington Post Book World
“Koontz is a terrific what-if storyteller.” -People
“A razor-sharp, nonstop, suspenseful story ... a first-rate literary experience.”
—San Diego Union-Tribune
“His prose mesmerizes ... Koontz consistently hits the bull’s-eye.” -Arkansas Democrat
“Not just a thriller but a meditation on the nature of good and evil.” —Lexington Herald-Leader
“An extraordinary piece of fiction ... It will be a classic.” -UPI
The House of Thunder
“Koontz is brilliant.” -Chicago Sun-Times
“A fearsome tour of an adolescent’s psyche. Terrifying, knee-knocking suspense.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“A new experience in breathless terror.”—UPI
“A great storyteller.”—New York Daily News
“Brilliant ... a spine-tingling tale ... both challenging and entertaining.—Associated Press”
The Mask
“Koontz hones his fearful yarns to a gleaming edge.” —People
“A breakthrough for Koontz ... his best ever.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A spine-chilling adventure ... will keep you turning pages to the very end.” —Rave Reviews
Strangers
“A unique spellbinder that captures the reader on the first page. Exciting, enjoyable, and an intensely satisfying read.”—Mary Higgins Clark
“First-rate suspense, scary and stylish.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Pulls out all the stops ... an incredible, terrifying tale.” —Publishers Weekly
“Will send chills down your back.”
—New York Times
“A fast-paced tale ... one of the scariest chase scenes ever.” —Houston Post
“A chilling tale ... sleek as a bullet.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Spine-tingling—it gives you an almost lethal shock.” —San Francisco Chronicle
“Real suspense ... tension upon tension.”
—New York Times
Berkley titles by Dean Koontz
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
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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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 FACE OF FEAR
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Bobbs-Merrill edition published 1977
Berkley edition / September 1985
Copyright © 1977 by Nkui, Inc.
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eISBN : 978-1-4406-2061-4
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For Barbara Norville
part one
FRIDAY 12:01 A.M. 8:00 P.M.
1
Wary, not actually expecting trouble but prepared for it, he parked his car across the street from the four-story brownstone apartment house. When he switched off the engine, he heard a siren wail in the street behind him.
&n
bsp; They’re coming for me, he thought. Somehow they’ve found out I’m the one.
He smiled. He wouldn’t let them put the handcuffs on him. He wouldn’t go easily. That wasn’t his style.
Frank Bollinger was not easily frightened. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever having been frightened. He knew how to take care of himself. He had reached six feet when he was thirteen years old, and he hadn’t quit growing until he was six-four. He had a thick neck, broad shoulders and the biceps of a young weightlifter. At thirty-seven he was in virtually the same good condition, at least outwardly, as he had been when he was twenty-seven—or even seventeen. Curiously enough, he never exercised. He had neither the time nor the temperament for endless series of push-ups and sit-ups and running in place. His size and his hard-packed muscles were nature’s gifts, simply a matter of genetics. Although he had a voracious appetite and never dieted, he was not girdled with rings of extra weight in the hips and stomach, as were most men his age. His doctor had explained to him that, because he suffered constantly from extreme nervous tension and because he refused to take the drugs that would bring his condition under control, he would most likely die young of hypertension. Strain, anxiety, nervous tension—these were what kept the weight off him, said the doctor. Wound tight, roaring inside like a perpetually accelerating engine, he burned away the fat, regardless of how much he ate.
But Bollinger found that he could agree with only half of that diagnosis. Nervous: no. Tension: yes. He was never nervous; that word had no meaning for him. However, he was always tense. He strove for tension, worked at building it, for he thought of it as a survival factor. He was always watchful. Always aware. Always tense. Always ready. Ready for anything. That was why there was nothing that he feared: nothing on earth could surprise him.
As the siren grew louder, he glanced at the rear-view mirror. A bit more than a block away, a revolving red light pulsed in the night.
He took the .38 revolver out of his shoulder holster. He put one hand on the door and waited for the right moment to throw it open.
The squad car bore down on him—then swept past. It turned the corner two blocks away.
They weren’t on his trail after all.
He felt slightly disappointed.
He put the gun away and studied the street. Six mercury vapor street lamps—two at each end of the block and two in the middle—drenched the pavement and the automobiles and the buildings in an eerie purple-white light. The street was lined with three- and four-story townhouses, some of them brownstones and some brick, most of them in good repair. There didn’t seem to be anyone at any of the lighted windows. That was good; he did not want to be seen. A few trees struggled for life at the edges of the sidewalks, the scrawny plane trees and maples and birches that were all that New York City could boast beyond the boundaries of its public parks, all of them stunted trees, skeletal, their branches like charred bones reaching for the midnight sky. A gentle but chilly January wind pushed scraps of paper along the gutters; and when the wind gusted, the branches of the trees rattled like children’s sticks on a rail fence. The other parked cars looked like animals huddling against the cold air; they were empty. Both sidewalks were deserted for the length of the block.
He got out of the car, quickly crossed the street and went up the front steps of the apartment house.
The foyer was clean and brightly lighted. The complex mosaic floor—a garland of faded roses on a beige background—was highly polished, and there were no pieces of tile missing from it. The inner foyer door was locked and could only be opened by key or with a lock-release button in one of the apartments.
There were three apartments on the top floor, three on the second floor and two on the ground level. Apartment 1A belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Harold Nagly, the owners of the building, who were on their annual pilgrimage to Miami Beach. The small apartment at the rear of the first floor was occupied by Edna Mowry, and he supposed that right now Edna would be having a midnight snack or a well-deserved martini to help her relax after a long night’s work.
He had come to see Edna. He knew she would be home. He had followed her for six nights now, and he knew that she lived by strict routine, much too strict for such a young and attractive woman. She always arrived home from work at twelve, seldom more than five minutes later.
Pretty little Edna, he thought. You’ve got such long and lovely legs.
He smiled.
He pressed the call button for Mr. and Mrs. Yardley on the third floor.
A man’s voice echoed tinnily from the speaker at the top of the mailbox. “Who is it?”
“Is this the Hutchinson apartment?” Bollinger asked, knowing full well that it was not.
“You pressed the wrong button, mister. The Hutchinsons are on the second floor. Their mailbox is next to ours.”
“Sorry,” Bollinger said as Yardley broke the connection.
He rang the Hutchinson apartment.
The Hutchinsons, apparently expecting visitors and less cautious than the Yardleys, buzzed him through the inner door without asking who he was.
The downstairs hall was pleasantly warm. The brown tile floor and tan walls were spotless. Halfway along the corridor, a marble bench stood on the left, and a large beveled mirror hung above it. Both apartment doors, dark wood with brassy fixtures, were on the right.
He stopped in front of the second door and flexed his gloved fingers. He pulled his wallet from an inside coat pocket and took a knife from an overcoat pocket. When he touched the button on the burnished handle, the springhinged blade popped into sight; it was seven inches long, thin and nearly as sharp as a razor.
The gleaming blade transfixed Bollinger and caused bright images to flicker behind his eyes.
He was an admirer of William Blake’s poetry; indeed, he fancied himself an intimate spiritual student of Blake’s. It was not surprising, then, that a passage from Blake’s work should come to him at that moment, flowing through his mind like blood running down the troughs in an autopsy table.
Then the inhabitants of those cities
Felt their nerves change into marrow,
And the hardening bones began
In swift diseases and torments,
In shootings and throbbings and grindings
Through all the coasts; till, weakened,
The senses inward rushed, shrinking
Beneath the dark net of infection.
He rang the bell. After a moment he heard her on the other side of the door, and he rang the bell again.
“Who is it?” she asked. She had a pleasant, almost musical voice, marked now with a thin note of apprehension.
“Miss Mowry?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Police.”
She didn’t reply.
“Miss Mowry? Are you there?”
“What’s it about?”
“Some trouble where you work.”
“I never cause trouble.”
“I didn’t say that. The trouble doesn’t involve you. At least not directly. But you might have seen something important. You might have been a witness.”
“To what?”
“That will take a while to explain.”
“I couldn’t have been a witness. Not me. I wear blinders in that place.”
“Miss Mowry,” he said sternly, “if I must get a warrant in order to question you, I will.”
“How do I know you’re really the police?”
“New York,” Bollinger said with mock exasperation. “Isn’t it just wonderful? Everyone suspects everyone else.”
“They have to.”
He sighed. “Perhaps. Look, Miss Mowry, do you have a security chain on the door?”
“Of course.”
“Of course. Well, leave the chain on and open up. I’ll show you my identification.”
Hesitantly, she slid back a bolt lock. The chain lock allowed the door to open an inch and no farther.
He held up his wallet. “Detective Bollinger,” he said. The kn
ife was in his left hand, pointed at the floor, pressed flat against his overcoat.
She squinted through the narrow crack. She peered for a moment at the badge that was pinned to the inside of his wallet, then carefully studied the photo-identification card in the plastic window below the badge.
When she stopped squinting at the ID and looked up at him, he saw that her eyes were not blue, as he had thought—having seen her no closer than when she was on stage and he was in the shadowed audience—but a deep shade of green. They were truly the most attractive eyes he had ever seen. “Satisfied?” he asked.
Her thick dark hair had fallen across one eye. She pushed it away from her face. Her fingers were long and perfectly formed, the nails painted blood red. When she was on stage, bathed in that intense spotlight, her nails appeared to be black. She said, “What’s this trouble you mentioned?”
“I have quite a number of questions to ask you, Miss Mowry. Must we discuss this through a crack in the door for the next twenty minutes?”
Frowning, she said, “I suppose not. Wait there just a minute while I put on a robe.”
“I can wait. Patience is the key to content.”
She looked at him curiously.
“Mohammed,” he said.
“A cop who quotes Mohammed?”
“Why not?”
“Are you—of that religion?”
“No.” He was amused at the way she phrased the question. “It’s just that I’ve acquired a considerable amount of knowledge for the sole purpose of shocking those people who think all policemen are hopelessly ignorant.”
