The Face of Fear

by Dean Koontz

  “How much are you being paid?” Prine asked.

  Confused by the question, Graham said, “For what?”

  “For helping the police,” Prine said.

  “I’m not being paid anything.”

  “You’re just doing it for the good of society, then?”

  “I’m doing it because I have to. I’m compelled—”

  “How much did the Havelocks pay you?”

  He realized that Prine had been leaning toward him not conspiratorially but hungrily, like a beast preparing to pounce on its prey. His hunch had been correct: that son of a bitch had chosen him for the nightly trouncing. But why?

  “Mr. Harris?”

  Graham had temporarily forgotten the cameras (and the audience beyond), but now he was uncomfortably aware of them again. “The Havelocks didn’t pay me anything.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “Of course I’m certain.”

  “You are sometimes paid for your services, aren’t you?”

  “No. I earn my living by—”

  “Sixteen months ago a young boy was brutally murdered in the Midwest. We’ll skip the name of the town to spare the family publicity. His mother asked for your assistance in uncovering the killer. I spoke with her yesterday. She says that she paid you slightly more than one thousand dollars—and then you failed to find the killer.”

  What the hell is he trying to prove? Graham wondered. He knows I’m far from poor. He knows I don’t need to run halfway across the country to hustle a few hundred dollars. “First of all, I did tell them who killed the child and where they could look for the evidence that would make their case. But both the police and this woman refused to follow up on the lead that I gave them.”

  “Why would they refuse?”

  “Because the man I fingered for the murder is the son of a wealthy family in that town. He’s also a respected clergyman in his own right, and the stepfather of the dead boy.”

  Prine’s expression was proof enough that the woman had not told him this part of it. Nevertheless, he pressed the attack. That was uncharacteristic of him. Ordinarily, he was vicious with a guest only when he knew that he had evidence enough to ruin him. He was not entirely an admirable man; however, he usually didn’t make mistakes. “But she did pay you the thousand dollars?”

  “That was for my expenses. Airline fares, car rentals, meals and lodging while I was working on the case.”

  Smiling as if he had made his point, Prine said, “Do they usually pay your expenses?”

  “Naturally. I can’t be expected to travel all about, spending thousands of my own money for—”

  “Did the Havelocks pay you?”

  “My expenses.”

  “But didn’t you just tell us a minute ago that the Havelocks didn’t pay you anything?”

  Exasperated, Graham said, “They didn’t pay me. They just reimbursed me for—”

  “Mr. Harris, forgive me if I seem to be accusing you of something you haven’t done. But it occurs to me that a man with your reputation for performing psychic miracles could easily take many thousands of dollars a year from the gullible. If he was unscrupulous, that is.”

  “Look here—”

  “When you’re on one of these investigations, do you ever pad your expenses?” Prine asked.

  Graham was stunned. He slid forward on his chair, leaned toward Prine. “That’s outrageous!” He realized that Prine had settled back and crossed his legs the instant that he got a strong reaction. That was a clever maneuver that made Graham’s response seem exaggerated. He suddenly felt as if he were the predator. He supposed that his justifiable indignation looked like the desperate and weak self-defense of a guilty man. “You know I don’t need the money. I’m not a millionaire, but I’m well fixed. My father was a successful publisher. I received a substantial trust fund. Furthermore, I’ve got a moderately successful business of my own.”

  “I know you publish two expensive magazines about mountain climbing,” Prine said. “But they do have small circulations. As for the trust fund.... I hadn’t heard about that.”

  He’s lying, Graham thought. He prepares meticulously for these shows. When I walked into this studio, he knew almost as much about me as I know about myself. So why is he lying? What will he gain by slandering me? What in hell is happening here?

  The woman has green eyes, clear and beautiful green eyes, but there is terror in them now, and she stares up at the blade, the shining blade, and she sucks in her breath to scream, and the blade starts its downward arc....

  The images passed as suddenly as they had come, leaving him badly shaken. He knew that some clairvoyants—including the two most famous, Peter Hurkos and his fellow Dutchman Gerard Croiset—could receive, interpret and catalogue their psychic perceptions while holding an uninterrupted conversation. Only rarely could Graham manage that. Usually he was distracted by the visions. Occasionally, when they had to do with a particularly violent murder, he was so overwhelmed by them that he blanked out reality altogether. The visions were more than an intellectual experience; they affected him emotionally and spiritually as well. For a moment, seeing the green-eyed woman behind his eyes, he had not been fully aware of the world around him: the television audience, the studio, the cameras, Prine. He was trembling.

  “Mr. Harris?” Prine said.

  He looked up from his hands.

  “I asked you a question,” Prine said.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear it.”

  As the blood explodes from her throat and her scream dies unborn, he pulls the blade free and raises it high and brings it down, down again, with all of his strength, down between her bare breasts, and he neither scowls nor grins, and he does not laugh maniacally, but goes about the killing in a workmanlike manner, as if this is his profession, as if this is just a job, as if this is no different from a man selling cars for a living or washing windows, merely a task to be finished, stab and rip and tear and bring the blood welling up in pools... and then stand up and go home and sleep contentedly, satisfied with a job well done....

  Graham was shaking uncontrollably. His face was greasy with perspiration, yet he felt as if he were sitting in a cool draft. His own power scared him. Ever since the accident in which he had nearly died, he had been frightened of many things; but these inexplicable visions were the ultimate fear.

  “Mr. Harris?” Prine said. “Are you feeling all right?”

  The second wave of impressions had lasted only three or four seconds, although it had seemed much longer than that. During that time he was totally unaware of the studio and the cameras.

  “He’s doing it again,” Graham said softly. “Right now, this minute.”

  Frowning, Prine said, “Who? Doing what?”

  “Killing.”

  “You’re talking about—the Butcher?”

  Graham nodded and licked his lips. His throat was so dry that it hurt him a bit to speak. There was an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth.

  Prine was excited. He faced one of the cameras and said, “Remember, New York, you heard it and saw it here first.” He turned back to Graham and said, “Who is he killing?” He was suddenly charged with ghoulish anticipation.

  “A woman. Green eyes. Pretty.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Perspiration trickled into the corners of Graham’s eyes and stung them. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand—and wondered how foolish he looked to the hundreds of thousands who were watching.

  “Can you tell me her name?” Prine asked.

  Edna... pretty little Edna... poor little Edna....

  “Edna,” Graham said.

  “Last name?”

  “I don’t ... can’t see it.”

  “Try. You must try.”

  “Maybe... dancer.”

  “Edna Dancer?”

  “I don’t ... maybe not ... maybe the dancer part isn’t right... maybe just ... just the Edna...”

  “Reach for it,” Prine said. �
��Try harder. Can’t you force it out?”

  “No use.”

  “His name?”

  “Daryl... no ... Dwight.”

  “Like Dwight Eisenhower?”

  “I’m not certain that’s actually his first name ... or even first or last ... but people have called him that ... Dwight... yes ... and he’s answered to it.”

  “Incredible,” Prine said, apparently having forgotten that he had been in the process of destroying his guest’s reputation. “Do you see his other name, first or last?”

  “No. But I sense ... the police already know him ... somehow ... and they ... they know him well.”

  “You mean that he’s already a suspect?” Prine asked.

  The cameras seemed to move in closer.

  Graham wished they would go away. He wished Prine would go away. He should never have come here tonight. Most of all, he wished his clairvoyant powers would go away, vanish back into that lockbox, deep within his mind, from which they had been sprung by the accident.

  “I don’t know,” Graham said. “I suppose ... he must be a suspect. But whatever the situation ... they know him. They—” He shuddered.

  “What is it?” Prine asked.

  “Edna...”

  “Yes?”

  “She’s dead now.”

  Graham felt as if he were going to be sick.

  “Where did it happen?” Prine asked.

  Graham sank back in his armchair, struggling to keep control of himself. He felt almost as if he were Edna, as if the knife had been plunged into him.

  “Where was she murdered?” Prine asked again.

  “In her apartment.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But if the police could get there in time—”

  “I’ve lost it,” Graham said. “It’s gone. I’m sorry. It’s all gone for now.”

  He felt cold and hollow inside.

  3

  Shortly before two o’clock in the morning, after a conference on the set with the director, Anthony Prine left the studio and went down the hall to his suite, which served him as office, dressing room and home away from home. Inside, he walked straight to the bar, put two ice cubes in a glass and reached for the bottle of bourbon.

  His manager and business partner, Paul Stevenson, was sitting on the couch. He wore expensive, well-tailored clothes. Prine was a smart dresser, and he appreciated that quality in other men. The problem was that Stevenson always destroyed the effect of his outfit with one bizarre accessory. Tonight he was wearing a Seville Row suit—a hard-finished gray worsted with a midnight-blue Thai silk lining—a hand-sewn light blue shirt, maroon tie, black alligator shoes. And bright pink socks—with green clocks on the sides. Like cockroaches on a wedding cake.

  For two reasons, Stevenson was a perfect business partner: he had money, and he did what he was told to do. Prine had great respect for the dollar. And he did not believe that anyone lived who had the experience, the intelligence or the right to tell him what to do.

  “Were there any calls for me on the private line?” Prine asked.

  “No calls.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Of course.”

  “You were here all the time?”

  “Watching the show on that set,” Stevenson said.

  “I was expecting a call.”

  “I’m sorry. There wasn’t one.”

  Prine scowled.

  “Terrific show,” Stevenson said.

  “Just the first thirty minutes. Following Harris, the other guests looked duller than they were. Did we get viewer calls?”

  “Over a hundred, all favorable. Do you believe he really saw the killing take place?”

  “You heard the details he gave. The color of her eyes. Her name. He convinced me.”

  “Until the next victim’s found, you don’t know that his details were accurate.”

  “They were accurate,” Prine said. He finished his bourbon and refilled his glass. He could drink a great deal of whiskey without becoming drunk. Likewise, when he ate he gorged himself, yet he had never been overweight. He was constantly on the prowl for pretty young women, and when he paid for sex he usually went to bed with two call girls. He was not simply a middle-aged man desperately trying to prove his youth. He needed those fuels—whiskey, food and women—in large doses. For most of his life he had been fighting ennui, a deep and abiding boredom with the way the world was. Pacing energetically, sipping his bourbon, he said, “A green-eyed woman named Edna.... He’s right about that. We’ll be reading it in the papers tomorrow.”

  “You can’t know—”

  “If you’d been sitting there beside him, Paul, you’d have no doubts about it.”

  “But wasn’t it odd that he had his ‘vision’ just when you about had him nailed?”

  “Nailed for what?” Prine asked.

  “Well ... for taking money. For—”

  “If he’s ever been paid more than his expenses for that kind of work, I’ve no proof of it,” Prine said.

  Perplexed, Stevenson said, “Then why did you go after him?”

  “I wanted to break him. Reduce him to a babbling, defenseless fool.” Prine smiled.

  “But if he wasn’t guilty—”

  “He’s guilty of other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll know eventually.”

  Stevenson sighed. “You enjoy humiliating them right there on television.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Is it the sense of power?”

  “Not at all,” Prine said. “I enjoy exposing them as fools because they are fools. Most men are fools. Politicians, clergymen, poets, philosophers, businessmen, generals and admirals. Gradually, I’m exposing the leaders in every profession. I’m going to show the ignorant masses that their leaders are as dull-witted as they are.” He swallowed some bourbon. When he spoke again, his voice was hard. “Maybe someday all those fools will go at one another’s throats and leave the world to the few of us who can appreciate it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I spoke English, didn’t I?”

  “You sound so—bitter.”

  “I’ve got a right to.”

  “You? After your success?”

  “Aren’t you drinking, Paul?”

  “No. Tony, I don’t understand—”

  “I think you should have a drink.”

  Stevenson knew when he was expected to change the subject. “I really don’t want a drink.”

  “Have you ever gotten blind drunk?”

  “No. I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Ever gone to bed with two girls at once?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You don’t reach out for life like you should,” Prine said. “You don’t experience. You don’t get loose enough often enough. That’s the only thing wrong with you, Paul—other than your socks.”

  Stevenson looked at his feet. “What’s wrong with my socks?”

  Prine went to the windows. He didn’t look at the bright city beyond but stared instead at his reflection in the glass. He grinned at himself. He felt marvelous. Better than he had felt in weeks, and all thanks to Harris. The clairvoyant had brought some excitement and danger into his life, new purpose and interest. Although Graham Harris didn’t know it as yet, he was the most important target of Prine’s career. We’ll destroy him, Prine thought happily; wipe him out, finish him off for good. He turned to Stevenson. “Are you certain about the phone? I must have gotten a call.”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Maybe you stepped out of here for a minute.”

  “Tony, I’m not a fool. Give me some credit. I was here all the time, and the private line never rang.”

  Prine finished his second bourbon. It burned his throat. A welcome and pleasant heat rose in him. “Why don’t you have a drink with me?”


  Stevenson stood and stretched. “No. I’ve really got to go.”

  Prine went to the bar.

  “You’re drinking those awfully fast, Tony.”

  “Celebrating,” Prine said as he added ice and bourbon to his glass.

  “Celebrating what?”

  “The downfall of another fool.”

  4

  Connie Davis was waiting for Graham when he came home to the townhouse they shared in Greenwich Village. She took his coat and hung it in the closet.

  She was pretty. Thirty-four years old. Slender. Brunette. Gray eyes. Proud nose. Wide mouth. Sexy.

  She owned a prosperous hole-in-the-wall antique shop on Tenth Street. In business she was every bit as tough as she was pretty.

  For the past eighteen months she and Graham had lived together. Their relationship was the closest thing to genuine romance that either of them had ever known.

  However, it was more than a romance. She was his doctor and nurse as well as his lover. Since the accident five years ago, he had been losing faith in himself. His self-respect faded year by year. She was here to help him, to heal him. She was not certain that he understood this; but she saw it as the most important task of her life.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “It’s two-thirty.”

  “I had to think. I went walking. You saw the program?”

  “We’ll talk about it. But first you need to get warm.”

  “Do I ever. It must be twenty below out there.”

  “Go into the study and sit down. Relax,” she said. “I’ve got a fire going. I’ll bring you a drink.”

  “Brandy?”

  “What else on a night like this?”

  “You’re nearly perfect.”

  “Nearly?”

  “Mustn’t give you a swelled head.”

  “I’m too perfect to be immodest.”

  He laughed.

  She turned from him and went to the bar at the far end of the living room.

  With a sixth sense of her own, she knew that he stared after her for a moment before he left the room. Good. Just as planned. He was meant to watch. She was wearing a clinging white sweater and tight blue jeans that accentuated her waistline and her bottom. If he hadn’t stared after her, she would have been disappointed. After what he had been through tonight, he needed more than a seat in front of the fireplace and a snifter of brandy. He needed her. Touching. Kissing. Making love. And she was willing—more than willing, delighted—to provide it.