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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either 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 entirety coincidental.
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WHISPERS
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with
G. P. Putnam's Sons
PRINTING HISTORY
G. P. Putnam's Sons edition / June 1980
Berkley edition / April 1981
All rights reserved.
Copyright (c) 1980 by Dean R. Koontz
Back cover photograph copyright (c) Jerry Bauer
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ISBN: 0-425-18109-X
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
55 54 53 52 51
This book is dedicated to
Rio and Battista Locatelli,
two very nice people who
deserve the very best.
PART ONE
The Living and The Dead
The forces that affect our lives, the influences that
mold and shape us, are often like whispers in a
distant room, teasingly indistinct, apprehended
only with difficulty.
--Charles Dickens
One
TUESDAY AT DAWN, Los Angeles trembled. Windows rattled in their frames. Patio wind chimes tinkled merrily even though there was no wind. In some houses, dishes fell off shelves.
At the start of the morning rush hour, KFWB, all-news radio, used the earthquake as its lead story. The tremor had registered 4.8 on the Richter Scale. By the end of the rush hour, KFWB demoted the story to third place behind a report of terrorist bombings in Rome and an account of a five-car accident on the Santa Monica Freeway. After all, no buildings had fallen. By noon, only a handful of Angelenos (mostly those who had moved west within the past year) found the event worthy of even a minute's conversation over lunch.
***
The man in the smoke-gray Dodge van didn't even feel the earth move. He was at the northwest edge of the city, driving south on the San Diego Freeway, when the quake struck. Because it is difficult to feel any but the strongest tremors while in a moving vehicle, he wasn't aware of the shaking until he stopped for breakfast at a diner and heard one of the other customers talking about it.
He knew at once that the earthquake was a sign meant just for him. It had been sent either to assure him that his mission in Los Angeles would be a success--or to warn him that he would fail. But which message was he supposed to perceive in this sign?
He brooded over that question while he ate. He was a big strong man--six-foot-four, two hundred and thirty pounds, all muscle--and he took more than an hour and a half to finish his meal. He started with two eggs, bacon, cottage fries, toast and a glass of milk. He chewed slowly, methodically, his eyes focused on his food as if he were entranced by it. When he finished his first plateful, he asked for a tall stack of pancakes and more milk. After the pancakes, he ate a cheese omelet with three pieces of Canadian bacon on the side, another serving of toast, and orange juice.
By the time he ordered the third breakfast, he was the chief topic of conversation in the kitchen. His waitress
