The Voice of the Night

He grinned. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“If that’s all right.”

“That’s fine.”

“Bye.”

“Good-bye, Colin.”

He watched her walk out of the store. His heart was racing.

Jeez.

Something strange was happening to him. For sure, for sure. He never before had been able to talk like that with a girl-or with a girl like that. He usually got tongue-tied right at the start, and the whole conversation went into the toilet. But not this time. He’d been smooth. For God’s sake, he’d even made a date with her! His first date. Something sure was happening to him.

But what?

And why?

Several hours later, as he lay in bed, listening to a Los Angeles radio station, unable to sleep, Colin thought about all of the wonderful new developments in his life. With a terrific friend like Roy, with an important position like team manager, and with a girl as pretty and nice as Heather-what more could he possibly ask?

He had never been so content.

Roy was the most important part of his new life, of course. Without Roy, he would never have been brought to the attention of Coach Molinoff and would never have gotten the job as junior-varsity team manager. And without Roy’s liberating influence, he would very likely never have had the nerve to ask Heather for a date. More than that- she probably wouldn’t even have said hello to him if he hadn’t been Roy’s friend. Wasn’t that the first thing she had said to him? You’re a friend of Roy Borden‘s, aren’t you? If he hadn’t been a friend of Roy’s, she probably wouldn’t even have looked at him twice.

But she had looked twice.

And she had agreed to date him.

Life was good.

He thought about Roy’s strange stories. The cat in the birdcage. The boy burned with lighter fluid. He knew those were just tall tales. Tests. Roy was testing him for something. He put the cat and the burned boy out of his mind. He wasn’t going to let those silly stories destroy his lovely mood.

He closed his eyes and pictured himself dancing with Heather in a magnificent ballroom. He was wearing a tuxedo. She was in a red gown. There was a crystal chandelier. They danced so well together that they seemed to be floating.

19

Early Monday afternoon, Colin was at the worktable in his bedroom, putting together a plastic model of Lon Chaney as the Phantom of the Opera. When the telephone rang, he had to run into his mother’s room to answer it, for he had no extension of his own.

It was Roy. “Colin, you’ve got to come right away.”

“Come where?”

“My house.”

Colin looked at the digital read-out clock on the nightstand: 1:05. He said, “We were supposed to meet at two o‘clock.”

“I know. But you’ve got to come now.”

“Why?”

“My folks aren’t home, and there’s something here that you absolutely have to see. I can’t talk about it on the phone. You’ve got to come now, right away, just as quick as you can. Hurry!”

Roy hung up.

The game continues, Colin thought.

Ten minutes later, Colin rang the bell at the Borden house.

Roy answered the door. He was flushed and excited.

“What’s up?” Colin asked.

Roy pulled him inside and slammed the door. They stood in the foyer. The immaculate living room lay beyond; the emerald-green drapes filtered the sun and fllled the place with cold light that gave Colin the feeling they were deep beneath the sea.

“I want you to get a good look at Sarah,” Roy said.

“Who?”

“I told you about her Friday night, when we were at the beach steps on the palisades, just before we split up. She’s the girl, the one who looks good enough to be in a pom movie, the one I think we can find a way to screw.”

Colin blinked. “You’ve got her here?”

“Not exactly. Come on upstairs. You’ll see.”

Colin had never been in Roy’s bedroom before, and it surprised him. It didn’t look like a kid’s room; in fact, it didn’t look like a place where anyone, either child or adult, really lived. The nap on the carpet stood up as if it had been vacuumed only minutes ago. The dark pine furniture was highly polished; Colin couldn’t see a nick or a scratch in it, but he could see his reflection. No dust. No grime. No fingerprints around the light switch. The bed was neatly made, the lines as straight and the comers as tightly tucked as those on a bunk in an Army barracks. In addition to the furniture, there was a big red dictionary and the uniform volumes of an encyclopedia. But nothing else. Nothing else at all. There were no knickknacks, no model airplanes, no comic books, no sports equipment, nothing to show that Roy had any hobbies or even any normal human interests. Quite clearly, the room was a mirror of Mrs. Borden’s personality and not her son’s.

To Colin’s eyes, the oddest thing about the place was the total absence of decoration on the walls. No paintings. No photographs. No posters. In the downstairs foyer, in the living room, and on the wall along the stairs, there were a couple of oils, a watercolor, and a few inexpensive prints, but here the walls were bare and white. Colin felt as if he were in a monk’s cell.

Roy led him to a window.

Not more than fifty feet away, in the backyard of the house next door, a woman was sunbathing. She was wearing a white bikini and was lying on a red beach towel that was draped across a cot. Small cotton pads shielded her eyes from the sun.

“She’s really a terrific piece of ass,” Roy said.

Her arms were at her sides, palms turned up as if in supplication. She was tan and lean and shapely.

“That’s Sarah?” Colin asked.

“Sarah Callahan. She lives next door.” Roy picked up a pair of binoculars that had been on the floor beneath the window. “Here. Take a closer look.”

“What if she sees me?”

“She won’t.”

He put the glasses to his eyes, focused them, and found the woman. If she actually had been as close as she suddenly appeared to be, she would have felt his breath on her skin.

Sarah was beautiful. Even in repose, her features held great sensual promise. Her lips were full, ripe; she licked them once while he watched.

A peculiar sense of power overcame Colin. In his mind he touched and caressed Sarah Callahan, but in reality she was unaware of it. The binoculars were his lips and tongue and fingers, feeling and tasting her, exploring her, surreptitiously violating the sanctity of her body. He experienced mild synesthesia: Magically, his eyes seemed to possess senses other than sight. With his eyes he smelled her fresh, thick, yellow hair. With his eyes he felt the texture of her skin, the pliancy of her flesh, the soft roundness of her breasts, and the moist warmth in the musky junction of her thighs. With his eyes he kissed her concave belly and tasted the salty beads of perspiration that