The Face Of Fear Part 1

The Face of Fear.

by Dean R. Koontz.

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.

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 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 appet.i.te 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. 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 appet.i.te 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. 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 sc.r.a.ps of paper along the gutters 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 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. 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 b.u.t.ton 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 b.u.t.ton 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 b.u.t.ton, 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 bra.s.sy 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 b.u.t.ton on the burnished handle, the springhinged blade popped into sight; it was seven inches long, thin and nearly as sharp as a razor. 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 pa.s.sage 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. indeed, he fancied himself an intimate spiritual student of Blake's. It was not surprising, then, that a pa.s.sage 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.

I'll change their bones to marrow, sure as h.e.l.l, Bollinger thought. I'll have the inhabitants of this city hiding behind their doors at night. Except that I'm not the infection; I'm the cure. I'm the cure for all that's wrong with this world. I'm the cure. I'm the cure for all that's wrong with this world.

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 knife 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."

She winced. "Sorry." Then she smiled. He had not seen her smile before, not once in the entire week since he had first seen her. She had stood in that spotlight, moving with the music, shedding her clothes, b.u.mping, grinding, caressing her own bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, observing her audience with the cold eyes and almost lipless expression of a snake. Her smile was dazzling.

"Get your robe, Miss Mowry."

She closed the door.

Bollinger watched the foyer door at the end of the hall, hoping no one would come in or go out while he was standing there, exposed.

He put away his wallet.

He kept the knife in his left hand.

In less than a minute she returned. She removed the security chain, opened the door and said, "Come in."

He stepped past her, inside.

She closed the door and put the bolt lock in place and turned to him and said, "Whatever trouble-"

Moving quickly for such a large man he slammed her against the door, brought up the knife, shifted it from his left hand to his right hand, and lightly p.r.i.c.ked her throat with the point of the blade.

Her green eyes were very wide. She'd had the breath knocked out of her and could not scream.

"No noise," Bollinger said fiercely. "If you try to call for help, I'll push this pig sticker straight into your lovely throat. I'll ram it right out the back of your neck. Do you understand?"

She stared at him.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said thinly.

"Are you going to cooperate?"

She said nothing. Her gaze traveled down from his eyes, over his proud nose and full lips and strong jaw-line, down to his fist and to the handle of the knife.

"If you aren't going to cooperate," he said quietly, "I can skewer you right here. I'll pin you to the d.a.m.n door." He was breathing hard.