Free The Face of Fear by Dean Koontz Page A

career cops. Isn’t it conceivable that a man, unstable to begin with, could crack from all the violent input? Isn’t it conceivable that he could become the kind of maniac he’s worked so hard to catch?”
    “Unstable?” Stevenson frowned. “Graham Harris is as stable as you or me.”
    “How well do you know him?”
    “I saw him on the show.”
    “There’s a bit more you should know.” Prine caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar cabinet; he smoothed his lustrous white hair with one hand.
    “For example?”
    “I’ll indulge myself in amateur psychoanalysis—amateur but probably accurate. First of all, Graham Harris was born into borderline poverty and—”
    “Hold on. His old man was Evan Harris, the publisher. ”
    “His stepfather. His real father died when Graham was a year old. His mother was a cocktail waitress. She had trouble keeping a roof over their heads because she had to pay off her husband’s medical bills. For years they lived day to day, on the edge of disaster. That would leave marks on a child.”
    “How did she meet Evan Harris?” Stevenson asked.
    “I don’t know. But after they were married, Graham took his stepfather’s name. He spent the latter part of his childhood in a mansion. After he got his university degree, he had enough time and money to become one of the world’s leading climbers. Old man Harris encouraged him. In some circles, Graham was famous, a star.
    Do you realize how many beautiful women are drawn to the sport of climbing?”
    Stevenson shrugged.
    “Not as participants,” Prine said. “As companions to the participants, as bedmates. More women than you’d think. I guess it’s the nearness of death that attracts them. For more than a decade, Graham was adored, made over. Then he took a bad fall. When he recovered, he was terrified of climbing.” Prine was listening to his own voice, fascinated by the theory he had developed. “Do you understand, Paul? He was born a nobody, lived the first six years of his life as a nobody—then overnight he became a somebody when his mother married Evan Harris. Now is it any wonder that he’s afraid of being a nobody again?”
    Stevenson went to the bar and poured himself some bourbon. “It’s not likely he’ll be a nobody again. He did inherit his stepfather’s money.”
    “Money isn’t the same as fame. Once he’d been a celebrity, even within the tight circle of climbing enthusiasts, maybe he developed a habit for it. Maybe he became a fame junkie. It can happen to the best. I’ve seen it.”
    “So have I.”
    “If that’s what he is ... well, maybe he’s decided that being infamous is as good as being famous. As the Butcher, he’s grabbing headlines; he’s infamous, even if only under a nom de guerre. ”
    “But he was with you in the studio last night when the Mowry girl was murdered.”
    “Maybe not.”
    “What? He predicted her death.”
    “Did he? Or did he simply tell us who he had selected for his next victim?”
    Stevenson stared at him as if he were mad.
    Laughing, Prine said, “Of course Harris was in the studio with me—but perhaps not when the murder took place. I used a source in the police department and got a copy of the coroner’s report. According to the pathologist, Edna Mowry was murdered sometime between eleven-thirty Thursday night and one-thirty Friday morning. Now, Graham Harris left the studio at twelve-thirty Friday morning. He had an hour to get to Edna Mowry.”
    Stevenson swallowed some bourbon. “Jesus, Tony, if you’re right, if you break a story like this, ABC will give you a late-night talk show and let you do it your way, live!”
    “They might.”
    Stevenson finished his bourbon. “But you don’t have any proof. It’s just a theory. And a pretty far-out theory at that. You can’t convict a man because he was born to poor parents. Hell, your childhood was worse than his, and you’re not a killer.”
    “At the moment I’ve got no proof,”