The Face. Dean Koontz

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СКАЧАТЬ proceeded into the kitchen, to a counter under a wall phone, while Ethan perched on the edge of an armchair in the living room.

      The apartment was sparsely furnished. One sofa, one armchair, a coffee table, and a television set. The dining area contained a small table and two chairs.

      On the television, the MGM lion roared. The sound was low, the roar soft.

      On the walls were several framed photographs: large sixteen-by-twenty-inch, black-and-white art prints. Birds were the subject of every photo.

      Reynerd returned with a notepad and a pencil. “This do?”

      “Perfect,” Ethan said, accepting the items.

      Reynerd had a dispenser of Scotch tape, as well. “To fix the note on George’s door.” He put the tape on the coffee table.

      “Thanks,” Ethan said. “I like the photographs.”

      “Birds are all about being free,” Reynerd said.

      “I guess they are, aren’t they? The freedom of flight. You take the photos?”

      “No. I just collect.”

      In one of the prints, a flock of pigeons erupted in a swirl of feathered frenzy from a cobblestone plaza in front of a backdrop of old European buildings. In another, geese flew in formation across a somber sky.

      Indicating the black-and-white movie on the TV, Reynerd said, “I was just getting some snacks for the show. You mind … ?”

      “Huh? Oh, sure, I’m sorry, forget about me. I’ll jot this down and be gone.”

      In one of the pictures, the birds had flown directly at the photographer. The shot presented a close-up montage of overlapping wings, crying beaks, and beady black eyes.

      “Potato chips are gonna kill me one day,” Reynerd said as he returned to the kitchen.

      “With me it’s ice cream. More of it in my arteries than blood.”

      Ethan printed DEAR GEORGE in block letters, then paused as if in thought, and looked around the room.

      From the kitchen, Reynerd continued: “They say you can’t ever eat just one potato chip, but I can’t ever eat just one bag.”

      Two crows perched on an iron fence. A strop of sunlight laid a sharp edge on their beaks.

      White carpet as pristine as winter snow lay wall to wall. The furniture had been upholstered in a black fabric. From a distance, the Formica surface of the dinette table appeared to be black.

      Everything in the apartment was black-and-white.

      Ethan printed UNCLE HARRY IS DYING and then paused again, as if a simple message taxed his powers of composition.

      The movie music, though soft, had a melodramatic flair. A crime picture from the thirties or forties.

      Reynerd continued to rummage in kitchen cabinets.

      Here, two doves appeared to clash in midflight. There, an owl stared wide-eyed, as if shocked by what it saw.

      Outside, wind had returned to the day. A dice-rattle of rain drew Ethan’s attention to the window.

      From the kitchen came the distinctive rustle of a foil potato-chip bag.

      PLEASE CALL ME, Ethan printed.

      Returning to the living room, Reynerd said, “If you’ve got to eat chips, these are the worst because they’re higher in oil.”

      Ethan looked up and saw a bag of Hawaiian-style chips. Reynerd had inserted his right hand into the open bag.

      The way that the bag gloved the apple man’s hand struck Ethan as wrong. The guy might have been reaching in for some chips, of course; but an oddness of attitude, a tenseness in him, suggested otherwise.

      Stopping beside the sofa, not six feet away, Reynerd said, “You work for the Face, don’t you?”

      At a disadvantage in the armchair, Ethan pretended confusion. “For who?”

      When the hand came out of the bag, it held a gun.

      A licensed private investigator and certified bodyguard, Ethan had a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Except in the company of Channing Manheim, when he armed himself as a matter of routine, he seldom bothered to strap on his piece.

      Reynerd’s weapon was a 9-mm pistol.

      This morning, disturbed by the eye in the apple and by the wolfish grin that this man had revealed on the security tape, Ethan had put on his shoulder holster. He hadn’t expected to need a gun, not really, and in fact he’d felt a little silly for packing it without greater provocation. Now he thanked God that he was armed.

      “I don’t understand,” he said, trying to look equally bewildered and afraid.

      “I’ve seen your picture,” Reynerd told him.

      Ethan glanced toward the open door, the hallway beyond.

      “I don’t care who sees or hears,” Reynerd told him. “It’s all over anyhow, isn’t it?”

      “Listen, if my brother George did something to piss you off,” Ethan said, trying to buy a little time.

      Reynerd wasn’t selling. Even as Ethan dropped the notepad and reached for the 9-mm Glock under his jacket, the apple man shot him point-blank in the gut.

      For a moment, Ethan felt no pain, but only for a moment. He rocked back in the chair and gaped at the gush of blood. Then agony.

      He heard the first shot, but he didn’t hear the second. The slug hammered him dead-center in the chest.

      Everything in the black-and-white apartment went black.

      Ethan knew the birds still gathered on the walls, watching him die. He could feel the tension of their wings frozen in flight.

      He heard a dicelike rattle again. Not rain against the window this time. His breath rattling in a broken throat.

      No Christmas.

       CHAPTER 3

      ETHAN OPENED HIS EYES.

      Traveling far too fast for a residential street, a cherry-red Ferrari Testarossa exploded past, casting up a plume of dirty water from the puddled pavement.

      Through the side window of the Expedition, the apartment house blurred and tweaked into strange geometry, like a place in a nightmare.

      As if he’d sustained an electrical shock, he twitched violently, and inhaled with the desperation of a drowning man. The air tasted sweet, fresh and sweet and clean. He exhaled explosively.

      No СКАЧАТЬ