BEYOND THE BEVELED GLASS, THE IRON-BLACK clouds that had masked the sky now hid themselves behind gray veils of trailing mist. The wind went elsewhere with its lamentations, and the sodden2 trees stood as still and solemn as witnesses to a funeral cortege.
The gray day drifted into the eye of the storm, and from each of his three study windows, Ethan observed the mourning weather while meditating3 on the meaning of the apple in the context of the five bizarre items that had preceded it. Nature peered back at him through a milky4 cataract5 and, in sympathy with his inner vision, remained clouded.
He supposed the shiny apple might represent fame and wealth, the enviable life of his employer. Then the doll’s eye might be a worm of sorts, a symbol of a particular corruption6 at the core of fame, and therefore an accusation7, indictment8, and condemnation9 of the Face.
For twelve years, the actor had been the biggest box-office draw in the world. Since his first hit, the celebrity10-mad media referred to him as the Face.
This flattering sobriquet11 supposedly had arisen simultaneously12 from the pens of numerous entertainment reporters in a shared [9] swoon of admiration13 for his charismatic good looks. In truth, no doubt a clever and perpetually sleepless14 publicist had called in favors and paid out cold cash to engineer this spontaneous acclamation and then to sustain it for more than a decade.
In a black-and-white Hollywood so distant in time and quality that contemporary moviegoers had only a little more knowledge of it than they had of the Spanish-American War, a fine actress named Greta Garbo had in her day been known as the Face. That flattery had been the work of a studio flack, but Garbo had proved to be more than mere17 flackery.
For ten months, Ethan had been chief of security for Channing Manheim, the Face of the new millennium18. As yet he hadn’t glimpsed even the suggestion of Garboesque depths. The face of the Face seemed to be nearly all there was of Channing.
Ethan didn’t despise the actor. The Face was affable, as relaxed as might be a genuine demigod living with the sureness that life and youth were for him eternal.
The star’s indifference19 to any circumstances other than his own arose neither from self-absorption nor from a willful lack of compassion20. Intellectual limitations denied him an awareness21 that other people had more than a single script page of backstory, and that their character arcs were too complex to be portrayed22 in ninety-eight minutes.
His occasional cruelties were never conscious.
If he hadn’t been who he was, however, and if he hadn’t been so striking in appearance, nothing that Channing said or did would have left an impression. In a Hollywood deli that named sandwiches after stars, Clark Gable might have been roast beef and Liederkranz on rye with horseradish; Cary Grant might have been peppered chicken breast with Swiss cheese on whole wheat with mustard; and Channing Manheim would have been watercress on lightly buttered toast.
Ethan didn’t actively23 dislike his employer, and he didn’t need to like him in order to want to protect him and keep him alive.
[10] If the eye in the apple was a symbol of corruption, it might represent the star’s ego15 inside the beautiful fruit.
Perhaps the doll’s eye didn’t stand for corruption, but for the downside of fame. A celebrity of Channing’s magnitude enjoyed little privacy and was always under scrutiny24. The eye in the apple might be symbolic25 of the stalker’s eye—always watching, judging.
Crap. Cheap analysis. For all his somber26 brooding, in weather conducive27 to contemplation and to dark speculation28, Ethan’s every observation seemed obvious and useless.
He ruminated29 on the apple-damp words: THE EYE IN THE APPLE? THE WATCHFUL30 WORM? THE WORM OF ORIGINAL SIN? DO WORDS HAVE ANY PURPOSE OTHER THAN CONFUSION?
Stumped31, he was grateful when the phone rang at a few minutes past ten o’clock, drawing him away from the windows and to the desk.
Laura Moonves, an old friend from the LAPD, had been tracking down a license32-plate number for him. She worked out of the Detective Support Division. Only once before in the past year had he presumed upon their friendship in this way.
“Got your pervert,” Laura said.
“Suspected pervert,” he corrected.
“The three-year-old Honda is registered to Rolf Herman Reynerd in West Hollywood.” She spelled each name and gave him an address.
“What kind of parents Rolf a kid?”
Laura knew all about names. “It’s not so bad. Nicely masculine, in fact. In Old German, it means ‘famous wolf.’ Ethan, of course, means ‘permanent, assured.’ ”
Two years ago, they’d dated. For Laura, Ethan had been anything but permanent, assured. She’d have liked permanence, some assurance. He had been too wounded to provide what she wanted. Or too stupid.
“Looked him up for a rap sheet,” Laura said, “but he’s clean. DMV says ‘hair brown, eyes blue.’ Says ‘sex male.’ I like sex male. I don’t [11] get enough sex male. Height six-one, weight one-eighty. DOB—June sixth, nineteen seventy-two, which makes him thirty-one.”
Ethan had it all on a notepad. “Thanks, Laura. I owe you one.”
“So then tell me—how big’s his charlie?”
“Isn’t that in the DMV file?”
“I don’t mean Rolf’s charlie. I mean Manheim’s. Does it hang to his ankles or just to his knees?”
“I’ve never seen his charlie, but he doesn’t seem to have any trouble walking.”
“Cookie, maybe you can introduce us sometime.”
Ethan had never known why she called him Cookie. “The man would bore your ass1 off, Laura, and that’s the truth.”
“Pretty as he is, I wouldn’t need conversation. I’d just shove a rag in his mouth, tape his lips shut, and off we’d go to paradise.”
“Basically it’s my job to keep people like you away from him.”
“Truman derives33 from two Old English words,” she said. “It means ‘steadfast, loyal, trustworthy, constant.’ ”
“You can’t get a date with the Face by making me feel guilty. Besides, when wasn’t I loyal and trustworthy?”
“Cookie, two out of four doesn’t mean you deserve your name.”
“You were too good for me anyway, Laura. You’ve got more to give than a shlump like me can appreciate.”
“I’d like to see your old Ten Card,” she said, referring to his record of service on the force. “Must be more brown stars for ass kissing on that baby than any hundred other cards in the history of the job.”
“If you’re done dissing me, I’ve been wondering. ... Rolf. Famous wolf. Does that make sense? What’s a wolf have to do to get famous?”
“Kill a lot of sheep, I guess.”
By the time Ethan said good-bye to Laura, a thin rain had begun to fall again. Without the ardor34 of a wind, the droplets35 barely kissed the study windows.
[12] Using the remote control, he switched on the TV and then the VCR. The tape was already loaded. He’d watched it six times before.
Exterior36 security cameras throughout the estate numbered eighty-six. Every house door and window and all the approaches across the grounds were monitored.
Only the north wall of the estate abutted37 public property. This long rampart, including the gate, was under surveillance by cameras mounted in the trees on the land directly across the street, a parcel also owned by Channing Manheim.
Anyone reconnoitering the front-wall security, the operation of the gate, and the protocols38 of visitor identification would detect no cameras on the public side or in the estate trees that overhung the wall. They would assume that surveillance could be conducted solely39 from within the property.
Meanwhile, they would be watched by the cameras on the farther side of the narrow Bel Air byway, barely two lanes wide, which lacked sidewalks and streetlamps. A zoom40 shot would provide a clear ID to help ensure a conviction if the subject proceeded from reconnoitering to any act of criminal intent.
The cameras operated 24/7. From the security office in the groundskeeper’s building and from several points in the house, any videocàm in the system could be accessed if you knew the command.
Several televisions in the house and a bank of six in the security office could receive the video feed from any camera. One TV could display as many as four views simultaneously in quarter-screen format41. Therefore, the security team was able to study images from as many as twenty-four cameras at any one time.
Mostly, the guards drank coffee and bullshitted each other. If an alarm was triggered, however, they could have an immediate42, close look at whatever corner of the estate had been violated. Camera by camera, they would be able to track an intruder as he moved from one field of view into another.
From the security-office keyboard, a guard could direct the video [13] feed from any of the eighty-six sources to a VCR. The system included twelve VCRs capable of simultaneously recording43 forty-eight feeds in quarter-screen format.
Even if a guard were not paying attention, motion detectors44 associated with each camera would instigate45 automatic recording of that field of vision when any living thing larger than a dog passed through its area of responsibility.
At 3:32 A.M. the previous night, motion detectors related to Camera 01, which ceaselessly panned the western end of the north perimeter46, picked up a three-year-old Honda. Instead of passing by as the infrequent other traffic had done throughout the night, the car pulled off the pavement and parked a hundred yards short of the entrance gate.
The previous five black boxes had come by Federal Express with fake return addresses. Here Ethan had been presented with the first opportunity to identify the sender.
Now, less than seven hours later, he stood in his study and watched the Honda in full-screen format. The narrow shoulder of the road prevented the driver from parking the car entirely47 out of the eastbound lane.
In daylight, the exclusive streets of Bel Air didn’t carry a heavy load of traffic. At that late hour, they were hardly traveled.
Nevertheless concerned about safety, the driver of the Honda didn’t kill his headlights when he parked. He left the engine running and switched on his emergency blinkers.
The camera, featuring advanced night-vision technology, provided a high-resolution picture in spite of the darkness and foul48 weather.
For a moment, Camera 01 continued panning away from the Honda—then halted its programmed sweep and returned to the car. Dave Ladman had been on a routine foot patrol of the estate grounds at that time. Tom Mack, manning the security office, had recognized the presence of a suspicious vehicle and had overridden49 O1’s automatic function.
[14] Rain had been falling heavily. Ceaseless barrages50 of raindrops shattered against the blacktop with force, creating such a froth and dancing spray that the street appeared to be aboil.
The driver’s door opened, and Camera 01 zoomed51 in for a close-up as a tall, solidly built man got out of the car. He wore a black waterproof52 windbreaker. His face was hidden in the shadow of a hood53.
Unless Rolf Reynerd had loaned his car to a friend, this was the famous wolf. He fit the physical profile on Reynerd’s license.
He closed the driver’s door, opened the rear door, and took a large white ball from the backseat. This appeared to be the garbage bag containing the gift of the sutured apple.
Reynerd closed the door and started toward the front of the car, toward the driveway gate a hundred yards away. Abruptly54 he halted and turned to peer along the dark rain-swept lane, poised55 for flight.
Perhaps he thought that he’d heard an approaching engine above the rushing rustle56 of the rain racing57 down through the trees. The security tape provided no sound.
At that lonely hour, if another vehicle had arrived on the scene, chances were good that it would have been a cruiser belonging to the Bel Air Patrol, the private-security force that assisted in the policing of this extremely wealthy community.
When neither a cruiser nor a less-official vehicle appeared, the hooded58 man regained59 his confidence. He hurried eastward60 to the gate.
Camera 02 followed him as he stepped beyond the panning arc of Camera 01. As he neared the gate, Camera 03 watched him from across the street, zooming61 in for an intimate appraisal62.
Immediately upon arrival at the entrance gate, Reynerd threw the white bag toward the top of that bronze barrier. Failing to clear the highest scrollwork, the package bounced back at him.
On his second attempt, he succeeded. When he turned away from the gate, his hood slipped half off, and Camera 03 captured a clear image of his face in the glow of the flanking gate lamps.
[15] He had the chiseled63 features needed to be a successful waiter in the trendiest of L.A. restaurants, where both the service staff and the customers enjoyed the fantasy that any guy or gal64 ferrying plates of overpriced swordfish from kitchen to table during the Tuesday dinner shift might be offered, on Wednesday, a coveted65 role in Tom Cruise’s next hundred-fifty-million-dollar picture.
Turning from the gate, having delivered the apple, Rolf Reynerd was grinning.
Perhaps if Ethan hadn’t known the meaning of the man’s first name, the grin wouldn’t have seemed wolfish. Then he might have been reminded instead of a crocodile or a hyena66.
In any case, this was not the merry expression of a prankster. Captured on videotape, this curve of lips and bared teeth suggested a lunatic glee that required a full moon and medication.
Splashing through black puddles67 filigreed68 with silver by the headlights, Reynerd returned to the car.
As the Honda pulled off the shoulder and onto the eastbound lane once more, Camera 01 executed a swivel and zoom, then Camera 02. Both delivered readable shots of the rear license plate.
Dwindling69 into the night, the car conjured70 briefly71 lingering ghosts from its tailpipe.
Then the narrow street lay deserted72, in wet gloom except for the lamps at the Manheim gate. Black rain, as if from a dissolving night sky, poured down, poured down, driving the darkness of the universe into the universally coveted Bel Air real estate.
Before leaving his quarters in the west wing, Ethan called the housekeeper73, Mrs. McBee, to report that he’d be out most of the day.
More efficient than any machine, more dependable than the laws of physics, as trustworthy as any archangel, Mrs. McBee would within minutes dispatch one of the six maids under her command to Ethan’s [16] apartment. Seven days a week, a maid collected the trash and provided fresh towels. Twice weekly, his rooms were dusted, vacuumed, and left immaculate. Windows were washed twice a month.
There were advantages to living in a mansion74 attended by a staff of twenty-five.
As the chief of security overseeing both the Face’s personal protection and the safeguarding of the estate, Ethan enjoyed many benefits, including free meals prepared by either Mr. Hachette, the household chef, or by Mr. Baptiste, the household cook. Mr. Baptiste lacked his boss’s training in the finest culinary schools; but no one with taste buds ever complained about any dish he put on the table.
Meals could be taken in the large and comfortably furnished dayroom, where the staff not only ate but also did their household planning, spent their coffee breaks, and strategized all arrangements for the elaborate parties often held when the Face was in residence. Chef or cook would also prepare a plate of sandwiches or any other requested treat that Ethan might want to take back to his quarters.
Of course, he could prepare meals in his apartment kitchen if he preferred. Mrs. McBee kept his fridge and pantry stocked according to shopping lists he presented to her, at no expense to him.
Except for Monday and Thursday, when one of the maids changed the bedclothes—Mr. Manheim’s linens75 were cycled daily when he was in residence—Ethan had to make his own bed each morning.
Life was hard.
Now, after shrugging into a soft leather jacket, Ethan stepped out of his apartment into the ground-floor hallway of the west wing. He left his door unlocked as he would have done if he’d owned the entire house.
He took with him a file that he’d made on the black-box case, an umbrella, and a leather-bound copy of Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad. He had finished reading the novel the previous evening and intended to return it to the library.
[17] More than twelve feet wide, paved with limestone76 tiles featured through most of the main floor of the house, this hall was graced by softly colored contemporary Persian carpets. High-quality French antiques—all from the Empire period, and including the late-Empire style called Biedermeier—furnished the long space: chairs, chests, a desk, a sideboard.
Even with furniture to both sides, Ethan could have driven a car through the hall without grazing a single antique.
He might have enjoyed driving a car through the hall if he would not have had to explain himself to Mrs. McBee afterward77.
During the invigorating hike to the library, he encountered two uniformed maids and a porter with whom he exchanged greetings. Because he occupied what Mrs. McBee defined as an executive position on the staff, he referred to these fellow workers by their first names, but they called him Mr. Truman.
Prior to each new employee’s first day on the job, Mrs. McBee provided a ring-bound notebook titled Standards and Practices, which she herself had composed and assembled. Woe78 be to the benighted79 soul who did not memorize its contents and perform always according to its directions.
The library floor was walnut80, stained a dark warm reddish-brown. Here the Persian carpets were antiques that appreciated in value far faster than the blue-chip stocks of the country’s finest companies.
Club chairs in comfortable seating arrangements alternated with mazes81 of mahogany shelves that held over thirty-six thousand volumes. Some of the books were shelved on a second level served by a six-foot-wide catwalk that could be reached by an open staircase with an elaborate gilded-iron railing.
If you didn’t look up at the ceiling to help you define the true size of the enormous chamber82, you might succumb83 to the illusion that it went on forever. Maybe it did. Anything seemed possible here.
The center of the ceiling featured a stained-glass dome84 thirty-two [18] feet in diameter. The deep colors of the glass—crimson, emerald, burnt yellow, sapphire—so completely filtered natural light even on a bright day that the books were at no risk of sustaining sun damage.
Ethan’s Uncle Joe—who’d served as a surrogate dad when Ethan’s real father had been too drunk to handle the job—had been a truck driver for a regional bakery. He’d delivered breads and pastries85 to supermarkets and restaurants, six days a week, eight hours a day. Most of the time, Joe had held down a second job as a night janitor86, three days a week.
In his best five years put together, Uncle Joe hadn’t made enough to equal the cost of this stained-glass dome.
When he’d first begun to earn a policeman’s pay, Ethan had felt rich. Compared to Joe, he had been raking in big dough87.
His total income from sixteen years with the LAPD wouldn’t have paid the cost of this one room.
“Should’ve been a movie star,” he said as he entered the library to return Lord Jim to the shelf from which he’d gotten it.
Every volume in the collection had been arranged in alphabetical88 order, by author. A third were bound in leather; the rest were regular editions. A significant number were rare, and valuable.
The Face had read none of them.
More than two-thirds of the collection had come with the house. At her employer’s instructions, once each month, Mrs. McBee purchased the most talked-about and critically acclaimed89 current novels and volumes of nonfiction, which were at once catalogued and added to the library.
These new books were acquired for the sole purpose of display. They impressed houseguests, dinner guests, and other visitors with the breadth of Channing Manheim’s intellectual interests.
When asked for his opinion of any book, the Face elicited90 the visitor’s judgment91 first, then agreed with it in such a charming fashion that he seemed both erudite and every bit a kindred spirit.
As Ethan slid Lord Jim onto a shelf between two other Conrad titles, a small reedy voice behind him said, “Is there magic in it?”
[19] Turning, he discovered ten-year-old Aelfric Manheim all but swallowed alive by one of the larger armchairs.
According to Laura Moonves, Aelfric (pronounced elf-rick) was an Old English word meaning “elf-ruled” or “ruled by elves,” which had first been used to describe wise and clever actions, but had in time come to refer to those who acted wisely and cleverly.
Aelfric.
The boy’s mother—Fredericka “Freddie” Nielander—a supermodel who had married and divorced the Face all in one year, had read at least three books in her life. The Lord of the Rings trilogy. In fact she had read them repeatedly.
She had been prepared to name the boy Frodo. Fortunately, or not, one month before Freddie’s due date, her best girlfriend, an actress, had discovered the name Aelfric in the script for a cheesy fantasy film in which she had agreed to play a three-breasted Amazon alchemist.
If Freddie’s friend had landed a supporting role in The Silence of the Lambs, Aelfric would probably now be Hannibal Manheim.
The boy preferred to be called Fric, and no one but his mother insisted on using his full name. Fortunately, or not, she wasn’t around much to torture him with it.
Reliable scuttlebutt had it that Freddie had not seen Fric in over seventeen months. Even the career of an aging supermodel could be demanding.
“Is there magic in what?” Ethan asked.
“That book you just put away.”
“Magic of a sort, but probably not the kind of magic you mean.”
“This one has a shitload of magic in it,” Fric said, displaying a paperback92 with dragons and wizards on the cover.
“Is that advisable language for a wise and clever person?” Ethan asked.
“Heck, all my old man’s friends in the biz talk worse stuff than shitload. So does my old man.”
“Not when he knows you’re around.”
[20] Fric cocked his head. “Are you calling my dad a hypocrite?”
“If I ever call your dad such a thing, I’ll cut my tongue out.”
“The evil wizard in this book would use it in a potion. One of his most difficult tasks is to find the tongue of an honest man.”
“What makes you think I’m honest?”
“Get real. You’ve got a triple shitload of honesty.”
“What’re you going to do if Mrs. McBee hears you using words like that?”
“She’s somewhere else.”
“Oh, she is?” Ethan asked, suggesting that he knew something regarding Mrs. McBee’s current whereabouts that would make the boy wish he’d been more discreet93.
Unable to repress a guilty expression, Fric sat up straight and surveyed the library.
The boy was small for his age, and thin. At times, glimpsed from a distance as he walked along one of the vast halls or across a room scaled for kings and their entourages, he seemed almost wispy94.
“I think she has secret passages,” Fric whispered. “You know, pathways in the walls.”
“Mrs. McBee?”
The boy nodded. “We’ve lived here six years, but she’s been here forever.”
Mrs. McBee and Mr. McBee—both in their middle fifties—had been employed by the previous owner of the property and had stayed on at the request of the Face.
“It’s hard to picture Mrs. McBee skulking95 about in the walls,” said Ethan. “She’s not exactly a dastardly sort.”
“But if she was dastardly,” Fric said hopefully, “things would be more interesting around here.”
Unlike his father’s golden locks, which with a shake of the head always fell perfectly97 into place, Fric’s brown mop achieved perpetual disarray98. Here was hair that foiled brushes and broke good combs.
[21] Fric might grow into his looks and prove equal to his pedigree, but currently he appeared to be an average ten-year-old boy.
“Why aren’t you in class?” Ethan wondered.
“You an atheist99 or something? Don’t you know it’s the week before Christmas? Even home-schooled Hollywood brats100 get a break.”
A cadre of tutors visited five days a week. The private school that Fric attended for a while had not proved to be a suitable environment for him.
With the famous Channing Manheim for a father, with the famous and notorious Freddie Nielander for a mother, Fric became an object of envy and ridicule101 even among the children of other celebrities102. Being the skinny son of a buffed star adored for heroic roles also made him a figure of fun to crueler kids. The severity of his asthma103 further argued for schooling104 at home, in a controlled environment.
“Have any idea what you’ll get Christmas morning?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah. I had to submit my list to Mrs. McBee by December fifth. I told her not to bother wrapping the stuff, but she will. She always does. She says it’s not Christmas morning without some mystery.”
“I’d have to agree with that.”
The boy shrugged105, and slumped106 in his chair again.
Although the Face was currently on location for a film, he would return from Florida the day before Christmas.
“It’ll be good to have your dad home for the holidays. You guys have any special plans once he gets back?”
The boy shrugged again, attempting to convey lack of knowledge or indifference, but instead—and unwittingly—revealing a misery107 that made Ethan feel uncharacteristically helpless.
Fric had inherited luminous108 green eyes to match his mother’s. In the singular depths of those eyes, enough could be read about the boy’s loneliness to fill a library shelf or two.
“Well,” Ethan said, “maybe Christmas morning this year you’ll have a couple surprises.”
[22] Sitting forward in his chair, eager for the sense of mystery that he had so recently dismissed as unimportant, Fric said, “What—you heard something?”
“If I heard something, which I’m not saying I did or didn’t, I couldn’t tell you what I heard, assuming I heard anything at all, and still keep the surprise a surprise, by which I don’t mean to imply that there is a surprise or that there isn’t one.”
The boy stared in silence for a moment. “Now you don’t sound cop honest, you sound like the head of a studio.”
“You know what heads of studios sound like, huh?”
“They come around here sometimes,” the boy said in a tone of worldly wisdom. “I recognize their rap.”
Ethan parked across the street from the apartment house in West Hollywood, switched off the windshield wipers, but left the engine running to power the heater. He sat in the Ford109 Expedition awhile, watching the place, deciding upon the best approach to Rolf Reynerd.
The Expedition was one of a collection of vehicles available for both job-related and personal use by the eight live-in members of the twenty-five-person estate staff. Among other wheels, a Mercedes ML500 SUV had been in the lower garage, but that might have drawn110 too much attention during a stakeout if the day required surveillance work.
The three-story apartment house appeared to be in good but not excellent repair. The cream-colored stucco wasn’t pocked or cracked, but the place looked to be at least a year overdue111 for painting. One of the address numbers above the front door hung askew112.
Camellia bushes laden113 with heavy red blooms, a variety of ferns, and phoenix114 palms with enormous crowns provided the lushness of high-end landscaping; but everything had needed a trim months ago. The shaggy grass suggested that it was mown not weekly but twice a month.
[23] The landlord shaved his costs, but the building nevertheless looked like a nice place to live.
No one rented here on a welfare check. Reynerd must have a job, but the fact that he’d been delivering death threats at three-thirty in the morning suggested that he didn’t have to get up early to go to work. He might be home now.
When Ethan tracked down his suspect’s place of employment and began to make inquiries115 about him with fellow workers and neighbors, Reynerd almost certainly would be alerted by someone. Thereafter, he would grow too wary116 to be approached directly.
Ethan preferred to start with the man himself and work outward from that initial contact.
He closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the headrest, and brooded about how to proceed.
The engine roar of an approaching car grew so loud that Ethan opened his eyes, half expecting to hear a sudden siren and to see a police chase in progress. Traveling far too fast for a residential117 street, a cherry-red Ferrari Testarossa exploded past, as though the driver were in fact hoping to run down a darting118 child or an old lady slowed by orthopedic shoes and a cane119.
A tire-thrown plume120 spewed up from the puddled street, drenching121 the Expedition. The glass in the driver’s door briefly clouded with ripples122 of dirty water.
Across the street, the apartment house appeared to shimmer123 as if it were a place in a dream. Some aspect of that transient distortion seemed to trigger a vague memory of a long-forgotten nightmare, and the sight of the building in this warped124 condition caused the hairs to rise inexplicably125 on the back of Ethan’s neck.
Then the last gouts of the plume drained off the window. Falling rain quickly cleared the murky126 residue127 from the glass. The apartment house was nothing more than what it had been when he’d first seen it: a nice place to live.
After judging that the rain was falling only hard enough to make [24] an umbrella more trouble than it was worth, he got out of the SUV and dashed across the street.
In southern California during the late autumn and early winter, Mother Nature suffered unpredictable mood swings. From one year to the next, and even from day to day in the same year, the week before Christmas could vary from balmy to bone-chilling. This air was cool, the rain colder than the air, and the sky as dead gray as it might have been in any truly wintry clime much farther north.
The main door of the building featured no buzz-through security lock. The neighborhood remained safe enough that apartment lobbies did not absolutely require fortification.
Dripping, he entered a small space, less a lobby than a foyer, with a Mexican-tile floor. An elevator and a set of stairs served the upper stories.
The foyer air curdled128 with the lingering meaty scent129 of Canadian bacon, cooked hours ago, and the musty smell of stale pot smoke. Weed had a singular aroma130. Someone had stood here this morning, finishing a joint131, before stepping out to meet the dreary132 day.
From the bank of mailboxes, Ethan counted four apartments on the ground floor, six on the second, and six on the third. Reynerd lived in the middle of the building, in 2B.
Only the last names of the current tenants133 were printed on the mailboxes. Ethan needed more information than these stick-on labels provided.
An open communal134 receptacle, recessed135 in the wall, had been provided for magazines and other publications on those occasions when the volume of other mail didn’t permit the postman to put all items in the boxes.
Two magazines lay in the tray. Both were for George Keesner in Apartment 2E.
Ethan rapped a knuckle136 against the aluminum137 doors on several of the mailboxes for the apartments in which he had no interest. The [25] hollow sound suggested they were empty. Most likely the daily mail had not yet been delivered.
When he rapped on Keesner’s box, it sounded as though it was packed full of mail. Evidently the man had been away from home for at least a couple days.
Ethan climbed the stairs to the second floor. One long hall, three doors on each side. At 2E, he rang the bell and waited.
Reynerd’s unit, 2B, lay directly across from 2E.
When no one answered the bell at Keesner’s apartment, Ethan rang it again, twice. After a pause, he knocked loudly.
Each door had been fitted with a fisheye lens to allow the resident to examine a caller before deciding whether or not to admit him. Perhaps from across the hall, Reynerd was watching the back of Ethan’s head right now.
Receiving no response to his knock, Ethan turned away from Keesner’s door and made a show of frustration138. He wiped his rain-wet face with one hand. He pushed that hand through his damp hair. He shook his head. He looked up and down the hall.
When Ethan rang the bell at 2B, the apple man answered almost at once, without the protection of a security chain.
Although an unmistakable match for the image captured by the security camera, he proved to be more handsome than he’d been in the rain the previous night. He resembled Ben Affleck, the actor.
In addition to the Affleck aspect, however, he had a welcome-to-the-Bates-Motel edge to him that any fan of Anthony Perkins would have recognized. The tightness at the corners of his mouth, the rapid pulse visible in his right temple, and especially the hard shine in his eyes suggested that he might be on methamphetamine, not fully96 amped but clipping along at high altitude.
“Sir,” Ethan said even as the door was still opening, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m sort of desperate to get in touch with George Keesner over there in 2E. Do you know George?”
[26] Reynerd shook his head. He had a bull’s neck. Lots of time spent on weight machines at the gym.
“I know him to say hello in the hall,” Reynerd said, “and how’s the weather. That’s all.”
If that was true, Ethan felt secure enough to say, “I’m his brother. Name’s Ricky Keesner.”
That scam ought to work as long as Keesner was somewhere between twenty and fifty years old.
“Our Uncle Harry139’s on his deathbed in the ICU,” Ethan lied. “Not going to hold on much longer. Since yesterday morning, I been calling George at every number I’ve got for him. He doesn’t get back to me. Doesn’t answer the door now.”
“I think he’s away,” said Reynerd.
“Away? He didn’t say anything about it to me. You know where he might’ve gone?”
Reynerd shook his head. “He was going out with a little suitcase the night before last, as I was coming in.”
“He tell you when he’d be back?”
“We just said how it looked like rain coming, and then he went out,” Reynerd replied.
“Man, he’s so close to Uncle Harry—we both are—he’s going to be upset he didn’t get a chance to say good-bye. Maybe I could leave him a note, so he sees it first thing he gets back.”
Reynerd just stared at Ethan. An artery140 began throbbing141 in his neck. His speed-cycled brain was racing, but although meth ensured frenetically fast thinking, it didn’t assist clear thinking.
“The thing is,” Ethan said, “I don’t have any paper. Or a pen, for that matter.”
“Oh. Sure, I got those,” said Reynerd.
“I really hate to bother you—”
“No bother,” Reynerd assured him, turning away from the open door, going off to find a notepad, a pen.
Left at the threshold, Ethan chafed142 to get into the apartment. He [27] wanted a better look at Reynerd’s nest than he could obtain from the doorway143.
Just as Ethan decided144 to risk being rude and to enter without an invitation, Reynerd halted, turned, and said, “Come on in. Sit down.”
Now that the invitation had been extended, Ethan could afford to inject a little authenticity145 into this charade146 by demurring147. “Thanks, but I just came in from the rain—”
“Can’t hurt this furniture,” Reynerd assured him.
Leaving the door open behind himself, Ethan went inside.
The living room and dining area comprised one large space. The kitchen was open to this front room, but separated from it by a bar with two stools.
Reynerd 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 sparsely148 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 Scotch149 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 swirl150 of feathered [28] frenzy151 from a cobblestone plaza152 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 jot153 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 overlapping154 wings, crying beaks155, 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 arteries156 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 pristine157 as winter snow lay wall to wall. The furniture had been upholstered in a black fabric158. 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 flair159. A crime picture from the thirties or forties.
Reynerd continued to rummage160 in kitchen cabinets.
Here, two doves appeared to clash in midflight. There, an owl16 stared wide-eyed, as if shocked by what it saw.
Outside, wind had returned to the day. A dice-rattle161 of rain drew Ethan’s attention to the window.
From the kitchen came the distinctive162 rustle of a foil potato-chip bag.
[29] 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 licensed163 private investigator164 and certified165 bodyguard166, Ethan had a permit to carry a concealed167 weapon. Except in the company of Channing Manheim, when he armed himself as a matter of routine, he seldom bothered to strap168 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 provocation169. 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 [30] reached for the 9-mm Glock under his jacket, the apple man shot him point-blank in the gut170.
For a moment, Ethan felt no pain, but only for a moment. He rocked back in the chair and gaped171 at the gush172 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 rattling173 in a broken throat.
No Christmas.
收听单词发音 |
1
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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28
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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29
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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30
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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31
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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32
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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33
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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34
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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35
droplets
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| n.小滴( droplet的名词复数 ) | |
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36
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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abutted
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| v.（与…）邻接( abut的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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38
protocols
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| n.礼仪( protocol的名词复数 )；（外交条约的）草案；（数据传递的）协议；科学实验报告（或计划） | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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40
zoom
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| n.急速上升；v.突然扩大，急速上升 | |
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41
format
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| n.设计，版式；[计算机]格式，DOS命令:格式化(磁盘)，用于空盘或使用过的磁盘建立新空盘来存储数据；v.使格式化，设计，安排 | |
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42
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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detectors
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| 探测器( detector的名词复数 ) | |
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45
instigate
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| v.教唆，怂恿，煽动 | |
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perimeter
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| n.周边，周长，周界 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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overridden
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| 越控( override的过去分词 )； （以权力）否决； 优先于； 比…更重要 | |
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barrages
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| n.弹幕射击( barrage的名词复数 )；火力网；猛烈炮火；河上的堰坝v.火力攻击（或阻击）( barrage的第三人称单数 )；以密集火力攻击（或阻击） | |
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51
zoomed
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| v.（飞机、汽车等）急速移动( zoom的过去式 )；（价格、费用等）急升，猛涨 | |
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52
waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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53
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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55
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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56
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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57
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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58
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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59
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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60
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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61
zooming
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| adj.快速上升的v.（飞机、汽车等）急速移动( zoom的过去分词 )；（价格、费用等）急升，猛涨 | |
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62
appraisal
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| n.对…作出的评价；评价，鉴定，评估 | |
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63
chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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65
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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66
hyena
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| n.土狼，鬣狗 | |
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67
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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filigreed
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| adj.饰有金银丝细工的v.（用金丝等制成的）精工制品( filigree的过去式和过去分词 )；精致的物品 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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71
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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72
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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73
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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74
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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75
linens
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| n.亚麻布( linen的名词复数 )；家庭日用织品 | |
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76
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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77
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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78
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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80
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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81
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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82
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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83
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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84
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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85
pastries
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| n.面粉制的糕点 | |
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janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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87
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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alphabetical
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| adj.字母（表）的，依字母顺序的 | |
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89
acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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92
paperback
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| n.平装本，简装本 | |
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93
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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94
wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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95
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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96
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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97
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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98
disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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99
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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100
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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101
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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102
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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103
asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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104
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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105
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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106
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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107
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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108
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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109
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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110
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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111
overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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112
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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113
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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114
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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115
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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116
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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117
residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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118
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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119
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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120
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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121
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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122
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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123
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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124
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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125
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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126
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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127
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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128
curdled
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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130
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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131
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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132
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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133
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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134
communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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135
recessed
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| v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的过去式和过去分词 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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136
knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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137
aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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138
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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139
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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140
artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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141
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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142
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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143
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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144
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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145
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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146
charade
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| n.用动作等表演文字意义的字谜游戏 | |
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147
demurring
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的现在分词 ) | |
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148
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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149
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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150
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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151
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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152
plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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153
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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154
overlapping
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| adj./n.交迭（的） | |
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155
beaks
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| n.鸟嘴( beak的名词复数 )；鹰钩嘴；尖鼻子；掌权者 | |
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156
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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157
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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158
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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159
flair
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| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
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160
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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161
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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162
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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163
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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164
investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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165
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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166
bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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167
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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168
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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169
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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170
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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171
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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172
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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173
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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