Read The Face for Free Online

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.
        [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 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 [30] 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