The Face

who, before Ethan’s arrival, had proved to be a security guard on the estate. He had been let go with generous severance pay and, according to Mrs. McBee, with a lecture from Ming du Lac to the effect that he would be wise to put his spiritual house in order.
        The signal light winked off. This call had lasted one minute and twelve seconds.
        Sometimes Ethan wondered how the Channing Manheim who managed an acting career so brilliantly and who had proved himself an investment wizard could be the same man who employed Ming du Lac and also a feng-shui adviser, a clairvoyance instructor, and a past-life researcher who spent forty hours a week tracking the actor’s reincarnations backward through the centuries.
        [273] On the other hand, the singular events of this day left him less certain of his usual skepticism.
        He turned his attention to the computer screen once more, to the telephone log. He frowned, wondering why Fric would have invented the heavy breather.
        If someone had in fact made obscene calls to the boy, chances were good that this related to the implied threats against Manheim that had come in those black boxes. Otherwise, there were two sources of threats that had arisen simultaneously. Ethan didn’t believe in coincidences.
        The heavy breather might be the real-life inspiration for the “professor” mentioned in Reynerd’s partial screenplay, the man who had conspired to send the black gift boxes and to kill Manheim. If so, he had somehow acquired at least one of the house’s unlisted numbers: a disturbing development.
        Yet the phone log had never failed to record any call in the past. And though they might err, machines didn’t lie.
        The recent incoming call to Line 24 was now the last item on the day’s log. As it should be.
        Ethan had timed the call at one minute twelve seconds. The monitoring software registered one minute fourteen seconds. He had no doubt that the two-second error was his.
        According to the log, Caller ID blocking prevented notation of the point-of-origin number. That was peculiar if the call had been from a phone-sales agent, a breed now forbidden by law to block their ID, not peculiar at all if it had been a wrong number.
        Neither was it unusual for a wrong number to have tied up the line for a minute or longer. The outgoing greeting on the special answering machine that serviced Line 24 was not an elaborate hello to those in the spirit world, but a simple “Please leave a message.” Some callers, failing to realize that they hadn’t reached the desired number, complied with that invitation.
        Anyway, whoever called Line 24 wasn’t the issue. The question [274] was if the ever-dependable machine had erred or lied in failing to record the calls that the boy claimed to have received.
        Logically, Ethan could only conclude that the machine couldn’t be faulted. In the morning, he would have a talk with Fric.
        On the desk beside the computer were the three silvery bells from the ambulance. He stared at them for a long time.
        Beside the bells was a nine-by-twelve manila envelope that had been left here for him by Mrs. McBee. She had printed his name in matchless calligraphy.
        As with all things McBee, her graceful penmanship made Ethan smile. She knew the best and most elegant way that every task ought to be performed, and she held herself to her own high standards.
        He opened the envelope and confirmed a truth that he already knew: Freddie Nielander, Fric’s mother, was a braying jackass.

CHAPTER 42
        
        FANTASTICALLY YELLOW FROM HEAD TO FOOT, Corky Laputa accepted the shocking-pink plastic bag from Mr. Chung.
        He was aware that he evoked smiles from other customers, and he supposed that in his yellow-and-pink flamboyance, he must be the most cheerful-looking anarchist in the world.
        The bag bulged with containers of Chinese food, and Mr. Chung overflowed with good will. He effusively thanked Corky for his continuing patronage and wished him all the best that fortune had to offer.
        After a typically busy day in the pursuit of social collapse, Corky seldom found himself in the mood to make dinner. He got takeout from Mr. Chung as often as three or four times a week.
        In a better world, instead of resorting repeatedly to Chinese takeout, he would have preferred to dine frequently in upscale restaurants. If an