The Face

smoke. Weed had a singular aroma. Someone had stood here this morning, finishing a joint, before stepping out to meet the dreary 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 tenants were printed on the mailboxes. Ethan needed more information than these stick-on labels provided.
        An open communal receptacle, recessed 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 knuckle against the aluminum 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 frustration. 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 fully 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 Harry’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 artery began throbbing 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