The Face

kill the previous evening. The experience was satisfying for him, but surely not for the tree.
        He could think of no water closet in the mansion that could be reached without going through a bathroom with mirrors.
        This unconventional toileting would be all right for a while, but [335] only as long as he could stand up to do what needed to be done. The moment sitting was required, he would be in trouble.
        If the rain ended at last-or if it didn’t-he might venture outside to the grouping of deodar cedars beyond the rose garden. There he could do what bears did in the woods, by which he didn’t mean hibernate or guzzle honey from bee hives.
        Security guards would see him going to and from the cedars. Fortunately, no cameras were positioned inside that little grove.
        If anyone asked why he’d gone out in the rain to the woods, he would say without hesitation that he’d been bird watching. He must remember to take with him a pair of binoculars for cover.
        No one would doubt his story. People expected a geeky-looking kid like him to be a bird watcher, a math whiz, a builder of plastic model-kit monsters, a secret reader of body-building magazines, and a collector of his own boogers, among other things.
        With his toilet strategy now devised, he plugged in the library phone, which he had unplugged the previous night. He expected his line to ring at once, but it didn’t.
        He dragged the armchair away from the Christmas tree and returned it to its proper position. After turning out the lights, he left the library.
        As he closed the door, some of the dangling angels glimmered softly in the gloom, barely touched by storm light filtering through the stained-glass dome.
        Moloch was coming.
        Preparations must be made.
        He went down the main stairs, across the rotunda, and along the hall to the kitchen. En route, he switched off the lights that he had left on during the night.
        The post-dawn stillness in the great house was deeper even than the silence that, during the long night, had made it seem like such a perfect haunt for ghosts of all intentions.
        In the kitchen, passing a window, he noticed a lull in the rain, and [336] he glimpsed the grove of cedars in the distance. At the moment, however, he felt no urge to engage in any bird watching.
        Usually Fric avoided the kitchen on days when Mr. Hachette, the diabolical chef, was on the job. Here be the lair of the beast, where the many ovens could not help but bring to mind Hansel and Gretel and their close call, where you were reminded that a rolling pin was also a wicked bludgeon, where you expected to discover that the knives and the cleavers and the meat forks were engraved with the words PROPERTY OF THE BATES MOTEL.
        This morning, the territory was safe because Mr. Hachette-late of the Cordon Bleu school of culinary arts and more recently released from an equally prestigious asylum-would not be present to prepare breakfast for either family or staff. He would begin his day skulking from the farmers’ market to a series of specialty shops, selecting-and arranging for the delivery of-the fruits, vegetables, meats, delicacies, and no doubt poisons needed to prepare the series of holiday feasts that he had planned with his usual sinister secrecy. Mr. Hachette would not arrive at Palazzo Rospo before noon.
        Although short, Fric could nevertheless reach the faucets at the kitchen sink. He adjusted the water until it was pleasantly warm.
        If the kitchen had featured a mirror, he wouldn’t have dared to bathe here. You were so vulnerable when you were taking a bath, all defenses down.
        The stainless-steel fronts of the six refrigerators and the numerous ovens had a brushed rather than a polished finish. They didn’t serve as mirrors and were therefore unlikely to offer cheap and easy travel to spirits good or evil.
        Fric stripped off his shirt and undershirt, but nothing more. He was not an exhibitionist. Even if he had been an exhibitionist, the kitchen didn’t seem like a suitable place to exhibit.
        Using paper towels and lemon-scented ooze from the liquid-soap dispenser, he washed his arms and upper body, with special attention to his armpits. He used more paper towels to rinse and dry himself.
        [337] No sooner had he shut off the water and finished blotting his torso than he heard someone approaching. The