The Face

him.
        “Do me,” she said, “do me,” and managed to make it sound less like an invitation to sex than like a request for assisted suicide.
        Her bed was narrow, suitable only for a sleeper who did not toss and turn, who lay as unmoving as the average occupant of a casket, by far too narrow for the wild rutting of which they both were capable.
        She had furnished the room with a single bed because she’d never had a lover and had expected to remain a virgin. Corky had romanced her as easily as he could have crushed a hummingbird in his fist.
        The narrow bed stood in a room on the top floor of a narrow two-story Victorian house. The lot was deep but too narrow to qualify as a residential building site under current city codes.
        Almost sixty years ago, just after the war, an eccentric dog fancier had designed and built the curious place. He lived in it with two greyhounds and two whippets.
        Eventually he’d been paralyzed by a stroke. After several days passed during which their master had not fed them, the starving dogs ate him.
        That had been forty years ago. The subsequent history of this residence at times had been as colorful and on occasion nearly as grisly as the life and ghastly death of its first owner.
        The vibe of the house caught Brittina’s attention just like the high-frequency shriek of a dog whistle might have pricked the ears of a whippet. She’d purchased it with a portion of an inheritance that she received from her paternal grandmother.
        Brittina was a graduate student at the same university that had provided multigeneration employment for the Laputa family. In another eighteen months, she would earn a doctorate in American literature, which she largely despised.
        [387] Although she had not blown her entire inheritance on the house, she needed to supplement her investment income with other revenue. She had served as a graduate assistant to keep herself in chocolate-flavored Slim-Fast and ipecac.
        Then, six months ago, Channing Manheim’s personal assistant had approached the chairperson of the university’s English department to explain that a new tutor would be required for the famous actor’s son. Only academicians of the highest caliber need apply.
        The chairperson consulted Corky, who was vice-chairperson of the department, and Corky recommended Ms. Dowd.
        He’d known that she would be hired because, first of all, the idiot movie star would be impressed by her dramatic appearance. Cadaverous paleness, a gaunt face, and the body of an anorexic nun would be seen as proof that Brittina cared little for the pleasures of the flesh, that she enjoyed largely a life of the mind, that she was therefore a genuine intellectual.
        In the entertainment business, only image mattered. Manheim would believe, therefore, that appearance equaled reality in other professions, as well.
        Furthermore, Brittina Dowd was an intellectual snob who peppered her speech with academic jargon more impenetrable than the lab-speak of microbiologists. If the young woman’s emaciation didn’t convince the movie star of her intellectual credentials, her big words would.
        The evening before Brittina went to her job interview, Corky poured on charm as thick as clotted cream, and she at once proved to be famished not only for food but also for flattery. She allowed herself to indulge her appetite for adoration, and Corky bedded her then for the first time.
        Ultimately, she became Aelfric Manheim’s tutor in English and literature, making regularly scheduled visits to Palazzo Rospo.
        Prior to this, Rolf Reynerd and Corky had discussed, in general [388] terms, the blow that might be struck in the name of social disorder by proving that even a celebrity of worldwide renown was vulnerable to the agents of chaos. They had not been able to settle on an ideal target until Corky’s lover was hired by Channing Manheim.
        From Brittina, in bed and out, Corky had learned much about the Manheim estate. Indeed, she disclosed the existence of Line 24 -and, more important, told him about the security guard, Ned Hokenberry, valiant defender of Peaches and Herb, who according to Fric had been dismissed for leaving phony messages from the dead on that answering machine.
        Brittina had also painted for Corky a detailed psychological portrait of Channing’s son. This would be invaluable when, with