Velocity

itself,” Cottle continued, “so you don’t at first see a face. It’s like something from the sea, clenched yet billowy. So he gently shakes the jar, gently swirls the contents, and the face… it blossoms.”
    The grass is sweet and green across the lawn, then taller and golden where nature alone tends to it. The two grasses produce distinct fragrances, each crisp and pleasant in its own way.
    “You recognize an ear first,” said Ralph Cottle. “The ears are attached, and the cartilage gives them shape. There’s cartilage in the nose, too, but it hasn’t held its shape very well. The nose is just a lump.”
    From the shining heights, the hawk descended in a narrowing gyre, describing silent and harmonious curves.
    “The lips are full, but the mouth is just a hole, and the eyes are holes. There’s no hair, ‘cause he cut only from one ear to the other, from the top of the brow to the bottom of the chin. You can’t tell it’s a woman’s face, and not a man’s. He says she was beautiful, but there’s no beauty in the jar.”
    Billy said, “It’s just a mask, latex, a trick.”
    “Oh, it’s real. It’s as real as terminal cancer. He says it was the second act in one of his best performances.”
    “Performances?”
    “He has four photos of her face. In the first, she’s alive. Then dead. In the third, the face is partly peeled back. In the fourth, her head is there, her hair, but the soft tissue of her face is gone, nothing but bone, the grinning skull.”
    From graceful gyre to sudden plunge, the hawk knifed toward the tall grass.
    The pint told Ralph Cottle that he needed fortification, and he drank a new foundation for his crumbling courage.
    Following a fumy exhalation, he said, “The first photo, when she was alive, maybe she was pretty like he says. You can’t tell because… she’s all terror. She’s ugly with terror.”
    The tall grass, previously motionless in the fixative heat, stirred briefly in a single place, where feathers thrashed the stalks.
    “The face in that first picture,” Cottle said, “is worse than the one in the jar. It’s a lot worse.”
    The hawk burst from the grass and soared. Its talons clutched something small, perhaps a field mouse, which struggled in terror, or didn’t. At this distance, you couldn’t be sure.
    Cottle’s voice was a file rasping on ancient wood. “If I don’t do exactly what he wants me to, he promises to put my face in a jar. And while he harvests it, he’ll keep me alive, and conscious.”
    In the bright pellucid sky, the rising hawk was as black and clean as a shadow once more. Its wings cleaved the shining air, and the high thermals were the pristine currents of a river through which it swam, and dwindled, and vanished, having killed only what it needed to survive.
     
     
     

Chapter 21
     
    Rockless in the rocking chair, Ralph Cottle said that he lived in a ramshackle cottage by the river. Two rooms and a porch with a view, the place had been hammered together in the 1930’s and had been falling apart ever since.
    Long ago, unknown rugged individuals had used the cottage for fishing vacations. It had no electric service. An outhouse served as the toilet. The only running water was what passed in the river.
    “I think mainly it was a place for them to get away from their wives,” Cottle said. “A place to drink and get drunk. It still is.”
    A fireplace provided heat and allowed simple cooking. What meals Cottle ate were spooned from hot cans.
    Once the property had been privately owned. Now it belonged to the county, perhaps seized for back taxes. Like much government land, it was poorly managed. No bureaucrats or game wardens had bothered Ralph Cottle since the day, eleven years ago, when he had cleaned out the cottage, put down his bedroll, and settled in as a squatter.
    No neighbors lived within sight or within shouting distance. The cottage was a secluded outpost, which suited Cottle just fine.
    Until 3:45 the previous morning, when he had been prodded awake by a visitor in a ski mask: Then what had seemed like cozy privacy had become a terrifying isolation.
    Cottle had fallen asleep without extinguishing the oil lamp by which he read Western novels and drank himself to sleep. In spite of that light, he hadn’t absorbed any useful details about the killer’s appearance. He couldn’t estimate the man’s height or weight.
    He claimed the madman’s voice had no memorable characteristics.
    Billy figured Cottle knew