The Face

DEAN KOONTZ

This book is dedicated to three exceptional men—and to their wives, who have worked so very hard to sculpt them from such rough clay. From the ground up: To Leason and Marlene Pomeroy, to Mike and Edie Martin, and to Jose and Rachel Perez. After The Project, I will not be able to get up in the morning, spend a moment at home during the day, or go to bed at night without thinking of you. I guess I’ll just have to live with that.

The civilized human spirit … cannot get rid of a feeling of the uncanny.

—Doctor Faustus, THOMAS MANN

Title PageDedicationEpigraphChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty OneChapter Twenty TwoChapter Twenty ThreeChapter Twenty FourChapter Twenty FiveChapter Twenty SixChapter Twenty SevenChapter Twenty EightChapter Twenty NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty OneChapter Thirty TwoChapter Thirty ThreeChapter Thirty FourChapter Thirty FiveChapter Thirty SixChapter Thirty SevenChapter Thirty EightChapter Thirty NineChapter FortyChapter Forty OneChapter Forty TwoChapter Forty ThreeChapter Forty FourChapter Forty FiveChapter Forty SixChapter Forty SevenChapter Forty EightChapter Forty NineChapter FiftyChapter Fifty OneChapter Fifty TwoChapter Fifty ThreeChapter Fifty FourChapter Fifty FiveChapter Fifty SixChapter Fifty SevenChapter Fifty EightChapter Fifty NineChapter SixtyChapter Sixty OneChapter Sixty TwoChapter Sixty ThreeChapter Sixty FourChapter Sixty FiveChapter Sixty SixChapter Sixty SevenChapter Sixty EightChapter Sixty NineChapter SeventyChapter Seventy OneChapter Seventy TwoChapter Seventy ThreeChapter Seventy FourChapter Seventy FiveChapter Seventy SixChapter Seventy SevenChapter Seventy EightChapter Seventy NineChapter EightyChapter Eighty OneChapter Eighty TwoChapter Eighty ThreeChapter Eighty FourChapter Eighty FiveChapter Eighty SixChapter Eighty SevenChapter Eighty EightChapter Eighty NineChapter NinetyChapter Ninety OneChapter Ninety TwoChapter Ninety ThreeChapter Ninety FourChapter Ninety FiveChapter Ninety SixNoteAbout the AuthorAlso By Dean KoontzCopyrightAbout the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

AFTER THE APPLE HAD BEEN CUT IN HALF, the halves had been sewn together with coarse black thread. Ten bold stitches were uniformly spaced. Each knot had been tied with a surgeon’s precision.

The variety of apple, a red delicious, might have significance. Considering that these messages had been delivered in the form of objects and images, never in words, every detail might refine the sender’s meaning, as adjectives and punctuation refined prose.

More likely, however, this apple had been selected because it wasn’t ripe. Softer flesh would have crumbled even if the needle had been used with care and if each stitch had been gently cinched.

Awaiting further examination, the apple stood on the desk in Ethan Truman’s study. The black box in which the apple had been packed also stood on the desk, bristling with shredded black tissue paper. The box had already yielded what clues it contained: none.

Here in the west wing of the mansion, Ethan’s ground-floor apartment was comprised of this study, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Tall French windows provided a clear view of nothing real.

The previous occupant would have called the study a living room and would have furnished the space accordingly. Ethan did too little living to devote an entire room to it.

With a digital camera, he had photographed the black box before opening it. He had also taken shots of the red delicious from three angles.

He assumed that the apple had been sliced open in order to allow for the insertion of an object into the core. He was reluctant to snip the stitches and to take a look at what might lie within.

Years as a homicide detective had hardened him in some respects. In other ways, too much experience of extreme violence had made him vulnerable.

He was only thirty-seven, but his police career was over. His instincts remained sharp, however, and his darkest expectations were undiminished.

A sough of wind insisted at the French panes. A soft tapping of blown rain.

The languid storm gave him excuse enough to leave the apple waiting and to step to the nearest window.

Frames, jambs, rails, muntins—every feature of every window in the great house had been crafted in bronze. Exposure to the elements promoted a handsome mottled-green patina on exterior surfaces. Inside, diligent maintenance kept the bronze a dark ruby-brown.

The glass in each pane was beveled at every edge. Even in the humblest of service rooms—the scullery, the ground-floor laundry—beveling had been specified.

Although the residence had been built for a film mogul during the last years of the Great Depression, no evidence of a construction budget could be seen anywhere from the entrance foyer to the farthest corner of the last back hall.