Free Face of Fear by Dean Koontz Page B

Prine said. But if it can’t be found, it can be manufactured, he thought.

10
    Sarah Piper spent the early part of Friday afternoon packing for a five-day trip to Las Vegas. Ernie Nolan, a men’s clothing manufacturer who had been on her special list of customers for three years, went to Vegas every six months and took her with him. He paid her fifteen hundred dollars for her time in bed and gave her five hundred as a gambling stake. Even if Ernie had been a beast, which he was not, it would have been a good vacation for her.
    Beginning today, she was on a week’s leave from the Rhinestone Palace ; and she was glad that she hadn’t tried to squeeze in one more night’s work before catching the flight to Vegas tomorrow morning. She’d had only two hours’ sleep after returning from Edna’s place, and those two hours had been plagued by nightmares. She would need to rest well tonight if she was going to be at the top of her form for Ernie.
    As she packed, she wondered if there was something missing from her. Heart? Normal emotions? She had cried last night, had been deeply affected by Edna’s death. But already her spirits were high again. She was excited, pleased to be getting away from New York. Introspection didn’t give rise to any guilt. She had seen too much of the world—too much violence, desperation, selfishness and grubbiness—to chastise herself for being unable to sustain her grief. That was the way people were built: forgetfulness was the hub of the wheel, the core of the mind, the thing that kept you sane. Maybe that was not pleasant to contemplate, but it was true.
    At three o’clock, as she was locking the third suitcase, a man called. He wanted to set up a date for that evening. She didn’t know him, but he claimed to have gotten her name from one of her regular clients. Although he sounded quite nice—a genuine Southern gentleman with a mellow accent—she had to turn him down.
    “If you’ve got something else going,” he said, “I can make it worth your while to drop him for tonight.”
    “There’s no one else. But I’m going to Vegas in the morning, and I need my rest.”
    “What’s your usual rate?” he asked.
    “Two hundred. But—”
    “I’ll give you three hundred.”
    She hesitated.
    “Four hundred.”
    “I’ll give you the names of a couple of girls—”
    “I want to spend the evening with you. I hear you’re the loveliest woman in Manhattan.”
    She laughed. “You’d be in for a big disappointment.”
    “I’ve made up my mind. When I’ve made up my mind, nothing on God’s earth can change it. Five hundred dollars.”
    “That’s too much. If you—”
    “Young lady, five hundred is peanuts. I’ve made millions in the oil business. Five hundred—and I won’t tie you up all evening. I’ll be there around six o’clock. We’ll relax together—then go out to dinner. You’ll be home by ten, plenty of time to rest up for Vegas.”
    “You don’t give up easily, do you?”
    “That’s my trademark. I’m blessed with perseverance. Down home they call it pure mule-headed stubbornness.”
    Smiling, she said, “All right. You win. Five hundred. But you promise we’ll be back by ten?”
    “Word of honor,” he said.
    “You haven’t told me your name.”
    “Plover,” he said. “Billy James Plover.”
    “Do I call you Billy James?”
    “Just Billy.”
    “Who recommended me?”
    “I’d rather not use his name on the phone.”
    “Okay. Six o’clock it is.”
    “Don’t you forget.”
    “I’m looking forward to it,” she said.
    “So am I,” Billy said.

11
    Although Connie Davis had slept late and hadn’t opened the antique shop until after lunch, and although she’d had only one customer, it was a good day for business. She had sold six perfectly matched seventeenth-century Spanish chairs. Each piece was of dark oak with bowed legs and claw feet. The arms ended in snarling demon heads, elaborately carved gargoyles the size of oranges. The