The Faceless One (7 page)

A big set of teeth chased Bobby, gnashing and chomping. Blue sparks flew every time the teeth came together, and big drops of spit flew out, hitting his back. He was crying, but his mommy and daddy weren’t around. Suddenly, he saw a Bird-Man, who was short and round and had bright black eyes. The Bird-Man was glossy black, except for his chest, which was bright red. He offered to take Bobby away from the big teeth. Bobby hopped on his back, feeling like a storybook mouse jumping on the back of an eagle. The Bird-Man flew him away, way up in the sky. The teeth tried to follow them, but the Bird-Man was too fast. Bobby laughed because it was fun to fly. Then the Bird-Man turned and jabbed at him with its sharp beak. It hurt, and he began to cry; and then the Bird-Man was letting him fall.

Bobby awoke but did not cry out. It felt like those mean and hungry teeth were close, and he didn’t want them to get him. He wasn’t sure why the Bird-Man hurt him, but it made him sad.

When he was sure he was alone in the room except for his toys and faithful Bonomo, he climbed out of bed and went to his Playskool table. He wanted to draw a picture of what had happened to him.

It seemed important.

The temperature in Manhattan was eighty-eight degrees when Jackson Purcival entered the Chase Manhattan Bank. The building was cool inside, a relief from the relentless heat and humidity. Purcival didn’t like the heat. He was a big man and tended to perspire freely, soiling his best suits.

Jackson Purcival had always been big and often felt like a changeling that had been left in the crib of a much smaller people. Now forty-five, he stood six feet two inches and weighed three hundred pounds. Though he worked out, his face and hands retained a certain pudginess that made him look a bit like a large baby; this was enhanced by the curls of his fine blond hair. Only his voice, deep and resonant, belied his being a gargantuan toddler in an expensive suit.

Purcival had been retained by Daniel Slater for the last five years, and this would mark the end of that association. Once he had examined and distributed the contents of Daniel’s safety-deposit boxes, there wouldn’t be much else to do other than attend the memorial.

Daniel’s will had stipulated that his collection go to the university. Of course, much of his collection had been housed in his town house and been ravaged by whatever maniac had killed him. The murder had made Purcival queasy. It had been the subject of numerous newscasts, and the tabloids had reveled in the death of someone so wealthy and mysterious. Purcival and the police had been able to keep the grislier aspects of Daniel’s murder out of the press, but journalists had had plenty of fun with the fetishes glued to the outside of his windows and the fact that neighbors said he had been a virtual hermit for the past six months. Someone had gotten a picture of a burly cop removing a brown and dusty Christmas tree from the town house, and the papers had labeled Daniel the most eccentric recluse since Howard Hughes.

Purcival’s phone buzzed, and he saw that it was his wife, Jean. He put his briefcase down and stood off to the side, relishing the cool air.

“There’s my girl,” he said softly.

“How are you, Jackson?”

“Oh, Jeanie-girl, this is not going to be a good day.”

“I know,” she said. “Will you be home for dinner?”

“I’m afraid not. I have several meetings and that silly get-together for Judge Klein.… You can come, too, if you want.”

“Oh, you know how I feel about Sheila Klein.”

Purcival laughed.

“Jackson, why don’t you come home? I know losing Daniel is …”

“Jeanie-girl, I just have too much to do.”

“What time will you be home?”

“I’m probably going to just sleep in the office. Breckforth’s got a partners’ meeting set for the crack of dawn tomorrow.”

“You have clean shirts, underwear?”

“You know I do—my mother raised a fastidious boy.”

“You work too hard.”

“I love you, Jeanie-girl.”

“I love you, too. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

Purcival hung up, the brief conversation an oasis in his hectic day.

He waited for the bank manager to escort him to the safety-deposit boxes. The man extracted two large boxes and took them to a cubicle, so that Purcival might view them in private.

Once alone, Purcival opened the lid on the first box. He knew that the police should be there but he wanted to do this alone. Daniel had not only been a client; he had been a good friend. Purcival had loved to share a glass of wine with him and hear of his exploits in various jungles and forests. Purcival had called him Indiana Jones, and he thought Daniel had gotten a kick out of that.

Of course, the police would point out that there might be evidence hidden in the box, something that might point to Daniel’s killer. But the police thought in terms of greed, drugs, and infidelity. Purcival knew Daniel well. There wasn’t going to be some black book with notations of drug transactions or numbers of married mistresses. Daniel studied indigenous tribes, and they rarely employed hit men as far as Purcival knew.

Besides, if by some slim chance he did find evidence of why Daniel was killed, or by whom, he would alert the police immediately. Otherwise, the least he could do for his late friend and client was give him a small measure of privacy.

The large box was divided into two sections. Within the first was the usual complement of documents: birth certificate, insurance policies, deeds to his town house and a cabin in Bend, Colorado, stock certificates, and bonds. From Daniel’s will he knew that all his financial and real-estate holdings were to go to Steven, his only surviving relative. He checked off the documents against a list Daniel had given him, and everything was there. The value was somewhere in the neighborhood of $3 million. Purcival supposed the police would say that younger brother Steven had a motive for the murder, but Purcival had met Steven and his wife
and son two years ago. There was no one more affable, less greedy, than Steven Slater.

A small box contained the wedding ring and gold watch that had belonged to Daniel and Steven’s father. They, too, were to go to Steven.

In the second section was a collection of flash drives and a stack of paper. The flash drives were notes of Daniel’s research and the first draft of a book he had been working on, as well as a hard copy of the book. He always kept a copy here, in case a fire destroyed his computer. Purcival guessed that the book should go to the university; Daniel had made no provision for it in his will. Daniel’s department could decide whether the book should be published or not. Purcival glanced at the title, which was slightly smudged. It read,
Kashanaka
, or something like that. It sounded Japanese to Purcival although he didn’t think Daniel had ever been to Japan.

Purcival made a few notes and set the now-empty box aside. He picked up the second box and felt a slight tingling in his fingers. He almost dropped the box, thinking it had become electrified somehow. The sensation passed, and he opened the lid slowly, still fearful something was amiss.

The second box contained a large, flat object, about the size and shape of a round serving platter. It was wrapped in Mylar and bound with strapping tape. Purcival thought of just turning it over to the university, but he was curious to see what merited such careful packing. He removed a Scout pocketknife from his jacket, a gift his son had brought back from Scout camp last summer. His wife had chided him for carrying it because he constantly had to remove it at airport terminals and on the way into courthouses. But his son Jeff had made a lanyard to go with the knife and told him it was because he was “the coolest” of dads. What father could resist such praise?

He opened the largest blade on the knife and cut carefully through the strapping tape. The tape, heavy plastic impregnated with thick fibers, really needed a razor blade or box cutter, but he eventually got through it. Under the Mylar was a layer of bubble wrap. This was secured with three strips of strapping tape, and Purcival swore as he spent another five minutes sawing through that. He nicked his finger at one point, swore under his breath, then removed the bubble wrap, leaving a tiny smear of blood over the dimpled plastic.

Whatever was inside was beneath a layer of soft golden suede and bound with leather thongs. Affixed to one of the thongs was a small fetish identical to the ones Daniel had on his windows. Now Purcival felt a slight chill go through him and wondered if he should contact Detective Roberts before going any further.

Suddenly, there was a scent of cloves in the air, and it reminded him of the ham his mother always baked on Easter Sundays. The sensation passed and he wasn’t sure whether he had really smelled it or just had a particularly vivid sense memory.

Rather than cut the thongs binding the object, Purcival spent fifteen long minutes untying them. As he did, the fetish jiggled and bounced, its bright, obsidian eyes flashing under the fluorescent lighting. Purcival didn’t like the thing; the bobbing motion gave the impression it was alive, and its crimson teeth seemed to open and close, looking for pale flesh on which to gain purchase and feed. Though it was cool in the cubicle, there was a light sheen of perspiration on Purcival’s forehead when he finished. He wiped his face with a silken handkerchief, then unwrapped the object.

It was a mask, of sorts, made out of highly polished hardwood. It was roughly circular in shape and colored a deep, iridescent black. Around the border was a fine inlay of gold wire, bordered on the outside by ivory and on the inside by a strip of mother-of-pearl. Projecting out around the rim were bear claws at all compass points and five predator fangs positioned equidistantly between each claw. At the base of each claw and fang was a bright strip of crimson and one of cobalt. It seemed Eskimo to Purcival.

The most disturbing thing about the mask was that there was no face—no eyeholes, no suggestion of features. Just a smooth, inky-black surface, polished like jet. He handled it carefully, both because of its sharp projections of claw and fang and because he assumed it was quite valuable. Surely, the university would want this.

And yet …

The more he looked at it, the more he wanted it for himself.

He had never had an interest in artifacts before. He liked Daniel’s stories for the adventure, not the acquisition of historical treasures. Daniel had given him a Masai shield for his birthday three years ago. It was gathering dust in a closet. Daniel had never asked his friend why the trophy had not been displayed but started giving Purcival expensive wine after that.

But he wanted this.

The mere thought of giving it to someone, anyone, made him feel a sharp stab of jealousy.

He had been Daniel’s friend and attorney for five years. Didn’t that count for something?

He bet that, had Daniel known, he would have given it to him. Sure, that was it; Daniel thought he didn’t like artifacts. Maybe he had planned to give Purcival this and had changed his mind when he had seen the lack of appreciation for the Masai shield.

A voice in his head told him he was rationalizing a theft, creating a specious argument to justify keeping something that didn’t belong to him. He swept those thoughts away, determined to keep the mask.

He had brought a large nylon gym bag folded up in his briefcase. He retrieved this, happy to see that it would easily accommodate Daniel’s possessions. He was careful to rewrap the mask and cushion it with Daniel’s papers and a copy of the
New York Times
he had in his briefcase.

When he finally closed the gym bag, he was panting and perspiring, as if the temperature had risen to ninety degrees. Now that he had what he wanted, he was anxious to leave.

He picked up the gym bag, retrieved his leather briefcase, and strode purposefully out of the bank.

The bank manager saw him leaving and headed toward him. Purcival pretended for a moment that he didn’t see him, then made himself smile pleasantly as the man caught up to him.

“Everything all right, Mr. Purcival?”

“Yes. My client, as you know, passed away—”

“Yes, dreadful news,” he interrupted, trying to look concerned while dying to hear any sordid details Purcival might be privy to.

“I’ve just cleaned out his safety-deposit boxes. I left the keys with the boxes in the cubicle.”

The manager nodded, still anxious for something juicy.

“Terrible, the way he died,” he hinted, as if he expected Purcival would tell him he didn’t know the half of it and fill him in on the details.

“Yes. I have to go, I’m already late for an appointment.”

“My condolences to the family,” the man said, clearly disappointed. “Good day to you, Mr. Purcival.”

Purcival nodded and walked out. Now that he was out of the bank, he felt much calmer. Now he could enjoy the mask without answering any uncomfortable questions.

He thought of taking it home but realized he spent most of his time at the office. If he had the mask on display there, he could enjoy it more often. Of course, he could also create a place for it at home and take it with him each day. That might be the best solution of all.

As he was contemplating where he might hang the mask, he stopped at a trash can near the corner. Opening the gym bag, he retrieved the flash drives and hard-copy manuscript and threw them away. Later, he would have no recollection of doing so. For the moment, he only experienced a momentary disquiet that was swept away by the thought that he owned the mask.

His firm, Breckforth, Gunderson & Mayfield, occupied the entire tenth floor of the Trump Tower. From Purcival’s office, you could see the pond in Central Park shimmering like a bright new coin. He had worked long and hard to get that office, finally making partner in the latter half of 2003.

His assistant, Theresa Feldman, was just eating her lunch when he entered. She was a small woman with fair skin and curly hair, well into her forties but with a girlish spray of freckles across her nose.

Theresa smiled as Purcival entered, and he smiled back.

“Mr. Breckforth wants to meet at three on the Hoeniger litigation.”