The Face by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page B

investigations involving perps who were trigger-happy wackos than he caught cases in which genteel elderly women served poisoned tea to their gentlemen friends.
        [42] Fortunately, most shots fired at him missed. He’d been hit just twice: both minor wounds. Two of his partners had sustained injuries more serious than Hazard’s, but neither had died or been crippled.
        Ethan had worked cases with Hazard during four years of his time on the force. That period constituted the most satisfying police work he’d ever done.
        Now, when Yancy answered his cell phone on the third ring, Ethan said, “You still sleeping with an inflatable woman?”
        “You applying for the position?”
        “Hey, Hazard , you busy right now?”
        “Got my foot on a snot-wad’s neck.”
        “Literally?” Ethan asked.
        “Figuratively. Was it literally, I’d be stomping his windpipe, and you’d have been forwarded to voice mail.”
        “If you’re about to make a collar-”
        “I’m waiting for a comeback from the lab. Won’t get it until tomorrow morning.”
        “How about you and I have lunch, and Channing Manheim pays?”
        “As long as that doesn’t oblige me to watch any of his shitcan movies.”
        “Everyone’s a critic.” Ethan named a famous west-side restaurant where the Face had a standing reservation.
        “They have real food or just interior decoration on a plate?” Hazard asked.
        “There’s going to be fancy carved zucchini cups full of vegetable mousseline, baby asparagus, and patterns drawn with sauces,” Ethan admitted. “Would you rather go Armenian?”
        “Do I have a tongue? Armenian at one o’clock?”
        “I’ll be the guy looks like an ex-cop trying to pass for smart.”
        When he pressed END, terminating the call, Ethan was surprised that he had managed to sound entirely normal.
        His hands no longer trembled, but cold greasy fear still crawled [43] restlessly through every turning of his guts. In the rearview mirror, his eyes weren’t entirely familiar to him.
        Ethan engaged the windshield wipers. He drove out of the Palomar Laboratories parking lot.
        In the witches’ cauldron of the sky, late-morning light brewed into a thick gloom more suitable to a winter dusk.
        Most drivers had switched on their headlights. Bright phantom serpents wriggled across the wet black pavement.
        With an hour and fifteen minutes to kill before lunch, Ethan decided to pay a visit to the living dead.

CHAPTER 6
        
        OUR LADY OF ANGELS HOSPITAL WAS A TALL white structure with ziggurat-style step-backs in its higher floors, crowned with a series of diminishing plinths that supported a final column. Aglow in the storm, a dome light capped the high column and was itself surmounted by a radio mast with a winking red aircraft-warning beacon.
        The hospital seemed to signal mercy to sick souls across the Angelean hills and into the densely populated flatlands. Its tapered shape suggested a rocket ship that might carry to Heaven those whose lives could not be saved either by medicine or by prayer.
        Ethan first stopped in the men’s lavatory off the ground-floor lobby, where he washed his hands vigorously at one of the sinks. The lab technician had not scraped every trace of blood from under his fingernails.
        The liquid soap in the dispenser proved to have a strong orange fragrance. The lavatory smelled like a citrus orchard by the time that he finished.
        Much hot water and much rubbing left his skin a boiled red. He could see no slightest stain remaining. Nevertheless Ethan felt that his hands were still unclean.
        [45] He was troubled by the disturbing notion that as long as even a few molecules of that stigmatic residue of his foretold death clung to his hands, the Reaper would track him down by smell and cancel the reprieve that had been granted to