fact, not anyone he recognized. The boy was no more than twenty, pale
as the wings of the snowflake moths that batted against the porch light.
He was dressed entirely in black and wore sunglasses.
Honell was unconcerned about the caller’s intentions. The canyon was
less than an hour from the most heavily populated parts of Orange
County, but it was nonetheless remote by virtue of its forbidding
geography and the poor condition of the roads. Crime was no problem,
because criminals were generally attracted to more populous areas where
the pickings were more plentiful. Besides, most of the people living in
the cabins thereabouts had nothing worth stealing.
He found the pale young man intriguing.
“What do you want?” he asked without opening the door.
“Mr. Honell?”
“That’s right.”
“5. Steven Honell?”
“Are you going to make a torture of this?”
“Sir, excuse me, but are you the writer?”
College student. That’s what he had to be.
A decade ago-well, nearly two-Honell had been besieged by college
English majors who wanted to apprentice under him or just worship at his
feet. They were an inconstant crowd, however, on the lookout for the
latest trend, with no genuine appreciation for high literary art.
Hell, these days, most of them couldn’t even read; they were college
students in name only. The institutions through which they matriculated
were little more than days centers for the terminally immature, and they
were no more likely to study than to By to Mars by flapping their arms.
“Yes, I’m the writer. What of it?”
“Sir, I’m a great admirer of your books.”
“Listened to them on audiotape, have you?”
“Sir? No, I’ve read them, all of them.”
The audiotapes, licensed by his publisher without his consent, were
abridged by two-thirds. Travesties.
“Ah. Read them in comic-book format, have you?” Honell said sourly,
though to the best of his knowledge the sacrilege of comic-book
adaptation had not yet been perpetrated.
“Sir, I’m sorry to intrude like this. It really took a lot of time for
me to work up the courage to come see you. Tonight I finally had the
guts, and I knew if I delayed I’d never get up the nerve again. I am in
awe of your writing, sir, and if you could spare me the time, just a
little time, to answer a few questions, I’d be most grateful.”
A little conversation with an intelligent young man might, in fact, have
more charm than re-reading Miss Culvert. A long time had passed since
the last such visitor, who had come to the eyrie in which Honell had
then been living above Santa Fe. After only a brief hesitation, he
opened the door.
“Come in, then, and we’ll see if you really understand the complexities
of what you’ve read.”
The young man stepped across the threshold, and Honell turned away,
heading back toward the rocking chair and the Chivas.
“This is very kind of you, sir,” the visitor said as he closed the door.
“Kindness is a quality of the weak and stupid, young man. I’ve other
motivations.” As he reached his chair, he and said, “Take off those
sunglasses. Sunglasses at night is the worst kind of Hollywood
affectation, not the sign of a serious person.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but they’re not an affectation. It’s just that this
world is so much more painfully bright than Hell-which I’m sure you’ll
eventually discover.”
Hatch had no appetite for dinner. He only wanted to sit alone with the
inexplicably beat-led issue of Arts American and stare at it until, by
God, he forced himself to understand exactly what was happening to him.
He was a man of reason. He could not easily embrace supernatural
explanations. He was not in the antiques business by accident; he had a
need to surround himself with things that contributed to an atmosphere
of order and stability.
But kids also hungered for stability, which included regular mealtimes,
so they went to dinner at a pizza parlor, after which they caught a
movie at the theater complex next door. It was a comedy. Though the
film couldn’t make Hatch forget the strange problems plaguing him, the
frequent sound of Regina’s musical giggle did somewhat soothe his