he had been built by a mason who knew how to fit stones tight together
and hide the mortar.
In case nothing worth watching was on television and his charge proved
to be a lousy conversationalist, he had brought a John D. MacDonald
novel.
Looking at the rain-washed window, Frank said, “I guess I’m just…
scared.”
“No need to be scared,” Bobby said.
“Hal’s not as dangerous as he looks. He’s never killed anyone he
liked.”
“Only once,” Hal said.
Bobby said, “You once killed someone you liked? Over what?”
“He asked to borrow my comb.”
“There you go, Frank,” Bobby said.
“Just don’t ask to his comb, and you’re safe.”
Frank was in no mood to be kidded. “I can’t stop thinking about waking
up with blood on my hands. I’m afraid I’ve already hurt someone. I
don’t want to hurt anyone.
“Oh, you can’t hurt Hal,” Bobby said. “He’s an imputable-oriental.”
“Inscrutable,” Hal said.
“I’m an inscrutable oriental.”
“I don’t want to hear about your sex problems, Hal.
“Anyway, if you didn’t eat so much sushi and didn’t have raw breath,
you’d get screwed as often as anyone.”
Reaching over the bed railing, Julie took one of Frank’s hands.
He smiled weakly.
“Your husband always like this, Mrs. Dakota?”
“Call me Julie. Do you mean, does he always act like a wise ass or a
child? Not always, but most of the time, I’m afraid.”
“You hear that, Hal?” Bobby said.
“Women and amtracs-they have no sense of humor.”
To Frank, Julie said, “My husband believes everything in life should be
fun, even car accidents, even funerals-”
“Even dental hygiene,” Bobby said.
“-and he’d probably be making jokes about fallout in the middle of a
nuclear war. That’s just the way he is. He could be cured-”
“She’s tried,” Bobby said.
“She sent me to a happiness detox center. They promised to knock some
gloom into me, but they Couldn’t.”
“You’ll be safe here,” Julie said, squeezing Frank’s hand before letting
go of it. “Hal will look after you.”
THE ENTOMOLOGIST’s house was in the Turtle Rock development in Irvine,
within easy driving distance of the university. Low, black,
mushroom-shaped Malibu lamps threw circles of light on the rain-puddled
walkway that led to the softly gleaming oak doors.
Carrying one of Frank Pollard’s leather flight bags, Clint stepped onto
the small covered porch and rang the bell.
A man spoke to him through an intercom set just below the bell push.
“Who is it, please?”
“Dr. Dyson Manfred? I’m Clint Karaghiosis. From Dakota and Dakota.”
Half a minute later, Manfred opened the door. He was at least ten
inches taller than Clint, six feet five or six, and thin. He was
wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and a green necktie; the top button
of the shirt was undone, and the tie hung loose.
“Good God, man, you’re soaked.”
“Just damp.”
Manfred moved back, opening the door wide, and Clint stepped into the
tile-floored foyer.
As he closed the door, Manfred said, “Ought to have a raincoat or
umbrella on a night like this.”
“It’s invigorating.”
“What is?”
“Bad weather,” Clint said.
Manfred looked at him as if he was strange, but in Clint’s view it was
Manfred himself who was strange. The guy was too thin, all bones. He
could not fill his clothes; his trousers hung shapelessly on his knobby
hips, and his shoulders poked at the fabric of his shirt as if only
bare, sharp bones lay under there. Angular and graceless, he looked as
if he had been assembled from a pile of dry sticks by an apprentice god.
His face was long and narrow, with a high brow and a lantern and his
well-tanned, leathery skin seemed to be stretched tight over his
cheekbones that it might split. He had peculiar amber eyes that
regarded Clint with an expression of curiosity no doubt familiar to the
thousands of bugs he had picked to specimen boards.
Manfred’s gaze traveled down Clint to the floor,water was puddling
around his running shoes.
“Sorry,” Clint said.
“It’ll dry. I was in my study. Come along.”
Glancing into the living room, to his right, Clint noted flowerless
wallpaper, a thick Chinese rug, too many overstuffed chairs and sofas,