The Man Without a Face (18 page)
So I had got what I wanted: I was free.
Barry got up, washed the coffee pot and his cup and left the room.
You can be free from everything but the consequences of what you do.
A wave of misery washed back over me. But after a while it went away.
Barry appeared in the door. “Well? Where shall it be?”
“School,” I said.
As we passed the living room I stopped. “Justin’s books, the ones he wrote. I’d like to have them.”
Barry was at the front door picking through a handful of keys. “Okay. Take them. They’re yours.”
I was staring at the keys. “How did you get in?” I hadn’t thought about that.
“With this.” Barry held up a key.
“How did you get it?”
“It came to me as executor of Justin’s estate.” Barry looked at me. “The books are yours, Charles. All of them. And this house. Justin left everything to you.”
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I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I went in and collected the books I wanted to take with me.
As we left I said, “What happened to Richard and Mickey?”
“Before Justin went abroad he gave them to a guy in Vermont who seems to have his particular talent.”
“You mean he’s a writer?”
“No. His other talent, for salvaging flawed and fallen creatures. Himself included.”
And me, I thought, as we drove through the gate.
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