was an indistinct blot. Then the picture sprang into sharp focus.
Fallows stared at the TV for a long, silent moment and then said, “Who’s the asshole in the costume?”
The figure on the steps was hoofed, his legs sleekly furred in a glossy brown coat. His ankles bent backward, close to the hoof, like the ankles of a goat. His torso rose from the flanks of a ram, but it was the bare, grizzled chest of a man. He was naked, except for a stiff-looking vest, faded and worn, patterned in gold paisley. A pair of magnificent spiraled horns curved like conch shells from his curly hair. His torch was a bundle of sticks wired together.
“He’s carrying a devil-thorn torch,” said Charn. “It crackles and turns green in the presence of . . . menace. But fortunately for our purposes, its range is limited to just a few yards. A Zeiss Victory scope will put you well beyond its reach.”
The camera zoomed back out, to include the shoulder and profile of the gunman in the frame.
“Shit,” muttered the CEO. “I’m shaking. I’m actually shaking.”
The bearded grotesque went still, froze in place on the faraway stone steps. He had the quick, almost instantaneous reactions of a gazelle.
The gun cracked. The faun’s head snapped straight back. He tumbled bonelessly, end over end, down three steps, and wound up crumpled in the fetal position.
“Yeah, bitch!” the CEO shouted, and turned to give the famous lawyer a high five. There was the sound of a beer can cracking and fizzing.
“Okay, kids,” Fallows said. “This was fun, but now we’re done. I’m not getting diddled out of a quarter mil to play paintball with a bun-cha clowns dressed like extras from The Lord of the Rings.”
He took one step toward the door, and Stockton moved—not as fast as Fallows had moved in Africa, when he’d saved Peter from getting his face clawed off, but not too slow on the hoof for all that.
“Do you remember what you said the first time we ever sat down together? You told me no one knows better than you how much a person will pay to escape the world for a while. And I said I knew. And I do. Give him five more minutes. Please, Tip.” And then Stockton nodded at the birdcage. “Besides. Don’t you want to see what he’s got there?”
Fallows stared at the hand on his arm until Stockton let go. Then he moved his gaze—that look of almost terrifying emptiness—upon Charn. Charn returned the look with a daydreaming calm. At last Fallows shifted his attention back to the TV.
The video cut to a trophy room, back in Charn’s Rumford farmhouse. It was decorated like a men’s smoking club, with a deep leather couch, a couple of battered leather chairs, and a mahogany liquor cabinet. The wall was crowded with mounted trophies, and as Stockton watched, the CEO—dressed now in flannel pajama bottoms and an ugly Christmas sweater—hung the latest head. The bearded faun gawped stupidly at the room. It joined a little over a dozen other bucks with glossy, curving horns. There was also a trophy that looked at first glance like the head of a white rhino. On closer inspection it more nearly resembled the face of a fat man with four chins and a single, stupid, piggy eye above the tusk of a nose.
“What’s that?” Peter whispered.
“Cyclops,” Stockton replied softly.
Titles swept across the screen:
trophies are kept in a climate-controlled room at Charn’s.
Successful hunters may visit with 48hours advance ntice.
Tea and refreshments provided at small additional charge.
“Mister,” Fallows said, “I don’t know what kind of asshole you think I am—”
“The kind of asshole who has too much money and too little imagination,” Charn said mildly. “I am about to take some of the former and provide you with a bit of the latter, much to your benefit.”
“Fuck this,” Fallows said again, but Stockton squeezed his arm once more.
Peter looked around. “It wasn’t faked. My dad’s been.”
Christian nodded to the covered birdcage. “Go on and show us, Mr. Charn. You knew anyone who saw that video would figure it was a fake. But people have been paying you scads of money anyway. So there’s something under that sheet that’s worth a quarter of a million dollars.”
“Yes,” Charn said. “Almost everyone who sees the video thinks of costumes and special effects. In an age of artifice, we recognize reality only when it shows us its claws and gives us a scratch. The whurls have sensitive eyes