The Faceless One Read Free

had heard something. He picked up the remote and muted the television. The comedian on-screen gesticulated silently as Daniel strained to hear.
    There was a slight rustle behind him, and he jumped.
    The sound had come from the entryway.
    Slowly, he rose from the chair and made his way cautiously to the front door.
    All was quiet. It was Sunday morning, and most of the other tenants were out.
    Daniel listened at the door. Warily, he reached toward it, his fingers splayed and quivering. He put them gently against the door, as if trying to divine something.
    All was quiet.
    He knelt to the delivery caddy. It was a revolving drum he had installed next to the front door six months ago. A deliveryman would put his groceries in the drum on the hall side. Once he was gone, Daniel could rotate the drum and retrieve his delivery. The opening on his side was secured with a massive lock and heavy mesh, its openings no more than a millimeter square. Daniel unlocked and turned the crank. He leaned back as he did so, still not sure whether something might be strong enough to tear through the steel mesh.
    Or small enough to fit through it.
    The drum slowly turned, and a bag of groceries appeared, slightly listing. The delivery boy had either forgotten to ring the bell, or Daniel had missed it while he was in the shower. As he breathed a sigh of relief, a can near the top tumbled out, and the resultant thump startled him again.
    He chided himself for being so jumpy. He had been extremely careful and taken numerous precautions. Besides, he was beginning to doubt they could travel this far.
    Still, he checked the mortar along the bottom of the door. It was as white and pristine as the day he had mixed it, sealing the door with careful application of brush and trowel. He ran his finger along the smooth expanse. It felt cool, comforting. He removed the combination lock from the mesh cage and retrieved his groceries, shaking his head as he put the can of tuna back into the bag. He relocked the cage and spun the drum back into position.
    Daniel set the groceries on the counter. Truth be told, he had enough food for anotherthree months, but he liked fresh lettuce for salads and had been craving tuna. He put the perishables away in the large double refrigerator and put all but one can of tuna into the spare bedroom he had converted into a pantry and storage area.
    He washed up in the bathroom, setting his glasses carefully on the sink. His face looked a bit gaunt, and that was due to anxiety and lack of sleep.
    He brushed his hair back and retied his ponytail. His dark hair was really starting to look shaggy, but there was no way to get it cut. If his self-imposed imprisonment was going to last, he might have to teach himself how to cut his own hair.
    Daniel carefully retrieved his glasses, then wiped up the water spots around the sink. He kept the place spotless—except for the tree, of course.
    Returning to the kitchen, he thought of continuing his sandwich-and-television break, but he was too unsettled to enjoy either. He wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel and stuck it in the fridge. He tried to keep waste to a minimum. Whatever he couldn’t reuse or flush down the toilet, he left in a bag in his delivery caddy. He paid a kid down the hall ten bucks a week to take his trash down for him.
    Daniel looked over at the niche that contained his computer, laser printer, various reference books, and journals. The computer was a godsend, one of the things that allowed him to live comfortably—or at least safely—in exile. He paid all his bills over the Net and conducted all his research from there. He made a mental note to order more print cartridges before his eyes continued up over the desk itself.
    The fetish was still there.
    It revolved slowly on the forty-pound test line he had hung it on, the breeze from the central air causing it to survey the room with bright, obsidian eyes.
    Daniel honestly didn’t know if the fetishes were keeping him