The Omen Read Free Page B

pictures he took. The subject was himself, always frozen in heroic gesture. Crossing an icepack with sled dogs, rubbing Copper-tone on Sophia Loren.
    For a mile outside the Thorn estate, policemen directed traffic and checked credentials; stuporously Jennings gazed straight ahead while they double-checked his invitation to make sure it was real. He was accustomed to this treatment and knew that all he had to do to avoid it was to appear presentable. But this was part of his ammunition. He could better observe people because they preferred to pretend he wasn't there.
    Finally ushered through the great wrought-iron gates, Jennings blinked hard, trying to shake the opium illusions before he realized that the illusion was real.

    The entire estate had been turned into a sumptuous carnival. The lawns were teeming with color and life, small bodies running between circus tents and carousels, while vendors moved through, hawking cotton candy and taffy apples, their voices lost in the waltz-wheeze of organ music that pumped children up and down on swans and pink horses. There was a fortune teller's booth with many of London's most important dignitaries queued up before it, Shetland ponies running free, even a baby elephant painted with red dots accepting peanuts from hordes of squealing children. Photographers ran everywhere, out of their minds with greed, but to Jennings there was nothing there to photograph. Only the facade. The brick wall that everyone else took for reality.
    "What's the matter, mate? Run out of film?"
    It was Hobie talking, the stringer for the News Her-aid, feverishly reloading beside the hot-dog table, as Jennings casually approached and took a handful of food.
    "Just waiting for his canonization," Jennings replied with distaste.
    "How's that?"
    "I don't know if we've got just the heir to the Thorn millions here, or Jesus Christ himself."
    "You're a fool to miss out, man. It's not often you'll get into a place like this."
    "Why bother? What I need I can buy from you."
    "You want an exclusive, do you?"
    "No other way."
    "Well, good luck, then. This is the most private family this side of Monaco."
    The exclusive. That was the Jennings dream. Private entree into rarefied realms. There was excitement in the stalking to be sure, but no status, no respect. If he could somehow work his way inside; that's where it was at.
    "Hey, Nanny! Nanny!" shouted Hobie in the distance. "Look this way!" And all attention focused on a towering birthday cake being wheeled out from inside.
    The child's nanny, Chessa, was dressed as a clown, her face whitened with powder and painted with a garish red smile. As the photographers danced about her, she delighted in the attention, hugging, kissing, smearing her makeup onto the child.
    "Can he blow them out?" they shouted. u Let him take a try."
    Jennings' eyes traveled slowly through the crowds; he spotted the face of Katherine Thorn, standing at a distance, a vague hint of disapproval playing about her mouth. For a split second her mask was down, and Jennings instinctively reached for his camera, clicking off a shot. At the birthday cake a howl of applause and approval went up, as Katherine slowly moved forward.
    "Tell his fortune!" shouted a reporter. "Take him to the fortune teller!" And as a body, the crowd began to move, bearing the nanny and her adored child across the lawn.
    "I'll take him," said Katherine, reaching toward them as they passed.
    "I can do it, mum," replied the nanny brightly.
    'Til do it," smiled Katherine.
    And in the single moment as their eyes met, the nanny relinquished the child. It was a moment unnoticed by all, the momentum and noise carrying them forward, but Jennings was watching it through his viewfinder. As the crowd moved on, the nanny was left standing alone, the towering house framed behind her, the clown costume somehow accentuating her air of desertion. Jennings hit the button twice before the young girl turned and walked slowly back to the house.
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