Curse? Hell, maybe it was or maybe it wasn’t. Gabe zipped the mask into his duffel, figuring it didn’t matter either way.
He left the restroom and stood lost in a swarm of strangers.
None of it made sense, neither their Spanish nor their appearance. Though their bodies differed, they could have been allies or enemies and he never would’ve known. He’d gotten a ride to the airport and needed to say good-bye to his driver, but damned if he could tell one face from the rest.
He turned slowly, eyes crawling for the hint of clothing or the color of a certain hand. Over the course of the last few weeks, he’d spent several evenings explaining to his new friends a little something called prosopagnosia. Ben, the dreamer, had been suitably fascinated by everything from the word’s etymology to the disorder’s effects on social interaction. Mira seemed saddened by it. Luke had made a much-needed joke. Telling them had been a catharsis more powerful than Gabe had predicted.
Fingers closed over his arm.
His reflexes had not cooled. Whatever had welded itself to his nerves during his time in the desert had not yet lost its heat. When he pivoted on the ball of his foot, he brought up his hand, where stitches had recently been removed, ready to shove or strike without time for consideration.
“Gabriel!”
The voice made sense. He exhaled and let his fist dissolve.
“I did not mean to frighten you,” the Midnight Messenger said.
Gabe waved it away, wondering if his tension was as evident as it felt. “Not your fault. Lately I’m sort of high-strung.”
“It is to be expected.”
“I guess so.” Over the last few days, Gabe and Alban Olivares had finally been able to trade tales, after all of the hospital visits and police reports and television spots. This was the man he’d watched sail through the Atacama night. The man he thought was dead. The man who sent him chasing after ghosts.
“How’s your head?” Gabe asked.
Alban touched the bandage, now much smaller than before. “They tell me that women will think the scar is sexy.”
“Your vision?”
“We made it to the airport in one piece.” He might have grinned, but Gabe wasn’t sure. “I need glasses. And no more rifle range.”
Alban had been a firearms instructor, but that life was likely now behind him. Rumor had it that he was going to be medically discharged after receiving a commendation for locating and attempting to rescue his kidnapped nephew, Nicky Lepin.
The boy had been missing for weeks and police interest was waning when Alban, the indefatigable uncle, had bloodhounded his way to Mentiras. The only available clue was a shaky eyewitness account of a van seen in the area of Nicky’s disappearance. The van was pulling a trailer, on top of which was mounted an ATV. Though the authorities were unable to plumb this lead any further, Alban got lucky in his ever-widening circle of interviews. The owner of a gas station on the edge of the Atacama reported occasionally selling fuel to a man astride a four-wheeler, a man who always drove away not on the developed highway but rather straight into the desert. Alban used that as his staging point three weekends in a row, pushing farther across the great emptiness with each foray. One night he came upon Mentiras, dead city of lies. He emptied his supplies and bundled the dying boy on his back.
Gabe entered the story a few hours later. He’d falsely thought the man was dead, and when he ran for help, Herboso had spirited Alban away.
“Your lady is picking you up when you land?” Alban asked.
“She’s not exactly my lady.”
“But you hope?”
“We’ll see. Right now she’s more focused on the book her brother is writing with their current houseguest.”
“In the future? After the book?”
“You never know. Maybe I’ve earned a few good vibes from the universe.”
“Tell them all again thank you. Thank you from me.”
Gabe didn’t know what to say to that. Alban had already paid them sufficient gracias. Gabe wanted only his friendship. “Check in on Sergio every now and then, okay?”
“Of course. He’s young. His health is strong. But what will you do after you leave here?”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m an internationally renowned astronomer. I did an interview on CNN. I’m just waiting for the offers to start pouring in.” He couldn’t tell whether Alban recognized the sarcasm or not.
“And what then?”
“I don’t know. Mind my own business, for starters.”
“You’re not very good at that.”
Gabe laughed. “So it seems.” He offered his hand. “I’ll call you.”
Alban shook. “You still have my number?”
“Hey, I’m sure not losing track of you now. It was too damn hard finding you the first time.” He wanted to say something more, something that could put the last and perfect dab of paint on this portrait of himself that he was leaving behind in Chile, but as always, he had only this awkward pause and this gentle blindness.
He turned and walked to the boarding gate.
Gabe was someone who never looked back. What good would it have done him? And maybe that was another piece of the curse or blessing or whatever it was. It no longer mattered. He had killed a man in the deadest place on Earth. Everything else played out from there, a rope on which he could either climb or descend as he saw fit. For now he opted to climb.
He took the phone from his pocket, a little pay-as-you-play model to get him by until he returned to the States. He sent a quick text to Mira. One favor when I get there.
She replied seconds later. Name it, hero.
That hat you wore in the desert, can you wear it when we go out?
Why?
He smiled to himself. If we find the right lighting, maybe I’ll get lucky. He put the phone away and, remembering how the shadows shaped her face, headed for the boarding gate.
Something at the window drew his attention.
He turned. The array of reinforced plate-glass windows looked out onto the tarmac and a sky that had been turning grainier all morning. Gabe’s reflection was there, mimicking him.
The last thing Fontecilla had said to him was “I hear the weather’s changing.”
Rain suddenly splattered the window.
Gabe ignored the image of himself. His eyes jumped skyward and then out across the vast airport grounds, where the rain fell and fell and reminded him of things the desert had made him forget.
The rain became a cascade, smearing his reflection from the glass.
Also by
LANCE HAWVERMALE
The Discretionist
The Tongue Merchant
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LANCE HAWVERMALE holds a master’s degree in English and has worked as a college professor, an editor, and a youth counselor. His fiction and poetry have garnered numerous awards. An alumnus of the AmeriCorps program, Lance performed his service on the Otoe-Missouria tribal lands in Red Rock, Oklahoma. He lives in Texas with his wife and daughter and their cats. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
/>
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Also by Lance Hawvermale
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
FACE BLIND. Copyright © 2016 by Lance Hawvermale. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photographs: man © Mark Owen/Trevillion Images; stars © Soft_light/Shutterstock; deserts © A. V. Ley/Shutterstock; birds © Andreaclc 82/Istock; mountains © Elzbieta Sekowska/Shutterstock
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Hawvermale, Lance, 1972– author.
Title: Face blind: a mystery / Lance Hawvermale.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2016. | “A Thomas Dunne book.” Identifiers: LCCN 2016001432 | ISBN 9781250078339 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781466890572 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Serial murder investigation—Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | Face perception—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3615.R585 F33 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016001432
e-ISBN 9781466890572
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: August 2016
Face Blind Page 29
