Face of Fear by Dean Koontz

woman who purchased the chairs had a fourteen-room apartment overlooking Fifth Avenue and Central Park ; she wanted them for the room in which she sometimes held séances.
    Later, when she was alone in the shop, Connie went to her alcove office at the rear of the main room. She opened a can of fresh coffee, prepared the percolator.
    At the front of the room the big windows rattled noisily. Connie looked up from the percolator to see who had come in. No one was there. The windows were trembling from the sudden violence of the winter weather ; the wind had picked up and was gusting fiercely.
    She sat down at a neatly kept Sheraton desk from the late 1780s and dialed the number of Graham’s private office phone, bypassing his secretary. When he answered she said, “Hello, Nick.”
    “Hi, Nora.”
    “If you’ve made any headway with your work, let me take you to dinner tonight. I just sold the Spanish chairs, and I feel a need to celebrate.”
    “Can’t do, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to work most of the night to finish here.”
    “Can’t the staff work a bit of overtime?” she asked.
    “They’ve done their job. But you know how I am. I have to double-check and triple-check everything.”
    “I’ll come help.”
    “There’s nothing you can help with.”
    “Then I’ll sit in the corner and read.”
    “Really, Connie, you’d be bored. You go home and relax. I’ll show up sometime around one or two in the morning.”
    “Nothing doing. I won’t get in your way, and I’ll be perfectly comfortable reading in an office chair. Nora needs her Nick tonight. I’ll bring supper.”
    “Well ... okay. Who am I kidding? I knew you’d come. ”
    “A large pizza and a bottle of wine. How’s that?”
    “Sounds good.”
    “When?” she asked.
    “I’ve been dozing over my typewriter. If I’m to get this work done tonight, I’d better take a nap. As soon as the staff clears out for the day, I’ll lie down. Why don’t you bring the pizza at seven-thirty?”
    “Count on it.”
    “We’ll have company at eight-thirty.”
    “Who?”
    “A police detective. He wants to discuss some new evidence in the Butcher case.”
    “Preduski?” she asked.
    “No. One of Preduski’s lieutenants. A guy named Bollinger. He called a few minutes ago and wanted to come to the house this evening. I told him that you and I would be working here until late.”
    “Well, at least he’s coming after we eat,” she said. “Talking about the Butcher before dinner would spoil my appetite.”
    “See you at seven-thirty.”
    “Sleep tight, Nicky.”
    When the percolator shut off, she poured steaming coffee into a mug, added cream, went to the front of the store and sat in a chair near one of the mullioned show windows. She could look over and between the antiques for a many-paned view of a windswept section of Tenth Street.
    A few people hurried past, dressed in heavy coats, their hands in their pockets, heads tucked down.
    Scattered snowflakes followed the air currents down between the buildings and ricocheted along the pavement.
    She sipped her coffee and almost purred as the warmth spread through her.
    She thought about Graham and felt warmer still. Nothing could chill her when Graham was on her mind. Not wind. Not snow. Not the Butcher. She felt safe with Graham—even with just the thought of him. Safe and protected. She knew that, in spite of the fear that had grown in him since his fall, he would lay down his life for her if that was ever required of him. Just as she would give her life to save his. It wasn’t likely that either of them would be presented with such a dramatic choice ; but she was convinced that Graham would find his courage gradually in the weeks and months ahead, would find it without the help of a crisis.
    Suddenly the wind exploded against the window, howled and moaned and pasted snow, like specks of froth and spittle, to the cold glass.

12
    The room was long and narrow with a brown tile floor, beige