The League of Night and Fog by David Morrell Page B

intruder couldn’t get inside unless he crossed the flagstones, but they weren’t joined by concrete. The light from the room beyondthe French doors made clear that each flagstone was rimmed by sand. The sand was sloppy, grains of it speckling the patio. But why would the owner of a million-dollar property cut costs on so minor a detail? Why this inconsistency in an otherwise carefully maintained estate? The answer was obvious. Because each stone, independent, rested upon a pressure detector. The moment an intruder stepped upon
any
stone in the patio, an alarm would sound.
    He glanced to the right and left, hoping for a tree whose branches would allow him to climb through an upper window. Seeing none, he decided to look for an equipment shed where a ladder might have been stored. By setting one end of the ladder on top of the patio’s balustrade and easing the other end of the ladder onto the sill of a window in a darkened room farther along, he’d have what amounted to a bridge he could use to crawl across above the flagstones.
    He began to creep backward.
    “So you guessed,” a voice said.
    Icicle spun.
    “About the patio.” The voice was flat, thin, emotionless. It came from his left, from an open window of the Cadillac parked in front of the mansion. “I’d hoped you would. I wouldn’t want your reputation to exceed your ability.”
    Icicle braced himself to run.
    “I’m not your enemy.” The Cadillac’s passenger door came open. A tall gangly man stepped out. “You see. I willingly show myself. I mean you no harm.” The man stepped into the full blaze of the spotlight in front of the mansion. He held his arms out, away from his gray suit. His face was narrow, his nose and lips thin, his eyebrows so sparse they were almost nonexistent. His red hair contrasted with his pallid skin.
    The patio doors burst open. “Is he here? Pendleton, is that you?” The man in the exercise suit reached toward the inner wall and flicked what seemed to be a switch, deactivating an alarm, before he stepped out onto the patio.
“Pendleton? Icicle?”
    For an instant, Icicle almost lunged toward the darkness beyondthe swimming pool. Already he imagined his rush down the slope toward the fence and the trees and …
    Instead he straightened. “No. Not Icicle. I’m his son.”
    “Yes, his son!” the man on the patio said. “And this man”—pointing toward the Cadillac—“is Seth, or rather Seth’s son! And I’m known as Halloway, but I’m the
Painter’s
son!”
    The cryptonym “Painter” had force, but “Seth” made Icicle wince as if he’d been shot. He stared at the lanky, pale, impassive man beside the Cadillac. Seth’s gray suit matched his eyes, which even in the spotlit night were vividly unexpressive, bleak.
    But Seth didn’t matter, nor did Halloway. Only one thing had importance.
    Icicle swung toward Halloway on the patio. “Where’s my father?”
    “Not just
your
father,” Halloway said. “Where’s
mine
?”
    “And mine,” Seth said.
    “That’s why we’ve been waiting for you.”
    “What?”
    “For you to come here—to help us find
all
our fathers,” Halloway said. “We’d almost despaired that you’d ever show up.” He gestured toward the mansion. “Come in. We’ve a great deal to talk about.”
3
    W hen they entered the study, Halloway closed the patio doors, pulled the draperies shut, and activated the alarm switch on the wall. Next to the switch, Icicle noticed a landscape painting.
    “My father’s,” Halloway said.
    Similar colorful paintings hung on the other walls.
    Icicle nodded. “I’d heard he was talented. I’ve never seen his work.”
    “Of course not. His early paintings were either stolen or destroyed. For precaution’s sake, even though no one saw his laterwork outside this house, he changed from watercolor to acrylic, and just as important, he altered his style.” Halloway’s tone changed from reverence to dismay. “What did you plan to do? Attack