damn. All for the good. I went to college and became an illustrator. I illustrate for small papers.” He pushed the sketchbook toward Modo and flipped the pages. Modo recognized scenes from the ship, recent drawings.
It had been a well-told, perhaps well-rehearsed story, Modo thought. There were even illustrations to prove he was an artist. But there was also a steely determination in the man’s eyes. They didn’t waver, as though he was watching to see if Modo believed him.
“Now that I look at them more closely, your scars remind me of talon scars.” Modo was remembering Octavia’s description of the falconer in Westminster Abbey.
“Talons?”
“Yes, from falcons. There are still a few falconers in England; not everyone has those horrible pigeons.” The ticking was coming from the portmanteau.
“Curious,” Carpenter said, “the only falcons I ever saw were on the ranch in Wyoming. Please drink up, Mr. Reid.”
Modo brought the glass to his lips. The man was watching him intently, too intently. The whiskey was likely poisoned!
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but I just remembered that whiskey disagrees with my stomach. Thank you, in any case. I believe I should return to the ball.”
The man slid back his chair and, before Modo could react, pulled a revolver from under the pillow behind him. Modo recognized it as a Galand, small enough to be easily concealed.
“I think we should continue our conversation,” Carpenter said.
Modo’s heartbeat remained steady and he didn’t blink. He even managed to smile. “I’m amenable to that,” he said. “You choose the topic.”
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
“What’s yours?”
“May I remind you I’m the one with the pistol?” Carpenter waved it nonchalantly.
Modo was hoping he’d come closer so he could swat the gun away.
“My real name is Robert Helmont.” A character from a French novel Modo had recently read. He drew pleasure from dropping literary references before the likes of Carpenter.
“Can you change your appearance, Mr. Helmont?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.” Modo hoped he didn’t look surprised.
“It’s important to me. If you can change your appearance, your shape, I won’t kill you. If you can’t do so, I will.”
“You mean don a disguise?”
“No. I mean a transformation of your actual face and body. I’ll count down from ten.” He cocked the hammer. “Ten. Nine. Eight—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Modo exclaimed. The man was counting far too quickly.
Think, Modo! Think!
“Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two—”
“Wait,” Modo said. “I—I’ll do it.”
Carpenter’s eyes lit up with curiosity. Modo cast about in his memory for the right face. The Knight, perhaps?
“I’m growing impatient, Helmont.”
The perfect answer hit Modo and he nearly smiled. He began to shift and change, staring intently at his opponent. He made his nose grow longer, his face grow thinner, and his hair darken.
“Why, that’s unbelievable … it’s …” The gun began to waver, as though Carpenter was becoming weak.
Sweat was dripping down Modo’s forehead by the time he put the final touches on his new face. He’d expended so much energy that his hump was starting to protrude from his back. He ignored it.
“Why … why … you’ve become
me
!”
Carpenter’s eyes were wide with shock. More importantly, he’d lost his focus.
Modo moved quickly, splashing whiskey in Carpenter’s eyes and knocking the pistol toward the cabin door; then he jumped forward, aiming a fist at the man’s head, a blow intended to knock him out. Carpenter grabbed Modo’s arm and yanked, throwing him off balance. Modo struck the bed and the cabin wall beside it. In the moment it took to right himself, he saw that Carpenter had leapt to the opposite side of the cabin, dragging his portmanteau with him.
His portmanteau? Why hadn’t he gone for his gun?
Leering, Carpenter
It had been a well-told, perhaps well-rehearsed story, Modo thought. There were even illustrations to prove he was an artist. But there was also a steely determination in the man’s eyes. They didn’t waver, as though he was watching to see if Modo believed him.
“Now that I look at them more closely, your scars remind me of talon scars.” Modo was remembering Octavia’s description of the falconer in Westminster Abbey.
“Talons?”
“Yes, from falcons. There are still a few falconers in England; not everyone has those horrible pigeons.” The ticking was coming from the portmanteau.
“Curious,” Carpenter said, “the only falcons I ever saw were on the ranch in Wyoming. Please drink up, Mr. Reid.”
Modo brought the glass to his lips. The man was watching him intently, too intently. The whiskey was likely poisoned!
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but I just remembered that whiskey disagrees with my stomach. Thank you, in any case. I believe I should return to the ball.”
The man slid back his chair and, before Modo could react, pulled a revolver from under the pillow behind him. Modo recognized it as a Galand, small enough to be easily concealed.
“I think we should continue our conversation,” Carpenter said.
Modo’s heartbeat remained steady and he didn’t blink. He even managed to smile. “I’m amenable to that,” he said. “You choose the topic.”
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
“What’s yours?”
“May I remind you I’m the one with the pistol?” Carpenter waved it nonchalantly.
Modo was hoping he’d come closer so he could swat the gun away.
“My real name is Robert Helmont.” A character from a French novel Modo had recently read. He drew pleasure from dropping literary references before the likes of Carpenter.
“Can you change your appearance, Mr. Helmont?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.” Modo hoped he didn’t look surprised.
“It’s important to me. If you can change your appearance, your shape, I won’t kill you. If you can’t do so, I will.”
“You mean don a disguise?”
“No. I mean a transformation of your actual face and body. I’ll count down from ten.” He cocked the hammer. “Ten. Nine. Eight—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Modo exclaimed. The man was counting far too quickly.
Think, Modo! Think!
“Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two—”
“Wait,” Modo said. “I—I’ll do it.”
Carpenter’s eyes lit up with curiosity. Modo cast about in his memory for the right face. The Knight, perhaps?
“I’m growing impatient, Helmont.”
The perfect answer hit Modo and he nearly smiled. He began to shift and change, staring intently at his opponent. He made his nose grow longer, his face grow thinner, and his hair darken.
“Why, that’s unbelievable … it’s …” The gun began to waver, as though Carpenter was becoming weak.
Sweat was dripping down Modo’s forehead by the time he put the final touches on his new face. He’d expended so much energy that his hump was starting to protrude from his back. He ignored it.
“Why … why … you’ve become
me
!”
Carpenter’s eyes were wide with shock. More importantly, he’d lost his focus.
Modo moved quickly, splashing whiskey in Carpenter’s eyes and knocking the pistol toward the cabin door; then he jumped forward, aiming a fist at the man’s head, a blow intended to knock him out. Carpenter grabbed Modo’s arm and yanked, throwing him off balance. Modo struck the bed and the cabin wall beside it. In the moment it took to right himself, he saw that Carpenter had leapt to the opposite side of the cabin, dragging his portmanteau with him.
His portmanteau? Why hadn’t he gone for his gun?
Leering, Carpenter
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