the parched lips.
The fingers went back to work on the mouse.
The photograph was reduced to its normal size. A few more twitches on the mouse, and its source became clear.
The program had located the photograph on a MySpace page.
Perfect.
The finger tapped on the mouse once more, and the arm moved slightly so the mouse highlighted a single word on the screen.
SAVE
The first piece of the puzzle had been found, but there was still more to be done—much more.
Now the fingers abandoned the mouse to fly over the keyboard.
A new set of instructions was entered into the search program.
Centimeters, millimeters, geometric ratios, color scale.
The fingers moved back to the mouse.
The arm moved the mouse itself so the arrow on the screen hovered over a button at the bottom of the screen:
EXECUTE SEARCH
The finger clicked one last time, sending the program's spider out to crawl the World Wide Web, searching inexorably for a perfect match to the precise parameters requested.
It would take time, but when the spider had found its prey, it would beep an alert.
For now, though, there were other things to do.
Preparations to be made.
9
ALISON SHAW SAT VERY STILL AND TRIED TO BE PATIENT AS SCOTT stroked shadow onto her eyelids. He had turned her away from the mirror while he worked on her makeup, but not being able to see herself hadn't kept her from taking in every detail of the suite she was in at the Hotel Bel-Air. The bellman had told her it was the Princess Grace suite, where Grace Kelly herself had stayed whenever she was in Los Angeles after she moved to Monaco. It had two bedrooms flanking a large living room with a fireplace that was itself flanked by two pairs of French doors that opened onto a large walled garden with a fountain.
They were at the end of the hotel closest to Sunset Boulevard. She couldn't remember how many courtyards they'd walked through yesterday afternoon before they finally came to the door to this suite. She and her mother had stayed here last night, and tonight her father and Scott would occupy the master bedroom, since her mother and Conrad Dunn were flying to Paris right after the reception. Now, as Scott worked on her face, Alison tried to commit every detail of the suite to memory so she could tell her friends about it on Monday morning.
But how long was her makeup going to take? And what on earth was Scott doing to her? With every new pencil, brush, or pot of color he used, her fears increased. All she ever used was maybe a stroke of blush on her cheeks and a little lip gloss, and even that only occasionally—most of the time she didn't bother with anything at all. But Scott had started at least an hour ago with all kinds of things she sort of knew about but had never tried before.
Exfoliating, moisturizing, applying a foundation…
And even though he'd kept up a running commentary about what he was doing, all she could think was that she would end up looking like some kind of gargoyle.
And for her mother's wedding, for God's sake!
As if reading her mind, her father, who was lounging in a chair watching Scott work, winked at her. "Stop worrying about what he's doing and just be glad you don't have to pay him. Last time he worked on Sandra Bullock, he got five hundred an hour, plus expenses."
"Which were at least twice my fees," Scott said through the handle of the brush he was clenching between his teeth.
Alison tried to focus her eyes on him and failed. "Really?"
"Actually, she was easy," Scott went on, taking the brush out of his mouth and eyeing her carefully. "You'd be surprised how many hours I've spent right here in this suite, turning some very strange-looking women into the beauties you see in the magazines." He stood back to gauge the overall effect of his work. "I even worked on Clint Eastwood."
" He wears makeup?" Alison gasped.
"For a movie!" Scott retorted. "All that blood and all those scars and wounds don't come naturally, you know. And just in case you're
The fingers went back to work on the mouse.
The photograph was reduced to its normal size. A few more twitches on the mouse, and its source became clear.
The program had located the photograph on a MySpace page.
Perfect.
The finger tapped on the mouse once more, and the arm moved slightly so the mouse highlighted a single word on the screen.
SAVE
The first piece of the puzzle had been found, but there was still more to be done—much more.
Now the fingers abandoned the mouse to fly over the keyboard.
A new set of instructions was entered into the search program.
Centimeters, millimeters, geometric ratios, color scale.
The fingers moved back to the mouse.
The arm moved the mouse itself so the arrow on the screen hovered over a button at the bottom of the screen:
EXECUTE SEARCH
The finger clicked one last time, sending the program's spider out to crawl the World Wide Web, searching inexorably for a perfect match to the precise parameters requested.
It would take time, but when the spider had found its prey, it would beep an alert.
For now, though, there were other things to do.
Preparations to be made.
9
ALISON SHAW SAT VERY STILL AND TRIED TO BE PATIENT AS SCOTT stroked shadow onto her eyelids. He had turned her away from the mirror while he worked on her makeup, but not being able to see herself hadn't kept her from taking in every detail of the suite she was in at the Hotel Bel-Air. The bellman had told her it was the Princess Grace suite, where Grace Kelly herself had stayed whenever she was in Los Angeles after she moved to Monaco. It had two bedrooms flanking a large living room with a fireplace that was itself flanked by two pairs of French doors that opened onto a large walled garden with a fountain.
They were at the end of the hotel closest to Sunset Boulevard. She couldn't remember how many courtyards they'd walked through yesterday afternoon before they finally came to the door to this suite. She and her mother had stayed here last night, and tonight her father and Scott would occupy the master bedroom, since her mother and Conrad Dunn were flying to Paris right after the reception. Now, as Scott worked on her face, Alison tried to commit every detail of the suite to memory so she could tell her friends about it on Monday morning.
But how long was her makeup going to take? And what on earth was Scott doing to her? With every new pencil, brush, or pot of color he used, her fears increased. All she ever used was maybe a stroke of blush on her cheeks and a little lip gloss, and even that only occasionally—most of the time she didn't bother with anything at all. But Scott had started at least an hour ago with all kinds of things she sort of knew about but had never tried before.
Exfoliating, moisturizing, applying a foundation…
And even though he'd kept up a running commentary about what he was doing, all she could think was that she would end up looking like some kind of gargoyle.
And for her mother's wedding, for God's sake!
As if reading her mind, her father, who was lounging in a chair watching Scott work, winked at her. "Stop worrying about what he's doing and just be glad you don't have to pay him. Last time he worked on Sandra Bullock, he got five hundred an hour, plus expenses."
"Which were at least twice my fees," Scott said through the handle of the brush he was clenching between his teeth.
Alison tried to focus her eyes on him and failed. "Really?"
"Actually, she was easy," Scott went on, taking the brush out of his mouth and eyeing her carefully. "You'd be surprised how many hours I've spent right here in this suite, turning some very strange-looking women into the beauties you see in the magazines." He stood back to gauge the overall effect of his work. "I even worked on Clint Eastwood."
" He wears makeup?" Alison gasped.
"For a movie!" Scott retorted. "All that blood and all those scars and wounds don't come naturally, you know. And just in case you're
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