and realized it wasn’t a traditional printed paper card at all, but a piece of thin flexible metal. Its single image—a 3-D logo of a revolving globe and Haxley’s name below it—glowed, all done with some kind of sophisticated micro processing. When Will touched the name, a phone number appeared below it like a hyperlink on the Web.
Joe switched on a pair of electric clippers and buzzed around Will’s neck and ears.
“He seems really nice,” said Will blandly.
“Very special people, Stan and his wife, Patricia. They built that medical center fifteen years ago. The work they do for people in need you wouldn’t believe.”
Not to mention that top-secret floor where they kept Lyle, with the rooms that look like prison cells. Haxley built that, too. Wonder if Joe knows about that part of his “philanthropy.”
“Try and find me a better human being,” said Joe. “You won’t. Because you can’t.”
“When did he buy that place out on the lake?”
“Before I got here. I think about twenty years ago?”
Joe splashed some tonic from an opaque green bottle into his hands and rubbed it vigorously through Will’s hair. It had an agreeable minty-lemony scent and made his whole head tingle, electrified, but pleasantly, like his scalp had just been reminded it was alive.
“From who?” asked Will.
“From Franklin Greenwood,” said Joe.
“Really? Wasn’t he the old headmaster here?”
Not to mention my grandfather.
Joe attacked with a brush and comb now, shaping and pulling, coaxing and stretching Will’s hair in all sorts of unexpected directions.
“That’s right,” said Joe. “He was in charge when Mr. Haxley went to school here. After he made his mark, he could’ve lived anywhere on the planet. But he came back here. Why? Loyalty. That’s what I’m talking about. A first-rate man of wealth and taste. There ain’t nobody I respect more than Mr. Stan Haxley.”
“He seems like quite a guy,” said Will.
“If he takes an interest in you? You are one lucky young man, my friend.”
Joe finished setting Will’s hair into place with a subtle flourish. He picked up a white rectangular hand mirror and gave it to Will, then spun him around in the chair. When he lifted the mirror, he could see the back of his collar line in the big wall mirror behind him.
“So how do we like it?” asked Joe.
Will hardly recognized himself. His wild, overactive hair—usually about as responsive to cultivation as a rain forest—had been tamed into the Center’s classic prep school look. Parted on the left. Flipped up off the forehead. Trim but full-bodied. Businesslike but still somehow cool.
“I think it’s the full Jericho,” said Will.
Joe bowed slightly, as if Will had offered him the grandest compliment in the world. Joe loosened the smock and then brushed down Will’s face, neck, and shoulders with a large silver-gray brush with the softest bristles he’d ever felt. Joe swept the smock away with one swift practiced move, shepherding all the loose hairs to the floor, then lowered and turned the chair.
Will climbed to his feet. Looked at himself in the mirror. Glanced at the clock on the wall. His entire transformation had taken less than ten minutes.
“How do I pay you, Joe? Do you take the Card?” Will reached for his wallet and the school’s black, all-purpose credit card.
“Put that away. For you, Mr. West,” he said, offering a sincere two-handed handshake. “This one’s on the house.”
“I really appreciate that,” Will said, and walked outside.
Once Will was gone, Joe emptied the contents of the sweeper—Will’s clipped hairs—into a small plastic bag that he placed in a drawer of the cabinet in his back room.
Will found the nearest black phone and left a two-word message for Ajay.
“I’m in.”
THE ISLAND
After reporting back to his roommates, Will arrived at the Lake Waukoma boathouse just before six that evening. Stan Haxley’s boat was waiting for him at the
Joe switched on a pair of electric clippers and buzzed around Will’s neck and ears.
“He seems really nice,” said Will blandly.
“Very special people, Stan and his wife, Patricia. They built that medical center fifteen years ago. The work they do for people in need you wouldn’t believe.”
Not to mention that top-secret floor where they kept Lyle, with the rooms that look like prison cells. Haxley built that, too. Wonder if Joe knows about that part of his “philanthropy.”
“Try and find me a better human being,” said Joe. “You won’t. Because you can’t.”
“When did he buy that place out on the lake?”
“Before I got here. I think about twenty years ago?”
Joe splashed some tonic from an opaque green bottle into his hands and rubbed it vigorously through Will’s hair. It had an agreeable minty-lemony scent and made his whole head tingle, electrified, but pleasantly, like his scalp had just been reminded it was alive.
“From who?” asked Will.
“From Franklin Greenwood,” said Joe.
“Really? Wasn’t he the old headmaster here?”
Not to mention my grandfather.
Joe attacked with a brush and comb now, shaping and pulling, coaxing and stretching Will’s hair in all sorts of unexpected directions.
“That’s right,” said Joe. “He was in charge when Mr. Haxley went to school here. After he made his mark, he could’ve lived anywhere on the planet. But he came back here. Why? Loyalty. That’s what I’m talking about. A first-rate man of wealth and taste. There ain’t nobody I respect more than Mr. Stan Haxley.”
“He seems like quite a guy,” said Will.
“If he takes an interest in you? You are one lucky young man, my friend.”
Joe finished setting Will’s hair into place with a subtle flourish. He picked up a white rectangular hand mirror and gave it to Will, then spun him around in the chair. When he lifted the mirror, he could see the back of his collar line in the big wall mirror behind him.
“So how do we like it?” asked Joe.
Will hardly recognized himself. His wild, overactive hair—usually about as responsive to cultivation as a rain forest—had been tamed into the Center’s classic prep school look. Parted on the left. Flipped up off the forehead. Trim but full-bodied. Businesslike but still somehow cool.
“I think it’s the full Jericho,” said Will.
Joe bowed slightly, as if Will had offered him the grandest compliment in the world. Joe loosened the smock and then brushed down Will’s face, neck, and shoulders with a large silver-gray brush with the softest bristles he’d ever felt. Joe swept the smock away with one swift practiced move, shepherding all the loose hairs to the floor, then lowered and turned the chair.
Will climbed to his feet. Looked at himself in the mirror. Glanced at the clock on the wall. His entire transformation had taken less than ten minutes.
“How do I pay you, Joe? Do you take the Card?” Will reached for his wallet and the school’s black, all-purpose credit card.
“Put that away. For you, Mr. West,” he said, offering a sincere two-handed handshake. “This one’s on the house.”
“I really appreciate that,” Will said, and walked outside.
Once Will was gone, Joe emptied the contents of the sweeper—Will’s clipped hairs—into a small plastic bag that he placed in a drawer of the cabinet in his back room.
Will found the nearest black phone and left a two-word message for Ajay.
“I’m in.”
THE ISLAND
After reporting back to his roommates, Will arrived at the Lake Waukoma boathouse just before six that evening. Stan Haxley’s boat was waiting for him at the
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