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first class gets it right in the lungs at the speed of sound. You’re minding your own business watching one of those dreadful movies or munching on honey-coated peanuts—I love those things!—and well now evidently with anthrax—and this is what the morning-show man said—with anthrax the infection starts with a little cold, but then you get all better. There’s even a medical term he used for that … what was it? The ‘eclipse’ or something. Yes! The anthrax eclipse. Well it goes away, then before you know it you’re sick again, but this time instead of a cold, it’s a terrible hemorrhaging pneumonia. I think syphilis is like that too—I mean, with an eclipse. The man on the morning show said people clutch their throats and die right in the middle of a sentence, like bad actors in a play. And the
doctors
—well your doctor won’t have a
clue
. Did you know that when Ethel had shingles, it took him a full week to diagnose? Mind you, he’s a cardiologist, so that’s partially explainable. But when it came time to prescribe, she said he had to peek inside a book—the older ones don’t even know how to use the Internet. Now, this is a top doctor, a Park Avenue man. And we’re not talking anthrax, we’re talking
shingles
. And Ethel said that whatever he gave her made it worse!”
    â€œYes! Well!” he said, backing off as if she had the pox herself. “It’s adifficult time! The world can be very unpleasant! And
you
, Dot, you have a good afternoon!”
    He bared a bucktooth, winced, chuffed and slunk off.
    â€œMr. Trotter,” she called out. “What a marvelous coat! Never
saw
such a fabric.”
    â€œThank you,” he said vainly, pleased at being out of her clutches; he had almost reached the car. “A tailor found it, in London. Bespoke, of course.” He instantly regretted the use of the word.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe ensemble—it was custom-made.
Custom-made!
”
    â€œI’m reserving a place for you in Dot Campbell’s Best-Dressed Hall of Fame—and that’s a hard thing to achieve!”
    â€œThank you!” he said, shivering at the rebarbative honor, doffing and chuffing and shambling toward the black-sapphire Silver Seraph, where Epitacio waited dutifully by open door. The eavesdropping Sling Blade still raked at the lawn; Mr. Trotter caught his eye, nodding as he climbed in.
    The tinted window came down and the old man made sure to see Dot’s back before gesturing him over. Sling Blade approached and looked in, where the visitor sat as if floating upon the French navy–piped Cotswold hides; perched on a shiny ascot, the elfin face twisted up and fairly twinkled, an odd vintage brooch in a velvety box. He pressed a business card and some green to Sling Blade’s hand and smiled perspicaciously. A secret covenant had been made—the car sped away.
    It was almost time to lock the gate. The caretaker strolled to his benefactor’s plot. A shallow wind cinematically stirred the leaves while he stared at the grass, wondering what stony monument would there be born.

CHAPTER 3
Saint-Cloud Road
    B y the time they reached home, Pullman had long overtaken him; the boy ran till he feared his heart would burst, never looking back. The gates of his grandfather’s house, electronically controlled and far more massive than the corroded ones of Carcassone, were, thankfully, open. A dirty vintage BMW meant his mother’s “friend” was there.
    Pullman lingered, then peeled off, disappearing past a fountain, while Tull opened the front door, heavy enough that Grandpa Lou had installed sensors and tiny motors to help it along. The interior of the Wallace Neff–designed estate, built for a silent-film director in the twenties, and the design of its sixteen hilltop acres will later be revealed; they held no interest for the hungry boy scudding over