Face down in the Parkby Leonard Foglia, David Richards
Brent Stevens finds himself lying face down in Central Park trying to figure out the basics--who he is, where he is, and who has tried to kill him--and inadvertently enters a web of secrets and lies that connects him to some of the most powerful names in show business.
- Atria Books
- Publication date:
- Product dimensions:
- 5.81(w) x 8.74(h) x 1.28(d)
Read an Excerpt
I was the first thing he saw. The letter I. The capital letter.
Was he really seeing it? Or dreaming it?
He wasn't sure. It filled his entire field of vision, a black I -- floating against a swirling white...something. He couldn't make out the background. Didn't want to try for the time being. The I was puzzling enough.
What did it mean? Was it a message? God speaking to him in some way? "I am the way, the truth and the life. He who believes in Me will never die."
Maybe he was dead and this was the beginning of the aftermath, the slow sorting out that the priests had told him about as a boy, when his eternal self would emerge from its earthly shell and his true essence would finally shine clear, as the letter was clear. His body felt numb, heavy, as if he would never get up again. His right cheek was cold. So all physical sensation had not left him. He heard a faint voice inside his head, arguing that numbness wasn't death. Not yet anyway. And the isolated patch of cold on his cheek was growing colder. So, no, he couldn't be dead.
It had to be a dream then -- the swirling and the heaviness that rooted him to the spot and the stark letter I that kept coming toward him, bigger and bigger, like a soldier on the march.
He blinked his eyes and slowly lifted his head. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he quickly put his head back down again. He had the sensation of spinning through space and remembered another time he had fallen down.
He must have been three or four. He had scraped his knees badly on the pavement. As he sat there, stunned, blood had risen to the surface of his skin. Bright, tiny drops at firstust too much liquor and an incipient hangover. There was some other reason for what he was experiencing.
But finding an explanation required too great an effort. It was taking all his strength just to keep his head up. He decided to lie back down. He would puzzle things out later. Tomorrow. Whenever he woke up. Gently, as if he were sinking into a downy pillow, not onto the hardness of stone, he rested his cheek next to the capital I.
As he did, his only desire was to be clean. Washed clean in the blood of the lamb. No, that wasn't right. That's what the priests said. A different boyhood image flashed into his mind -- the blackboard in his first-grade classroom. If you were good, you got to wipe it with a wet cloth for the teacher. Back and forth, until all the chalk marks were gone. After the water dried, the blackboard looked brand-new.
Yes, that's the answer, he thought, before he lost consciousness and slipped into a tunnel of darkness. I can wipe it all away. I can be clean again. A clean slate.
Copyright © 1999 by Leonard Foglia and David Richards
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
See all customer reviews