The man had a thick neck, thick wrists, thick body, and eyebrows so thick that they looked like a bar of black metal resting above his eyes. His clothes hugged the body of a prize fighter but his voice, when he spoke, was the voice of an educated man.
“Mr. Comain?”
“Yes?” Comain hesitated on the porch of the small house he rented, key in his hand, and looked at his visitor. The man smiled.
“Shall we go inside?” There was no accent and his tones were cultured and yet Comain knew that the man was not speaking his native tongue. There was a certain preciseness, an unnatural perfection only to be acquired by an adult learning a foreign language and being satisfied with nothing but perfection. That very perfection, the way he spoke, betrayed the very thing which he had striven to hide. Comai
