The Burning Man [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONE1On the day the gods chose for his destruction, Peter Hale ate his breakfast on the terrace of his condominium. The sun was just beginning its ascent above the city of Portland and a blood-red aura surrounded the flat, black silhouette of Mount Hood. The dark metropolis looked like an ink-black carpet crisscrossed by Christmas lights. A poet would have savored the sunrise for its beauty, but Peter enjoyed the advent of day for another reason. He believed that Galileo was wrong when he imagined an Earth that revolved around the sun. In his heart of hearts, Peter knew that the sun that was slowly rising over his city revolved around him.A crumb ftm his bran muffin fell onto the leg of Peter's gray Armani trousers. He flicked it off, then took a sip of the café latte he had brewed in the espresso machine that graced the marble counter of his designer kitchen. Peter lived in the condo, drove a fire-engine-red Porsche and pulled in a high five-figure salary as a fourth-year associate at Hale, Greaves, Strobridge, Marquand and Bartlett. The salary did not cover all his expenses and Peter was a bit overextended right now, but he never had any trouble obtaining mortgages, car loans or things of that sort since everyone knew he was the son of Richard Hale, one of the firm's founding partners and a past president of the Oregon State Bar. With all this, Peter was not a happy camper.