in meticulous planning and on the faithful

This hidey-hole business was odd. Judging by Yorn’s message, the staff thought it was peculiar, too. Truman running to the library. The kid missing. The cell phone flung aside on the floor of Truman’s apartment. Corky Laputa believed in meticulous planning and on the faithful execution of the plan. He was also a friend of chaos. He recognized the hand of chaos in this moment. He suspected that Truman knew the property had been breached. Ditching the plan for the time being, his heart thrilling to this unexpected development, Corky trusted chaos and sprinted for the conservatory.   Leaving Maxwell Dalton alone with assurances that he would return in a minute, Hazard Yancy hurried downstairs while the window-breaking can of pine-scented disinfectant was still bouncing from the porch roof to the lawn. Tall sidelights flanked the front door, but neither was wide enough to accommodate a man, especially not one as large as Hazard. Furthermore, the relationship of the sidelights to the door lock made it impossible for him to claim to have reached inside and disengaged the deadbolt after smashing either pane. Having bolstered his handgun, opening the door, Hazard suddenly expected to be confronted by Laputa. Or Hector X. Only the night came face to face with him, cold and wet. [565] He stepped onto the front porch. As far as he could see, the sound of shattering glass hadn’t brought curious neighbors outside. Someone might be watching at a window. He’d taken bigger risks. On the porch were several potted plants. He picked a small one. After waiting for a car to splash past in the street, he threw the ten-pound terra-cotta pot, with plant, through one of the living-room windows. The consequent crash-clink-clatter of exploding and falling glass ought to have attracted attention in the most mind-your-own-damn-business neighborhood. He drew his gun and used the butt to smash out a few stubborn shards still bristling from the sash. Then he climbed inside through the window, thrusting aside the drapes, knocking over a pedestal and a vase, blundering as though he had never been in the Laputa house before. He had his story now. In answer to the cry for help that had come through the broken bedroom window, he had rung the bell, pounded on the door. When he received no response, he broke a window, went upstairs, and found Maxwell Dalton.