patient
repetition sometimes encouraged him to act. 'Puzzle, shoes. Puzzle,
shoes.'
'—luminousness, luminosity, fulgor, flash,' Shep
continued, his eyes jiggling behind his lids as though he were fast
asleep and dreaming.
One suitcase stood near the foot of the bed, and the other lay
open on top of the dresser. Dylan closed the open bag, picked up
both pieces of luggage, and went to the door. 'Hey, Shep. Puzzle,
shoes. Puzzle, shoes.'
Standing where his brother had left him, Shep chanted, 'Sparkle,
twinkle, scintillation—'
Before frustration could build to head-exploding pressure, Dylan
opened the door, carried the suitcases outside. The night continued
to be as warm as a toaster oven, as parched as a burnt crust.
A dry drizzle of yellow lamplight fell on the largely empty
parking lot, soaked into the pavement, was absorbed as efficiently
by the blacktop as light might be captured by the heavy gravity of
a black hole in space. Broad blades of sharp-edged shadows lent the
night a quality of guillotine expectancy, but Dylan could see that
the motel grounds did not yet seethe with the squads of promised
pistol-packing killers.
His white Ford Expedition was parked nearby. Bolted to the roof,
a watertight container held artist's supplies as well as finished
paintings that he had offered for sale at a recent art festival in
Tucson (where five pieces had sold) and would offer also in Santa
Fe and at similar events thereafter.
As he opened the tailgate and quickly loaded the suitcases into
the SUV, he looked left and right, and behind himself, leery of
being assaulted again, as though crazed physicians armed with
enormous syringes full of stuff could be expected to travel
in packs as surely as did coyotes in desert canyons, wolves in
forests primeval, and personal-injury attorneys at any prospect of
product liability.
When he returned to the motel room, he found Shep where he had
left him: standing in his stocking feet, eyes closed, exhibiting
his annoyingly impressive vocabulary. '—fluorescence,
phosphorescence, bioluminescence—'
Dylan hurried to the desk, broke apart the finished portion of
the jigsaw, and scooped double handfuls of Shinto temple and cherry
trees into the waiting box. He preferred to save time by leaving
the puzzle, but he felt certain that Shep would refuse to go
without it.
Shepherd surely heard and recognized the distinctive sound of
pasteboard pieces being tumbled together in a pile of soft rubble.
Ordinarily, he would have moved at once to protect his unfinished
project, but not this time. Eyes closed, he continued urgently to
recite the many names and forms of light:'—lightning,
fulmination, flying flame, firebolt, oak-cleaving
thunderbolts—'
Fitting the lid on the box, Dylan turned away from the desk and
briefly considered his brother's shoes. Rockport walkers, just like
Dylan's, but a few sizes smaller. Too much time would be required
to get the kid to sit on the edge of the bed, to work his feet into
the shoes, and to tie the laces. Dylan snatched them off the floor
and placed them atop the puzzle box.
'—candlelight, rushlight, lamplight,
torchlight—'
The point of injection in Dylan's left arm began to feel hot,
and it itched. He resisted tearing off the cartoon-dog Band-Aid and
scratching the puncture wound, because he feared that the colorful
bandage concealed awful proof that the substance in the syringe had
been worse than dope, worse than a mere toxic chemical, worse than
any known disease. Under the little rectangle of gauze might wait a
tiny but growing patch of squirming orange fungus or a black rash,
or the first evidence that his skin had begun metamorphosing into
green scales as he underwent a conversion from man to reptile. In
full X-Files paranoia, he didn't have the courage to
discover the reason for the itch.
'—firelight, gaslight, foxfire, fata morgana—'
Burdened with puzzle box and sibling footgear, Dylan hurried
past Shep to the bathroom. He hadn't yet
repetition sometimes encouraged him to act. 'Puzzle, shoes. Puzzle,
shoes.'
'—luminousness, luminosity, fulgor, flash,' Shep
continued, his eyes jiggling behind his lids as though he were fast
asleep and dreaming.
One suitcase stood near the foot of the bed, and the other lay
open on top of the dresser. Dylan closed the open bag, picked up
both pieces of luggage, and went to the door. 'Hey, Shep. Puzzle,
shoes. Puzzle, shoes.'
Standing where his brother had left him, Shep chanted, 'Sparkle,
twinkle, scintillation—'
Before frustration could build to head-exploding pressure, Dylan
opened the door, carried the suitcases outside. The night continued
to be as warm as a toaster oven, as parched as a burnt crust.
A dry drizzle of yellow lamplight fell on the largely empty
parking lot, soaked into the pavement, was absorbed as efficiently
by the blacktop as light might be captured by the heavy gravity of
a black hole in space. Broad blades of sharp-edged shadows lent the
night a quality of guillotine expectancy, but Dylan could see that
the motel grounds did not yet seethe with the squads of promised
pistol-packing killers.
His white Ford Expedition was parked nearby. Bolted to the roof,
a watertight container held artist's supplies as well as finished
paintings that he had offered for sale at a recent art festival in
Tucson (where five pieces had sold) and would offer also in Santa
Fe and at similar events thereafter.
As he opened the tailgate and quickly loaded the suitcases into
the SUV, he looked left and right, and behind himself, leery of
being assaulted again, as though crazed physicians armed with
enormous syringes full of stuff could be expected to travel
in packs as surely as did coyotes in desert canyons, wolves in
forests primeval, and personal-injury attorneys at any prospect of
product liability.
When he returned to the motel room, he found Shep where he had
left him: standing in his stocking feet, eyes closed, exhibiting
his annoyingly impressive vocabulary. '—fluorescence,
phosphorescence, bioluminescence—'
Dylan hurried to the desk, broke apart the finished portion of
the jigsaw, and scooped double handfuls of Shinto temple and cherry
trees into the waiting box. He preferred to save time by leaving
the puzzle, but he felt certain that Shep would refuse to go
without it.
Shepherd surely heard and recognized the distinctive sound of
pasteboard pieces being tumbled together in a pile of soft rubble.
Ordinarily, he would have moved at once to protect his unfinished
project, but not this time. Eyes closed, he continued urgently to
recite the many names and forms of light:'—lightning,
fulmination, flying flame, firebolt, oak-cleaving
thunderbolts—'
Fitting the lid on the box, Dylan turned away from the desk and
briefly considered his brother's shoes. Rockport walkers, just like
Dylan's, but a few sizes smaller. Too much time would be required
to get the kid to sit on the edge of the bed, to work his feet into
the shoes, and to tie the laces. Dylan snatched them off the floor
and placed them atop the puzzle box.
'—candlelight, rushlight, lamplight,
torchlight—'
The point of injection in Dylan's left arm began to feel hot,
and it itched. He resisted tearing off the cartoon-dog Band-Aid and
scratching the puncture wound, because he feared that the colorful
bandage concealed awful proof that the substance in the syringe had
been worse than dope, worse than a mere toxic chemical, worse than
any known disease. Under the little rectangle of gauze might wait a
tiny but growing patch of squirming orange fungus or a black rash,
or the first evidence that his skin had begun metamorphosing into
green scales as he underwent a conversion from man to reptile. In
full X-Files paranoia, he didn't have the courage to
discover the reason for the itch.
'—firelight, gaslight, foxfire, fata morgana—'
Burdened with puzzle box and sibling footgear, Dylan hurried
past Shep to the bathroom. He hadn't yet
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