A spasm began in his perineum, and lightning traveled in two directions from the spot, up his rod and up his spine. A laugh began in his throat.
In the corner of the chamber the monkey, hearing Jerome’s humor, began to whimper again. The sound momentarily claimed Carnegie’s attention, and when his gaze flitted back to Jerome the short-sighted eyes had closed, the hand had dropped, and he was dead, standing against the wall. For a short time the body defied gravity. Then, gracefully the legs buckled and Jerome fell forward. He was, Carnegie saw, a sack of bones, no more. It was a wonder the man had lived so long.
Cautiously, he crossed to the body and put his finger to the man’s neck. There was no pulse. The remnants of Jerome’s last laugh remained on his face, however, refusing to decay.
“Tell me…” Carnegie whispered to the man, sensing that despite his preemption he had missed the moment; that once again he was, and perhaps would always be, merely a witness of consequences. “Tell me. What was the joke?”
But the blind boy, as is the wont of his clan, wasn’t telling.