‘What now is we pack up some gear, and quick. Clothes for Shep and me, some money I’ve got in a lockbox upstairs, and a gun.’
‘You’ve got a gun?’
‘Bought it after what happened to my mother. They never caught the killer. I thought he might come back.’
‘You know how to use it?’
‘I’m no Little Annie Oakley,’ he said. ‘But I can point the damn thing and squeeze the trigger if I have to.’
She was dubious. ‘Maybe we should buy a baseball bat.’
‘Cold,’ said Shepherd.
‘Clothes, money, gun – then we hit the road,’ Dylan said.
‘You think those guys who trailed us to the motel in Holbrook might show up here?’
He nodded. ‘If they have law-enforcement connections or any kind of national reach, yeah, they’ll come.’
Jilly said, ‘We can’t keep folding everywhere we go. It’s too weird, it’s too full of surprises, and it might wear Shep out and leave us stuck somewhere – or something worse than stuck.’
‘I’ve got a Chevy in the garage.’
‘Cold.’
Jilly shook her head. ‘They’ll probably know you’ve got the Chevy. They come here, find it missing, they’ll be looking for it.’
‘Cold.’
‘Maybe we’ll dump the plates,’ Dylan suggested, ‘steal a set from another car.’
‘Now you’re an experienced fugitive?’
‘Maybe I better learn to be.’
Peering into the open refrigerator, Shep said, ‘Cold.’
Dylan went to his brother’s side. ‘What’re you looking for, buddy?’
‘Cake.’
‘We don’t have any cake in there.’
‘Cake.’
‘We’re all out of cake, buddy.’
‘No cake?’
‘No cake.’
‘Cold.’
Dylan closed the refrigerator door. ‘Still cold?’
‘Better,’ said Shep.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling,’ Jilly said, and she did, but her deep uneasiness lacked a specific focus.
‘What?’ Dylan asked.
‘I don’t know.’ The ceramic pig’s smile now seemed more like a wicked grin. ‘Just… a not-good feeling.’
‘Let’s grab that lockbox first. Even with the envelope I got out of my shaving kit, we’re short of money.’
‘We’d better stay together,’ Jilly said. ‘Close together.’
‘Cold.’ Shepherd had opened the refrigerator door again. ‘Cold.’
‘Buddy, there’s no cake.’
Wickedly jagged and gleaming, appearing from behind Jilly, gliding past the right side of her face in slow motion, six or eight inches from her, accompanied by no shattering sound, came a shard of glass about the size of her hand, sailing past her as majestically as an iceberg on a glassy sea.
‘Cold.’
‘We’ll get some cake later, buddy.’
Then she noticed something moving a few inches in front of the gravity-defying piece of glass, a much smaller object, and darker: a bullet. Tunneling lazily through the air, the bullet spun languidly as it advanced across the kitchen.
‘Close the fridge, Shep. There’s no cake.’
If the bullet traveled in true slow motion, the glass followed in super slow-mo.
And here came additional spears and flinders of glass behind the first, sliding brightly through the air, slow and easy.
‘Cold,’ Shep said, ‘we’re cold.’
She realized that the glass and the bullet were no more real than the red votive candles in the desert or the shoals of white birds. This wasn’t current destruction, but a vision of violence to come.
‘You’re cold, I’m not,’ Dylan told Shepherd.
She sensed these new clairvoyant images were not associated with those that she had received previously. This glass wasn’t church glass, and it would be bullet-shattered in a place different from the church.
‘We’re all cold,’ Shep insisted.
When Jilly turned her head toward the brothers, she saw still more fragments of windowpanes – this must be what they were – to the left of her, a galaxy of glittering splinters and larger wedges leisurely tumbling-flying past.
‘We’re all cold.’
Looking through this deconstructed puzzle of a windowpane, Jilly saw Shepherd step back from the refrigerator, allowing Dylan to close the door again. The brothers moved at normal speed.
The racing of her heart indicated that she, too, was out of phase with the slow-motion glass. She reached for a passing fragment, but it had no substance. The shard slid slowly between her pinched fingers without cutting her.
Her attempt to interact with the vision seemed to break its spell, and the glass faded from view as a flotilla of ghost ships might appear real at first sight, all sails rigged and searching for a wind, and yet dissolve into tatters of mist a moment later.