‘Wednesday?’ Dylan asked, with a trowel’s worth of bewilderment plastered on his face.
‘I didn’t even meet Dylan and Shepherd until last night,’ Jilly said. ‘Friday night. Less than eighteen hours ago.’
Smiling, nodding, Lantern said, ‘And it’s been quite a thrilling eighteen hours, hasn’t it? I’ll want to hear all about it. But first things first.’
‘Cake,’ said Shep.
‘Yes,’ Lantern assured him, ‘I’ve got cake for you, Shepherd. But first things first.’
‘Cake.’
‘You’re a determined young man, aren’t you?’ Lantern said. ‘Good. I approve of determination.’
‘Cake.’
‘Good heavens, lad, one might suspect that you’re possessed by a cake-loving brain leech from an alternate reality. If there were such things as brain leeches from an alternate reality, of course.’
‘I never believed there were,’ Jilly assured him.
‘Millions do, my dear,’ said Lantern.
‘Cake.’
‘We’ll get you a big square of cake,’ Lantern promised Shep, ‘in just a little while. But first things first. Please come with me.’
As the three of them followed the talk-show host out of the reception hall and through a library that contained more books than did the libraries of most small cities, Dylan said to Jilly, ‘Did you know about all this?’
Amazed by the question, she said, ‘How would I know about this?’
‘Well, you’re the Parish Lantern fan. Big Foot, extraterrestrial conspiracy theories, all that stuff.’
‘I doubt that Big Foot has anything to do with this. And I’m not an extraterrestrial conspirator.’
‘That’s exactly what an extraterrestrial conspirator would say.’
‘For God’s sake, I’m not an extraterrestrial conspirator. I’m a standup comedian.’
‘Extraterrestrial conspirators and standup comedians aren’t mutually exclusive,’ he said.
‘Cake,’ Shep insisted.
At the end of the library, Lantern halted, turned to them, and said, ‘You’ve no reason to be afraid here.’
‘No, no,’ Dylan explained, ‘we were just goofing, a private joke sort of thing that goes back a long way with us.’
‘Almost eighteen hours,’ Jilly said.
‘Just remember at all times,’ Lantern said cryptically yet with the warmth of a loving uncle, ‘regardless of what happens, you’ve no reason to be afraid here.’
‘Cake.’
‘In due time, lad.’
Lantern led them out of the library into an enormous living room furnished with contemporary sofas and armchairs upholstered in pale-gold silks, enlivened by an eclectic but pleasing mix of Art Deco decorative objects and Chinese antiquities.
Formed almost entirely of six enormous windows, the south wall provided a magnificent panoramic view of the colorful lake between the graceful framing branches of two giant sugar pines.
The vista was so spectacular that Jilly spontaneously exclaimed – ‘Gorgeous!’ – before she realized that Lincoln Proctor stood in the room, awaiting them, holding a pistol in his right hand.
47
This Lincoln Proctor wasn’t a charred slab of meat and shattered bones, although Dylan hoped to reduce him to that or worse if given a chance. Not one singed patch of hair, not the smallest smudge of ash remained to suggest that he had burned to death in Jilly’s Coupe DeVille. Even his dreamy smile remained intact.
‘Sit down,’ Proctor said, ‘and let’s talk about this.’
Jilly responded with a rudeness, and Dylan topped her suggestion with one even ruder.
‘Yes, you’ve good reason to hate me,’ Proctor said remorsefully. ‘I’ve done terrible things to you, unpardonable things. I’m not going to make any attempt to justify myself. But we are in this together.’
‘We’re not in anything with you,’ Dylan said fiercely. ‘We’re not your friends or associates, or even just your guinea pigs. We’re your victims, your enemies, and we’ll gut you if we get a chance.’
‘Would anyone like a drink?’ asked Parish Lantern.
‘I owe you an explanation at least, at the very least,’ Proctor said. ‘And I’m sure once you hear me out, you’ll see that we have a mutual interest that does make us allies, even if uneasy allies.’
‘Cocktail, brandy, beer, wine, soft drink?’ Lantern offered.
‘Who burned up in my car?’ Jilly demanded.
‘An unlucky motel guest who crossed my path,’ said Proctor. ‘He was about my size. After I killed him, I put my ID on him, my watch, other items. Since going on the run a week ago, I’d carried with me a briefcase bomb – small explosive charge, but mostly jellied gasoline – for just that purpose. I detonated it with a remote control.’