7
Having cut himself loose from the chair, having taken a quick piddle – deedle-doodle-diddle – Dylan returned from the bathroom and discovered that Shep had risen from the desk and had turned his back on the unfinished Shinto temple. Once he began to obsess on a puzzle, Shep could be lured from it neither with promises nor with rewards, nor by force, until he plugged in the final piece. Yet now, standing near the foot of the bed, staring intently at the empty air as though he perceived something of substance in it, he whispered not to Dylan, apparently not to himself, either, but as if to a phantom visible only to him: ‘By the light of the moon.’
During most of his waking hours, Shepherd radiated strangeness as reliably as a candle gave forth light. Dylan had grown accustomed to living in that aura of brotherly weirdness. He had been Shep’s legal guardian for more than a decade, since their mother’s untimely death when Shep was ten, two days before Dylan turned nineteen. After all this time, he could not easily be surprised by Shep’s words or actions, as once he had been. Likewise, in his youth he had sometimes found Shep’s behavior creepy rather than merely peculiar, but for many years, his afflicted brother had done nothing to chill the nape of Dylan’s neck – until now.
‘By the light of the moon.’
Shepherd’s posture remained as stiff and awkward as always, but his current edginess wasn’t characteristic. Though usually as smooth as the serene brow of Buddha, his forehead furrowed. His face gave itself to a ferocity he’d never exhibited before. He squinted at the apparition that only he could see, chewing on his lower lip, looking angry and worried. His hands cramped into fists at his sides, and he seemed to want to punch someone, though never before had Shepherd O’Conner raised a hand in anger.
‘Shep, what’s wrong?’
If the lunatic physician with a hypodermic syringe could be believed, they had to get out of here, and quickly. A speedy exit, however, would require Shep’s cooperation. He seemed to be teetering on the edge of emotional turmoil, and if he was not calmed, he might prove difficult to manage in an excited state. He wasn’t as big as Dylan, but he stood five ten and weighed 160 pounds, so you couldn’t just grab him by the back of his belt and carry him out of the motel room as though he were a suitcase. If he decided he didn’t want to go, he would wrap his arms around a bedpost or make a human grappling hook of himself in a doorway, hooking hands and feet to the jamb.
‘Shep? Hey, Shep, you hear me?’
The boy appeared to be no more aware of Dylan now than when he’d been working the puzzle. Interaction with other human beings didn’t come to Shepherd as easily as it came to the average person, or even as easily as it came to the average cave-dwelling hermit. At times he could connect with you, and as often as not, that connection would be uncomfortably intense; however, he spent most of his life in a world so completely his own and so unknowable to Dylan that it might as well have revolved around an unnamed star in a different arm of the Milky Way galaxy, far from this familiar Earth.
Shep lowered his gaze from an eye-level confrontation with the invisible presence, and although his stare fixed upon nothing more than a patch of bare carpet, his eyes widened from a squint, and his mouth went soft, as though he might cry. A progression of expressions fell across his face in swift succession, like a series of rippling veils, quickly transforming his grimace of anger to a wretched look of helplessness and tremulous despair. His tightly gripped ferocity swiftly sifted between his fingers, until his clenched fists, still at his sides, fell open, leaving him empty-handed.
When Dylan saw his brother’s tears, he went to him, gently placed a hand on one shoulder, and said, ‘Look at me, little bro. Tell me what’s wrong. Look at me, see me, be here with me, Shep. Be here with me.’