Maybe if you excavated around one of those Easter Island stone heads, you’d find the rest of a giant statue buried in the earth, and maybe when you revealed its feet, the statue would be wearing stone socks, for which an explanation would be as hard to come by as an explanation for Shep’s new preference for bedtime footwear.
Dylan was too headachy and too wrung-out weary to care about what the psychotropic stuff might be doing in his brain, let alone to worry about Shepherd’s socks. He took his turn in the bathroom, wincing at the haggard face that confronted him in the mirror.
* * *
Jilly lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling.
Shep lay in his bed, staring at the backside of his eyelids.
The hum and rumble of the air conditioner, at first annoying, settled into a lulling white noise that would mask the bang of car doors and the voices of other guests who might rise with the dawn.
The air conditioner would also ensure that they could not hear the specific engine-noise pattern of a souped-up Suburban or the stealthy sounds of assassins preparing to storm their room.
For a while, Jilly tried to work up a little fear about their vulnerability, but in fact she felt safe in this place, for a while. Physically safe, anyway.
Without an urgent concern for her immediate safety, without active fear to distract her, she couldn’t stave off a discouragement that came close to despair. Dylan believed they had a chance to track down Frankenstein’s identity and learn the nature of the injections, but she didn’t share his confidence.
For the first time in years, she wasn’t in control of her life. She needed control. Otherwise, she felt as she had felt for too much of her childhood: weak, helpless, at the mercy of pitiless forces. She loathed being vulnerable. Accepting victimhood, taking refuge in it, was to her a mortal sin, yet it seemed now that she had no choice but acceptance.
Some psychotropic hoodoo elixir was at work in her brain, at work on her brain, which filled her with horror when she dared to think about it. She’d never done drugs, had never been drunk, because she valued her mind and didn’t want to lose any significant number of brain cells. During all the years when she’d had nothing else, she’d had her intelligence, her wit, her rich imagination. Jilly’s mind had been a formidable weapon against the world and a refuge from cruelty, from adversity. If eventually she developed the gluteus muchomega that plagued the women in her family, if her ass grew so fat that she had to be driven everywhere on a flatbed truck, she had always figured that she’d still have her mind and all the satisfactions of that inner life. But now a worm crawled through her brain, not a worm in the literal sense, perhaps, but a worm of change, and she could not know what would be left of her or even who she might be when the worm of change had finished remaking her.
Although earlier she had been exhilarated when she and Dylan had dealt with the murderous Kenny and Becky, she could not get in touch again with the fine sense of empowerment that for a while had lifted her. Concerned about the oncoming violence foreseen in visions, she could not convince herself that the gift of clairvoyance might again help her to save others – or that it might, in time, leave her more in control of her destiny than she had ever been before.
Negative Jackson. She’d never had much faith in other people, but she’d long had an abiding faith in herself. Dylan had been right about that. But her faith in herself began to desert her.
From his bed, Shepherd whispered, ‘Here, there.’
‘What is it, sweetie?’
‘Here, there.’
Jilly raised herself on one elbow.
Shep lay on his back, eyes closed. Anxiety pleated his forehead.
‘Are you okay, Shepherd?’
‘Shep is scared,’ he whispered.
‘Don’t be scared.’
‘Shep is scared.’
‘We’re safe here, now, for a while,’ she assured him. ‘Nobody can hurt you.’
His lips moved, as though he were speaking, but no sound issued from him.