Freudian message couched in elaborate scenes and symbols-yes, that was
understandable; after all, the subconscious dealt in euphemisms a
metaphors. But this wordburst had been blunt, direct, like telegraph
delivered on a wire plugged directly into his cerebral cortex.
When he wasn’t brooding, Bobby was fidgeting. Because Thomas. For some
reason, the longer he dwelt on the blaze of words the more Thomas
slipped into his thoughts. He could see connection between the two, so
he tried to put Thomas out of his mind and concentrate on turning up an
explanation for thee experience. But Thomas gently, insistently
returned, again and again. After a while Bobby got the uneasy feeling
there was a link between the wordburst and Thomas, though he had no
ghost of an idea what it might be.
Worse, as the miles rolled up on the odometer and they reached the
western end of the valley, Bobby began to understand that Thomas was in
danger. And because of me and Julie Bobby thought.
Danger from whom, from what?
The biggest danger that Bobby and Julie faced, right now was Candy
Pollard. But even that jeopardy lay in the future for Candy didn’t know
about them yet; he was not aware that they were working on Frank’s
behalf, and he might never become aware of it, depending on how things
went in Santa Barbara and El Encanto Heights. Yes, he had seen Bobby on
the beach at Punaluu, with Frank, but he had no way of knowing who Bobby
was. Ultimately, even if Candy became aware Dakota & Dakota’s
association with Frank, there was no way that Thomas could be drawn into
the affair; Thomas was other, separate part of their lives. Right?
“Something wrong?” Julie said as she pulled the Toyota to the left, to
pass a big rig hauling Coors.
He could see nothing to be gained by telling her that Thomas might be in
danger. She would be upset, worried. And for what? He was just
letting his vivid imagination run away with him. Thomas was perfectly
safe down there in Cielo Vista.
“Bobby, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Why’re you fidgeting?”
“Prostate trouble.”
CHANNEL No. 5, a softly glowing lamp, cozy rose-patterned fabrics and
wallpaper…
He laughed with relief when he materialized in the bedroom, the bullets
left behind in that kitchen in Placentia, over a hundred miles away. His
wounds had knitted up as if they had never existed. He had lost perhaps
an ounce of blood and a few flecks of tissue, because one of the bullets
had passed through him and out his back, carrying that material with it
before he’d transported himself beyond the revolver’s range. Everything
else was as it should be, however, and his flesh did not harbor even the
memory of pain.
He stood in front of the dresser for half a minute, breathing deeply of
the perfume that wafted up from the saturated handkerchief. The scent
gave him courage and reminded him of the abiding need to make them pay
for his mother’s murder, all of them, not just Frank but the whole
world, which had conspired against her.
He looked at his face in the mirror. The gray-eyed woman’s blood was no
longer on his chin and lips; he had left it behind him, as he might
leave water behind when teleporting out of a rainstorm. But the taste
of it was still in his mouth. And his reflection was without a doubt
that of vengeance personified.
Depending on the element of surprise and his ability to target his point
of arrival precisely now that he was familiar with the kitchen, he
returned to Clint’s house. He intended to enter at the dining-room
doorway, immediately behind the man, directly opposite the point from
which he had dematerialized.
Either the experience of being shot had shaken him more than he
realized, or the rage jittering through him had passed the critical
point at which it interfered with his concentration. Whatever the
reason, he did not arrive where he intended, but by the door to the
garage, one-quarter instead of halfway around the room from his last
position, to the right of Clint and not near enough to rush him and
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