Dead Man's Song полностью

With trembling hands he dug in his pocket for his pill case, fumbled it open, and popped a blue 1-milligram Xanax tab into his mouth. There were only three more in the case, and only one of the 4-mg Risperdals—not that the antipsychotics were doing him any good. The Xanax was better because it just mellowed the edges of things. As soon as he could trust himself to operate the car, he drove straight to the pharmacy to get his prescription refilled.

(4)

Mike Sweeney sat on the edge of his bed holding an ice pack to his face, wondering why he wasn’t in as much pain as he should have been. Vic had hit him a good one and Mike was an expert on bruising. He could always predict how big a bruise would follow a certain kind of hit, how much it would hurt, when it would fade. This one should have been a solid seven on his pain scale, and he should be feeling a dull ache at the base of his skull. Whiplash was another old comrade, but even though there was redness and swelling, it wasn’t half of what he expected it to be. Maybe not a quarter as bad.

It was weird, and Mike knew that he should be alarmed—not that he wanted to feel worse, but what was happening wasn’t normal. That was obvious, and he had sat there for half an hour just thinking about it—and then like a switch being thrown he wasn’t thinking about it. Or about anything.

Fugue.

When he blinked his eyes clear, an hour was gone from the day and the ice bag was just slush, lying on the floor where it had fallen. Mike reached down and picked it up with no surface awareness, either of it having fallen or of now picking it up. The time and everything it had witnessed was gone. Just gone.

In its fugue the chrysalis evolves.

If he had looked in a mirror at that moment, he would have seen that the bruising on his face had diminished by almost 80 percent.

In its chrysalis the imago undergoes a steady process of change.

The TV was on, the sound low, and Mike started watching it, catching up to the flow of time without being aware of having stepped out of its stream, catching replays of the mayor’s press conference. Mike sat there and watched until it was over and then turned and looked out of his bedroom window for a long time, his consciousness coming back on line one circuit at a time.

It was only the second of October and the leaves were already turning colors. They seemed pretty, but somehow Mike didn’t like the look of them. It was like they were too bright, too flashy, like the shiny suit of one of those guys who hangs out by the schoolyard and tries to dazzle you with his clothes and his ride and all the time he just wants to sell you some weed.

He scratched his bruised cheek. It hurt, but not as much as it should have.

Even when it slumbers the chrysalis continues to change.

(5)

Vic Wingate switched off the radio and stared through the windshield as his pickup rolled quietly down A-32 toward the canal bridge. He’d just heard the load of horseshit Terry Wolfe had foisted on the press. He snorted and slapped his jacket pockets until he found his cigarettes, shook one out of the pack, and punched in the dashboard lighter. That gullible bunch of dickheads had swallowed every scrap of nonsense Wolfe had tossed to them, and it was very convenient to Vic’s plans to have such a master of spin control as Terry Wolfe. Quiet and calm was good for business. Well…for Vic’s business at any rate. He lit his cigarette. Vic’s and the Man’s.

(6)

Crow was back in Val’s room, and Saul Weinstock was with them, all of them glued to the TV as Terry worked his magic with the press. Every time Terry made a particularly brilliant statement Crow and Weinstock yelled “Boorah!” at the screen. Val just rolled her eyes.

“Terry looks pretty sharp,” Weinstock said. “Better than he has for days.”

On the TV a pair of news commentators were dissecting every single word Terry had said. “I have to admit,” Val said, “Terry was in rare form. He really owned that crowd of reporters.”

“Except for that little guy,” Weinstock said. “The one that looks like George from Seinfeld. I’ve seen him around. He’s the one that broke the whole story. Willard Fowler Newton, from Black Marsh. Doesn’t look like much but he must be a hell of a reporter if he was able to figure out everything that was going on.”

Crow pursed his lips. “Well, the story is coast-to-coast now, so strap yourselves in, kiddies, I think we’re about to have a helluva ride.”

Totally without inflection, Val said, “Yippee.”

Weinstock looked at his watch. “So…you two ready to check out of this hotel or what?”

(7)