Green Eyes

Chapter 9

A stand of stunted oaks hemmed in Sealey’s Motel-Restaurant against the highway. Bats wheeled in the parking lot lights, and toads hopped over the gravel drive and croaked under the cabins, which were tiny, shingle-roofed, with peeling white paint and ripped screen doors. Mr Sealey - Hank Jr according to the fishing trophy on the office desk - was squat and glum as a toad himself, fiftyish, jowly, wearing a sweat-stained work shirt and jeans. He hunched in a swivel chair, showing them the back of his seamed neck and gray crewcut hair, and when they asked for a room he spun slowly around; he closed his right eye, squinted at Jocundra through the trembling lowered lid of his left, clucked his tongue, then tossed them a key and resumed tying a fishing fly large and gaudy enough to be a voodoo fetish. Donnell pictured him clad in scarlet robes, dangling said fly into a fiery pit from which scaly, clawed hands were reaching.

‘Don’t want no screechin’ or bangin’ after midnight,’ grumbled Sealey. ‘Take Cabin Six.’

The cabin, twelve dollars for two singles and a cot (‘You got to tote the cot yourself) was no bargain, being the home of moths and crickets and spiders. ‘All things small and horrible,’ said Donnell, trying to cheer Jocundra, who sat eyeing with disfavor a patch of mattress, one of several visible through holes in the sheet, dotting it like striped islands in a gray sea. For light there was a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, fragments of moth wings stuck to its sides; between the beds stood an unfinished night table whose drawer contained no Bible but a palmetto bug; the walls were papered in a faded design of flesh-colored orchids and jungle leaves, and mounted cockeyed above the bathroom sink was a flyspecked Kodachrome of Lake Superior.

Though it was poor and pestilent, Richmond made Cabin Six his castle. He cracked the twelve-pack he had bought from Sealey, chugged the first can, belched, and threw himself on the bed to chord his guitar and drink. After three beers he suggested they go for a ride, after five he insisted upon it, but Jocundra told him they were low on gas. Disgruntled, he paced the cabin, interrupting his pacing to urinate out the door and serenade the other cabins with choruses of his song. But when Donnell reminded him that rest was necessary, he grumpily agreed, saying yeah, he had to fix up some stuff anyway. Sitting on the bed, he shook his guitar until a rolled-up piece of plastic fell out; he unrolled it, removing a scalpel. Then he emptied the security guard’s gun and began to notch the tips of the bullets. At this Jocundra turned to face the wall, drawing her legs into a tight curl. ‘Sleep?’ Donnell perched on the edge of her mattress. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘You should, too.’ ‘I want to go over Magnusson’s notes a while.’ Dark hairs were fanned across her cheek. He started to brush them away, a tender response to her vulnerability, but he suddenly felt monstrous next to her, like a creature about to touch the cheek of a swooning maiden, and he drew back his hand. He had a sensation of delicate motion inside his head, something feathery-light and flowing in all directions. His breath quickened, he grasped the bedframe to steady himself, and he wished, as he always did at such moments, that he had not witnessed the autopsy or read Magnusson’s morbid self-descriptions.

He stayed beside Jocundra until the sensation abated, then stood, his breath still ragged.

‘You wanna kill the light, squeeze,’ said Richmond. ‘I’m gonna fade.’ He poured the bullets into an ashtray.

Donnell did as he was told, went into the bathroom and switched on the light. Gray dirt-streaked linoleum peeled and tattered like eucalyptus bark, shower stall leaning drunkenly, chipped porcelain, the mirror stippled with paint drippings, applying a plague to whomever gazed upon it. The doorframe was swollen with dampness, and the door would not close all the way, leaving a foot-wide gap. He hooked his cane over the doorknob, lowered the toilet lid, sat and tried to concentrate on the ledger. According to Magnusson the bacterial cycle was in essence a migration into the norepenephrine and dopamine systems; since his ‘psychic’ abilities increased as the migration progressed, he concluded that these systems must be the seat of such abilities. So much Donnell could easily follow, but thereafter he was puzzled by some of Magnusson’s terminology.

… each bacterium carries a crystal of magnetite within a membrane that is contiguous with the cytoplasmic membrane, and a chain of these magnetosomes, in effect, creates a biomagnetic compass. The swimming bacteria are passively steered by the torque exerted upon their biomagnetic compass by the geomagnetic field; since in this hemisphere the geomagnetic field points only north and down, the bacteria are north-seeking and tend to migrate downward, thus explaining their presence in the sediment underlying old graveyards. Of course within the brain, though the geomagnetic field still affects them, the little green bastards are bathed in a nutrient-and temperature-controlled medium so that movement downward is no longer of adaptive significance. They’re quite content to breed and breed, eventually to kill me by process of overpopulation.

Richmond’s heavy snores ripped the silence, and Donnell heard footsteps padding in the next room. Jocundra eased through the gap in the door; she had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Can’t sleep,’ she said. She cast about for a clean place to sit, found none, and sat anyway beside the shower stall. She spread the folds of the shower curtain, examining its pattern of hula girls and cigarette burns, and grimaced. This place is a museum of squalor.’

She asked to see the ledger, and as she leafed through it, her expression flowing from puzzlement to comprehension, he reflected on the difference between the way she looked now - a schoolgirl stuck on a problem, barely a teenager, worrying her lower lip, innocent and grave - and earlier when she had entered the cabin; then she had appeared self-possessed, elegant, masking her reaction to the grime beneath a layer of aristocratic reserve. She had one of those faces that changed drastically depending on the angle at which you viewed it, so drastically that Donnell would sometimes fail to recognize her for a split second.

‘I didn’t believe you… about extending your life,’ she said excitedly, continuing to pore over the ledger. ‘He doesn’t come right out and say it, but the implication - I think - is that you may be able to stabilize the bacterial colony

‘Magnetic fields,’ said Donnell. ‘He was too much in a hurry, too busy understanding it to see the obvious.’

‘There’s a lot here that doesn’t make sense. All this about NMR, for example.’

‘What?’

‘Nuclear magnetic resonance.’ She laughed. ‘The reason I almost flunked organic chemistry. It’s a spectro-scopic process for analyzing organic compounds, for measuring the strength of radio waves necessary to change the alignment of nuclei in a magnetic field. But Magnusson’s not talking about its analytic function.’ She turned a page. ‘Do you know what these are?’

There were three doodles on the page:

Beneath them Magnusson had written:

What the hell are these chicken-scratchings? Been seeing them since day one. They seem part of something larger, but it won’t come clear. Odd thought: suppose the entirety of my mental processes is essentially a letter written to my brain by these damned green bugs, and these scribbles are the Rosetta Stone by which I might decipher all.

‘I see them, too,’ said Donnell. ‘Not the same ones, but similar., Little bright squiggles that flare up and vanish. I thought they were just flaws in my vision until I saw the ledger, and then I noticed this one…’ He pointed to the first doodle. ‘If you turn it on its side it looks exactly like an element of the three-horned man Richmond drew on his guitar.’

‘They’re familiar.’ She shook her head, unable to remember where she had seen them; she gave him a searching look. ‘This is going to take time, and Richmond doesn’t have much time.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Maybe we should go back to Shadows. With all the resources of the project…’

‘Richmond knows he’s nearly terminal,’ said Donnell sharply. ‘He won’t go back, and I have my own reasons not to.’

For the first time since Magnusson’s death, he had an intimate awareness of her unencumbered either by doubts about her motives or by the self-loathing he felt when he was brought up against the fact of his bizarre existence. Her face was impassive, beautiful, but beneath the calm facade he detected fear and confusion. By escaping with him, she had lost herself with him, and being lost, as she had rarely been before, she was at a greater remove from her natural place in the world than was he, to whom all places were unnatural.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘This and that,’ he said. He took back the ledger and read from the appendix. ‘“Mitochondria research has long put forward the idea that human beings are no more than motile colonies of bacteria, so why do I shudder and think of myself as a disease in a borrowed brain?” That, too.’

The subject obviously distressed her. She looked away and ran her eye along the mosaic of dirt and faded pattern spanning the linoleum. “There wasn’t anyone at Shadows who’d subscribe to a purely biological definition of the patients,’ she said. And she sketched out Edman’s theories as an example, his fascination with the idea of spirit possession, how he had snapped up the things she had told him about the voodoo concept of the soul, the gros bon ange and the ti bon ange.

‘The part about your influence on me,’ he said. ‘Do you buy that?’

A frail pulse stirred the air between them, as if their spirits had grown larger and were overlapping, exchanging urgent information.

‘I suppose it’s true to an extent,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think it means anything anymore.’

Sleep did not come easily for Donnell. Lying on the cot, he was overwhelmed by the excitement of being away from Shadows, by the strange dissonance everything he saw caused in his memory, at first seeming unfamiliar but then wedding itself to other memories and settling into mental focus. Triggered by his excitement, he experienced a visual shift of an entirely new sort. The moonlight and the lights of the other cabins dimmed, the walls darkened, and every pattern in the room began to glow palely - the grain of the boards, the wallpaper, the spiderwebs, the shapes of the furniture - as if he were within a black cube upon whose walls a serpentine alphabet of silver smoke had been inlaid. It frightened him. He turned to Jocundra, wanting to tell her. Both she and Richmond were black figures, a deeper black than the backdrop, with fiery prisms darting inside them, merging, breaking apart; like the bodies of sleeping gods containing a speeded-up continuum of galaxies and nebulae. The screen mesh of the door was glowing silver, and the markings of the moths plastered against it gleamed coruscant red and blue. Even when he closed his eyes he saw them, but eventually he slept, mesmerized by their jewel-bright fluttering.

He waked to the sound of running water, someone showering. Richmond was still snoring, and the sun glinted along spiderwebs, glowed molten in the window cracks. Bare feet slapped the linoleum, the floor creaked under a shifted weight. He rolled over, and looked through the gap in the bathroom door. Jocundra was standing at the window, lifting the heft of her hair, squeezing it into a sleek cable. Water droplets glittered on her shoulders, and she was wearing semi-transparent panties which clung to the hollows of her buttocks. She bent and toweled her calves; her small breasts barely quivered. A feeling of warm dissolution spread across Donnell’s chest and thighs. Her legs were incredibly long, almost an alien voluptuousness. She straightened and saw him. She said nothing, not moving to cover herself, then she lowered her eyes and stepped out of sight behind the door. A minute later she came out, tucking her blouse into a wraparound skirt. She pretended it had not happened and asked what they were going to do about breakfast.

That day, as her mother would have said, was a judgement upon Jocundra. Not that it began badly. Richmond went out around ten to scout the area for a change of cars, promising to return at noon, and she buried herself in Magnusson’s notes, fearful that she had misread them the night before. She had not. The bacteria were passively steered by the geomagnetic field toward the dopamine and norepenephrine systems, and there they starved to death; the two systems were centers of high metabolic activity, and in performing their functions of brain reward and memory consolidation and - at least so said Magnusson - running the psychic machinery, they used up all the available energy. Of course the bacteria bred during their migration, and their breeding rate was so far in excess of their death rate that eventually they put too much of a burden upon the brain’s resources. What Magnusson did not say, but what was implicit, was that if the bacteria could be steered more rapidly back and forth between centers of low and high metabolic activity, this by a process of externally applied magnetic fields, then the excess might be killed off and the size of the colony stabilized.

She discussed with Donnell various lines of investigation, how much money they would need - a lot! - and tried again to convince him to return to Shadows.

‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ he said. ‘But I know that’s not the way.’ He had just taken a shower, and with his hair sleeked back, his sunglasses, he looked alert and foxy, every jut of his features pointed toward some dangerous enterprise: a small-time hood plotting a big score. ‘Maybe New Orleans,’ he said. ‘Not as much problem getting money there. Libraries, Tulane.’

She marvelled at the changes in him. There was such an air of purpose and calculation about his actions, it was as if he had thrown off a cloak of insecure behaviors and revealed himself to have been purposeful and calculating all along. He was, she knew, still uncertain about a great many things, but he seemed confident they would work themselves out and she no longer felt it necessary to soothe his doubts and fears. In fact, when Richmond did not return at noon, he undertook to soothe hers by leading her on a tour of the cabin, describing to her the things she could not see: the weird spindly structures fraying at the edges of spiderwebs, insect eggs joined together and buried in a crack like crystals in a rock, a fantastic landscape of refracted light which he saw within a single facet, of a dead fly’s compound eye. Then he led her outdoors and described what Magnusson believed to be the geomagnetic field.

‘I can see it better at night,’ he said. ‘Then it’s not as translucent, more milky white, like the coil of a huge snake lying across the sky, fading, then reappearing in a new configuration.’ He scuffed his foot against the cabin steps. ‘I can always tell how it’ll look before I look. Magnusson says that’s because the bacteria are interpreting its movements, conveying the knowledge as intuition.’ He took off his sunglasses and looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Human fields are different. Cages of white fire flickering in and out. Each bar a fiery arc. When I first saw one, I thought of it as a jail to keep the soul in check.’

Two o’clock, three, four, and Richmond did not return. He had been preparing for violence, and Jocundra was certain he had met with it. Even Donnell’s confidence was sapped. He brooded over the ledger while Jocundra kept watch. A few cars passed, several stopping at Sealy’s Restaurant: a building of white concrete block just up the road. Once Sealey himself crossed from the office to the restaurant, pausing to spit on a clump of diseased agave that grew on an island at the center of the parking lot. Palmetto bugs frolicked over the floor, the cabin stank of mildew, and Jocundra’s thoughts eddied in dark, defeated circles. When Richmond finally did return, drunk, at dusk, he announced that he had not only found a car - it would be safe to pick up in the early morning - but he had also arranged a date for the movies with Sealey’s day-shift waitress.

‘Good ol’ country girls,’ he said, rubbing his groin, grinning a tomcat grin; then he looked pointedly at Jocundra and said, ‘Ain’t like them downtown bitches think their ass is solid silver.’

Both Jocundra and Donnell argued vehemently against it, but Richmond was unshakable. ‘I ain’t got my cooze with me like you, man,’ he said to Donnell. ‘Now you can come with me if you want, but you sure as shit ain’t gonna stop me!’ He put on his Hellhounds T-shirt and a windbreaker, slicked back his hair and tied it into a pony-tail.

The neon sign above the restaurant - a blue script Sealey’s - hummed and sputtered, attracting clouds of moths which fluttered in and out of its nimbus like spotches in a reel of silent film. Jocundra pulled up to the side entrance, and a rawboned blond girl wearing a tube top and cut-offs skipped out and hopped in the back of the van with Richmond. ‘Couldn’t get but a six-pack,’ she said breathily; she leaned up between the seats. ‘Hi! I’m Marie.’ Her face was long-jawed and dopey, heavy on the lipstick and mascara. Introductions all around, Jocundra eased out onto the highway, and then Marie poked Donnell’s arm and said, ‘Sure was a weird wreck you guys had, y’know. The light hurt your eyes, too?’

Donnell tensed and said, ‘Uh, yeah,’ but Marie talked right through his answer. ‘Jack here says he don’t never take his glasses off, even when he gets, y’know…’ She giggled. ‘Friendly.’

The Buccaneer Drive-In was playing TRIPLE XXX LADIES NO CHARGE, and the lot was three-quarters full of vans and pickups and family cars, most honking and whooping, demanding the show begin at once. The first feature was Martial Arts Mistress; it detailed the fistic and amorous exploits of a melon-breasted, bisexual Chinese girl named Chen Li, who slept her way up the ladder of the emperor’s court so she ultimately could assassinate the evil prime minister, he who had seduced and killed her sister. The film’s highlight was a kung fu love battle between Chen Li and the minister, culminating with them both vaulting impossibly high and achieving midair penetration, after which Chen Li disposed of her nemesis by means of a secret grip bestowing unendurable pleasure.

Jocundra might have found it amusing, but Richmond’s performance eliminated any possibility of enjoyment. As he and Marie scrunched between the seats, he snorted into her neck and grabbed her breasts, causing giggles and playful slaps, and as the middle of the film approached, he drew her down under a blanket. Rummaging, whispers, a sharply indrawn breath. The van shuddered. Then the unmistakable sounds of passionate involvement, topped off by hoarse exclamations and suppressed squeals. Jocundra sat stiffly, staring at the writhing Oriental shapes, doing for technicolor sex what Busby Berkley had done for the Hollywood musical. Marie made a mewling noise; Richmond popped a beer, glugged, and belched. Feeling imperiled, isolated, Jocundra glanced at Donnell, seeking the comfort of shared misery. He had flipped up his sunglasses and was holding Magnusson’s ledger close to his face, illuminating the page with the green flashes from his eyes.

At intermission, the theater lights blazed up, cartoon crows bore fizzing soft drinks to save a family of pink elephants stranded in a desert, and people straggled toward the refreshment stand. Marie declared she had to visit the ladies’ room and asked Jocundra to come along; her tone was light but insistent. Some teenagers hassled them outside the bathroom and beat on the door after they entered. The speaker over the mirror squawked, ‘Five minutes until showtime,’ and blared distorted circus music. Bugs fried on the fluorescent tubes; the paper towels soaking on the floor looked like mummy wrappings, brown and ravelled; and a lengthy testimonial to the joys of lesbianism occupied most of the wall beside the mirror.

Marie removed lipstick, eyeliner and mascara from her purse, and began to repair the damage done her face by Richmond. ‘Did they really shoot them boys fulla snake poison?’ she asked abruptly. ‘That why Jack’s, y’know, a little cooler than average?’

Jocundra restrained a laugh. ‘Uh huh,’ she said, and splashed water on her face.

‘I heard about ‘em changing people’s blood,’ said Marie. ‘But I never did hear about ‘em replacin’ it with snake poison. Is yours the same way?’

‘It’s only temporary.’ Jocundra affected nonchalance, patting her face dry.

Two women banged the door open, jabbering, and disappeared into grimy stalls.

Marie tugged at her cut-offs, turned sideways to judge the effect. ‘Well, it don’t bother me none. I just thought ol’ Jack was shittin’ me. He’s one crazy dude.’ She winked at Jocundra and wiggled her hips. ‘Anyway, I like ‘em crazy! Guess you do, too.’

Jocundra was noncommittal.

Marie adjusted her tube top. ‘He asked me to come along with y’all.’ Then seeing Jocundra’s stricken expression, she hastened to add, ‘But don’t worry, I’m not. It ain’t Jack, y’understand. He’s just fine.’ She headed for the door, pausing for a final look into the mirror; she had, by dint of painstaking brushwork, transformed her eyes into cadaverous pits. ‘I just know there’d be trouble between you and me,’ she shot back over her shoulder, tossing her hair and switching her rear end. ‘I can tell we ain’t got nothin’ in common.’

Marie said she had better be gettin’ on home, it had been fun but her mother was sick and would worry - a lie, thought Donnell; her mood had changed markedly since visiting the ladies’ room, and she was not as tolerant of Richmond’s affections. They left during the credits of the second feature and dropped her at a white stucco house a mile from the motel. The front yard was lined with lawn decorations for sale: stone frogs, plastic flamingos, mirrored balls on pedestals, arranged in curved rows facing the road, like the graduation grouping of an extraterrestrial high school. Richmond stole one of the mirrored balls and stared gloomily at his reflection in it as they drove towards the motel. Donnell suggested they try for the car, and Richmond said that he was hungry.

‘I’d like to go back to the room,’ said Jocundra firmly.

Richmond hurled the ball against the side of the van. Silvery pieces flew into the front seat, and Jocundra swerved.

‘Be fuckin’ reasonable!’ yelled Richmond. ‘You been stickin’ to the room so damn much, Sealey’s gonna think we kidnapped you! I ain’t boostin’ no car ‘less I eat.’

Sealey’s was frigid with air conditioning, poorly lit by lights shining through perforations in the ceiling board. A plate glass window provided a view of highway and scrub. The kitchen was laid out along the rear wall, partitioned off from two rows of black vinyl booths, interrupted by the entrance on one side, a waitress station and cash register on the other. A long-nosed, saw-toothed fish was mounted above the grill, and there were photographs stapled beneath the health classification, all yellowed, several of children, one portraying a younger, less bulbous Sealey in Marine blues. At the end of the aisle a juke box sparkled red and purple, clicking to itself like a devilish robot. They took the booth beside it. Sealey remained behind the register, indifferent to their presence until Richmond called for service; then he stumped over to them. Donnell asked to see a menu.

‘Ain’t got no menus,’ said Sealey. ‘I got burgers and fries, egg salad. I got fish, beer, Pepsi, milk.’

He clanged his spatula on the grill as he cooked, clattered their plates on the table, and dumped their silverware in a pile. He folded his arms and glowered at them.

‘You folks leavin’ tomorrow?’

‘Yeah,’ said Donnell, and Jocundra chipped in with, ‘We’ll be getting an early start.’

‘Well, I don’t mind,’ said Sealey, regarding them with a mix of superiority and distaste.

‘What kind of fish is that?’ asked Donnell, pointing to the trophy above the grill, meaning to placate, to charm.

Sealey pitied him with a stare. ‘Gar.’ He scuffed the floor in apparent frustration. ‘Damn,’ he said; he scratched the back of his neck and refolded his arms. ‘It ain’t that I don’t need the business, and I don’t give a damn what you do to each other…’

‘We ain’t doin’ shit, man,’ said Richmond.

‘But,’ Sealey continued, ‘that don’t mean I got to like what’s goin’ on.’

‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea,’ said Jocundra meekly.

Sealey sucked on a tooth. ‘If you was my daughter and I seen you with these two in some motel…’ He shook his head slowly, staggered by the prospect of what he might do were such the case, and stumped back to the register, muttering.

His professed hunger notwithstanding, Richmond did not eat. He fed quarters to the jukebox, syrupy country and western music welled forth, and he danced in the aisle with an imaginary woman. ‘Broken dreams and heartsick mem-o-rees,’ he howled, mocking the sappy lyrics as he dry-humped his invisible partner. He ordered beer after beer, taking pleasure in stirring Sealey off his stool, and each time the man brought him a fresh bottle, Richmond would weave threats and insults into his rap. ‘Some people you can just fuck with their minds and they’ll leave your ass alone,’ he said, squinting up at Sealey. ‘But some people’s so dumb and ugly you gotta terrorize them motherfuckers.’ Sealey either ignored him or did not catch his drift; he retook his seat behind the register and thumbed through a magazine whose cover showed soldiers of different eras marching beneath a tattered American flag.

It would soon be necessary, thought Donnell, to part company with Richmond; he was becoming uncontrollable. Richmond would not mind them deserting, he only wanted to flame out somewhere, but the idea bothered Donnell; he felt no loyalty whatsoever to Richmond, and this lack reflected on his inhumanity. They should share a loyalty founded on common trials, the loyalty of prisoners and victims, yet they did not; the bonds of their association were disintegrating, proving to be as meager as those between strangers traveling on a bus. Perhaps loyalty was merely a chemical waiting to be released, a little vat of sparkling fluid hidden away in some area of his brain as yet uninfested by bacteria, and when the bacteria spread to it, he would light up inside with human virtues.

‘Some people you gotta waste,’ said Richmond, deep into his rap. ‘You gotta go to war with ‘em, otherwise they won’t let you be.’ He had untied his pony tail, and his hair spilled down over his sunglasses; his skin was drawn so tightly across his bones that whenever he smiled you could see complex knots of muscle at the ends of his lips. ‘War,’ he said, savoring the word, and drank a toast to it with the last of his beer.

Jocundra nudged Donnell’s leg; her lips were pressed together, and she entreated him silently to leave. Donnell glanced at the wall clock; it was after one. ‘Let’s go, Jack,’ he said. ‘We want to hit New Orleans before dawn.’

They were halfway along the aisle, slowed by Donnell’s halting pace, when a grumbling roar came from the highway and a motorcycle cop pulled up in front. ‘Just keep goin’,’ said Richmond. ‘Dude’s just comin’ off shift. He was in this afternoon.’ He laughed. ‘Looks like a damn nigger bike… all them bullshit fenders and boxes stuck all over.’

The cop dismounted and removed his helmet. He was young with close-cropped dark hair and rabbity features; his riding jacket was agleam with blue highlights from the neon sign. The record ended, the selector arm chattered along the rack, stopped, and began clicking.

‘Couple of burgers?’ asked Sealey as the cop pushed on in, and the cop said, ‘Yeah, coffee.’ He gave them a brief onceover and sat at the booth beside the entrance.

They waited at the cash register while Sealey tossed two patties on the grill and brought the cop his coffee; he sipped and made a sour face. ‘I can’t get used to this chicory,’ he said. ‘Can’t a man get a regular cup of coffee ‘round here?’

‘Most of my customers are dumb coon-ass Cajuns,’ said Sealey by way of apology. ‘They can’t live without it.’ He moseyed back to the register and took Jocundra’s money.

Donnell glued his eyes to the countertop.

‘Hey, Officer,’ said Richmond. ‘What kinda piston ratio you runnin’ on that beast?’

The cop blew on his coffee, disinterested. ‘Hell, I don’t know diddley ‘bout the damn thing. I’m on temporary with the highway division.’

‘Yeah?’ Richmond was aggravated. ‘Man don’t know what he’s ridin’ don’t belong on the road.’

Surprised, the cop glared at Richmond over the edge of his cup, but let it pass.

‘Seems like ever since them sand niggers raised the price of gas,’ said Richmond nastily, ‘every cheap son of a bitch in the country is gettin’ hisself up on a Harley.’

The cop set down his coffee. ‘Okay, buddy. Show me some ID.’

‘No problem,’ said Richmond. He reached for his hip pocket, but instead sneaked his hand up under his windbreaker and snatched out the security guard’s gun. He motioned for the cop to raise his hands, and the cop complied. ‘ID!’ Richmond laughed at the idea. ‘You askin’ the wrong dudes for ID, Officer. Hell, we ain’t even got no birth certificates.’

Looking at the gun made Donnell lightheaded. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. Jocundra backed away from the register, and he backed with her.

‘Ain’t but one thing to do man,’ said Richmond. He moved behind the cop, jammed the gun in his ear, and fumbled inside the leather jacket; he ripped off the cop’s badge and stuffed it into his jeans. Then he stepped out into the aisle, keeping the gun trained head-high. ‘If we don’t want the occifer here to start oinkin’ on his radio, I’m gonna have to violate his civil rights.’

‘You could break the radio,’ said the cop, talking fast. ‘You could rip out the phone. Hey, listen, nobody drives this road at night…’

Richmond flipped up his sunglasses. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That ain’t how it’s gonna be, Porky.’

The cop paled, the dusting of freckles on his cheeks stood out sharply.

‘Them’s just contact lenses,’ said Sealey with what seemed to Donnell foolhardy belligerence. ‘These people’s in some damn cult.’

‘That’s us,’ said Richmond, edging along the aisle toward the register. ‘The Angels of Doom, the Disciples of Death. We’ll do anything to please the Master.’

‘Watch it!’ said Donnell, seeing a craftiness in Sealey’s face, a coming together of violent purpose and opportunity.

As Richmond crossed in front of the register, the partition beneath it exploded with a roar. Blood sprayed from his hip, and he spun toward the door, falling; but as he fell, he swung the gun in a tight arc and shot Sealey in the chest. The bullet drove Sealey back onto the grill, and he wedged between the bubbling metal and the fan, his head forced downward if he were sitting on a fence and leaning forward to spit. A silvered automatic was clutched in his hand.

The explosiveness of the gunshot sent Donnell reeling against Jocundra, and she screamed. The cop jumped, up, unsnapping his holster, peering to see where Richmond had failed. A second shot took him in the face, and he flew backward along the aisle, ending up curled beneath a booth. His hand scrabbled the floor, but that was all reflex. And then, with the awful, ponderous grace of a python uncoiling from a branch, Sealey slumped off the grill; the grease clinging to his trousers hissed and spattered on the tiles. Everything was quiet. The jukebox clicked, the air conditioner hummed. The cop’s hamburgers started to burn on the grill, pale flames leaping merrily.

Jocundra dropped to her knees and began peeling shreds of cloth from Richmond’s wound. ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘His whole hip’s shot away.’

Donnell knelt beside her. Richmond’s head was propped against the rear of a booth; his eyelids fluttered when Donnell touched his arm and his eyebrows arched in clownish curves with the effort of speech. ‘Oh…’ he said; it didn’t have the sound of a groan but of a word he was straining to speak. ‘… ooh,’ he finished. His eyes snapped open. The bacteria had flooded the membrane surfaces, and only thready sections of the whites were visible, like cracks spreading across glowing green Easter eggs. ‘Oh…’he said again.

‘What?’ Donnell put his ear to Richmond’s mouth. ‘Jack!’

‘He’s dead,’ said Jocundra listlessly.

Richmond’s mouth stayed pursed in an O shape, but he was not through dying. The same slow reverberation shuddered Donnell as had when Magnusson had died, stronger though, and whether as a result of the reverberation or because of stress, Donnell’s visual field fluctuated. White tracers of Richmond’s magnetic field stitched back and forth between the edges of his wound, and flashes erupted from every part of his body. Donnell got to his feet. Jocundra remained kneeling, shivering, blood smeared on her arms. The night was shutting down around them, erecting solid black barriers against the windows, sealing them in with the three dead men.

A car whizzed past on the highway.

The light switches were behind the register, and Donnell’s cane pocked the silence as he moved to them. He had a glimpse of Sealey open-mouthed on the floor, his chest red and ragged, and he quickly hit the switches. Moonlight slid through the windows and shellacked the formica tables, defining tucks and pleats in the vinyl. The cash drawer was open. He crumpled the bills into his pocket, turned, and was brought up short by the sight of Richmond’s corpse.

Richmond was still propped against the booth, his legs asprawl. He should have been a shadow in the entranceway, half his face illuminated by the moonlight, but he was not. A scum of violent color coated his body, a solarized oil slick of day-glo reds and yellows and blues, roiling, blending, separating, so bright he looked to be floating above the floor: the blazing afterimage of a man. Even the spills of his blood were pools of these colors, glowing islands lying apart from him. Black cracks appeared veining the figure, widening, as if a mold were breaking away from a homunculus within, and prisms were flitting through the blackness like jeweled bees. The reverberation was stronger than ever; each pulsed skewed Donnell’s vision. Something was emerging, being freed. Something inimical. The colors thickened, hardening into a bright sludge sloughing off the corpse. Donnell’s skin crawled, and the tickling sensation reawakened in his head.

He took Jocundra by the arm; her skin was cold, and she flinched at his touch. ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling her toward the door. He stepped over the writhe of color that was Richmond and felt dizzy, a chill point of gravity condensing in his stomach, as if he were stepping over a great gulf. He steadied himself on the door and pushed it open. The air was warm, damp, smelling of gasoline.

‘We can’t go,’ said Jocundra, a lilt of fear in her voice.

‘The hell we can’t!’ He propelled her across the parking lot. ‘I’ll be damned if I’m going to wait for the police. You get the ledger, the clothes. Clean everything out of the cabin. I’ll check the office and see if Sealey wrote anything down.’

He was startled by his callousness, his practicality, because he did not recognize them to be his own. The words were someone else’s, a fragmentary self giving voice to its needs, and he did not have that other’s confidence or strength of purpose. Any icy fluid shifted along his spine, and he refused to look back at the restaurant for fear he might see a shadow standing in the door.