Part 49 (1/2)

”My gla.s.ses,” he whispered. ”They're in my s.h.i.+rt.”

”I'll get them.”

She moved away from him in search of the clothes he'd dropped. He squinted at the scene. The police barricades, and the cave beyond: the abyss where Buddy Vance was still lying. It had seemed so natural to make love here in the full light of day. Now it seemed perverse. There was a dead man lying down there somewhere, in the same darkness where their fathers had waited all those years.

”Here,” she said.

Her voice startled him. ”It's OK,” she murmured. He dug his gla.s.ses from the pocket of his s.h.i.+rt and hooked them on. There were indeed lights in between the trees, but their source was undefined.

Jo-Beth not only had some luck with his s.h.i.+rt, but with the rest of their clothes. She started to put on her underwear. Even now, with his heart thumping hard for quite another reason, the sight of her aroused him. She caught his look, and kissed him.

”I don't see anyone,” he said, still keeping his voice low.

”Maybe I was wrong,” she said, ”I just thought I heard somebody.”

”Ghosts,” he said, then regretted inviting the thought into his head. He began to pull on his shorts. As he did he caught a movement between the trees. ”Oh s.h.i.+t,” he murmured.

”I see,” she said. He looked towards her. She was looking in the opposite direction. Following her gaze he saw motion there too, in the shadows of the canopy. And another movement. And another.

”They're on all sides,” he said, pulling on his s.h.i.+rt and reaching for his jeans. ”Whatever they are they've got us surrounded.”

He stood up, pins and needles in his legs, his thoughts turning desperately to how he might arm himself. Could he trash one of the barricades perhaps, and find a weapon in the wreckage? He glanced at Jo-Beth, who'd almost finished dressing, then back at the trees.

From beneath the canopy a diminutive figure emerged, trailing a phantom light. Suddenly it all came clear. The figure was that of Benny Patterson, whom Howie had last seen in the street outside Lois Knapp's house, calling after him. There was no sunny smile on his face now. Indeed his face was somehow blurred, his features like a picture taken by a palsied photographer. The light he'd brought from his TV appearances came with him, however. That was the radiance that haunted the trees.

”Howie,” he said.

His voice, like his face, had lost its individuality. He was holding on to being Benny, but only just.

”What do you want?” Howie asked.

”We've been looking for you.”

”Don't go near him,” Jo-Beth said. ”It's one of the dreams.”

”I know,” Howie said. ”They don't mean us any harm. Do you, Benny?”

”Of course not.”

”So show yourselves,” Howie said, addressing the whole ring of trees. ”I want to see you.”

They did as they were instructed, stepping from the corner of the trees on every side. All of them, like Benny, had undergone a change since he'd seen them at the Knapp house, their honed and polished personalities smudged, their dazzling smiles dimmed. They looked more like each other than not, smeared forms of light who held on to the remains of ident.i.ties only tenuously. The imaginations of the Grovers had conceived them, and shaped them, but once gone from their creator's company they slid towards a plainer condition: that of the light that had emanated from Fletcher's body as he'd died at the Mall. This was his army, his hallucigenia, and Howie didn't need to ask them what they'd come here searching for. Him. He was the rabbit from Fletcher's hat; the conjuror's purest creation. He'd fled before their demands the previous night, but they'd sought him out nevertheless, determined to have him as their leader.

”I know what you want from me,” he said. ”But I can't supply it. This isn't my war.”

He surveyed the a.s.sembly as he spoke, distinguis.h.i.+ng faces he'd seen at the Knapp house, despite their decay into light. Cowboys, surgeons, soap-opera queens and game-show hosts. Besides these there were many he hadn't seen at Lois's party. One form of light that had been a werewolf; several that might have been comic-book heroes; several more, four in fact, who had been incarnations of Jesus, two bleeding light from brow, side, hands and feet; another dozen who looked as though they'd stepped from an X-rated movie, their bodies wet with come and sweat. There was a balloon man, colored scarlet; and Tarzan; and Krazy Kat. And mingled with these identifiable deities, others who'd been private imaginings, called, he guessed, from the wish-list of those Fletcher's light had touched. Lost spouses, whose pa.s.sing no other lover could replace; a face seen on a street whom their dreamers had never had the nerve to approach. All of them, real or unreal, bland or Technicolored, touchstones. The true stuff of wors.h.i.+p. There was something undeniably moving about their existence. But he and Jo-Beth had been pa.s.sionate in their desire to stay apart from this war; to preserve what was between them from taint or harm. That ambition hadn't changed.

Before he could reiterate the point one of the number he couldn't name, a woman in early middle age, stepped out of the ranks to speak.

”Your father's spirit's in all of us,” she said. ”If you turn your back on us, you turn your back on him.”

”It's not as simple as that,” he told her. ”I've got other people to consider.” He extended his hand to Jo-Beth, who rose to stand beside him. ”You know who this is. Jo-Beth McGuire. Daughter of the Jaff. Fletcher's enemy, and therefore, if I understand you right, your enemy. But let me tell you...she's the first person I ever met in my life...I can really say I love. I put her before everything. You. Fletcher. This d.a.m.n war.”

Now a third voice rose from the ranks.

”It was my error-”

Howie looked round to see the blue-eyed cowboy, Mel Knapp's creation, moving forward. ”My error thinking you wanted her killed. I regret it. If you don't wish harm done to her-”

”Don't wish harm? My G.o.d, she's worth ten of Fletcher! Value her as I value her or you can all go to h.e.l.l.”

There was a resounding silence.

”n.o.body's arguing,” Benny said.

”I hear.”

”So you'll lead us?”

”Oh Jesus.”

”The Jaff's on the Hill,” the woman said. ”About to use the Art.”

”How do you know?”

”We're Fletcher's spirit,” the cowboy said. ”We know the Jaff's purpose.”

”And you know how to stop him?”

”No,” the woman returned. ”But we have to try. Quiddity must be preserved.”

”And you think I can help? I'm no tactician.”

”We're decaying,” Benny said. Even in the brief time since he'd appeared his facial features had become more smudged. ”Getting...dreamy. We need someone to keep us to our purpose.”

”He's right,” said the woman. ”We're not here long. Many of us won't make it through to morning. We have to do what we can. Quickly.”

Howie sighed. He'd let Jo-Beth's hand slip from his when she'd stood up. He took it again.

”What do I do?” he asked her. ”Help me.”

”You do what feels right.”

”What feels right...”

”You said to me once, you wished you'd known Fletcher better. Maybe-”

”What? Say it.”