Part 53 (2/2)
”Kill?” she said.
He looked straight at her, as though his direct look might convince her of his innocence. ”It wasn't me. It was the dead people. I went looking for you, and they followed me. I couldn't shake them off. I tried, Jo-Beth, I really tried.”
”My G.o.d!” she said, thrusting him out of her arms.
Her action wasn't that violent, but it churned Quiddity's element out of all proportion to the size of her motion. She was vaguely aware that her repugnance was the cause of this; that Quiddity was matching her mental agitation with its own.
”It wouldn't have happened if you'd stayed with me,” he protested. ”You should have stayed, Jo-Beth.”
She kicked away from him, her feelings making Quiddity boil.
”b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” she yelled at him. ”You killed her! You killed her!”
”You're my sister,” he said. ”You're the only one who can save me!”
He reached for her, his face a mess of sorrow, but all she could see in his features was Momma's murderer. He could protest his innocence to the end of the world (if they weren't beyond that already), she'd never forgive him. If he saw her revulsion he chose to ignore it. He began grappling with her, his hands clutching her face, then her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
”Don't leave me!” he started to shout. ”I won't let you leave me!”
How many times had she made excuses for him, because they'd been twin eggs in the same tube? Seen his corruption, and still extended a forgiving hand? She'd even coaxed Howie into putting his disgust at Tommy-Ray aside, for her sake. Enough was enough. This man might be her brother, her twin, but he was guilty of matricide. Momma had survived the Jaff, Pastor John and Palomo Grove, only to be killed in her own house, by her own son. His crime was beyond forgiveness.
He reached for her again, but this time she was ready. She hit him across the face, once, then once again, as hard as she could muster. Shock at the blows made him give up his hold on her for a moment and she started away from him, kicking the churning sea up in his face. He threw his arms in front of him to s.h.i.+eld himself and she was gone out of his reach, vaguely aware that her body was not so sleek as it had been, but not taking time to discover why. All that was important now was to be as far from him as she could be; to keep him from touching her ever again; ever. She struck out strongly, ignoring his sobs. This time she didn't look behind her, at least until his din had faded. Then she slowed her pace, and glanced back. He wasn't in sight. Grief filled her up-agonized her-but a more immediate horror was upon her before the full consequences of Momma's death could touch her. Her limbs felt heavy as she pulled them from the ether. Tears half blinding her she raised her hands in front of her face. Through the blur she saw that her fingers were encrusted, as though she'd dipped her hands in oil and oatmeal; her arms were misshapen with some similar filth.
She started to sob, knowing all too clearly what this horror signified. Quiddity was at work on her. Somehow it was making her fury solid. The sea had made her flesh a fertile mud. Forms were springing from it as ugly as the rage which inspired them.
Her sobs became a yell. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to unleash a shout like this, tamed as she'd been by so many years being Momma's domesticated daughter, smiling for the Grove on Monday mornings. Now Momma was dead, and the Grove was probably in ruins. And Monday? What was Monday? Just a name arbitrarily attached to a day and a night in the long history of days and nights which were the life of the world. They meant nothing now: days, nights, names, towns or dead mothers. All that made sense to her was Howie. He was all she had left.
She tried to picture him, desperate to hold on to something in this insanity. His image slipped from her at first- all she could see was Tommy-Ray's wretched face-but she persevered, conjuring him by particulars. His spectacles, his pale skin, his odd gait. His eyes, full of love. His face, flushed with blood the way it was when he spoke with pa.s.sion, which was often. His blood and love, in one hot thought.
”Save me,” she sobbed, hoping against hope that Quiddity's strange waters carried her despair to him. ”Save me, or it's over.”
II.
”Abernethy?”
It was an hour before dawn in Palomo Grove, and Grillo had quite a report to file.
”I'm surprised you're still in the land of the living,” Abernethy growled.
”Disappointed?”
”You're an a.s.shole, Grillo. I don't hear from you for days then you call up at six o'clock in the f.u.c.king morning.”
”I've got a story, Abernethy.”
”I'm listening.”
”I'm going to tell it the way it happened. But I don't think you're going to print it.”
”Let me be the judge of that. Spit it out.”
”Piece begins. Last night in the quiet residential town of Palomo Grove, Ventura County, a community set in the secure hills of the Simi Valley, our reality, known to those who juggle such concepts as the Cosm, was torn open by a power that proved to this reporter that all life is a movie-”
”What the f.u.c.k?”
”Shut up, Abernethy. I'm only going to tell you this once. Where was I? Oh yeah...a movie. This force, wielded by one Randolph Jaffe, broke the confines of what most of our species believed to be the only and absolute reality, and opened a door to another state of being: a sea called Quiddity-”
”Is this a resignation letter, Grillo?”
”You wanted the story n.o.body else would dare print, right?” Grillo said. ”The real dirt. This is it. This is the great revelation.”
”It's ridiculous.”
”Maybe that's the way all earth-shattering news sounds. Have you thought of that? What would you have done if I'd tried to file a report on the Resurrection? Crucified man rolls away the stone. Would you have printed that?”
”That's different,” Abernethy said. ”That happened.”
”So did this. I swear to G.o.d. And if you want proof, you're going to get it real soon.”
”Proof? From where?”
”Just listen,” Grillo said, and picked up his report again. ”This revelation about the fragile state of our being took place in the midst of one of the most glamorous gatherings in recent movie and TV history, when about two hundred guests-Hollywood's movers and shakers-a.s.sembled at the hill-top house of Buddy Vance, who died here in Palomo Grove earlier in the week. His death, under circ.u.mstances both tragic and mysterious, began a series of events which climaxed last night with a number of the guests at his memorial party being s.n.a.t.c.hed out of the world as we know it. There are no details yet as to the complete list of victims; though Vance's widow Roch.e.l.le was certainly among them. Nor is there any way of knowing their fate. They may be dead. They may simply exist in another state of being which only the most foolhardy of adventurers would dare enter. To all intents and purposes they have simply vanished off the face of the earth.”
He expected Abernethy to interrupt at this juncture, but here was silence from the other end of the line. So profound a silence, indeed, that Grillo said: ”Are you still there, Abernethy?”
”You're nuts, Grillo.”
”So put the phone down on me. Can't do it, can you? See, there's a real paradox here. I hate your f.u.c.king guts but I think you're just about the only man with the b.a.l.l.s to print this. And the world's got to know.”
”You are nuts.”
”You watch the news through the day. You'll see...there's a lot of famous people missing this morning. Studio executives, movie stars, agents-”
”Where are you?”
”Why?”
”Let me make some calls, then get back to you.”
”What for?”
”See if there's any rumors flying. Just give me five minutes. That's all I'm asking. I'm not saying I believe you. I don't. But it's one f.u.c.k of a story.”
”It's the truth, Abernethy. And I want to warn people. They have to know.”
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