about?”
He was still in the fetal position on the bed, but his rheumy eyes were open.
“Lizard Lampton,” Dusty said.
“Oh, man, you think too much about him, and I’ll be trying to talk
Valet went to Skeet and licked his trembling hands.
“How’re you feeling?” Dusty asked.
“Postsuicidal.”
“Post is good.” Dusty withdrew two lottery tickets from his shirt pocket and offered them to Skeet. “As promised. Picked these up at the convenience store near here, where they sold the big winning ticket last November. That thirty-million-dollar jackpot.”
“Keep them away from me. My touch’ll suck the luck right out of ’em.”
Dusty went to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and withdrew the Bible. He paged through it, scanning the verses, and then read a line from Jeremiah: “‘Blessed is the man who trusts in God.’ How’s that?”
“Well, I’ve learned not to trust in methamphetamines.”
“That’s progress,” Dusty said. He tucked the pair of tickets into the Bible, at the page from which he’d read, closed the book, and returned it to the drawer.
Skeet got up from the bed and tottered toward the bathroom. “Gotta pee.”
“Gotta watch.”
Turning on the bathroom light, Skeet said, “Don’t worry, bro. Nothing in here I could kill myself with.”
“You might try to flush yourself down the john,” Dusty said, stepping into the open doorway.
“Or make a hangman’s noose out of toilet paper.”
“See, you’re too clever. You require diligent security.”
The toilet had a sealed tank and a button-flush mechanism: no parts that could be easily disassembled to locate a metal edge sharp enough to slash a wrist.
A minute later, as Skeet was washing his hands, Dusty withdrew the folded pages of the notepad from his pocket and read aloud Skeet’s handwritten message: “Dr. Yen Lo.”
The bar of soap slipped out of Skeet’s grip, into the sink. He didn’t try to pick it up. He leaned against the sink, his hands under the spout, water sluicing the lather off his fingers.
He had said something as he dropped the soap, but his words had not been clear over the sound of the running water.
Dusty cocked his head. “What’d you say?”
Raising his voice slightly, Skeet repeated: “I’m listening.”
Puzzled by that response, Dusty asked, “Who’s Dr. Yen Lo?”
Skeet didn’t reply.
His back was to Dusty. Because his head was bowed, his face couldn’t be seen in the mirror. He seemed to be staring at his hands, which he still held under the running water, although every trace of soap had been rinsed from them.
“Hey, kid?”
Silence.
Dusty moved into the cramped bathroom, beside his brother.
Skeet stared down at his hands, eyes shining as if with wonder, mouth open in what appeared to be awe, as though the answer to the mystery of existence was in his grasp.
Soap-scented clouds of steam had begun to rise out of the sink. The running water was fiercely hot. Skeet’s hands, usually so pale, were an angry red.
“Good God.” Dusty quickly turned off the water. The metal faucet was almost too hot to touch.
Evidently feeling no pain, Skeet kept his half-scalded hands under the spout.
Dusty turned on the cold water, and his brother submitted to this new torrent without any change of expression. He had exhibited no discomfort whatsoever from the hot water and now appeared to take no relief from the cold.
In the open doorway, Valet whimpered. Head raised, ears pricked, he backed a few steps into the bedroom. He knew that something was profoundly wrong.
Dusty took his brother by one arm. Hands held in front of him, gaze still fixed on them, Skeet allowed himself to be led out of the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, studying them as if reading his fate in the lines of his palms.
“Don’t move,” Dusty said, and then he hurried out of the room, in search of Tom Wong.
19
When Martie drove into the garage, she was disappointed to see that Dusty’s van wasn’t there. Because his work would have been rained out, she had hoped to find him at home.
In the kitchen, a ceramic-tomato magnet held a brief note to the refrigerator door:
She used the half bath — and not until she was washing her hands did she realize the mirror was missing from the door of the medicine cabinet. All that remained was a tiny splinter of silvered glass wedged in the lower right-hand corner of the metal frame.
Evidently, Dusty had accidentally broken it. Except for the one small sliver stuck in the frame, he’d done a thorough job of cleaning up the debris.
If broken mirrors meant bad luck, this was the worst of all possible days to shatter one.
Although she had no lunch left to lose, she still felt queasy. She filled a glass with ice and ginger ale. Something cold and sweet usually settled her stomach.
Wherever he had gone, Dusty must have taken Valet with him. In reality, their house was small and cozy, but at the moment it seemed big and cold — and lonely.
Martie sat at the breakfast table by the rainwashed window to sip the ginger ale, trying to decide if she preferred to go out this evening or stay home. Over dinner — assuming she could eat — she intended to share the unsettling events of the day with Dusty, and she worried about being overheard by a waitress or by other diners. Besides, she didn’t want to be out in public if she suffered another episode.
On the other hand, if they stayed home, she didn’t trust herself to cook dinner….
She raised her eyes from the ginger ale to the rack of knives on the wall near the sink.
The ice cubes rattled against the drinking glass clutched in her right hand.
The shiny stainless-steel blades of the cutlery appeared to be radiant, as though they were not merely reflecting light but also generating it.
Letting go of the glass, blotting her hand on her jeans, Martie looked away from the knife rack. But at once her eyes were drawn to it again.
She knew that she was not capable of doing violence to others, except to protect herself, those she loved, and the innocent. She doubted that she was capable of harming herself, either.
Nevertheless, the sight of the knives so agitated her that she couldn’t remain seated. She rose, stood in indecision, went into the dining room and then into the living room, moving about restlessly, with no purpose except to put some distance between herself and the knife rack.
After rearranging bibelots that didn’t need to be rearranged, adjusting a lampshade that was not crooked, and smoothing pillows that were not rumpled, Martie went into the foyer and opened the front door. She stepped across the threshold, onto the porch.
Her heart knocked so hard she shook from its blows. Each pulse pushed such a tide through her arteries that her vision throbbed with the heavy surge of blood.
She went to the head of the porch steps. Her legs were weak and shaky. She put one hand against a porch post.
To get farther from the knife rack, she’d have to walk out into the storm, which had diminished from a
