Thief Of Souls

about these patterns—I don’t guess!”

Still nothing. Winston stood with folded arms, Mi­chael’s shifting slouch radiated indifference, and Lourdes seemed more interested in the ceiling architecture than in Dillon’s warning, as if this meeting were an unwanted obligation.

Tory seemed to be the only one who was even slightly with him on this. “Maybe if you explain it to us . . . '

Dillon took a deep breath to balance his thoughts. “Explain it . . .” He looked around the clutter of his suite, searching for clues that could translate to their understanding—but how could he verbalize a cognitive sense that they didn’t possess? He began by handing Tory an article—a small one about a candidate in an upcoming election.

“What is it?” asked Lourdes.

Tory skimmed it, and wrinkled her brow. “Some old fart is running for Congress.”

Winston glanced at it over her shoulder. “So?”

“That old fart,” Dillon explained, “just happens to be the president of the Flat Earth Society. Two weeks ago, he didn’t have a chance. Now, all of a sudden it seems like half of Nebraska is voting for him.”

“Have you ever been to Nebraska?” said Winston. “Pretty easy to think the world is flat if Nebraska’s all you see of it.”

Seeing he was getting nowhere, Dillon switched gears, moving to the computer in the corner. He clicked a button, and brief messages scrolled up the screen.

“I downloaded these this morning from an on-line chat room.”

He let them scan the notes for a few moments, then asked. “Do you see?”

“See what?” asked Lourdes.

“The notes! These people aren’t talking to each other, they’re talking at each other.

Michael laughed. “That’s nothing new!”

Dillon tried one more time. He flipped open a mag­azine, and presented it to the others. “Nielsen ratings,” he told them. They all took in the lists of shows and numbers, but it might as well have been written in Ar­abic for all it mattered.

“See, look,” Dillon said, pointing it out as best he could. “Ratings on the most popular shows have dropped off—and the shows no one ever watches are beginning to get followers.”

They kept looking at the ratings, then back to Dillon as if there should be more.

“And that’s the end of the world?” Tory asked du­biously.

“No, but this is.” And Dillon presented them with a picture from the morning sports pages. Crowds at a Nascar race. “This says it all. I mean, look at them. Look at the way this woman is slouching—look at the angle those people are standing—and the directions they’re all looking. It’s as if they’re not there to watch the race—they’re just passing time. It’s like they’re waiting for something else—something bigger—but they don’t even know it yet.”

“I’m sorry, you lost me,” said Tory.

“Okay,” said Dillon, pacing across the rug, and flex­ing his fingers to keep from pulling his hair out. “It’s like a tidal wave. You know—just before there’s a tidal wave, all the water pulls away from the beach, and it gets quiet —as if the shore is waiting for the wave to hit: Well, that’s what’s happening now.”

He picked up the article about the flat-world politi­cian. “People everywhere are slowly losing their sense of reason.” Then he went to the computer screen. “People are forgetting how to communicate.” Then he held up the magazine of Nielsen ratings—“Everyone’s changing their alliances at an abnormal rate”—and fi­nally the picture. “And everyone’s waiting for some­thing to happen.” He took a moment, realizing he had hyperventilated and was feeling faint, then continued, trying to lock on their eyes one at a time.

“These things that would mean nothing to you, mean everything to me. They show me the pattern that no one else can see.” He took a deep breath, and spoke slowly. “Within one month,” he said, “some crucial event is going to occur—something that no one can explain. That event is going to get stuck in people’s minds, and when they can’t reason it away, miscommunication will start to spread. Half-truths, and flat-out lies will spread around the world until no one knows what truth is anymore . . .

. . . and alliances will shift.”

He turned and grabbed a globe off of Hearst’s private desk. “After that, there’s going to be a great gathering. I’ve been studying changes in airline schedules and travel statistics—they all point to it.” He showed them the globe. He had already penned in a thousand flight patterns, leaving nothing but blue pen covering most of the world, darkest over Europe and the Mediterranean.

“It’ll be somewhere on the other side of the world,” he told them. “Millions will go there . . . and die. But it won’t stop there. Death will spread out from that spot, until there’s nothing left. Human, animal, or vegetable. Unless we can change the pattern.”

“Is it nuclear?” asked Tory.

Dillon shook his head. “No, that’s not part of the pattern. It’s something else. Something worse. And so far, all the good we’ve done hasn’t changed a thing!”

Then he clicked on the TV, giving them a final dose to drive his point home. Yet another interview with a Shiprock survivor. There were so many witnesses, the media was having a field day, and would have weeks’ worth of interviews to horrify and tantalize the viewing public.

“Take a look at what happened in Shiprock, and tell me if you need any further proof. A man begins a kill­ing rampage that’s continued by one of the deputies who arrested him.”

“Big deal,” said Michael. “So a couple of lunatics decide to start blowing people away. It happens all the time—how are these psychos different from all the oth­ers?”

Dillon clenched his fists. “I don’t know yet—but this is different. It’s important—I’m just not sure how. You have to trust me!” He waited in silence for their response— hoping their thoughts, and their strength, would bolster his own. He knew they could rise to this challenge. These four had risen to defeat their beasts, they had risen to defeat Dillon in his own dark days. United, they had the power to—

“This is a waste of my time,” said Lourdes. “Where’s lunch? I’m starved.”

“Are we through here?” said Winston, looking at his watch. “I have things to do.”

“I’m going swimming,” announced Tory.

Michael smirked at Dillon, laughing—mocking. “The secrets of the universe in TV ratings and chat rooms? C’mon, do you really expect us to take you seriously?”

But Dillon suspected nothing he could have said would have provoked anything but indifference from them. Dillon’s frustration was a palpable thing now—he could feel it in the air around him, and he had a sudden urge to lash out in anger. He turned away from them, like someone turning to sneeze, hoping to deflect his sudden burst of fury. Then he released it from his mind, full force upon a water glass that sat on his dress­ing table. The glass shattered, into a thousand pieces. The others turned to look at it with only mild interest.

“Cool trick,” said Michael, nodding to the place where the glass had been. “Bet that’ll be a real crowd- pleaser with the Happy Campers.”

When Dillon glanced at the spot where the glass had been, he had to double-take. Yes, he had shattered the glass, but the water was still there, suspended in its cylindrical shape. It was his own power of cohesion that held the water together, refusing to let it spill across the tabletop.

But if he could effortlessly bind these molecules of water, why couldn’t he bind the five of them together toward a single goal?

“Later,” said Winston, and the four of them drifted out.

Dillon stood there in the vacuum of their exit, com­pletely bewildered. What had happened? Why weren’t they listening? Although his encounters with them had been brief before they arrived at the castle, he had thought he knew them. He thought he knew their hearts, their minds, their convictions . . .

And their alliances.

The thought made him shiver. It played in his mind for the rest of the day. It still tinted his thoughts later that afternoon, when he met the Shards again for their daily repair work.

There were more than fifty today. It was a bloody business, as there were more injured than sick. The other