It was weird, and Mike knew that he should be alarmed—not that he wanted to feel worse, but what was happening wasn’t normal. That was obvious, and he had sat there for half an hour just thinking about it—and then like a switch being thrown he wasn’t thinking about it. Or about anything.
Fugue.
When he blinked his eyes clear, an hour was gone from the day and the ice bag was just slush, lying on the floor where it had fallen. Mike reached down and picked it up with no surface awareness, either of it having fallen or of now picking it up. The time and everything it had witnessed was gone. Just gone.
In its fugue the chrysalis evolves.
If he had looked in a mirror at that moment, he would have seen that the bruising on his face had diminished by almost 80 percent.
In its chrysalis the imago undergoes a steady process of change.
The TV was on, the sound low, and Mike started watching it, catching up to the flow of time without being aware of having stepped out of its stream, catching replays of the mayor’s press conference. Mike sat there and watched until it was over and then turned and looked out of his bedroom window for a long time, his consciousness coming back on line one circuit at a time.
It was only the second of October and the leaves were already turning colors. They seemed pretty, but somehow Mike didn’t like the look of them. It was like they were too bright, too flashy, like the shiny suit of one of those guys who hangs out by the schoolyard and tries to dazzle you with his clothes and his ride and all the time he just wants to sell you some weed.
He scratched his bruised cheek. It hurt, but not as much as it should have.
Even when it slumbers the chrysalis continues to change.
(5)
Vic Wingate switched off the radio and stared through the windshield as his pickup rolled quietly down A-32 toward the canal bridge. He’d just heard the load of horseshit Terry Wolfe had foisted on the press. He snorted and slapped his jacket pockets until he found his cigarettes, shook one out of the pack, and punched in the dashboard lighter. That gullible bunch of dickheads had swallowed every scrap of nonsense Wolfe had tossed to them, and it was very convenient to Vic’s plans to have such a master of spin control as Terry Wolfe. Quiet and calm was good for business. Well…for Vic’s business at any rate. He lit his cigarette. Vic’s and the Man’s.
(6)
Crow was back in Val’s room, and Saul Weinstock was with them, all of them glued to the TV as Terry worked his magic with the press. Every time Terry made a particularly brilliant statement Crow and Weinstock yelled “Boorah!” at the screen. Val just rolled her eyes.
“Terry looks pretty sharp,” Weinstock said. “Better than he has for days.”
On the TV a pair of news commentators were dissecting every single word Terry had said. “I have to admit,” Val said, “Terry was in rare form. He really owned that crowd of reporters.”
“Except for that little guy,” Weinstock said. “The one that looks like George from Seinfeld. I’ve seen him around. He’s the one that broke the whole story. Willard Fowler Newton, from Black Marsh. Doesn’t look like much but he must be a hell of a reporter if he was able to figure out everything that was going on.”
Crow pursed his lips. “Well, the story is coast-to-coast now, so strap yourselves in, kiddies, I think we’re about to have a helluva ride.”
Totally without inflection, Val said, “Yippee.”
Weinstock looked at his watch. “So…you two ready to check out of this hotel or what?”
(7)
Terry and Sarah Wolfe arrived in late afternoon to take Crow and Val home from the hospital. Two armed police officers—Head and Golub—escorted them from their rooms, one leading the procession of two wheelchairs and the other bringing up the rear. Both of them carried shotguns at port arms. A half-dozen other officers had been brought in to create and enforce a cordon that kept the press back from the hospital entrance as the patients were carefully handed into Terry’s Humvee and buckled in. Once everyone was in, Head and Golub lead the way in their unit, with the Humvee following, and another police car following, with Coralita Toombes behind the wheel. Police barricades were set up across the parking lot entrance, blocking the press vehicles in for ten minutes, allowing them all to make a clean getaway.
Val’s farm was still a crime scene, so Crow and Val spent the night with Terry. Just the effort of leaving the hospital and getting in and out of cars exhausted them, and Sarah got them into bed and tucked in, bullying them into taking their pills. In ten minutes they were asleep, face-to-face, their foreheads touching. Terry headed back to the office, his artifice of calm slipping inch-by-inch.
Golub and Head stayed in their unit, parked in the driveway, eating turkey-and-cheese sandwiches Sarah made for them, sipping hot coffee, watching the flocks of tourists go by, listening to the frustrated reports of the officers engaged in the search. Between bites, Golub said, “You think this Boyd clown is still here in town?”
Head shook his head. “Nah. He’s long gone by now. My guess, he’s over in Jersey somewhere. Probably looking to boost a car and head north to Newark or the Apple.”
“I hope you’re wrong, man,” Golub said, and took another bite. “I would love for us to catch this prick.”
“Catch?” Head said with a cold smile that looked like a shooter’s squint. “Nah, nobody I knows wants to catch him.”
Chapter 8
(1)
“I saw you on the news,” said Harry LeBeau as he barged into Terry’s office in the municipal building, “and although you did a good job of handling the press, I have to say that I don’t like being left holding the bag. Gus and everyone else was looking for you all day and—”
“Oh, shut up, Harry,” Terry snapped, looking up from the stack of papers crowding his desk. “I’m not in the mood to listen to your whining.” LeBeau skidded to a halt and he stood there, eyes bugged in surprise, mouth working like a fish. Not once, not even at the height of the blight, had Terry ever snapped at him, or even raised his voice. LeBeau stood there, unable to form words. Terry’s blue eyes were hard as quartz. “You’re the deputy mayor and there’s more to that job than putting your title on business cards. Once in a while you have to step up and grow a set. If I was off the clock for five frigging minutes and you had to do some actual administrative work, then that’s just too bad. Later I’ll block out five minutes and have a good cry about it. Same with Gus Bernhardt. We’ve got killers running amok in this town at the start of our busiest season and all he seems capable of is sticking his thumb up his ass. What I don’t need, from you or Gus, is any bullshit about how unfair life is, because I can say with no risk of contradiction that I’ve got more on my plate right now than you have on yours. So why don’t you pirouette around and scamper back to your store and leave me alone? Close the door on your way out.”
There was absolutely no opening to make any kind of response to that, so LeBeau backed out of the room and pulled the door shut. His eyes were burning with tears of shame and hurt as he retreated down the hall to his own office.
Terry sat there, staring at the closed door, his fingernails scratching the hardwood top of his desk. Over the last few days his nails had become gradually thicker and harder. No one had commented on it, except for Sarah, and he’d told her it was just a side effect of his meds. He knew different; he’d read each package insert for each drug, and none of them mentioned this. Nervously he scratched at his desktop. There were deep grooves worn in the polished oak. He heard the sound of slow, ironic applause and he turned to see Mandy standing in the corner by the window, her face half-obscured by the leaves of a potted ficus.