Still he didn’t go, and suddenly he knew why. There was something he had to say, something she deserved to hear.
“I should have listened to you, Kaylie. That night when I put you under arrest, you told me to look in Cray’s house. You told me.”
“You thought I was a psycho.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
Unexpectedly she smiled at him, a light and easy smile, girlish on her freckled face. “Roy, you’re the first person, other than Anson, who ever did listen to me in all this time. Not to mention that you saved my life. So don’t be too rough on yourself.”
“I’ll try not to be. And… thanks.”
“Anson feels the same way, incidentally. He wants to have you over for dinner once I’m staying with him.”
“I’d like that. I, uh, I’d like to see you again — if it’s all right.”
“Of course you can. You’ve got an idea for my future, remember? I want to hear it.” Her smile widened. “I need all the help I can get.”
Shepherd suddenly felt young, younger than he had since Ginnie’s death. The world was new again, a burden lifted.
“Well,” he said, “I’d better move along. You can get back to your book. What are you reading, anyway?”
He took a step closer to the table where the slim hardcover volume lay, and he read the title.
The Mask of Self.
Cray’s book.
“I asked Anson to bring it to me,” Kaylie said.
Shepherd stared at the book as if it were a spider. His voice was low and puzzled. “Why?”
“I wanted to understand Cray. I thought this might help.”
“Has it?”
“Yes. I think so.” She picked up the book and flipped idly through the pages. “Everything we ought to revere in people, he saw as an illusion. When you think that way, you shut off the best parts of yourself, and all that’s left is the animal inside.”
“He would say that’s all there is.”
“And look where it got him.” The book thumped on the table, released from her hand. “We have to believe there’s more to us than just instincts and chemicals. Even if we can’t prove it, even if it’s not even true, we can’t live any other way.”
*
The afternoon sun was golden on the desert when Shepherd drove back to Tucson. He let the highway flow under him, the Pinaleno range passing to the north, then dropping back as shadows lengthened.
Dusk would arrive soon, and the desert would stir with the prowling of the sly and hungry things that waited for the close of day. They were all around him, even now. They were always there, and always waiting. Sharon Andrews had fallen to one of their number, as had Rebecca Morgan and the rest.
Ginnie too. Shepherd tightened his grip on the wheel, thinking of Timothy Fries with his rusty knife and his insanity.
His wife had fallen in the same kind of fight, victim of the same darkness.
Instincts and chemicals. If Cray was right, if that was all Ginnie had been — all any of them had been — then life was only accident and pain, and the predators had won already, and would always win.
But perhaps there was something more. Something not to be lost, even in the dark. Something a knife’s blade couldn’t take.
We have to believe, Kaylie had said.
We have to believe.
Author's Note
My thanks to all the people who helped in the preparation and production of the original print edition of Stealing Faces, including Joseph Pittman, senior editor at NAL; Michaela Hamilton, associate publisher; Laurie Parkin, sales manager; Carolyn Nichols, executive director; Louise Burke, publisher; and my literary agent, Jane Dystel. Their support, feedback, and energetic assistance were invaluable in making the book a reality.
Readers are invited to visit my website at www.michaelprescott.net, where you’ll find information on my other books, as well as my email address, book reviews, and more. In a section called “Stuff that Got Cut,” you can read a scene I left out of Stealing Faces, detailing some additional unpleasantness at the Hawk Ridge Institute.
— Michael Prescott