"Hi," the kid said. "I'm Benny."
"I'm Howie. This is—"
"Jo-Beth. Yeah, we met. You want to come outside and play ball with me, Howie? I'm bored."
"It's dark out there."
"No it isn't," Benny said. He directed Howie's gaze towards the patio doors. They were open. The night beyond was, as Benny had said, far from dark. It was as if the odd radiance that permeated the house, about which he'd had no time to speak with Jo-Beth, had seeped out into the yard.
"See?" Benny said.
"I see."
"So come on, huh?"
"In a minute."
"Promise?"
"I promise. By the way, what's your real name?"
The kid looked puzzled. "Benny," he said. "Always was." He and the mutt headed off for the bright night.
Before Howie could put the countless questions in his head into askable order he felt a friendly pat on the back and a rotund voice enquired:
"Something to drink?"
Howie raised his bandaged hand in apology for the absence of a handshake.
"Good to have you here anyhow. Jo-Beth was telling me about you. I'm Mel, by the way. Lois's husband. You met Lois already, I gather."
"That's right."
"I don't know where she got to. I think one of those cowboys is having his way with her." He raised his glass. "To which I say, better him than me." He faked a look of shame. "What am I saying? I should have the bastard out in the street. Gun him down, eh?" He grinned. "That's the New West for you, right? Can't be fucking bothered. You want another vodka, Jo-Beth? You're going to have something, Howie?"
"Why not?"
"Funny, isn't it?" Mel said. "It's only when these damn dreams come in you realize who you are. Me...I'm a coward. And I don't love her." He turned from them. "Never did love her," he said as he reeled away. "Bitch. Fucking bitch."
Howie watched him enveloped by the crowd, then looked back at Jo-Beth. Very slowly he said:
"I don't have the slightest clue what's happening. Do you?"
"Yes."
"Tell me. Words of one syllable."
"This is because of last night. What your father did."
"The fire?"
"Or what came from it. All these people..." She smiled, surveying them, "...Lois, Mel, Ruby over there...all of them were at the Mall last night. Whatever came from your father—"
"Keep your voice down, will you? They're staring at us."
"I'm not talking loud, Howie," she said. "Don't be so paranoid."
"I tell you they're staring."
He could feel the intensity of their gazes: faces he'd only ever seen in glossy magazines, or on the television screen, staring at him with strange, almost troubled, looks.
"So let them stare," she said. "They don't mean any harm."
"How do you know that?"
"I've been here all evening. It's just like a normal party—"
"You're slurring your words."
"So why shouldn't I have a little fun once in a while?"
"I'm not saying you shouldn't. I'm just saying you're in no state to judge whether they're dangerous or not."
"What are you trying to do, Howie?" she said. "Keep all these people to yourself?"
"No. No, of course not."
"I don't want to be a part of the Jaff—"
"Jo-Beth."
"He may be my father. Doesn't mean I like it that way."
The room had fallen entirely silent at the mention of the Jaff. Now everyone in the room—cowboys, soap-opera stars, sitcom folks, beauties and all—were looking their way.
"Oh shit," said Howie, softly. "You shouldn't have said that." He scanned the faces surrounding them. "That was a mistake. She didn't mean it. She's not...she doesn't belong...what I mean is, we're together. She and me. We're together, see? My father was Fletcher, and hers...hers wasn't." It was like being in sinking sand. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank.
One of the cowboys spoke first. He had eyes the press would call ice-blue.
"You're Fletcher's son?"
"Yes...I am."
"So you know what we're to do."
Howie suddenly understood the significance of the stares he'd been garnering since he'd entered. These creatures—hallucigenia, Fletcher had called them—knew him; or at least thought they did. Now he'd identified himself, and the need in their faces couldn't have been plainer.
"Tell us what to do," one of the women said.
"We're here for Fletcher," said another.
"Fletcher's gone," said Howie.
"Then for you. You're his son. What are we here to do?"
"Do you want the child of the Jaff destroyed?" said the cowboy, turning his blue eyes on Jo-Beth.
"Jesus Christ, no!"
He reached out to take hold of Jo-Beth's arm but she'd already retreated from him, slow steps towards the door. "Come back," he said. "They're not going to hurt you."
From the look on her face his words were scant comfort in such company.
"Jo-Beth..." he said, "...I'm not going to let them hurt you."
He started towards her, but his father's creatures weren't about to let their only hope for guidance go. Before he could reach her he felt a hand snatch at his shirt, and then another and another, until he was entirely surrounded by pleading, adoring faces.
"I can't help you, " he yelled. "Let me alone!"
From the corner of his eye he saw Jo-Beth, running scared to the door, opening it and slipping away. He called after her, but the din of pleas had risen around him until his every syllable was drowned out. He started to push harder through the crowd. Dreams they might be, but they were solid enough; and warm; and, it seemed, frightened. They needed a leader, and they'd elected him. It was not a role he was prepared to accept, especially not if it separated him from Jo-Beth.
"Get the fuck out of my way!" he demanded, clawing his way through the back-lit, glossy faces. Their fervor didn't diminish, but grew in proportion to his resistance. It was only by ducking down and tunnelling his way through his admirers that he got free of them. They followed him out into the hallway. The front door stood open. He sprinted for it like a star besieged by fans, and was out into the night before they caught up with him. Some instinct kept them from coming after him into the open, though one or two, Benny and the dog Morgan leading, followed, the boy's shout—"Come back and see us some time soon!"—pursuing him like a threat down the street.
The bullet struck Tesla in the side, like a blow from a heavyweight champ. She was thrown backwards, the sight of Tommy-Ray's grinning face replaced with the stars through the open roof. They got bigger in moments, swelling like bright sores, edging out the clean darkness.
What happened next was beyond her powers of comprehension. She heard a commotion, and a shot, followed by shrieks from the women Raul had told her would be gathering about this time. But she couldn't find the will to be much interested in what was happening on earth. The ugly spectacle above her claimed all her attention: a sick and brimming sky about to drown her in tainted light.
Is this death? she wondered. If so, it was overrated. There was a story to be had there, she began to think. About a woman who—
The thought went the way of consciousness: out. The second shot she'd heard had been fired at Raul, who'd come at Tesla's assassin at speed, leaping over the fire. The bullet missed him, but he threw himself aside to avoid another, giving Tommy-Ray time to dart out of the door he'd entered through, into a crowd of women which he parted with a third shot aimed over their veiled heads. They put up a clamor and fled, hauling their children after them. Nuncio in hand, he headed off down the hill to where he'd left the car. A backward glance confirmed that the woman's companion—whose misbegotten features and weird turn of speed had taken him aback—was not giving chase.
Raul put his hand to Tesla's cheek. She was feverish, but alive. He took off his shirt and clamped the bundle to her wound, laying her limp hand upon it to keep it in place. Then he went out into the darkness and called the women out of hiding. He knew all of them by name. They in turn knew and trusted him. They came when called.