an obscure apology, and an entreaty for kind remembrance and reconciliation, if her proceeding had offended him, asserting that she could not help it then, and, being done, she had now no power to repeal it. Linton did not reply to this, I believe; and in a fort- night more I got a long letter which I considered odd, coming from the pen of a bride just out of the honey- moon. I'll read it, for I keep it yet. Any relic of the dead is precious if they were valued living. DEAR ELLEN, it begins, I came last night to Wuther- ing Heights, and heard for the first time that Catherine has been, and is yet, very ill. I must not write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too angry or too dis- tressed to answer what I sent him. Still, I must write to somebody, and the only choice left me is you. Inform Edgar that I'd give the world to see his face again---that my heart returned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty-four hours after I left it, and is there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him and Catherine. I can't follow it, though (those words are underlined); they need not expect me; and they may draw what con- clusions they please, taking care, however, to lay noth- ing at the door of my weak will or deficient affection. The remainder of the letter is for yourself alone. I want to ask you two questions; the first is---How did you contrive to preserve the common sympathies of human nature when you resided here? I cannot recog- nize any sentiment which those around share with me. The second question I have great interest in; it is this----Is Mr. Heathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil? I shan't tell my reasons for making this inquiry, but I beseech you to explain, if you can, what I have married---that is, when you call to see me; and you must call, Ellen, very soon. Don't write, but come, and bring me something from Edgar. Now you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am led to imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself that I dwell on such subjects as the lack of external comforts; they never occupy my thoughts, except at the moment when I miss them. I should laugh and dance for joy if I found their absence was the total of my miseries, and the rest was an un- natural dream. The sun set behind the Grange as we turned on to the moors: by that I judged it to be six o'clock; and my companion halted half an hour to inspect the park and the gardens, and probably the place itself, as well as he could; so it was dark when we dismounted in the paved yard of the farmhouse, and your old fellow-serv- ant Joseph issued out to receive us by the light of a dip


his tools and carried them toward the work bench. Hap sat ramrod straight in his chair. His head was tilted as if he were listening. He had a strange expression on his face, faraway and lost. “What is it?” Vic asked. “What’s wrong?” “S-sound. What is that s-sound?” Vic listened. He didn’t hear anything. Nurse Ratched did. “It is music. Gio is playing a record in the ground house.” Hap stood abruptly, the chair banging against the wall. He moved toward the door without speaking. Before Vic could call to him, he vaulted over the edge of the railing. “I wish I could do that,” Rambo said. “It looks so cool. I’m gonna do it. No one try and stop me this time.” Vic managed to grab Rambo before he could roll toward the railing. “No.” Rambo beeped rudely. “Hey! I said not to stop me.” “You take the elevator,” Vic told him. “Just because someone else does something doesn’t mean you have to.” “How profound,” Nurse Ratched said. “I am impressed, Victor.” Later, as Vic closed down the lab for the night, he got lost in his own head. Once, when he was ten, he had suddenly become fixated on the fact that he was not an android like his father. It upset him greatly and sent him spiraling for two days. He was inconsolable. They were different, he tried to explain to Dad, even as his father said their differences did not matter. But to Victor, they did matter. He wanted his blood drained, his bones and tendons replaced with metal and wiring. He couldn’t articulate the why of it, not enough to satisfy either of them. Dad had tried to calm him down, tried to explain that he was perfect just the way he was, but Vic wouldn’t hear of it. At the end of the second day he was exhausted, his eyes feeling like they were filled with sand, his head pounding, his thoughts jumbled. Dad had sat a few feet away from him to give him space, legs folded, hands on his knees, and said, “Victor, listen to me.” He didn’t look at his father, but he heard him. He grunted quietly in response. “We’re not the same,” Dad had said, voice gentle and soft. “But know that I was alone and sad before you came into my world. You gave me hope, Victor. It started in the tips of my toes before it rose through the rest of my body and latched firmly in my chest. It has never left. It evolved into something so much greater. And it’s because of this feeling that I can say I don’t need you to be like me. I need you to be you.” Vic hadn’t spoken. Not then. But he listened, and he never forgot. He was quiet as the elevator lowered toward the ground. He followed his friends toward the ground house, pausing in the doorway. Dad sat in his chair, a curious expression on his face. He didn’t turn to look at Vic. He was focused


how could I have been so stupid? Or, more to the point: Why had I repeatedly ignored the gut feeling that told me something was wrong? “That’s why he went to work for his mom,” I said, everything suddenly clicking into place. “It’s the only way she would clean up his mess,” Daphne chimed in. “And make sure everyone got paid. On her terms.” I looked up at her, tears filling my eyes. “And you were going to tell me. You were going to disbar yourself for me even after what a nightmare I’ve been.” She shrugged. Mom walked in. “Honey, why don’t you come home tonight? I feel very unsettled. And, Wendy, I am so sorry that we are even remotely connected with this.” “Oh, old Mrs. Moneybags won’t let him rot in jail. I’ll get my cash. But I feel bad for all those people who may not.” I was reeling. Part of me wanted to get in my pink bathtub in my condo upstairs, but the other part didn’t want to be alone. I still couldn’t believe this was true. I needed to talk to Bryce. I needed to see him. “So,” Daphne said in a low voice to Wendy, “that secret business lunch with Finn was more like a planning session?” “I can’t fathom what you’re insinuating,” Wendy replied with a wink. The look on Daphne’s face told me Wendy was no longer annoying high school Wendy. She was boss-bitch Wendy. “Well, ladies,” Wendy said, “apologies all around, but this is business. And good luck, Lanier. Seems like you’re going to need it.” Okay, so, maybe high school Wendy was still in there somewhere. Daphne got up to leave too. “Daph!” I called after her. She didn’t turn around, and I realized that even though she was going to tell me about Bryce, that didn’t mean she’d forgiven me. I got up and ran out onto the sidewalk. “Daphne!” I called again. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” She stopped long enough to say, “You’re only sorry when I save you.” Maybe she was right; maybe that was true. But I had saved Daphne too. * * * The beginning of our junior year of high school, Daphne’s dad’s house had officially become our hangout spot. He was, after all, never there, and we could do pretty much anything we wanted. One afternoon after school, while we were watching reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians—which Mom wouldn’t let us watch—and downing Cheetos—which Mom wouldn’t let us eat—Ray burst through the back door. He had been gone for like three days, which wasn’t unusual. I could tell by the sideways way he was walking that he was really drunk. His shirttail was hanging out, his eyes bloodshot, his hair messy. And he definitely hadn’t shaved in a while. He startled when he saw the two of us, as if he had forgotten he had a daughter at all. “You!” he said, pointing at Daphne. “This is all your fault. If I didn’t have to see your face, which is


it to her nose to inhale the bouquet. The other judges were already coughing, looking at each other in confusion. Had they accidentally been served vinegar? They spat it out into the provided silver buckets almost in tandem. Natalie, however, seemed determined to hold off as long as possible. Her face turned red, tears forming in her eyes. But to his shock, the swallow went down her throat, followed by a gasp for air. “I’m afraid . . . ” began one of the judges, visibly flustered. The crowd whispered behind August. “I’m afraid something must have gone terribly wrong during your process.” “Yes . . .” The other judge laughed behind his wrist. “Or a step was left out entirely.” The rows of people behind him chuckled, and Natalie’s attention strayed in that direction. She opened her mouth to say something and closed it again. Normally, she wouldn’t hesitate to cut him off at the knees, so what was this? Pity? She’d chosen this moment? This moment, when he needed to walk out of here with some semblance of pride, to go easy on him? Nah. Not having it. He didn’t need this spoiled, trust-fund brat to pull her punches. He’d seen shit during combat that people on this well-manicured lawn couldn’t even fathom in their wildest dreams. He’d jumped out of planes into pitch-black skies. Existed on pure stubbornness for weeks on end in the desert. Suffered losses that still felt as though they’d happened yesterday. And yet you couldn’t even make decent wine. He’d failed Sam. Again. A fact that hurt a damn sight more than this rich girl judging him harshly in front of these people he’d probably never see again after today. In fact, he needed Natalie to just drop the hammer already, so he could show her how little he cared about her opinion. It was his friend’s dream never being realized that should hurt. Not her verdict. August propped his hands on the judging table and leaned forward, seeing nothing but the beautiful, black-haired dream haunter and watching her golden eyes go wide at his audacity. “You’re not waiting for a bribe, are you? Not with a last name like Vos.” He winked at her and leaned down until only Natalie could hear the way he dropped his voice. “Unless you’re hoping for a different kind of bribe, princess, because that can be arranged.” She threw wine in his face. For the second time. Honestly, he couldn’t even blame her. He was lashing out over his failure and Natalie was a convenient target. But he wasn’t going to apologize. What good would it do? She already hated him and he’d just found a way to strengthen that feeling. The best thing he could do to make up for the insult to Natalie was to leave town—and that’s exactly what he planned to do. He’d been given no choice. With wine dripping from his five-o’clock shadow, August pushed off the table, swiped a sleeve over his damp face, and stormed across the lawn to the parking


restrained by a foolish sense of community values, by honor, by pity—or by anything, really. The chance of finding Nina and John in one of these buildings is low, and the likelihood that the plan Aleem cooked up to deal with the four SUVs will work is even lower. However, this world doesn’t reward second-guessers. You can change direction if a fork in the path appears and has promise, but you can’t back up and rethink, because in this business, to both your enemies and your homeys, that looks like retreat. Retreat is seen as weakness, and the weak die young, which they deserve to do. The only thing that Aleem despises is weakness. Once you commit to an operation, you have to drive forward hard, never doubting, never relenting. If the result isn’t what you hoped, even if it’s a disaster, you can learn from it after it’s done. Anyhow, no mistake he can make is so bad that it can’t be erased with enough violence and cash. With a shitload of money, he can buy his way out of most trouble, and when money isn’t enough, he can kill his way out, which is why he has the respect of his homeboys and not just of his homeboys, but also the respect of all those who are gangsters disguised as pillars of their communities, as friends of the working man and woman. You can’t win a war if you don’t drive forward hard and harder even when fighting seems hopeless. And to Aleem Sutter, life is war. THE ONLY WISDOM WE CAN HOPE TO ACQUIRE To Nina’s right, pressed against her, felt but unseen, John sits in two inches of cold water, deep in the rat hole, under the artfully rearranged trash, his back to the wall. He has wrapped his arms around the duffel bag that rests on his lap, less to safeguard the money than to anchor himself against the nervous spasming of muscles that might rattle the rubbish heap around them. The Tac Light is switched off, propped across Nina’s thighs. She grips the pistol in both hands, though she can’t imagine how she can effectively use it. The gun has a ten-round magazine. She’s not a bad shot, but she can’t take out eight men who are heavily gunned up. To her left is the opening to their hiding place, concealed by a splintering and delaminating sheet of fungus-riddled plywood over which is draped a long, rumpled length of filth-encrusted, opaque plastic like the cast-off ectoplasm of some ghost that has finally ceased to haunt this world. She feels swallowed up and helpless, the room as dark as the belly of a whale. The air reeks of many forms of foul matter and the putrefaction of perhaps a rat or two. She’s shivering and can feel John shivering against her. She hesitates to caution him about his rapid, anxious breathing. He’s smart and brave, and when he hears someone in the building, when the door opens to this room, he will fall silent and still. Some


disembark, then some Special Forces guys

appeared in the alcove. They returned my weapons and handed me a vial of

morphine, to keep on my person at all times. We were now in a place where

pain, injuries, trauma were commonplace. They hurried me off the plane

into a four-by-four with blacked windows and dusty seats. We drove to a

different part of the base, then hurried into a Portakabin.

Empty. Not a soul.

144

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary

Where is everybody? Bloody hell, was peace declared while I was in the

air?

No, the whole base was out on a mission.

I looked around. Apparently they’d left in the middle of a meal. Tables

were covered with half-empty pizza boxes. I tried to remember what I’d

eaten on the flight. Nothing. I began shoving cold pizza into my mouth.

I took my in-theater test, one last barrier to entry, one last measure to

prove that I knew how to do the job. Shortly after, I climbed into a Chinook

and flew about fifty miles to a much smaller outpost. Forward Operating

Base Dwyer. Long, unwieldy name for what was little more than a

sandcastle made of sandbags.

I was met by a sand-covered soldier who said he’d been ordered to show

me around.

Welcome to Dwyer.

Thanks.

I asked how the place got its name.

One of our lads. K-I-A. Vehicle hit a land mine.

The quick tour revealed Dwyer to be even more spartan than it looked

from the Chinook. No heat, few lights, not much water. There was

plumbing, of a sort, but the pipes were usually clogged or frozen. There was

also a building that purported to be a “shower block,” but I was advised: use

at your peril.

Basically, my tour guide told me, just give up being clean. Focus instead

on staying warm.

It gets that cold here?

He chortled.

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it the torn curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before, for the first time in his life, he had forgotten to hide it, when he crept out of the room. But what was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. He opened the door a little wider, and walked quickly in, with half- closed eyes and averted head, determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down, and taking up the gold- and-purple hanging, he flung it over the picture. He stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of each other. "Leave me now," said Campbell. He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been thrust back into the chair and was sitting up in it, with Campbell gazing into the glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs he heard the key being turned in the lock. It was long after seven o'clock when Campbell came back into the library. He was pale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do," he muttered. "And now, good-by. Let us never see each other again." "You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," said Dorian, simply. As soon as Campbell had left, he went up-stairs. There was a horrible smell of chemicals in the room. But the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone. CHAPTER XIII [94] "There is no good telling me you are going to be good, Dorian," cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with rose-water. "You are quite perfect. Pray don't change." Dorian shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good actions yesterday." "Where were you yesterday?" "In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself." "My dear boy," said Lord Henry smiling, "anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people who live out of town are so uncivilized. There are only two ways, as you know, of becoming civilized. One is by being cultured, the other is by being corrupt. Country-people have no opportunity of being either, so they stagnate." "Culture and corruption," murmured Dorian. "I have known something


Susan and fixed his eyes on her with a kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast. "You are just what I--what I wanted," he said. "I wish you were my mother--as well as Dickon's!" All at once Susan Sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms close against the bosom under the blue cloak--as if he had been Dickon's brother. The quick mist swept over her eyes. "Eh! dear lad!" she said. "Thy own mother's in this 'ere very garden, I do believe. She couldna' keep out of it. Thy father mun come back to thee--he mun!" CHAPTER XXVII IN THE GARDEN In each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered. In the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before. In this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light. At first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done--then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. One of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts--just mere thoughts--are as powerful as electric batteries--as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. If you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live. So long as Mistress Mary's mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about her dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to be pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched chi Circumstances, however, were very kind to her, though she was not at all aware of it. They began to push her about for her own good. When her mind gradually filled itself with robins, and moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed old gardeners and common little Yorkshire housemaids, with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor boy and his "creatures," there was no room left for the disagreeable thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow and tired. So long as Colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his fears and weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and reflected hourly on humps and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshine and the spring and also did not know that he could get well and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it. When new beautiful thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come


of her children as she disappeared beneath the raw earth. Pepe and his guests were much amused, although the man from the State Department, T. Denby Danford, expressed concern. He fretted that such cruelty was unnecessary when a bullet to the back of the head would provide the same result as being buried alive. When even Denby realized that his distaste for this soiree was causing offense to the celebrants and souring their mood to such an extent that a fourth grave might be dug, he kept his opinion to himself, turned on the charm, and took refuge in more champagne. Soon, not even muffled cries came from the physician’s grave. As the workmen finished filling it and tamping down the soil, a classical guitarist and a bongoist provided festive music until the time came to bury the professor who was also a popular novelist. Interred with copies of his books, he screamed defiant accusations, using words that puzzled Aleem and most of those present. Finally the fool’s mouth filled with dirt and he was unable to find air to breathe, whereupon the musicians returned to their instruments in high spirits. The young priest proved to be by far the partiers’ favorite. He evoked the most laughter as he resorted to the Lord’s Prayer while the busy shovelers worked up a sweat, especially when he spoke the words that Christ had spoken as the nails pierced Him: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” It was an evening to remember, a celebration of the values that brought them together, a bonding revel. Aleem was exhilarated, filled with pride to be Pepe’s brother from another mother, filled with hope for the future, brimming with ambition. When they returned to the grand house on the grassy plateau, he was offered a girl of sixteen, Margareta, for the night. He told Pepe that two days in this place had tempered him, as steel is tempered to make a better sword; he was such a hard man now, he might damage one lover beyond repair; therefore, in consideration of Margareta’s health, it would be better if a second girl were also provided so that neither would be ruined forever in the process of satisfying him. This tongue-in-cheek braggadocio delighted Pepe. Seventeen-year-old Selena was sent to Aleem’s room with Margareta. He used them well and long and with no respect, but when at last they left him before dawn, he remained sleepless in the recognition that the most stimulating and thrilling moments of the night had not involved those lubricious girls, but instead the three people lying six feet under the jungle floor without benefit of coffins. Now, in this orchard of dead trees, where “Macarena” no longer echoes, soaked to the skin for the lack of rain gear, his mud-caked shoes heavier by the minute, with four decommissioned vehicles to be somehow repaired and started and driven away, with as many as eight discarded phones to be retrieved, Aleem has reached the end of his patience. He no longer wants to rape Nina


down and see the girl's mother? For a moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn't it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about it all?" "My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian, sipping some pale- yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass, and looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the Opera. You should have come on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely. Don't talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn't [53] talk about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives reality to things. Tell me about yourself and what you are painting." "You went to the Opera?" said Hallward, speaking very slowly, and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. "You went to the Opera while Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!" "Stop, Basil! I won't hear it!" cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. "You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is past." "You call yesterday the past?" "What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them." "Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You look exactly the same wonderful boy who used to come down to my studio, day after day, to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world. Now, I don't know what has come over you. You talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry's influence. I see that." The lad flushed up, and, going to the window, looked out on the green, flickering garden for a few moments. "I owe a great deal to Harry, Basil," he said, at last,--"more than I owe to you. You only taught me to be vain." "Well, I am punished for that, Dorian,--or shall be some day." "I don't know what you mean, Basil," he exclaimed, turning round. "I don't know what you want. What do you want?" "I want the Dorian Gray I used to know." "Basil," said the lad, going


there is something darker about him, something slippery . . .” She stares at the rocks on the ground, lost in thought. “I know what you mean,” Clytemnestra says. “It is like trying to catch the leaves when the wind makes them dance. One moment you have them, and the next they fly away.” Penelope laughs. “We used to do that years ago, remember? Running around the plain, flying leaves all around us.” Clytemnestra nods, smiling. She would always catch the most leaves, but Penelope would grab the beautiful ones, bright red and pale orange. “But yes,” Penelope says, “Odysseus is like that. He is a man with secrets.” “And yet you like him.” “Very much.” Penelope’s face is luminous. “My father used to tease me and say that I would marry some forgotten king on a forgotten island.” Clytemnestra nudges her. “Well, you are.” Penelope laughs. “Who knows about Ithaca? Who will remember Odysseus?” “Probably no one. The clever ones are always forgotten.” “That is why there will be no songs about you and me but plenty about Diomedes the brute.” They laugh together while the wind starts to smell like spring, and life goes on around them, undisturbed. * * * Clytemnestra sits alone in the mousike room, looking at the flutes and lyres in the baskets lining the wall. The space is small with a low ceiling, the walls covered with chalked drawings—images they used to draw as children. There are Helen’s lyres and Clytemnestra’s lynxes, Castor’s spears and Timandra’s dogs. In one corner of the wall, a noble girl has scribbled Polydeuces is handsome like Apollo. “Your brother sounds like a charmer.” Odysseus appears at the door. He moves like a cat, so that even she, who is trained to listen for the slightest sounds, never hears him coming. She takes an aulos, the double-reeded flute, Polydeuces’s favorite. “Do you play?” she asks. “Yes,” he says. “Though I can’t say I have that kind of talent.” He takes the flute from her hands. “Ah, this is beautiful. Libyan lotus plant? It’s so light.” He looks at her with a smile. “I imagine Helen was the most gifted in this class.” She smiles back. “I was gifted too.” He holds up his hands. “Of course.” There is a moment of awkward silence in which he puts the aulos in the basket and leans back against the wall. Then, “I must say, Helen doesn’t have much luck with men. I have heard how she suffered with Theseus . . . poor girl.” He shakes his head, mortified. “That was different. She chose Menelaus,” Clytemnestra replies. He tilts his head. “Did she really have that choice? In my experience, some men—kings and heroes, men loved by the gods—always get what they want. Call it power, obstinacy, or simply unwillingness to accept failure.” “You got what you wanted too,” she says. “You will marry Penelope.” He stares at her as if confused to be compared to powerful men. He hides it quickly and leans forward until his face is only a breath


and emphasis, a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness of gesture, very unusual indeed at her age, and which proved she had been carefully trained.     "Was it your mamma who taught you that piece? I asked.     "Yes; and she just used to say it in this way: 'Qu'avez vous done? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!"' She made me lift my hand so to remind me to raise my voice at the question. "Now shall I dance for you?"     "No, that will do; but after your mamma went to the Holy Virgin, as you say, with whom did you live then?"     "With Madam Frdric and her husband; she took care of me, but she is nothing related to me. I think she is poor, for she had not so fine a house as mamma. I was not long there. Mr. Rochester asked me if I would like to go and live with him in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr. Rochester before I knew Madam Frdric, and he was always kind to me and gave me pretty dresses and toys; but you see he has not kept his word, for he has brought me to England, and now he is gone back again himself, and I never see him."     After breakfast, Adle and I withdrew to the library, which room, it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the school-room. Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors; but there was one book-case left open, containing everything that could be needed in the way of elementary works, and several volumes of light literature, poetry, biography, travels, a few romances, etc. I suppose he had considered that these were all the governess would require for her private perusal; and, indeed, they contented me amply for the present; compared with the scanty pickings I had now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they seemed to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment and information. In this room, too, there was a cabinet piano, quite new and of superior tone; also an easel for painting, and a pair of globes.     I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to apply; she had not been used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt it would be injudicious to confine her too much at first; so, when I had talked to her a great deal, and got her to learn a little, and when the morning had advanced to noon, I allowed her to return to her nurse. I then proposed to occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some little sketches for her use.     As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, Mrs. Fairfax called to me: "Your morning schoolhours are over now, I suppose," said she. She was in a room the folding-doors of which stood open; I went in when she addressed me. It


his purpose he had found strength to let events shape themselves as they would. But as he followed Madame Olenska into the hall he thought with a sudden hunger of being for a moment alone with her at the door of her carriage. "Is your carriage here?" he asked; and at that moment Mrs. van der Luyden, who was being majestically inserted into her sables, said gently: "We are driving dear Ellen home." Archer's heart gave a jerk, and Madame Olenska, clasping her cloak and fan with one hand, held out the other to him. "Good-bye," she said. "Good-bye--but I shall see you soon in Paris," he answered aloud--it seemed to him that he had shouted it. "Oh," she murmured, "if you and May could come--!" Mr. van der Luyden advanced to give her his arm, and Archer turned to Mrs. van der Luyden. For a moment, in the billowy darkness inside the big landau, he caught the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily-- and she was gone. As he went up the steps he crossed Lawrence Lefferts coming down with his wife. Lefferts caught his host by the sleeve, drawing back to let Gertrude pass. "I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it be understood that I'm dining with you at the club tomorrow night? Thanks so much, you old brick! Good-night." "It DID go off beautifully, didn't it?" May questioned from the threshold of the library. Archer roused himself with a start. As soon as the last carriage had driven away, he had come up to the library and shut himself in, with the hope that his wife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room. But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue. "May I come and talk it over?" she asked. "Of course, if you like. But you must be awfully sleepy--" "No, I'm not sleepy. I should like to sit with you a little." "Very well," he said, pushing her chair near the fire. She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired . . ." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

Ron and Hermione were thinking the same as he was. If Snape had been in on protecting the Stone, it must have been easy to find out how the other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew everything -- except, it seemed, Quirrell's spell and how to get past Fluffy. "You're the only one who knows how to get past Fluffy, aren't you, Hagrid?" said Harry anxiously. "And you wouldn't tell anyone, would you? Not even one of the teachers?" "Not a soul knows except me an' Dumbledore," said Hagrid proudly. "Well, that's something," Harry muttered to the others. "Hagrid, can we have a window open? I'm boiling." "Can't, Harry, sorry," said Hagrid. Harry noticed him glance at the fire. Harry looked at it, too. "Hagrid -- what's that?" But he already knew what it was. In the very heart of the fire, underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg. "Ah," said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard, "That's er..." "Where did you get it, Hagrid?" said Ron, crouching over the fire to get a closer look at the egg. "It must've cost you a fortune." "Won it," said Hagrid. "Las' night. I was down in the village havin' a few drinks an' got into a game o' cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest." "But what are you going to do with it when it's hatched?" said Hermione. "Well, I've bin doin' some readin'," said Hagrid, pulling a large book from under his pillow. "Got this outta the library -- Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit -- it's a bit outta date, o' course, but it's all in here. Keep the egg in the fire, 'cause their mothers breathe on I em, see, an' when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o' brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An' see here -- how ter recognize diff'rent eggs -- what I got there's a Norwegian Ridgeback. They're rare, them." He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione didn't. "Hagrid, you live in a wooden house," she said. But Hagrid wasn't listening. He was humming merrily as he stoked the fire. *** So now they had something else to worry about: what might happen to Hagrid if anyone found out he was hiding an illegal dragon in his hut. "Wonder what it's like to have a peaceful life," Ron sighed, as evening after evening they struggled through all the extra homework they were getting. Hermione had now started making study schedules for Harry and Ron, too. It was driving them nuts. Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry another note from Hagrid. He had written only two words: It's hatching. Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to the hut. Hermione wouldn't hear of it. "Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon hatching?" "We've got lessons, we'll get into trouble, and that's nothing to what Hagrid's going to be in when someone finds out what he's doing -- " "Shut


MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL. “Is Hap going to kill us?” Rambo asked nervously. “I hope not. I like being alive even if our house burned down.” “Probably,” Nurse Ratched said. “At the very least, he will kill Victor. I cannot say if we are also targets. Should I handle the situation right now? It would not be a problem.” “No,” Vic said quietly. “I thought you would say that,” she replied. “I am disappointed but not surprised.” Vic ignored her. “You,” he said. Hap scowled as he dropped his hands, wrapping them around his legs. “Human Annihilation Response Protocol. HARP.” “I d-d-d—” He shook his head like he was angry. Confused. He opened his mouth once more, but closed it before any sound came out. “Do you want to annihilate Victor?” Nurse Ratched asked. “No,” he spat. “N-no.” “But that is what you were made for.” “You d-don’t know that.” “Gio did,” Nurse Ratched said. “That is what he called you, and he knew almost everything.” Hap glared at her before pushing himself off the ground, back against the wall as he rose to his feet. “I w-wouldn’t.” “Did you know?” Vic asked Nurse Ratched, and the others stilled. “No. I did not know, Victor. About this place. About the video. About Hap. Gio must have installed the program in me and wiped the installation from my memory. I would not have even known it was there. While you were recovering, I ran a complete diagnostic check. I could not find anything else. He hid it well, but I do not think there is anything more.” “Why would he…” “I do not know. I thought I understood Giovanni, but it appears I was wrong. But that can wait until you have recovered. Your heart rate is returning to normal. Your blood pressure is almost within acceptable limits. Take a breath, please.” He did. “And another.” He did that too. When she tried to make him do it a third time, he waved her off, pulling himself up. His muscles felt stiff, as if the pieces didn’t quite fit together as they should. Exhausted, heartsore, and more than a little frightened, Victor did the only thing he could. He moved toward Hap, who looked as if he’d rather be anywhere but here. Vic stopped a few feet away, unsure if he should come any closer. An idea was forming in his head. It was coming together in pieces, the larger picture still nebulous though not without direction. And while the construction was shaky, almost too big for him to handle, it was the only thing he could latch on to. To the machine, he said, “Do you want to hurt me?” Hap shook his head. He glanced at Vic, then looked away again. “Good. Because I need your help.” Hap’s eyes widened as his head jerked up. “Wh-why? With wh-what?” And Victor Lawson said, “We’re going to find my father. We’re going to find him and bring him home.” Nurse Ratched asked if he’d lost his mind. Rambo wondered if they would get lost. Hap


somewhere over the Rockies. When I landed, I had a voicemail from Amy telling me she thought it had gone very well. Now the judge would take it all “under advisement,” and in one to six months, Amy thought, we’d hear if he’d decided to vacate the original verdict. The day I got home, I checked my email and found a note from a young woman in Salem, Oregon. You knew her when she was a student in Providence. Paula Gutierrez; I’m sure the name rings a bell. She was hoping I could get a note to Beth Docherty, thanking her for what she’d said about you on the stand. It sounded so eerily familiar, she wrote to Beth. Like you were talking about my own life. A week later, Dane Rubra forwarded me an email from Allison Mayfield, who’d attended the school you came to Granby from. Do you remember her? The one who dropped out junior year after she cut her wrists with fingernail scissors? How about Zoe Ellis? She really thought the two of you were in love. She hadn’t reexamined it until a friend sent her news about the hearing. God bless Zoe, she was ready to go public, to write about it all. How about Annie Mintz? Do you still have a job? Do you still have a family? It’s hard to tell online. 39 In April, I flew back east to see Geoff. We spent a week together in New York—we lay around in bed, I worked on the book, we ordered food—and we made plans for him to come out to LA that summer. I was very happy about it. I’m still happy about it. I lied to Fran that I was in New York for research. I was holding out for the right moment to tell her, the right moment to hear her shriek “I’ve been waiting for this for thirty years!” From New York, I took the Amtrak up to Manchester, where Fran picked me up and brought me to Granby; I’d stay with her for two nights. We had something important to do, something I don’t want to tell you about quite yet. The next day, we’d go to the matinee of the student musical, the one the Shirley Jackson fanatic wanted me to see. Late that first afternoon, as Fran and I walked her golden retriever around the lacrosse field, my phone buzzed with three messages in a row, from Britt, Yahav, and Alder: Bad news and Motion for retrial denied and Fucckckck, respectively. My breath stopped with disbelief more than shock. Wasn’t it too soon? It had barely been a month. This was surely a mistake, some minor legal hiccup I didn’t understand. But it was real. Yahav wrote again: He can appeal, altho that’s an even longer shot. I’m so sorry, Bodie. I hope I didn’t give you false optimism. I tried not to. These things never come through. They’re designed that way. I showed my phone to Fran, my hand shaking. Boris tried to jump up to sniff


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons of Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces I had seen that day, in gala trim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and thought to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay; but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad fancyings—chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brain—led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The scrivener’s pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering winding sheet. Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby’s closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock. I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings’ bank. I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I remembered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at intervals he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him reading—no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand looking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick wall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house; while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any where in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk, unless indeed that was the case at present; that he had declined telling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives in the world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his. Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just


the road, and hauled her back inside, feeling pain explode at the base of her spine from the strain. “Close it!” Mark screamed over the wind. Louise had both arms around Poppy, who thrashed and kicked and screamed, slamming her body into Louise’s chest again and again, and the wind pushed the door into the frame, but the new bridge didn’t have any place to pull over, so they drove, passenger door not secured, a high-pitched whistling cutting through the cab, Poppy screaming, trying to get away, trying to throw herself out the door again, battering Louise until gravity got heavier and they came down the last span of the bridge, and then they shifted, leaning dangerously to the right on the final curve, Louise clinging to Poppy, holding her tight, and Mark pulled into the Shell station at the foot of the bridge and everything . . . stopped. They sat for a minute, lucky to be alive, then Louise reached over Poppy and pulled the door all the way shut and pressed the lock. She sat Poppy in her lap, stretched the seat belt over the two of them, and clamped her arms around her, trapping her in place. “Jesus Christ,” Mark said. “Let’s go,” Louise told him. Mark looked at her, thought about saying something, then reached across the wheel with his left hand and dropped the truck into drive. They pulled back onto Coleman. He didn’t want to stop in case Poppy tried to run again, so he timed the lights, slowing to twenty, to fifteen, waiting for them to switch from red back to green, then punching the gas. Speeding up when they turned yellow. Poppy lay limp in Louise’s lap, rocking forward and back with the acceleration. Pupkin stared out the passenger-side window while Poppy’s head rolled from side to side against Louise’s chest. She felt something wet on her arm. It was Poppy’s drool. She’s not even swallowing anymore. “I can’t believe we grew up with a dead body in the backyard,” Mark said. I was so happy you decided to go away for school, Louise remembered her mom saying one Christmas when she was back from college. I’d leave if I could, but I feel like I’m stuck here. Mark rolled slow at a red light, trying not to come to a complete stop. It changed to green and he gunned his engine and took off. For a moment, Poppy stopped breathing. Louise looked down, not knowing what to do. Then Poppy started breathing again with a thick, congested rasp. “Do we just start digging holes?” Louise asked. “Or do you remember if there was ever someplace Mom told us not to play?” Mark slowed to a roll, timing the next light. “Everywhere,” he said. “Playing in the backyard was like a punishment.” The light turned green and Mark took off. They were close now. “What about when you were going to build the deck?” Louise asked. “Did she say anything about where to dig or not to dig?” “She just told me they


and decide what to do from there. Agreed?” Bezi, Kyle, and even Javier nod. The path that twists around behind the supply shed isn’t maintained as well as the other paths that snake through Camp Mirror Lake. It’s overgrown with spider grass, and the gravel is heaped in uneven treads. Mr. Lamont mentioned that it used to extend all the way to Route 710 but that access was abandoned for the main entrance years ago. The trees press in on us from either side of the trail, and the darkness descends like a shade being drawn across the sky. Kyle clicks on his flashlight. I save the battery on mine, figuring we’ll need it for the walk back. The trail continues through the trees, and while a tall gate bars our path, I can see that it continues into a thickly wooded area. A rusted chain is looped through the gate, and it’s secured with a large, equally rusted padlock. I yank on it, and bits of orange metal flake off on my palm. “Great,” Javier says. “A little tetanus on the way to meet a shotgun-wielding recluse. This was such a good idea, Charity.” I ignore Javier and push on the gate. The chain is only loosely securing the entrance, and by pushing hard, a gap opens, and we slip through. “Come on,” I say, gesturing for Bezi to go through. She squeezes in and pops out the other side, then holds the gate open so I can slip through after her. We pry the gate apart for Javier and for Kyle, and when we’re all through, I survey the path ahead. The dark is almost complete now, and long shadows lean across the uneven pathway. Snaps and clicks sound from the surrounding forest. The feeling of being watched from the deepening shadows stokes a sense of panic in me. I feel like I can’t quite catch my breath or make my heart slow down. I have to beat back the fear over and over again as we push forward. “This was such a bad idea,” Javier whines as he steps on the back of my heel. I round on him. “I know we said we were gonna stick together, but damn. Can you watch my foot?” “I’m scared,” he says, his voice cracking. “There are bears and shit out here, Charity. You think that’s what Tasha was talking about?” I don’t answer him. All I want to do is find Tasha, and if I think too long about what was making her sound that way on the phone, I might lose my nerve. I turn back around and, keeping a firm grip on Bezi’s hand, lead us to the end of the path that intersects Route 710 in what I guess is about the length of a couple of city blocks. The paved road is crumbling, and vining foliage runs along the cracks. It doesn’t look like it’s being maintained at all. “This way leads to the next mile marker,” I say, gesturing to the right. “Two miles in the


to return to camp for reinforcements, and then make an attempt to track down the natives and rescue D'Arnot. It was late in the afternoon when the exhausted men reached the clearing by the beach, but for two of them the return brought so great a happiness that all their suffering and heartbreaking grief was forgotten on the instant. As the little party emerged from the jungle the first person that Professor Porter and Cecil Clayton saw was Jane, standing by the cabin door. With a little cry of joy and relief she ran forward to greet them, throwing her arms about her father's neck and bursting into tears for the first time since they had been cast upon this hideous and adventurous shore. Professor Porter strove manfully to suppress his own emotions, but the strain upon his nerves and weakened vitality were too much for him, and at length, burying his old face in the girl's shoulder, he sobbed quietly like a tired child. Jane led him toward the cabin, and the Frenchmen turned toward the beach from which several of their fellows were advancing to meet them. Clayton, wishing to leave father and daughter alone, joined the sailors and remained talking with the officers until their boat pulled away toward the cruiser whither Lieutenant Charpentier was bound to report the unhappy outcome of his adventure. Then Clayton turned back slowly toward the cabin. His heart was filled with happiness. The woman he loved was safe. He wondered by what manner of miracle she had been spared. To see her alive seemed almost unbelievable. As he approached the cabin he saw Jane coming out. When she saw him she hurried forward to meet him. Chapter 22 121 "Jane!" he cried, "God has been good to us, indeed. Tell me how you escaped--what form Providence took to save you for--us." He had never before called her by her given name. Forty-eight hours before it would have suffused Jane with a soft glow of pleasure to have heard that name from Clayton's lips--now it frightened her. "Mr. Clayton," she said quietly, extending her hand, "first let me thank you for your chivalrous loyalty to my dear father. He has told me how noble and self-sacrificing you have been. How can we repay you!" Clayton noticed that she did not return his familiar salutation, but he felt no misgivings on that score. She had been through so much. This was no time to force his love upon her, he quickly realized. "I am already repaid," he said. "Just to see you and Professor Porter both safe, well, and together again. I do not think that I could much longer have endured the pathos of his quiet and uncomplaining grief. "It was the saddest experience of my life, Miss Porter; and then, added to it, there was my own grief--the greatest I have ever known. But his was so hopeless--his was pitiful. It taught me that no love, not even that of a man for his wife may be so deep and terrible and self-sacrificing


lesbian beekeeper. I was hesitant about signing with Eden Press at first, especially since it was an indie publisher instead of one of the Big Five—HarperCollins, Penguin Random House, Hachette, Simon & Schuster, and Macmillan. But Brett convinced me that at a midsize house, I’d be a big fish in a small pond; that I’d get all the care and attention I never felt at my first publisher. Sure enough, compared to Garrett, Daniella practically coddles me. She responds to all my emails within the day, often within the hour, and always in depth. She makes me feel like I matter. When she tells me this book will be a hit, I know that she means it. I like her editorial style, too. Most of her requested changes are simple clarifications. Are American audiences going to know what this phrase means? Should this flashback be placed in this early chapter when we haven’t met the character in the proper timeline yet? This dialogue exchange is artful, but how does it move the story along? Honestly, I’m relieved. Finally someone’s calling Athena out on her bullshit, on her deliberately confusing sentence structures and cultural allusions. Athena likes to make her audience “work for it.” On the topic of cultural exposition, she’s written that she doesn’t “see the need to move the text closer to the reader, when the reader has Google, and is perfectly capable of moving closer to the text.” She drops in entire phrases in Chinese without adding any translations—her typewriter doesn’t have Chinese characters, so she left spaces and wrote them out by hand. It took me hours of fiddling with an OCR to search them online, and even then I had to strike out about half of them. She refers to family members in Chinese terms instead of English, so you’re left wondering if a given character is an uncle or a second cousin. (I’ve read dozens of guides to the Chinese kinship nomenclature system by now. It makes no goddamn sense.) She’s done this in all her other novels. Her fans praise such tactics as brilliant and authentic—a diaspora writer’s necessary intervention against the whiteness of English. But it’s not good craft. It makes the prose frustrating and inaccessible. I am convinced it is all in service of making Athena, and her readers, feel smarter than they are. “Quirky, aloof, and erudite” is Athena’s brand. “Commercial and compulsively readable yet still exquisitely literary,” I’ve decided, will be mine. The hardest part is keeping track of all the characters. We change almost a dozen names to reduce confusion. Two different characters have the last name Zhang, and four have the last name Li. Athena differentiates them by giving them different first names, which she only occasionally uses, and other names that I assume are nicknames (A Geng, A Zhu; unless A is a last name and I’m missing something), or Da Liu and Xiao Liu, which throws me for a loop because I thought Liu was a last name, so what are Da and Xiao doing there? Why are


flesh and seeded womb. Turning his back to the others, he walked toward the towering windows, searching for any inspiration in their stained-glass mosaics. There was none. Place yourself in Saunire's mind, he urged, gazing outward now into College Garden. What would he believe is the orb that ought be on Newton's tomb? Images of stars, comets, and planets twinkled in the falling rain, but Langdon ignored them. Saunire was not a man of science. He was a man of humanity, of art, of history. The sacred feminine... the chalice... the Rose... the banished Mary Magdalene... the decline of the goddess... the Holy Grail. Legend had always portrayed the Grail as a cruel mistress, dancing in the shadows just out of sight, whispering in your ear, luring you one more step and then evaporating into the mist. Gazing out at the rustling trees of College Garden, Langdon sensed her playful presence. The signs were everywhere. Like a taunting silhouette emerging from the fog, the branches of Britain's oldest apple tree burgeoned with five-petaled blossoms, all glistening like Venus. The goddess was in the garden now. She was dancing in the rain, 281 singing songs of the ages, peeking out from behind the bud-filled branches as if to remind Langdon that the fruit of knowledge was growing just beyond his reach. Across the room, Sir Leigh Teabing watched with confidence as Langdon gazed out the window as if under a spell. Exactly as I hoped, Teabing thought. He will come around. For some time now, Teabing had suspected Langdon might hold the key to the Grail. It was no coincidence that Teabing launched his plan into action on the same night Langdon was scheduled to meet Jacques Saunire. Listening in on the curator, Teabing was certain the man's eagerness to meet privately with Langdon could mean only one thing. Langdon's mysterious manuscript has touched a nerve with the Priory. Langdon has stumbled onto a truth, and Saunire fears its release. Teabing felt certain the Grand Master was summoning Langdon to silence him. The Truth has been silenced long enough! Teabing knew he had to act quickly. Silas's attack would accomplish two goals. It would prevent Saunire from persuading Langdon to keep quiet, and it would ensure that once the keystone was in Teabing's hands, Langdon would be in Paris for recruitment should Teabing need him. Arranging the fatal meeting between Saunire and Silas had been almost too easy. I had inside information about Saunire's deepest fears. Yesterday afternoon, Silas had phoned the curator and posed as a distraught priest. "Monsieur Saunire, forgive me, I must speak to you at once. I should never breach the sanctity of the confessional, but in this case, I feel I must. I just took confession from a man who claimed to have murdered members of your family." Saunire's response was startled but wary. "My family died in an accident. The police report was conclusive." "Yes, a car accident," Silas said, baiting the hook. "The man I spoke to said he forced their car off the road into


argument was useless. Still, she had to try, even if the gesture served only to remind herself that she would not trick him. "My Lord," she said, "if you'd only . . . " "The answer remains no. I indulge you shamefully in most things, not in this. I've just come from the dining hall where there are --" "My Lord! Please." "The choice is between your digestion and my ancestral dignity, my dear," he said. "They will hang in the dining hall." She sighed. "Yes, my Lord." "You may resume your custom of dining in your rooms whenever possible. I shall expect you at your proper position only on formal occasions." "Thank you, my Lord." "And don't go all cold and formal on me! Be thankful that I never married you, my dear. Then it'd be your duty to join me at table for every meal." She held her face immobile, nodded. "Hawat already has our own poison snooper over the dining table," he said. "There's a portable in your room." "You anticipated this . . . disagreement," she said. "My dear, I think also of your comfort. I've engaged servants. They're locals, but Hawat has cleared them -- they're Fremen all. They'll do until our own people can be released from their other duties." "Can anyone from this place be truly safe?" "Anyone who hates Harkonnens. You may even want to keep the head housekeeper: the Shadout Mapes." "Shadout," Jessica said. "A Fremen title?" "I'm told it means 'well-dipper,' a meaning with rather important overtones here. She may not strike you as a servant type, although Hawat speaks highly of her on the basis of Duncan's report. They're convinced she wants to serve -- specifically that she wants to serve you." "Me?" "The Fremen have learned that you're Bene Gesserit," he said. "There are legends here about the Bene Gesserit." The Missionaria Protectiva, Jessica thought. No place escapes them. "Does this mean Duncan was successful?" she asked. "Will the Fremen be our allies?" "There's nothing definite," he said. "They wish to observe us for a while, Duncan believes. They did, however, promise to stop raiding our outlying villages during a truce period. That's a more important gain than it might seem. Hawat tells me the Fremen were a deep thorn in the Harkonnen side, that the extent of their ravages was a carefully guarded secret. It wouldn't have helped for the Emperor to learn the ineffectiveness of the Harkonnen military." "A Fremen housekeeper," Jessica mused, returning to the subject of the Shadout Mapes. "She'll have the all-blue eyes." "Don't let the appearance of these people deceive you," he said. "There's a deep strength and healthy vitality in them. I think they'll be everything we need." "It's a dangerous gamble," she said. "Let's not go into that again," he said. She forced a smile. "We are committed, no doubt of that." She went through the quick regimen of calmness -- the two deep breaths, the ritual thought, then: "When I assign rooms, is there anything special I should reserve for you?"


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

--That you told me a few nights ago, said Lynch, and we began the famous discussion. --I have a book at home, said Stephen, in which I have written down questions which are more amusing than yours were. In finding the answers to them I found the theory of esthetic which I am trying to explain. Here are some questions I set myself: IS A CHAIR FINELY MADE TRAGIC OR COMIC? IS THE PORTRAIT OF MONA LISA GOOD IF I DESIRE TO SEE IT? IF NOT, WHY NOT? --Why not, indeed? said Lynch, laughing. --IF A MAN HACKING IN FURY AT A BLOCK OF WOOD, Stephen continued, MAKE THERE AN IMAGE OF A COW, IS THAT IMAGE A WORK OF ART? IF NOT, WHY NOT? --That's a lovely one, said Lynch, laughing again. That has the true scholastic stink. --Lessing, said Stephen, should not have taken a group of statues to write of. The art, being inferior, does not present the forms I spoke of distinguished clearly one from another. Even in literature, the highest and most spiritual art, the forms are often confused. The lyrical form is in fact the simplest verbal vesture of an instant of emotion, a rhythmical cry such as ages ago cheered on the man who pulled at the oar or dragged stones up a slope. He who utters it is more conscious of the instant of emotion than of himself as feeling emotion. The simplest epical form is seen emerging out of lyrical literature when the artist prolongs and broods upon himself as the centre of an epical event and this form progresses till the centre of emotional gravity is equidistant from the artist himself and from others. The narrative is no longer purely personal. The personality of the artist passes into the narration itself, flowing round and round the persons and the action like a vital sea. This progress you will see easily in that old English ballad TURPIN HERO which begins in the first person and ends in the third person. The dramatic form is reached when the vitality which has flowed and eddied round each person fills every person with such vital force that he or she assumes a proper and intangible esthetic life. The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalizes itself, so to speak. The esthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of esthetic, like that of material creation, is accomplished. The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails. --Trying to refine them also out of existence, said Lynch. A fine rain began to fall from the high veiled sky and they turned into the duke's lawn to reach the national library before the shower came. --What do you mean, Lynch asked surlily, by prating about beauty and the imagination in


he was sad, because that was how alcoholism started, and he didn’t want to be like his father. It would be convenient if I’d picked up that phone one day and heard something useful, something incriminating. Heard someone threatening Thalia, for instance. Or heard something about you. But it was simply part of a broader habit: I collected information about my peers the way some people hoard newspapers. I hoped this would help me become more like them, less like myself—less poor, less clueless, less provincial, less vulnerable. Every summer, I’d bring home the yearbook and mark each student’s photo with a special code of colored checkmarks: whether I knew them, considered them a friend, had a crush. Sometimes, in the depths of summer isolation, I’d look up people’s families in the school directory to learn their parents’ first names, with the sole purpose of lifting me, for a minute, out of a bedroom I hated in a house that wasn’t my own in a town where I didn’t know anyone anymore. This doesn’t make me special, and I knew that then, too. I’m only saying it by way of explanation: I cared about details. Not because they were something I could control, but because they were something I could own. And there was so little that was mine. 3 Fran and Anne had invited me for a late dinner, so I put on the snow boots I’d purchased for the trip and headed across South Bridge to Lower Campus. It was nine degrees out, the snow hard enough to walk across without sinking. I wondered if I’d pass people I knew, but I seemed to be the only living thing outdoors. When I’d been back before, it was to limited parts of campus. I hadn’t crossed the bridges, entered academic buildings. The dimensions seemed off now; my memory, and my frequent Granby dreams, had moved things inch by inch. The statue of Samuel Granby had somehow moved ten feet uphill, for instance. I passed close, touched his foot with my glove for old times’ sake. That fall, right after I’d accepted the invitation to teach, I woke thinking about the main street through town, the one with all the businesses, but couldn’t remember its name, so I googled Granby School map. What I found, beyond the answer (Crown Street!), were detailed maps of campus as it was in March of 1995, maps people had marked with dotted lines representing their theories, the routes they’d charted through the woods. I knew Thalia’s murder had caught and held the public’s attention, but I hadn’t understood the sheer amount of time people were putting in. Diving down online rabbit holes was not great for my mental health. (The night after I watched the Camelot video, I stayed up googling Granby classmates and faculty, and I googled facts about drowning, and I rewatched part of the Dateline episode. Finally Jerome woke up and saw my eyes and made me stop, told me to take a NyQuil and spend the morning in bed.) So I allowed


The whole of life seems gone from me all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for." I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man's heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said softly to him, "Come and look at her." Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face. God! How beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat. And as for Arthur, he fell to trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper, "Jack, is she really dead?" I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest, for I felt that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than I could help, that it often happened that after death faces become softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty, that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering. I seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be goodbye, as the coffin had to be prepared, so he went back and took her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came. I left him in the drawing room, and told Van Helsing that he had said goodbye, so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's men to proceed with the preperations and to screw up the coffin. When he came out of the room again I told him of Arthur's question, and he replied, "I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!" We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner time, but when we had lit our cigars he said, "Lord. . ., but Arthur interrupted him. "No, no, not that, for God's sake! Not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to speak offensively. It is only because my loss is so recent." The Professor answered very sweetly, "I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you `Mr.' and I have grown to love you, yes, my dear boy, to love you, as Arthur." Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly. "Call me what you will," he said. "I hope I may always have the title of a friend.


“Looks like we’ve got work to do.” Ethan can’t bring himself to move. “One more thing,” McKinnon says. “There’s already a ton of media attention surrounding her death. They’re going to go nuts when they learn we’re investigating her dating-app-founder husband for her murder. For now, we’re giving the media as few details as possible. We don’t want a media circus to hinder our investigation. And we need to get our hands on Chelsea’s phone to see if we can find those photos.” “Got it.” Jonah opens the door. “You okay, Marks?” Ethan realizes Jonah has gone back to his desk. He’s alone with McKinnon, who is eyeing him strangely. “Yeah.” He forces himself to stand and follow his partner back to their cubicle. Jonah turns to him when Ethan reaches his desk. “I’ll draft the affidavit for the warrant for Chelsea Carr’s phone.” He slaps Ethan on the arm. If Jonah notices his partner’s shock, he doesn’t show it. “You want to track down Brody Carr?” His lips lift into a wry smile. “Let’s see what he has to say.” Ethan and Jonah watch a yellow Ferrari speed into Brody Carr’s circle drive from the front seats of Jonah’s Fusion. After buzzing the intercom, they’d been let through the gated entrance to Carr’s waterfront Medina home. When they approached the front door, Ethan braced himself for coming face-to-face with the man who had been sleeping with his wife. But Carr’s housekeeper answered the door instead. She left them on the porch while she checked if her employer would see them. Moments later, she told them Carr’s attorney was on his way, and he would speak to them once the attorney arrived. There was no offer to come inside, so they returned to Jonah’s car while they waited. “Subtle car,” Jonah says as a tall man with slicked-back hair steps out of the Ferrari. The attorney smooths his suit before striding toward the house. Ethan folds a stick of gum into his mouth before climbing out of the car. The same housekeeper opens the door after Carr’s attorney rings the bell. This time, she holds the door open for Ethan and Jonah to follow. Ethan eyes the security camera above the front entry before going inside, thinking of Sloane’s visit after her award gala. The detectives move behind the attorney through the mansion’s main level, following in a trail of his strong cologne. While Jonah appears to take in the home’s opulent surroundings, Ethan’s thoughts are consumed with Sloane, envisioning her in this house—with Carr. An image of Sloane laughing in Carr’s arms before they stripped off each other’s clothes inundates his mind when Ethan enters a formal dining room with views of Lake Washington. Carr stands from the table and shakes hands with his attorney. Ethan stares at the app founder. He’s dressed in a button-down shirt with his brown wavy hair neatly combed back. Despite his wife dying yesterday, the billionaire’s eyes look fresh—more well-rested than Ethan’s. Jonah extends his hand. “I’m Detective Nolan from Seattle Homicide.” Carr accepts his


from the fishing-smack had fetched them away!- and now both ship and boat had disappeared! The motor-boat was still there, quite unusable. The inspector looked at it with a grin. "Fierce young lady, isn't she, that Miss Georgina?" he said. "Done this job pretty well- no one could get away in this boat. We'll have to get it towed into harbour." The police brought back with them some of the ingots of gold to show Uncle Quentin. They had sealed up the door of the dungeon so that no one else could get in until the children's uncle was ready to go and fetch the gold. Everything was being done thoroughly and properly- though far too slowly for the children! They had hoped that the men would have been caught and taken to prison- and that the police would bring back the whole of the gold at once! They were all very tired that night and didn't make any fuss at all when their aunt said that they must go to bed early. They undressed and then the boys went to eat their supper in the girls' bedroom. Tim was there, ready to lick up any fallen crumbs. "Well, I must say we've had a wonderful adventure," said Julian, sleepily. "In a way I'm sorry it's ended -though at times I didn't enjoy it very much- especially when you and I, George, were prisoners in that dungeon. That was awful." George was looking very happy as she nibbled her gingerbread biscuits. She grinned at Julian. "And to think I hated the idea of you all coming here to stay!" she said. "I was going to be such a beast to you! I was going to make you wish you were all home again! And now the only thing that makes me sad is the idea of you going away- which you will do, of course, when the holidays end. And then, after having three friends with me, enjoying adventures like this, I'll be all on my own again. I've never been lonely before- but I know I shall be now." "No, you won't," said Anne, suddenly. "You can do something that will stop you being lonely ever again." "What?" said George in surprise. "You can ask to go to the same boarding-school as I go to," said Anne. "It's such a lovely one- and we are allowed to keep our pets, so Tim could come too!" "Gracious! Could he really?" said George, her eyes shining. "Well, I'll go then. I always said I wouldn't-but I will because I see now how much better and happier it is to be with others than all by myself. And if I can have Tim, well that's simply wonderful!" "You'd better go back to your own bedroom now, boys," said Aunt Fanny, appearing at the doorway. "Look at Dick, almost dropping with sleep! Well, you should all have pleasant dreams tonight, for you've had an adventure to be proud of. George- is that Tim under your bed?" "Well, yes it is, Mother," said George, pretending to


be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon indcidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the MERE SILENT PRESENCE of some external object; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness. Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him. 'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he, sure enough. Come away.' 'He!' the other man seemed to answer; 'could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there?' The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up. Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There--there--at the window--close before him--so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard. It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. CHAPTER XXXV CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE


for it, Mom,” Louise said. “Sounds cool,” Ella said. Maud stayed up late for weeks, thinking and taking notes, before pitching the project to the Alcatraz Foundation. Besides the website, they loved her idea of an interactive tour that could be downloaded to visitors’ phones. Maud helped the development office write a grant proposal, and amazingly the funding came through a week later. The donor wanted to remain anonymous, Maud’s boss told her, “though they say you’ll know who they are. They’re a serious piece of work.” Alice, Maud thought, the name soaring through her body. That night, as she wrote a thank-you note, she remembered standing together in the barn, looking at the basket. Something all your own. Something you saw in nothing and brought into the world. She was still learning from that friendship, even though it had ended. And, she thought, as she dropped the envelope in a mailbox, maybe one day she would learn that it hadn’t. The first entry that she completed was on the iris, which grew on Muslim graves and in the wild on the African continent. Which figured on the woodblock prints of the Japanese artist Hiroshige. Which was the fleur-de-lis on the French flag. Which was named in the Homeric Hymns, picked by Persephone before her abduction by Hades. In August, with her portion of the money from the sale of her parents’ property, Maud bought a condominium on the edge of the Presidio. The building had bad plumbing and warped facia, but it backed onto a eucalyptus grove and was a thirty-minute walk to Tennessee Hollow. Maud lined the balcony with planters of scarlet runner beans that curtained the rusted railings, and filled a blank spot in the living room with a Victorian loveseat to accompany her cheap Scandinavian furniture. Mornings, before leaving for work, she laced her hiking boots and looped through the park to Inspiration Point, sometimes joined by Maria. Below, in the misty crux of the valley, the vibrant jumble of the garden waited for another day of children. One hot weekend, she and the girls painted the condo, each room another bright color: blue, yellow, pink. Done, they were speckled from their hair to their ankles. “This place looks like a rainbow vomited,” Ella said, and they laughed. “I guess neither of you will be interior decorators,” Maud said. She wondered whether white primer could erase this mess. “If we do, it won’t be thanks to your genes,” Louise said. The girls were flopped on the floor against the tarped loveseat. Ella was picking paint off her knee as, next to her, Louise swigged lemonade straight from the bottle. Maud wanted to press the moment in the pages of time. She wasn’t sure of much, but she knew one thing: from now on, they were moving forward. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thank you to Zibby Owens, Kathleen Harris, Anne Messitte, and the rest of the wonderful Zibby Books team for giving Hedge a warm and innovative home. Thank you to Samantha Shea, agent extraordinaire, for her input on early drafts and


to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come. In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather appearing exactly right. Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.-- Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathiser. It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family. She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation, low and sheltered-- its ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.--The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.--It was just what it ought to be, and it looked what it was--and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the strawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or talking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken of.--"The best fruit in England-- every body's favourite--always wholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to gather for one's self--the only


and he shook his fists in rage. “It’s the bomber.” Peter looked at Marion, his face white. “He’s back.” CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE We have to get out of here, now!” Peter grabbed Marion and together they ran through the vestibule and parlor, crouching low so as not to be seen through the windows at the front of the house. In the kitchen Marion bumped into a chair, knocking it over. She stopped to right it, but Peter grabbed her hand. “There’s no time.” She followed him out the door and down the back steps. They froze as the sound of coughing echoed in the air. It was a wretched noise, like Martinek’s lungs were straining to expel some kind of poison. That was what he lived with, every day, the chronic pain that had made him turn violent. “He’s on the front porch,” said Marion. A door slammed. He was inside the house. They crept carefully through weeds and up a cracked pathway that ran along the far side of the house, crouching low under Martinek’s bedroom windows. All was silent. They had to somehow get back to the car, which involved crossing in front of the house and possibly exposing themselves to Martinek’s view if he was near a window. Another slam of a door. This time it came from the back of the house. He was following their trail. “He’s seen the chair,” said Peter. “Quick, run!” They couldn’t risk passing in front of the house, so instead Marion and Peter sprinted down the street and around the block, where a man picking up the paper at the end of his driveway gave them a sharp look. They slowed to a more reasonable pace and sauntered by, Peter lifting his hat in greeting as they did so. “We’re a married couple, inspecting the neighborhood,” murmured Peter. “Put your arm in mine.” She did so, and he held it firmly against his body, the two of them breathing hard, walking in lockstep almost as if they were one. Up the hill, across, and then back down Brick Street, where there was no sign of Martinek. At the car, Peter opened the door for Marion and then jumped in the driver’s seat. He put it into reverse and backed all the way up the street until he reached the intersection. It was only once they were back on the highway that Marion remembered to breathe. They’d made it, but just barely. * * * They drove straight to police headquarters in downtown Manhattan. Peter parked across the street and the two of them ran inside. At the reception desk on the first floor, Peter explained who they were and that they had something to report about the Big Apple Bomber. “Captain Somers knows us.” “The captain is off today,” said the receptionist. “Is there anyone else I can call?” Just their luck. “Detective Ogden,” said Marion reluctantly. The woman picked up the receiver and dialed an extension. “I see . . . Yes . . . Will do.” She hung up and Marion


. . Nothing? She saw nothing? Great.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “What about the other ‘residents’ and I use the term loosely . . . Unobservant lot, eh? . . . Yeah, I know they all get jittery around the cops, but someone saw something . . . Oh, yeah? Just left even though he’d paid in advance?” Her father stopped walking. “You got a name? . . . Crap, sounds like a phoney, but check it out and what? . . . A Harley? That he parked inside? What kind of a nutcase is he? Must have somethin’ to hide. Like a lot . . . Yeah, let’s find him. Who knows? He might be our guy.” Kristi listened to the conversation and her heart nearly stopped. Her mind was spinning as she remembered Cruz Montoya had looked like he’d just gotten off a motorcycle and she’d heard an engine fire up, though it was after her father and Montoya had arrived. And what about the time when he’d found Dave and brought the dog back to her—hadn’t she heard a big bike’s engine start? Was it a coincidence? Hell no. Because Cruz had come here looking for a place to stay. Because he couldn’t hide out at the motel any longer. So why didn’t she just blurt it out? Tell her father her suspicions? Because, damn it, he’d brought Dave to her. Because he’d been willing to tackle getting an angry water moccasin out of her trash bin. She was sure he hadn’t been playing her. Okay, pretty sure. But she wasn’t ready to give him up. Yet. Montoya tapped at the slider and she jumped. Again she thought of Cruz and how he resembled his brother. Same dark hair, same strong jaw, same attitude. She unlocked the door, letting him inside. “You okay?” Montoya asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Just still trying to settle my nerves,” she lied, and Montoya’s eyebrows drew downward. “I thought you’d, you know, gotten a hold of yourself.” “I did, but then . . . well, I’m fine now.” She drew in a long breath and told herself to be cool. “Find anything?” Bentz asked as he disconnected and pocketed his phone. “Nah.” “Just got a call from the motel where Stacy Parker was staying. No one saw anything, of course, but there are a few MIAs—one guy in particular. Left the day it all came down, didn’t return, and had prepaid in cash, of course. And get this, he drove a Harley and kept it in the room with him.” “Huh.” Montoya said, and Kristi saw that he, too, was digesting the info and probably wondering about his missing brother. Bentz went on, taking a seat at the island. “I called the lab. They’re picking up the garbage container and this.” Bentz pointed to the envelope and card with its damning rose drawing and Bible verse, tape still intact, now wrapped in a plastic bag. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe he left a fingerprint on the tape


over to the town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. A monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile up stream, coming along down, with a lantern in the middle of it. I watched it come creeping down, and when it was most abreast of where I stood I heard a man say, "Stern oars, there! heave her head to stab- board!" I heard that just as plain as if the man was by my side. There was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped into the woods, and laid down for a nap before break- fast. CHAPTER VIII. THE sun was up so high when I waked that I judged it was after eight o'clock. I laid there in the grass and the cool shade thinking about things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied. I could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. There was freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing there was a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly. I was powerful lazy and comfortable -- didn't want to get up and cook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off again when I thinks I hears a deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. I rouses up, and rests on my elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and I see a bunch of smoke laying on the water a long ways up -- about abreast the ferry. And there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. I knowed what was the matter now. "Boom!" I see the white smoke squirt out of the ferryboat's side. You see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top. I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke. So I set there and watched the cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning -- so I was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I only had a bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped


for it, grace notes that he used to put in that I haven't got. That was the boy who could sing a COME-ALL-YOU, if you like. Mr Dedalus had ordered drisheens for breakfast and during the meal he cross-examined the waiter for local news. For the most part they spoke at cross purposes when a name was mentioned, the waiter having in mind the present holder and Mr Dedalus his father or perhaps his grandfather. --Well, I hope they haven't moved the Queen's College anyhow, said Mr Dedalus, for I want to show it to this youngster of mine. Along the Mardyke the trees were in bloom. They entered the grounds of the college and were led by the garrulous porter across the quadrangle. But their progress across the gravel was brought to a halt after every dozen or so paces by some reply of the porter's. --Ah, do you tell me so? And is poor Pottlebelly dead? --Yes, sir. Dead, sir. During these halts Stephen stood awkwardly behind the two men, weary of the subject and waiting restlessly for the slow march to begin again. By the time they had crossed the quadrangle his restlessness had risen to fever. He wondered how his father, whom he knew for a shrewd suspicious man, could be duped by the servile manners of the porter; and the lively southern speech which had entertained him all the morning now irritated his ears. They passed into the anatomy theatre where Mr Dedalus, the porter aiding him, searched the desks for his initials. Stephen remained in the background, depressed more than ever by the darkness and silence of the theatre and by the air it wore of jaded and formal study. On the desk he read the word FOETUS cut several times in the dark stained wood. The sudden legend startled his blood: he seemed to feel the absent students of the college about him and to shrink from their company. A vision of their life, which his father's words had been powerless to evoke, sprang up before him out of the word cut in the desk. A broad-shouldered student with a moustache was cutting in the letters with a jack-knife, seriously. Other students stood or sat near him laughing at his handiwork. One jogged his elbow. The big student turned on him, frowning. He was dressed in loose grey clothes and had tan boots. Stephen's name was called. He hurried down the steps of the theatre so as to be as far away from the vision as he could be and, peering closely at his father's initials, hid his flushed face. But the word and the vision capered before his eyes as he walked back across the quadrangle and towards the college gate. It shocked him to find in the outer world a trace of what he had deemed till then a brutish and individual malady of his own mind. His monstrous reveries came thronging into his memory. They too had sprung up before him, suddenly and furiously, out of mere words. He had soon given