the cavalier brilliance of his plan. He can see
Dabney
Hill smiling at him (a lot of gum exposed where he removed his bridge before retiring) high up on the bedpost.
Kamikaze. Those were the Nip suicide pilots. They'd load up with munitions and dive straight for your ship.
In
a
microsecond he will have the music back, complete in all its shadings,
crescendoes
, significance. He will have pleased God with an act of supreme courage, and God will give him back his mother.
Circling, the sun coming into his eyes like a slowly flooding, golden river, Rob reaches for aviator's sunglasses and puts them on. The nose of the Piper Aztec is a little too far down into the sun; must pull up. There. Eastbound, back to town. He follows the highway toward the spire of the First Presbyterian Church, Shannon's neighborhood. A few cars and trucks in transit below. Banking right; the cockpit is filled with blazing, celestial light. He is cold, and quivers from time to time, little tremors of mortality.
How much time?
But already he sees the Hill house as his plane continues around to the right over West Homestead. Just two blocks away; but what's that?
Pulsating red lights, for one thing, mounted atop police cars racing, one behind the other, from the center of town toward
West Homestead. And people—on their lawns, in front of and behind the Hill house. Pajamas, robes, just out of their beds. They've found out.
Perry.
Chopped him smartly how many times, in the back, across the arm, across the stomach? The left arm just there by ribbons, a bit of sinew,
how could he have survived?
An alarm goes off in the cockpit: stalling speed. Robert grabs some sky, sobbing in his frustration.
If they've been inside the house, they've got her out.
But he must be sure, and circles again. A few people looking up at the airplane above their heads. Necklace of little faces minted in mild sunlight. He reaches for binoculars, circling around by the church one more time. Focuses on the backyards, and, from a blur of green and shadow, Shannon becomes visible. She is surrounded, protected. Rob has a few moments to make up his mind. Other faces turning up, they are looking his way. He senses a radiant anger that makes him timid. If he attempts to crash-land on top of Shannon now, they'll all have enough warning; and besides, the trees are a
formidible
barrier, the angle is all wrong.
Another moment. Now he sees her, she is looking too. A trembling in the air, her face blanks out. Hopeless. There will be no music this morning. Leaving Shannon to her destiny, he applies more power, gains altitude.
Hies
west, whining impotently, to the snow
cliffe
of the Rockies, motherland.
(And then she would take off her lacy, crisp white
white
bra, all chubby rosiness beneath, beguiling. Liking him to look at her. Doesn't know how he's supposed to feel. Like a thief. Steal glimpses, later touches. Steal what is precious from the father, the crime will be known. The father will kill him.)
At fourteen thousand feet, circling, half- frozen in the thin blue air, he asks,
Will this do?
The vast, basking body of the mountains; the dark and terrifying thicket. Surely she will not let the father kill him.
Unbuckles and unlocks the door, but it is held fast by the pressure of the wind. He puts the plane into a yaw against the wind and is able to force the door open. Holding on to the seat, he sets one foot outside on the wing, and the other, surrenders to the slipstream.
Impact with the tail assembly breaks nearly all of the bones in his lower body. He doesn't lose consciousness, and, at last in free-fall, Robert McLaren has his answer.
It won't do.
Face-up in the sun, a trembling in the air; exposed within clouds, she is smiling at him as if at
a
secret jest.
There's no God, Robbie. There's just us.
And still he hears nothing. Not even his own screams.
What scares you?
(Dark where she is. But she understands that it's almost time to get up. She's had enough of being a slug-a-bed. And quite enough, thank you, of this place, although it cannot be said they have treated her unkindly here. In
a
way she will be sad to leave.)
What scares you?
(That question again. She has to smile. She has never felt so good. There is no fear.)
"I'm not afraid of anything, Dr.
McLarty
."
Good girl. Then there's no reason for you not to open your eyes.
"Well—"
Something's still bothering you.
(Still smiling, but her breath is caught, she can't squeeze air past her throat.)
Take your time, Suzy.
No. I'm Shannon. Suzy's getting married today, remember? And then she's going away and we probably won't see her or hear from her again.
Oh, yes, I did forget. Well, it's going to be a very important day, isn't it? But before you
get up, and have your shower and some breakfast, would you like to tell me what's on your mind?
"I—I need to know for sure."
That's understandable. You need to know who it was. You're not afraid of him any more—
Huh-uh."
But you want to know, so you'll never have to think about it again.
"As long as I live."
As long as you live. Well, Shannon. All you have to do is ask me. You know I've never lied to you.
"You've never lied to me. Dr.
McLarty
— it was—Perry. Wasn't it?"
Of course. Perry did it. Now you can put the tragedy out of your mind forever, Shannon.
Forever.
Time to rise and shine. Open your eyes, my dear. There's so much to do before you're ready to leave.
(Still dark. But some distance from her there is a shaft of light like morning sunshine that hurts, just a little, causing tears. Someone is there, standing just outside the scintillating white light: the familiar, rumpled, potbellied figure of Dr.
McLarty
. It has been a long time since she wanted or needed the gift of sight, but this vision is totally reassuring. To be free of fear, now and forever—she trembles, ecstatic.)
Remember, Shannon. Things to do.
Oh—sure.
It's important to finish the strip. Can't just leave Suzy dangling. We want to get her married off, good and proper. By the way, who's the lucky guy?
"You know, her boyfriend. Robbie."
That's right. We've heard all about him, but we haven't actually seen Robbie yet. So he's going to be in the strip today?
"Well, he has to be. They're getting
married."
Shannon, I can hardly wait. Oh, there's one thing—call it a favor to me.
"Sure, Dr.
McLarty
."
There's someone I'd like for you to invite to the wedding. A special friend. You don't mind?
"No. What's his name?"
Donald Carnes.
"If you describe him to me, I can draw him."
I know you can, Shannon. You're so wonderfully talented.
They are trekking now through the cold darkness of the former Woodrow
Lavont
department store, on the trail of the elephant that can be heard, from time to time, trumpeting hugely and with a certain note of sorrow; but its whereabouts are still a mystery. There seems to be no end to the
floorspace
, it expands with their explorations as the savannah of the
Masai
expanded to the keen senses of the hunter-tracker.
"
Resase
modja
,
the Somali
gunbearers
called me. This is an honor not easily won in Africa."
"What does it mean?" Don asks stuffily, raising his handkerchief to his nose to suppress a sneeze.
'"One bullet.' All
I
ever needed for
a
kill."
"I don't remember reading that in
Green Hills of Africa."
"At the time, I was too modest to mention it."
"Not that it may be
a
very useful skill here. Even if you were carrying a gun, I mean."
"We may wish I had the .450 Express, or even the .303," Papa says, "if we happen to suddenly come across
Bwana
temba
in an unsociable mood."
"You mean the elephant? We're not getting any closer. We must be going in circles."
"Don't talk balls. I never lacked for direction."
Papa stops abruptly, thrusting out the torch to lengthen the limits of his vision.
They both hear it: a chilly slithering in the air. Liquid. Lubricious. But nothing is visible in the dark beyond the unsteady nimbus of the torch that is slowly eating itself up.
Don's teeth begin to chatter.
"It's a school of them," Papa says. "Directly ahead of us. To hell with it. We'll have to find another way."
"School of
what?"
Don says worriedly; a little more fright, another creaking notch on the rack.
"You'll know when you see one. Over here."
"I'm totally lost! You acted as if you knew where you were going! We've got to find stairs—something—some way to get to—"
"We could use a rummy guide," Papa admits. "But they're making themselves scarce tonight. I wonder—look out, Carnes!"
For a fraction of a second Don sees the thing, torpedo-shaped and a rusty-gray color with stupid frog's eyes and a snout like a long tightly twisted vine, slipping down with a luminous spinning motion out of the dark and aimed at his head. Papa reacts, thrusting the torch in the intruder's path, diverting it as fast as the eye can blink. Going by it makes a kind of silly high-pitched brassy sound, like a musical air horn. Only a few sparks are left in the air above Don's head as Papa drags him away with the other hand. The windy slithering sounds diminish with their retreat.
"My God, that was—"
"
Mais
certainement
."
"But they don't exist!"
"Everything exists, at this time and in this place. Everything that's been in her mind since the massacre. Woodrow and
Lavont
is teeming again, Carnes, and not just with high- priced budgies in gilded cages. Needle-nosed air sharks.
Kittywamps
.
Forquidders
, fetish- foxes and venomous
smews
."
"Tuck Tiller's Incredible Best-Ever Surprise Birthday Party. Williwaw Wilkins and the
Moonboggle
.
Jesus, that one looked like—"
"Wouldn't fit in here,
moonboggles
are commonly seven-and-a-half stories tall, not counting their topknots. Most of your beauty's creations are harmless, and none of them are good to eat. It's not the children's stories we have to worry about, it's The Strip."
"The
Tafts
of Roseboro, Kansas?"
"Sure. Typical, well-scrubbed, wholesome, mindless
niiddle
-American family meets Beelzebub. Might have a fighting chance, ordinarily, but not if it's on his turf. Hear that?"
"Yes. Drums?"
"Don't think so." They pause, pondering the muffled, measured metallic roar. Then there is a powerful, prolonged, gut-wrenching, nosy-trumpet solo.
"That is one goddamned pissed-off
tembo
,"
Papa says admiringly.