By the Light of the Moon (6 page)

Chapter Eight

H
ICKDEAD,” JILLY SAID AGAIN TO THE CLOSED DOOR,
and then maybe she called a brief time-out, because the next thing she knew, she was no longer in the tilting-turning bed, but lay facedown on the floor. For an instant she couldn’t remember the nature of this place, but then she gagged on a dirty-carpet stench that made it impossible to hope that she had checked into the presidential suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

After heroically rising to her hands and knees, she crawled away from the treacherous bed. When she realized that the telephone stood on the nightstand, she executed a 180-degree turn and crawled back the way she had come.

She reached up, fumbled at the travel clock, and then pulled the phone off the nightstand. It came easily, trailing a severed cord. Evidently, the peanut lover had cut it to prevent her from making a quick call to the cops.

Jilly considered crying out for help, but she worried that her assailant, if still in the vicinity, might be the first to respond. She didn’t want another injection, didn’t want to be quieted by a kick in the head, and didn’t want to have to listen to any more of his droning monologue.

By focusing her attention and by bringing all her Amazonian strength to bear, she managed to lever herself off the floor and sit on the edge of the bed. This was a fine thing. She smiled, suddenly suffused with pride. Baby could sit up by herself.

Emboldened by this success, Jilly attempted to rise to her feet. She swayed on the way up, pressing her left hand against the nightstand to steady herself, but although she sagged slightly at the knees, she didn’t collapse. Another fine thing. Baby could stand upright, as erect as any primate and more fully erect than some.

Best of all, she hadn’t puked, as earlier she’d been sure she would. She no longer felt nauseated, just…peculiar.

Confident that she could stand without supportive furniture and that she would remember how to walk as soon as she tried, Jilly made her way from the bed to the door in a parabolic arc that compensated for the movement of the floor, which rolled lazily like the deck of a ship in mild seas.

The doorknob presented a mechanical challenge, but after she fumbled the door open and navigated the threshold, she found the warm night to be surprisingly more invigorating than the cool motel room. The thirsting desert air sucked moisture from her, and along with the moisture went some of her wooziness.

She turned right, toward the motel office, which lay at the end of a distressingly long and complicated series of covered walkways that seemed to have been patterned after any laboratory’s rat maze.

Within a few steps, she realized that her Coupe DeVille had vanished. She had parked the car twenty feet from her room; but it no longer stood where she recalled leaving it. Empty blacktop.

She weaved toward the vacant parking slot, squinting at the pavement as though she expected to discover an explanation for the vehicle’s disappearance: perhaps a concise but considerate memo—
IOU one beloved, midnight-blue Cadillac Coupe DeVille, fully loaded.

Instead she found an unopened bag of peanuts, evidently dropped by the smiling salesman-who-wasn’t-a-salesman, and a dead but still formidable beetle the size and shape of half an avocado. The insect lay on its glossy shell, six stiff legs sticking straight in the air, eliciting a far less emotional response from Jilly than would have a kitten or puppy in the same condition.

Harboring little interest in entomology, she left the bristling beetle untouched, but she stooped to pluck the bag of peanuts from the pavement. Having read her share of Agatha Christie mysteries, she had been convinced instantly upon spotting the peanuts that here lay a valuable clue for which the police would be grateful.

When she rose to her full height once more, she realized that the warm dry air had not purged her of the lingering effects of the anesthetic as completely as she’d thought. As a whirl of dizziness came and passed, she wondered if she had been mistaken about where she’d parked the Coupe DeVille. Perhaps it had been twenty feet to the
left
of her motel room instead of to the right.

She peered in that direction and saw a white Ford Expedition, just twelve or fifteen feet away. The Cadillac might be parked on the far side of the SUV.

Stepping over the beetle, she returned to the covered walkway. She approached the Expedition, realizing that she was headed in the direction of the vending-machine alcove where she would find more of the root beer that had gotten her in all this trouble in the first place.

When she passed the SUV and didn’t find her Coupe DeVille, she became aware of two people hurrying toward her. She said, “The smiley bastard stole my car,” before she realized what an odd couple she had encountered.

The first guy—tall, as solid as an NFL linebacker—carried a box approximately the size of a pizza container with a pair of shoes balanced on top. In spite of his intimidating size, he didn’t seem the least threatening, perhaps because he had a bearish quality. Not a rip-your-guts-out grizzly bear, but a burly Disney bear of the gosh-how-did-I-get-my-butt-stuck-in-this-tire-swing variety. He wore rumpled khaki pants, a yellow-and-blue Hawaiian shirt, and a wide-eyed worried expression that suggested he’d recently robbed a hive of honey and expected to be hunted down by a swarm of angry bees.

With him came a smaller and younger man—maybe five feet nine or ten, about 160 pounds—in blue jeans and a white T-shirt featuring a portrait of Wile E. Coyote, the hapless predator of the Road Runner cartoons. Shoeless, he accompanied the larger man with reluctance; his right sock appeared to be snugly fitted, but his loose left sock flapped with each step.

Although the Wile E. fan shuffled along with his arms dangling limply at his sides, offering no resistance, Jilly assumed he would have preferred not to go with the bearish man, because he was being pulled by his left ear. At first she thought she heard him protesting this indignity. When the pair drew closer and she could hear the younger guy more clearly, however, she couldn’t construe his words as a protest.

“—electroluminescence, cathode luminescence—”

The bearish one halted in front of Jilly, bringing the smaller man to a stop as well. In a voice much deeper—but no less gentle—than that of Pooh, of Pooh Corners, he said, “Excuse me, ma’am, I didn’t hear what you said.”

Head tilted under the influence of the hand that gripped his left ear, the younger man kept talking, though perhaps not either to his burly keeper or to Jilly: “—nimbus, aureola, halo, corona, parhelion—”

She couldn’t be certain whether this encounter was in reality as peculiar as it seemed to be or whether the lingering anesthetic might be distorting her perceptions. The prudent side of her argued for silence and for a sprint toward the motel office, away from these strangers, but the prudent side of her had hardly more substance than a shadow, so she repeated herself: “The smiley bastard stole my car.”

“—aurora borealis, aurora polaris, starlight—”

Seeing the focus of Jilly’s attention, the giant said, “This is my brother, Shep.”

“—candlepower, foot-candle, luminous flux—”

“Pleased to meet you, Shep,” she said, not because she was in fact pleased to meet him, but because she didn’t know what else to say, never having been in precisely this situation before.

“—light quantum, photon,
bougie décimale,
” said Shep without meeting her eyes, and continued rattling out a meaningless series of words as Jilly and the older brother conversed.

“I’m Dylan.”

He didn’t look like a Dylan. He looked like a Bruno or a Samson, or a Gentle Ben.

“Shep has a condition,” Dylan explained. “Harmless. Don’t worry. He’s just…not normal.”

“Well, who is these days?” Jilly said. “Normality hasn’t been attainable since maybe 1953.” Woozy, she leaned against one of the posts that supported the walkway cover. “Gotta call the cops.”

“You said ‘smiley bastard.’”

“Said it twice.”

“What smiley bastard?” he asked with such urgency that you would have thought the missing Cadillac had been his, not hers.

“The smiley, peanut-eating, needle-poking, car-stealing bastard,
that’s
what bastard.”

“Something’s on your arm.”

Curiously, she expected to see the beetle resurrected. “Oh. A Band-Aid.”

“A bunny,” he said, his broad face cinching with worry.

“No, a Band-Aid.”

“Bunny,” he insisted. “The son of a bitch gave you a bunny, and I got a dancing dog.”

The walkway was well enough lighted for her to see that both she and Dylan sported children’s Band-Aids: a colorful capering rabbit on hers, a jubilant puppy on his.

She heard Shep say, “Lumen, candle-hour, lumen-hour,” before she tuned him out again.

“I have to call the cops,” she remembered.

Dylan’s voice, thus far earnest, grew more earnest still, and quite grave, as well: “No, no. We don’t want cops. Didn’t he tell you how it is?”

“He who?”

“The lunatic doctor.”

“What doctor?”

“Your needle-poking bastard.”

“He was a doctor? I thought he was a salesman.”

“Why would you think he was a salesman?”

Jilly frowned. “I’m not sure now.”

“Obviously, he’s some sort of lunatic doctor.”

“Why’s he knocking around a motel, attacking people and stealing Coupe DeVilles? Why isn’t he just killing patients in HMOs like he’s supposed to?”

“Are you all right?” Dylan asked, peering more closely at her. “You don’t look well.”

“I almost puked, then I didn’t, then I almost did again, but then I didn’t. It’s the anesthetic.”

“What anesthetic?”

“Maybe chloroform. The lunatic salesman.” She shook her head. “No, you’re right, he must be a doctor. Salesmen don’t administer anesthetics.”

“He just clubbed me on the head.”

“Now that sounds more like a salesman. I gotta call the cops.”

“That’s not an option. Didn’t he tell you professional killers are coming?”

“I’m glad they’re not amateurs. If you have to be killed, you might as well be killed efficiently. Anyway, you believe
him
? He’s a thug and a car thief.”

“I think he was telling the truth about this.”

“He’s a lying sack of excrement,” she insisted.

Shep said, “Lucency, refulgency, facula,” or at least that’s what it sounded like, although Jilly wasn’t entirely sure that those collections of syllables were actually words.

Dylan shifted his attention from Jilly to something beyond her, and when she heard the roar of engines, she turned in search of the source.

Past the parking lot lay a street. An embankment flanked the far side of the street, and atop that long slope, the interstate highway followed the east-to-west trail of the moon. Traveling at a reckless speed, three SUVs descended the arc of an exit ramp.

“—light, illumination, radiance, ray—”

“Shep, I think you’ve started repeating yourself,” Dylan noted, though he remained riveted on the SUVs.

The three vehicles were identical black Chevrolet Suburbans. As darkly tinted as Darth Vader’s face shield, the windows concealed the occupants.

“—brightness, brilliance, beam, gleam—”

Without even a token application of brakes, the first Suburban exploded past the stop sign at the bottom of the exit ramp and angled across the heretofore quiet street. This was the north side of the motel, and the entrance to the parking lot lay toward the front of the enterprise, to the east. At the stop sign, the driver had shown no respect for the uniform highway-safety code; now, with gusto, he demonstrated a lack of patience with traditional roadway design. The Suburban jumped the curb, churned through a ten-foot-wide landscaping zone, spitting behind it a spray of dirt and masticated masses of flowering lantana, briefly took flight off another curb, made a hard four-tire landing in the parking lot, about sixty feet from Jilly, executed a sliding turn at the cost of considerable rubber, and raced west toward the back of the motel.

“—effulgence, refulgence, blaze—”

The second Suburban followed the first, and the third pursued the second, chopping up additional servings of lantana salad. But once in the parking lot, the second turned east instead of continuing to pursue the first, and sped toward the front of the motel. The third streaked straight toward Jilly, Dylan, and Shep.

“—glint, glimmer—”

Just when Jilly thought the oncoming SUV might run them down, as she was deciding whether to dive to the left or to the right, as she considered again the possibility that she might puke, the third driver proved to be as flamboyant a showman as the first two. The Suburban braked so hard that it nearly stood on its nose. Upon its roof, a rack of four motorized spotlights, previously dark, suddenly blazed, swiveled, tilted, took perfect aim, and shed enough wattage on its quarry to bake the marrow in their bones.

“—luminosity, fulgor, flash—”

Jilly felt as though she were standing not before a mere earthly vehicle, but in the awesome presence of an extraterrestrial vessel, being body-scanned, mind-sucked, and soul-searched by data-gathering rays that, in six seconds flat, would count the exact number of atoms in her body, review her entire lifetime of memories beginning with her reluctant exit from her mother’s birth canal, and issue a printed chastisement for the deplorably frayed condition of her underwear.

After a moment, the spots switched off, and ghost lights like luminous jellyfish swam before her eyes. Even if she hadn’t been dazzled, she wouldn’t have been able to get a glimpse of the driver or of anyone else in the Suburban. The windshield appeared not merely to be tinted, but also to be composed of an exotic material that, while perfectly transparent to those within the SUV, appeared from the outside to be as impenetrable to light as absolute-black granite.

Because Jilly, Dylan, and Shep were not the quarry of this search—not yet—the Suburban turned away from them. The driver stomped on the accelerator, and the vehicle shot eastward, toward the front of the motel, once more following the second SUV, which had already rounded the corner of the building with a shriek of tires and had vanished from sight.