would need all of his wits and skill to survive and, somehow, reveal John Stone for the maniac he was.
Hero looked around at steel and concrete, smelled and heard the drunk moaning across the way. The brain-energy coming at him from that miserable individual was, texturally, like gritty, obnoxious smoke. He had to make an effort not to be contaminated, and he almost missed the slow clicking of toenails on concrete as Beauregard the jailhouse dog passed in front of his cell.
Hero roused himself and concentrated on the German shepherd, willing Beauregard to stop.
The old dog’s brain waves were like soft, yellowing grass winnowed by the breeze of a mild season. Beau shivered and whined, but his eyes brightened as he turned his head to look at Hero on the bunk.
The Englishman had, since early childhood, enjoyed a gift: an ease of communication with all types of animals, including carnivores. He could also delve into the minds of humans, but never so easily, and seldom without suffering for it. Human brain energy was more difficult to assimilate. Frequently it was like a cyclone, with velocity but no coherence. At other times it could be a firestorm sweeping through his own mind, a psychological Armageddon. The horrors beneath the skulls of men were not lightly explored. What came to him randomly he was usually able to deflect.
And metal—such as the bars of his cell—was always an effective barrier to clear channeling. The steel around him now somewhat impeded his efforts to slip deeply into the dog’s subconscious, but there were no psychic barriers in the way. Beau, so close to the end of his earthly life, was not on his guard, wary and cunning; Beau had only his memories.
Hero sifted through these memories like a caressing wind while Beauregard’s head dropped and his legs shook.
Easy, easy ...
These days Beau slept on a rag rug in the Sheriff's office, probably because there was always someone around the station to look after him. But, Hero reckoned, he might have lived with—
Yes, there it was.
He saw, as if through Beau’s eyes, a three-story frame house with a deep front porch and two chain-hung gliders. The house was painted a soft shade of yellow, with white shutters. On the left side was a driveway: two parallel strips of concrete with grass growing in the center. To one side of the walk a white concrete birdbath sat beneath a wide-spreading mimosa tree. A large glossy magnolia shaded one corner of the porch and the house.
But where was the house?
Beau moaned as Hero continued his reconnaissance through the dog’s eyes. He felt a sympathetic pain—the dog’s liver was diseased, failing. He wouldn’t live more than another— ah!
The numbers on the mailbox by the curb were 322.
322 what?
Hero took Beauregard for a short walk down the block (how strong he was in memory, so alert and eager) to an often-visited fireplug. Hero received impressions of other dogs, a male, a female, no particular breeds. The sensation was voluptuous, electric.
No, Beauregard, forget about those other dogs. Where the hell are we?
Georgia Avenue, Southwest. According to the signpost across the street.
Okay, there’s a good fellow. You've done your bit. Rest.
Hero withdrew from Beauregard’s mind just as one of the jailers whistled and clanged a metal dish against the bars. Beau, though infirm, apparently still had his appetite. Or maybe he was operating on instinct. But he turned and did his best imitation of a scamper, almost tripping over himself as his back legs were slow to cooperate.
Hero settled back on the bunk.
It had been a simple matter to find out where Sheriff John Stone lived; getting there wouldn’t be a problem. But what could he hope to learn at the house that might be crucial to his own defense in a court of law? If he did learn something, how could he present it?
Yes, Your Honor, I have traveled out of my body since I was a small child. We all do, of course, but few of us remember the
Hero looked around at steel and concrete, smelled and heard the drunk moaning across the way. The brain-energy coming at him from that miserable individual was, texturally, like gritty, obnoxious smoke. He had to make an effort not to be contaminated, and he almost missed the slow clicking of toenails on concrete as Beauregard the jailhouse dog passed in front of his cell.
Hero roused himself and concentrated on the German shepherd, willing Beauregard to stop.
The old dog’s brain waves were like soft, yellowing grass winnowed by the breeze of a mild season. Beau shivered and whined, but his eyes brightened as he turned his head to look at Hero on the bunk.
The Englishman had, since early childhood, enjoyed a gift: an ease of communication with all types of animals, including carnivores. He could also delve into the minds of humans, but never so easily, and seldom without suffering for it. Human brain energy was more difficult to assimilate. Frequently it was like a cyclone, with velocity but no coherence. At other times it could be a firestorm sweeping through his own mind, a psychological Armageddon. The horrors beneath the skulls of men were not lightly explored. What came to him randomly he was usually able to deflect.
And metal—such as the bars of his cell—was always an effective barrier to clear channeling. The steel around him now somewhat impeded his efforts to slip deeply into the dog’s subconscious, but there were no psychic barriers in the way. Beau, so close to the end of his earthly life, was not on his guard, wary and cunning; Beau had only his memories.
Hero sifted through these memories like a caressing wind while Beauregard’s head dropped and his legs shook.
Easy, easy ...
These days Beau slept on a rag rug in the Sheriff's office, probably because there was always someone around the station to look after him. But, Hero reckoned, he might have lived with—
Yes, there it was.
He saw, as if through Beau’s eyes, a three-story frame house with a deep front porch and two chain-hung gliders. The house was painted a soft shade of yellow, with white shutters. On the left side was a driveway: two parallel strips of concrete with grass growing in the center. To one side of the walk a white concrete birdbath sat beneath a wide-spreading mimosa tree. A large glossy magnolia shaded one corner of the porch and the house.
But where was the house?
Beau moaned as Hero continued his reconnaissance through the dog’s eyes. He felt a sympathetic pain—the dog’s liver was diseased, failing. He wouldn’t live more than another— ah!
The numbers on the mailbox by the curb were 322.
322 what?
Hero took Beauregard for a short walk down the block (how strong he was in memory, so alert and eager) to an often-visited fireplug. Hero received impressions of other dogs, a male, a female, no particular breeds. The sensation was voluptuous, electric.
No, Beauregard, forget about those other dogs. Where the hell are we?
Georgia Avenue, Southwest. According to the signpost across the street.
Okay, there’s a good fellow. You've done your bit. Rest.
Hero withdrew from Beauregard’s mind just as one of the jailers whistled and clanged a metal dish against the bars. Beau, though infirm, apparently still had his appetite. Or maybe he was operating on instinct. But he turned and did his best imitation of a scamper, almost tripping over himself as his back legs were slow to cooperate.
Hero settled back on the bunk.
It had been a simple matter to find out where Sheriff John Stone lived; getting there wouldn’t be a problem. But what could he hope to learn at the house that might be crucial to his own defense in a court of law? If he did learn something, how could he present it?
Yes, Your Honor, I have traveled out of my body since I was a small child. We all do, of course, but few of us remember the
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