though her death had happened much
more quickly than it should have, given her apparent good health. But what did
he know? He was no doctor, and her fate didn’t concern him, anyway.
What did concern him was the prospect of
sharing their earthen prison cell with a decomposing corpse, that concerned him
a lot, but by this time there were much more serious issues to worry about.
Their food was running low, and the old black slave’s health was deteriorating
rapidly, and Jackson knew the man would also die soon. Then he would be down here
alone, trapped with two corpses, and would likely go mad before following his
fellow prisoners into death.
But
Jackson had a secret, something he had carried with him for two years, afraid
to use but unwilling to discard. Day after day—or perhaps night after
night; Jackson had long since lost track of hours and days down here, and what
difference did it make, anyway?—when the old man drifted off to a
troubled sleep, Jackson would pull the long, clear tube out of the breast
pocket of his overcoat and examine its gel-like contents, recalling the words
the young Peruvian guide had spoken just minutes before Jackson had shot the
kid: If you drink the liquid, you will
live forever.
What
had the boy meant by that? The words seemed clear enough, but were they really?
The
words had been a translation, uttered for his benefit by a child with a child’s
unquestioning belief in their truth. The boy had spoken them with such
conviction, Jackson had almost believed them himself, and why wouldn’t he? He
had just seen with his own eyes a solid, seamless boulder transform –
impossibly – into a door, using nothing more than a solid gold doorknob.
He’d seen a massive humanoid figure appear out of nowhere, dressed in foreign,
almost alien-looking clothing. He’d seen with his own eyes a mystical ceremony
probably not observed by any other living white man.
He’d
seen things he would never understand.
After
all of that, and in the dead of night, under the starry South American sky,
what the hell else could he believe?
He had
put enough stock in the child’s words to be sure he took possession of the bizarre
gel-like liquid sealed inside the clear tube before stealing the gold disk and
murdering everyone—or at least, thinking he had murdered everyone—and
then fleeing the continent.
But
that was where it had ended. Jackson Healy never quite developed enough faith
in the story enough to actually drink the stuff.
Now, though,
with the body of the innkeeper’s wife moldering in a corner of the room not
eight feet away, with the stench of death and decomposition filling his lungs
with every wretched breath he took, with the ancient black slave already weak
and getting weaker, soon to follow the dead woman into the great beyond, he
supposed he had no choice. It was either drink the liquid and take his chances,
or suffer for a few more days or weeks and then die like his two fellow
prisoners, alone and miserable.
So he
had drunk the liquid and taken his chances.
5
Mike McMahon was pacing. He paced
a lot these days, having resigned his former position as chief of the
Paskagankee Police Department over concerns raised by the Town Council about a
potential conflict of interest, given the fact he was living with one of his
subordinates on the force.
At the
time of his resignation, no one had as yet approached him about his living
arrangements, but it would only have been a matter of time, so he had saved
them the trouble. He submitted his letter of resignation the very day he
proposed to Sharon.
He had
known for months that the day was coming when he would be forced to choose
between the two things he loved – his job and his girl – and the
results of a bizarre plot hatched by a power-hungry maniac last year involving
a sacred Navajo stone and the kidnapping of a world-renowned software developer
had served to simplify the decision in a way nothing else could
more quickly than it should have, given her apparent good health. But what did
he know? He was no doctor, and her fate didn’t concern him, anyway.
What did concern him was the prospect of
sharing their earthen prison cell with a decomposing corpse, that concerned him
a lot, but by this time there were much more serious issues to worry about.
Their food was running low, and the old black slave’s health was deteriorating
rapidly, and Jackson knew the man would also die soon. Then he would be down here
alone, trapped with two corpses, and would likely go mad before following his
fellow prisoners into death.
But
Jackson had a secret, something he had carried with him for two years, afraid
to use but unwilling to discard. Day after day—or perhaps night after
night; Jackson had long since lost track of hours and days down here, and what
difference did it make, anyway?—when the old man drifted off to a
troubled sleep, Jackson would pull the long, clear tube out of the breast
pocket of his overcoat and examine its gel-like contents, recalling the words
the young Peruvian guide had spoken just minutes before Jackson had shot the
kid: If you drink the liquid, you will
live forever.
What
had the boy meant by that? The words seemed clear enough, but were they really?
The
words had been a translation, uttered for his benefit by a child with a child’s
unquestioning belief in their truth. The boy had spoken them with such
conviction, Jackson had almost believed them himself, and why wouldn’t he? He
had just seen with his own eyes a solid, seamless boulder transform –
impossibly – into a door, using nothing more than a solid gold doorknob.
He’d seen a massive humanoid figure appear out of nowhere, dressed in foreign,
almost alien-looking clothing. He’d seen with his own eyes a mystical ceremony
probably not observed by any other living white man.
He’d
seen things he would never understand.
After
all of that, and in the dead of night, under the starry South American sky,
what the hell else could he believe?
He had
put enough stock in the child’s words to be sure he took possession of the bizarre
gel-like liquid sealed inside the clear tube before stealing the gold disk and
murdering everyone—or at least, thinking he had murdered everyone—and
then fleeing the continent.
But
that was where it had ended. Jackson Healy never quite developed enough faith
in the story enough to actually drink the stuff.
Now, though,
with the body of the innkeeper’s wife moldering in a corner of the room not
eight feet away, with the stench of death and decomposition filling his lungs
with every wretched breath he took, with the ancient black slave already weak
and getting weaker, soon to follow the dead woman into the great beyond, he
supposed he had no choice. It was either drink the liquid and take his chances,
or suffer for a few more days or weeks and then die like his two fellow
prisoners, alone and miserable.
So he
had drunk the liquid and taken his chances.
5
Mike McMahon was pacing. He paced
a lot these days, having resigned his former position as chief of the
Paskagankee Police Department over concerns raised by the Town Council about a
potential conflict of interest, given the fact he was living with one of his
subordinates on the force.
At the
time of his resignation, no one had as yet approached him about his living
arrangements, but it would only have been a matter of time, so he had saved
them the trouble. He submitted his letter of resignation the very day he
proposed to Sharon.
He had
known for months that the day was coming when he would be forced to choose
between the two things he loved – his job and his girl – and the
results of a bizarre plot hatched by a power-hungry maniac last year involving
a sacred Navajo stone and the kidnapping of a world-renowned software developer
had served to simplify the decision in a way nothing else could
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