to the other. Purcell’s head lay in his lap.
The bizarre intruder had shed his clothes somewhere along the way. Horrid lumps and discolorations covered his pale body. Weeping sores issued gray gossamer filaments that formed webs across parts of him, with radials and spirals sloping up to anchor him to the shelves between which he slumped. These weren’t the elegant and precisely geometric webs of a spider, but were without pattern and as ugly as the grotesque individual whom they partly cocooned.
The intruder was perfectly still. Amory Cromwell assumed that this was a corpse before him, but he nevertheless kept his distance and said, “Sir?”
The man’s head, which faced away from Cromwell, slowly turned until the face came into view.
In spite of the distorted features and the dull eyeshine, like that of a cat at night, enough resemblance remained for Cromwell to inquire, “Mr. Shacket?”
The former CEO of Refine, who was believed to be dead in Utah, formed what perhaps he thought was a smile. He spoke, but his voice was weak, a mutter, and what he said made no sense. The words popped out of him like the numbered balls from an automated bingo hopper. Further diminishing any hope of intelligent communication, Shacket produced, in addition to words, clicks and keenings and chittering noises, like those of insects, and an animal mewling, and a hissing as if a serpent lived in him.
Clearly the man had no remaining strength, no presence of mind, and was dying.
Throughout his career, Cromwell had assiduously protected his clients not just from bad publicity but also from rude intrusions into their privacy by media and others of the hoi polloi. Their dignity and the respect they deserved were uppermost in his mind.
Not so much with Dorian Purcell, especially now that the Great Man was dead.
Cromwell laid his shotgun aside and used his smartphone to video Shacket for two minutes as the pathetic creature muttered senselessly, clicked, chittered, and whimpered not like a man but like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. He took a number of pictures, making sure that he got several clear shots of Purcell’s severed head.
He retrieved the 12-gauge and returned to the arcade, where he photographed the headless corpse and the carnage around it. Then he went through the mansion, photographing its most fabulous, luxurious features, anything that might thrill readers of the worst tabloids and those who viewed the tackiest cable programs.
While in the employ of a family in Boston, Cromwell had made the acquaintance of Vaughn Larkin, who was an attorney as well as a licensed private investigator. Larkin periodically had done work for that family regarding matters involving a son who had a taste for cocaine, porn stars, petty theft, and revolutionary politics.
He called Larkin now, described what he had found, and asked for an informed estimate of the value of the video and photographs in his possession. The number so impressed Cromwell that he hired Larkin as his agent and sent everything to him before calling 911.
By the time the police arrived, the thing that had been Lee Shacket was as dead as Dorian Purcell.
130
Kipp had his boy, and the boy had his dog.
All was right with the world.
Or as right as things could be in the world’s current condition.
Considering how scary things had been for a while, the days after that Thursday in September were remarkably sunny in every sense of the word.
Ben Hawkins sold his house in Southern California.
He rented a place in Pinehaven.
He and Megan began to date.
She finished the painting of Woody and the deer.
The gallery that represented her thought it would bring a record price for her work.
Instead, she hung it in the living room. Behind the piano.
Rosa Leon sold the house in Lake Tahoe.
She moved to Pinehaven to be a part of all that was to come.
In early October, Rita Carrickton and Deputy Andy Argento were indicted for the murder of Sheriff Eckman and held without bail.
Eckman had secreted tiny cameras in his bedroom and bath.
He recorded all his sexual adventures with Rita and every shower she’d taken there.
Including their final, unfinished coupling.
And his murder.
The former sheriff, Lyle Sheldrake, was returned to office in a special election in November.
At the election-night party, Kipp got a good smell of him.
Sheldrake wasn’t a Hater.
Or crazy.
In December, Rosa Leon and Carson Conroy began to date.
In January, Tio Barbizon was indicted for covering up events related to the catastrophe in Utah and the crimes of Lee Shacket.
Two days later, he declared his innocence.
And announced that he was running for governor.
Sometimes, Megan and Ben and Woody and Kipp took road trips.
They visited the various communities of Mysterians who, with their human companions, had come to Pinehaven that desperate day.
Which everyone called “the Day” with an uppercase D.
New communities were announcing themselves to Bella.
Some were as far away as Kansas and Alabama.
Then Canada. And Mexico.
In March, Megan married Ben.
Rosa was her bridesmaid.
Kipp was best man.
A court declared that Dorian Purcell’s fortune could be used to compensate the families of those murdered in Utah and elsewhere.
Haskell Ludlow was arrested in the South of France.
Living under the name Mary Seldon.
After having undergone gender reassignment.
Cable news would never be done with the genetic-monster-from-Utah story.
They were utterly unaware of the bigger story of the Mysterium and that one day all news would be true.
Then it was May.
Eight months after the Day.
Kipp and family visited a secret Mysterian community in Idaho.
Seventy-five dogs with twenty-six human companions.
Seventy-four of the dogs were paired.
One female golden retriever had no four-legged companion.
Kipp knew her for his destiny.
He worried that she would not feel the same.
But she did.
Her name was Velvet.
She came to Pinehaven.
Another year passed.
It began to be clear that the dogs of the Mysterium were healthier than other dogs.
Some wondered if they might live longer than other dogs.
Woody said he was sure of it.
Kipp’s and Velvet’s litter numbered eight.
All were healthy.
All remained with Megan and Ben and Woody.
Woody was learning to play the piano. He could rock the keyboard.
Rosa and Carson adopted two dogs.
They were an extended family of five people and twelve dogs, living in perpetual truth, with no moment of deceit, on the Wire with others of their kind, in preparation for the arrival of a new world, a fresh reality, that had been evolving for tens of thousands of years, since men and women and dogs first stood together against saber-toothed tigers and rampaging mastodons. A world impended that had been shaped over perhaps a thousand centuries during which people and dogs had lived together and played together and wondered at the stars together and died and mourned one another and endured in spite of cruel nature and those treacherous humans who were mad for power. This new world would be the world as it should always have been, a world in which troubled waters were as common as ever they were, but where every man and woman and dog would be devoted to one another, would be forever a bridge for one another, from safe shore to safe shore.