After relieving himself and splashing some water on his face, Sherman sat down and reconstructed the events of the previous evening. Every time he pictured that poor dog—he could still hear the sound of its death wail—his stomach and throat filled with bile. Sherman liked dogs. He liked them a lot.
In one sense, he was relieved that he hadn’t killed Stone. And he was relieved that he was incarcerated. The weeks’ long nightmare of his murder quest had finally come to an end. He likened the experience to what athletes called “roid rage,” a stupefied, mindless sort of aggression brought on by an overuse of steroids. Only Sherman hadn’t used steroids. He wasn’t sure what to make of the whole thing, but at least it was over.
He had a vague memory of meeting with both a district attorney and a defense lawyer before being dumped in the jail cell. He knew he was being charged with attempted murder in the first degree, breaking and entering, criminal trespass, and cruelty to animals. He also knew the DA was requesting that Sherman be held without bail, and that the defense lawyer thought it likely the judge would go along. The combination of his money and the depravity of his actions made him too great a flight risk.
But rich people, he believed, had a way of staying out of trouble.
Right on cue, the guard approached his cell.
“C’mon, dog killer,” the guard said.
“Is my lawyer here?”
The guard snorted. “Lawyer? Way I hear it even the public defender don’t want your case, and he ain’t got a choice. No, we’re moving you to a more secure location on account of the death threats.”
“Death threats?”
The guard snorted again as he opened the door. “You’re not what the world would call a popular man, Sherm,” he said.
And with that, Sherman Kingsborough was removed from his Portland jail cell and from the life of the family Stone forever.
***
Jared was in a stupor as he munched his Cheerios. His mind, overwhelmed by the events of the past few hours, had more or less shut down. What was left of Jared’s brain ceased conscious activity. Still seated at the table, Jared’s chin dropped down to his chest, and his breathing became even and regular.
For Glio, this was like a sunny Sunday morning sitting on the front porch with a good book and a mug full of oolong tea. He loved nothing more than watching and experiencing his host’s dreams.
As is often true of unconscious thought, the dream seemed like a broken reproduction of the real world. It reminded Glio of a Picasso painting he had once consumed as part of an afternoon Jared and Deirdre spent at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. All the pieces were there, but they were jumbled, placed out of order, and then reassembled in a grotesque hodgepodge that seemed to mock reality.
In the dream, Jared was telling his family that he had cancer.
In real life—in the memories already imbibed by Glio—Jared and Deirdre had two separate conversations: one with Jackie, one with Megan. Where Jackie had been stoic, quiet, and shell-shocked, Megan had been dramatic and full of questions. “What does cancer feel like? Can the doctor see it? Can’t they just operate and take it out of you? What will happen to me? Will Mommy remarry?” That last one made Jared laugh and Deirdre cry.
Glio had marveled at these twin memories, at how he could feel not only Jared’s tension and anxiety but that of his family as well. It was as if some kind of alpha waves were emanating from his wife and daughters, allowing them to convey emotion without verbal communication. It was fascinating.
But that was reality.
The dream took those two scenes, combined them, and turned them on their head. In it, Jared didn’t have cancer, Jackie did. She sat calmly, smiling, her face lit as if by an Oscar-winning cinematographer. “So the doctor told me that I have four months to live. But don’t worry, everything will be fine, don’t ya think?” Jared felt a pounding in his chest he was sure everyone could hear. He looked in terror at Deirdre and Megan, but both sat mute. As he watched, their faces—first their mouths, then their noses and eyes—faded from view.
“I’m dying, Daddy, how does that make you feel?” Jackie was sneering at her father. Jared’s pounding heart became so loud that he was only picking up every third word. “Isn’t … hilarious … dying? … It’s … Won’t … be … without … ?” Then Jackie laughed. Deirdre and Megan kept fading while Jackie laughed. Dream Jared screamed real Jared awake. He was panting, and he was crying, his cereal and milk spilled all over the table.
Glio stopped eating. His appetite just wasn’t there. The emotion had overwhelmed the hunger.
***
Ethan Overbee was on the next plane to Portland. He seethed in his first-class seat as he thought about what had happened. Everything he’d ever wanted was in his grasp, and this lunatic, this Kingsborough, had taken it away.
No, he thought, that’s not right. Kingsborough didn’t take it away. My staff did. My goddam staff did! How the hell did this happen?