piano artistry or a talent for flower arranging, Ive been given what I call psychic magnetism.
When someone isnt where I expect to find him, I can go for a walk or ride my bicycle, or cruise in a car, keeping his name or face in my mind, turning randomly from one street to another; and sometimes in minutes, sometimes in an hour, I encounter the one Im seeking. Its like setting a pair of those Scottie-dog magnets on a table and watching them slide inexorably toward each other.
The key word is sometimes .
On occasion, my psychic magnetism functions like the finest Carrier watch. At other times, its like an egg timer bought at a cheap discount stores going-out-of-business sale; you set it for poached, and it gives you hard-boiled.
The unreliability of this gift is not proof that God is either cruel or indifferent, though it might be one proof among many that He has a sense of humor.
The fault lies with me. I cant stay sufficiently relaxed to let the gift work. I get distracted: in this case, by the possibility that Simon Makepeace, in willful disregard of his surname, would throw open a door, leap into the hallway, and bludgeon me to death.
I continued through the lamplight that spilled from Dannys room, where Demi Moore still looked luminous and the Elephant Man still looked pachydermous. I paused in the gloom at an intersection with a second, shorter hallway.
This was a big house. It had been built in 1910 by an immigrant from Philadelphia, who had made a fortune in either cream cheese or gelignite. I can never remember which.
Gelignite is a high explosive consisting of a gelatinized mass of nitroglycerin with cellulose nitrate added. In the first decade of the previous century, they called it gelatin dynamite, and it was quite the rage in those circles where they took a special interest in blowing up things.
Cream cheese is cream cheese. Its delicious in a wide variety of dishes, but it rarely explodes.
I would like to have a firmer grasp of local history, but Ive never been able to devote as much time to the study of it as I have wished. Dead people keep distracting me.
Now I turned left into the secondary hallway, which was black but not pitch. At the end, pale radiance revealed the open door at the head of the back stairs.
The stairwell light itself wasnt on. The glow rose from below.
In addition to rooms and closets on both sides, which I had no impulse to search, I passed an elevator. This hydraulic-ram lift had been installed prior to Wilbur and Carols wedding, before Danny- then a child of seven-had moved into the house.
If you are afflicted with osteogenesis imperfecta, you can occasionally break a bone with remarkably little effort. When six, Danny had fractured his right wrist while snap-dealing a game of Old Maid.
Stairs, therefore, pose an especially grave risk. As a child, at least, if he had fallen down a flight of stairs, he would most likely have died from severe skull fractures.
Although I had no fear of falling, the back stairs spooked me. They were spiral and enclosed, so it wasnt possible to see more than a few steps ahead.
Intuition told me someone waited down there.
As an alternative to the stairs, the elevator would be too noisy. Alerted, Simon Makepeace would be waiting when I arrived below.
I could not retreat. I was compelled to go down-and quickly- into the back rooms of the lower floor.
Before I quite realized what I was doing, I pushed the elevator-call button. I snatched my finger back as though Id pricked it on a needle.
The doors did not at once slide open. The elevator was on the lower floor.
As the motor hummed to life, as the hydraulic mechanism sighed, as the cab rose through the shaft with a faint swish, I realized that I had a plan. Good for me.
In truth, the
When someone isnt where I expect to find him, I can go for a walk or ride my bicycle, or cruise in a car, keeping his name or face in my mind, turning randomly from one street to another; and sometimes in minutes, sometimes in an hour, I encounter the one Im seeking. Its like setting a pair of those Scottie-dog magnets on a table and watching them slide inexorably toward each other.
The key word is sometimes .
On occasion, my psychic magnetism functions like the finest Carrier watch. At other times, its like an egg timer bought at a cheap discount stores going-out-of-business sale; you set it for poached, and it gives you hard-boiled.
The unreliability of this gift is not proof that God is either cruel or indifferent, though it might be one proof among many that He has a sense of humor.
The fault lies with me. I cant stay sufficiently relaxed to let the gift work. I get distracted: in this case, by the possibility that Simon Makepeace, in willful disregard of his surname, would throw open a door, leap into the hallway, and bludgeon me to death.
I continued through the lamplight that spilled from Dannys room, where Demi Moore still looked luminous and the Elephant Man still looked pachydermous. I paused in the gloom at an intersection with a second, shorter hallway.
This was a big house. It had been built in 1910 by an immigrant from Philadelphia, who had made a fortune in either cream cheese or gelignite. I can never remember which.
Gelignite is a high explosive consisting of a gelatinized mass of nitroglycerin with cellulose nitrate added. In the first decade of the previous century, they called it gelatin dynamite, and it was quite the rage in those circles where they took a special interest in blowing up things.
Cream cheese is cream cheese. Its delicious in a wide variety of dishes, but it rarely explodes.
I would like to have a firmer grasp of local history, but Ive never been able to devote as much time to the study of it as I have wished. Dead people keep distracting me.
Now I turned left into the secondary hallway, which was black but not pitch. At the end, pale radiance revealed the open door at the head of the back stairs.
The stairwell light itself wasnt on. The glow rose from below.
In addition to rooms and closets on both sides, which I had no impulse to search, I passed an elevator. This hydraulic-ram lift had been installed prior to Wilbur and Carols wedding, before Danny- then a child of seven-had moved into the house.
If you are afflicted with osteogenesis imperfecta, you can occasionally break a bone with remarkably little effort. When six, Danny had fractured his right wrist while snap-dealing a game of Old Maid.
Stairs, therefore, pose an especially grave risk. As a child, at least, if he had fallen down a flight of stairs, he would most likely have died from severe skull fractures.
Although I had no fear of falling, the back stairs spooked me. They were spiral and enclosed, so it wasnt possible to see more than a few steps ahead.
Intuition told me someone waited down there.
As an alternative to the stairs, the elevator would be too noisy. Alerted, Simon Makepeace would be waiting when I arrived below.
I could not retreat. I was compelled to go down-and quickly- into the back rooms of the lower floor.
Before I quite realized what I was doing, I pushed the elevator-call button. I snatched my finger back as though Id pricked it on a needle.
The doors did not at once slide open. The elevator was on the lower floor.
As the motor hummed to life, as the hydraulic mechanism sighed, as the cab rose through the shaft with a faint swish, I realized that I had a plan. Good for me.
In truth, the
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