Нил Шустерман - Scorpion Shards

Did she hate him? She probably ought to hate him, but how could she when he was the only one who didn’t run from her? How could she hate him when he treasured every ounce of comfort she gave him? The more he needed her, the more she loved him—she couldn’t help it. Whatever you do, I’ll forgive you, Dillon, she said to herself, be­cause I know the goodness inside you—even if no one else can see.

But to him, she only said, “No, I don’t hate you.”

When Dillon heard her words, he relaxed—as if her feelings for him were all that mattered—as if Deanna was his only lifeline to the world.

Now that the wrecking-hunger had been fed, he looked stronger in the dim nova light. He looked noble, and when he stood from her arms he somehow seemed larger than life. Now it was her turn to take comfort in him.

“Let’s go,” Dillon said. “I know a way to get money.”

She glanced toward the immense lake, where Tahoe’s casinos glittered just over the Nevada border.

“Casino gambling?” she asked.

“We don’t need a casino,” he answered. “All we need is a bar.” He reached out his hand and smiled. He was his old, tender self again. “Come on. I’ll show you something incredible . . . I’ll show you something magical!”

She reached out and gently took his hand, and he es­corted her off the ruined mountainside.

A gust of wind blew through the door of the roadside bar as they stepped in, sending a flurry of cocktail napkins to the sawdust-covered floor.

With the wrecking-hunger deeply satisfied, Dillon felt himself in control of his thoughts and actions. Deanna had seen him at his worst tonight, and now she would see him at his best. He would show her something special.

Dillon was tall, but his boyish features and the style of his conspicuous red hair made it clear he was underage. Still, no one seemed to care, and he had no intention of ordering drinks.

Most of the talk around the bar was about the rock slide.

“Did you hear?” The regulars were saying to one an­other, “Five homes got flattened. Summer homes mostly, so no one was in ’em . . . except of course for the Barnes’s place where a boulder the size of a Buick tried to come down the chimney like friggin’ Santy Claus.”

“Sadie Barnes got a concussion,” told one old-timer, with wide eyes as if he were telling a ghost story. “Jack Names, well, he might lose a leg. Still too early to tell.”

Dillon grimaced and tried not to think about it. He caught himself glancing at Deanna’s bruised wrist, silently tallying all the injuries he had caused and cursing himself for it.

In the many quiet hours alone with Deanna, he had told her every last thing he had done since the wrecking-hunger had come two years ago. He had told her how it started—not so much a hunger, but an itch; a tiny little urge to break things, which grew with each thing he broke. He had told her how his parents eventually died of “broken minds,” before Dillon understood what his touch did to people, and how he had wandered for a whole year alone. Deanna took great pains to listen and not judge. Dillon had no words to tell her how special she was.

He led Deanna to the back of the bar, where an old, worn pool table sat in an alcove. Two guys were finishing a game of eight-ball. They were cowboy types—early twenties, talking about fortunes won and lost in the Tahoe casinos that day. One of them was bursting with energy, because his wallet was bursting with cash. He would be Dillon’s target.

“Watch this,” Dillon whispered to Deanna. Dillon had only played pool once, years ago. Even then he had found it about as challenging as sorting mail into six different slots. He approached the cowboy with the stuffed wallet.

“I’ll play you a game,” offered Dillon, sounding naive and inexperienced. “I’ll play you for five dollars.” Dillon slapped five dollars down on the edge of the table. Cow­boy and his friend laughed.

“Sure, buddy,” Cowboy said, treating Dillon like a child who had just asked for a quarter for a video game. “You break.”

Cowboy racked up the balls, and Dillon broke, while Deanna watched from a peeling red vinyl chair.

The game took five minutes. It was less than magical; Dillon lost miserably. He glanced at Deanna, who was be­ginning to look nervous.

“One more game!” insisted Dillon. “Double or nothing.”

Cowboy agreed, and easily beat Dillon a second time. The smile slipped from Dillon’s face now. Deanna came up to him and whispered, “Don’t be dumb—we’re al­most out of money.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said loudly enough for the others to hear. “I feel lucky, okay?”

Deanna rolled her eyes and stepped away, leaning against the wall.

Cowboy won the third match and was all full of him­self. Dillon, on the other hand, looked pathetic and des­perate. He took out his wallet and angrily slapped it down in front of the Cowboy.

“All of it,” said Dillon. “I’ll play you for all that’s in my wallet for all that’s in yours.”

Cowboy grinned out of the corner of his mouth.

“Dillon, let’s get out of here,” said Deanna. “It’s not worth it.”

“I don’t leave a loser,” said Dillon.

Cowboy smiled even wider. The picture here was clear; a young kid trying to impress his girlfriend—willing to go to ridiculous extremes to avoid being completely hu­miliated. And that was exactly how Cowboy intended on leaving him; completely humiliated, not to mention broke.

Cowboy put his wallet next to Dillon’s and racked up the balls. “You break,” he said.

Dillon took a deep breath and made sure Deanna was watching. Then he took his cue to the cue ball, and stared intently at the wedge of colored balls before him. Dillon stared until he stopped seeing balls, and instead saw an­gles, vectors and forces of impact. He examined the lines of motion and rebounds—each one bearing a complex mathematical equation that his mind solved instantane­ously. And then, once he saw every pattern of possibilities on that pool table, Dillon struck the cue ball . . . sending two solid-colored balls into two different pockets.

His second shot sunk two more balls, his third shot sent his remaining three balls home, and his fourth shot sent the eight ball rebounding off three sides before disappearing into a corner pocket.

Four shots. Like sorting mail.

Cowboy just stared at the table, which was still full of his own seven striped balls. “Beginner’s luck,” said Dillon. He took his and Cowboy’s wallets from the edge of the table, leaving Cowboy completely humiliated, not to mention broke. From behind the bar, the bartender laughed.

Cowboy was furious. He threw his cue down and grabbed Dillon. “Just who do you think you—"

But he never finished. The moment he grabbed Dillon, his pupils dilated, his jaw dropped and his face paled. In an instant Cowboy’s thoughts had become so scrambled, he couldn’t even speak. Dillon slipped free from his grip.

“Good game,” said Dillon.

“Duh ...” said Cowboy.

Dillon and Deanna left him there, his senses just begin­ning to come back. They breezed out the door, dragging a flurry of cocktail napkins in their wake.

“I don’t see things the way other people see things,” Dillon told Deanna that night as they dined like kings in their hotel room above Lake Tahoe. “You want to know how I started the rock slide, and how I won that pool game. I don’t know how—all I can tell you is how I see the world—and it’s different than other people do.”

Deanna just looked at him quizzically, so Dillon tried to explain. “Other people, they just see ‘things’—but I see patterns —cause and effect. I can see whole chains of events that other people can’t see. It’s like the way a good chess player can plan ten moves in advance? Well, when I play chess, I can see the entire game the moment the first move is made, not just all my moves— but every possible move —all at the same time. It’s the same thing with pool; all I had to do was look at the positioning of the balls, and I knew exactly how to hit them to make the balls go into the pock­ets.”