Нил Шустерман - Scorpion Shards

Where are you taking me? Dillon would silently ask it, and although it never answered, Dillon knew that it had a glo­rious purpose that he would soon understand.

Deanna, on the other hand, was no longer so en­tranced by her situation.

She had watched Dillon change from a teary-eyed boy, crushed by the weight of his own terrible actions, to a young man who was getting far too sure of himself.

Yet in spite of that, Deanna knew that he still needed her. Who else but Deanna could look deep into his eyes and find something inside that, even now, was still good and worthy of love? And if her capacity for love were greater than her capacity for fear, perhaps it would save her in spite of the destruction. Perhaps it would save them both.

Dillon gratefully accepted her love, and, in turn, she accepted his wisdom:

“Forget about the ‘Other’ ones,” he had told her. “They’ll only bring us trouble.” If Deanna didn’t accept this she would have to face the alternative, and so Deanna pushed The Others out of her mind as they raced head­long into the great northwest.

“We’re the strong ones,” Dillon had said. “Those Oth­ers are nothing compared to us.” And it was true. She and Dillon were stronger than all The Others combined.

Then why did she feel so weak?

Dillon had said he was like her good luck charm, but she wasn’t exactly wearing him around her neck; it was more like she had climbed into his pocket and hidden there.

Was her soul so frail that all she could do was follow him, borrowing his will for her own? She had been a hos­tage of her fears, and Dillon had freed her. . . . Did that make her his hostage now? She didn’t know—but she did know that she would follow him to the ends of the earth . . . which was exactly where she suspected they were headed as they crossed from Wyoming into Idaho.

The streets of Idaho Falls were gilded with a million orange leaves. The tall oaks on Blackburn Street had begun to shed summer, day by day, but still kept a dense cloak of yellowing leaves.

Dillon and Deanna arrived late in the afternoon, his arm around her waist, and her hand wedged in his back pocket, holding each other the way people in love often do. They stood there, in the middle of the quaint residen­tial street, staring at the old homes on either side. Dillon looked at the homes one by one, then turned his head, as if sniffing the air.

“What are you doing?” asked Deanna.

“Getting to know the neighborhood,” he answered. “Looking for a place to eat.”

Deanna didn’t like the sound of that. “Promise me you won’t do anything bad here.”

Dillon turned to her blinking, as if he didn’t know what she meant. “I promise that I won’t do anything that isn’t absolutely necessary,” he said.

A young boy breezed past them on his bike, stopping at the second house on the right. A small license plate on the back of the bike said “Joey.” Dillon slipped his hand from Deanna’s waist, and he approached the boy, with Deanna following in his wake.

The boy hopped off his bike and strolled toward his front door.

“Hey, Joey,” shouted Dillon. “Your brother around?”

Joey turned to look at Dillon, studied him for a mo­ment, then said, “Naah, Jason’s still at practice. He’ll be home soon, though. . . . You friends of his?”

“Yeah,” said Dillon. “I was on the team with him last year.”

The boy looked at Dillon doubtfully.

“Jason tells me you’re almost as fast as him now,” said Dillon. “Hell, you even walk like him!”

Joey beamed at that, but tried to hide it. Any hesitation the boy had was now gone. “You can wait inside if you like.”

Deanna turned to Dillon as they neared the porch. “How’d you know he had a brother?” she whispered.

“It was obvious,” Dillon whispered back. “He walks like he’s copying someone, but not someone who’s grown up. . . . He wears hand-me-downs, even though he can afford those brand-new running shoes . . . he rode up to the house like he was competing in a race . . . it’s all part of a pattern that says he’s some jock’s kid brother.”

Deanna stared at Dillon in amazement, and he just smiled. “C’mon,” he said, almost blushing behind his boyish freckles. “You know me pretty well—this stuff shouldn’t impress you anymore.”

Joey led them into the house. Dillon noted how the boy used keys instead of knocking, how he glanced up the stairs, and how quietly he closed the front door. Dillon took a sniff of the air, and said “How’s your grandfather doing?”

Joey shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Better, now that he’s back from the hospital.”

Dillon turned to Deanna and winked. Deanna just shook her head. What a show-off!

“Jason’ll be back soon, you can wait for him here.” Joey left them alone in the kitchen and went back out to fiddle with the chain on his bike. Once Joey was gone, Dillon got down to work. He began to search through drawers and cabinets—he didn’t take anything, he just let his eyes pore over everything he saw, observing . . . cataloguing . . . filing the information away.

Deanna had seen him do this the day before, at the farmhouse they had stopped at. Dillon had secretly rifled through the drawers, closets—even under sofa cushions.

Deanna had asked what he was searching for. “Clues,” he had told her.

Now his hands were moving quickly through the kitchen, his mind working with such force that Deanna could swear that she could feel it pulsating like a high- tension wire. He was fascinating to watch.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” said Deanna. “I want to know what you know—I want to see what you see.”

“Okay,” said Dillon. “Five people live here. Parents, two sons, and a grandfather. Mother smokes, father quit. Kids do okay in school.” He pointed to a picture on the refrigerator. “This is the older brother and his girlfriend, right? But something’s not right there—look at his smile; he’s not smiling for the picture—he’s smiling at the person taking the picture.”

“So who took the picture?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Dillon. “The angle, the back­ground, the way the girl’s gloating to have snagged the track star? Her sister took the picture, and good ol’ Jason would rather be dating her!”

Deanna just shook her head, marveling.

“Let’s check out the parents,” said Dillon. He glanced around, until setting his sights on a high knickknack shelf. Then he pulled down a small bronze Statue of Liberty pencil sharpener and held it out for Deanna to examine.

“The parents honeymooned in New York—but look—there’s no dust on it, even though there’s dust on the rest of the shelf. . . that means someone’s taken Miss Liberty down recently, and has been thinking about it. Smells like dishwashing soap. The mother took it down— either she’s nostalgic, or she’s worried about the marriage for some reason. Let’s see what the doorknobs have to say.”

“Doorknobs?”

Dillon opened the back door and touched the outside and inside doorknobs, then smelled his hands.

“Men’s cologne going out, women’s perfume coming in—not his wife’s, because I can smell that everywhere else. The husband is seeing another woman. Good chance his wife knows, and divorce is in the air. Will they break up? Let’s find out!”

Dillon opened the refrigerator; “He keeps his beer on the same shelf as the milk and the soda—not in the door all by itself.” Dillon opened the hallway closet. “Every­thing in this house is neatly arranged—these people love order and tranquility, right down to giving their sons sound-alike names. But Dad’s coats are mixed in with Mom’s, instead of on their own side: their order is tightly intertwined.” Dillon turned and glanced at the back door again. “And his dirty work boots—he said. “They’re in­side the house, on a mat; he’s considerate enough not to leave them on the wood floor, and she’s accepting enough not to make him put them outside.”