The sixth of these brief companions, Eugene O’Malley, appeared to be in his late twenties. He had such an innocent face and such a humble manner that beard stubble and bloodshot eyes didn’t make him appear dissolute, only harried.
Both arms on the bar, hands around a bottle of Dos Equis, he replied “Home,” in response to Lamar’s question.
“Where’s home, Mr. O’Malley?”
“Call me Gene. Home’s just down the road in Henderson.”
“What’s at home that gives you hope?”
“Lianne. She’s my wife.”
“She’s a good wife, is she?”
“Lianne’s the best.”
“So why’re you here, O’Malley?”
“Supposed to be at work. Night-shift construction foreman.”
Lamar said, “I don’t see anyone constructing anything around here except hangovers.”
“In this economy, who needs a night shift? Lost my job a week ago, can’t bring myself to tell Lianne.”
“But my dear O’Malley, if she’s a good woman …”
“She was fired in July. We’ve got a baby coming in six weeks.”
“So you figured your luck had to turn.”
“Figured wrong, Ed.”
Lamar had introduced himself as Edward Lorenz. Now he asked, “You lose a lot?”
“Anything is a lot right now. I dropped fourteen hundred, half my severance pay. Don’t know what happened, sort of lost my mind.”
After finishing his bottle of Elephant Beer, Lamar said, “You aren’t fighting Irish, are you, O’Malley? Don’t take a poke at an old man just because he asks a rude question.”
“You’re not that old, and I can’t see you being rude.”
“No lie — are you a degenerate gambler or just a damn fool?”
Gene laughed softly. “You have a way about you, Ed. I’m a damn fool who doesn’t ever want to see the inside of a casino again.”
“I guess I’ll believe you. Never known an O’Malley to lie.”
“Have you known a lot of O’Malleys?”
“You’re the first one. O’Malley, do you know who Sir Isaac Newton was?”
“A scientist or somebody.”
“Both somebody and a scientist. For centuries, Newtonian physics gave science the tools it needed to build the modern world. Newton’s theories and methods still work, but we now know that many of them are incomplete or even wrong.”
“How can they work if they’re wrong?”
“It has to do with reductionist observation and the power of approximation in the reliability of short-term effect.”
“Well, of course,” O’Malley said, and rolled his eyes.
“Einstein destroyed Newton’s illusion of absolute space and time. Quantum theory put an end to the notion of a controllable measurement process.”
“How many beers have you had, Ed?”
“This all relates to something good that’s soon going to happen to you, O’Malley. You know Galileo?”
“Not personally.”
“Galileo was a great scientist, too, and one of his theories, related to the oscillation of a pendulum — that its period remains independent of its amplitude — is still taught in most high-school physics classes more than three hundred years later. But it’s wrong.”
“I’ll bet you know what’s wrong with it,” O’Malley said, as if he was humoring an eccentric.
“Everyone doing physics for the last thirty years knows it’s wrong, but it’s taught anyway. Galileo used linear equations. But turbulence is present in the system, so it requires a nonlinear approach. Chaos, O’Malley. Underlying even the simple system of a pendulum is chaos, potential for complex and unexpected behavior. Now, I’m going to give you something.”
“What I need are the magic words to make Lianne forgive me.”
“Life can sometimes seem hopelessly complex, unpredictable, chaotic. Then a strange order makes itself known. You tell Lianne what you’ve done and what I’ve done, so she’ll know there’s order in the chaos. But first, cash these and take the money home to her.”
From a pocket of his white sport coat, Lamar extracted seventeen chips worth seventeen thousand dollars and put them on the bar.
Seventeen
The snowy pair glided across the moon-chilled yard: clearly seen but not in detail, catlike, wolflike, yet little resembling either cats or wolves, both familiar and strange, dreamlike.
When the animals arced toward the house, disappearing around the north end of the porch, Grady hurried from the kitchen, navigating by the LED numbers in the oven clock and by the hum of the refrigerator.
Blind in the windowless hallway, he felt along the left wall until he found a door.
In his study, two pale rectangles silvered the darkness directly opposite the entrance. His familiarity with the furniture arrangement allowed him to make his way quickly toward those undraped windows.
Halfway across the room, he gasped as a figure loomed against one of the framed panels of moonlight. But at once he realized that it was Merlin, on this side of the glass, paws on the sill. Grady went to the other window.
The night remained for a moment as night had been for millennia: full of myth, mystery, and threat, but in fact less dangerous than the day, if only because more men were sleeping now than would be sleeping after dawn. The venerable stars. The ancient moon. The old Earth, its timeworn beauty under wraps until sunrise …
Then suddenly the night was new, as the white enigmas appeared. Having been out of sight, tight against the house, directly under the windows, they raced away from the building, past the trunk of the birch, north across the lawn. They halted at the limit of visibility, faint featureless presences, huddling together as if conferring.
Panting agitatedly, beating his forepaws against the windowsill, the wolfhound wanted to be in the night and in pursuit.
“Settle,” Grady said, and again, “settle.” A third issuance of the command was required when always before one had calmed the dog.
Out of the darkness, the visitors returned, not directly but obliquely, angling east toward the front of the house.
Dropping to the floor, beyond the rays of the moonlamp, Merlin became a disembodied presence, a canine poltergeist, knocking across the floorboards, rapping the furniture and the doorjamb with an ectoplasmic tail, abandoning the study for a different haunt.
With the windows at his back, Grady was a blind man all the way across the room, reaching with both hands for the doorway. In the hall, he slid one palm along a wall until he reached the living room.
Already Merlin had materialized at a front window to the right of the door, paws on the sill.
Making his way toward the window to the left of the door, Grady bumped an end table. He heard a lamp wobbling, found it, steadied it.
Earlier, when he opened all the draperies and shades, he hadn’t imagined chasing around the house in pursuit of circling visitors. He merely wanted to have immediate access to any window that gave a view of an area where a noise might arise or entry might be attempted.
By the time he reached the window, he began to suspect that these mysterious animals were as curious about him as he was about them, that they were intent on satisfying that curiosity.
Beyond the porch, east of the house, lay the front yard, part of it overlaid with a faint tracery of moonshadows cast by the intricate branches of the huge birch tree.
The visitors were not on the yard or on that portion of the county lane — Cracker’s Drive — visible from this vantage point.
Nothing else traveled the night, either. No deer were present, though they frequently came to graze upon the lawn. Often coyotes whidded through the lunar glade, all legs and haunches and sharp shoulders, but on this occasion, they were hunting elsewhere.