The whys of it were murkier. Jealousy figured in, no doubt – the fear that Eden would replace her as the queen of D'Anton's world. Then there was her fierce insistence on seeming young. It suggested that in a way, she had been like Eden – convinced, with childish naivete, that youth and appearance were everything. And he suspected that with her brittle temperament, drug use, and real or imagined pressures, she had gone a little insane.
Monks felt no anger toward her – mostly sadness and pity. Even her attempt to kill him had been self-preservation. There was a dark irony, too, in that her poisoning Eden was what had exposed Todd Peploe. Otherwise, he would certainly have gone on killing.
But there was more, Monks admitted. Those few minutes with her in the night had brought love and death together with an intensity beyond anything he had ever experienced. He was not a believer in the supernatural, but if ever he had been touched by magic, it was then.
Had making love to him been a gift from her, to sweeten his passage? Or an attempt to control him, in some otherworldly way, cut short by her death?
How had she known about that scarf?
Monks walked back out of the Dove chapel, footsteps echoing through the halls of the dead, to the world of light and movement. He was eager to embrace the relief he had felt, leaving the hospital.
But he knew that there would be a price, too. He was not a good sleeper. He still woke up sometimes in a childlike panic, croaking hoarsely, after long, helpless seconds of trying to shout at something that menaced him.
He knew that his dreams featured images that came from his actual experiences. The images were distorted, and the dreams themselves were wild collages that melted from one insane scenario to the next – like most people's, he supposed – but when he remembered flashes, he would realize that many specific details stemmed from things he had recently seen or done.
These past days were going to mix themselves into the brew, and on those nights when he came thrashing fearfully into wakefulness, he would be alone.
Acknowledgments
The author is deeply indebted to many people who helped in the making of this book. Special thanks to:
Kim Anderson; Carl Clatterbuck; Dan Conaway; Drs. Barbara and Dan McMahon; Dr. Dick Merriman; Mary Pender; Linda Ross; Jill Schwartzman; Nikola Scott; Xanthe Tabor; Jennifer Rudolph Walsh… and to many good and dedicated folks at HarperCollins, both behind and in front of the scenes.
About the Author
NEIL McMAHON studied premed at Stanford where, later, he was also a Stegner Fellow. His short fiction has appeared in the Atlantic Monthly and other magazines, and in several anthologies, including Boxing's Best Short Stories and The Best of Montana 's Short Fiction. He is married and lives in Missoula, Montana. You can visit his website at www. neilmcmahon. com.
