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They
looked
seventy
years
old
,
but
smelled
fresh
,
and
he
pulled
on
a
pair
which
,
like
the
black
suit
,
fitted
him
as
if
they
had
been
tailored
for
him
.
There
was
a
small
stack
of
Reader
’
s
Digests
on
the
little
table
beside
the
bed
,
none
of
them
dated
later
than
March
1960
.
Jackson
,
the
library
guy
—
the
same
one
who
had
sworn
to
the
truth
of
the
Kentucky
Fried
Mutant
Chicken
Creature
story
,
who
had
told
him
the
story
of
the
black
freight
trains
that
the
government
uses
to
haul
political
prisoners
off
to
Secret
Northern
Californian
Concentration
Camps
,
moving
across
the
country
in
the
dead
of
the
night
—
Jackson
had
also
told
him
that
the
CIA
used
the
Reader
’
s
Digest
as
a
front
for
their
branch
offices
around
the
world
.
He
said
that
every
Reader
’
s
Digest
office
in
every
country
was
really
CIA
.
"
A
joke
,
"
said
the
late
Mr
.
Wood
,
in
Shadow
’
s
memory
.
"
How
can
we
be
sure
the
CIA
wasn
’
t
involved
in
the
Kennedy
assassination
?
"
Shadow
cracked
the
window
open
a
few
inches
—
enough
for
fresh
air
to
get
in
,
enough
for
the
cat
to
be
able
to
get
out
onto
the
balcony
outside
.
He
turned
on
the
bedside
lamp
,
climbed
into
bed
and
read
for
a
little
,
trying
to
turn
off
his
mind
,
to
get
the
last
few
days
out
of
his
head
,
picking
the
dullest
-
looking
articles
in
the
dullest
-
looking
Digests
.
He
noticed
he
was
falling
asleep
halfway
through
"
I
Am
John
’
s
Pancreas
.
"
He
barely
had
time
enough
to
turn
out
the
bedside
light
and
put
his
head
down
on
the
pillow
before
his
eyes
closed
for
the
night
.
Later
he
was
never
able
to
recollect
the
sequences
and
details
of
that
dream
:
attempts
to
remember
it
produced
nothing
more
than
a
tangle
of
dark
images
,
underexposed
in
the
darkroom
of
his
mind
.
There
was
a
girl
.
He
had
met
her
somewhere
,
and
now
they
were
walking
across
a
bridge
.
It
spanned
a
small
lake
,
in
the
middle
of
a
town
.
The
wind
was
ruffling
the
surface
of
the
lake
,
making
waves
tipped
with
whitecaps
,
which
seemed
to
Shadow
to
be
tiny
hands
reaching
for
him
.
—
Down
there
,
said
the
woman
.
She
was
wearing
a
leopard
-
print
skirt
which
flapped
and
tossed
in
the
wind
,
and
the
flesh
between
the
top
of
her
stockings
and
her
skirt
was
creamy
and
soft
and
in
his
dream
,
on
the
bridge
,
before
God
and
the
world
,
Shadow
went
down
to
his
knees
in
front
of
her
,
burying
his
head
in
her
crotch
,
drinking
in
the
intoxicating
jungle
female
scent
of
her
.
He
became
aware
,
in
his
dream
,
of
his
erection
in
real
life
,
a
rigid
,
pounding
,
monstrous
thing
as
painful
in
its
hardness
as
the
erections
he
’
d
had
as
a
boy
,
when
he
was
crashing
into
puberty
with
no
idea
of
what
the
unprompted
rigidities
were
,
knowing
only
that
they
scared
him
.
He
pulled
away
and
looked
upward
,
and
still
he
could
not
see
her
face
.
But
his
mouth
was
seeking
hers
and
her
lips
were
soft
against
his
,
and
his
hands
were
cupping
her
breasts
,
and
then
they
were
running
across
the
satin
smoothness
of
her
skin
,
pushing
into
and
parting
the
furs
that
hid
her
waist
,
sliding
into
the
wonderful
cleft
of
her
which
warmed
and
wetted
and
parted
for
him
,
opening
to
his
hand
like
a
flower
.
The
woman
purred
against
him
ecstatically
,
her
hand
moving
down
to
the
hardness
of
him
and
squeezing
it
.
He
pushed
the
bed
sheets
away
and
rolled
on
top
of
her
,
his
hand
parting
her
thighs
,
her
hand
guiding
him
between
her
legs
,
where
one
thrust
,
one
magical
push
…
Now
he
was
back
in
his
old
prison
cell
with
her
,
and
he
was
kissing
her
deeply
.
She
wrapped
her
arms
tightly
around
him
,
clamped
her
legs
about
his
legs
to
hold
him
tight
,
so
he
could
not
pull
out
,
not
even
if
he
wanted
to
.
Never
had
he
kissed
lips
so
soft
.
He
had
not
known
that
there
were
lips
so
soft
in
the
whole
world
.
Her
tongue
,
though
,
was
sandpaper
-
rough
as
it
slipped
against
his
.
—
Who
are
you
?
he
asked
.
