Chapter 8

Sunday, December 14, 2014, 7:02 a.m. Rebecca awoke, stiff and sore, her left wrist throbbing. “Ahhh,” she hissed, trying to flex the joint. The swelling had worsened overnight, all but hiding the underlying bones. Having slept on her right side, it was a struggle pushing upright to a sitting position. She groaned all the way up.

Squinting, one-eyed, she leaned to her right to check the dashboard clock. The time was 7:02 a.m., barely light out. She had slept almost 11 hours, and as expected, had to go pee. The accompanying burn told her she hadn’t drank nearly enough water yesterday; no Diet Coke until she got sufficiently hydrated. Stretching, she listened to her tendons and joints creak. She’d never slept in a car before.

Val’s house, and the houses up and down the street confirmed that electricity still flowed through the power grid. How much longer could it last, she wondered. How many times had she wondered that since Friday night, she wondered. Reaching between the seats, she poked the radio into life and, starting with the presets for WGMA, and WKEE, confirmed that only 6 of Dad’s 12 preset stations were still on the air. It surprised her that many still functioned.

Knowing Dad kept a supply of napkins in the car, Rebecca climbed out the passenger-side door, opened the front door and popped open the glove compartment. Her left hand was useless; worse than useless, as it demanded her continual attention; the slightest bump or movement was agonizing. Please, don’t let it be broken, she prayed. Getting her jeans opened and unzipped one-handed proved how hamstrung she was.

Wait, she thought, blinking. You’re gonna pee right here, next to the car? Growing red-faced, she glanced quickly about, still un-adapted to being alone. She imagined her pose quite comical looking: jeans half-pushed down her hips, half-squatting, looking everywhere at once. Standing erect, she clumsily secured the top of her jeans.

Don’t bother pretending you can break into Val’s house this morning, she told herself; not able to do that yet. She also couldn’t pee outdoors in the cold. This was so fucking absurd.

Val’s closest neighbor was on the opposite side of the street, 100 feet west. Needing to walk out the kinks from her night on the bench seat, she leaned across to kill the engine and remove the keys, then closed both doors and locked Teddy with the remote. The keys went into her coat pocket, which she zipped closed with difficulty. She needed a brace for her left hand!

Digging out her phone, she brought up Google and did a search for local pharmacies. The only pharmacy displayed was thankfully less than a mile away, a CVS on 2nd Avenue here in Chesapeake. Unfortunately, it was the only pharmacy this side of the river, anywhere close. So said Google. How much could she trust this thing, she didn’t know.

In her best Arnold voice, she growled, “I’ll be back” to Teddy, bumped his hood with her fist, and headed stiff-legged across the street. The idea of breaking into the neighbor’s house had her on edge, of course, but minus the qualms accompanying any thought of breaking and entering Val’s grandparent’s place. If things continued as-is, though, breaking, and entering was something she’d need to get used to quickly.

Halfway up the neighbor’s driveway, she halted in a dead panic: she had left the Remington locked up in Teddy! Locked in terror for a moment, she whirled and bolted back down the driveway and into the street, struggling one-handed with her coat pocket, twice nearly tripping, and taking a nosedive into the pavement. Unarmed, she was virtually defenseless with her sprained wrist.

Reaching Teddy, she finally freed the keys, barely managing to halt before slamming into him broadside. Huffing, she keyed the remote and yanked open the rear door.

“Ah!” she gasped, jumping back. Grimacing, she eyed her right wrist. The unexpected and sharp pain advised it was injured during last night’s rant, also. She backed up farther away, forcing herself to calm down.

“Fucking get a grip, Rebecca!” She leaned back and breathed deeply, focusing on the last visible stars in the west. “You can’t afford two sprained wrists, girl.” She raised her hand, and carefully tested the wrist’s mobility. It might be okay, she thought, or it might not. She must be careful with it, put a brace on it also, before it got any worse. No problem, she thought sardonically, with her left wrist already sprained.

She gingerly gripped the Remington’s stock, lifted it out and shut the rear door with her knee. Her wrist didn’t like the unbalanced weight; bracing the shotgun against her knee, she let it slide slowly downward in her grasp, closing her fingers around the contoured grip, the weight properly balanced now.

What in the last day and a half made her think she needed protection, anyway, she wondered. Would the shotgun stop a building falling atop her? Prevent a bridge from disappearing from underfoot? Halt attacks by maddened Diet Coke bottles? Logic did nothing to alleviate unreasonable fear, though, she thought.

The neighbor’s house was slightly older and smaller than Val’s grandparent’s home, though equally well maintained. Low hedges bordered the property, and the back yard was enclosed by a waist-high, white picket fence. A massive oak dominated the front yard, its canopy nearly the size of the house, Rebecca imagined. The skeletal structure of the huge tree creeped her out a bit.

She found it impossible not to climb the front steps and ring the doorbell. “Anyone home?” she yelled. Rather than chance a worsening her right wrist, she banged the storm door with her knee. “You there?” she hollered. “I’m a friend of Valerie across the street! I’d like to use your bathroom if I could, please because I’m about to pee my fucking panties, people!”

She kneed the storm door again, uttered a few choice words, and then fumbled the door open, Remington still clutched beneath her left arm. She tested the ornate doorknob, cursed under her breath, and then stood back, storm door propped against her shoulder, wondering what now?

It was full light out now, though overcast, with a damp, uncomfortable bite to the air. Consulting her iPhone, she found it 32 degrees out. The temperature in Chesapeake was predicted to reach a balmy 42 degrees at 3:00 p.m. Not for the first time in the last 18 hours, she questioned leaving the house without gloves, a hat, and a scarf. Focus, she thought, before your bladder bursts, girl.

The front door contained an oval inset of alternating opaque and clear faceted glass; it proved a tempting invitation to the butt end of the shotgun. Stepping back, she angled sideways, testing her aim and balance with a series of mock jabs. Satisfied, if not overly enthusiastic, she inhaled deeply, turned her head away, and squinting, slammed the butt end directly into the center of the window. It went through with a jolt and a reverberating crash, leaving a gaping, jagged-edge wound.

“Be careful,” she muttered, drawing back the stock. “You don’t want to wound yourself, too, baby.”

Despite having taken care, the impact had jarred her right wrist. She flexed it, opening and closing her pink, nearly numb fingers, shotgun propped against the front door. Not the smartest thing, she guessed, warily eyeing the quarter-sized, ominous black hole. She tucked the shotgun beneath her left arm again, and then discovered the frustrating truth of the matter: she could not reach inside with her right hand to unlock the front door. Not without causing herself serious injury, at least. The door was right-handed, and so was she with left hand perfectly useless.

“Fuck!” she screamed. How could she be so stupid? Even knocking the glass out all around the window’s perimeter left her with no easy way to reach inside with her right hand to unlock the deadbolt and doorknob.

Turning, she gave the storm door a viscous kick, denting the bottom panel and dislodging the upper window section; it dropped halfway before locking in place with a thud. She laughed disgustedly, and uttered a miserable, “Fuck.” Time to give up, Rebecca.

Fuck that, she thought.

In practice, her left hand proved not so useless as presumed. Though making her gasp in agony, she was able to reach inside and cautiously twist the deadbolt knob to the right. It wasn’t like at home, where some workman had installed the deadbolt just off-centered enough to make the tongue scrape against the strike plate all the way out. She fumbled loose the security chain, and then twisted the pivot on the doorknob, unlocking it. Gasping in relief, she twisted the outside knob and pushed open the door. She laughed as the alarm pad by the door jamb started to beep.

“You fucking hermaphrodite asshole, you!” Still laughing, she swung up the shotgun, planning to give the keypad a swift dose of stock and see how that worked as input. But she paused, noting the yellow sticky adhered to the top. 6-14-7-22 was written across it in blue ink.

“Really?” Tucking the Remington beneath her arm, again, she punched in the code and observed the blinking red light switch to a solid green. “Well damn. How about that.” Laughing, she slammed the door and immediately pranced into the powder room to go pee.

-------//-------

The house was warm, though it wouldn’t remain that way with a big hole in the front door. Removing her bulky coat and draping it over the back of a recliner, Rebecca looked about the tidy living room and then the adjacent dining room for something to use as a patch. She was surprised to spot an ongoing construction project on the dining room table. Ambling over, she perused the collection of posterboard, glue, tape, bottles of different colored sparkles, and multi-colored strips and swatches of velour. Someone, or several someone’s, was busy Friday night with a child’s school project.

Feeling a prickle in her eyelids, she blinked away at the unwanted moisture, wrinkling, and then wiping her nose, still red from the damp cold outside. A Christmas tree had begun to take shape on the table.

She decided that the posterboard would work just fine. First, though, she needed to clean up the broken glass. Heading for the kitchen, she turned back and deposited the Remington on the edge of the dining room table. Presumably she was safe in the house. Physically, anyway. Psychologically, she wasn’t so sure.

The kitchen was retro, outfitted with appliances, cabinets and flooring her great-grandma might feel right at home with, even if brand new. In a corner stood a proper broom closet, in which she discovered an old-fashioned straw broom and metal dustpan. The dustpan was made of green painted steel, something right out of her great-grandmother’s kitchen of the 1950’s.

She paused at the small but comfortable looking nook. On the table was a large calculator with oversized keys and display screen. Curious, she spun a pile of neatly stacked bills. The unknown owners now had names: Ted and Rebecca Cade. Rebecca grinned at the coincidence: hers wasn’t that common a name.

Not caring to invade their privacy as well as their home, Rebecca spun the bills back to their original position and carried the broom and dustpan out to the front door. Having experienced a dash of movement, her left wrist was un-stiffening a bit, enough to assist in the cleanup, anyway. Sweeping one-handed, she gathered the broken fragments and shards of the once pretty window into a pile, and then squatted, holding the dustpan in place with her left hand while she filled the bin. It saddened her, knowing she had ruined the front door. The prismatic glass had been pretty.

Thinking she’d require the broom again, Rebecca propped it against the door and carried the dustpan into the kitchen, emptying it into a waste basket beneath the sink. In the dining room, she selected two sheets of heavy poster board, tucking them beneath her arm to carry a pair of blunt-nosed scissors, a roll of 2” wide clear plastic tape, and the bottle of Elmer’s Glue to the front door. She deposited everything atop the small, square foyer table.

She stood back a moment and reflected on the problem. Rather than cut the board to exact size, leave it oversized, she thought, adhering it via a thick bead of glue about the raised plastic rim of the window frame. Then secure the board north-south, and east-west with clear plastic tape, letting it dry in place. In practice, the process turned out nearly as easily done as imagined. She stood back and admired her handiwork.

It won’t last, of course, she thought: poster board was only cardboard, after all. But considered in the long-view, did it really matter? It’s not like she planned to stay. Smiling grimly, she gathered what she could one-handed, and returned the borrowed materials to the dining room table in two trips. Time to eat? She was famished.

The refrigerator was well stocked, even more so than her own. Wanting something more than a sandwich this morning, or worse, bland cereal, she opened the freezer door and scanned the packages of dinner’s and breakfast offerings. What she craved was a McDonald’s Big Breakfast (a McDonald’s was not far away, which she considered for a moment) but guessed a Jimmy Dean ham and egg scramble would do just fine. Removing the box and checking the date, she turned and scanned the counters for a seemingly non-existent microwave. You got to be kidding, she thought. Really? Then again, it fit the decor.

Taking nothing for granted, Rebecca poked and prodded, discovering the surprisingly large microwave built into the cabinet adjacent to the range hood. It was white, and obviously brand new, controlled via touchscreen. A preset existed for frozen dinner and breakfast items. Keying in the breakfast’s net weight, she placed it on the turntable and shut the door. A touch to the screen started it spinning. She stood back, rightly suspicious of anything emitting radiant energy.

The milk was fresh, a mostly full gallon jug bearing a date a week in the future. While the breakfast was heated, she poured a glass of milk and then gathered salt and pepper, napkins from a white wire dispenser, and then silverware, and set a place at the small table. She guessed Mr. and Mrs. Cade wouldn’t mind. Other than breaking their front door.

She wondered how old the kids were. The Christmas tree was a project she’d done in elementary school. She’d noted the letter jacket hung on a peg at the front door, indicting a high school-age brother or sister. She had no desire to look upstairs to find out. Being downstairs was trespass enough.

The microwave pinged twice. Removing the bowl, she peeled back the plastic cover and stirred the delicious smelling contents. Covering it again, she returned the bowl to the turntable and closed the door. The power switched on for another minute and a half’s heating.

How would she get home? She had deliberately not thought about it this morning, refusing to stress her already delicate psyche. Digging out her cell phone now, she confirmed the continued non-existence of bridges across the river, anywhere from Cincinnati to the west, to the Pennsylvania border to her east. She didn’t question how the nonexistence came about; leave that for a more opportune time. Right now, it was time to fill her belly.

The breakfast scramble was a bit dry. Never one to pile injury upon insult, she added water rather than anything fattening. Her dad was a huge butter and margarine guy, adding liberal amounts onto anything from oatmeal to pasta. Mom and Maudie were sensible, like her, slaves to fashion insults such as skinny jeans and leggings.

She stirred the contents, then crossed to the table and sat down. The ham and cheese scramble wasn’t bad; the aroma cooking up had set her mouth to watering. Add a splash of salt and pepper and dive in.

She was an expert swimmer. Swimming the river at a narrow point in the summertime was not unthinkable. But it was December, not July, and the water far too cold to attempt a crossing without a wetsuit. She had suited up only once, snorkeling two summers ago with her cousins Evie and Angie, in Lake Erie, but they had provided the wetsuit. Was the idea even viable? She looked at her left wrist and snorted. A boat, then. Could she row? Another snort earned. A motorboat, then.

Good luck finding one in mid-December, dummy!

Her appetite satiated, Rebecca struggled to her feet (trapped on that back seat all night had left her cramped up like Val’s aged grandparents) and carried the bowl and utensils to the sink, depositing the plastic bowl in the trash can. Undoubtedly, the Cade’s properly recycled, but she had no interest in searching out the blue recycle bucket just now. She stretched, trying to unkink her back. It was just past 9 a.m.

Carefully, shotgun in hand, if not ready to use, Rebecca ventured to the stairs and looked up. The idea of climbing to the 2nd floor made her insides clench. But she really wanted a bath and knew her opportunity for having one decreased with every tick of the second hand. At any moment, the electricity would fail, and with it the pumps supplying water to the house. Sooner or later—almost certainly, sooner—the lights would go out for good.

She tucked the Remington beneath her left arm and grasped the railing, ascending the first step. One step at a time, she thought. At the top she gazed up and down the hall, correctly picking out the bathroom door. The others she closed, wanting no further intrusion into this family’s life. She noted the older sibling was a boy, however; that made her feel slightly better. She wasn’t invading another teen girl’s domain.

Clean towels were in the hall closet. She grabbed two, and then entered the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Propping the shotgun in the corner, she removed her red and blue flannel shirt, and then sat atop the toilet seat to unlace and remove her boots; she peeled off her socks and set them aside. Her left hand offered just enough assistance to get the Lady Gaga T-shirt over her head, her cords undone and off her hips. One-handed, she removed and hung them over her shirts on the back of the door. She longed for her terrycloth robe.

The Cade’s used Crest toothpaste. Running a bead along her index finger, she finger-brushed her teeth, eying the pair of toothbrushes in the ceramic holder. Mom’s and Dad’s were in their own holder in the master bathroom, she assumed. How old were the Cade’s? Were there two kids, or three? The house was big enough for three, though she’d spotted no evidence of a third. She expected the spare bedroom was for guests.

Starting the shower, she removed her underwear, checked the door again, giving the knob a hard twist, and then checked the shower for shampoo and conditioner. She found multiple brands, indicating little sister was old enough to insist on her own. Not surprising, when sisters did likewise at her own house.

An intense longing for her mom, dad and sister doubled her over in pain. Sobbing, she groped for the toilet lid and sat down, arms clamped over her chest, right hand over her mouth, eyes jammed shut. Please don’t come unhinged, she pleaded internally. Don’t come unhinged, Rebecca, just don’t!

She began to rock forward and back, head wagging vehemently, a moan of pure despair choked in her throat. Where were her parents? Why had they left her all alone? Who had done this to her?

Unhinged, she sloughed to the floor and collapsed into a fetal ball, knees tucked to her chest, thumb in her mouth, sobbing violently. After a time, the streaming water ran cold, halting the emission of steam. The room cooled, the mirror and ceramic tiles cleared; Rebecca sucked her thumb unknowing and shivered on the tiled floor.

Jessica 8

Sunday, December 14, 7:02 a.m. Jesse suffered a world class hangover. Popping two Bayer Aspirin onto his tongue, he chewed and washed them down with orange Gatorade. He knew from his dad that aspirin was the safest pain medication to mix with alcohol. Not that aspirin did your liver any favors; it simply had less effect on the vital organ than other over the counter drugs. He’d been warned never to ingest more than 650 mg at a time or exceed 3000 mg in 24 hours. Jesse would gladly dump half the bottle down his throat to detox this miserable hangover.

They’d suffered significant trauma since falling asleep last night. He’d surfaced to save her sanity, and with her blessings remained in charge to keep them sane. Jessica was too mentally fragile to trust herself making decisions right now: let Jesse take responsibility, for a while.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Let the dude fuck everything up. Crap—my nose.”

It didn’t appear broken. He’d stanched the flow of blood with rolled tissue paper at the overlook. He’d discovered a pair of McDonald’s napkins in his jacket pocket. When and where she’d stuck them in, he had no idea, but they were a lifesaver at 3:30 a.m. Staring in the mirror, now, Jesse questioned both their sanity.

He’d perched atop a ledge over Bonneville Scenic Overlook, feet dangling into space. A half-empty six pack of Heineken sat on the rock beside him. A full bottle awaited opening in his left hand. It took a 3-count for the empty bottle he’d thrown to strike the rocks below. “Another dead soldier!” he’d saluted as it explosively shattered. Nine beers into this binge, and Jesse and Jessica were dangerously drunk.

She’d awoken in a panic just after 1:00 a.m. Forcing her feet into Amanda’s sneakers, she’d grabbed the shotgun and run a sweep of the house, jamming the back of the kitchen chair under the knob to the basement door. Then he’d repeated the sweep, muttering curses under his breath. From the relative safety of the backseat, Jessica had enquired: “Do you hear something? Is somebody out there? Is it Robin?”

Reacting as though zapped with a cattle prod, Jesse ran to the closest window and threw it open. “Robin? Robin, is that you? Are you out there? Call out right now so I don’t shoot you by accident!”

Both had listened desperately for Robin’s voice. The only thing either heard was the compressor running around side of the house, and those in the neighbor’s yards. Imagine her panic if she’d awoken in the dark.

Jesse knew of the overlook but had never been there. Grabbing a 6-pack of Heineken from the fridge, he’d snapped open a bottle, guzzled half the contents, and half-ran, half-stumbled upstairs to retrieve the Glock.

“Where are we going?” she demanded, nearly hysterical. “Are you crazy? Are you trying to get us killed? Bonneville Overlook, Jesse? Really?”

“Shut up!” he shouted, heading downstairs again. He’d grabbed the keys off the foyer table and headed out at a run, not even taking a flashlight.

“You are insane!” she cried. “You’re not gonna jump, are you?”

He laughed gruffly. Bonneville Overlook was notorious for more than being a Lover’s Lane. Numerous suicides had dived off the high rocks over the years. This morning they had the rocks all to themselves.

“Fuckin’ A, Jim Kirk! Beam me up, Scotty!” He put the beer to his lips and chugged down half the contents. “Urrrp!” he belched, tossing the bottle one hand to the other, and back again. No beer spilled out the top; hence, he was not too sloshed to drive. He set the bottle down beside him on the rock.

“Can we go home now?” she whined. “I’m freezing to death, Jesse!”

“I never should have quit these,” he answered, lighting up a fresh Marlboro. “Fucking political do-gooder, commie-pinko-fag ... rainforest rabbits.” He unthinkingly flicked the newly lit cigarette out into space ... then watched anxiously as it flipped end to end through the darkness to explode in a shower of sparks below. He prepared to climb down if an unextinguished spark suddenly ignited the dry grass down below. Even during the wet season, you didn’t chance igniting a wildfire on the mountain. Which brought up a talking-point. Blinking slowly, he withdrew the box of Marlboro’s from his shirt pocket, flipped back the top, and withdrew a cigarette.

“How is it that you light?” he demanded. “You and your dead brothers.”

Concerned, he glanced down again, inspecting the darkness for any hint of red. Discovering none in the 30 seconds he stared, he shrugged and held up the slender cylinder for inspection. Then, twisting around, he grabbed a hank of scrub grass at the edge of the rock and yanked it loose. He examined it, side-by-side with the cigarette.

“Why isn’t Tennessee on fire? How do thousands of crashed vehicles, hundreds of airliners and unattended fires in every restaurant in town—” He glanced up at the view southwest across the valley—Morristown stretched away into the distance below. “—and a million lit cigarettes not start a single fucking fire?”

Frustrated, he stuck the butt in his mouth and fished the pink lighter from his shirt pocket again. A Bic, he’d purchased it along with the pack of Marlboro’s and another two 6-packs at a 7-11 on 116. Rather, he’d left an IOU on the counter to cover the purchase he couldn’t make. He spun the sparker wheel now. To his surprise, the dry grass in his hand ignited at a touch of the flame. He hurriedly beat it out against the rock.

“What are you doing? Are you trying to start a fire?” Jessica bawled. “It didn’t really rain this morning, remember? It hasn’t rained in weeks, Jesse! Stop being a fire-bug!”

“Shut up, already,” he muttered, wondering, so what did that mean?

Lighting up, he took a cautious inhalation and half-filled his lungs. He’d quit a year ago, after clandestinely smoking for 2 months with Robin.

Back then, he could, and did, suck harsh smoke deep into his lungs without worry; doing that now would make him disastrously nauseous. He’d taken care so far. He stubbed the cigarette out on the rock beside his right thigh, but then perversely lit it again.

“Can we go home now?”

Using exaggerated care, he pushed away from the edge, and then shakily took his feet, 3’ back from the abyss. He swayed alarmingly and added another 2’ to the distance. He could stumble now, and probably not tumbled over the edge. Probably. Besides, the rock angled upward, if crookedly.

“Are you happy now, bitch? Can I enjoy the view a moment before we go?”

“Jesse, please...?”

He threw out his arm. “You’re too beautiful a babe to go up in flames!” he shouted.

A sea of lights flowed east-west across the valley, home of Westview, Echo Hills, and of course, Morristown. Visible in the distance were the nearby suburbs of Knoxville; he even thought that White Pine could be seen to the southeast.

“I salute you, beautiful lady!” he yelled. Downing the last of the beer, he underhanded the bottle into the void and counted 3 seconds until it crashed onto the rocks. He glanced down at his feet, examining the outcrop, making certain the scrub grass remained extinguished. He stumbled a few steps closer to the edge to likewise check below. Why had he flicked that stupid cigarette over, anyway? He knew better than that. When he raised his eyes, again, the view of the valley had subtly changed.

“Jesse ... what’s going on?”

He scrunched his brow and scratched his head, reacting to her trepidation. The lights were somehow altered, no longer delineated in the recognized pattern of streets and neighborhoods. As he watched, the east-west/north-south grid dissolved amorphously, reconstituted as something else—he blinked rapidly and shook his head—altered subtly again, and then settled into an almost recognized shape.

“What am I seeing?” he croaked. “What the fuck is going on down there?” Unsteady, he rubbed his eyes and took two precautionary steps farther back from the edge.

“Jesse! Jesse, we gotta get outta here!” Jessica was suddenly panicked and dead sober. Lights below shimmered and shifted, flowed eerily in waves, east to west and back, then toward them to break at the base of the hill and draw back to reform for another go, exactly like waves crashing onto a beach. Transforming, they flowed and swirled to present the almost recognized shape, again, then shifted fluidly to mimic the unseen band of light splashed across the night sky, a mirrored Milky Way. “Fuck!” Jessica cried. “Get us outta here, Jesse!”

He turned to flee and tripped. Cracking his forehead and punching his nose on the rock, he yowled. Scrambling onto his hands and knees, he heard the patter of blood on the rock below. His nose was bloodied, possibly broken; in the morning he’d discover a chipped upper incisor, too. Touching his forehead revealed a small, stinging cut. He shook his head, woozy and confused. Then he remembered the lights.

Desperately, he pushed onto his feet and turned and backed away. Millions of valley lights had again adopted that almost recognizable face. Blinking, listening to Jessica caterwauling in his head, he watched the features soften and then sharpen to finally resolve into those of Hollywood’s most beautiful woman of all time.

“Jesse! Oh, my God, Jesse! That’s—that’s Marilyn Monroe! It’s Marilyn Monroe down there!” She laughed and clapped his hands together giddily.

“Will you stop that!” He wrenched back control of his hands. “Control yourself, bitch!”

The outline wavered, and then solidified into the famous closeup of Marilyn smiling at the camera, left fingertips brushing her cheek. How was this possible? Who could command millions of individual lights, tied through electrical flow from many different sources, controlled by umpteen thousands of circuits and individual switches? And Jesus, she seemed to stare directly at him! He closed his eyes, shivering.