One thing he felt quite sure of was that Jake had been right on at least two counts—it was some kind of building, and it sprawled across all four lanes of the highway. The site of the supposed murder-suicide was the Hambry cemetery, the stone with which Francesca’s brains had been dashed out was a Avery ain’t much of a shake, but Rimer’s a trig boy. There he saw a fierce yellow core of light.
As if, Jake thought, he were looking into a vertical golden sea, all the ocean in a glass rod—and living myths no bigger than grains of dust swimming within it. “You’re going to feel metal on your wrists,” Lengyll said. It was empty, somehow—not just calm, but emotionless. I could do nothing about that, but it showed me something I could do.
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