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"That would be Lystrom," Eddie announced. "I had him watching for you to come
down here. We've got a big flatbed with tanks on the back, and a few thousand
gallons of unleaded gasoline."
Men turned, beginning to run in their cumbersome waders, sloppy half-steps
taking them nowhere.
A swift thread of crystalline petroleum fell from the nearest grate, musical and
fragrant, landing on the water and too light to sink, too different to mingle,
spreading like a spell across the tainted black water.
Trying to smile one last time, Eddie pointed at the wall, saying, "Look!
Someone's finishing the painting for me!"
But Macon refused to look. In the end, like a child, he pretended that what he
didn't see couldn't possibly be real, and what wasn't real would never want to
hurt little him.
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