The Shelter Cycle Read Online Free PDF Page B

and your own decrees, you can bring forth advanced souls with bodies and with genes that are adequate to their consciousness. The sacred fire in your heart determines what sort of soul you can magnetize to your temple.
    Had Colville highlighted this passage for Francine, or had someone else done it, in another place, another time? Now Wells touched the words, imagined Francine reading about souls and magnetism and consciousness. Would she laugh? Would this all seem somehow familiar?

4
    I T WAS LATE AFTERNOON and Wells sat in the living room, watching the street through the window. Waiting. He’d gotten off work early, the last few days; he was trying to figure out what Colville was doing.
    And here the man came, walking quickly, not even glancing at the house. The way he walked—he lifted his feet higher than was necessary, his spine rigidly straight despite the heavy frame pack he wore.
    Wells went out the side door, onto the driveway, then into his truck. He drove slowly, staying a half block back. The orange pack made the following easier. He knew where Colville was going—first to Jackson’s, to pick up some food, and then to some motel, where he’d get a room. Wells had learned, in the last few days, that Colville shuttled between motels; he’d stay two or three nights in a place, or sometimes only one. He’d double back, sleep one place on Monday, someplace else on Tuesday and Wednesday, then return to the first place again on Thursday.
    Today was Friday, and Colville came out of the store with a bunch of bananas in his hand. He ate them as he walked, that orange pack bobbing along, swaying slightly from side to side. Wells shifted back into gear, eased out into traffic. When he got too close, he pulled over, waited, then resumed his pursuit. If Colville saw him, that would be fine. Perhaps today was the day they’d talk; perhaps Colville knew he was here right now.
    At the Econo Lodge, Wells parked on the street, where he could watch the office that Colville had entered. He could also see the narrow parking lot, the low wall that shielded the pool from sight. The doors’ brass numbers glinted in the cold sun. No one opened the doors, or the curtains in the windows; no one stood on the balcony except a maid moving her cart of fresh towels and sheets slowly along.
    Five minutes passed, and then Colville reappeared. Fifty feet away, carrying a small blue bucket in one hand, walking in front of the white wall so his shadow slid next to him like a tilting companion.
    Wells opened the door of his truck and started across the parking lot, almost tripping on the curb.
    Colville glanced up. “I thought that was you over there, Wells.”
    â€œI wanted to talk to you.”
    Colville smiled. “We’re talking.” He was so skinny. He wore a black sweater with holes in the elbows; his pants were actually coveralls, the arms tied off around his waist. The square top of the pack framed his face with orange, tinting his skin.
    â€œI’ve seen you,” Wells said. “Walking past our house in the morning, coming back the other way in the afternoon.”
    â€œProbably so,” Colville said. “I suspect I do.”
    â€œI’m asking you to stop it. That’s all I’m asking.” Wells tried to keep his voice down. “Francine doesn’t need you hanging around like that.”
    Colville laughed. “I see,” he said. “I understand how that might look now. But you’ve misunderstood things. I’m here to find the girl, like I told you. Or that’s why I came here. That’s what I’m doing, though Francine being here can’t be a coincidence.”
    â€œI’m asking you to stop. How you think I understand things doesn’t matter.”
    â€œFrancine and I,” Colville said. “You couldn’t really understand where we’re from, the path we started on. She’s my oldest