He explained with the top down, the hot current of the clean desert dragging his words behind us. I wondered if he intended for me, as I did, to only hear snatches of what he said. We were going to a fellow he only referred to as The Doppelganger, someone who managed to manipulate time? Something about pressing himself against a dimensional fold? Not to be trusted but the only one who? And never to something in his presence?
“Never do what?”
We pulled behind a house that seemed sculptured among the white sands, its carved and undulating curves both organic and audacious in the backdrop of the distant mountains—an alabaster statement in the drop of a zen stone garden. McAllister put his finger to his lips as he shut off the engine. He paused before gingerly pulling back the door handle.
“Never do what?” I whispered, almost crouching down as McAllister leaned out of the car and let one foot and then the other crunch the pale gravel.