Page 60 of The Instruments of Darkness

“You know you share a name with a philosopher?”

“Yeah. The wager guy.”

“Our lives are a bet on the existence or nonexistence of God,” said Sabine, “or so he posited. I take you as a batter for the nonexistence team.”

“You take me right.”

“Have you ever heard of Pyrrho?”

“Can’t say that I have. Was he Pascal’s older brother?”

“Hardly, not unless he was unusually long-lived. He was a Greek philosopher, among the earliest skeptics—although one unlike yourself, skepticism being an oft-misused term.”

Pascal realized he’d just been given a ticking-off, even if he couldn’t have said exactly how, or why.

“Pyrrho,” continued Sabine, “believed that one should suspend judgment on non-evident propositions—the existence of gods, for instance, or ghosts—because there can be no truth to them, only arguments for and against. You should consider my testimony as an argument ‘for.’?”

“And what do I set against it?”

“Whatever you choose.”

“Results?”

She thought about this.

“Results might do it, though you could ascribe them to coincidence if it made you feel better about the whole business.” She sniffed, and rummaged for another tissue. “I ought to read more philosophy, but there are only so many hours in the day. I was more invested when I was younger, in the hope that it might assist me in understanding my responsibilities, but either I wasn’t smart enough or the philosophers weren’t. Then again, it may be that we were equally at fault.”

She stopped talking and waited expectantly for him to resume, as though their exchange should have put an end to any reasons he might have had for further hesitation.

“You said—” He corrected himself. “Verona said that he choked her to death.”

“Once more, she doesn’t think it was his intention, but that’s what it amounts to. She managed to get her hands free while she was in the trunk and attacked him when he unlocked the lid. He took hold of her throat to restrain her and fractured something inside. There’s a little bone—”

“The hyoid,” said Pascal.

“Yes, that’s it. I had to read up on it, but you just knew. That’s impressive, although it bespeaks experience I’m glad I don’t have. It seems the hyoid is very delicate, especially in children, or am I mistaken?”

“No, you’re correct.”

“Then that may be what he broke inside her. Afterward, he buried her.”

“Was his face still obscured when he popped the trunk?”

“Yes, but in the moment before he could react, Verona caught sight of those aspects of the landscape that I’ve reproduced on paper for you.”

“Which brings us to the map.”

It resembled a sketch a child might have created, and Pascal experienced an absurd temptation to ask Sabine if, in fact, Verona herself might have been responsible. He saw a pen moving of its own volition while Sabine watched. He waited until the image had passed before continuing, even as he wondered if exposure to this woman was somehow polluting his rationalism. He was also, he had to admit, still smarting about that Pyrrho crack.

“I concede,” said Drew, “that my artistic skills leave much to be desired.”

“Did Verona describe this scene to you?”

“Not exactly. Some of it she described, and some she… showed me.”

“Showed?”

“It’s like a camera flash going off in a dark space, except the image is blurred. Like so much else, it’s hard to explain.”

---