Текст книги "Prodigal Blues"

Автор книги: Gary A. Braunbeck

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

11. Maybe the Bad Stuff Makes Him Sad

Before we all got out of the bus to assume our positions, I'd reminded Thomas to make sure that he sang the "Bill and Dale" line when he saw his mother; if nothing else, that would let her know that he was really her little boy.

"He won't need to do that," said Rebecca.  "His mother will know who he is."

I sat there for a moment trying to figure out how to say good-bye to this broken little boy I hardly knew, then Christopher signaled for me to get out with him.  "Let them say their good-byes in private."

As soon as we were outside, he drove his knee up into my balls, covering my mouth with his hand to muffle my shriek.  I dropped to my knees and he grabbed a handful of hair, yanking back my head and leaning in my face.

"That's for putting me on the spot earlier.  And"—he jerked my hand back farther—"to remind you that you and me are not friends, got it?  Just because you do all right under pressure doesn't mean I won't splatter you all over the pavement if you give me a reason.  You see this?  This isn't that the pop gun I used on the guy at the rest stop, this is a .45-caliber Heckler and Koch USP Tactical pistol.  Of all his guns, this one was Grendel's favorite.  It doesn't make much of a hole going in, but you could set a whole watermelon in the crater it makes on the way out—and from the distance I'll be shooting, that's what it'll do."  He jerked my head one more time; I could hardly breathe and could hear bones starting to crack.

"Are we clear on everything?"

"…yes…" I managed to get out.  He snapped my head forward, releasing his grip.  I fell to my hands, gasping for air and trying not to throw up.

"Remember how I told you to do it, Pretty Boy.  Now go on.  That's the tree, up there near the corner.  Do good, we'll be listening."

I wobbled away, almost falling twice, one hand clutching at my crotch like a drunk stumbling toward a urinal in the dark.  Christopher took a bottle of pills from his pants pocket, looked at it, then put it back.  I wondered what they were.

I somehow made it to the tree, where I immediately put my back against it and slid to the ground.  My nuts had dropped back down—they were now only in the middle of my chest instead of lodged in my nostrils—and I was determined to stay like this until the last possible minute…

…which came about four minutes later, when the red beam of the laser sight flashed against my right temple.  I dragged myself to my feet and leaned against the tree, watching as Rebecca came around the corner, pushing Thomas in his wheelchair.  She pushed him up the walk, set the brakes, placed the two grocery bags in his lap, then embraced him.  I felt a great swell of sadness, then realized my pity was badly misplaced; they both carried themselves with far too much dignity for that.  How could I do anything but admire them?

Rebecca walked away, still shaking like a leaf in the wind, not looking back, and as soon as she disappeared around the corner I counted to sixty and placed the call.

It was between the second and third rings that I realized Christopher had not told me what name to use.  I sure as hell couldn't use my own, and if I—

"…lo?" said a very tired and very groggy voice.

"Hello?" I said.

"Uh, yeah, I… the hell time is—?  Who is this?"

"Am I talking to Mr. James Henry Theilbar?"

"Who is this?"

"Mr. Theilbar, this is"—I paused for only one second, grabbing the first official-sounding name that came into my mind—"Chief Deputy Samuel Gerard of the U.S. Marshal's Office."  If James Theilbar was a Tommy Lee Jones fan, I was screwed.

After a moment he said, "If this is some kind of joke, I swear to Christ—"

"I assure you this isn't a joke, sir.  You are the same James Henry Theilbar who is employed as plant manager at Larsons Manufacturing, Inc., aren't you?"

"Yes…?"  I could hear the weariness in his voice; how many times had he received prank phone calls that started out this way, but had talked to the caller anyway in hopes that, maybe, this time, it would be the real thing?

"Mr. Theilbar I need for you to get yourself awake, sir.  I have some information about Thomas."

"I'll just bet you do.  All right, asshole, if you're who you say you are, prove it."

"When your son was abducted from the emergency room waiting area at County General, he was wearing a New York Yankees' baseball cap, a blue, button-down shirt, a pair of—"

"Public record, you son-of-a-bitch."

"Your wife had the car that day and you couldn't find your wallet so you paid for the cab ride with cash you took from her house money that she didn't think you knew about—"

"Also in my statement."

"You let Thomas call the cab and pay the driver."

"Fuck you.  I'm hanging up now."

And he did.

I stood there staring at the phone in my hand, then hit the redial button.

This time before he answered, he turned on the bedroom light.  Their bedroom was in the front part of the upstairs, just as we'd hoped.  "Listen, you bastard—"

"Was it also part of your statement that the cookie jar where your wife kept her house money was a gift from the guy she was dating at the time the two of you met?"

Silence, then:  "I… I don't remember having said that—but it doesn't mean I didn't say it."

"Was it part of your statement of record that your son was still having problems with bedwetting?  Was it part of your statement that his favorite trick to play on you was to cover your face with shaving cream while you were sleeping, and then wake you up by screaming, 'Daddy's having a conniption fit!'?—a phrase I believe he learned from your wife."

"…oh, my God…"

"Mr. Theilbar, do you now believe that I am who I say I am?"

"Where's Thomas?  Where's our son?"

"I need for you to stay calm, sir."  That was Christopher's biggest order:  Say whatever you have to, but keep them calm.  I don't want this turning into a circus that's going to wake all the neighbors.

"Calm, my ass!  Do you have information about Thomas or not?"

I could hear his wife's voice in the background—"Thomas?  Jim is that someone calling about Thomas?"

"Mr. Theilbar, please tell your wife that I need for the both of you to remain calm."

"Yes, yes, of course… I'm… I'm sorry, it's just… we've had so many crank calls about Thomas since he disappeared, or tabloid reporters trying to get a story, or people wanting reward money before they'll give us any information…"

"I understand.  Thomas is alive, Mr. Theilbar.  Tell your wife."

He did.  I expected her to start crying, but this was a woman made of strong stuff who didn't base her behavior on tired movie clichés; she said, in a firm, steady voice:  "Tell him we want to see our son."

"Mr. Theilbar, does your phone have a speaker?"

"Yes."

"Put me on it, please."

I heard the click and hiss.  "Can you both hear me now?"

"Yes," they replied.

"Mr. and Mrs. Theilbar, Thomas is alive.  Got that?"

"Good Lord, yes," said Mrs. Theilbar.  "What… what do we have to do now?  Please, tell us."

I stepped out from behind the tree and walked under the cone-shaped glow of the streetlight.  "Turn off your bedroom light and come to the window."

The light snapped off and I saw the shadow-movement of the curtain being pulled aside.  I held up the wallet, making sure that the light reflected off the badge.  "Can you see me?"

"Yes."

"Mr. and Mrs. Theilbar—Jim and Melinda, may I call you that?"

"Yes…?"

"Jim and Melinda, it's important you understand that we can't afford to draw any attention to this.  I need you to come down to your front porch, and promise me that you will remain calm and quiet, can you do that?"

"Of course."

"Come on down.  Don't turn on your porch light."

I closed the phone and slipped it into my pocket as I approached the house.  I stopped when I got beside Thomas, who took my hand and said, "Are they coming to get me now?"

"Yes.  They'll be here in a second.  I'm guessing they have to put on their robes and slippers."

"Mommy doesn't wear slippers."

"Oh."

He squeezed my hand.  I could feel his trembling.

The front door opened.  Jim and Melinda stepped out onto the porch.

"Remember, buddy," I said.  "Bill and Dale."

"Bill and Dale.  Gotcha."

They came down off the porch.  Melinda Theilbar—a small, blonde-haired woman with soft, attractive, round features that my mom would have called "pixie-ish"—was on the second step when she paused, leaned forward, and then gasped.  Her face lit up with a smile so bright it was almost enough to restore your faith in the human race.  She ran past her husband, arms outstretched, and slid down onto her knees in front of the wheelchair.  Now she was crying.  I couldn't blame her.

"Oh, God, Thomas!  Oh, my baby!  Oh, honey, I'm so glad to see you!  So glad, so glad, so glad…."

Ten feet away.  She'd been ten feet away, the light was at our backs, she couldn't be fully awake yet… ten feet away at three in the morning and she recognized him instantly.

She's his mother, she'll know who he is.

Jim Theilbar walked toward us very slowly, one hand over his mouth, his eyes glistening with tears.  He recognized his son, as well.  He looked at me, then knelt beside his wife and embraced Thomas, too.

I took a few steps back and looked down at my feet.  I had to wait.  This wasn't over yet.

After a couple of minutes, Mrs. Theilbar rose to her feet and crossed to me.  I held up the badge once again but she only gave it a quick glance.  "I don't know how to thank you."

"We need to talk, Melinda."  I took her by the elbow and led her up toward the front porch.  On the walk, Thomas and Jim were whispering and hugging.  Jim laughed.  So did Thomas.

"He seems like he's… well, like his mind's okay," said Melinda.

"It is.  He's been through nine different kinds of hell, but that's one tough boy you raised."

"What… what happened to him?"

"The man who abducted Thomas has been responsible for at least forty other abductions over the last fifteen years.  Most of them, he killed.  We were able to get Thomas and the other survivors out of there before he had the chance to—how much of this do you want to hear?"

Melinda wiped her eyes and pulled in a deep, unsteady breath.  "As much as you want to tell me."

I gave her the Cliff's Notes version.  The man who took Thomas was a psychopath who got off on domination and physical torture; yes, Thomas had been sexually molested, as had all of the other victims; no, I couldn't give her any specifics about the rescue at this time; yes, I was of the opinion that Thomas was going to need emotional counseling for probably the rest of his life; yes, the amputations were clean, so there was every chance that artificial legs would very much be in order.

"The two grocery bags Thomas has," I said, "are filled with medications that he will need; painkillers, antibiotics, etc.  There's a list of what medicines need to be given, and when, as well as several jars of salve for his burns."

By this time Jim had pushed Thomas up beside us, and stood listening.  "We need to take him to the hospital right now," he said.

"No," snapped Thomas.  "You gotta keep this a secret for a little while."

Melinda looked at him, then at me.  "Why do we have to do that?"

"The man who abducted Thomas and the other children doesn't know yet that we have them; he thinks they're still chained up in his basement."  At hearing that, Melinda's eyes widened in disgust and sorrow, but she got a handle on it right away; no showing weakness in front of her husband and son for this gal, no, sir.  Damn, I liked her.

"He has a pattern of leaving them alone for several days at a time," I continued.  "We have agents waiting at his house for him to return, but this is a smart man.  He has a lot of other people with… similar interests as part of his network.  These people monitor police bands, wire services, radio broadcasts…   If you were to take Thomas to the hospital right now, I can guarantee you that the man who abducted him will know about it before morning rush hour.  Information like that isn't the private matter it once was."

"And I feel okay," Thomas added.  "Really.  I got medicine for everything, and bandages, and all that stuff."

I nodded.  "Everything you need to take care of his medical needs for the time being is in those bags.  All I'm asking, Melinda and Jim, is that you wait seventy-two hours before doing anything—after that, you can show him off to the world and tell as many people as you want.  But I've got three other children to return to their families and my superiors want to keep this under the radar for as long as possible."  God, I hoped I wasn't laying it on too thick.  "By then he'll either be in our custody or dead—and between us, I don't care which one."

"Good for you," said Melinda, squeezing my hand.  "Good for you."

"I have one last thing here…"  I reached into my back pockets and removed a pair of thick brown envelopes held closed by strips of duct tape.  "Among the items we obtained from his house was a small office safe that contained almost a quarter of a million dollars in cash.  We talked it over, and my team decided that we'd rather divide that money equally among the families of the surviving victims than tag it as evidence and see it wind up funding a party to kick off someone's re-election campaign.  But you didn't hear me say that."

"Say what?" asked Melinda, taking the envelopes from my hand.  "Do I want to know how he came by this?"

"No."

"Then I didn't ask."

"Isn't my mom cool?" said Thomas.

"Both your folks are cool," I replied.  Then, to them:  "Aren't you?"

Jim Theilbar looked at me with such respect and admiration I almost felt guilty for all the bullshit I'd been spreading for the last fifteen minutes.  "Yeah," he said.  "We are."

"Don't deposit more than a thousand dollars of that at a time," I said.  "Banks are required to inform the FBI of any cash deposits exceeding ten thousand dollars.  As of right now, this money doesn't officially exist."

"Mr. Gerard," said Jim, "this may sound stupid to you, but I think after tonight I might start believing in God again.  Thank you—and thank your team.  We won't say or do anything for the next three days, you have our word."

I shook his hand.  Melinda insisted on hugging me.  She used the same vanilla-scented soap as Tanya, which is probably why I let the embrace go on a little longer than was wise.  They promised again to keep quiet, and then—after helping to move Thomas and his wheelchair up into the shadows of the front porch—I asked for a few moments alone with him.  Jim and Melinda stepped to the far side of the porch to give us some privacy.

"I guess you gotta go, huh?"

I knelt down in front of him.  "Afraid so, buddy."

"You gonna come see me again?  Or call?"

I looked at him, then smiled.  "You bet."  I think we both knew it was a lie.  He might miss everyone for a while, but eventually he'd come to a point when even thinking about any of us would send him into a tailspin.  Better to be a memory, and hopefully one that will soon be forgotten.

"I really socked Christopher with that boot, didn't I?"

"You've got great aim, Thomas.  Thanks, by the way."

"You're welcome."  We looked at each other for a few more moments, then he scratched at his face, sighed, and said, "Well, I guess you better go before Christopher gets all grumpy again."

"Is he always like that?"

"No.  Most of the time he's pretty nice.  I think maybe the bad stuff makes him sad."

"I think you're probably right."  I offered him my hand, but he just laughed and pulled me to him in a surprisingly strong hug.

"Thank you for bringing me back to my mommy and daddy," he said.

"My pleasure."  I stood, giving his hand one final squeeze.  "It will start to get better now, Thomas.  So… I hope you can be happy."

"I am.  I'm home."

I nodded, waved to Jim and Melinda, then got the hell out of there before I lost it altogether.

I rounded the corner but did not look back at the Theilbar's house.  "Be happy," I whispered, and maybe it was a prayer.  "Be happy."

The first thing out of Rebecca's mouth when I got in the bus was:  "I miss him already.  Is that silly, or what?"

"Not really."  I sat next to her and took her hand in mine.  "I think he's going to be okay.  Eventually."

"Are they nice?  Please tell me that they're nice."

I nodded.  "They're wonderful.  Seriously.  They're just great.  I was thinking of asking them to adopt me."

"Good," she whispered, then sniffed.  "That makes me feel a little better."

"Honest?"

She looked at me and smiled.  "Honest."

Her hands still felt cold.  "Are you sure okay?"

"Huh?  Oh, yeah, I think so.  Probably need a shot—I should check my blood sugar just to be—"

She was cut off by Christopher and Arnold climbing into the front seats.  Arnold was jumping with nervous energy.  "Oh, man, you were awesome! You should've been there, Rebecca, my man was on fire!"

"He did all right," said Christopher.

Arnold was deeply offended by this.  "All right?  All right?  The man was on!  You even said so yourself.  Rebecca, I'm telling you, Mark here was so good he had me believing he was the real thing."  He reached over the seat and gave my shoulder a congratulatory smack.  "Dude, you rocked the casbah!  You burned down the house!  Damn that was great!"  He turned back and smacked Christopher's shoulder.  "Go on, admit it.  Am I right?  Am I?  Wasn't our man all that and a bag of chips?  Wasn't he?  Wasn't he?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, all right, okay," said Christopher, recoiling from any further blows of enthusiasm.  "He was good."  He looked back at me.  "Okay, you got me, I admit it—you were better than good.  You were pretty damned impressive back there, Pretty Boy."  He was almost smiling.  "You get back some of your Brownie points."

"How thrilling for me."

His face went blank for a second.  "I suppose I had that coming."

"Heard that," added Arnold.

"All in favor," I said.

Everyone raised their hands.

Then Arnold cracked open the last four cans of Pepsi and handed one to each of us.  "To Thomas," he said, raising his can.

"To Thomas," said Rebecca.

Christopher nodded.  "Thomas."

"To Thomas," I said.  "May all the songs he sings be happy ones from now on."

"And on-key," added Arnold.

We toasted, then drove away.

12. Hence, My Cheery Nature

We'd been back on the road for maybe half an hour when Christopher looked once again into the rearview mirror and said, "So, you and your grandmother—what's the story, Morning Glory?"

"What is it with this stiffy you've got for my family history?"

"I'm trying to be nice here, Pretty—uh, Mark."

"I thought he looked like he was pulling a muscle," said Arnold.

I smiled at him, then looked back at Christopher.  "I didn't mean for my tone to sound quite so nasty, sorry."

"So what gives, anyway?"

Rebecca had fallen asleep again; her head was resting on my shoulder.  I didn't want to wake her—the longer she slept, the farther away from Thomas we got, and the farther away we got, the less it might hurt her (or so went my reasoning)—so I carefully moved her to the side, placing a small pillow between her head and the window.  She sniffed, muttered something, then pulled up her legs and curled into a semi-fetal position on the seat.  Once I was sure she wasn't going to wake up, I scooted the edge of the seat and leaned forward so that I was between Christopher and Arnold.  "You want the whole story or the Readers Digest condensed version?"

"Whole story," said Arnold.  "We got a couple more hours or so before it's gonna be time to drop off Rebecca."

I hadn't realized she would be next.  I missed her already.

"Who's after Rebecca?" I asked.

"That would be me," replied Arnold.

"You worried about how it's going to go?"

"I was until I saw you in action back there."  He smiled at me.  "You do that with my folks and I think it's gonna be fine.  I ain't worried about it so much now."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"That's how I meant it."

I looked at Christopher.  "Can I not have a gun pointing at me next time?"

"I'll have to check your Brownie point score, but so far it looks good."

"Christopher?'

"Yeah…?"

"I'm not trying to put you on the spot, okay?  But how did Grendel get his hands on you?"

"Yeah," said Arnold.  "It's about time you told us something about this rumored family of yours, anyway."

Christopher sighed, thought about it for a minute, then looked at Arnold and said:  "If you laugh, so help me God I will stop this thing and dump your ass in the middle of the highway."

"What'd I do?" said Arnold, then pointed at me.  "He's the one who asked."

"Yes, but if there's anyone here who'd going to make a smartass remark, it'll be you."

"That hurts my feelings."

"You'll live."

Arnold shrugged.  "Yeah, well, still…."

"No laughing?"

"I'll try.  But I ain't gonna promise not to grin."

"Fair enough."  Christopher glanced at me.  "That goes for you, too."  He turned his attention back to the road.  "My folks own a bar and grill outside Ashland, okay?  It's one of the last places like it you'll find before you get into the heart of coal country.  They hand out maps so that folks don't get lost.  There's a lot of abandoned roads up there, and just as many abandoned mines.  If you don't know where you're going, you could drive into the opening of a mine shaft thinking it's a tunnel to the actual road or something.

"Anyway, one day Dad and me head out to one of those big warehouse stores, the kind you have to be a member in order to shop there, right?  Dad wants to lay in a supply of peanuts and chips and popcorn and tons of other stuff—he always stocked the bar snacks from there because you could buy fifty pounds of nuts for twenty bucks, that kind of thing.  For him, that made it worth the ninety minutes it took to drive to the place.  Plus we always stocked up on non-perishable groceries for ourselves."

"This is really exciting so far," said Arnold.  "Suspenseful, even."  He caught Christopher's look.  "What?  I'm not laughing."

"May I continue?"

"Wish you would.  Can't hardly stand waiting to hear the next part."

Christopher sighed.  "I wasn't feeling too good that day, but it was my job to go along with Dad on these supply runs.  My younger brother, Paul, he stayed to help Mom with the receipts and cleaning and inventory—he was always a lot smarter than me when it came to numbers and organization, but I had him beat when it came to stamina for physical labor, so it worked out pretty well.

"Like I said, I wasn't feeling too good that day.  It was October and it was cold—Jesus, it was cold.  And raining.  It took us almost two solid hours to make it to the store, and of course this was the day when everybody and their brother was in there shopping, so the aisles were crowded and nobody was in a good mood.  I kept getting weaker and weaker the whole time we were there—we didn't know it then, but I was coming down with pneumonia.  We were about half finished with the shopping when I almost passed out, so Dad takes me to this little place they had in there to eat.  He buys me a hot dog and a lemonade and sits with me while I eat, then tells me to go out and lay down in the back seat, he'll finish up the shopping.  Dad was real good like that.  He didn't want any member of his family doing anything if they were sick.  I really loved him for that on that day.  I don't remember if I told him so or not.

"Anyway, I stumble out to the parking lot and find the car—we'd parked all the way at the far end, so it felt like I was hiking halfway to Washington.  But I make it there and I climb inside and curl up on the back seat and fall asleep.  I don't know how long I'd been laying there.  I kept waking up for a few minutes and trying to lift my head but I felt too sick, so I'd just stay like I was until I fell asleep again.  Somewhere in there I remember feeling the car getting loaded up, and then Dad climbed in the front and felt my forehead.  He covered me with a blanket and then started driving."  His voice had become tight and angry during the last few moments, and as he stared out at the road, I had the feeling that what was about to come was utterly humiliating for him.

"I was really sick.  You guys need to understand that, all right?  Whenever I opened my eyes, everything was hazy, like I was seeing the world through a fog.  I remember the long drive, and I remember the car stopping and Dad picking me up and carrying me inside and putting me in my bed.  I remember every once in a while someone waking me up to give me medicine or something.  That's about all I do remember.

"Then one day I woke up and the fog was gone.  I could see really well.  And I wasn't in my room.  I did not recognize this place—at first I thought maybe I was in the hospital, but I'd never seen a hospital room with a wood dresser and locks on the doors and chains hanging from the walls.  Then I look down at the foot of the bed and see this man who is not Dad sitting in chair and staring at me."

"Grendel?" I asked.

He nodded.  "The one and only."

"Wait a second," said Arnold.  "How did the Big Ugly get you out of your parents' house?"

"He didn't."

"Then… what?"

"My folks owned a 1968 VW microbus, is what.  It was gray, but that day in the parking lot, as sick as I was, and with all the rain, I couldn't tell the difference between gray and silver, is what."

Arnold shook his head.  "Holy shit."

"That's right:  I climbed right into the back seat of this very bus and fell asleep, and when Grendel found me, he took me home like some lost puppy."  He shifted in his seat, then stretched his neck.  "So you might understand now why I haven't wanted to talk about it.  He didn't have to do any work or planning or reconnaissance to get hold of me.  I just dropped myself right into his lap.  Stupid!  Goddamn stupid, is what it was.  And I can't help sometimes but think I got exactly what I deserved for being so stupid."  He shook his head.  "And I'll bet not a day has gone by since that Dad hasn't blamed himself for it.  Hence, my cheery nature."

"You were sick," I said.  "You can't hold yourself responsible for mistaking one vehicle for another."

"Bullshit.  Do you have any idea how many 'what-ifs' I've thought up since then?  What if I'd been smarter, better with figures, better at organizing things than Paul?  Paul wasn't sick that day—hell, Paul never got sick!  What if I'd been the one to stay with Mom and Paul had gone along instead?  What if I'd been stronger that day?  What if I'd've told Dad that I'd just wait at the table with my hot dog and lemonade?  I could've just sat there for a while, he'd've let me do that if I'd asked.  Hell, he probably would've let me ride in the fucking shopping cart if I wanted.  But, no, I had to be weak!  I had to go lie down like some wimp who couldn't take it.  Fuck!"  He banged the steering wheel with his fist.

"Take it easy," said Arnold.  "Don't wake up Rebecca."

Christopher glanced over the seat and saw that she was still asleep.  "I was just like that when he found me."  He looked back at me and Arnold.  "Sorry.  It just… pisses me off so much, you know?"  He voice cracked on the last few words.  "All those years just… gone.  Gone.  And I'll never get them back."

"You'll be home soon," I said.

He wiped his eyes.  "Yeah, I suppose so.  You'll put on a good show for my folks too, won't you?"

"Of course."

"Man," said Arnold, "I had no idea, y'know?  Dude, I'm sorry.  Really."

"Wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't yours, either.  How come you never told any of us?  We wouldn't have made fun of you or nothing."

Christopher shrugged.  "Hell, I don't know."  He looked at Arnold.  "Still buds?"

"I don't answer dumb questions."

They smiled at each other.

"That was pretty slick, by the way, Mark," Christopher said.  "That makes—what?– twice or three times now you've gotten us off the subject of dear old grandma."

"I almost forget," said Arnold.  "Yeah, you're right—that was slick."

I parted my hands in front of me, all innocence.  "What can I say?  It's a gift."

Arnold laughed.  "Listen to him—Mr. Humble."

"It's 'fess-up time," said Christopher.  "I'm bored with my stories and I've heard all of Arnold's, so now it's your turn.  No changing the subject, nothing can get you out of—"

And that's when we blew a back tire.

I burst out laughing; I couldn't help it.  "Someone doesn't want you to hear about this."

"Shut up!"  Christopher did an expert job of getting us over into the emergency lane, despite the wobbling and jerking caused by the flat.  He put the bus in park, killed the engine, turned on the blinkers, then reached under his seat to produce a set of road flares.  "Can you tell I was once a Boy Scout?  Come on, Mark—you don't get to sit this one out."

"Got that right," said Arnold.  "I about busted a finger helping him last time.  Need all my fingers."  He wiggled all ten of them.  "I'm gonna be a pianist."

I looked at him.  "Seriously?"

"Serious as a heart attack.  I'd been taking lessons for three years before Grendel came along.  I was getting pretty good, too."

"I'll bet."

Christopher opened his door and sighed loudly.  "Are you two finished with this little bonding moment?  In case you forget, Arnold, we've got a schedule to keep."

"How could I forget about 'the schedule'?  That's all you talk about half the time, gotta stick to 'the schedule,' 'the schedule's' gotta be stuck to, God forbid we should fall behind 'the schedule,' world might come to an end if we screw up 'the schedule'—damn, Sam, write a new verse, will you?"

Christopher blinked.  "Got it all out of your system?"

"Not yet—oh, my gosh, look at the time!  According to 'the schedule,' it's time for me to talk about 'the schedule', just in case you've forgotten about 'the schedule.'  There.  Now I'm done."

"You're sure?"

"Give me a couple of seconds and I might come up with another one."

Christopher looked at me.  "See what I have to put up with?"

"Poor widdle baby," said Arnold.

I laughed, then climbed out.  Christopher ignited one of the flares and set it near the back of the trailer; the second one went near the front of the bus.  They seemed incredibly bright.  It had to be close to four-thirty in the morning; the highway was practically deserted, save for the occasional semi that passed by, its driver giving us not so much as a glance.