Chapter Twenty-Nine
Zelig was taking his turn at the steering of the M113, struggling to remember how it worked, not wanting to ask in front of everyone else in the vehicle. So far, in the first half hour of his spell, it had gone all right. He hadn’t driven into a ditch or plowed into the vehicle in front.
Now it was getting closer to evening, and he felt a little more relaxed. He called up his main communications officer, checking if they’d gotten any bulletins in from any of their watchers and listeners.
“Nothing, General.”
“We guess right, and Jim does like I think he might, then we must have people in the region where he could be right now. Who do we have?”
There was a long pause as the man checked his lists. “Four or five, General. Want codings?”
“Tell me.”
“Broken Arrow, Tumble Spinner, Double Baker and Fallen Whiplash.”
“Nothing from any of them?”
“No, sir. But they all have set radio schedules. Time for all of them to broadcast this evening.”
MARGARET TABOR had chosen to retire early that Christmas evening. The weather was still closed in, and there seemed little prospect of getting the two Chinooks into the air. One of the men under her command came from that region, and he swore that the snow would clear eventually from the west, when the temperature would rise and the clouds lift.
She had pressed him, smiling constantly, until he’d grinned and said that, yeah, he’d swear that on his life. Then she’d ceased smiling.
JIM AND CARRIE had been helping Norma-Jean Bradley with the washing up in the trim kitchen, wiping grease off the blue-and-white china plates and bowls, dunking the pewter-handled cutlery in the hot, sudsy water.
“It was real good,” said Carrie. “But you have to tell us what the meat was in the stew.”
“Guess I couldn’t do that. Not less’n Dave gave his word of agreement to me.”
“Rattlesnake, was it?” said Jim. “Come on. Best kind of secret is one you share with others.”
Dave Bradley came into the kitchen carrying all the mugs from the coffee. “That boy Sly is all right, is he? Saw him go out and he ain’t back yet.”
“He’s fine, Dave,” said Jim. “I’d trust Sly with my life. He said he wanted to have a few words with his father tonight, with it being Christmas and all.”
“I thought you said his father was dead, Jim?” asked Norma-Jean.
“Sure. Sly kind of knows that, but he believes that Steve can still see and hear him.”
“Least the weather’s better. You near finished the washing? Thanks for the help, folks.” He turned to his wife. “I got my special chore to do soon. Extraspecial now.”
She looked a little worried. “Maybe best to leave it until the… the later time for it.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“If you have a minute,” said Jim, “then me and Carrie would like to know your secret, Dave.”
“What?” His voice became sharp and overlaid with something close to real anger. “What’s that?”
“Hey, chill out, Dave. We asked Norma-Jean what the meat was, and she said she couldn’t tell us.”
The older man shook his head ruefully. “Sorry I snapped at you there. Too much suspicion and too many strangers, Jim. All right, I’ll show you.”
In the parlor Jeanne McGill was pedaling breathlessly at an old harmonium, made in Woodstock, Canada, by D. W. Karn and Company. Mac and Paul and Jocelyn were joining in with a hearty rendition of the old favorite, “Shall We Gather at the River.” Sukie sat on the sofa, leaning against her father, flicking through an old book of stereoscopic pictures of national park views.
Jeff and Nanci weren’t there. Mac caught Jim’s questioning glance and jerked his head toward the top floor. Breaking off for a moment from the hymn, he said from the corner of his mouth, “Up there, and don’t ask what they’re doing because I don’t know and don’t want to know.”
Dave was in the hall, standing by the locked door to the cellar, holding a brass oil lamp whose golden glow seemed to fill the building.
“Down here,” he said. “Welcome to the farm for the Bradley kitchens.”