“And you?”
Albert shrugged. “I just love the stories and the poetry, Doc. Most of them kind of turn out to be the things that bind us all, you know?”
“I know very well indeed.” A fragment came to Doc’s mind, drifting in from somewhere. He nailed it down with effort. “I am reminded of a passage presented by John F. Kennedy regarding both power and poetry.”
“One of the three you’re always swearing by?” Albert asked.
The question threw Doc off his stride. He reached back into his mind, but he didn’t know. “I am afraid that I could not tell you.” He heard the quaver in his voice as the uncertainty inside his mind seemed to beckon to him.
Albert reached up and patted him on the arm. “It’s okay, Doc. Doesn’t matter if this John F. was one of those three or not. What did this Kennedy say?”
Remarkably the passage remained in Doc’s brain. He felt calmer as he put it to tongue. “It was in an address before a college, unless I misremember, and I do not think that I do. It went something like this.”
‘When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.’
“That’s beautiful.”
“When I read it, I liked it well enough.” Doc kept walking, listening to the comfortable thump of his boots across the wooden boardwalk. His attention was drawn to the gaudy house, pricked by the loud strains of the piano. “Mayhap we could just peek in.”
“Bad place to be, Doc.” Albert scowled.
Ignoring the little man, Doc strode up to the bat-wing doors and peered in. The smoky haze robbed the scene of its color, but he saw enough. The girl on the stage had a live snake and was totally obscene in her actions. “Upon my soul.”
“Warned you,” Albert said.
“So you did.” Doc drew back from the doors and avoided the drunken men sprawled on the boardwalk. “Then let us return to the hotel and perhaps see if there is any grape to be had. I shall endeavor to tell the others about the plague on the morrow. There is nothing to be done about it yet.”
Albert led the way across the dirt street. Before they gained the other side, a horse-drawn wagon clattered out of an alley. The driver whipped the horses unmercifully, making them go faster. Their hooves pounded into the dry ground as the wheels cut across the ruts. Three other men sat in the flat-board back, hanging on. A fourth person lay prone between the three men.
Doc got only a glimpse of her face, but he recognized her immediately as Mildred. A cold fist of fear closed around his heart.
“Hey,” Albert said, “wasn’t that—?”
“I fear so,” Doc said. He pushed himself into motion at once, following the horse-drawn wag through the shadows. “Go warn the others, friend Albert, whilst I endeavor to track these louts.” He left the dwarf behind in a handful of strides, barely holding his own with the disappearing wag. He hoped they didn’t have far to go.
RYAN SAT QUIETLY near the window, his chin resting against his chest. He kept his eye closed, but he didn’t truly sleep.
A light tapping sounded at the door.
Ryan uncoiled, slipping the SIG-Sauer from leather and walking to the door. The tapping repeated, one of the codes he and the companions had designed to recognize each other in the event they were separated. “Who is it?” he demanded.
“Me, Dad,” Dean answered. “And Jak. We need to talk.”
Ryan moved the chair from the door, glancing at the bed. Krysty had roused herself and had her pistol to hand, covering the door. Unfastening the latches, he stepped back and let the two boys into the room.
Dean started to talk first, sitting on the floor so he couldn’t be seen through the window from the street level. Ryan didn’t interrupt, learning about the plague darts and Kirkland’s own intentions of killing the two boys and blaming the plague.