when it’s at my expense. Hell, especially when it’s at my expense.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“But you’re a crazy, sick son of a bitch,” the big man said, raised his
own handgun, and shot his partner.
Drew, if that was his name, hit the tile floor as hard as if he had been
made of stone. He landed on his side, facing Marty. His mouth was
open, as were his eyes, though he had a blind man’s gaze and seemed to
have nothing to say.
In the center of Drew’s forehead was an ugly bullet hole. For as long
as he could hold fast to consciousness, Marty stared at the wound, but
it didn’t appear to be healing.
Wind blew.
Snow fell.
A greater cold came down–along with a greater darkness.
Marty woke with his forehead pressed to cold glass. Heavy snow churned
against the other side of the pane.
They were parked next to service station pumps. Between the pumps and
through the falling snow, he saw a well-lighted convenience store with
large windows.
He rolled his head away from the glass and sat up straighter.
He was in the back seat of a truck-type station wagon, an Explorer or
Cherokee.
Behind the steering wheel sat the big man from the bell tower.
He was turned around in his seat, looking back. “How you doing?”
Marty tried to answer. His mouth was dry, his tongue stuck to his
palate, and his throat was sore. The croak that escaped him was not a
word.
“I think you’ll be all right,” the stranger said.
Marty’s ski jacket was open, and he raised one trembling hand to his
left shoulder. Under the blood-damp wool sweater, he felt an odd bulky
mass.
“Field dressing,” the man said. “Best I could do in a hurry. We get
out of these mountains, across the county line, I’ll clean the wound and
rebandage it.”
“Hurts.”
“Don’t doubt it.”
Marty felt not merely weak but frail. He lived by words and never
failed to have the right ones when he needed them, so it was frustrating
to find himself with barely enough energy to speak.
“Paige?” he asked.
“In there with the kids,” the stranger said, indicating the combination
service station and convenience store. “Girls are using the bathroom.
Mrs. Stillwater’s paying the cashier, getting some hot coffee. I just
filled the tank.”
“You’re . . .?”
“Clocker. Karl Clocker.”
“Shot him.”
“Sure did.”
“Who . . . who . . . was he?”
“Drew Oslett. Bigger question is what was he?”
“Huh?”
Clocker smiled. “Born of man and woman, but he wasn’t much more human
than poor Alfie. If there’s an evil alien species out there somewhere,
marauding through the galaxy, they’ll never mess with us if they know we
can produce specimens like Drew.”
Clocker drove, and Charlotte occupied the front passenger seat. He
referred to her as
“First Officer Stillwater” and assigned her the duty of “handing the
captain his coffee when he needs another sip of it and, otherwise,
guarding against catastrophic spillage that might irreparably
contaminate the ship.”
Charlotte was uncharacteristically restrained and unwilling to play.
Marty worried about what psychological scars their ordeal might have
left in hen-and what additional trouble and trauma might be ahead of
them.
In the back seat, Emily sat behind Karl Clocker, Marty behind Charlotte,
and Paige between them. Emily was not merely quiet but totally silent,
and Marty worried about her too.
Out of Mammoth Lakes on Route 203 and south on 395, progress was slow.
Two or three inches of snow were on the ground, and the blizzard was in
full howl.
Clocker and Paige drank coffee, and the girls had hot chocolate.
The aromas should have been appealing, but they increased Marty’s
queasiness.
He was allowed apple juice. From the convenience store, Paige had
purchased a six-pack of juice in cans.
“It’s the only thing you might be able to hold in your stomach,” Clocker
said. “And even if it makes you gag, you’ve got to take as much of it
as you can because, with that wound, you’re sure as hell dehydrating
dangerously.”
Marty was so shaky that, even with his right hand, he couldn’t hold the