see that sign?”
Clocker did not reply.
Returning his attention to the SATU screen in his lap, Oslett said,
“That’s where he is, all right, maybe taking a leak in the men’s room,
maybe even stretched out on the back seat of whatever car he’s driving,
catching a few winks.”
They were about to go into action against an unpredictable and
formidable adversary, but Clocker appeared unperturbed. Even though
driving, he seemed to be lost in a meditative state. His bearlike body
was as relaxed as that of a Tibetan monk in a transcendental swoon.
His enormous hands rested on the steering wheel, the thick fingers only
slightly curled, maintaining the minimum grip. Oslett wouldn’t have
been surprised to learn that the big man was steering the car mostly
with some arcane power of the mind. Nothing in Clocker’s broad,
blunt-featured face indicated that he knew what the word “tension”
meant, pale brow as smooth as polished marble, cheeks unlined,
sapphire-blue eyes softly radiant in the reflected light of the
instrument panel, gazing into the distance, not merely at the road ahead
but possibly beyond this world. His wide mouth was open just enough to
accept a thin communion wafer. His lips were curved in the faintest of
smiles, but it was impossible to know if he was pleased by something he
was contemplating in a spiritual reverie or by the prospect of imminent
violence.
Karl Clocker had a talent for violence.
For that reason, in spite of his taste in clothes, he was a man of his
times.
“Here’s the rest area,” Oslett said as they neared the end of the access
road.
“Where else would it be?” Clocker responded.
“Huh?”
“It is where it is.”
The big man wasn’t much of a talker, and when he did have something to
say, half the time it was cryptic. Oslett suspected Clocker of being
either a closet existentialist on-at the other end of the spectrum–a
New Age mystic. Though the truth might be that he was so totally
self-contained, he didn’t need much human contact or interaction, his
own thoughts and observations adequately engaged and entertained him.
One thing was certain, Clocker was not as stupid as he looked, in fact,
he had an IQ well above average.
The rest-area parking lot was illuminated by eight tall sodiumvapor
lamps. After so many grim miles of unrelieved darkness, which had begun
to seem like the blasted black barrens of a post-nuclear landscape,
Oslett’s spirits were lifted by the glow of the tall lamps, though it
was a sickly urine-yellow reminiscent of the sour light in a bad dream.
No one would ever mistake the place for any part of Manhattan, but it
confirmed that civilization still existed.
A large motorhome was the only vehicle in sight. It was parked near the
concrete-block building that housed the comfort stations.
“We’re right on top of him now.” Oslett switched off the SATU screen
and placed the unit on the floor between his feet. Popping the suction
cup off the windshield, dropping it on the electronic map, he said, “No
doubt about it–our Alfie’s snug in that road hog.
Probably ripped it off some poor shmuck, now he’s on the run with all
the comforts of home.”
They drove past a grassy area with three picnic tables and parked about
twenty feet away from the Road King, on the driver’s side.
No lights were on in the motorhome.
“No matter how far off the tracks Alfie’s gone,” Oslett said, “I still
think he’ll respond well to us. We’re all he has, right? Without us,
he’s alone in the world. Hell, we’re like his family.”
Clocker switched off the lights and the engine.
Oslett said, “Regardless of what condition he’s in, I don’t think he’d
hurt us. Not old Alfie. Maybe he’d waste anyone else who got in his
way but not us. What do you think?”
Getting out of the Chevy, Clocker plucked both his hat and his Colt .357
Magnum off the front seat.
Oslett took a flashlight and the tranquilizer gun. The bulky pistol had
two barrels, over and under, each loaded with a fat hypodermic
cartridge. It was designed for use in zoos and wasn’t accurate at more