than fifty feet, which was good enough for Oslett’s purpose, since he
wasn’t planning to go after any lions on the veldt.
Oslett was grateful that the rest area was not crowded with travelers.
He hoped that he and Clocker could finish their business and get away
before any cars or trucks pulled in from the highway.
On the other hand, when he got out of the Chevy and eased the door shut
behind him, he was disturbed by the emptiness of the night. Except for
the singing of tires and the air-cutting whoosh of passing traffic on
the interstate, the silence was as oppressive as it must be in the
vacuum of deep space. A copse of tall pines stood as backdrop to the
entire rest area, and, in the windless darkness, their heavy boughs
drooped like swags of funeral bunting.
He craved the hum and bustle of urban streets, where ceaseless activity
offered continuous distractions. Commotion provided escape from
contemplation. In the city, the flash-clatter-spin of daily life
allowed his attention to be directed forever outward if he wished,
sparing him the dangers inherent in self-examination.
Joining Clocker at the driver’s door of the Road King, Oslett considered
making as stealthy an entrance as possible. But if Alfie was inside, as
the SATU electronic map specifically indicated, he was probably already
aware of their arrival.
Besides, on the deepest cognitive levels, Alfie was conditioned to
respond to Drew Oslett with absolute obedience. It was almost
inconceivable that he would attempt to harm him.
Almost.
They had also been certain that the chances of Alfie going A.W.O.L were
so small as to be nonexistent. They had been wrong about that.
Time might prove them wrong about other things.
That was why Oslett had the tranquilizer gun.
And that was why he didn’t try to dissuade Clocker from bringing the
.357 Magnum.
Steeling himself for the unexpected, Oslett knocked on the metal door.
Knocking seemed a ludicrous way to announce himself under the
circumstances, but he knocked anyway, waited several seconds, and
knocked again, louder.
No one answered.
The door was unlocked. He opened it.
Enough yellow light from the parking-lot lamps filtered through the
windshield to illuminate the cockpit of the motorhome. Oslett could see
that no immediate threat loomed.
He stepped up onto the door sill, leaned in, and looked back through the
Road King, which tunneled away into a swarming darkness as deep as the
chambers of ancient catacombs.
Be at peace, Alfie,” he said softly.
That spoken command should have resulted in an immediate ritual
response, as in a litany, I am at peace, Father.
“Be at peace, Alfie,” Oslett repeated less hopefully.
Silence.
Although Oslett was neither Alfie’s father nor a man of the cloth, and
therefore in no way could lay a legitimate claim to the honorific, his
heart nevertheless would have been gladdened if he had heard the
whispered and obedient reply, I am at peace, Father. Those five simple
words, in an answering murmur, would have meant that all was essentially
well, that Alfie’s deviation from his instructions was less a rebellion
than a temporary confusion of purpose, and that the killing spree on
which he had embarked was something that could be forgiven and put
behind them.
Though he knew it was useless, Oslett tried a third time, speaking
louder than before, “Be at peace, Alfie.”
When nothing in the darkness answered him, he switched on the flashlight
and climbed into the Road King.
He couldn’t help but think what a waste and humiliation it would be if
he got himself shot to death in a strange motorhome along an interstate
in the Oklahoma vastness at the tender age of thirty-two. Such a bright
young man of such singular promise (the mourners would say), with two
degrees–one from Princeton, one from Harvard–and an enviable pedigree.
Moving out of the cockpit as Clocker entered behind him, Oslett swept
the beam of the flashlight left and right. Shadows billowed and flapped
like black capes, ebony wings, lost souls.
Only a few members of his family–fewer still among that circle of
Manhattan artists, writers, and critics who were his friends–would know
in what line of duty he had perished. The rest would find the details