purging fire, but I was convinced that during our search, we would
encounter other consequences of the Mystery Train project, some
potentially lethal. If, after hearing Delacroix’s bizarre tale told in
his tortured voice, Roosevelt and Mungojerrie reconsidered their
commitment to accompany us, I would still try to persuade them to help,
but I’d feel that I had been fair with them.
We adjourned to the dining room, where I replayed the original cassette.
The last words on the tape were spoken in that unknown language, and
when they faded, Bobby said, “The tune’s good, but it doesn’t have a
beat you can dance to.” Roosevelt stood in front of the tape player,
frowning. “When do we leave? ”
“First dark, ” I said.
“Which is coming down fast, ” Sasha said, glancing at the window blinds,
against which the press of daylight was less insistent than when Bobby
and I had first listened to Delacroix.
“If those kids are in Wyvern, ” Roosevelt said, “they might as well be
at the gates of Hell. No matter what the risk, we can’t leave them
there.” He was wearing a black crewneck sweater, black chinos, and black
Rockports, as though he had anticipated the covert action that lay ahead
of us. In spite of his formidable size and rough-hewn features, he
looked like a priest, like an exorcist grimly prepared to cast out
devils.
Turning to Mungojerrie, who was sitting on Sasha’s composition table, I
said, “And what about you? ” Roosevelt crouched by the table, eye-to-eye
with the cat.
To me, Mungojerrie appeared to be supremely disinterested, much like any
cat when it’s trying to live up to its species’ reputation for cool
indifference, mystery, and unearthly wisdom.
Apparently, Roosevelt was viewing this gray mouser through a lens I
didn’t possess or was listening to him on a frequency beyond my range of
hearing, because he reported, “Mungojerrie says two things.
First, he will find Orson and the kids if they’re anywhere in Wyvern, no
matter what the risks, no matter what it takes.” Relieved, grateful to
the cat for its courage, I said, “And number two? ”
“He needs to go outside and pee.” At twilight, I went into my bathroom,
failed to throw up though the urge was there, and instead washed my face
twice, once with hot water, once with cold. Then I sat on the edge of
the bathtub, clasped my hands on my knees, and endured a siege of the
shakes as violent as those that reportedly accompany malaria or an IRS
audit.
I wasn’t afraid that the mission into Fort Wyvern would result in the
storm of death that our present pussycat had predicted or that I would
perish in the night ahead. Rather, I was afraid that I would live
through the night but come home without the kids and Orson, or that I
would fail in the rescue and also lose Sasha and Bobby and Roosevelt and
Mungojerrie in the process.
With friends, this is a cool world, without friends, it would be
unbearably cold.
I washed my face a third time, peed to show my solidarity with
Mungojerrie, washed my hands (because my mom, would-be destroyer of the
world, had taught me hygiene), and returned to the kitchen, where the
others were waiting for me. I suspect that, with the exception of the
cat, they had been through a ritual similar to mine, in other bathrooms.
Because Sashalike Bobby had noticed fishy types all over town and
believed something major was soon to go down, she had anticipated that
our house would be under surveillance by the authorities, if for no
other reason than our connection with Lilly Wing. Therefore, she had
arranged for us to meet Doogie Sassman at a rendezvous point far beyond
prying eyes.
Sasha’s Explorer, Bobby’s Jeep, and Roosevelt’s Mercedes were parked in
front of the house. We would surely be tailed if we drove off in any of
them, we would have to leave on foot and with considerable stealth.
Behind our house, beyond our backyard, is a hard-packed dirt footpath
that separates our property and those flanking it from a grove of
red-gum eucalyptus trees and, beyond the trees, the golf course of the