“There’s that resort and golf course not far from here, a lot of houses around it, but mostly just the desert.”
Dubose uses his smartphone to call the Desert Flora Study Group and order the Airbus H120 helicopter into the air. He wants it to conduct an ultra-low-altitude search—to hell with whether it puzzles and annoys the locals—not just for a naked woman on foot but also for signs of any outbreak of chaos related to the other forty-five people who were brain-screwed the previous night. It’s forty-five, rather than forty-nine, because the four members of the Corrigan family are already dead.
The term should be adjusted rather than brain-screwed. But in these circumstances, Jergen would feel like an idiot if he corrected Dubose.
Outside in the yard again, Radley Dubose conferences with Deputies Utley and Parkwood, whose uniform shirts are stained with sweat. He explains that the woman escaped, that he and Jergen will be searching for her, and that they should return to the sheriff’s substation in Borrego Springs to await a visit by Homeland Security personnel who will explain to them and their brethren the nature of the threat that has arisen on their turf.
“All I can tell you now,” Dubose lies, “is maybe terrorists contaminated some local wells with a drug similar to—but far more powerful than—phencyclidine, which is called ‘angel dust’ on the street, an animal tranquilizer. If you ever tried to subdue a PCP user, you know they’re as crazy as shithouse rats, with the strength of ten. The crap these terrorists have brewed up makes angel dust seem as harmless as a packet of Splenda.”
Not for the first time, Carter Jergen is amazed that Dubose can sell bullshit as if it were candy. His intimidating size, practiced solemnity, and Olympian confidence seem to mesmerize people, like these deputies, who should be able to see through his claptrap as easily as through a recently squeegeed window.
Faces pale, eyes haunted, Utley and Parkwood buy the fake news and head back toward the black-and-white Dodge Charger parked along the county highway.
The day is hotter than ever and bright enough to give Jergen a headache, as if he’s perpetually staring into a spotlight no matter where he looks. He needs a cold drink and two aspirin and a month at a fine southern resort hotel shaded by ancient magnolias, but he’s only going to get two of the three.
He says, “You better get some of our crew over to the sheriff’s substation before the local cops start acting on your crazy story.”
Dubose holds up the smartphone in his hand. “The line’s been open to the Desert Flora guys.” He puts the phone to his face. “You heard all that? Good. Corral the locals before they bring media down on us.” He terminates the call.
“I’m a little surprised,” says Jergen, “that instead you didn’t just shoot them, drag them in the house, and set the place on fire.”
“It was an option, my friend. But Mrs. Atlee, sitting there in her Buick with the engine running, might have peeled out as Utley and Parkwood were going down before either of us could get to her.”
En route to the Charger, Deputy Utley detours to have a word with Mrs. Atlee. When Utley gets in the patrol car and they head back toward Borrego Springs, Mrs. Atlee follows them.
“Good thing the VelociRaptor has six-wheel drive,” Dubose says as he moves toward the vehicle. “We’ll probably have to go off-road to find our zombie hottie.”
There’s a cooler behind the front seats, from which they take two cold cans of Red Bull. Without complaint, Jergen climbs into the front passenger seat and shakes two aspirin from a bottle stowed in the console box. Dubose gets behind the steering wheel with the air of a king for whom the vehicle was expressly designed and built.
As the big man puts on his sunglasses and starts the engine, Jergen says, “I half think you’d do her if you had the chance.”
“Do who?”
“The zombie hottie. Minette Butterworth.”
“The former Minette Butterworth,” Dubose corrects. “If I was sure I wouldn’t have my package torn off like Lucky Bob, damn right I’d do her.”
“No offense, but that’s insane.”
“It’s not insane, my friend. I just have a more adventurous spirit than you have. As feral and fierce as the bitch is now, she’d be a unique experience, unforgettable, like every boy’s best-ever wet dream.”
“Not every boy’s,” Jergen demurs.
As he drives slowly past the house, between the palm trees and toward the open land beyond, Dubose says, “You know what I wish for you, Cubby?”
“What’s with the ‘Cubby’?”
“It’s a little private nickname I have for you.”
“Yeah, well, keep it private. I don’t like it.”
“You will,” Dubose assures him. “What I wish for you, Cubby, is that one day you’ll get past your uptight Boston Brahmin background and finally start to live, really live unchained.”
“I already live unchained,” Jergen says.
“The sad thing is that you think you do. But you’re knotted up with inhibitions. You’re a thousand Gordian knots of inhibitions. Repressed, suppressed, yearning after forbidden fruit, taboo-ridden, your emotions embargoed, your desires proscribed.”
After a swig of Red Bull, Jergen says, “I’ve committed every felony known to man. I’ve murdered people, all kinds of people, women as well as men. If I could get my hands on this Hawk brat, this Travis kid, I’d kill him, too.”
“Yes,” Dubose acknowledges, “but not with verve, Cubby. Not with the pure delight and the conviction of righteousness that comes with the total inner freedom of a true revolutionary. That’s what I wish for you. Total inner freedom.”
In spite of himself, Jergen is moved by his partner’s concern, though he’s not prepared to admit it. “That’s you, is it?” he asks. “Total inner freedom.”
“Total.”
“How long did it take you to get this total inner freedom?”
“I think I was seven years old,” Radley Dubose says. “Though maybe six.”
18
THE VOICES FELL SILENT. Jane heard the distinctive sound of the vehicle’s front door slamming shut. After a moment, the motor home began to move again, slowly at first, but then accelerating.
She pressed the interior latch release and slid open the seat of the sofa, admitting light to her hiding place.
As she rose into a crouch, Bernie called back to her from the driver’s seat. “I’m so smooth at this, I could make a fool of a lie detector—kayn ayn hore.”
From her previous road trip with him, she knew that kayn ayn hore was sort of like “knock wood,” words meant to ward off the evil eye.
She stepped over the slab of particleboard to which the sofa cushions were glued, and she stood considering the cockroach. It had crawled under the sleeve of her sport coat, up her bare arm, under the sleeve of her T-shirt, into her armpit, between her breasts.
Sliding a hand into the left cup of her bra, she captured the bug and withdrew it. The creature twitched and quivered against the palm of her closed hand.
Although she could easily have crushed it, she did not.
She thought of Ivan Petro, the man she had killed two days ago in self-defense, in an oak grove north of Los Angeles, and thinking of him brought back to her the faces of others.
The cockroach was a pest, a feeder on filth and a carrier of disease, but it wasn’t a mortal threat to her.
If she respected this humble creature, perhaps she would be able to reach Travis and convey him to a safe place—kayn ayn hore.
She opened her hand and dropped the insect into the hollow under the sofa, watched it scurry into a corner of that space, and slid shut the trick seat.
As Jane crossed to the kitchen sink to wash her hands, Luther Tillman stepped out of the door to the master bedroom at the back of the motor home. “So we’re in,” he said as he moved forward, swaying slightly with the motion of the moving vehicle.
“We’re in,” she said. “Next stop, the RV park.”
19
HOT LIGHT FALLING GOOD on your skin. Soft earth warm underfoot.