Egon Gottfrey in the Rhino GX, westbound from Beaumont to Houston, powers through flooded swales in the pavement, the tires casting up dark wings of dirty water. The wipers can’t always cope with the downpour. Frequently the windshield presents the world as cataracted eyes might see it: misty, bleary, the buildings distorted into the grotesque structures of some alternate universe.
Nevertheless, Gottfrey drives fast, exceeding the posted limits, not in the least concerned about a collision, considering that the traffic with which he shares the road is as much an illusion as is the highway itself. Anyway, he can see clearly what he most needs to see: the truth of the conspiracy that misled him, who helped Ancel and Clare Hawk, and where Jane’s in-laws have taken refuge.
He has a long drive ahead of him, especially in this weather, but triumph awaits him at the end. Maybe he will get to Ancel and Clare too late to wrench from them young Travis’s location while it still matters, but it will never be too late to inject and enslave them.
1
MOST OF THE LONG-EXISTING campgrounds in Borrego Valley were open in season only, and not all were motor-home friendly. A new facility, Hammersmith Family RV Park, had booked the Tiffin Allegro by phone, with the promise of a three-day cash deposit on arrival.
The white Chevy Suburban, which the motor home was towing, had to be unhitched and left in a lot immediately outside the campground prior to check-in, because the spaces allotted to RVs weren’t large enough to accommodate additional vehicles. In that blacktop parking lot, where thermals rising off the pavement smelled faintly of tar, Jane and Luther transferred their weapons and other gear from the Tiffin Allegro to the Suburban.
Bernie hadn’t slept well since getting Jane’s call on Monday, not because he feared for himself, and not just because he feared that she would be killed. He also dreaded that he might even see her being killed, whereupon he would be so emptied of all hope for this world that he might curse Adonai, the sacred name of God, which was never a good idea. He said, “The longer I don’t get a call from you, the more I’m going meshugge.”
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “You always are.”
“You take care of each other.”
“That’s the plan,” Luther said, as he climbed in the driver’s seat of the Suburban. He pulled the door shut, started the engine.
Jane said, “Did you put it on? You don’t look like you did.”
“It’s silly. I’m not in the action, but I’ll put it on.”
“There’s nothing silly about it. These bastards have quietly locked down this valley. Before we’re out of here, it might be something worse than a street fight. It might be even more intimate than that, the equivalent of a cage fight.”
“I’ll wear it already. But it’s heavy.”
“It’s not heavy. It’s level two, not level four, not hard plates of Dyneema polyethylene or ceramic like on a battlefield. It’s fine-weave chainmail and Kevlar, very light, light enough. Under a roomy Hawaiian shirt, nobody knows. And you promised me.”
“So I’ll wear it! Now make like a real granddaughter and give me a hug.”
Hugging him, she said, “You better wear it.”
“You’re such a noodge. A promise is a promise with me.”
“If I don’t call in two hours, be ready to split. If I don’t call in two and a half, get the hell out of here.”
Bernie felt a tightness in his chest, as if he might have a cardiac episode, which he wouldn’t because he had no heart problems and because this wasn’t the time or place for a responsible person to drop dead. “It’s not like I spent my life abandoning people, so why should you think it’ll be easy for me?”
“You won’t be abandoning anyone,” she assured him. “If I don’t call, we’ll be dead.”
“It won’t turn out that way. You’ll get your boy.”
She didn’t smile when she said, “Your lips to God’s ear.”
As she got into the Suburban, Bernie said, “Don’t forget.” She looked back at him. “Always and forever—mishpokhe.”
“Mishpokhe,” she said, letting the kh rattle against the roof of her mouth just right. She pulled the door shut, and Luther drove the Suburban out of the parking lot.
Bernie Riggowitz, being Albert Rudolph Neary, checked into the Hammersmith Family RV Park.
They assigned him to a nice, quiet space near the back of the campground. He hooked up only to their electric service.
With the air-conditioning full blast, he sat in the copilot’s chair and sipped from a cold can of 7-Up and took an acid-reducing pill and stared through the windshield.
There were palm trees so recently planted and fresh that they didn’t look the least bit sun withered. There was a big swimming pool with a wide deck around it. There were lounge chairs on the deck for people who wanted to tan. There were big red umbrellas shielding tables where you could play cards or whatever. The water in the pool was pale blue with a reflection of the sky and rippled with silver reflections of the sun. Everything was very pretty.
The scene turned his stomach, as if he’d eaten a pound or two of the sweetest prune-jam homantash anyone had ever baked. He knew he shouldn’t take a second acid-reducing pill. He chewed a pair of Tums instead.
He didn’t know why all this prettiness should sicken him.
Okay, not true. He knew why, all right. Much as he tried not to be negative, he couldn’t help but think that the afternoon might not turn out pretty in the end.
2
HENRY LORIMAR AND HIS PARTNER, Nelson Luft, neighbors of Robert and Minette Butterworth, had been helping authorities in the search for the kidnapped little boy when the obscene ranting had begun. For a moment, Henry thought it came from the sound system of their Lexus SUV, which he was driving; but then somehow he understood that it issued instead from deep inside his head. He was briefly frightened by this realization, until a still, small voice assured him this was the new normal, that all was well, that he should accept and move on with his work. This was nothing more than the whispering room, a high-tech communications system that linked the civilian volunteers who were searching for the missing child. Yes, whoever the ranting person might be, he was misusing the technology, but this was just the whispering room, one of the many advantages of the new normal.
Evidently, Nelson received the ferocious rant at greater volume or on a more penetrating wavelength than did Henry. While the rapid gush of vicious obscenities was offensive and distracting to Henry, it proved at once painful to Nelson, and soon became excruciating. Within the safety harness that secured him to the front passenger seat, Nelson writhed in torment, his hands alternately clamped to his head or pounding on the door, on the window, as though he was desperate to escape but had forgotten how to get out of the vehicle.
Each time fear rose in Henry Lorimar, a voice separate from that of the ranter counseled him to remain calm. There was nothing to be concerned about. If he just did what was expected of him, if he searched for the missing boy according to his instructions, all would be well. He would be happy, content, at peace.
Nevertheless, unable to concentrate on his driving, he pulled off the road. Shifted into park. Engaged the emergency brake. He left the engine running to maintain the air-conditioning.