As they passed their first signpost for Mount Rushmore, still several hundred miles away, Wednesday grunted. “Now that,” he said, “is a holy place.”
Shadow had thought Wednesday was asleep. He said, “I know it used to be sacred to the Indians.”
“It’s a holy place,” said Wednesday. “That’s the American Way—they need to give people an excuse to come and worship. These days, people can’t just go and see a mountain. Thus, Mister Gutzon Borglum’s tremendous presidential faces. Once they were carved, permission was granted, and now the people drive out in their multitudes to see something in the flesh that they’ve already seen on a thousand postcards.”
“I knew a guy once. He did weight training at the Muscle Farm, years back. He said that the Dakota Indians, the young men climb up the mountain, then form death-defying human chains off the heads, just so that the guy at the end of the chain can piss on the president’s nose.”
Wednesday guffawed. “Oh, fine! Very fine! Is any specific president the particular butt of then: ire?”
Shadow shrugged. “He never said.”
Miles vanished beneath the wheels of the Winnebago. Shadow began to imagine that he was staying still while the American landscape moved past them at a steady sixty-seven miles per hour. A wintry mist fogged the edges of things.
It was midday on the second day of the drive, and they were almost there. Shadow, who had been’ thinking, said, “A girl vanished from Lakeside last WeekfWhen we were in San Francisco.”
“Mm?” Wednesday sounded barely interested.
“Kid named Alison McGovern. Shi’s not the first kid to vanish there. There have been others. They go in the wintertime.”
Wednesday furrowed his brow. “It is a tragedy, is it not? The little faces on the milk cartons—although I can’t remember the last time I saw a kid on a milk carton—and on the walls of freeway rest areas. ‘Have you seen me?’ they ask. A deeply existential question at the best of times. ‘Have you seen me?’ Pull off at the next exit.”
Shadow thought he heard a helicopter pass overhead, but the clouds were too low to see anything.
“Why did you pick Lakeside?” asked Shadow.
“I told you. It’s a nice quiet place to hide you away. You’re off the board there, under the radar.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way it is. Now hang a left,” said Wednesday.
Shadow turned left.
“There’s something wrong,” said Wednesday. “Fuck. Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle. Slow down, but don’t stop.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Trouble. Do you know any alternative routes?”
“Not really. This is my first time in South Dakota,” said Shadow. “And I don’t know where we’re going.”
On the other side of the hill something flashed redly, smudged by the mist.
“Roadblock,” said Wednesday. He pushed his hand deeply into first one pocket of his suit, then another, searching for something.
“I can stop and turn around.”
“We can’t turn. They’re behind us as well,” said Wednesday. “Take your speed down to ten, fifteen miles per hour.”
Shadow glanced into the mirror. There were headlights behind them, under a mile back. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.
Wednesday snorted. “Sure as eggs is eggs,” he said. “As the turkey farmer said when he hatched his first turtle. Ah, success!” and from the bottom of a pocket he produced a small piece of white chalk.
He started to scratch with the chalk on the dashboard of the camper, making marks as if he were solving an algebraic puzzle—or perhaps, Shadow thought, as if he were a hobo, scratching long messages to the other hobos in hobo code—bad dog here, dangerous town, nice woman, soft jail in which to overnight ...
“Okay,” said Wednesday. “Now increase your speed to thirty. And don’t slow down from that.”
One of the cars behind them turned on its lights and siren and accelerated toward them. “Do not slow down,” repeated Wednesday. “They just want us to slow before we get to the roadblock.” Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
They crested the hill. The roadblock was less than a quarter of a mile away. Twelve cars arranged across the road, and on the side of the road, police cars, and several big black SUVs.
“There,” said Wednesday, and he put his chalk away. The dashboard of the Winnebago was now covered with rune-like scratchings.
The car with the siren was just behind them. It had slowed to their speed, and an amplified voice was shouting, “Pull over!” Shadow looked at Wednesday.
“Turn right,” said Wednesday. “Just pull off the road.”
“I can’t take this thing off-road. We’ll tip.”
“It’ll be fine. Take a right. Now!”
Shadow pulled the wheel down with his right hand, and the Winnebago lurched and jolted. For a moment he thought he had been correct, that the camper was going to tip, and then the world through the windshield dissolved and shimmered, like the reflection in a cleaY pool when the wind brushes the surface.