'Not a problem,' Sammy said. 'Come quick.'
So Dodee had driven out, and of course she discovered Bratz-torture was no fun if you weren't a little high, so she got a little high and so did Sammy. They collaborated on giving Yasmin some drain-cleaner plastic surgery, which was pretty hilarious.Then Sammy wanted to show her this sweet new camisole she'd gotten at Deb, anc although Sam was getting a little bit of a potbelly, she still lookec good to Dodee, perhaps because they were a little bit stoned - wrecked, in fact - and since Little Walter was still asleep (his father had insisted on naming the kid after some old bluesman, and all that sleeping, yow, Dodee had an idea Little Walter was retarded, which would be no surprise given the amount of rope Sam had smoked while carrying him), they ended up getting into Sammy's bed and doing a little of the old you-know. Afterward they'd fallen asleep, and when Dodee woke up Little Walter was blatting - holy shit, call NewsC enter 6 - and it was past five. Really too late to go in to work, and besides, Sam had produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, and they had one-shot two-shot three-shot-four, and Sammy decided she wanted to see what happened to a Baby Bratz in the microwave, only the power was out.
Dodee had crept back to town at roughly sixteen mile; an hour, still high and paranoid as hell, constantly checking the rearview mirror for cops, knowing if she did get stopped it would be by that redhaired bitch Jackie Wettington. Or her father would be taking a b-eak from the store and he'd smell the booze on her breath. Or her mother would be home, so tired out from her stupid flying lesson that she had decided to stay home from the Eastern Star Bingo.
Please, God, she prayed. Please get me through this and I'll never you-know again. Either you-know. Never in this life.
God heard her prayer. Nobody was home. The power was out here too, but in her altered state, Dodee hardly noticed. She crept upstairs to her room, shucked out of her pants and shirt, and lay down on her bed. Just for a few minutes, she told herself. Then she'd put her clothes, which smelled ofganja, in the washer, and put herself in the shower. She smelled of Sammy's perfume, which she must buy a gallon at a time down at Burpee's.
Only she couldn't set the alarm with the power out and when the knocking at the door woke her up it was dark. She grabbed her robe and went downstairs, suddenly sure that it would be the redheaded cop with the big boobs, ready to put her under arrest for driving under the influence. Maybe for crack-snacking, too. Dodee didn't think that particular you-know was against the law, but she wasn't entirely sure.
It wasn't Jackie Wettington. It was Julia Shumway, the editor-publisher of the Democrat. She had a flashlight in one hand. She shined it in Dodee's face - which was probably puffed with sleep, her eyes surely still red and her hair a haystack - and then lowered it again. Enough light kicked up to show Julia's own face, and Dodee saw a sympathy there that made her feel confused and afraid.
'Poor kid,' Julia said. 'You don't know, do you?'
'Don't know what?' Dodee had asked. It was around then that the parallel universe feeling had started. 'Don't know what?'
And Julia Shumway had told her.
6
'Angie? Angie, please!'
Fumbling her - way up the hall. Hand throbbing. Head throbbing.
She could have looked for her father - Mrs Shumway had offered to take her, starting at Bowie Funeral Home - but her blood ran cold at the thought of that place. Besides, it was Angie that she wanted. Angie who would hug her tight with no interest in the you-know. Angie who was her best friend.
A jshadow came out of the kitchen and moved swiftly toward her.
'There you are, thank God!' She began to sob harder, and hurried toward the figure with her arms outstretched. 'Oh, it's awful! I'm being punished for being a bad girl, I know I am!'
The dark figure stretched out its own arms, but they did not enfold Dodee in a hug. Instead, the hands at the end of those arms closed around her throat.
CHAPTER 4
THE GOOD OF THE TOWN, THE GOOD OF THE PEOPLE
1
Andy Sanders was indeed at the Bowie Funeral Home. He had walked there, toting a heavy load: bewilderment, grief, a broken heart.