“Oh, Christ,” Barry said, “that’s Don Peters, from the prison. What’s he doing pretending to be a cop? The man has the brains of an insect.”
“That particular insect was most recently seen manning a roadblock near the prison,” Garth said. “Same bug, same truck.”
The bearded man approached the newcomers, said something, and pointed further up Main Street. Peters and his young partner ran to their truck and jumped in. The lightbars came on and they pulled out with the siren screaming.
“What’s going on?” Linny asked in a distracted voice. “Just what in the doodly-fuck is going on?”
“Everything’s fine,” Garth said, and gave her a smile. “Not to worry.” Then, to Barry and Michaela: “May I suggest we quit while we’re ahead?”
“What’s going on?” Linny wailed. “Oh, this is all just a bad dream!”
“Hang in there, miss,” Garth said. “It might get better.”
The three of them left, running once they got to the concrete path. Michaela had the grenade launcher in one hand and a bag of teargas shells in the other. She felt like Bonnie Parker. Willy was standing beside the Fleetwood.
“How did you get those guys out of here?” Barry asked.
“Told em someone was shooting up the hardware store. They won’t be long, so I think you folks better roll.” Willy snapped his umbrella closed. “And I think I better roll with you. Those two ain’t going to be happy campers when they come back.”
“Why would you help us like this?” Garth asked.
“Well, it’s strange days now, and a man has got to trust his instincts. Mine have always been pretty good. Barry here’s always been a friend to Lila, even though he bats for the other team in court, and I recognize this girl here from the TV news.” He peered at Garth. “You I don’t like the looks of so much, but you’re with them, so what the hell. Besides, the die is cast, as they say. Where we going?”
“First to pick up Lila’s son,” Barry said, “then up to the prison. How would you like to take part in a siege, Willy? Because that may be what’s shaping up.”
Willy smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Well, I had a coonskin cap when I was a kid, and I always like movies about the Alamo, so why not? Help me up the steps of this rig, would you? The goddam rain plays hell with my rheumatism.”
6
Jared, waiting at the door of the demo house, was getting ready to call his father again when a huge RV pulled up in front. Jared recognized the driver; like his mother’s deputies and many other town officials, Barry Holden had been a dinner guest at the Norcross house on occasion. Jared met him on the stoop.
“Come on,” Barry said. “We have to go.”
Jared hesitated. “My mom and four others are in the attic. It was really hot up there before the rain started, and it will be hot again tomorrow. You should help me get them down.”
“It will cool off fast tonight, Jared, and we have no time.”
Barry didn’t know if the cocooned women could feel heat or cold, but he did know that their window of opportunity was rapidly closing. He also thought that Lila and the others might be better off stashed away here on this quiet street. He had insisted on bringing his own wife and daughters along, because of the RV. It was well known in Dooling, and he was afraid of reprisals.
“Can we at least tell someone—”
“That’s a decision your father can make. Please, Jared.”
Jared allowed himself to be led down the walk to the idling Fleetwood. The back door opened, and his old Pop Warner coach leaned out. Jared smiled in spite of himself. “Coach Burke!”
“Well, lookit this!” Willy exclaimed. “The only peewee quarterback I ever had who didn’t drop every other snap. Climb in here, son.”
But the first thing Jared saw was the array of guns and ammo on the floor. “Holy shit, what are these for?”
A woman sat on the plaid couch just inside the door. She was young, extremely pretty, and vaguely familiar, but the most remarkable thing about her was how awake she looked. She said, “Hopefully just insurance.”
A man standing in the passage in front of her laughed. “I wouldn’t bet on that, Mickey.” He held out his hand. “Garth Flickinger.”
Behind Garth Flickinger, on a matching couch, were arranged five cocooned bodies, each smaller than the previous, like a set of separated nesting dolls.
“That’s Mr. Holden’s wife and daughters, I’m told,” Coach Burke said.
The RV started rolling. Jared staggered. Willy Burke steadied him, and as Jared shook with Mr. Flickinger, he thought that maybe all of this was a dream. Even the guy’s name seemed like something out of a dream—who, in the real world, was named Garth Flickinger?
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. In his peripheral vision the Holden women rolled against one another as the RV went around a corner. Jared told himself not to see them, but there was no not seeing them, reduced to mummified dolls. “I’m—ah—Jared Norcross.” And dream or no dream, he had a certain resentment—there had been time for Mr. Holden to get his family, hadn’t there? And why was that? Because it was his RV?
Jared’s phone rang as Barry hooked them around the Tremaine Street cul-de-sac. They were leaving his mother, Molly, Mary, the baby, and Mrs. Ransom behind. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, though, so what else was new?
The caller was his father. They spoke briefly and then Clint asked to speak to Michaela. When she took the phone, Clint said, “Here’s what you need to do.”
She listened.
7
Deputy Sheriff Reed Barrows had parked Unit Three directly across the byroad leading to the prison. This was high ground; he and Vern had a clear view down at least six miles of Route 31. Reed had expected a ration of shit from Peters about being relieved so soon after they had taken up their post, but Peters had been surprisingly agreeable. Probably eager to get an early start on the day’s drinking. Maybe the kid was, too. Reed doubted if they were checking IDs at the Squeaky Wheel this week, and currently the cops had better things to do than enforce alcohol laws.
Peters reported they had stopped just a single car, some reporter who’d gone up to the prison hoping to get an interview, and been turned away. Reed and Vern had stopped no one at all. Even traffic on the main road was so sparse it was nearly nonexistent. The town was in mourning for its women, Reed thought. Hell, the world was in mourning.
Reed turned to his partner, who was reading something on his Kindle and picking his nose. “You’re not wiping boogers under the seat, are you?”
“Jesus, no. Don’t be disgusting.” Vern raised his rump, pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped a little green treasure into it, and replaced it. “Tell me something—what exactly are we doing here? Do they really think Norcross is stupid enough to take that woman out into the world when he’s got her behind bars right now?”
“I don’t know.”
“If a food truck or something comes along, what are we supposed to do?”
“Stop it and radio for instructions.”