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to her as you’re ever going to get.”
The man with the funny gun was short, with a widow’s peak above a mild-mannered accountant’s
face. A soft pod of well-fed stomach hung over his belt. He was wearing chinos and a t-shirt reading
GOD DOES NOT DEDUCT FROM MAN’S ALLOTED SPAN THE HOURS SPENT FISHING.
“I have a question for you, honeybunch,” the woman said.
Dan raised his eyebrows. “Go ahead.”
“Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want to go to sleep?”
He did. All at once his eyelids were as heavy as sashweights. The hand holding the gun began to
relax. Two more seconds and he would have been crashed out and snoring with his head on the initialcarved
surface of the picnic table. But that was when Abra screamed.
(WHERE’S THE CROW? I DON’T SEE THE CROW!)
13
Dan jerked as a man will when he is badly startled on the edge of sleep. The hand in the picnic basket
spasmed, the Glock went off, and a cloud of wickerwork fragments flew. The bullet went wild but the
people from the Winnebago jumped, and the sleepiness left Dan’s head like the illusion that it was.
The woman with the snake tattoo and the man with the popcorny fringe of white hair flinched back,
but the one with the odd-looking pistol charged forward, yelling “Get him! Get him!”
“Get this, you kidnapping fuckers!” Dave Stone shouted. He stepped out of the woods and began to
spray bullets. Most of them went wild, but one hit Walnut in the neck and the True’s doctor went
down on the pine duff, the hypo spilling from his fingers.
14
Leading the True had its responsibilities, but also its perks. Rose’s gigantic EarthCruiser, imported
from Australia at paralyzing expense and then converted to left-hand drive, was one. Having the
ladies’ shower room at the Bluebell Campground all to herself whenever she wanted it was another.
After months on the road, there was nothing like a long hot shower in a big tiled room where you
could hold your arms out or even dance around, if the spirit moved you. And where the hot water
didn’t run out after four minutes.
Rose liked to turn off the lights and shower in darkness. She found she did her best thinking that
way, and for just that reason she had headed to the shower immediately after the troubling cell phone
call she’d gotten at 1 p.m., Mountain Time. She still believed everything was all right, but a few
doubts had begun to sprout, like dandelions on a previously flawless lawn. If the girl was even smarter
than they thought . . . or if she had enlisted help . . .
No. It couldn’t be. She was a steamhead for sure—the steamhead of all steamheads—but she was
still only a child. A rube child. In any case, all Rose could do for the time being was wait on
developments.
After fifteen refreshing minutes, she stepped out, dried off, wrapped herself in a fluffy bath sheet,
and headed back to her RV, carrying her clothes. Short Eddie and Big Mo were cleaning up the openair
barbecue area following another excellent lunch. Not their fault that nobody felt much like eating,
with two more of the True showing those goddamned red spots. They waved to her. Rose was raising
her own hand in return when a bundle of dynamite went off in her head. She went sprawling, her pants
and shirt spilling from her hand. Her bath sheet unraveled.
Rose barely noticed. Something had happened to the raiding party. Something bad. She was