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Crow glanced at his watch. Three p.m. here in New Hampshire, one o’clock in Sidewinder. At the
Bluebell Campground, lunch would just be finishing up, and Rose would be available. That decided
him. He made the call. He almost expected her to laugh and call him an old woman, but she didn’t.
“You know we can’t entirely trust Barry anymore,” she said, “but I trust you. What’s your gut
feeling?”
His gut felt nothing one way or the other; that was why he had made the call. He told her so, and
waited.
“I leave it with you,” she said. “Just don’t screw up.”
Thanks for nothing, Rosie darlin. He thought this . . . then hoped she hadn’t caught it.
He sat with the closed cell phone still in his hand, swaying from side to side with the motion of
the RV, inhaling the smell of Barry’s sickness, wondering how long it would be before the first spots
started showing up on his own arms and legs and chest. At last he went forward and put his hand on
Jimmy’s shoulder.
“When you get to Anniston, stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m getting off.”
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Crow Daddy watched them pull away from the Gas ’n Go on Anniston’s lower Main Street, resisting
an urge to send a short-range thought (all the ESP of which he was capable) to Snake before they got
out of range: Come back and pick me up, this is a mistake.
Only what if it wasn’t?
When they were gone, he looked briefly and longingly at the sad little line of used cars for sale at
the car wash adjacent to the gas station. No matter what transpired in Anniston, he was going to need
transpo out of town. He had more than enough cash in his wallet to buy something that would carry
him to their agreed-on rendezvous point near Albany on I-87; the problem was time. It would take at
least half an hour to transact a car deal, and that might be too long. Until he was sure this was a false
alarm, he would just have to improvise and rely on his powers of persuasion. They had never let him
down yet.
Crow did take time enough to step into the Gas ’n Go, where he bought a Red Sox hat. When in
Bosox country, dress as the Bosox fans do. He debated adding a pair of sunglasses and decided against
them. Thanks to TV, a fit middle-aged man in sunglasses always looked like a hit man to a certain
part of the population. The hat would have to do.
He walked up Main Street to the library where Abra and Dan had once held a council of war. He
had to go no farther than the lobby to find what he was looking for. There, under the heading of
TAKE A LOOK AT OUR TOWN, was a map of Anniston with every street and lane carefully marked.
He refreshed himself on the location of the girl’s street.
“Great game last night, wasn’t it?” a man asked. He was carrying an armload of books.
For a moment Crow had no idea what he was talking about, then remembered his new hat. “It sure
was,” he agreed, still looking at the map.
He gave the Sox fan time to depart before leaving the lobby. The hat was fine, but he had no desire
to discuss baseball. He thought it was a stupid game.
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