PLAY THAT DEAD BAND SONG 8 page

“You bet, Reynolds,” Suzanne says, and then the Geico gekko appears on the TV screens of America.

That’s enough cable news; let us float through certain half-deserted streets, past the Congo church and the parsonage (the meeting there hasn’t started yet, but Piper has loaded up the big coffee urn, and Julia is making sandwiches by the light of a hissing Coleman lamp), past the McCain house surrounded by its sad sag of yellow police tape, down Town Common Hill and past the Town Hall, where janitor Al Timmons and a couple of his friends are cleaning and sprucing up for the special town meeting tomorrow night, past War Memorial Plaza, where the statue of Lucien Calvert (Norrie’s great-grandfather; I probably don’t have to tell you that) keeps his long watch.

We’ll stop for a quick check on Barbie and Rusty, shall we? There’ll be no problem getting downstairs; there are only three cops in the ready room, and Stacey Moggin, who’s on the desk, is sleeping with her head pillowed on her forearm. The rest of the PD is at Food City, listening to Big Jim’s latest stemwinder, but it wouldn’t matter if they were all here, because we are invisible. They would feel no more than a faint draft as we glide past them.

There’s not much to see in the Coop, because hope is as invisible as we are. The two men have nothing to do but wait until tomorrow night, and hope that things break their way. Rusty’s hand hurts, but the pain isn’t as bad as he thought it might be, and the swelling isn’t as bad as he feared. Also, Stacey Moggin, God bless her heart, snuck him a couple of Excedrin around five PM.

For the time being, these two men—our heroes, I suppose—are sitting on their bunks and playing Twenty Questions. It’s Rusty’s turn to guess.

“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” he asks.

“None of them,” Barbie replies.

“How can it be none of them? It has to be one.”

“It’s not,” Barbie says. He is thinking of Poppa Smurf.

“You’re jacking me up.”

“I’m not.”

“You have to be.”

“Quit bitching and start asking.”

“Can I have a hint?”

“No. That’s your first no. Nineteen to go.”

“Wait a goddam minute. That’s not fair.”

We’ll leave them to shift the weight of the next twenty-four hours as best they can, shall we? Let us make our way past the still-simmering heap of ashes that used to be the Democrat (alas, no longer serving “The Little Town That Looks Like A Boot”), past Sanders Hometown Drug (scorched but still standing, although Andy Sanders will never pass through its doors again), past the bookstore and LeClerc’s Maison des Fleurs, where all the fleurs are now dead or dying. Let us pass under the dead stoplight marking the intersection of Routes 119 and 117 (we brush it; it sways slightly, then stills again), and cross the Food City parking lot. We are as silent as a child’s sleeping breath.

The supermarket’s big front windows have been covered with plywood requisitioned from Tabby Morrell’s lumberyard, and the worst of the gluck on the floor has been mopped up by Jack Cale and Ernie Calvert, but Food City is still a godawful mess, with boxes and dry goods strewn from hell to breakfast. The remaining merchandise (what hasn’t been carted away to various town pantries or stored in the motor pool behind the PD, in other words) is scattered helterskelter on the shelves. The soft-drink cooler, beer cooler, and ice cream freezer are busted in. There’s the high stink of spilled wine. This leftover chaos is exactly what Big Jim Rennie wants his new—and awfully young, for the most part—cadre of enforcement officers to see. He wants them to realize the whole town could look like this, and he’s canny enough to know he doesn’t need to say it right out loud. They will get the point: this is what happens when the shepherd fails in his duty and the flock stampedes.

Do we need to listen to his speech? Nah. We’ll be listening to Big Jim tomorrow night, and that should be enough. Besides, we all know how this one goes; America’s two great specialties are demagogues and rock and roll, and we’ve all heard plenty of both in our time.

Yet we should examine the faces of his listeners before we go. Notice how rapt they are, and then remind yourself that many of these (Carter Thibodeau, Mickey Wardlaw, and Todd Wendlestat, to name just three) are chumps who couldn’t get through a single week of school without scoring detention for causing trouble in class or fighting in the bathrooms. But Rennie has them hypnotized.

He’s never been much of a shake one-on-one, but when he’s in front of a crowd … rowdy-dow and a hot­cha-cha, as old Clayton Brassey used to say back in the days when he still had a few working brain cells. Big Jim’s telling them “thin blue line” and “the pride of standing with your fellow officers” and “the town is depending on you.” Other stuff, too. The good stuff that never loses its charm.

Big Jim switches to Barbie. He tells them that Barbie’s friends are still out there, sowing discord and fomenting dissension for their own evil purposes. Lowering his voice, he says: “They’ll try to discredit me. The lies they’ll tell have no bottom.”

A growl of displeasure greets this.

“Will you listen to the lies? Will you let them discredit me? Will you allow this town to go without a strong leader in its time of greatest need?”

The answer, of course, is a resounding NO! And although Big Jim continues (like most politicians, he believes in not just gilding the lily but spray-painting it), we can leave him now.

Let’s head up these deserted streets to the Congo parsonage. And look! Here’s someone we can walk with: a thirteen-year-old girl dressed in faded jeans and an old-school Winged Ripper skate-board tee. The tough riot grrrl pout that is her mother’s despair is gone from Norrie Calvert’s face this evening. It has been replaced by an expression of wonder that makes her look like the eight-year-old she not so long ago was. We follow her gaze and see a vast full moon climbing from the clouds to the east of town. It is the color and shape of a freshly cut pink grapefruit.

“Oh … my … God, ” Norrie whispers. One fisted hand is pressed between the scant nubs of her breasts as she looks at that pink freak of a moon. Then she walks on, not so amazed that she fails to look around herself from time to time to make sure she’s not being noticed. This is as per Linda Everett’s order: they were to go alone, they were to be unobtrusive, and they were to make absolutely sure they weren’t followed.

“This isn’t a game,” Linda told them. Norrie was more impressed by her pale, strained face than by her words. “If we get caught, they won’t just take away hit points or make us miss a turn. Do you kids understand that?”

“Can I go with Joe?” Mrs. McClatchey asked. She was almost as pale as Mrs. Everett.

Mrs. Everett shook her head. “Bad idea.” And that had impressed Norrie most of all. No, not a game; maybe life and death.

Ah, but there is the church, and the parsonage tucked in right beside it. Norrie can see the bright white light of Coleman lanterns around back, where the kitchen must be. Soon she’ll be inside, out from under the gaze of that awful pink moon. Soon she’ll be safe.

So she’s thinking when a shadow detaches itself from one of the thicker shadows and takes her by the arm.

Norrie was too startled to scream, which was just as well; when the pink moon lit the face of the man who

had accosted her, she saw it was Romeo Burpee.

“You scared the crap out of me,” she whispered.

“Sorry. Just keepin an eye out, me.” Rommie let go of her arm, and looked around. “Where are your

boyfriens?”

Norrie smiled at that. “Dunno. We were supposed to come by ourselves, and different ways. That’s what Mrs. Everett said.” She looked down the hill. “I think that’s Joey’s mom coming now. We should go in.”

They walked toward the light of the lanterns. The parsonage’s inner door was standing open. Rommie knocked softly on the side of the screen and said, “Rommie Burpee and a friend. If there’s a password, we didn’t get it.”

Piper Libby opened the door and let them in. She looked curiously at Norrie. “Who are you?”

“Damn if that isn’t my granddaughter,” Ernie said, coming into the room. He had a glass of lemonade in one hand and a grin on his face. “Come here, girl. I’ve been missing you.”

Norrie gave him a strong hug and kissed him as her mother had instructed. She hadn’t expected to obey those instructions so soon, but was glad to do so. And to him she could tell the truth that torture would not have dragged from her lips in front of the guys she hung with.

“Grampa, I’m so scared.”

“We all are, honey-girl.” He hugged her more tightly, then looked into her upturned face. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but now that you are, how about a glass of lemonade?”

Norrie saw the urn and said, “I’d rather have coffee.”

“So would I,” Piper said. “I got it all loaded with high-test and ready to go before I remembered I have no power.” She gave her head a little shake, as if to clear it. “This keeps hitting me in different ways.”

There was another knock at the back door and Lissa Jamieson came in, her cheeks high with color. “I stashed my bike in your garage, Reverend Libby. I hope that’s okay.”

“Fine. And if we’re engaging in criminal conspiracy here—as Rennie and Randolph would no doubt contend—you better call me Piper.”

They were all early, and Piper called the Chester’s Mill Revolutionary Committee to order at just past nine o’clock. What impressed her initially was how uneven the sexual division was: eight females and only four males. And of the four males, one was past retirement age and two weren’t old enough to get into an R-rated movie by themselves. She had to remind herself that a hundred guerrilla armies in various parts of the world had put guns in the hands of women and kids no older than these here tonight. That didn’t make it right, but sometimes what was right and what was necessary came into conflict.

“I’d like us to bow our heads for a minute,” Piper said. “I’m not going to pray because I’m no longer sure just who I’m talking to when I do that. But you might want to say a word to the God of your understanding, because tonight we need all the help we can get.”

They did as she asked. Some still had their heads down and their eyes closed when Piper raised her own head to look at them: two recently fired lady cops, a retired supermarket manager, a newspaperwoman who no longer had a newspaper, a librarian, the owner of the local restaurant, a Dome-widow who couldn’t stop spinning the wedding ring on her finger, the local department store tycoon, and three uncharacteristically solemn-faced kids sitting scrunched together on the sofa.

“Okay, amen,” Piper said. “I’m going to turn the meeting over to Jackie Wettington, who knows what she’s doing.”

“That’s probably too optimistic,” Jackie said. “Not to mention hasty. Because I’m going to turn the meeting over to Joe McClatchey.”

Joe looked startled. “Me?”

“But before he gets going,” she went on, “I’m going to ask his friends to serve as lookouts. Norrie in front and Benny in back.” Jackie saw the protest on their faces and raised a hand to forestall it. “This isn’t an excuse to get you out of the room—it’s important. I don’t need to tell you it might not be good if the powers that be caught us in conclave. You two are the smallest. Find some nice deep shadows and slide in. If you see someone coming who looks suspicious, or any of the town police cars, clap your hands like this.” She clapped once, then twice, then once more. “You’ll be filled in on everything later, I promise you. The new order of the day is pooled information, no secrets.”

When they were gone, Jackie turned to Joe. “This box you told Linda about. Tell everyone. From beginning to end.”

Joe did it on his feet, as if reciting in school. “Then we came back to town,” he finished. “And that bastard Rennie had Rusty arrested.” He wiped sweat from his forehead and sat back down on the couch.

Claire put an arm around his shoulders. “Joe says it would be bad for Rennie to find out about the box,” she said. “He thinks Rennie might want it to keep on doing what it’s doing instead of trying to turn it off or destroy it.”

“I think he’s right,” Jackie said. “So its existence and location is our first secret.”

“I don’t know …” Joe said.

“What?” Julia asked. “You think he should know?”

“Maybe. Sort of. I need to think.”

Jackie pushed on without questioning him further. “Here’s the second order of business. I want to try and break Barbie and Rusty out of jail. Tomorrow night, during the big town meeting. Barbie’s the guy the President designated to take over the town administration—”

“Anybody but Rennie,” Ernie growled. “Incompetent sonofabitch thinks he owns this burg.”

“He’s good at one thing,” Linda said. “Stirring up trouble when it suits him. The food riot and the newspaper being burned … I think both of those were done according to his orders.”

“Of course they were,” Jackie said. “Anyone who could kill his own pastor—”

Rose goggled at her. “Are you saying Rennie killed Coggins?”

Jackie told them about the basement workroom in the funeral parlor, and how the marks on Coggins’s face matched the gold baseball Rusty had seen in Rennie’s study. They listened with dismay but no disbelief.

“The girls, too?” Lissa Jamieson said in a small, horrified voice.

“I’ve got his son down for that.” Jackie spoke almost briskly. “And those murders were probably not related to Big Jim’s political machinations. Junior collapsed this morning. At the McCain house, incidentally, where the bodies were found. By him.”

“What a coincidence,” Ernie said.

“He’s in the hospital. Ginny Tomlinson says it’s almost certainly a brain tumor. Which can cause violent behavior.”

“A father-son murder team?” Claire was hugging Joe more tightly than ever.

“Not a team, exactly,” Jackie said, “Call it the same wild strain of behavior—something genetic—coming out under pressure.”

Linda said, “But the bodies being in the same place strongly suggests that if there were two murderers, they were working together. The point is, my husband and Dale Barbara are almost certainly being held by a killer who’s using them to build a grand conspiracy theory. The only reason they haven’t already been killed in custody is because Rennie wants to make an example of them. He wants them executed in public.” Her face cramped for a moment as she fought off tears.

“I can’t believe he’s gotten as far as he has,” Lissa said. She was twisting the ankh she wore back and forth. “He’s a used car dealer, for heaven’s sake.”

Silence greeted this.

“Now look,” Jackie said after it had stretched out a bit. “By telling you what Linda and I mean to do, I’ve made this a real conspiracy. I’m going to ask for a vote. If you want to be a part of this, raise your hand. Those who don’t raise their hands can leave, contingent on a promise not to blab about what we’ve discussed. Which you wouldn’t want to do, anyway; if you don’t tell anybody who was here and what was discussed, you won’t have to explain how you heard. This is dangerous. We might end up in jail, or even worse. So let’s see some hands. Who wants to stay?”

Joe raised his hand first, but Piper, Julia, Rose, and Ernie Calvert were not far behind. Linda and Rommie raised their hands together. Lissa looked at Claire McClatchey. Claire sighed and nodded. The two women raised their hands.

“Way to go, Mom,” Joe said.

“If you ever tell your father what I let you get into,” she said, “you won’t need James Rennie to execute you. I’ll do it myself.”

“Linda can’t go into the PD after them,” Rommie said. He was speaking to Jackie.

“Who, then?”

“You and me, hon. Linda’s gonna go to the big meeting. Where six or eight hundred people can testify that they saw her.”

“Why can’t I go?” Linda asked. “That’s my husband they’ve got.”

“That’s why,” Julia said simply.

“How do you want to do it?” Rommie asked Jackie.

“Well, I suggest we wear masks—”

“Duh,” Rose said, and made a face. They all laughed.

“Lucky us,” Rommie said. “I got a great selection of Halloween masks at the store.”

“Maybe I’ll be the Little Mermaid,” Jackie said, a little wistfully. She realized everyone was looking at her, and blushed. “Whatever. In any case, we’ll need guns. I have an extra at home—a Beretta. Do you have something, Rommie?”

“I put away some rifles and shotguns in the store safe. Got at least one wit’ a scope. I won’t say I saw this comin, but I saw somethin comin.”

Joe spoke up. “You’ll also need a getaway vehicle. And not your van, Rommie, because everyone knows it.”

“I got an idea about that,” Ernie said. “Let’s take a vehicle from Jim Rennie’s used car lot. He’s got half a dozen high-mileage phone company vans he picked up last spring. They’re out in the back. Using one of his’d be, whatdoyacallit, poetic justice.”

“And exactly how you gonna get the key?” Rommie asked. “Break into his office at the showroom?”

“If the one we pick doesn’t have an electronic ignition, I can hotwire it,” Ernie said. Fixing Joe with a frowning glance, he added: “I’d prefer you didn’t tell my granddaughter that, young man.”

Joe did a lip-zipping pantomime that made them all laugh again.

“The special town meeting is scheduled to start at seven tomorrow night,” Jackie said. “If we go into the PD around eight—”

“We can do better than that,” Linda said. “If I have to go to the damn meeting, I might as well do some good. I’ll wear a dress with big pockets and carry my police radio—the extra that’s still in my personal vehicle. You two be in the van, ready to go.”

Tension was creeping into the room; they all felt it. This was starting to be real.

“At the loadin dock behind my store,” Rommie said. “Out of sight.”

“Once Rennie really gets going on his speech,” Linda said, “I’ll give you a triple break on the radio. That’s your signal to roll.”

“How many police will there be at the station?” Lissa asked.

“I might be able to find out from Stacey Moggin,” Jackie said.

“There won’t be many, though. Why would there be? So far as Big Jim knows, there are no real Friends of Barbie—just the straw men he’s set up.”

“He’ll also want to make sure his tender ass is well protected,” Julia said.

There was some laughter at this, but Joe’s mother looked deeply troubled. “There’ll be some at the police station no matter what. What are you going to do if they resist you?”

“They won’t,” Jackie said. “We’ll have them locked in their own cells before they know what’s happening.”

“But if they do?”

“Then we’ll try not to kill them.” Linda’s voice was calm, but her eyes were those of a creature who has screwed its courage up in some final desperate effort to save itself. “There’s probably going to be killing anyway if the Dome stays up much longer. The execution of Barbie and my husband in War Memorial Plaza will only be the start of it.”

“Let’s say you get them out,” Julia said. “Where will you take them? Here?”

“No way,” Piper said, and touched her still-swollen mouth. “I’m already on Rennie’s shit list. Not to mention that guy who’s now his personal bodyguard. Thibodeau. My dog bit him.”

“Anywhere near the center of town’s not a great idea,” Rose said. “They could do a house-to-house. God knows they’ve got enough cops.”

“Plus all the people wearing the blue armbands,” Rommie added.

“What about one of the summer cabins out at Chester Pond?” Julia asked.

“Possible,” Ernie said, “but they could think of that, too.”

“It still might be the best bet,” Lissa said.

“Mr. Burpee?” Joe asked. “Have you got any more of that lead roll?”

“Sure, tons. And make it Rommie.”

“If Mr. Calvert can steal a van tomorrow, could you sneak it behind your store and put a bunch of precut pieces of lead roll in the back? Ones big enough to cover the windows?”

“I guess so….”

Joe looked at Jackie. “And could you get hold of this Colonel Cox, if you had to?”

“Yes.” Jackie and Julia answered together, then looked at each other in surprise.

Light was dawning on Rommie’s face. “You’re thinking about the old McCoy place, aren’t you? Up on Black Ridge. Where the box is.”

“Yeah. It might be a bad idea, but if we all had to run … if we were all up there … we could defend the box. I know that sounds crazy, since it’s the thing causing all the problems, but we can’t let Rennie get it.”

“I hope it don’t come to refighting the Alamo in an apple orchard,” Rommie said, “but I see your point.”

“There’s something else we could do, too,” Joe said. “It’s a little risky, and it might not work, but …”

“Spill it,” Julia said. She was looking at Joe McClatchey with a kind of bemused awe.

“Well … is the Geiger counter still in your van, Rommie?”

“I t’ink so, yeah.”

“Maybe someone could put it back in the fallout shelter where it came from.” Joe turned to Jackie and Linda. “Could either of you get in there? I mean, I know you got fired.”

“Al Timmons would let us in, I think,” Linda said. “And he’d let Stacey Moggin in for sure. She’s with us. The only reason she’s not here right now is because she’s got the duty. Why risk it, Joe?”

“Because …” He was speaking with uncharacteristic slowness, feeling his way. “Well … there’s radiation out there, see? Bad radiation. It’s just a belt—I bet you could drive right through it without any protection at all and not get hurt, if you drove fast and didn’t try it too often—but they don’t know that. The problem is, they don’t know there’s radiation out there at all. And they won’t, if they don’t have the Geiger counter.”

Jackie was frowning. “It’s a cool idea, kiddo, but I don’t like the idea of pointing Rennie right at where we’re going. That doesn’t fit with my idea of a safe house.”

“It wouldn’t have to be like that,” Joe said. He was still speaking slowly, testing for weak spots. “Not exactly, anyway. One of you could get in touch with Cox, see? Tell him to call Rennie and say they’re picking up spot radiation. Cox can say something like, ‘We can’t exactly pinpoint it because it comes and goes, but it’s pretty high, maybe even lethal, so watch out. You don’t happen to have a Geiger counter, do you?’”

There was a long silence as they considered this. Then Rommie said, “We take Barbara and Rusty out to the McCoy farm. We go there ourselves if we have to … which we probably will. And if they try to go out there—”

“They get a radiation spike on the Geiger counter that sends them running back to town with their hands over their worthless gonads,” Ernie rasped. “Claire McClatchey, you got a genius there.”

Claire hugged Joe tight, this time with both arms. “Now if I could only get him to pick up his room,” she said.

Horace lay on the rug in Andrea Grinnell’s living room with his snout on one paw and his eye on the woman his mistress had left him with. Ordinarily Julia took him everywhere; he was quiet and never caused trouble even if there were cats, which he didn’t care for because of their stinkweed smell. Tonight, however, it had occurred to Julia that seeing Horace alive when her own dog was dead might cause Piper Libby pain. She had also noticed that Andi liked Horace, and thought that the Corgi might take Andi’s mind off her withdrawal symptoms, which had abated but not disappeared.

For a while it worked. Andi found a rubber ball in the toybox she still kept for her one grandchild (who was now well past the toybox stage of life). Horace chased the ball obediently and brought it back as was required, although there wasn’t much challenge in it; he preferred balls that could be caught on the fly. But a job was a job, and he continued until Andi started shivering as if she were cold.

“Oh. Oh fuck, here it comes again.”

She lay down on the couch, shaking all over. She clutched one of the sofa-pillows against her chest and stared at the ceiling. Pretty soon her teeth started to clatter—a very annoying sound, in Horace’s opinion.

He brought her the ball, hoping to distract her, but she pushed him away. “No, honey, not now. Let me get through this.”

Horace took the ball back in front of the blank TV and lay down. The woman’s shaking moderated, and the sick-smell moderated along with it. The arms clutching the pillow loosened as she first began to drift and then to snore.

Which meant it was chowtime.

Horace slipped under the table again, walking over the manila envelope containing the VADER file. Beyond it was popcorn Nirvana. O lucky dog!

Horace was still snarking, his tailless rear end wagging with pleasure that was close to ecstasy (the scattered kernels were incredibly buttery, incredibly salty, and—best of all—aged to perfection), when the deadvoice spoke again.

Take that to her.

But he couldn’t. His mistress was gone.

The other her.

The deadvoice brooked no refusal, and the popcorn was almost gone, anyway. Horace marked the few remaining blossoms for later attention, then backed up until the envelope was in front of him. For a moment he forgot what he was supposed to do. Then he remembered and picked it up in his mouth.

Good dog.

Something cold licked Andrea’s cheek. She pushed it away and turned on her side. For a moment or two

she almost escaped back into healing sleep, and then there was bark.

“Shurrup, Horace.” She put the sofa pillow over her head.

There was another bark, and then thirty-four pounds of Corgi landed on her legs.

“Ah!” Andi cried, sitting up. She looked into a pair of brilliant hazel eyes and a foxy, grinning face. Only there was something interrupting that grin. A brown manila envelope. Horace dropped it on her stomach and jumped back down. He wasn’t supposed to get on furniture other than his own, but the deadvoice had made this seem like an emergency.

Andrea picked up the envelope, which had been dented by the points of Horace’s teeth and was faintly marked with the tracks of his paws. There was also a kernel of popcorn stuck to it, which she brushed away. Whatever was inside felt fairly bulky. Printed on the front of the envelope in block letters were the words VADER FILE. Below that, also printed: JULIA SHUMWAY.

“Horace? Where did you get this?”

Horace couldn’t answer that, of course, but he didn’t have to. The kernel of popcorn told her where. A memory surfaced then, one so shimmery and unreal that it was more like a dream. Was it a dream, or had Brenda Perkins really come to her door after that first terrible night of withdrawal? While the food riot was going on at the other end of town?

Will you hold this for me, dear? Just for a little while? I have an errand to run and I don’t want to take it with me.

“She was here,” she told Horace, “and she had this envelope. I took it … at least I think I did … but then I had to throw up. Throw up again. I might have tossed it at the table while I was running for the john. Did it fall off? Did you find it on the floor?”

Horace uttered one sharp bark. It could have been agreement; it could have been I’m ready for more ball if you are.

“Well, thanks,” Andrea said. “Good pup. I’ll give it to Julia as soon as she comes back.”

She no longer felt sleepy, and she wasn’t—for the moment—shivery, either. What she was was curious. Because Brenda was dead. Murdered. And it must have happened not long after she delivered this envelope. Which might make it important.

“I’ll just have a tiny peek, shall I?” she said.

Horace barked again. To Andi Grinnell it sounded like Why not?

Andrea opened the envelope, and most of Big Jim Rennie’s secrets fell out into her lap.

Claire got home first. Benny came next, then Norrie. The three of them were sitting together on the porch of the McClatchey house when Joe arrived, cutting across lawns and keeping to the shadows. Benny and Norrie were drinking warm Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda. Claire was nursing a bottle of her husband’s beer as she rocked slowly to and fro on the porch glider. Joe sat down beside her, and Claire put an arm around his bony shoulders. He’s fragile, she thought. He doesn’t know it, but he is. No more to him than a bird.

“Dude,” Benny said, handing him the soda he’d saved for him. “We were startin to get a little worried.”

“Miz Shumway had a few more questions about the box,” Joe said. “More than I could answer, really. Gosh, it’s warm out, isn’t it? Warm as a summer night.” He turned his gaze upward. “And look at that moon. ”

“I don’t want to,” Norrie said. “It’s scary.”

“You okay, honey?” Claire asked.

“Yeah, Mom. You?”

She smiled. “I don’t know. Is this going to work? What do you guys think? I mean really think.”

For a moment none of them answered, and that scared her more than anything. Then Joe kissed her on the cheek and said, “It’ll work.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

She could always tell when he was lying—although she knew the talent might leave her when he was older—but she didn’t call him on it this time. She just kissed him back, her breath warm and somehow fatherly with beer. “Just as long as there’s no bloodshed.”

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 562