American Gods: The Tenth Anniversary Edition (Author’s Preferred Text)

CHAPTER NINE

As they drove out of Illinois late that evening, Shadow asked Wednesday his first question. He saw the WELCOME TO WISCONSIN sign, and said, “So who were the bunch that grabbed me in the parking lot? Mister Wood and Mister Stone? Who were they?”

The lights of the car illuminated the winter landscape. Wednesday had announced that they were not to take freeways because he didn’t know whose side the freeways were on, so Shadow was sticking to back roads. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t even sure that Wednesday was crazy.

Wednesday grunted. “Just spooks. Members of the opposition. Black hats.”

“I think,” said Shadow, “that they think they’re the white hats.”

“Of course they do. There’s never been a true war that wasn’t fought between two sets of people who were certain they were in the right. The really dangerous people believe that they are doing whatever they are doing solely and only because it is without question the right thing to do. And that is what makes them dangerous.”

“And you?” asked Shadow. “Why are you doing what you’re doing?”

“Because I want to,” said Wednesday. And then he grinned. “So that’s all right.”

Shadow said, “How did you all get away? Or did you all get away?”

“We did,” said Wednesday. “Although it was a close thing. If they’d not stopped to grab you, they might have taken the lot of us. It convinced several of the people who had been sitting on the fence that I might not be completely crazy.”

“So how did you get out?”

Wednesday shook his head. “I don’t pay you to ask questions,” he said. “I’ve told you before.”

Shadow shrugged.

They spent the night in a Super 8 motel, south of La Crosse.

Christmas Day was spent on the road, driving north and east. The farmland became pine forest. The towns seemed to come farther and farther apart.

They ate their Christmas lunch late in the afternoon in a hall-like family restaurant in northern central Wisconsin. Shadow picked cheerlessly at the dry turkey, jam-sweet red lumps of cranberry sauce, tough-as-wood roasted potatoes and the violently green canned peas. From the way he attacked it, and the way he smacked his lips, Wednesday seemed to be enjoying the food. As the meal progressed he became positively expansive—talking, joking, and, whenever she came close enough, flirting with the waitress, a thin blonde girl who looked scarcely old enough to have dropped out of high school.

“Excuse me, m’dear, but might I trouble you for another cup of your delightful hot chocolate? And I trust you won’t think me too forward if I say what a mightily fetching and becoming dress that is. Festive, yet classy.”

The waitress, who wore a bright red and green skirt edged with glittering silver tinsel, giggled and colored and smiled happily, and went off to get Wednesday another mug of hot chocolate.

“Fetching,” said Wednesday, thoughtfully, watching her go. “Becoming,” he said. Shadow did not think he was talking about the dress. Wednesday shoveled the final slice of turkey into his mouth, flicked at his beard with his napkin, and pushed his plate forward. “Aaah. Good.” He looked around him, at the family restaurant. In the background a tape of Christmas songs was playing: the little drummer boy had no gifts to bring, parupapom-pom, rapappom pom, rapappom pom.

“Some things may change,” said Wednesday, abruptly. “People, however…people stay the same. Some grifts last forever, others are swallowed soon enough by time and by the world. My favorite grift of all is no longer practical. Still, a surprising number of grifts are timeless—the Spanish Prisoner, the Pigeon Drop, the Fawney Rig (that’s the Pigeon Drop but with a gold ring instead of a wallet), the Fiddle Game…”

“I’ve never heard of the Fiddle Game,” said Shadow. “I think I’ve heard of the others. My old cellmate said he’d actually done the Spanish Prisoner. He was a grifter.”

“Ah,” said Wednesday, and his left eye sparkled. “The Fiddle Game was a fine and wonderful con. In its purest form it is a two-man grift. It trades on cupidity and greed, as all great grifts do. You can always cheat an honest man, but it takes more work. So. We are in a hotel, or an inn, or a fine restaurant, and, dining there, we find a man—shabby, but shabby genteel, not down-at-heel but certainly down on his luck. We shall call him Abraham. And when the time comes to settle his bill—not a huge bill, you understand, fifty, seventy-five dollars—an embarrassment! Where is his wallet? Good Lord, he must have left it at a friend’s, not far away. He shall go and obtain his wallet forthwith! But here, mine host, says Abraham, take this old fiddle of mine for security. It’s old, as you can see, but it’s how I make my living.”

Wednesday’s smile when he saw the waitress approaching was huge and predatory. “Ah, the hot chocolate! Brought to me by my Christmas Angel! Tell me, my dear, could I have some more of your delicious bread when you get a moment?”

The waitress—what was she, Shadow wondered: sixteen, seventeen? —looked at the floor and her cheeks flushed crimson. She put down the chocolate with shaking hands and retreated to the edge of the room, by the slowly rotating display of pies, where she stopped and stared at Wednesday. Then she slipped into the kitchen, to fetch Wednesday his bread.

“So. The violin—old, unquestionably, perhaps even a little battered—is placed away in its case, and our temporarily impecunious Abraham sets off in search of his wallet. But a well-dressed gentleman, only just done with his own dinner, has been observing this exchange, and now he approaches our host: could he, perchance, inspect the violin that honest Abraham left behind?

“Certainly he can. Our host hands it over, and the well-dressed man—let us call him Barrington—opens his mouth wide, then remembers himself and closes it, examines the violin reverentially, like a man who has been permitted into a holy sanctum to examine the bones of a prophet. ‘Why,’ he says, ‘this is—it must be—no, it cannot be—but yes, there it is—my lord! But this is unbelievable!” and he points to the maker’s mark, on a strip of browning paper inside the violin—but still, he says, even without it he would have known it by the color of the varnish, by the scroll, by the shape.

“Now Barrington reaches inside his pocket and produces an engraved business card, proclaiming him to be a preeminent dealer in rare and antique musical instruments. ‘So this violin is rare?’ asks mine host. ‘Indeed it is,’ says Barrington, still admiring it with awe, ‘and worth in excess of a hundred thousand dollars, unless I miss my guess. Even as a dealer in such things I would pay fifty—no, seventy-five thousand dollars, good cash money for such an exquisite piece. I have a man on the West Coast who would buy it tomorrow, sight unseen, with one telegram, and pay whatever I asked for it.’ And then he consults his watch, and his face falls. ‘My train—’ he says. ‘I have scarcely enough time to catch my train! Good sir, when the owner of this inestimable instrument should return, please give him my card, for, alas, I must be away.’ And with that, Barrington leaves, a man who knows that time and the train wait for no man.

“Mine host examines the violin, curiosity mingling with cupidity in his veins, and a plan begins to bubble up through his mind. But the minutes go by, and Abraham does not return. And now it is late, and through the door, shabby but proud, comes our Abraham, our fiddle-player, and he holds in his hands a wallet, a wallet that has seen better days, a wallet that has never contained more than a hundred dollars on its best day, and from it he takes the money to pay for his meal or his stay, and he asks for the return of his violin.

“Mine host puts the fiddle in its case on the counter, and Abraham takes it like a mother cradling her child. ‘Tell me,’ says the host (with the engraved card of a man who’ll pay fifty thousand dollars, good cash money, burning in his inside breast pocket), ‘how much is a violin like this worth? For my niece has a yearning on her to play the fiddle, and it’s her birthday coming up in a week or so.’

“‘Sell this fiddle?’ says Abraham. ‘I could never sell her. I’ve had her for twenty years I have, fiddled all over the country with her. And to tell the truth, she cost me all of five hundred dollars back when I bought her.’

“Mine host keeps the smile from his face. ‘Five hundred dollars? What if I were to offer you a thousand dollars for it, here and now?’

“The fiddle player looks delighted, then crestfallen, and he says, ‘But lordy, I’m a fiddle player, sir, it’s all I know how to do. This fiddle knows me and she loves me, and my fingers know her so well I could play an air upon her in the dark. Where will I find another that sounds so fine? A thousand dollars is good money, but this is my livelihood. Not a thousand dollars, not for five thousand.”

“Mine host sees his profits shrinking, but this is business, and you must spend money to make money. ‘Eight thousand dollars,’ he says. ‘It’s not worth that, but I’ve taken a fancy to it, and I do love and indulge my niece.’

“Abraham is almost in tears at the thought of losing his beloved fiddle, but how can he say no to eight thousand dollars? —especially when mine host goes to the wall safe, and removes not eight but nine thousand dollars, all neatly banded and ready to be slipped into the fiddle player’s threadbare pocket. ‘You’re a good man,’ he tells his host. ‘You’re a saint! But you must swear to take care of my girl!’ and, reluctantly, he hands over his violin.”

“But what if mine host simply hands over Barrington’s card and tells Abraham that he’s come into some good fortune?” asked Shadow.

“Then we’re out the cost of two dinners,” said Wednesday. He wiped the remaining gravy and leftovers from his plate with a slice of bread, which he ate with lip-smacking relish.

“Let me see if I’ve got it straight,” said Shadow. “So Abraham leaves, nine thousand dollars the richer, and in the parking lot by the train station he and Barrington meet up. They split the money, get into Barrington’s Model A Ford and head for the next town. I guess in the trunk of that car they must have a box filled with hundred-dollar violins.”

“I personally made it a point of honor never to pay more than five dollars for any of them,” said Wednesday. Then he turned to the hovering waitress. “Now, my dear, regale us with your description of the sumptuous desserts available to us on this, our Lord’s natal day.” He stared at her—it was almost a leer—as if nothing that she could offer him would be as toothsome a morsel as herself. Shadow felt deeply uncomfortable: it was like watching an old wolf stalking a fawn too young to know that if it did not run, and run now, it would wind up in a distant glade with its bones picked clean by the ravens.

The girl blushed once more and told them that dessert was apple pie, apple pie à la mode—“That’s with a scoop of vanilla ice cream”—Christmas Cake, Christmas Cake à la mode, or a red and green whipped pudding. Wednesday stared into her eyes and told her that he would try the Christmas Cake à la mode. Shadow passed.

“Now, as grifts go,” said Wednesday, “the Fiddle Game goes back three hundred years or more. And if you pick your chicken correctly you could still play it tomorrow anywhere in America.”

“I thought you said that your favorite grift was no longer practical,” said Shadow.

“I did indeed. However, that is not my favorite. It was fine and enjoyable, but not my favorite. No, my favorite was one they called the Bishop Game. It had everything: excitement, subterfuge, portability, surprise. Perhaps, I think from time to time, perhaps with a little modification, it might…” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Its time has passed. It is, let us say, 1920, in a city of medium to large size—Chicago, perhaps, or New York, or Philadelphia. We are in a jeweler’s emporium. A man dressed as a clergyman—and not just any clergyman, but a bishop, in his purple—enters and picks out a necklace, a gorgeous and glorious confection of diamonds and pearls, and pays for it with a dozen of the crispest hundred-dollar bills.

“There’s a smudge of green ink on the topmost bill and the store owner, apologetically but firmly, sends the stack of bills to the bank on the corner to be checked. Soon enough, the store clerk returns with the bills. The bank says they are none of them counterfeit. The owner apologizes again, and the bishop is most gracious, he well understands the problem, there are such lawless and ungodly types in the world today, such immorality and lewdness abroad in the world—and shameless women, and now that the underworld has crawled out of the gutter and come to live on the screens of the picture palaces what more could anyone expect? And the necklace is placed in its case, and the store owner does his best not to ponder why a bishop of the church would be purchasing a twelve-hundred-dollar diamond necklace, nor why he would be paying good cash money for it.

“The bishop bids him a hearty farewell, and walks out on the street, only for a heavy hand to descend on his shoulder. ‘Why, Soapy, yez spalpeen, up to your old tricks are you?’ and a broad beat cop with an honest Irish face walks the bishop back into the jewelry store.

“‘Beggin’ your pardon, but has this man just bought anything from you?’ asks the cop. ‘Certainly not,’ says the bishop. ‘Tell him I have not.’ ‘Indeed he has,’ says the jeweler. ‘He bought a pearl and diamond necklace from me—paid for it in cash as well.’ ‘Would you have the bills available, sir?’ asks the cop.

“So the jeweler takes the twelve hundred-dollar bills from the cash register and hands them to the cop, who holds them up to the light and shakes his head in wonder. ‘Oh, Soapy, Soapy,’ he says, ‘these are the finest that you’ve made yet! You’re a craftsman, that you are!’

“A self-satisfied smile spreads across the bishop’s face. ‘You can’t prove nothing,’ says the bishop. ‘And the bank said that they were on the level. It’s the real green stuff.’ ‘I’m sure they did,’ agrees the cop on the beat, ‘but I doubt that the bank had been warned that Soapy Sylvester was in town, nor of the quality of the hundred-dollar bills he’d been passing in Denver and in St. Louis.’ And with that he reaches into the bishop’s pocket and pulls out the necklace. “Twelve hundred dollars’ worth of diamonds and pearls in exchange for fifty cents’ worth of paper and ink,’ says the policeman, who is obviously a philosopher at heart. ‘And passing yourself off as a man of the church. You should be ashamed,’ he says, as he claps the handcuffs on the bishop, who is obviously no bishop, and he marches him away, but not before he gives the jeweler a receipt for both the necklace and the twelve hundred counterfeit dollars. It’s evidence, after all.”

“Was it really counterfeit?” asked Shadow.

“Of course not! Fresh banknotes, straight from the bank, only with a thumbprint and a smudge of green ink on a couple of them to make them a little more interesting.”

Shadow sipped his coffee. It was worse than prison coffee. “So the cop was obviously no cop. And the necklace?”

“Evidence,” said Wednesday. He unscrewed the top from the salt-shaker, poured a little heap of salt on the table. “But the jeweler gets a receipt, and assurance that he’ll get the necklace straight back as soon as Soapy comes to trial. He is congratulated on being a good citizen, and he watches, proudly, already thinking of the tale he’ll have to tell at the next meeting of the Oddfellows tomorrow night, as the policeman marches the man pretending to be a bishop out of the store, twelve hundred dollars in one pocket, a twelve-hundred-dollar diamond necklace in the other, on their way to a police station that’ll never see hide nor hair of either of them.”

The waitress had returned to clear the table. “Tell me, my dear,” said Wednesday. “Are you married?”

She shook her head.

“Astonishing that a young lady of such loveliness has not yet been snapped up.” He was doodling with his fingernail in the spilled salt, making squat, blocky rune-like shapes. The waitress stood passively beside him, reminding Shadow less of a fawn and more of a young rabbit caught in an eighteen-wheeler’s headlights, frozen in fear and indecision.

Wednesday lowered his voice, so much so that Shadow, only across the table, could barely hear him. “What time do you get off work?”

“Nine,” she said, and swallowed. “Nine thirty latest.”

“And what is the finest motel in this area?”

“There’s a Motel 6,” she said. “It’s not much.”

Wednesday touched the back of her hand, fleetingly, with the tips of his fingers, leaving crumbs of salt on her skin. She made no attempt to wipe them off. “To us,” he said, his voice an almost inaudible rumble, “it shall be a pleasure-palace.”

The waitress looked at him. She bit her thin lips, hesitated, then nodded and fled for the kitchen.

“C’mon,” said Shadow. “She looks barely legal.”

“I’ve never been overly concerned about legality,” Wednesday told him. “Not as long as I get what I want. Sometimes the nights are long and cold. And I need her, not as an end in herself, but to wake me up a little. Even King David knew that there is one easy prescription to get warm blood flowing through an old frame: take one virgin, call me in the morning.”

Shadow caught himself wondering if the girl on night duty in the hotel back in Eagle Point had been a virgin. “Don’t you ever worry about disease?” he asked. “What if you knock her up? What if she’s got a brother?”

“No,” said Wednesday. “I don’t worry about diseases. I don’t catch them. People like me avoid them. Unfortunately, for the most part people like me fire blanks, so there’s not a great deal of interbreeding. It used to happen in the old days. Nowadays, it’s possible, but so unlikely as to be almost unimaginable. So no worries there. And many girls have brothers, and fathers. Some even have husbands. It’s not my problem. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I’ve left town already.”

“So we’re staying here for the night?”

Wednesday rubbed his chin. “I shall stay in the Motel 6,” he said. Then he put his hand into his coat pocket. He pulled out a front-door key, bronze-colored, with a card tag attached on which was typed an address: 502 NORTHRIDGE RD, APT #3. “You, on the other hand, have an apartment waiting for you, in a city far from here.” Wednesday closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them, gray and gleaming and fractionally mismatched, and he said, “The Greyhound bus will be coming through town in twenty minutes. It stops at the gas station. Here’s your ticket.” He pulled out a folded bus ticket, passed it across the table. Shadow picked it up and looked at it.

“Who’s Mike Ainsel?” he asked. That was the name on the ticket.

“You are. Happy Christmas.”

“And where’s Lakeside?”

“Your happy home in the months to come. And now, because good things come in threes…” He took a small, gift-wrapped package from his pocket, pushed it across the table. It sat beside the ketchup bottle with the black smears of dried ketchup on the top. Shadow made no move to take it.

“Well?”

Reluctantly, Shadow tore open the red wrapping paper, to reveal a fawn-colored calfskin wallet, shiny from use. It was obviously somebody’s wallet. Inside the wallet was a driver’s license with Shadow’s photograph on it, in the name of Michael Ainsel, with a Milwaukee address, a MasterCard for M. Ainsel, and twenty crisp fifty-dollar bills. Shadow closed the wallet, put it into an inside pocket.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Think of it as a Christmas bonus. Now, let me walk you down to the Greyhound. I shall wave to you as you ride the gray dog north.”

They walked outside the restaurant. Shadow found it hard to believe how much colder it had gotten in the last few hours. It felt too cold to snow, now. Aggressively cold. This was a bad winter.

“Hey. Wednesday. Both of the scams you were telling me about—the violin scam and the bishop one, the bishop and the cop—” He hesitated, trying to form his thought, to bring it into focus.

“What of them?”

Then he had it. “They’re both two-man scams. One guy on each side. Did you used to have a partner?” Shadow’s breath came in clouds. He promised himself that when he got to Lakeside he would spend some of his Christmas bonus on the warmest, thickest winter coat that money could buy.

“Yes,” said Wednesday. “Yes. I had a partner. A junior partner. But, alas, those days are gone. There’s the gas station, and there, unless my eye deceives me, is the bus.” It was already signaling its turn into the parking lot. “Your address is on the key,” said Wednesday. “If anyone asks, I am your uncle, and I shall be rejoicing in the unlikely name of Emerson Borson. Settle in, in Lakeside, nephew Ainsel. I’ll come for you within the week. We shall be traveling together. Visiting the people I have to visit. In the meantime, keep your head down and stay out of trouble.”

“My car—?” said Shadow.

“I’ll take good care of it. Have a good time in Lakeside,” said Wednesday. He thrust out his hand, and Shadow shook it. Wednesday’s hand was colder than a corpse’s.

“Jesus,” said Shadow. “You’re cold.”

“Then the sooner I am making the two-backed beast with the little hotsy-totsy lass from the restaurant in a back room of the Motel 6, the better.” And he reached out his other hand and squeezed Shadow’s shoulder.

Shadow experienced a dizzying moment of double vision: he saw the grizzled man facing him, squeezing his shoulder, but he saw something else: so many winters, hundreds and hundreds of winters, and a gray man in a broad-brimmed hat walking from settlement to settlement, leaning on his staff, staring in through windows at the firelight, at a joy and a burning life he would never be able to touch, never even be able to feel…

“Go,” said Wednesday, his voice a reassuring growl. “All is well, and all is well, and all shall be well.”

Shadow showed his ticket to the driver. “Hell of a day to be traveling,” she said. And then she added, with a certain grim satisfaction, “Merry Christmas.”

The bus was almost empty. “When will we get in to Lakeside?” asked Shadow.

“Two hours. Maybe a bit more,” said the driver. “They say there’s a cold snap coming.” She thumbed a switch and the doors closed with a hiss and a thump.

Shadow walked halfway down the bus, put the seat back as far as it would go, and he started to think. The motion of the bus and the warmth combined to lull him, and before he was aware that he was becoming sleepy, he was asleep.

In the earth, and under the earth. The marks on the wall were the red of wet clay: hand prints, finger-marks and, here and there, crude representations of animals and people and birds.

The fire still burned and the buffalo man still sat on the other side of the fire, staring at Shadow with huge eyes, eyes like pools of dark mud. The buffalo lips, fringed with matted brown hair, did not move as the buffalo voice said, “Well, Shadow? Do you believe yet?”

“I don’t know,” said Shadow. His mouth had not moved either, he observed. Whatever words were passing between the two of them were not being spoken, not in any way that Shadow understood speech. “Are you real?”

“Believe,” said the buffalo man.

“Are you…” Shadow hesitated, and then he asked, “Are you a god too?”

The buffalo man reached one hand into the flames of the fire and he pulled out a burning brand. He held the brand in the middle. Blue and yellow flames licked his red hand, but they did not burn.

“This is not a land for gods,” said the buffalo man. But it was not the buffalo man talking any more, Shadow knew, in his dream: it was the fire speaking, the crackling and the burning of the flame itself that spoke to Shadow in the dark place under the earth.

“This land was brought up from the depths of the ocean by a diver,” said the fire. “It was spun from its own substance by a spider. It was shat by a raven. It is the body of a fallen father, whose bones are mountains, whose eyes are lakes.

“This is a land of dreams and fire,” said the flame.

The buffalo man put the brand back on the fire.

“Why are you telling me this stuff?” said Shadow. “I’m not important. I’m not anything. I was an okay physical trainer, a really lousy smalltime crook and maybe not so good a husband as I thought I was…” He trailed off.

“How do I help Laura?” Shadow asked the buffalo man. “She wants to be alive again. I said I’d help her. I owe her that.”

The buffalo man said nothing. He pointed up with his soot-blackened palm facing Shadow, his index finger pointing toward the roof of the cave. Shadow’s eyes followed. There was a thin, wintry light, coming from a tiny opening far above.

“Up there?” asked Shadow, wishing that one of his questions would be answered. “I’m supposed to go up there?”

The dream took him then, the idea becoming the thing itself, and Shadow was crushed into the rock and earth. He was like a mole, trying to push through the earth, like a badger, climbing through the earth, like a groundhog, pushing the earth out of his way, like a bear, but the earth was too hard, too dense, and his breath was coming in gasps, and soon he could go no further, dig and climb no more, and he knew then that he would die, somewhere in the deep place beneath the world.

His own strength was not enough. His efforts became weaker. He knew that though his body was riding in a hot bus through cold woods if he stopped breathing here, beneath the world, he would stop breathing there as well, that even now his breath was coming in shallow panting gasps.

He struggled and he pushed, ever more weakly, each movement using precious air. He was trapped: could go no further, and could not return the way that he had come.

“Now bargain,” said a voice in his mind. It might have been his own voice. He could not tell.

“What do I have to bargain with?” Shadow asked. “I have nothing.”

He could taste the clay now, thick and mud-gritty in his mouth; he could taste the sharp mineral tang of the rocks that surrounded him.

And then Shadow said, “Except myself. I have myself, don’t I?”

It seemed as if everything was holding its breath—not just Shadow, but the whole world under the earth, every worm, every crevice, every cavern, holding its breath.

“I offer myself,” he said.

The response was immediate. The rocks and the earth that had surrounded him began to push down on Shadow, squeezed him so hard that the last ounce of air in his lungs was crushed out of him. The pressure became pain, pushing him on every side, and he felt he was being mashed, a fern becoming coal. He reached the zenith of pain and hung there, cresting, knowing that he could take no more, that no one could take more than this, and at that moment the spasm eased and Shadow could breathe again. The light above him had grown larger.

He was being pushed toward the surface.

As the next earth-spasm hit, Shadow tried to ride with it. This time he felt himself being pushed upward, the pressure of the earth pushing him out, expelling him, pushing him closer to the light. And then a moment for a breath.

The spasms took him and rocked him, each harder, each more painful than the one before it.

He rolled and writhed through the earth, and now his face was pushed against the opening, a gap in the rock scarcely larger than the span of his hand, through which a muted gray light came, and air, blessed air.

The pain, on that last awful contraction, was impossible to believe as he felt himself being squeezed, crushed and pushed through that unyielding rock gap, his bones shattering, his flesh becoming something shapeless and snakelike, and as his mouth and ruined head cleared the hole he began to scream, in fear and pain.

He wondered, as he screamed, whether, back in the waking world, he was also screaming—if he were screaming in his sleep back on the darkened bus.

And as that final spasm ended Shadow was on the ground, his fingers clutching the red earth, grateful only that the pain was over and he could breathe once more, deep lungfuls of warm, evening air.

He pulled himself into a sitting position, wiped the earth from his face with his hand and looked up at the sky. It was twilight, a long, purple twilight, and the stars were coming out, one by one, stars so much brighter and more vivid than any stars he had ever seen or imagined.

“Soon,” said the crackling voice of the flame, coming from behind him, “they will fall. Soon they will fall and the star people will meet the earth people. There will be heroes among them, and men who will slay monsters and bring knowledge, but none of them will be gods. This is a poor place for gods.”

A blast of air, shocking in its coldness, touched his face. It was like being doused in ice water. He could hear the driver’s voice saying that they were in Pinewood, anyone who needs a cigarette or wants to stretch their legs, we’ll be stopping here for ten minutes then we’ll be back on the road.

Shadow stumbled off the bus. They were parked outside another rural gas station, almost identical to the one they had left. The driver was helping a couple of teenage girls onto the bus, putting their suitcases away in the luggage compartment.

“Hey,” the driver said, when she saw Shadow. “You’re getting off at Lakeside, right?”

Shadow agreed, sleepily, that he was.

“Heck, that’s a good town,” said the bus-driver. “I think sometimes that if I were just going to pack it all in, I’d move to Lakeside. Prettiest town I’ve ever seen. You’ve lived there long?”

“My first visit.”

“You have a pasty at Mabel’s for me, you hear?”

Shadow decided not to ask for clarification. “Tell me,” said Shadow, “was I talking in my sleep?”

“If you were, I didn’t hear you.” She looked at her watch. “Back on the bus. I’ll call you when we get to Lakeside.”

The two girls—he doubted that either of them was much more than fourteen years old—who had got on in Pinewood were now in the seat in front of him. They were friends, Shadow decided, eavesdropping without meaning to, not sisters. One of them knew almost nothing about sex, but knew a lot about animals, helped out or spent a lot of time at some kind of animal shelter, while the other was not interested in animals, but, armed with a hundred tidbits gleaned from the Internet and from daytime television, thought she knew a great deal about human sexuality. Shadow listened with a horrified and amused fascination to the one who thought she was wise in the ways of the world detail the precise mechanics of using Alka-Seltzer tablets to enhance oral sex.

He listened to both of them—the girl who liked animals, and the one who knew why Alka-Seltzer gave you more oral bang for your buck than, like, even Altoids—dishing the dirt on the current Miss Lakeside, who had, like, everybody knew, only gotten her greasy hands on the coronet and sash by flirtin’ up to the judges.

Shadow started to tune them out, blanked everything except the noise of the road, and now only fragments of conversation would come back every now and again.

Goldie is, like, such a good dog, and he was a purebred retriever, if only my dad would say okay, he wags his tail whenever he sees me.

It’s Christmas, he has to let me use the snowmobile.

You can write your name with your tongue on the side of his thing.

I miss Sandy.

Yeah, I miss Sandy too.

Six inches tonight they said, but they just make it up, they make up the weather and nobody ever calls them on it…

And then the brakes of the bus were hissing and the driver was shouting “Lakeside!” and the doors clunked open. Shadow followed the girls out into the floodlit parking lot of a video store and tanning salon that functioned, Shadow guessed, as Lakeside’s Greyhound station. The air was dreadfully cold, but it was a fresh cold. It woke him up. He stared at the lights of the town to the south and the west, and the pale expanse of a frozen lake to the east.

The girls were standing in the lot, stamping and blowing on their hands dramatically. One of them, the younger one, snuck a look at Shadow, smiled awkwardly when she realized that he had seen her do so.

“Merry Christmas,” said Shadow. It seemed like a safe thing to say.

“Yeah,” said the other girl, perhaps a year or so older than the first, “Merry Christmas to you too.” She had carroty red hair and a snub nose covered with a hundred thousand freckles.

“Nice town you got here,” said Shadow.

“We like it,” said the younger one. She was the one who liked animals. She gave Shadow a shy grin, revealing blue rubber-band braces stretching across her front teeth. “You look like somebody,” she told him, gravely. “Are you somebody’s brother or somebody’s son or something?”

“You are such a spaz, Alison,” said her friend. “Everybody’s somebody’s son or brother or something.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” said Alison. Headlights framed them all for one brilliant white moment. Behind the headlights was a station wagon with a mother in it, and in moments it took the girls and their bags away, leaving Shadow standing alone in the parking lot.

“Young man? Anything I can do for you?” The old man was locking up the video store. He pocketed his keys. “Store ain’t open Christmas,” he told Shadow cheerfully. “But I come down to meet the bus. Make sure everything was okay. Couldn’t live with myself if some poor soul’d found ’emselves stranded on Christmas Day.” He was close enough that Shadow could see his face: old but contented, the face of a man who had sipped life’s vinegar and found it, by and large, to be mostly whiskey, and good whiskey at that.

“Well, you could give me the number of the local taxi company,” said Shadow.

“I could,” said the old man, doubtfully, “but Tom’ll be in his bed this time of night, and even if you could rouse him you’ll get no satisfaction—I saw him down at the Buck Stops Here earlier this evening, and he was very merry. Very merry indeed. Where is it you’re aiming to go?”

Shadow showed him the address tag on the door key.

“Well,” he said, “that’s a ten-, mebbe a twenty-minute walk over the bridge and around. But it’s no fun when it’s this cold, and when you don’t know where you’re going it always seems longer—you ever notice that? First time takes forever, and then ever after it’s over in a flash?”

“Yes,” said Shadow. “I’ve never thought of it like that. But I guess it’s true.”

The old man nodded. His face cracked into a grin. “What the heck, it’s Christmas. I’ll run you over there in Tessie.”

“Tessie?” said Shadow, and then he said, “I mean, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Shadow followed the old man to the road, where a huge old roadster was parked. It looked like something that gangsters might have been proud to drive in the Roaring Twenties, running boards and all. It was a deep dark color under the sodium lights that might have been red and might have been green. “This is Tessie,” the old man said. “Ain’t she a beaut?” He patted her proprietarily, where the hood curved up and arched over the front nearside wheel.

“What make is she?” asked Shadow.

“She’s a Wendt Phoenix. Wendt went under in ’31, name was bought by Chrysler, but they never made any more Wendts. Harvey Wendt, who founded the company, was a local boy. Went out to California, killed himself in, oh, 1941, ’42. Great tragedy.”

The car smelled of leather and old cigarette smoke—not a fresh smell, but as if enough people had smoked enough cigarettes and cigars in the car over the years that the smell of burning tobacco had become part of the fabric of the car. The old man turned the key in the ignition and Tessie started first time.

“Tomorrow,” he told Shadow, “she goes into the garage. I’ll cover her with a dust sheet, and that’s where she’ll stay until spring. Truth of the matter is, I shouldn’t be driving her right now, with the snow on the ground.”

“Doesn’t she ride well in snow?”

“Rides just fine. It’s the salt they put on the roads to melt the snow. Rusts these old beauties faster than you could believe. You want to go door to door, or would you like the moonlight grand tour of the town?”

“I don’t want to trouble you—”

“It’s no trouble. You get to be my age, you’re grateful for the least wink of sleep. I’m lucky if I get five hours a night nowadays—wake up and my mind is just turning and turning. Where are my manners? My name’s Hinzelmann. I’d say, call me Richie, but round here folks who know me just call me plain Hinzelmann. I’d shake your hand, but I need two hands to drive Tessie. She knows when I’m not paying attention.”

“Mike Ainsel,” said Shadow. “Pleased to meet you, Hinzelmann.”

“So we’ll go round the lake. Grand tour,” said Hinzelmann.

Main Street, which they were on, was a pretty street, even at night, and it looked old-fashioned in the best sense of the word—as if, for a hundred years, people had been caring for that street and they had not been in a hurry to lose anything they liked.

Hinzelmann pointed out the town’s two restaurants as they passed them (a German restaurant and what he described as “Greek, Norwegian, bit of everything, and a popover at every plate”); he pointed out the bakery and the bookstore (“What I say is, a town isn’t a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it’s got a bookstore, it knows it’s not foolin’ a soul”). He slowed Tessie as they passed the library so Shadow could get a good look at it. Antique gaslights flickered over the doorway—Hinzelmann proudly called Shadow’s attention to them. “Built in the 1870s by John Henning, local lumber baron. He wanted it called the Henning Memorial Library, but when he died they started calling it the Lakeside Library, and I guess it’ll be the Lakeside Library now until the end of time. Isn’t it a dream?” He couldn’t have been prouder of it if he had built it himself. The building reminded Shadow of a castle, and he said so. “That’s right,” agreed Hinzelmann. “Turrets and all. Henning wanted it to look like that on the outside. Inside they still have all the original pine shelving. Miriam Shultz wants to tear the insides out and modernize, but it’s on the register of historic places, and there’s not a damn thing she can do.”

They drove around the south side of the lake. The town circled the lake, which was a thirty-foot drop below the level of the road. Shadow could see the patches of white ice dulling the surface of the lake with, here and there, a shiny patch of water reflecting the lights of the town.

“Looks like it’s freezing over,” he said.

“It’s been frozen over for a month now,” said Hinzelmann. “The dull spots are snowdrifts and the shiny spots are ice. It froze just after Thanksgiving in one cold night, froze smooth as glass. You do much ice-fishing, Mr. Ainsel?”

“Never.”

“Best thing a man can do. It’s not the fish you catch, it’s the peace of mind that you take home at the end of the day.”

“I’ll remember that.” Shadow peered down at the lake through Tessie’s window. “Can you actually walk on it already?”

“You can walk on it. Drive on it too, but I wouldn’t want to risk it yet. It’s been cold up here for six weeks,” said Hinzelmann. “But you also got to allow that things freeze harder and faster up here in northern Wisconsin than they do most anyplace else there is. I was out hunting once—hunting for deer, and this was oh, thirty, forty years back, and I shot at a buck, missed him and sent him running off through the woods—this was over acrost the north end of the lake, up near where you’ll be living, Mike. Now he was the finest buck I ever did see, twenty point, big as a small horse, no lie. Now, I’m younger and feistier back then than I am now, and though it had started snowing before Halloween that year, now it was Thanksgiving and there was clean snow on the ground, fresh as anything, and I could see the buck’s footprints. It looked to me like the big fellow was heading for the lake in a panic.

“Well, only a damn fool tries to run down a buck, but there am I, a damn fool, running after him, and there he is, standing in the lake, in oh, eight, nine inches of water, and he’s just looking at me. That very moment, the sun goes behind a cloud, and the freeze comes—temperature must have fallen thirty degrees in ten minutes, not a word of a lie. And that old stag, he gets ready to run, and he can’t move. He’s frozen into the ice.

“Me, I just walk over to him slowly. You can see he wants to run, but he’s iced in and it just isn’t going to happen. But there’s no way I can bring myself to shoot a defenseless critter when he can’t get away—what kind of man would I be if I done that, heh? So I takes my shotgun and I fires off one shell, straight up into the air.

“Well the noise and the shock is enough to make that buck just about jump out of his skin, and seein’ that his legs are iced in, that’s just what he proceeds to do. He leaves his hide and his antlers stuck to the ice, while he charges back into the woods, pink as a newborn mouse and shivering fit to bust.

“I felt bad enough for that old buck that I talked the Lakeside Ladies Knitting Circle into making him something warm to wear all the winter, and they knitted him an all-over one-piece woolen suit, so he wouldn’t freeze to death. Course the joke was on us, because they knitted him a suit of bright orange wool so no hunter ever shot at it. Hunters in these parts wear orange at hunting season,” he added, helpfully. “And if you think there’s a word of a lie in that, I can prove it to you. I’ve got the antlers up on my rec room wall to this day.”

Shadow laughed, and the old man smiled the satisfied smile of a master craftsman. They pulled up outside a brick building with a large wooden deck, from which golden holiday lights hung and twinkled invitingly.

“That’s Five-oh-two,” said Hinzelmann. “Apartment three would be on the top floor, round the other side, overlooking the lake. There you go, Mike.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hinzelmann. Can I give you anything toward gas?”

“Just Hinzelmann. And you don’t owe me a penny. Merry Christmas from me and from Tessie.”

“Are you sure you won’t accept anything?”

The old man scratched his chin. “Tell you what,” he said. “Sometime in the next week or so I’ll come by and sell you some tickets. For our raffle. Charity. For now, young man, you can be getting on to bed.”

Shadow smiled. “Merry Christmas, Hinzelmann,” he said.

The old man shook Shadow’s hand with one red-knuckled hand. It felt as hard and as callused as an oak branch. “Now, you watch the path as you go up there, it’s going to be slippery. I can see your door from here, at the side there, see it? I’ll just wait in the car down here until you’re safely inside. You just give me the thumbs-up when you’re in okay, and I’ll drive off.”

He kept the Wendt idling until Shadow was safely up the wooden steps on the side of the house, and had opened the apartment door with his key. The door to the apartment swung open. Shadow made a thumbs-up sign and the old man in the Wendt—Tessie, thought Shadow, and the thought of a car with a name made him smile one more time—Hinzelmann and Tessie swung around and made their way back across the bridge.

Shadow shut the front door. The room was freezing. It smelled of people who had gone away to live other lives, and of all they had eaten and dreamed. He found the thermostat and cranked it up to 70 degrees. He went into the tiny kitchen, checked the drawers, opened the avocado-colored refrigerator, but it was empty. No surprise there. At least the fridge smelled clean inside, not musty.

There was a small bedroom with a bare mattress in it, beside the kitchen, next to an even tinier bathroom that was mostly shower stall. An aged cigarette butt floated in the toilet bowl, staining the water brown. Shadow flushed it away.

He found sheets and blankets in a closet, and made the bed. Then he took off his shoes, his jacket and his watch, and he climbed into the bed fully dressed, wondering how long it would take him to get warm.

The lights were off, and there was silence, mostly, nothing but the hum of the refrigerator, and somewhere in the building, a radio playing. He lay there in the darkness, wondering if he had slept himself out on the Greyhound, if the hunger and the cold and the new bed and the craziness of the last few weeks would combine to keep him awake that night.

In the stillness he heard something snap like a shot. A branch, he thought, or the ice. It was freezing out there.

He wondered how long he would have to wait until Wednesday came for him. A day? A week? However long he had, he knew he had to focus on something in the meantime. He would start to work out again, he decided, and practice his coin sleights and palms until he was smooth as anything (Practice all your tricks, somebody whispered inside his head, in a voice that was not his own, all of them but one, not the trick that poor dead Mad Sweeney showed you, dead of exposure and the cold and of being forgotten and surplus to requirements, not that trick. Oh not that one).

But this was a good town. He could feel it.

He thought of his dream, if it had been a dream, that first night in Cairo. He thought of Zorya…what the hell was her name? The midnight sister. And then he thought of Laura…

It was as if thinking of her opened a window in his mind. He could see her. He could, somehow, see her.

She was in Eagle Point, in the backyard outside her mother’s big house.

She stood in the cold, which she did not feel any more, or which she felt all the time, she stood outside the house that her mother had bought in 1989 with the insurance money after Laura’s father, Harvey McCabe, had passed on, a heart attack while straining on the can, and she was staring in, her cold hands pressed against the glass, her breath not fogging it, not at all, watching her mother, and her sister and her sister’s children and husband in from Texas, home for Christmas. Out in the darkness, that was where Laura was, unable not to look.

Tears prickled in Shadow’s eyes, and he rolled over in his bed.

Wednesday, he thought, and with just a thought a window opened and he was watching from a corner of the room in the Motel 6, watching two figures thrusting and rolling in the semi-darkness.

He felt like a Peeping Tom, turned his thoughts away, willed them to come back to him. He could imagine huge black wings pounding through the night toward him, he could see the lake spread out below him as the wind blew down from the Arctic, breathed its cold on the land, forcing any remaining liquids to become solid, prying jack-frost fingers a hundred times colder than the fingers of any corpse.

Shadow’s breath came shallowly now, and he was no longer cold. He could hear a wind rising, a bitter screaming around the house, and for a moment he thought he could hear words on the wind.

If he was going to be anywhere, he might as well be here, he thought, and then he slept.

Dingdong.

“Miz Crow?”

“Yes.”

“You are Samantha Black Crow?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, ma’am?”

“Yeah. I do, actually.”

“There’s no need to take that attitude, ma’am.”

“Are you cops? What are you?”

“My name is Town. My colleague here is Mister Road. We’re investigating the disappearance of two of our associates.”

“What were their names?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me their names. I want to know what they were called. Your associates. Tell me their names and maybe I’ll help you.”

“…Okay. Their names were Mister Stone, and Mister Wood. Now, can we ask you some questions?”

“Do you guys just see things and pick names? ‘Oh, you be Mister Sidewalk, he’s Mister Carpet, say hello to Mister Airplane’?”

“Very funny, young lady. First question: we need to know if you’ve seen this man. Here. You can hold the photograph.”

“Whoa. Straight on and profile, with numbers on the bottom…and big. He’s cute, though. What did he do?”

“He was mixed up in a small-town bank robbery, as a driver, some years ago. His two colleagues decided to keep all the loot for themselves and ran out on him. He got angry. Found them. Came close to killing them with his hands. The state cut a deal with the men he hurt: they testified and got a suspended sentence, Shadow here got six years. He served three. You ask me, guys like that, they should just lock them up and throw away the key.”

“I’ve never heard anyone say that in real life, you know. Not out loud.”

“Say what, Miz Crow?”

“Loot. It’s not a word you ever hear people say. Maybe in movies people say it. Not for real.”

“This isn’t a movie, Miz Crow.”

“Black Crow. It’s Miz Black Crow. My friends call me Sam.”

“Got it, Sam. Now about this man—”

“But you aren’t my friends. You can call me Miz Black Crow.”

“Listen, you snot-nosed little—”

“It’s okay, Mister Road. Sam here—pardon, ma’am, —I mean, Miz Black Crow wants to help us. She’s a law-abiding citizen.”

“Ma’am, we know you helped Shadow. You were seen with him, in a white Chevy Nova. He gave you a ride. He bought you dinner. Did he say anything that could help us in our investigation? Two of our best men have vanished.”

“I never met him.”

“You met him. Please don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re stupid. We aren’t stupid.”

“Mm. I meet a lot of people. Maybe I met him and forgot already.”

“Ma’am, it really is to your advantage to cooperate with us.”

“Otherwise, you’ll have to introduce me to your friends Mister Thumbscrews and Mister Pentothal?”

“Ma’am, you aren’t making this any easier on yourself.”

“Gee. I’m sorry. Now, is there anything else? Cos I’m going to say ‘buh-bye now’ and close the door and I figure you two are going to go and get into Mister Car and drive away.”

“Your lack of cooperation has been noted, ma’am.”

“Buh-bye now.”

Click.

CHAPTER TEN

A whole life in darkness, surrounded by filth, that was what Shadow dreamed, his first night in Lakeside. A child’s life, long ago and far away, in a land across the ocean, in the lands where the sun rose. But this life contained no sunrises, only dimness by day and blindness by night.

Nobody spoke to him. He heard human voices, from outside, but he could understand human speech no better than he understood the howling of the owls or the yelps of dogs. He remembered, or thought he remembered, one night, half a lifetime ago, when one of the big people had entered, quietly, and had not cuffed him or fed him, but had picked him up to her breast and embraced him. She smelled good. She had made crooning noises. Hot drops of water had fallen from her face to his. He had been scared, and had wailed loudly in his fear.

She put him down on the straw, hurriedly, and left the hut, fastening the door behind her.

He remembered that moment, and he treasured it, just as he remembered the sweetness of a cabbage-heart, the tart taste of plums, the crunch of apples, the greasy delight of roasted fish.

And now he saw the faces in the firelight, all of them looking at him as he was led out from the hut for the first time, which was the only time. So that was what people looked like. Raised in darkness, he had never seen faces. Everything was so new. So strange. The bonfire light hurt his eyes. They pulled on the rope around his neck, to lead him to the space between the two bonfires, where the man waited for him.

And when the first blade was raised in the firelight, what a cheer went up from the crowd and the child from the darkness began to laugh and laugh with them, in delight and in freedom.

And then the blade came down.

Shadow opened his eyes and realized that he was hungry and cold, in an apartment with a layer of ice clouding the inside of the window glass. His frozen breath, he thought. He got out of bed, pleased he did not have to get dressed. He scraped at a window with a fingernail as he passed, felt the ice collect under the nail, then melt to water.

He tried to remember his dream, but remembered nothing but misery and darkness.

He put on his shoes. He figured he would walk into the town center, walk across the bridge across the northern end of the lake, if he had the geography of the town right. He put on his thin jacket, remembering his promise to himself that he would buy a warm winter coat, opened the apartment door and stepped out onto the wooden deck. The cold took his breath away: he breathed in, and felt every hair in his nostrils freeze into rigidity. The deck gave him a fine view of the lake, irregular patches of gray surrounded by an expanse of white.

He wondered how cold it was. The cold snap had come, that was for sure. It could not be much above zero, and it would not be a pleasant walk, but he was certain he could make it into town without too much trouble. What did Hinzelmann say last night—a ten-minute walk? And Shadow was a big man. He would walk briskly and keep himself warm.

He set off south, heading for the bridge.

Soon he began to cough, a dry, thin cough, as the bitterly cold air touched his lungs. Soon his ears and face and lips hurt, and then his feet hurt. He thrust his ungloved hands deep into his coat pockets, clenched his fingers together trying to find some warmth. He found himself remembering Low Key Lyesmith’s tall tales of the Minnesota winters—particularly the one about a hunter treed by a bear during a hard freeze who took out his dick and pissed an arching yellow stream of steaming urine that was already frozen hard before it hit the ground, then slid down the rock-hard frozen-piss-pole to freedom. A wry smile at the memory and another dry, painful cough.

Step after step after step. He glanced back. The apartment building was not as far away as he had expected.

This walk, he decided, was a mistake. But he was already three or four minutes from the apartment, and the bridge over the lake was in sight. It made as much sense to press on as to go home (and then what? Call a taxi on the dead phone? Wait for spring? He had no food in the apartment, he reminded himself).

He kept walking, revising his estimates of the temperature downward as he walked. Minus 10? Minus 20? Minus 40, maybe, that strange point on the thermometer when Celsius and Fahrenheit say the same thing. Probably not that cold. But then there was wind chill, and the wind was now hard and steady and continuous, blowing over the lake, coming down from the Arctic across Canada.

He remembered, enviously, the chemical hand-and footwarmers he had taken from the men in the black train. He wished he had them now.

Ten more minutes of walking, he guessed, and the bridge seemed to be no nearer. He was too cold to shiver. His eyes hurt. This was not simply cold: this was science fiction. This was a story set on the dark side of Mercury, back when they thought Mercury had a dark side. This was somewhere out on rocky Pluto, where the sun is just another star, shining only a little more brightly in the darkness. This, thought Shadow, is just a hair away from the places where air comes in buckets and pours just like beer.

The occasional cars that roared past him seemed unreal: spaceships, little freeze-dried packages of metal and glass, inhabited by people dressed more warmly than he was. An old song his mother had loved, “Winter Wonderland,” began to run through his head, and he hummed it through closed lips, kept pace to it as he walked.

He had lost all sensation in his feet. He looked down at his black leather shoes, at the thin cotton socks, and began, seriously, to worry about frostbite.

This was beyond a joke. This had moved beyond foolishness, slipped over the line into genuine twenty-four-karat Jesus-Christ-I-fucked-up-big-time territory. His clothes might as well have been netting or lace: the wind blew through him, froze his bones and the marrow in his bones, froze the lashes of his eyes, froze the warm place under his balls, which were retreating into his pelvic cavity.

Keep walking, he told himself. Keep walking. I can stop and drink a pail of air when I get home. A Beatles song started in his head, and he adjusted his pace to match it. It was only when he got to the chorus that he realized that he was humming “Help!”

He was almost at the bridge now. Then he had to walk across it, and he would still be another ten minutes from the stores on the west of the lake—maybe a little more…

A dark car passed him, stopped, then reversed in a foggy cloud of exhaust smoke and came to a halt beside him. A window slid down, and the haze and steam from the window mixed with the exhaust to form a dragon’s breath that surrounded the car. “Everything okay here?” said a cop inside.

Shadow’s first, automatic instinct was to say Yup, everything’s just fine and jim-dandy thank you, officer, nothing’s happening here. Move on. Nothing to see. But it was too late for that, and he started to say, “I think I’m freezing. I was walking into Lakeside to buy food and clothes, but I underestimated the length of the walk”—he was that far through the sentence in his head, when he realized that all that had come out was “F-f-freezing,” and a chattering noise, and he said, “So s-sorry. Cold. Sorry.”

The cop pulled open the back door of the car, and said, “You get in there this moment and warm yourself up, okay?” Shadow climbed in gratefully, and he sat in the back and rubbed his hands together, trying not to worry about frostbitten toes. The cop got back in the driver’s seat. Shadow stared at him through the metal grille. Shadow tried not to think about the last time he’d been in the back of a police car, or to notice that there were no door handles in the back, and to concentrate instead on rubbing life back into his hands. His face hurt and his red fingers hurt, and now, in the warmth, his toes were starting to hurt once more. That was, Shadow figured, a good sign.

The cop put the car in drive and moved off. “You know, that was,” he said, not turning to look at Shadow, just talking a little louder, “if you’ll pardon me saying so, a real stupid thing to do. You didn’t hear any of the weather advisories? It’s minus thirty out there. God alone knows what the wind chill is, minus sixty, minus seventy, although I figure when you’re down at minus thirty, wind chill’s the least of your worries.”

“Thanks,” said Shadow. “Thanks for stopping. Very, very grateful.”

“Woman in Rhinelander went out this morning to fill her bird feeder in her robe and carpet slippers and she froze, literally froze, to the sidewalk. She’s in intensive care now. It was on the radio this morning. You’re new in town.” It was almost a question, but the man knew the answer already.

“I came in on the Greyhound last night. Figured today I’d buy myself some warm clothes, food, and a car. Wasn’t expecting this cold.”

“Yeah,” said the cop. “It took me by surprise as well. I was too busy worrying about global warming. I’m Chad Mulligan. I’m the chief of police here in Lakeside.”

“Mike Ainsel.”

“Hi, Mike. Feeling any better?”

“A little, yes.”

“So where would you like me to take you first?”

Shadow put his hands down to the hot air stream, painful on his fingers, then he pulled them away. Let it happen in its own time. “Can you just drop me off in the town center?”

“Wouldn’t hear of it. Long as you don’t need me to drive a getaway car for your bank robbery I’ll happily take you wherever you need to go. Think of it as the town welcome wagon.”

“Where would you suggest we start?”

“You only moved in last night.”

“That’s right.”

“You eaten breakfast yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that seems like a heck of a good starting place to me,” said Mulligan.

They were over the bridge now, and entering the northwest side of the town. “This is Main Street,” said Mulligan, “and this,” he said, crossing Main Street and turning right, “is the town square.”

Even in the winter the town square was impressive, but Shadow knew that this place was meant to be seen in summer: it would be a riot of color, of poppies and irises and flowers of every kind, and the clump of birch trees in one corner would be a green and silver bower. Now it was a colorless place, beautiful in a skeletal way, the band shell empty, the fountain turned off for the winter, the brownstone city hall capped by white snow.

“…and this,” concluded Chad Mulligan, bringing the car to a stop outside a high glass-fronted old building on the west of the square, “is Mabel’s.”

He got out of the car, opened the rear door for Shadow. The two men put their heads down against the cold and the wind, and hurried across the sidewalk and into a warm room, fragrant with the smells of new-baked bread, of pastry and soup and bacon.

The place was almost empty. Mulligan sat down at a table and Shadow sat opposite him. He suspected that Mulligan was doing this to get a feel for the stranger in town. Then again, the police chief might simply be what he appeared: friendly, helpful, good.

A woman bustled over to their table, not fat but big, a big woman in her sixties, her hair bottle-bronze.

“Hello, Chad,” she said. “You’ll want a hot chocolate while you’re thinking.” She handed them two laminated menus.

“No cream on the top, though,” he agreed. “Mabel knows me too well,” he said to Shadow. “What’ll it be, pal?”

“Hot chocolate sounds great,” said Shadow. “And I’m happy to have the whipped cream on the top.”

“That’s good,” said Mabel. “Live dangerously, hon. Are you going to introduce me, Chad? Is this young man a new officer?”

“Not yet,” said Chad Mulligan, with a flash of white teeth. “This is Mike Ainsel. He moved to Lakeside last night. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He got up, walked to the back of the room, through the door marked POINTERS. It was next to a door marked SETTERS.

“You’re the new man in the apartment up on Northridge Road. The old Pilsen place. Oh yes,” she said, happily, “I know just who you are. Hinzelmann was by this morning for his morning pasty, he told me all about you. You boys only having hot chocolate or you want to look at the breakfast menu?”

“Breakfast for me,” said Shadow. “What’s good?”

“Everything’s good,” said Mabel. “I make it. But this is the furthest south and east of the yoopie you can get pasties, and they are particularly good. Warming and filling too. My specialty.”

Shadow had no idea what a pasty was, but he said that would be fine, and in a few moments Mabel returned with a plate with what looked like a folded-over pie on it. The lower half was wrapped in a paper napkin. Shadow picked it up with the napkin and bit into it: it was warm and filled with meat, potatoes, carrots, onions. “First pasty I’ve ever had,” he said. “It’s real good.”

“They’re a yoopie thing,” she told him. “Mostly you need to be at least up Ironwood way to get one. The Cornish men who came over to work the iron mines brought them over.”

“Yoopie?”

“Upper Peninsula. UP. Yoopie. Where the Yoopers come from. It’s the little chunk of Michigan to the northeast.”

The chief of police came back. He picked up the hot chocolate and slurped it. “Mabel,” he said, “are you forcing this nice young man to eat one of your pasties?”

“It’s good,” said Shadow. It was, too—a savory delight wrapped in hot pastry.

“They go straight to the belly,” said Chad Mulligan, patting his own stomach. “I warn you. Okay. So, you need a car?” With his parka off, he was revealed as a lanky man with a round, apple-belly gut on him. He looked harassed and competent, more like an engineer than a cop.

Shadow nodded, mouth full.

“Right. I made some calls. Justin Liebowitz’s selling his jeep, wants four thousand dollars for it, will settle for three. The Gunthers have had their Toyota 4Runner for sale for eight months, ugly sonofabitch, but at this point they’d probably pay you to take it out of their driveway. And if you don’t care about ugly, it’s got to be a great deal. I used the phone in the men’s room, left a message for Missy Gunther down at Lakeside Realty, but she wasn’t in yet, probably getting her hair done down at Sheila’s.”

The pasty remained good as Shadow chewed his way through it. It was astonishingly filling. “Stick-to-your-ribs food,” as his mother would have said. “Sticks to your sides.”

“So,” said Chief of Police Chad Mulligan, wiping the hot chocolate foam from around his lips. “I figure we stop off next at Henning’s Farm and Home Supplies, get you a real winter wardrobe, swing by Dave’s Finest Food, so you can fill your larder, then I’ll drop you up by Lakeside Realty. If you can put down a thousand up front for the car they’ll be happy, otherwise five hundred a month for four months should see them okay. It’s an ugly car, like I said, but if the kid hadn’t painted it purple it’d be a ten-thousand-dollar car, and reliable, and you’ll need something like that to get around this winter, you ask me.”

“This is very good of you,” said Shadow. “But shouldn’t you be out catching criminals, not helping newcomers? Not that I’m complaining, you understand.”

Mabel chuckled. “We all tell him that,” she said.

Mulligan shrugged. “It’s a good town,” he said, simply. “Not much trouble. You’ll always get someone speeding within city limits—which is a good thing, as traffic tickets pay my wages. Friday, Saturday nights you get some jerk who gets drunk and beats on a spouse—and that one can go both ways, believe me. Men and women. And I learned when I was on the force in Green Bay, I’d rather attend a bank robbery than a domestic in a big city. But out here things are quiet. They call me out when someone’s locked their keys in their vehicle. Barking dogs. Every year there’s a couple of high school kids caught with weed behind the bleachers. Biggest police case we’ve had here in five years was when Dan Schwartz got drunk and shot up his own trailer, then he went on the run, down Main Street, in his wheelchair, waving this darn shotgun, shouting that he would shoot anyone who got in his way, that no one would stop him from getting to the interstate. I think he was on his way to Washington to shoot the president. I still laugh whenever I think of Dan heading down the interstate in that wheelchair of his with the bumper sticker on the back. MY JUVENILE DELINQUENT IS SCREWING YOUR HONOR STUDENT. You remember, Mabel?”

She nodded, lips pursed. She did not seem to find it as funny as Mulligan did.

“What did you do?” asked Shadow.

“I talked to him. He gave me the shotgun. Slept it off down at the jail. Dan’s not a bad guy, he was just drunk and upset.”

Shadow paid for his own breakfast and, over Chad Mulligan’s halfhearted protests, both hot chocolates.

Henning’s Farm and Home was a warehouse-sized building on the south of the town that sold everything from tractors to toys (the toys, along with the Christmas ornaments, were already on sale). The store was bustling with post-Christmas shoppers. Shadow recognized the younger of the girls who had sat in front of him on the bus. She was trailing after her parents. He waved at her and she gave him a hesitant, blue-rubber-banded smile. Shadow wondered idly what she’d look like in ten years’ time.

Probably as beautiful as the girl at the Henning’s Farm and Home checkout counter, who scanned in his purchases with a chattering hand-held gun, capable, Shadow had no doubt, of ringing up a tractor if someone drove it through.

“Ten pairs of long underwear?” said the girl. “Stocking up, huh?” She looked like a movie starlet.

Shadow felt fourteen again, and tongue-tied and foolish. He said nothing while she rang up the thermal boots, the gloves, the sweaters, and the goose-down-filled coat.

He had no wish to put the credit card that Wednesday had given him to the test, not with Chief of Police Mulligan standing helpfully beside him, so he paid for everything in cash. Then he took his bags into the men’s restroom, and came out wearing many of his purchases.

“Looking good, big fella,” said Mulligan.

“At least I’m warm,” said Shadow, and outside, in the parking lot, although the wind burned cold on the skin of his face, the rest of him was warm enough. At Mulligan’s invitation, he put his shopping bags in the back of the police car, and rode in the passenger seat, in the front.

“So, what do you do, Mister Ainsel?” asked the chief of police. “Big guy like you. What’s your profession, and will you be practicing it in Lakeside?”

Shadow’s heart began to pound, but his voice was steady. “I work for my uncle. He buys and sells stuff all over the country. I just do the heavy lifting.”

“Does he pay well?”

“I’m family. He knows I’m not going to rip him off, and I’m learning a little about the trade on the way. Until I figure out what it is I really want to do.” It was coming out of him with conviction, smooth as a snake. He knew everything about big Mike Ainsel in that moment, and he liked Mike Ainsel. Mike Ainsel had none of the problems that Shadow had. Ainsel had never been married. Mike Ainsel had never been interrogated on a freight train by Mr. Wood and Mr. Stone. Televisions did not speak to Mike Ainsel (You want to see Lucy’s tits? asked a voice in his head.) Mike Ainsel didn’t have bad dreams, or believe that there was a storm coming.

He filled his shopping basket at Dave’s Finest Foods, doing what he thought of as a gas-station stop—milk, eggs, bread, apples, cheese, cookies. Just some food. He’d do a real one later. As Shadow moved around, Chad Mulligan said hello to people and introduced Shadow to them. “This is Mike Ainsel, he’s taken the empty apartment at the old Pilsen place. Up around the back,” he’d say. Shadow gave up trying to remember names. He just shook hands with people and smiled, sweating a little, uncomfortable in his insulated layers in the hot store.

Chad Mulligan drove Shadow across the street to Lakeside Realty. Missy Gunther, her hair freshly set and lacquered, did not need an introduction—she knew exactly who Mike Ainsel was. Why that nice Mr. Borson, his uncle Emerson, such a nice man, he’d been by, what, about six, eight weeks ago now, and rented the apartment up at the old Pilsen place, and wasn’t the view just to die for up there? Well, honey, just wait until the spring, and we’re so lucky, so many of the lakes in this part of the world go bright green from the algae in the summer, it would turn your stomach, but our lake, well, come fourth of July you could still practically drink it, and Mr. Borson had paid for a whole year’s lease in advance, and as for the Toyota 4Runner, she couldn’t believe that Chad Mulligan still remembered it, and yes, she’d be delighted to get rid of it. Tell the truth, she’d pretty much resigned herself to giving it to Hinzelmann as this year’s klunker and just taking the tax write-off, not that the car was a klunker, far from it, no, it was her son’s car before he went to school in Green Bay, and, well, he’d painted it purple one day and, ha-ha, she certainly hoped that Mike Ainsel liked purple, that was all she had to say, and if he didn’t she wouldn’t blame him…

Chief of Police Mulligan excused himself near the middle of this litany. “Looks like they need me back at the office, good meeting you, Mike,” he said, and he moved Shadow’s shopping bags into the back of Missy Gunther’s station wagon.

Missy drove Shadow back to her place, where, in the drive, he saw an elderly SUV. The blown snow had bleached half of it to a blinding white, while the rest of it was painted the kind of drippy purple that someone would need to be very stoned, very often, to even begin to be able to find attractive.

Still, the car started up on the first try, and the heater worked, although it took almost ten minutes of running the engine with the heater on full before it even started to change the interior of the car from unbearably cold to merely chilly. While this was happening, Missy Gunther took Shadow into her kitchen—excuse the mess, but the little ones just leave their toys all over after Christmas and she just doesn’t have the heart, would he care for some leftover turkey dinner? Last year they did goose but this year it was a big old turkey, well, coffee then, won’t take a moment to brew a fresh pot—and Shadow took a large red toy car off a window seat and sat down, while Missy Gunther asked if he had met his neighbors yet, and Shadow confessed that he hadn’t.

There were, he was informed, while the coffee dripped and brewed, four other inhabitants of his apartment building—back when it was the Pilsen place the Pilsens lived in the downstairs flat and rented out the upper two flats, now their apartment, that was the downstairs one and that was taken by a couple of young men, Mr. Holz and Mr. Neiman, they actually are a couple and when she said couple, Mr. Ainsel, heavens, we have all kinds here, more than one kind of tree in the forest, although mostly those kind of people wind up in Madison or the Twin Cities, but truth to tell, nobody here gives it a second thought. They’re in Key West for the winter, they’ll be back in April, he’ll meet them then. The thing about Lakeside is that it’s a good town. Now next door to Mr. Ainsel, that’s Marguerite Olsen and her little boy, a sweet lady, sweet, sweet lady, but she’s had a hard life, still sweet as pie, and she works for the Lakeside News. Not the most exciting newspaper in the world, but truth to tell Missy Gunther thought that was probably the way most folk around here liked it.

Oh, she said, and poured him coffee, she just wished that Mr. Ainsel could see the town in the summer or late in the spring, when the lilacs and the apple and the cherry blossoms were out, she thought there was nothing like it for beauty, nothing like it anywhere in the world.

Shadow gave her a five-hundred-dollar deposit, and he climbed up into the car and started to back it up, out of her front yard and onto the driveway proper. Missy Gunther tapped on his front window. “This is for you,” she said. “I nearly forgot.” She handed him a buff envelope. “It’s kind of a gag. We had them printed up a few years back. You don’t have to look at it now.”

He thanked her, and drove, cautiously, back into the town. He took the road that ran around the lake. He wished he could see it in the spring, or the summer, or the fall: it would be very beautiful, he had no doubt of that.

In ten minutes he was home.

He parked the car out on the street and walked up the outside steps to his cold apartment. He unpacked his shopping, put the food into the cupboards and the fridge, and then he opened the envelope Missy Gunther had given him.

It contained a passport. Blue, laminated cover and, inside, a proclamation that Michael Ainsel (his name handwritten in Missy Gunther’s precise handwriting) was a citizen of Lakeside. There was a map of the town on the next page. The rest of it was filled with discount coupons for various local stores.

“I think I may like it here,” said Shadow, aloud. He looked out of the icy window at the frozen lake. “If it ever warms up.”

There was a bang at the front door at around 2:00 P.M. Shadow had been practicing the Sucker Vanish with a quarter, tossing it from one hand to the other undetectably. His hands were cold enough and clumsy enough that he kept dropping the coin onto the table, and the knock at the door made him drop it again.

He went to the door and opened it.

A moment of pure fear: the man at the door wore a black mask which covered the lower half of his face. It was the kind of mask that a bank robber might wear on TV, or a serial killer from a cheap movie might wear to scare his victims. The top of the man’s head was covered by a black knit cap.

Still, the man was smaller and slighter than Shadow, and he did not appear to be armed. And he wore a bright plaid coat, of the kind that serial killers normally avoid.

“Ih hihelhan,” said the visitor.

“Huh?”

The man pulled the mask downward, revealing Hinzelmann’s cheerful face. “I said, it’s Hinzelmann. You know, I don’t know what we did before they came up with these masks. Well, I do remember what we did. Thick knitted caps that went all around your face, and scarves and you don’t want to know what else. I think it’s a miracle what they come up with these days. I may be an old man, but I’m not going to grumble about progress, not me.”

He finished this speech by thrusting a basket at Shadow, filled high with local cheeses, bottles, jars, and several small salamis that proclaimed themselves to be venison summer sausage, and by coming inside. “Merry Day after Christmas,” he said. His nose and ears and cheeks were red as raspberries, mask or no mask. “I hear you already ate a whole one of Mabel’s pasties. Brought you a few things.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Shadow.

“Kind, nothing. I’m going to stick it to you next week for the raffle. The Chamber of Commerce runs it, and I run the Chamber of Commerce. Last year we raised almost seventeen thousand dollars for the children’s ward of Lakeside Hospital.”

“Well, why don’t you put me down for a ticket now?”

“It don’t start until the day the klunker hits the ice,” said Hinzelmann. He looked out of Shadow’s window toward the lake. “Cold out there. Must have dropped fifty degrees last night.”

“It happened really fast,” agreed Shadow.

“We used to pray for freezes like this back in the old days,” said Hinzelmann. “My daddy told me. When the settlers were first coming into these parts, farming people and lumber people, long before ever the mining people came out, although the mines never really happened in this county, which they could have done, for there’s iron enough under there…”

“You’d pray for days like this?” interrupted Shadow.

“Well, yah, it was the only way the settlers survived back then. Weren’t enough food for everyone, and you couldn’t just go down to Dave’s and fill up your shopping trolley in the old days, no, sir. So my grampaw, he got to thinking, and when a really cold day like this come along he’d take my grammaw, and the kids, my uncle and my aunt and my daddy—he was the youngest—and the serving girl and the hired man, and he’d go down with them to the creek, give ’em a little rum-and-herbs drink, it was a recipe he’d got from the old country, then he’d pour creek water over them. Course they’d freeze in seconds, stiff and blue as so many popsicles. He’d haul them to a trench they’d already dug and filled with straw, and he’d stack ’em down there, one by one, like so much cordwood in the trench, and he’d pack straw around them, then he’d cover the top of the trench with two-b’-fours to keep the critters out—in those days there were wolves and bears and all sorts you never see any more around here, no hodags though, that’s just a story about the hodags and I wouldn’t ever stretch your credulity by telling you no stories, no, sir, —he’d cover the trench with two-b’-fours and the next snowfall would cover it up completely, save for the flag he’d planted to show him where the trench was.

“Then my grampaw would ride through the winter in comfort and never have to worry about running out of food or out of fuel. And when he saw that the true spring was coming he’d go to the flag, and he’d dig his way down through the snow, and he’d move the two-b’-fours, and he’d carry them in one by one and set the family in front of the fire to thaw. Nobody ever minded except one of the hired men who lost half an ear to a family of mice who nibbled it off one time my grampaw didn’t push those two-b’-fours all the way closed. Of course, in those days we had real winters. You could do that back then. These pussy winters we get nowadays it don’t hardly get cold enough.”

“No?” asked Shadow. He was playing straight-man, and enjoying it enormously.

“Not since the winter of ’49 and you’d be too young to remember that one. That was a winter. I see you bought yourself a vee-hicle.”

“Yup. What do you think?”

“Truth to tell, I never liked that Gunther boy. I had a trout stream down in the woods a way, on back of my property, way back, well it’s town land but I’d put down stones in the river, made little pools and places where the trout liked to live. Caught me some beauties too—one fellow must have been pretty much thirty inches long, and that little Gunther so-an’-so he kicked down each of the pools and threatened to report me to the DNR. Now he’s in Green Bay, and soon enough he’ll be back here. If there were any justice in the world he’d’ve gone off into the world as a winter runaway, but nope, sticks like a cockleburr to a woolen vest.” He began to arrange the contents of Shadow’s welcome basket on the counter. “This is Katherine Powdermaker’s crab apple jelly. She’s been giving me a pot for Christmas for longer than you’ve been alive, and the sad truth is I’ve never opened a one. They’re down in my basement, forty, fifty pots. Maybe I’ll open one and discover that I like the stuff. Meantime, here’s a pot for you. Maybe you’ll like it.”

Shadow put the jar away in the fridge, along with the other presents that Hinzelmann had brought him. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up a tall, unlabeled bottle filled with a greenish buttery substance.

“Olive oil. That’s how it looks when it gets this cold. Don’t worry, it’ll cook up fine.”

“Okay. What are winter runaways?”

“Mm.” The old man pushed his woolen cap above his ears, rubbed his temple with a pink forefinger. “Well, it ain’t unique to Lakeside—we’re a good town, better than most, but we’re not perfect. Some winters, well, maybe a kid gets a bit stir-crazy, when it gets so cold that you can’t go out, and the snow’s so dry that you can’t make so much as a snowball without it crumbling away…”

“They run off?”

The old man nodded, gravely. “I blame the television, showing all the kids things they’ll never have—Dallas and Dynasty and Beverly Hills and Hawaii Five-O, all of that nonsense. I’ve not had a television since the fall of ’83, except for a black-and-white set I keep in the closet for if folk come in from out of town and there’s a big game on.”

“Can I get you anything, Hinzelmann?”

“Not coffee. Gives me heartburn. Just water.” Hinzelmann shook his head. “Biggest problem in this part of the world is poverty. Not the poverty we had in the Depression but something more in…what’s the word, means it creeps in at the edges, like cock-a-roaches?”

“Insidious?”

“Yeah. Insidious. Logging’s dead. Mining’s dead. Tourists don’t drive further north than the Dells, ’cept for a handful of hunters and some kids going to camp on the lakes—and they aren’t spending their money in the towns.”

“Lakeside seems kind of prosperous, though.”

The old man’s blue eyes blinked. “And believe me, it takes a lot of work,” he said. “Hard work. But this is a good town, and all the work all the people here put into it is worthwhile. Not that my family weren’t poor as kids. Ask me how poor we was as kids.”

Shadow put on his straight-man face and said, “How poor were you as kids, Mister Hinzelmann?”

“Just Hinzelmann, Mike. We were so poor that we couldn’t afford a fire. Come New Year’s Eve my father would suck on a peppermint, and us kids, we’d stand around with our hands outstretched, basking in the glow.”

Shadow made a rim-shot noise. Hinzelmann put on his ski-mask and did up his huge plaid coat, pulled out his car keys from his pocket and then, last of all, pulled on his great gloves. “You get too bored up here, you just come down to the store and ask for me. I’ll show you my collection of hand-tied fishing flies. Bore you so much that getting back here will be a relief.” His voice was muffled, but audible.

“I’ll do that,” said Shadow with a smile. “How’s Tessie?”

“Hibernating. She’ll be out in the spring. You take care now, Mister Ainsel.” And he closed the door behind him as he left.

The apartment grew ever colder.

Shadow put on his coat and his gloves. Then he put on his boots. He could hardly see through the windows now for the ice on the inside of the panes which turned the view of the lake into an abstract image.

His breath was clouding in the air.

He went out of his apartment onto the wooden deck and knocked on the door next door. He heard a woman’s voice shouting at someone to for heaven’s sake shut up and turn that television down—a kid he thought, adults don’t shout like that at other adults, not with that tone in their voice. The door opened and a tired woman with very long, very black hair was staring at him warily.

“Yes?”

“How do you do, ma’am. I’m Mike Ainsel. I’m your next-door neighbor.”

Her expression did not change, not by a hair. “Yes?”

“Ma’am. It’s freezing in my apartment. There’s a little heat coming out of the grate, but it’s not warming the place up, not at all.”

She looked him up and down, then a ghost of a smile touched the edges of her lips and she said, “Come in, then. If you don’t there’ll be no heat in here, either.”

He stepped inside her apartment. Plastic, multicolored toys were strewn all over the floor. There were small heaps of torn Christmas wrapping paper by the wall. A small boy sat inches away from the television set, a video of the Disney Hercules playing, an animated satyr stomping and shouting his way across the screen. Shadow kept his back to the TV set.

“Okay,” she said. “This is what you do. First you seal the windows, you can buy the stuff down at Henning’s, it’s just like Saran wrap but for windows. Tape it to the windows, then if you want to get fancy you run a blow-dryer on it, it stays there the whole winter. That stops the heat leaving through the windows. Then you buy a space heater or two. The building’s furnace is old, and it can’t cope with the real cold. We’ve had some easy winters recently, I suppose we should be grateful.” Then she put out her hand. “Marguerite Olsen.”

“Good to meet you,” said Shadow. He pulled off a glove and they shook hands. “You know, ma’am, I’d always thought of Olsens as being blonder than you.”

“My ex-husband was as blond as they come. Pink and blond. Couldn’t tan at gunpoint.”

“Missy Gunther told me you write for the local paper.”

“Missy Gunther tells everybody everything. I don’t see why we need a local paper with Missy Gunther around.” She nodded. “Yes. Some news reporting here and there, but my editor writes most of the news. I write the nature column, the gardening column, an opinion column every Sunday and the ‘News From the Community’ column which tells, in mind-numbing detail, who went to dinner with who for fifteen miles around. Or is that whom?”

“Whom,” said Shadow, before he could stop himself. “It’s the objective case.”

She looked at him with her black eyes, and Shadow experienced a moment of pure déjà vu. I’ve been here before, he thought.

No, she reminds me of someone.

“Anyway, that’s how you heat up your apartment,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Shadow. “When it’s warm you and your little one must come over.”

“His name’s Leon,” she said. “Good meeting you, Mister…I’m sorry…”

“Ainsel,” said Shadow. “Mike Ainsel.”

“And what sort of a name is Ainsel?” she asked.

Shadow had no idea. “My name,” he said. “I’m afraid I was never very interested in family history.”

“Norwegian, maybe?” she said.

“We were never close,” he said. Then he remembered Uncle Emerson Borson, and added, “On that side, anyway.”

By the time that Mr. Wednesday arrived, Shadow had put clear plastic sheeting across all the windows and had one space heater running in the main room and one in the bedroom at the back. It was practically cozy.

“What the hell is that purple piece of shit you’re driving?” asked Wednesday, by way of greeting.

“Well,” said Shadow, “you drove off with my white piece of shit. Where is it, by the way?”

“I traded it in in Duluth,” said Wednesday. “You can’t be too careful. Don’t worry—you’ll get your share when all this is done.”

“What am I doing here?” asked Shadow. “In Lakeside, I mean. Not in the world.”

Wednesday smiled his smile, the one that made Shadow want to hit him. “You’re living here because it’s the last place they’ll look for you. I can keep you out of sight here.”

“By they you mean the black hats?”

“Exactly. I’m afraid the House on the Rock is now out of bounds. It’s a little difficult, but we’ll cope. Now it’s just stamping our feet and flag-waving, caracole and saunter until the action starts—a little later than any of us expected. I think they’ll hold off until spring. Nothing big can happen until then.”

“How come?”

“Because they may babble on about micro-milliseconds and virtual worlds and paradigm shifts and what-have-you, but they still inhabit this planet and are still bound by the cycle of the year. These are the dead months. A victory in these months is a dead victory.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Shadow. That was not entirely true. He had a vague idea, and he hoped it was wrong.

“It’s going to be a bad winter, and you and I are going to use our time as wisely as we can. We shall rally our troops and pick our battleground.”

“Okay,” said Shadow. He knew that Wednesday was telling him the truth, or a part of a truth. War was coming. No, that was not it: the war had already begun. The battle was coming. “Mad Sweeney said that he was working for you when we met him that first night. He said that before he died.”

“And would I have wanted to employ someone who could not even best a sad case like that in a bar fight? But never fear, you’ve repaid my faith in you a dozen times over. Have you ever been to Las Vegas?”

“Las Vegas, Nevada?”

“That’s the one.”

“No.”

“We’re flying in there from Madison later tonight, on a gentleman’s red-eye, a charter plane for High Rollers. I’ve convinced them that we should be on it.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of lying?” asked Shadow. He said it gently, curiously.

“Not in the slightest. Anyway, it’s true. We are playing for the highest stakes of all. It shouldn’t take us more than a couple of hours to get to Madison, the roads are clear. So lock your door and turn off the heaters. It would be a terrible thing if you burned down the house in your absence.”

“Who are we going to see in Las Vegas?”

Wednesday told him.

Shadow turned off the heaters, packed some clothes into an overnight bag, then turned back to Wednesday and said, “Look, I feel kind of stupid. I know you just told me who we’re going to see, but I dunno. I just had a brain-fart or something. It’s gone. Who is it again?”

Wednesday told him once more.

This time Shadow almost had it. The name was there on the tip of his mind. He wished he’d been paying closer attention when Wednesday told him. He let it go.

“Who’s driving?” he asked Wednesday.

“You are,” said Wednesday. They walked out of the house, down the wooden stairs and the icy path to where a black Lincoln Town Car was parked.

Shadow drove.

Entering the casino one is beset at every side by invitation—invitations such that it would take a man of stone, heartless, mindless, and curiously devoid of avarice, to decline them. Listen: a machine gun rattle of silver coins as they tumble and spurt down into a slot machine tray and overflow onto monogrammed carpets is replaced by the siren clangor of the slots, the jangling, blippeting chorus swallowed by the huge room, muted to a comforting background chatter by the time one reaches the card tables, the distant sounds only loud enough to keep the adrenaline flowing through the gamblers’ veins.

There is a secret that the casinos possess, a secret they hold and guard and prize, the holiest of their mysteries. For most people do not gamble to win money, after all, although that is what is advertised, sold, claimed and dreamed. But that is merely the easy lie that allows the gamblers to lie to themselves, the big lie that gets them through the enormous, ever-open, welcoming doors.

The secret is this: people gamble to lose money. They come to the casinos for the moment in which they feel alive, to ride the spinning wheel and turn with the cards and lose themselves, with the coins, in the slots. They want to know they matter. They may brag about the nights they won, the money they took from the casino, but they treasure, secretly treasure, the times they lost. It’s a sacrifice, of sorts.

The money flows through the casino in an uninterrupted stream of green and silver, streaming from hand to hand, from gambler to croupier, to cashier, to the management, to security, finally ending up in the Holy of Holies, the innermost sanctum, the Counting Room. And it is here, in the counting room of this casino, that you come to rest, here, where the greenbacks are sorted, stacked, indexed, here in a space that is slowly becoming redundant as more and more of the money that flows through the casino is imaginary: an electrical sequence of ons and offs, sequences that flow down telephone lines.

In the Counting Room you see three men, counting money under the glassy stare of the cameras they can see, the insectile gazes of the tiny cameras they cannot see. During the course of one shift each of the men counts more money than he will see in all the pay packets of his life. Each man, when he sleeps, dreams of counting money, of stacks and paper bands and numbers which climb inevitably, which are sorted and lost. Each of the three men has idly wondered, not less than once a week, how to evade the casino’s security systems and run off with as much money as he could haul; and, reluctantly, each man has inspected the dream and found it impractical, has settled for a steady paycheck, avoided the twin specters of prison and an unmarked grave.

And here, in the sanctum sanctorum, there are the three men who count the money, and there are the guards who watch and who bring money and take it away; and then there is another person. His charcoal-gray suit is immaculate, his hair is dark, he is clean-shaven, and his face, and his demeanor, are, in every sense, forgettable. None of the other men has even observed that he is there, or if they have noticed him, they have forgotten him on the instant.

As the shift ends the doors are opened, and the man in the charcoal suit leaves the room and walks, with the guards, through the corridors, their feet shushing along the monogrammed carpets. The money, in strongboxes, is wheeled to an interior loading bay, where it is loaded into armored cars. As the ramp door swings open, to allow the armored car out onto the early streets of Las Vegas, the man in the charcoal suit walks, unnoticed, through the doorway, and saunters up the ramp, out onto the sidewalk. He does not even glance up to see the imitation of New York on his left.

Las Vegas has become a child’s picture book dream of a city—here a storybook castle, there a sphinx-flanked black pyramid beaming white light into the darkness as a landing beam for UFOs, and everywhere neon oracles and twisting screens predict happiness and good fortune, announce singers and comedians and magicians in residence or on their way, and the lights always flash and beckon and call. Once every hour a volcano erupts in light and flame. Once every hour a pirate ship sinks a man o’ war.

The man in the charcoal suit ambles comfortably along the sidewalk, feeling the flow of the money through the town. In the summer the streets are baking, and each store doorway he passes breathes wintry A/C out into the sweaty warmth and chills the sweat on his face. Now, in the desert winter, there’s a dry cold, which he appreciates. In his mind the movement of money forms a fine lattice-work, a three-dimensional cat’s-cradle of light and motion. What he finds attractive about this desert city is the speed of movement, the way the money moves from place to place and hand to hand: it’s a rush for him, a high, and it pulls him like an addict to the street.

A taxi follows him slowly down the street, keeping its distance. He does not notice it; it does not occur to him to notice it: he is so rarely noticed himself that he finds the concept that he could be being followed almost inconceivable.

It’s four in the morning, and he finds himself drawn to a hotel and casino that has been out of style for thirty years, still running until tomorrow or six months from now when they’ll implode it and knock it down and build a pleasure palace where it was, and forget it forever. Nobody knows him, nobody remembers him, but the lobby bar is tacky and quiet, and the air is blue with old cigarette smoke and someone’s about to drop several million dollars on a poker game in a private room upstairs. The man in the charcoal suit settles himself in the bar several floors below the game, and is ignored by a waitress. A Muzak version of “Why Can’t He Be You” is playing, almost subliminally. Five Elvis Presley impersonators, each man wearing a different colored jumpsuit, watch a late-night rerun of a football game on the bar TV.

A big man in a light gray suit sits at the man in the charcoal suit’s table, and, noticing him even if she does not notice the man in the charcoal suit, the waitress, who is too thin to be pretty, too obviously anorectic to work Luxor or the Tropicana, and who is counting the minutes until she gets off work, comes straight over and smiles. He grins widely at her. “You’re looking a treat tonight, m’dear, a fine sight for these poor old eyes,” he says, and, scenting a large tip, she smiles broadly at him. The man in the light gray suit orders a Jack Daniel’s for himself and a Laphroaig and water for the man in the charcoal suit sitting beside him.

“You know,” says the man in the light gray suit, when his drink arrives, “the finest line of poetry ever uttered in the history of this whole damn country was said by Canada Bill Jones in 1853, in Baton Rouge, while he was being robbed blind in a crooked game of faro. George Devol, who was, like Canada Bill, not a man who was averse to fleecing the odd sucker, drew Bill aside and asked him if he couldn’t see that the game was crooked. And Canada Bill sighed, and shrugged his shoulders, and said, ‘I know. But it’s the only game in town.’ And he went back to the game.”

Dark eyes stare at the man in the light gray suit distrustfully. The man in the charcoal suit says something in reply. The man in the light suit, who has a graying reddish beard, shakes his head.

“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry about what went down in Wisconsin. But I got you all out safely, didn’t I? No one was hurt.”

The man in the dark suit sips his Laphroaig and water, savoring the marshy taste, the body-in-the-bog quality of the whisky. He asks a question.

“I don’t know. Everything’s moving faster than I expected. Everyone’s got a hard-on for the kid I hired to run errands—I’ve got him outside, waiting in the taxi. Are you still in?”

The man in the dark suit replies.

The bearded man shakes his head. “She’s not been seen for two hundred years. If she isn’t dead she’s taken herself out of the picture.”

Something else is said.

“Look,” says the bearded man, knocking back his Jack Daniel’s. “You come in, be there when we need you, and I’ll take care of you. Whaddayou want? Soma? I can get you a bottle of Soma. The real stuff.”

The man in the dark suit stares. Then he nods his head, reluctantly, and makes a comment.

“Of course I am,” says the bearded man, smiling like a knife. “What do you expect? But look at it this way: it’s the only game in town.” He reaches out a paw-like hand and shakes the other man’s well-manicured hand. Then he walks away.

The thin waitress comes over, puzzled: there’s now only one man at the corner table, a sharply dressed man with dark hair in a charcoal-gray suit. “You doing okay?” she asks. “Is your friend coming back?”

The man with the dark hair sighs, and explains that his friend won’t be coming back, and thus she won’t be paid for her time, or for her trouble. And then, seeing the hurt in her eyes, and taking pity on her, he examines the golden threads in his mind, watches the matrix, follows the money until he spots a node, and tells her that if she’s outside Treasure Island at 6:00 A.M., thirty minutes after she gets off work, she’ll meet an oncologist from Denver who will just have won $40,000 at a craps table, and will need a mentor, a partner, someone to help him dispose of it all in the forty-eight hours before he gets on the plane home.

The words evaporate in the waitress’s mind, but they leave her happy. She sighs and notes that the guys in the corner have done a runner, and have not even tipped her; and it occurs to her that, instead of driving straight home when she gets off shift, she’s going to drive over to Treasure Island; but she would never, if you asked her, be able to tell you why.

So who was that guy you were seeing?” asked Shadow as they walked back down the Las Vegas concourse. There were slot machines in the airport. Even at this time of the morning people stood in front of them, feeding them coins. Shadow wondered if there were those who never left the airport, who got off their planes, walked along the Jetway into the airport building and stopped there, trapped by the spinning images and the flashing lights; people who would stay in the airport until they had fed their last quarter to the machines, and then would turn around and get onto the plane back home.

He guessed it must have happened. He suspected that there wasn’t much that hadn’t happened in Las Vegas at some point or other. And America was so damn big that with so many people there was always bound to be somebody.

And then he realized that he had zoned out just as Wednesday had been telling him who the man in the dark suit they had followed in the taxi had been, and he had missed it.

“So he’s in,” said Wednesday. “It’ll cost me a bottle of Soma, though.”

“What’s Soma?”

“It’s a drink.” They walked onto the charter plane, empty but for them and a trio of corporate big spenders who needed to be back in Chicago by the start of the next business day.

Wednesday got comfortable, ordered himself a Jack Daniel’s. “My kind of people see your kind of people…” He hesitated. “It’s like bees and honey. Each bee makes only a tiny, tiny drop of honey. It takes thousands of them, millions perhaps, all working together to make the pot of honey you have on your breakfast table. Now imagine that you could eat nothing but honey. That’s what it’s like for my kind of people…we feed on belief, on prayers, on love. It takes a lot of people believing just the tiniest bit to sustain us. That’s what we need, instead of food. Belief.”

“And Soma is…”

“To take the analogy further, it’s honey wine. Mead.” He chuckled. “It’s a drink. Concentrated prayer and belief, distilled into a potent liqueur.”

They were somewhere over Nebraska eating an unimpressive in-flight breakfast when Shadow said, “My wife.”

“The dead one.”

“Laura. She doesn’t want to be dead. She told me. After she got me away from the guys on the train.”

“The action of a fine wife. Freeing you from durance vile and murdering those who would have harmed you. You should treasure her, Nephew Ainsel.”

“She wants to be really alive. Not one of the walking dead, or whatever she is. She wants to live again. Can we do that? Is that possible?”

Wednesday said nothing for long enough that Shadow started to wonder if he had heard the question, or if he had, possibly, fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then he said, staring ahead of him as he talked, “I know a charm that can cure pain and sickness, and lift the grief from the heart of the grieving.

“I know a charm that will heal with a touch.

“I know a charm that will turn aside the weapons of an enemy.

“I know another charm to free myself from all bonds and locks.

“A fifth charm: I can catch a bullet in flight and take no harm from it.”

His words were quiet, urgent. Gone was the hectoring tone, gone was the grin. Wednesday spoke as if he were reciting the words of a religious ritual, as if he were speaking something dark and painful.

“A sixth: spells sent to hurt me will hurt only the sender.

“A seventh charm I know: I can quench a fire simply by looking at it.

“An eighth: if any man hates me, I can win his friendship.

“A ninth: I can sing the wind to sleep and calm a storm for long enough to bring a ship to shore.

“Those were the first nine charms I learned. Nine nights I hung on the bare tree, my side pierced with a spear’s point. I swayed and blew in the cold winds and the hot winds, without food, without water, a sacrifice of myself to myself, and the worlds opened to me.

“For a tenth charm, I learned to dispel witches, to spin them around in the skies so that they will never find their way back to their own doors again.

“An eleventh: if I sing it when a battle rages it can take warriors through the tumult unscathed and unhurt, and bring them safely back to their hearth and their home.

“A twelfth charm I know: if I see a hanged man I can bring him down from the gallows to whisper to us all he remembers.

“A thirteenth: if I sprinkle water on a child’s head, that child will not fall in battle.

“A fourteenth: I know the names of all the gods. Every damned one of them.

“A fifteenth: I have a dream of power, of glory, and of wisdom, and I can make people believe my dreams.”

His voice was so low now that Shadow had to strain to hear it over the plane’s engine noise.

“A sixteenth charm I know: if I need love I can turn the mind and heart of any woman.

“A seventeenth, that no woman I want will ever want another.

“And I know an eighteenth charm, and that charm is the greatest of all, and that charm I can tell to no man, for a secret that no one knows but you is the most powerful secret there can ever be.”

He sighed, and then stopped talking.

Shadow could feel his skin crawl. It was as if he had just seen a door open to another place, somewhere worlds away where hanged men blew in the wind at every crossroads, where witches shrieked overhead in the night.

“Laura,” was all he said.

Wednesday turned his head, stared into Shadow’s pale gray eyes with his own. “I can’t make her live again,” he said. “I don’t even know why she isn’t as dead as she ought to be.”

“I think I did it,” said Shadow. “It was my fault.”

Wednesday raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Mad Sweeney gave me a golden coin, back when he showed me how to do that trick. From what he said, he gave me the wrong coin. What he gave me was something more powerful than what he thought he was giving me. I passed it on to Laura.”

Wednesday grunted, lowered his chin to his chest, frowned. Then he sat back. “That could do it,” he said. “And no, I can’t help you. What you do in your own time is your own affair, of course.”

“What,” asked Shadow, “is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I can’t stop you from hunting eagle stones or thunderbirds. But I would infinitely prefer that you spend your days quietly sequestered in Lakeside, out of sight, and, I hope, out of mind. When things get hairy we’ll need all hands to the wheel.”

He looked very old as he said this, and fragile, and his skin seemed almost transparent, and the flesh beneath was gray.

Shadow wanted, wanted very much, to reach out and put his hand over Wednesday’s gray hand. He wanted to tell him that everything would be okay—something that Shadow did not feel, but that he knew had to be said. There were men in black trains out there. There was a fat kid in a stretch limo and there were people in the television who did not mean them well.

He did not touch Wednesday. He did not say anything.

Later, he wondered if he could have changed things, if that gesture would have done any good, if it could have averted any of the harm that was to come. He told himself it wouldn’t. He knew it wouldn’t. But still, afterward, he wished that, just for a moment on that slow flight home, he had touched Wednesday’s hand.

The brief winter daylight was already fading when Wednesday dropped Shadow outside his apartment. The freezing temperature when Shadow opened the car door felt even more science fictional when compared to Las Vegas.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” said Wednesday. “Keep your head below the parapet. Make no waves.”

“All at the same time?”

“Don’t get smart with me, m’boy. You can keep out of sight in Lakeside. I pulled in a big favor to keep you here, safe and sound. If you were in a city they’d get your scent in minutes.”

“I’ll stay put and keep out of trouble.” Shadow meant it as he said it. He’d had a lifetime of trouble and he was ready to let it go forever. “When are you coming back?” he asked.

“Soon,” said Wednesday, and he gunned the Lincoln’s engine, slid up the window and drove off into the frigid night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Three cold days passed. The thermometer never made it up to the zero mark, not even at midday. Shadow wondered how people had survived this weather in the days before electricity, before thermal face masks and lightweight thermal underwear, before easy travel.

He was down at the Video, Tanning, Bait, and Tackle store, being shown Hinzelmann’s hand-tied trout flies. They were more interesting than he had expected: colorful fakes of life, made of feather and thread, each with a hook hidden inside it.

He asked Hinzelmann.

“For real?” asked Hinzelmann.

“For real,” said Shadow.

“Well,” said the older man. “Sometimes they didn’t survive it, and they died. Leaky chimneys and badly ventilated stoves and ranges killed as many people as the cold. But those days were hard—they’d spend the summer and the fall laying up the food and the firewood for the winter. The worst thing of all was the madness. I heard on the radio, they were saying how it was to do with the sunlight, how there isn’t enough of it in the winter. My daddy, he said folk just went stir-crazy—winter madness they called it. Lakeside always had it easy, but some of the other towns around here, they had it hard. There was a saying still had currency when I was a kid, that if the serving girl hadn’t tried to kill you by February she hadn’t any backbone.

“Storybooks were like gold-dust—anything you could read was treasured, back before the town had a lending library. When my grampaw got sent a storybook from his brother in Bavaria, all the Germans in town met up in the town hall to hear him read it, and the Finns and the Irish and the rest of them, they’d make the Germans tell them the stories.

“Twenty miles south of here, in Jibway, they found a woman walking mother-naked in the winter with a dead babe at her breast, and she’d not suffer them to take it from her.” He shook his head meditatively, closed the fly cabinet with a click. “Bad business. You want a video rental card? Eventually they’ll open a Blockbuster here, and then we’ll soon be out of business. But for now we got a pretty fair selection.”

Shadow reminded Hinzelmann that he had no television and no VCR. He enjoyed Hinzelmann’s company—the reminiscences, the tall tales, the goblin grin of the old man. It could make things awkward between them were Shadow to admit that television had made him uncomfortable ever since it had started to talk to him.

Hinzelmann fished in a drawer, and took out a tin box—by the look of it, it had once been a Christmas Box, of the kind that contained chocolates or cookies: a mottled Santa Claus, holding a tray of Coca-Cola bottles, beamed up from its lid. Hinzelmann eased off the metal top of the box, revealing a notebook and books of blank tickets, and said, “How many you want me to put you down for?”

“How many of what?”

“Klunker tickets. She’ll go out onto the ice today, so we’ve started selling tickets. Each ticket is ten dollars, five for forty, ten for seventy-five. One ticket buys you five minutes. Of course we can’t promise it’ll go down in your five minutes, but the person who’s closest stands to win five hundred bucks, and if it goes down in your five minutes, you win a thousand dollars. The earlier you buy your tickets, the more times aren’t spoken for. You want to see the info sheet?”

“Sure.”

Hinzelmann handed Shadow a photocopied sheet. The klunker was an old car with its engine and fuel tank removed, which would be parked out on the ice for the winter. Sometime in the spring the lake ice would melt, and when it was too thin to bear the car’s weight the car would fall into the lake. The earliest the klunker had ever tumbled into the lake was February the twenty-seventh (“That was the winter of 1998. I don’t think you could rightly call that a winter at all”), the latest was May the first (“That was 1950. Seemed that year that the only way that winter would end was if somebody hammered a stake through its heart”). The beginning of April appeared to be the most common time for the car to sink—normally in mid-afternoon.

All of the mid-afternoons in April had already gone, marked off in Hinzelmann’s lined notebook. Shadow bought a twenty-five-minute period on the morning of March the twenty-third, from 9:00 A.M. to 9: 25 A.M. He handed Hinzelmann forty dollars.

“I just wish everybody in town was as easy a sell as you are,” said Hinzelmann.

“It’s a thank-you for that ride you gave me that first night I was in town.”

“No, Mike,” said Hinzelmann. “It’s for the children.” For a moment he looked serious, with no trace of impishness on his creased old face. “Come down this afternoon, you can lend a hand pushing the klunker out onto the lake.”

He passed Shadow five blue cards, each with a date and time written on it in Hinzelmann’s old-fashioned handwriting, then entered the details of each in his notebook.

“Hinzelmann,” asked Shadow. “Have you ever heard of eagle stones?”

“Up north of Rhinelander? Nope, that’s Eagle River. Can’t say I have.”

“How about thunderbirds?”

“Well, there was the Thunderbird Framing Gallery up on Fifth Street, but that closed down. I’m not helping, am I?”

“Nope.”

“Tell you what, why don’t you go look at the library. Good people, although they may be kind of distracted by the library sale on this week. I showed you where the library was, didn’t I?”

Shadow nodded, and said so long. He wished he’d thought of the library himself. He got into the purple 4Runner and drove south on Main Street, following the lake around to the southernmost point, until he reached the castle-like building which housed the city library. He walked inside. A sign pointed to the basement: LIBRARY SALE, it said. The library proper was on the ground floor, and he stamped the snow off his boots and went in.

A forbidding woman with pursed, crimson-colored lips asked him pointedly if she could help him.

“I suppose I need a library card,” he said. “And I want to know all about thunderbirds.”

The woman had him fill out a form, then she told him it would take a week until he could be issued with his card. Shadow wondered if they spent the week sending out inquiries to ensure that he was not wanted in any other libraries across America for failure to return library books.

He had known a man in prison who had been imprisoned for stealing library books.

“Sounds kind of rough,” said Shadow, when the man told him why he was inside.

“Half a million dollars’ worth of books,” said the man, proudly. His name was Gary McGuire. “Mostly rare and antique books from libraries and universities. They found a whole storage locker filled with books from floor to ceiling. Open and shut case.”

“Why did you take them?” asked Shadow.

“I wanted them,” said Gary.

“Jesus. Half a million dollars’ worth of books.”

Gary flashed him a grin, lowered his voice and said, “That was just in the storage locker they found. They never found the garage in San Clemente with the really good stuff in it.”

Gary had died in prison, when what the infirmary had told him was just a malingering, feeling-lousy kind of day turned out to be a ruptured appendix. Now, here in the Lakeside library, Shadow found himself thinking about a garage in San Clemente with box after box of rare, strange and beautiful books in it rotting away, all of them browning and wilting and being eaten by mold and insects in the darkness, waiting for someone who would never come to set them free.

Native American Beliefs and Traditions was on a single shelf in one castle-like turret. Shadow pulled down some books and sat in the window seat. In several minutes he had learned that thunderbirds were mythical gigantic birds who lived on mountaintops, who brought the lightning and who flapped their wings to make the thunder. There were some tribes, he read, who believed that the thunderbirds had made the world. Another half-hour’s reading did not turn up anything more, and he could find no mention of eagle stones anywhere in the books’ indexes.

Shadow was putting the last of the books back on the shelf when he became aware of somebody staring at him. Someone small and grave was peeking at him from around the heavy shelves. As he turned to look, the face vanished. He turned his back on the boy, then glanced around to see that he was being watched once more.

In his pocket was the Liberty dollar. He took it out of his pocket, held it up in his right hand, making sure the boy could see it. He finger-palmed it into his left hand, displayed both hands empty, raised his left hand to his mouth and coughed once, letting the coin tumble from his left hand into his right.

The boy looked at him wide-eyed and scampered away, returning a few moments later, dragging an unsmiling Marguerite Olsen, who looked at Shadow suspiciously and said, “Hello, Mister Ainsel. Leon says you were doing magic for him.”

“Just a little prestidigitation, ma’am.”

“Please don’t,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to entertain him.”

She shook her head, tautly. Drop it. Shadow dropped it. He said, “I never did say thank you for your advice about heating the apartment. It’s warm as toast in there right now.”

“That’s good.” Her icy expression had not begun to thaw.

“It’s a lovely library,” said Shadow.

“It’s a beautiful building. But the city needs something more efficient and less beautiful. You going to the library sale downstairs?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Well, you should. It’s for a good cause. Makes money for new books, cleans out shelf space, and it’s raising money to put in computers for the children’s section. But the sooner we get a whole new library built, the better.”

“I’ll make a point of getting down there.”

“Head out into the hall and then go downstairs. Good seeing you, Mister Ainsel.”

“Call me Mike,” he said.

She said nothing, just took Leon’s hand and walked the boy over to the children’s section.

“But, Mom,” Shadow heard Leon say, “it wasn’t pressed igitation. It wasn’t. I saw it vanish and then it fell out of his nose. I saw it.”

An oil portrait of Abraham Lincoln gazed down from the wall at him. Shadow walked down the marble and oak steps to the library basement, through a door into a large room filled with tables, each table covered with books of all kinds, indiscriminately assorted and promiscuously arranged: paperbacks and hardcovers, fiction and non-fiction, periodicals and encyclopedias all side by side upon the tables, spines up or spines out.

Shadow wandered to the back of the room where there was a table covered with old-looking leather-bound books, each with a library catalog number painted in white on the spine. “You’re the first person over in that corner all day,” said the man sitting by the stack of empty boxes and bags and the small, open, metal cashbox. “Mostly folk just take the thrillers and the children’s books and the Harlequin Romances. Jenny Kerton, Danielle Steel, all that.” The man was reading Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. “Everything on the tables is fifty cents a book, or you can take three for a dollar.”

Shadow thanked him and continued to browse. He found a copy of Herodotus’s Histories bound in peeling brown leather. It made him think of the paperback copy he had left behind in prison. There was a book called Perplexing Parlour Illusions, which looked like it might have some coin effects. He carried both the books over to the man with the cashbox.

“Buy one more, it’s still a dollar,” said the man. “And if you take another book away, you’ll be doing us a favor. We need the shelf-space.”

Shadow walked back to the old leather-bound books. He decided to liberate the book that was least likely to be bought by anyone else, and found himself unable to decide between Common Diseases of the Urinary Tract with Illustrations by a Medical Doctor and Minutes of the Lakeside City Council 1872–1884. He looked at the illustrations in the medical book and decided that somewhere in the town there was a teenage boy who could use the book to gross out his friends. He took the Minutes to the man on the door, who took his dollar and put all the books into a Dave’s Finest Food brown paper sack.

Shadow left the library. He had a clear view of the lake, all the way to the northeastern corner. He could even see his apartment building, a small brown box on the bank up past the bridge. And there were men on the ice near the bridge, four or five of them, pushing a dark green car into the center of the white lake.

“March the twenty-third,” Shadow said to the lake, under his breath. “Nine A.M. to nine twenty-five A.M.” He wondered if the lake or the klunker could hear him—and if they would pay any attention to him, even if they could. He doubted it. In Shadow’s world, luck, the good kind, was something that other people had, not him.

The wind blew bitter against his face.

Officer Chad Mulligan was waiting outside Shadow’s apartment when he got back. Shadow’s heart began to pound when he saw the police car, to relax a little when he observed that the policeman was doing paperwork in the front seat.

He walked over to the car, carrying his paper sack of books.

Mulligan lowered his window. “Library sale?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I bought a box of Robert Ludlum books there two, three years back. Keep meaning to read them. My cousin swears by the guy. These days I figure if I ever get marooned on a desert island and I got my box of Robert Ludlum books with me, I can catch up on my reading.”

“Something particular I can do for you, Chief?”

“Not a damn thing, pal. Thought I’d stop by and see how you were settling in. You remember that Chinese saying, ‘You save a man’s life, you’re responsible for him’? Well, I’m not saying I saved your life last week. But I still thought I should check in. How’s the Gunther Purple-mobile doing?”

“Good,” said Shadow. “It’s good. Running fine.”

“Pleased to hear it.”

“I saw my next-door neighbor in the library,” said Shadow. “Miz Olsen. I was wondering…”

“What crawled up her butt and died?”

“If you want to put it like that.”

“Long story. You want to ride along for a spell, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Shadow thought about it for a moment. “Okay,” he said. He got into the car, sat in the front passenger seat. Mulligan drove north of town. Then he turned off his lights and parked beside the road.

“Darren Olsen met Marge at UW Stevens Point and he brought her back north to Lakeside. She was a journalism major. He was studying, shit, hotel management, something like that. When they got here, jaws dropped. This was, what, thirteen, fourteen years ago. She was so beautiful…that black hair…” He paused. “Darren managed the Motel America over in Camden, twenty miles west of here. Except nobody ever seemed to want to stop in Camden and eventually the motel closed. They had two boys. At that time Sandy was eleven. The little one—Leon is it? —was just a babe in arms.

“Darren Olsen wasn’t a brave man. He’d been a good high school football player, but that was the last time he was flying high. Whatever. He couldn’t find the courage to tell Margie that he’d lost his job. So for a month, maybe for two months, he’d drive off early in the morning, come home late in the evening complaining about the hard day he’d had at the motel.”

“What was he doing?” asked Shadow.

“Mm. Couldn’t say for certain. I reckon he was driving up to Ironwood, maybe down to Green Bay. Guess he started out as a job hunter. Pretty soon he was drinking the time away, getting stoned, more than probably meeting the occasional working girl for a little instant gratification. He could have been gambling. What I do know for certain is that he emptied out their joint account in about ten weeks. It was only a matter of time before Margie figured out—there we go!”

He swung the car out, flicked on the siren and the lights, and scared the daylights out of a small man with Iowa plates who had just come down the hill at seventy.

The rogue Iowan ticketed, Mulligan returned to his story.

“Where was I? Okay. So Margie kicks him out, sues for divorce. It turned into a vicious custody battle. That’s what they call ’em when they get into People magazine. Vicious Custody Battle. Always makes me think of lawyers with knives and assault weapons and brass knuckles. She got the kids. Darren got visitation rights and precious little else. Now, back then Leon was pretty small. Sandy was older, a good kid, the kind of boy who worships his daddy. Wouldn’t let Margie say nothing bad about him. They lost the house—had a nice place down on Daniels Road. She moved into the apartments. He left town. Came back every few months to make everybody miserable.

“This went on for a few years. He’d come back, spend money on the kids, leave Margie in tears. Most of us just started wishing he’d never come back at all. His mom and pop had moved to Florida when they retired, said they couldn’t take another Wisconsin winter. So last year he came out, said he wanted to take the boys to Florida for Christmas. Margie said not a hope, told him to get lost. It got pretty unpleasant—at one point I had to go over there. Domestic dispute. By the time I got there Darren was standing in the front yard shouting stuff, the boys were barely holding it together, Margie was crying.

“I told Darren he was shaping up for a night in the cells. I thought for a moment he was going to hit me, but he was sober enough not to do that. I gave him a ride down to the trailer park south of town, told him to shape up. That he’d hurt her enough…Next day he left town.”

“Two weeks later, Sandy vanished. Didn’t get onto the school bus. Told his best friend that he’d be seeing his dad soon, that Darren was bringing him a specially cool present to make up for having missed Christmas in Florida. Nobody’s seen him since. Non-custodial kidnappings are the hardest. It’s tough to find a kid who doesn’t want to be found, y’see?”

Shadow said that he did. He saw something else as well. Chad Mulligan was in love with Marguerite Olsen himself. He wondered if the man knew how obvious it was.

Mulligan pulled out once more, lights flashing, and pulled over some teenagers doing sixty. He didn’t ticket them, “just put the fear of God in them.”

That evening Shadow sat at the kitchen table trying to figure out how to transform a silver dollar into a penny. It was a trick he had found in Perplexing Parlour Illusions but the instructions were infuriating, unhelpful, and vague. Phrases like “then vanish the penny in the usual way” occurred every sentence or so. In this context, Shadow wondered, what was “the usual way”? A French drop? Sleeving it? Shouting “Oh my god, look out—a mountain lion!” and dropping the coin into his side pocket while the audience’s attention was diverted?

He tossed his silver dollar into the air, caught it, remembering the moon and the woman who gave it to him, then he attempted the illusion. It didn’t seem to work. He walked into the bathroom and tried it in front of the mirror, and confirmed that he was right. The trick as written simply didn’t work. He sighed, dropped the coins in his pocket and sat down on the couch. He spread the cheap throw rug over his legs and flipped open the Minutes of the Lakeside Council 1872–1884. The type, in two columns, was so small as to be almost unreadable. He flipped through the book, looking at the reproductions of the photographs of the period, at the several incarnations of the Lakeside city council therein: long side-whiskers and clay pipes and battered hats and shiny hats, worn with faces which were, many of them, peculiarly familiar. He was unsurprised to see that the portly secretary of the 1882 city council was a Patrick Mulligan: shave him, make him lose twenty pounds and he’d be a dead ringer for Chad Mulligan, his—what, great-great-grandson? He wondered if Hinzelmann’s pioneer grandfather was in the photographs, but it did not appear that he had been city council material. Shadow thought he had seen a reference to a Hinzelmann in the text, while flipping from photograph to photograph, but it eluded him when he leafed back for it, and the tiny type made Shadow’s eyes ache.

He put the book down on his chest and realized his head was nodding. It would be foolish to fall asleep on the couch, he decided, soberly. The bedroom was only a few feet away. On the other hand, the bedroom and the bed would still be there in five minutes, and anyway, he was not going to go to sleep, only to close his eyes for a moment…

Darkness roared.

He stood on an open plain. Beside him was the place from which he had once emerged, from which the earth had squeezed him. Stars were still falling from the sky and each star that touched the red earth became a man or a woman. The men had long black hair and high cheekbones. The women all looked like Marguerite Olsen. These were the star people.

They looked at him with dark, proud eyes.

“Tell me about the thunderbirds,” said Shadow. “Please. It’s not for me. It’s for my wife.”

One by one they turned their backs on him, and as he lost their faces they were gone, one with the landscape. But the last of them, her hair streaked white on dark gray, pointed before she turned away, pointed into the wine-colored sky.

“Ask them yourself,” she said. Summer lightning flickered, momentarily illuminating the landscape from horizon to horizon.

There were high rocks near him, peaks and spires of sandstone, and Shadow began to climb the nearest. The spire was the color of old ivory. He grabbed at a handhold, and felt it slice into his hand. It’s bone, thought Shadow. Not stone. It’s old dry bone.

But it was a dream, and in dreams, sometimes, you have no choices: either there are no decisions to be made, or they were made for you long before ever the dream began. Shadow continued to climb, pulling himself up. His hands hurt. Bone popped and crushed and fragmented under his bare feet, cutting them painfully. The wind tugged at him, and he pressed himself to the spire, and he continued to climb the tower.

It was made of only one kind of bone, he realized, repeated over and over. Each of the bones was dry and ball-like. For a moment he had imagined they might be old yellow shells or the eggs of some dreadful bird. But another flare of lightning told him differently: they had holes for eyes, and they had teeth, which grinned without humor.

Somewhere birds were calling. Rain spattered his face.

He was hundreds of feet above the ground, clinging to the side of the tower of skulls, while flashes of lightning burned in the wings of the shadowy birds who circled the spire—enormous black, condor-like birds, each with a ruff of white at its neck. They were huge, graceful, awful birds, and the beats of their wings crashed like thunder on the night air.

They were circling the spire.

They must be fifteen, twenty feet from wingtip to wingtip, thought Shadow.

Then the first bird swung out of its glide toward him, blue lightning crackling in its wings. He pushed himself into a crevice of skulls, hollow eye-holes stared at him, a clutter of ivory teeth smiled at him, but he kept climbing, pulling himself up the mountain of skulls, every sharp edge cutting into his skin, feeling revulsion and terror and awe.

Another bird came at him, and one hand-sized talon sank into his arm.

He reached out and tried to grasp a feather from its wing. If he returned to his tribe without a thunderbird’s feather he would be disgraced, he would never be a man, but the bird pulled up, so that he could not grasp even one feather. The thunderbird loosened its grip and swung back onto the wind. Shadow continued to climb.

There must be a thousand skulls, thought Shadow. A thousand thousand. And not all of them are human. He stood at last on the top of the spire, the great birds, the thunderbirds, circling him slowly, navigating the gusts of the storm with tiny flicks of their wings.

He heard a voice, the voice of the buffalo man, calling to him on the wind, telling him who the skulls belonged to…

The tower began to tumble, and the biggest bird, its eyes the blinding blue-white of forked lightning, plummeted down toward him in a rush of thunder, and Shadow was falling, tumbling down the tower of skulls…

The telephone shrilled. Shadow had not even known that it was connected. Groggy, shaken, he picked it up.

“What the fuck,” shouted Wednesday, angrier than Shadow had ever heard him. “What the almighty flying fuck do you think you are playing at?”

“I was asleep,” said Shadow into the receiver, stupidly.

“What do you think is the fucking point of stashing you in a hiding place like Lakeside, if you’re going to raise such a ruckus that not even a dead man could miss it?”

“I dreamed of thunderbirds…,” said Shadow. “And a tower. Skulls…” It seemed to him very important to recount his dream.

“I know what you were dreaming. Everybody damn well knows what you were dreaming. Christ almighty. What’s the point in hiding you, if you’re going to start to fucking advertise?”

Shadow said nothing.

There was a pause at the other end of the telephone. “I’ll be there in the morning,” said Wednesday. It sounded like the anger had died down. “We’re going to San Francisco. The flowers in your hair are optional.” And the line went dead.

Shadow put the telephone down on the carpet, and sat up, stiffly. It was six A.M. and still night-dark outside. He got up from the sofa, shivering. He could hear the wind as it screamed across the frozen lake. And he could hear somebody nearby, crying, only the thickness of a wall away. He was certain it was Marguerite Olsen, and her sobbing was insistent and low and heartbreaking.

Shadow walked into the bathroom and pissed, then went into his bedroom and closed the door, blocking off the sound of the crying woman. Outside the wind howled and wailed as if it, too, was seeking for a lost child, and he slept no more that night.

San Francisco in January was unseasonably warm, warm enough that the sweat prickled on the back of Shadow’s neck. Wednesday was wearing a deep blue suit, and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that made him look like an entertainment lawyer.

They were walking along Haight Street. The street people and the hustlers and the moochers watched them go by, and no one shook a paper cup of change at them, no one asked them for anything at all.

Wednesday’s jaw was set. Shadow had seen immediately that the man was still angry, and had asked no questions when the black Lincoln Town Car had pulled up outside the apartment that morning. They had not talked on the way to the airport. He had been relieved that Wednesday was in first class and he was back in coach.

Now it was late in the afternoon. Shadow, who had not been in San Francisco since he was a boy, who had only seen it since then as a background to movies, was astonished at how familiar it was, how colorful and unique the wooden houses, how steep the hills, how very much it didn’t feel like anywhere else.

“It’s almost hard to believe that this is in the same country as Lakeside,” he said.

Wednesday glared at him. Then he said, “It’s not. San Francisco isn’t in the same country as Lakeside any more than New Orleans is in the same country as New York or Miami is in the same country as Minneapolis.”

“Is that so?” said Shadow, mildly.

“Indeed it is. They may share certain cultural signifiers—money, a federal government, entertainment; it’s the same land, obviously—but the only things that give it the illusion of being one country are the green-back, The Tonight Show, and McDonald’s.” They were approaching a park at the end of the road. “Be nice to the lady we are visiting. But not too nice.”

“I’ll be cool,” said Shadow.

They stepped onto the grass.

A young girl, no older than fourteen, her hair dyed green and orange and pink, stared at them as they went by. She sat beside a dog, a mongrel, with a piece of string for a collar and a leash. She looked hungrier than the dog did. The dog yapped at them, then wagged its tail.

Shadow gave the girl a dollar bill. She stared at it as if she was not sure what it was. “Buy dog food with it,” Shadow suggested. She nodded, and smiled.

“Let me put it bluntly,” said Wednesday. “You must be very cautious around the lady we are visiting. She might take a fancy to you, and that would be bad.”

“Is she your girlfriend or something?”

“Not for all the little plastic toys in China,” said Wednesday, agreeably. His anger seemed to have dissipated, or perhaps to have been invested for the future. Shadow suspected that anger was the engine that made Wednesday run.

There was a woman sitting on the grass, under a tree, with a paper tablecloth spread in front of her, and a variety of Tupperware dishes on the cloth.

She was—not fat, no, far from fat: what she was, a word that Shadow had never had cause to use until now, was curvaceous. Her hair was so fair that it was white, the kind of platinum-blonde tresses that should have belonged to a long-dead movie starlet, her lips were painted crimson, and she looked to be somewhere between twenty-five and fifty.

As they reached her she was selecting from a plate of deviled eggs. She looked up as Wednesday approached her, and put down the egg she had chosen, and wiped her hand. “Hello, you old fraud,” she said, but she smiled as she said it, and Wednesday bowed low, took her hand and raised it to his lips.

He said, “You look divine.”

“How the hell else should I look?” she demanded, sweetly. “Anyway, you’re a liar. New Orleans was such a mistake—I put on, what, thirty pounds there? I swear. I knew I had to leave when I started to waddle. The tops of my thighs rub together when I walk now, can you believe that?” This last was addressed to Shadow. He had no idea what to say in reply, and felt a hot flush suffuse his face. The woman laughed delightedly. “He’s blushing! Wednesday my sweet, you brought me a blusher. How perfectly wonderful of you. What’s he called?”

“This is Shadow,” said Wednesday. He seemed to be enjoying Shadow’s discomfort. “Shadow, say hello to Easter.”

Shadow said something that might have been Hello, and the woman smiled at him again. He felt like he was caught in headlights—the blinding kind that poachers use to freeze deer before they shoot them. He could smell her perfume from where he was standing, an intoxicating mixture of jasmine and honeysuckle, of sweet milk and female skin.

“So, how’s tricks?” asked Wednesday.

The woman—Easter—laughed a deep and throaty laugh, full-bodied and joyous. How could you not like someone who laughed like that? “Everything’s fine,” she said. “How about you, you old wolf?”

“I was hoping to enlist your assistance.”

“Wasting your time.”

“At least hear me out before dismissing me.”

“No point. Don’t even bother.”

She looked at Shadow. “Please, sit down here and help yourself to some of this food. Here, take a plate and pile it high. It’s all good. Eggs, roast chicken, chicken curry, chicken salad, and over here is lapin—rabbit, actually, but cold rabbit is a delight, and in that bowl over there is the jugged hare, well, why don’t I just fill a plate for you?” And she did, taking a plastic plate and piling it high with foods and passing it to him. Then she looked at Wednesday. “Are you eating?” she asked.

“I am at your disposal, my dear,” said Wednesday.

“You,” she told him, “are so full of shit it’s a wonder your eyes don’t turn brown.” She passed him an empty plate. “Help yourself,” she said.

The afternoon sun at her back burned her hair into a platinum aura. “Shadow,” she said, chewing a chicken leg with gusto. “That’s a sweet name. Why do they call you Shadow?”

Shadow licked his lips to moisten them. “When I was a kid,” he said. “We lived, my mother and I, we were, I mean, she was, well, like a secretary, at a bunch of U.S. embassies, we went from city to city all over Northern Europe. Then she got sick and had to take early retirement and we came back to the States. I never knew what to say to the other kids, so I’d just find adults and follow them around, not saying anything. I just needed the company, I guess. I don’t know. I was a small kid.”

“You grew,” she said.

“Yes,” said Shadow. “I grew.”

She turned back to Wednesday, who was spooning down a bowl of what looked like cold gumbo. “Is this the boy who’s got everybody so upset?”

“You heard?”

“I keep my ears pricked up,” she said. Then to Shadow, “You keep out of their way. There are too many secret societies out there, and they have no loyalties and no love. Commercial, independent, government, they’re all in the same boat. They range from the barely competent to the deeply dangerous. Hey, old wolf, I heard a joke you’d like the other day. How do you know the CIA wasn’t involved in the Kennedy assassination?”

“I’ve heard it,” said Wednesday.

“Pity.” She turned her attention back to Shadow. “But the spookshow, the ones you met, they’re something else. They exist because everyone knows they must exist.” She drained a paper cup of something that looked like white wine, and then she got to her feet. “Shadow’s a good name,” she said. “I want a mochaccino. Come on.”

She began to walk away. “What about the food?” asked Wednesday. “You can’t just leave it here.”

She smiled at him, and pointed to the girl sitting by the dog, and then extended her arms to take in the Haight and the world. “Let it feed them,” she said, and she walked, with Wednesday and Shadow trailing behind her.

“Remember,” she said to Wednesday, as they walked, “I’m rich. I’m doing just peachy. Why should I help you?”

“You’re one of us,” he said. “You’re as forgotten and as unloved and unremembered as any of us. It’s pretty clear whose side you should be on.”

They reached a sidewalk coffeehouse, went inside. There was only one waitress, who wore her eyebrow ring as a mark of caste, and a woman making coffee behind the counter. The waitress advanced upon them, smiling automatically, sat them down, took their orders.

Easter put her slim hand on the back of Wednesday’s square gray hand. “I’m telling you,” she said, “I’m doing fine. On my festival days they still feast on eggs and rabbits, on candy and on flesh, to represent rebirth and copulation. They wear flowers in their bonnets and they give each other flowers. They do it in my name. More and more of them every year. In my name, old wolf.”

“And you wax fat and affluent on their worship and their love?” he said, dryly.

“Don’t be an asshole.” Suddenly she sounded very tired. She sipped her mochaccino.

“Serious question, m’dear. Certainly I would agree that millions upon millions of them give each other tokens in your name, and that they still practice all the rites of your festival, even down to hunting for hidden eggs. But how many of them know who you are? Eh? Excuse me, miss?” This to their waitress.

She said, “You need another espresso?”

“No, my dear. I was just wondering if you could solve a little argument we were having over here. My friend and I were disagreeing over what the word ‘Easter’ means. Would you happen to know?”

The girl stared at him as if green toads had begun to push their way between his lips. Then she said, “I don’t know about any of that Christian stuff. I’m a pagan.”

The woman behind the counter said, “I think it’s like Latin or something for ‘Christ has risen’ maybe.”

“Really?” said Wednesday.

“Yeah, sure,” said the woman. “Easter. Just like the sun rises in the east, you know.”

“The risen son. Of course—a most logical supposition.” The woman smiled and returned to her coffee grinder. Wednesday looked up at their waitress. “I think I shall have another espresso, if you do not mind. And tell me, as a pagan, who do you worship?”

“Worship?”

“That’s right. I imagine you must have a pretty wide-open field. So to whom do you set up your household altar? To whom do you bow down? To whom do you pray at dawn and at dusk?”

Her lips described several shapes without saying anything before she said, “The female principle. It’s an empowerment thing. You know.”

“Indeed. And this female principle of yours. Does she have a name?”

“She’s the goddess within us all,” said the girl with the eyebrow ring, color rising to her cheek. “She doesn’t need a name.”

“Ah,” said Wednesday, with a wide monkey grin, “so do you have mighty bacchanals in her honor? Do you drink blood wine under the full moon, while scarlet candles burn in silver candleholders? Do you step naked into the sea-foam, chanting ecstatically to your nameless goddess while the waves lick at your legs, lapping your thighs like the tongues of a thousand leopards?”

“You’re making fun of me,” she said. “We don’t do any of that stuff you were saying.” She took a deep breath. Shadow suspected she was counting to ten. “Any more coffees here? Another mochaccino for you, ma’am?” Her smile was a lot like the one she had greeted them with when they had entered.

They shook their heads, and the waitress turned to greet another customer.

“There,” said Wednesday, “is one who ‘does not have the faith and will not have the fun.’ Chesterton. Pagan indeed. So. Shall we go out onto the street, Easter my dear, and repeat the exercise? Find out how many passers-by know that their Easter festival takes its name from Eostre of the Dawn? Let’s see—I have it. We shall ask a hundred people. For every one that knows the truth, you may cut off one of my fingers, and when I run out of them, toes; for every twenty who don’t know you spend a night making love to me. And the odds are certainly in your favor here—this is San Francisco, after all. There are heathens and pagans and Wiccans aplenty on these precipitous streets.”

Her green eyes looked at Wednesday. They were, Shadow decided, the exact same color as a leaf in spring with the sun shining through it. She said nothing.

“We could try it,” continued Wednesday. “But I would end up with ten fingers, ten toes, and five nights in your bed. So don’t tell me they worship you and keep your festival day. They mouth your name, but it has no meaning to them. Nothing at all.”

Tears stood out in her eyes. “I know that,” she said, quietly. “I’m not a fool.”

“No,” said Wednesday. “You’re not.”

He’s pushed her too far, thought Shadow.

Wednesday looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said. Shadow could hear the real sincerity in his voice. “We need you. We need your energy. We need your power. Will you fight beside us when the storm comes?”

She hesitated. She had a chain of blue forget-me-nots tattooed around her left wrist.

“Yes,” she said, after a while. “I guess I will.”

Wednesday kissed his finger, touched it to her cheek. Then he called their waitress over and paid for their coffees, counting out the money carefully, folding it over with the check and presenting it to her.

As she walked away, Shadow said, “Ma’am? Excuse me? I think you dropped this.” He picked up a ten-dollar bill from the floor.

“No,” she said, looking at the wrapped bills in her hand.

“I saw it fall, ma’am,” said Shadow, politely. “You should count them.”

She counted the money in her hand, looked puzzled and said, “Jesus. You’re right. I’m sorry.” She took the ten-dollar bill from Shadow, and walked away.

Easter walked out onto the sidewalk with them. The light was just starting to fade. She nodded to Wednesday, then she touched Shadow’s hand and said, “What did you dream about, last night?”

“Thunderbirds,” he said. “A mountain of skulls.”

She nodded. “And do you know whose skulls they were?”

“There was a voice,” he said. “In my dream. It told me.”

She nodded and waited.

He said, “It said they were mine. Old skulls of mine. Thousands and thousands of them.”

She looked at Wednesday, and said, “I think this one’s a keeper.” She smiled her bright smile. Then she patted Shadow’s arm and walked away down the sidewalk. He watched her go, trying—and failing—not to think of her thighs rubbing together as she walked.

In the taxi on the way to the airport, Wednesday turned to Shadow. “What the hell was that business with the ten dollars about?”

“You shortchanged her. It comes out of her wages if she’s short.”

“What the hell do you care?” Wednesday seemed genuinely irate.

Shadow thought for a moment. Then he said, “Well, I wouldn’t want anyone to do it to me. She hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“No?” Wednesday stared off into the middle-distance, and said, “When she was seven years old she shut a kitten in a closet. She listened to it mew for several days. When it ceased to mew, she took it out of the closet, put it into a shoebox, and buried it in the back yard. She wanted to bury something. She consistently steals from everywhere she works. Small amounts, usually. Last year she visited her grandmother in the nursing home to which the old woman is confined. She took an antique gold watch from her grandmother’s bedside table, and then went prowling through several of the other rooms, stealing small quantities of money and personal effects from the twilight folk in their golden years. When she got home she did not know what to do with her spoils, scared someone would come after her, so she threw everything away except the cash.”

“I get the idea,” said Shadow.

“She also has asymptomatic gonorrhea,” said Wednesday. “She suspects she might be infected but does nothing about it. When her last boyfriend accused her of having given him a disease she was hurt, offended, and refused to see him again.”

“This isn’t necessary,” said Shadow. “I said I get the idea. You could do this to anyone, couldn’t you? Tell me bad things about them.”

“Of course,” agreed Wednesday. “They all do the same things. They may think their sins are original, but for the most part they are petty and repetitive.”

“And that makes it okay for you to steal ten bucks from her?”

Wednesday paid the taxi and the two men walked into the airport, wandered up to their gate. Boarding had not yet begun. Wednesday said, “What the hell else can I do? They don’t sacrifice rams or bulls to me. They don’t send me the souls of killers and slaves, gallows-hung and raven-picked. They made me. They forgot me. Now I take a little back from them. Isn’t that fair?”

“My mom used to say, ‘Life isn’t fair,’” said Shadow.

“Of course she did,” said Wednesday. “It’s one of those things that moms say, right up there with ‘If all your friends jumped off a cliff would you do it too?’”

“You stiffed that girl for ten bucks, I slipped her ten bucks,” said Shadow, doggedly. “It was the right thing to do, and I did it.”

Someone announced that their plane was boarding. Wednesday stood up. “May your choices always be so clear,” he said, and once again, he sounded totally sincere.

It’s true what they say, thought Shadow. If you can fake sincerity, you’ve got it made.

The cold snap was easing when Wednesday dropped Shadow off, in the small hours of the morning. It was still obscenely cold in Lakeside, but it was no longer impossibly cold. The lighted sign on the side of the M&I Bank flashed alternately 3:30 A.M. and -5° F as they drove through the town.

It was 9:30 A.M. when Chief of Police Chad Mulligan knocked on the apartment door and asked Shadow if he knew a girl named Alison McGovern.

“I don’t think so,” said Shadow, sleepily.

“This is her picture,” said Mulligan. It was a high school photograph. Shadow recognized the person in the picture immediately: the girl with the blue rubber-band braces on her teeth, the one who had been learning all about the oral uses of Alka-Seltzer from her friend.

“Oh yeah. Okay. She was on the bus when I came into town.”

“Where were you yesterday, Mister Ainsel?”

Shadow felt his world begin to spin away from him. He knew he had nothing to feel guilty about (You’re a parole-violating felon living under an assumed name, whispered a calm voice in his mind. Isn’t that enough?).

“San Francisco,” he said. “California. Helping my uncle transport a four-poster bed.”

“You got any way of proving it? Ticket stubs? Anything like that?”

“Sure.” He had both his boarding pass stubs in his back pocket, pulled them out. “What’s going on?”

Chad Mulligan examined the boarding passes. “Alison McGovern’s vanished. She helped out up at the Lakeside Humane Society. Feed animals, walk dogs. She’d come out for a few hours after school. One of those animal kids. So. Dolly Knopf, who runs the Humane Society, she’d always run her home when they closed up for the night. Yesterday Alison never got there.”

“She’s vanished.”

“Yup. Her parents called us last night. Silly kid used to hitchhike up to the Humane Society. It’s out on County W, pretty isolated. Her parents told her not to, but this isn’t the kind of place where things happen…people here don’t lock their doors, you know? And you can’t tell kids. So, look at the photo again.”

Alison McGovern was smiling. The rubber bands on her teeth in the photograph were red, not blue.

“You can honestly say you didn’t kidnap her, rape her, murder her, anything like that?”

“I was in San Francisco. And I wouldn’t do that shit.”

“That was what I figured, pal. So you want to come help us look for her?”

“Me?”

“You. We’ve had the K-9 guys out this morning—nothing so far.” He sighed. “Heck, Mike. I just hope she turns up in the Twin Cities with some dopey boyfriend.”

“You think it’s likely?”

“I think it’s possible. You want to join the hunting party?”

Shadow remembered seeing the girl in Henning’s Farm and Home Supplies, the flash of a shy blue-braced smile, how beautiful he had known she was going to be one day. “I’ll come,” he said.

There were two dozen men and women waiting in the lobby of the fire station. Shadow recognized Hinzelmann, and several other faces looked familiar. There were several police officers, dressed in blue, and some men and women from the Lumber County sheriff’s department, dressed in brown.

Chad Mulligan told them what Alison was wearing when she vanished (a scarlet snowsuit, green gloves, blue woolen hat under the hood of her snowsuit) and divided the volunteers into groups of three. Shadow, Hinzelmann, and a man named Brogan comprised one of the groups. They were reminded how short the daylight period was, told that if, god forbid, they found Alison’s body they were not repeat not to disturb anything, just to radio back for help, but that if she was alive they were to keep her warm until help came.

They were dropped off out on County W.

Hinzelmann, Brogan and Shadow walked along the edge of a frozen creek. Each group of three had been issued a small hand-held walkie-talkie before they left.

The cloud cover was low, and the world was gray. No snow had fallen in the last thirty-six hours. Footprints stood out in the glittering crust of the crisp snow.

Brogan looked like a retired army colonel, with his slim moustache and white temples. He drove them, told Shadow he was a retired high school principal. “I took early retirement when I saw I wasn’t getting any younger. These days I still teach a little, do the school play—that was always the high point of the year anyhow—and now I hunt a little and have a cabin down on Pike Lake, spend too much time there.” As they set out Brogan said, “On the one hand, I hope we find her. On the other, if she’s going to be found, I’d be very grateful if it was someone else who got to find her, and not us. You know what I mean?”

Shadow knew exactly what he meant.

The three men did not talk much. They walked, looking for a red snowsuit, or green gloves, or a blue hat, or a white body. Now and again Brogan, who had the walkie-talkie, would check in with Chad Mulligan.

At lunchtime they sat with the rest of the search party on a commandeered school bus and ate hot dogs and drank hot soup. Someone pointed out a red-tailed hawk in a bare tree, and someone else said that it looked more like a falcon, but it flew away and the argument was abandoned.

Hinzelmann told them a story about his grandfather’s trumpet, and how he tried playing it during a cold snap, and the weather was so cold outside by the barn, where his grandfather had gone to practice, that no music came out.

“Then after he came inside he put the trumpet down by the wood-stove to thaw. Well, the family’re all in bed that night and suddenly the unfrozen tunes start coming out of that trumpet. Scared my grandmother so much she nearly had kittens.”

The afternoon was endless, unfruitful, and depressing. The daylight faded slowly: distances collapsed and the world turned indigo and the wind blew cold enough to burn the skin on your face. When it was too dark to continue, Mulligan radioed to them to call it off for the evening, and they were picked up and driven back to the fire station.

In the block next to the fire station was the Buck Stops Here Tavern, and that was where most of the searchers wound up. They were exhausted and dispirited, talking to each other of the bald eagle that had circled them, how cold it had become, how more than likely Alison would show up in a day or so, no idea of how much trouble she’d caused everyone.

“You shouldn’t think badly of the town because of this,” said Brogan. “It is a good town.”

“Lakeside,” said a trim woman whose name Shadow had forgotten, if ever they’d been introduced, “is the best town in the Northwoods. You know how many people are unemployed in Lakeside?”

“No,” said Shadow.

“Less than twenty,” she said. “There’s over five thousand people live in and around this town. We may not be rich, but everyone’s working. It’s not like the mining towns up in the northeast—most of them are ghost towns now. There were farming towns that were killed by the falling cost of milk, or the low price of hogs. You know what the biggest cause of unnatural death is among farmers in the Midwest?”

“Suicide?” Shadow hazarded.

She looked almost disappointed. “Yeah. That’s it. They kill themselves.” She shook her head. Then she continued, “There are too many towns hereabouts that only exist for the hunters and the vacationers, towns that just take their money and send them home with their trophies and their bug bites. Then there are the company towns, where everything’s just hunky-dory until Wal-Mart relocates their distribution center or 3M stops manufacturing CD cases there or whatever and suddenly there’s a boatload of folks who can’t pay their mortgages. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Ainsel,” said Shadow. “Mike Ainsel.” The beer he was drinking was a local brew, made with spring water. It was good.

“I’m Callie Knopf,” she said. “Dolly’s sister.” Her face was still ruddy from the cold. “So what I’m saying is that Lakeside’s lucky. We’ve got a little of everything here—farm, light industry, tourism, crafts. Good schools.”

Shadow looked at her in puzzlement. There was something empty at the bottom of all her words. It was as if he were listening to a salesman, a good salesman, who believed in his product, but still wanted to make sure you went home with all the brushes or the full set of encyclopedias. Perhaps she could see it in his face. She said, “I’m sorry. When you love something you just don’t want to stop talking about it. What do you do, Mister Ainsel?”

“Heavy lifting,” said Shadow. “My uncle buys and sells antiques all over the country. He uses me to move big, heavy things. Without breaking them too badly. It’s a good job, but not steady work.” A black cat, the bar mascot, wound between Shadow’s legs, rubbing its forehead on his boot. It leapt up beside him onto the bench and went to sleep.

“At least you get to travel,” said Brogan. “You do anything else?”

“You got eight quarters on you?” asked Shadow. Brogan fumbled for his change. He found five quarters, pushed them across the table to Shadow. Callie Knopf produced another three quarters.

He laid out the coins, four in each row. Then, with scarcely a fumble, he did the Coins Through the Table, appearing to drop half the coins through the wood of the table, from his left hand into his right.

After that, he took all eight coins in his right hand, an empty water glass in his left, covered the glass with a napkin and appeared to make the coins vanish one by one from his right hand and land in the glass beneath the napkin with an audible clink. Finally, he opened his right hand to show it was empty, then swept the napkin away to show the coins in the glass.

He returned their coins—three to Callie, five to Brogan—then took a quarter back from Brogan’s hand, leaving four coins. He blew on it, and it was a penny, which he gave to Brogan, who counted his quarters and was dumbfounded to find that he still had all five in his hand.

“You’re a Houdini,” cackled Hinzelmann in delight. “That’s what you are!”

“Just an amateur,” said Shadow. “I’ve got a long way to go.” Still, he felt a smidgen of pride. It had, he realized, been his first adult audience.

He stopped at the food store on the way home to buy a carton of milk. The ginger-haired girl on the checkout counter looked familiar, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. Her face was one big freckle.

“I know you,” said Shadow. “You’re—” And he was about to say the Alka-Seltzer girl, but bit it back and finished, “You’re Alison’s friend. From the bus. I hope she’s going to be okay.”

She sniffed and nodded. “Me too.” She blew her nose on a tissue, hard, and pushed it back into her sleeve.

Her badge said HI! I’M SOPHIE! ASK ME HOW YOU CAN LOSE 20 LBS. IN 30 DAYS!

“I spent today looking for her. No luck yet.”

Sophie nodded, blinked back tears. She waved the milk carton in front of a scanner and it chirped its price at them. Shadow passed her two dollars.

“I’m leaving this fucking town,” said the girl in a sudden, choked voice. “I’m going to live with my mom in Ashland. Alison’s gone. Sandy Olsen went last year. Jo Ming the year before that. What if it’s me next year?”

“I thought Sandy Olsen was taken by his father.”

“Yes,” said the girl, bitterly. “I’m sure he was. And Jo Ming went out to California, and Sarah Lindquist got lost on a trail hike and they never found her. Whatever. I want to go to Ashland.”

She took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Then she smiled at him. There was nothing insincere about that smile. It was just the smile of someone who knew that it was her job to smile when she gave someone their change, and as she put Shadow’s change and receipt into his hand she told him to have a nice day. Then she turned to the woman with the full shopping cart behind him and began to unload-and-scan. A boy no older than Sophie sauntered over to bag the groceries.

Shadow took his milk and drove away, past the gas station and the klunker on the ice, and over the bridge and home.

There was a girl, and her uncle sold her, wrote Mr. Ibis in his perfect copperplate handwriting.

That is the tale; the rest is detail.

There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit, coating it with smooth pearl layers in order to cope. This is how we walk and talk and function, day in, day out, immune to others’ pain and loss. If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but, for the most part, it does not touch us. We cannot allow it to.

Tonight, as you eat, reflect if you can: there are children starving in the world, starving in numbers larger than the mind can easily hold, up in the big numbers where an error of a million here, a million there, can be forgiven. It may be uncomfortable for you to reflect upon this or it may not, but still, you will eat.

There are accounts which, if we open our hearts to them, will cut us too deeply. Look—here is a good man, good by his own lights and the lights of his friends: he is faithful and true to his wife, he adores and lavishes attention on his little children, he cares about his country, he does his job punctiliously, as best he can. So, efficiently and good-naturedly, he exterminates Jews: he appreciates the music that plays in the background to pacify them; he advises the Jews not to forget their identification numbers as they go into the showers—many people, he tells them, forget their numbers, and take the wrong clothes, when they come out of the showers. This calms the Jews: there will be life, they assure themselves, after the showers. And they are wrong. Our man supervises the detail taking the bodies to the ovens; and if there is anything he feels bad about, it is that he still allows the gassing of vermin to affect him. Were he a truly good man, he knows, he would feel nothing but joy, as the earth is cleansed of its pests.

Leave him; he cuts too deep. He is too close to us and it hurts.

There was a girl, and her uncle sold her. Put like that it seems so simple.

No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each others’ tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. We know the shape, and the shape does not change. There was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some means or other, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes—unique in detail, forming patterns we have seen before, but as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There’s not a chance you’d mistake one for another, after a minute’s close inspection.)

We need individual stories. Without individuals we see only numbers: a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, “casualties may rise to a million.” With individual stories, the statistics become people—but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child’s swollen, swollen belly, and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, his skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust beside him, a distorted, distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies’ own myriad squirming children?

We draw our lines around these moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearl-like, from our souls without real pain.

Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.

A life, which is, like any other, unlike any other.

And the simple truth is this: there was a girl and her uncle sold her.

This is what they used to say, where the girl came from: no man may be certain who fathered a child, but the mother, ah, that you could be certain of. Lineage and property was something that moved in the matrilineal line, but power remained in the hands of the men: a man had complete ownership of his sister’s children.

There was a war in that place, and it was a small war, no more than a skirmish between the men of two rival villages. It was almost an argument. One village won the argument, one village lost it.

Life as a commodity, people as possessions. Enslavement had been part of the culture of those parts for thousands of years. The Arab slavers had destroyed the last of the great kingdoms of East Africa, while the West African nations had destroyed each other.

There was nothing untoward or unusual about their uncle selling the twins, although twins were considered magical beings, and their uncle was scared of them, scared enough that he did not tell them that they were to be sold in case they harmed his shadow and killed him. They were twelve years old. She was called Wututu, the messenger bird; he was called Agasu, the name of a dead king. They were healthy children, and, because they were twins, male and female, they were told many things about the gods, and because they were twins they listened to the things that they were told, and they remembered.

Their uncle was a fat and lazy man. If he had owned more cattle, perhaps he would have given up one of his cattle instead of the children, but he did not. He sold the twins. Enough of him: he shall not enter further into this narrative. We follow the twins.

They were marched, with several other slaves taken or sold in the war, for a dozen miles to a small outpost. Here they were traded, and the twins, along with thirteen others, were bought by six men with spears and knives who marched them to the west, toward the sea, and then for many miles along the coast. There were fifteen slaves now altogether, their hands loosely bound, tied neck to neck.

Wututu asked her brother Agasu what would happen to them.

“I do not know,” he said. Agasu was a boy who smiled often: his teeth were white and perfect, and he showed them as he grinned, his happy smiles making Wututu happy in her turn. He was not smiling now. Instead he tried to show bravery for his sister, his head back and shoulders spread, as proud, as menacing, as comical as a puppy with its hackles raised.

The man in the line behind Wututu, his cheeks scarred, said, “They will sell us to the white devils, who will take us to their home across the water.”

“And what will they do to us there?” demanded Wututu.

The man said nothing.

“Well?” asked Wututu. Agasu tried to dart a glance over his shoulder. They were not allowed to talk or sing as they walked.

“It is possible they will eat us,” said the man. “That is what I have been told. That is why they need so many slaves. It is because they are always hungry.”

Wututu began to cry as she walked. Agasu said, “Do not cry, my sister. They will not eat you. I shall protect you. Our gods will protect you.”

But Wututu continued to cry, walking with a heavy heart, feeling pain and anger and fear as only a child can feel it: raw and overwhelming. She was unable to tell Agasu that she was not worried about the white devils eating her. She would survive, she was certain of it. She cried because she was scared that they would eat her brother, and she was not certain that she could protect him.

They reached a trading post, and they were kept there for ten days. In the morning of the tenth day they were taken from the hut in which they had been imprisoned (it had become very crowded in the final days, as men arrived from far away, some of them from hundreds of miles, bringing their own strings and skeins of slaves). They were marched to the harbor, and Wututu saw the ship that was to take them away.

Her first thought was how big a ship it was, her second that it was too small for all of them to fit inside. It sat lightly on the water. The ship’s boat came back and forth, ferrying the captives to the ship where they were manacled and arranged in low decks by sailors, some of whom were brick-red or tan skinned, with strange pointy noses and beards that made them look like beasts. Several of the sailors looked like her own people, like the men who had marched her to the coast. The men and the women and the children were separated, forced into different areas on the slave deck. There were too many slaves for the ship to hold easily, so another dozen men were chained up on the deck in the open, beneath the places where the crew would sling their hammocks.

Wututu was put in with the children, not with the women; and she was not chained, merely locked in. Agasu, her brother, was forced in with the men, in chains, packed like herrings. It stank under that deck, although the crew had scrubbed it down since their last cargo. It was a stink that had entered the wood: the smell of fear and bile and diarrhea and death, of fever and madness and hate. Wututu sat in the hot hold with the other children. She could feel the children on each side of her sweating. A wave tumbled a small boy into her, hard, and he apologized in a tongue that Wututu did not recognize. She tried to smile at him in the semi-darkness.

The ship set sail. Now it rode heavy in the water.

Wututu wondered about the place the white men came from (although none of them were truly white: sea-burned and sunburned they were, and their skins were dark). Were they so short of food that they had to send all the way to her land for people to eat? Or was it that she was to be a delicacy, a rare treat for a people who had eaten so many things that only black-skinned flesh in their cook pots made their mouths water?

On the second day out of port the ship hit a squall, not a bad one, but the ship’s decks lurched and tumbled, and the smell of vomit joined the mixed smells of urine and liquid feces and fear-sweat. Rain poured down on them in bucketloads from the air gratings set in the ceiling of the slave deck.

A week into the voyage, and well out of sight of land, the slaves were allowed out of irons. They were warned that any disobedience, any trouble, and they would be punished more than they had ever imagined.

In the morning the captives were fed beans and ship’s biscuits, and a mouthful each of vinegared lime juice, harsh enough that their faces would twist, and they would cough and splutter, and some of them would moan and wail as the lime juice was spooned out. They could not spit it out, though: if they were caught spitting or dribbling it out they were lashed or beaten.

The night brought them salted beef. It tasted unpleasant, and there was a rainbow sheen to the gray surface of the meat. That was at the start of the voyage. As the voyage continued, the meat grew worse.

When they could, Wututu and Agasu would huddle together, talking of their mother and their home and their playfellows. Sometimes Wututu would tell Agasu the stories their mother had told them, like those of Elegba, the trickiest of the gods, who was Great Mawu’s eyes and ears in the world, who took messages to Mawu and brought back Mawu’s replies.

In the evenings, to while away the monotony of the voyage, the sailors would make the slaves sing for them and dance the dances of their native lands.

Wututu was lucky that she had been put in with the children. The children were packed in tightly and ignored; the women were not always so fortunate. On some slave ships the female slaves were raped repeatedly and continually by the crew, simply as an unspoken perquisite of the voyage. This was not one of those ships, which is not to say that there were no rapes.

A hundred men, women and children died on that voyage and were dropped over the side; and some of the captives who were dropped over the side had not yet died, but the green chill of the ocean cooled their final fever and they went down flailing, choking, lost.

Wututu and Agasu were traveling on a Dutch ship, but they did not know this, and it might as easily have been British, or Portuguese, or Spanish, or French.

The black crewmen on the ship, their skins even darker than Wututu’s, told the captives where to go, what to do, when to dance. One morning Wututu caught one of the black guards staring at her. When she was eating, the man came over to her and stared down at her, without saying anything.

“Why do you do this?” she asked the man. “Why do you serve the white devils?”

He grinned at her as if her question was the funniest thing he ever had heard. Then he leaned over, so his lips were almost brushing her ears, so his hot breath on her ear made her suddenly feel sick. “If you were older,” he told her, “I would make you scream with happiness from my penis. Perhaps I will do it tonight. I have seen how well you dance.”

She looked at him with her nut-brown eyes and she said, unflinching, smiling even, “If you put it in me down there I will bite it off with my teeth down there. I am a witch girl, and I have very sharp teeth down there.” She took pleasure in watching his expression change. He said nothing and walked away.

The words had come out of her mouth, but they had not been her words: she had not thought them or made them. No, she realized, those were the words of Elegba the trickster. Mawu had made the world and then, thanks to Elegba’s trickery, had lost interest in it. It was Elegba of the clever ways and the iron-hard erection who had spoken through her, who had ridden her for a moment, and that night before she slept she gave thanks to Elegba.

Several of the captives refused to eat. They were whipped until they put food into their mouths and swallowed, although the whipping was severe enough that two men died of it. Still, no one else on the ship tried to starve themselves to freedom. A man and a woman tried to kill themselves by leaping over the side. The woman succeeded. The man was rescued and he was tied to the mast and lashed for the better part of a day, until his back ran with blood, and he was left there as the day became night. He was given no food to eat, and nothing to drink but his own piss. By the third day he was raving, and his head had swollen and grown soft, like an old melon. When he stopped raving they threw him over the side. Also, for five days following the escape attempt the captives were returned to their manacles and chains.

It was a long journey and a bad one for the captives, and it was not pleasant for the crew, although they had learned to harden their hearts to the business, and pretended to themselves that they were no more than farmers, taking their livestock to the market.

They made harbor on a pleasant, balmy day in Bridgetown, Barbados, and the captives were carried from the ship to the shore in low boats sent out from the dock, and taken to the market square, where they were, by dint of a certain amount of shouting, and blows from cudgels, arranged into lines. A whistle blew, and the market square filled with men, poking, prodding, red-faced men, shouting, inspecting, calling, appraising, grumbling.

Wututu and Agasu were separated then. It happened so fast—a big man forced open Agasu’s mouth, looked at his teeth, felt his arm muscles, nodded, and two other men hauled Agasu away. He did not fight them. He looked at Wututu and called “Be brave,” to her. She nodded, and then her vision smeared and blurred with tears, and she wailed. Together they were twins, magical, powerful. Apart they were two children in pain.

She never saw him again but once, and never in life.

This is what happened to Agasu. First they took him to a seasoning farm, where they whipped him daily for the things he did and didn’t do, they taught him a smattering of English and they gave him the name of Inky Jack, for the darkness of his skin. When he ran away they hunted him down with dogs and brought him back, and cut off a toe with a chisel, to teach him a lesson he would not forget. He would have starved himself to death, but when he refused to eat his front teeth were broken and thin gruel was forced into his mouth, until he had no choice but to swallow or to choke.

Even in those times they preferred slaves born into captivity to those brought over from Africa. The free-born slaves tried to run, or they tried to die, and either way, there went the profits.

When Inky Jack was sixteen he was sold, with several other slaves, to a sugar plantation on St. Domingue. They called him Hyacinth, the big, broken-toothed slave. He met an old woman from his own village on that plantation—she had been a house slave before her fingers became too gnarled and arthritic—who told him that the whites intentionally split up captives from the same towns and villages and regions, to avoid insurrection and revolts. They did not like it when slaves spoke to each other in their own languages.

Hyacinth learned some French, and was taught a few of the teachings of the Catholic Church. Each day he cut sugar cane from well before the sun rose until after the sun had set.

He fathered several children. He went with the other slaves, in the small hours of the night, to the woods, although it was forbidden, to dance the Calinda, to sing to Damballa-Wedo, the serpent god, in the form of a black snake. He sang to Elegba, to Ogu, Shango, Zaka, and to many others, all the gods the captives had brought with them to the island, brought in their minds and their secret hearts.

The slaves on the sugar plantations of St. Domingue rarely lived more than a decade. The free time they were given—two hours in the heat of noon, and five hours in the dark of the night (from eleven until four)—was also the only time they had to grow and tend the food they would eat (for they were not fed by their masters, merely given small plots of land to cultivate, with which to feed themselves), and it was also the time they had to sleep and to dream. Even so, they would take that time and they would gather and dance, and sing and worship. The soil of St. Domingue was a fertile soil and the gods of Dahomey and the Congo and the Niger put down thick roots there and grew lush and huge and deep, and they promised freedom to those who worshiped them at night in the groves.

Hyacinth was twenty-five years of age when a spider bit the back of his right hand. The bite became infected and the flesh on the back of his hand was necrotic: soon enough his whole arm was swollen and purple, and the hand stank. It throbbed and it burned.

They gave him crude rum to drink, and they heated the blade of a machete in the fire until it glowed red and white. They cut his arm off at the shoulder with a saw, and they cauterized it with the burning blade. He lay in a fever for a week. Then he returned to work.

The one-armed slave called Hyacinth took part in the slave revolt of 1791.

Elegba himself took possession of Hyacinth in the grove, riding him as a white man rode a horse, and spoke through him. He remembered little of what was said, but the others who were with him told him that he had promised them freedom from their captivity. He remembered only his erection, rod-like and painful; and raising both hands—the one he had, and the one he no longer possessed—to the moon.

A pig was killed, and the men and the women of that plantation drank the hot blood of the pig, pledging themselves and binding themselves into a brotherhood. They swore that they were an army of freedom, pledged themselves once more to the gods of all the lands from which they had been dragged as plunder.

“If we die in battle with the whites,” they told each other, “we will be reborn in Africa, in our homes, in our own tribes.”

There was another Hyacinth in the uprising, so they now called Agasu by the name of Big One-Arm. He fought, he worshiped, he sacrificed, he planned. He saw his friends and his lovers killed, and he kept fighting.

They fought for twelve years, a maddening, bloody struggle with the plantation owners, with the troops brought over from France. They fought, and they kept fighting, and, impossibly, they won.

On January the first, 1804, the independence of St. Domingue, soon to be known to the world as the Republic of Haiti, was declared. Big One-Arm did not live to see it. He had died in August 1802, bayoneted by a French soldier.

At the precise moment of the death of Big One-Arm (who had once been called Hyacinth, and before that, Inky Jack, and who was forever in his heart Agasu), his sister, whom he had known as Wututu, who had been called Mary on her first plantation in the Carolinas, and Daisy when she had become a house slave, and Sukey when she was sold to the Lavere family down the river in New Orleans, felt the cold bayonet slide between her ribs and started to scream and weep uncontrollably. Her twin daughters woke and began to howl. They were cream-and-coffee colored, her new babies, not like the black children she had borne when she was on the plantation and little more than a girl herself—children she had not seen since they were fifteen and ten years old. The middle girl had been dead for a year, when she was sold away from them.

Sukey had been whipped many times since she had come ashore—once, salt had been rubbed into the wounds, on another occasion she had been whipped so hard and for so long that she could not sit, or allow anything to touch her back, for several days. She had been raped several times when younger: by black men who had been ordered to share her wooden palette, and by white men. She had been chained. She had not wept then, though. Since her brother had been taken from her she had only wept once. It was in North Carolina, when she had seen the food for the slave children and the dogs poured into the same trough, and she had seen her little children scrabbling with the dogs for the scraps. She saw that happen one day—and she had seen it before, every day on that plantation, and she would see it again many times before she left—she saw it that one day and it broke her heart.

She had been beautiful for a while. Then the years of pain had taken their toll, and she was no longer beautiful. Her face was lined, and there was too much pain in those brown eyes.

Eleven years earlier, when she was twenty-five, her right arm had withered. None of the white folk had known what to make of it. The flesh seemed to melt from the bones, and now her right arm hung by her side, little more than a skeletal arm covered in skin, and almost immobile. After this she had become a house-slave.

The Casterton family, who had owned the plantation, were impressed by her cooking and house skills, but Mrs. Casterton found the withered arm unsettling, and so she was sold to the Lavere family, who were out for a year from Louisiana: M. Lavere was a fat, cheerful man, who was in need of a cook and a maid of all work, and who was not in the slightest repulsed by the slave Daisy’s withered arm. When, a year later, they returned to Louisiana, slave Sukey went with them.

In New Orleans the women came to her, and the men also, to buy cures and love charms and little fetishes, black folks, yes, of course, but white folks too. The Lavere family turned a blind eye to it. Perhaps they enjoyed the prestige of having a slave who was feared and respected. They would not, however, sell her her freedom.

Sukey went into the bayou late at night, and she danced the Calinda and the Bamboula. Like the dancers of St. Domingue and the dancers of her native land, the dancers in the bayou had a black snake as their voudon; even so, the gods of her homeland and of the other African nations did not possess her people as they had possessed her brother and the folk of St. Domingue. She would still invoke them and call their names, to beg them for favors.

She listened when the white folk spoke of the revolt in St. Domingo (as they called it), and how it was doomed to fail—“Think of it! A cannibal land!”—and then she observed that they no longer spoke of it.

Soon, it seemed to her that they pretended that there never had been a place called St. Domingo, and as for Haiti, the word was never mentioned. It was as if the whole American nation had decided that they could, by an effort of belief, command a good-sized Caribbean island to no longer exist merely by willing it so.

A generation of Lavere children grew up under Sukey’s watchful eye. The youngest, unable to say “Sukey” as a child, had called her Mama Zouzou, and the name had stuck. Now the year was 1821, and Sukey was in her mid-fifties. She looked much older.

She knew more of the secrets than old Sanité Dédé, who sold candies in front of the Cabildo, more than Marie Saloppé, who called herself the voodoo queen: both were free women of color, while Mama Zouzou was a slave, and would die a slave, or so her master had said.

The young woman who came to her to find what had happened to her husband styled herself the Widow Paris. She was high-breasted and young and proud. She had African blood in her, and European blood, and Indian blood. Her skin was reddish, her hair was a gleaming black. Her eyes were black and haughty. Her husband, Jacques Paris, was, perhaps, dead. He was three-quarters white as these things were calculated, and the bastard of a once-proud family, one of the many immigrants who had fled from St. Domingo, and as freeborn as his striking young wife.

“My Jacques. Is he dead?” asked the Widow Paris. She was a hair-dresser who went from home to home, arranging the coiffures of the elegant ladies of New Orleans before their demanding social engagements.

Mama Zouzou consulted the bones, then shook her head. “He is with a white woman, somewhere north of here,” she said. “A white woman with golden hair. He is alive.” This was not magic. It was common knowledge in New Orleans just with whom Jacques Paris had run off, and the color of her hair.

Mama Zouzou was surprised to realize that the Widow Paris did not already know that Jacques was sticking his quadroon little pipi into a pink-skinned girl up in Colfax every night. Well, on the nights that he was not so drunk he could use it for nothing better than pissing. Perhaps she did know. Perhaps she had another reason for coming.

The Widow Paris came to see the old slave woman one or two times a week. After a month she brought gifts for the old woman: hair ribbons, and a seed-cake, and a black rooster.

“Mama Zouzou,” said the girl, “it is time for you to teach me what you know.”

“Yes,” said Mama Zouzou, who knew which way the wind blew. And besides, the Widow Paris had confessed that she had been born with webbed toes, which meant that she was a twin and she had killed her twin in the womb. What choice did Mama Zouzou have?

She taught the girl that two nutmegs hung upon a string around the neck until the string breaks will cure heart murmurs, while a pigeon that has never flown, cut open and laid on the patient’s head, will draw a fever. She showed her how to make a wishing bag, a small leather bag containing thirteen pennies, nine cotton seeds and the bristles of a black hog, and how to rub the bag to make wishes come true.

The Widow Paris learned everything that Mama Zouzou told her. She had no real interest in the gods, though. Not really. Her interests were in the practicalities. She was delighted to learn that if you dip a live frog in honey and place it in an ants’ nest, then, when the bones are cleaned and white, a close examination will reveal a flat, heart-shaped bone, and another with a hook on it: the bone with the hook on it must be hooked onto the garment of the one you wish to love you, while the heart-shaped bone must be kept safely (for if it is lost, your loved one will turn on you like an angry dog). Infallibly, if you do this, the one you love will be yours.

She learned that dried snake powder, placed in the face powder of an enemy, will produce blindness, and that an enemy can be made to drown herself by taking a piece of her underwear, turning it inside out, and burying it at midnight under a brick.

Mama Zouzou showed the Widow Paris the World Wonder Root, the great and the little roots of John the Conqueror, she showed her dragon’s blood, and valerian and five-finger grass. She showed her how to brew waste-away tea, and follow-me water and faire-Shingo water.

All these things and more Mama Zouzou showed the Widow Paris. Still, it was disappointing for the old woman. She did her best to teach her the hidden truths, the deep knowledge, to tell her of Elegba, of Mawu, of Aido-Hwedo the voudon serpent, and the rest, but the Widow Paris (I shall now tell you the name she was born with, and the name she later made famous: it was Marie Laveau. But this was not the great Marie Laveau, the one you have heard of, this was her mother, who eventually became the Widow Glapion), she had no interest in the gods of the distant land. If St. Domingo had been a lush black earth for the African gods to grow in, this land, with its corn and its melons, its crawfish and its cotton, was barren and infertile.

“She does not want to know,” complained Mama Zouzou to Clémentine, her confidant, who took in the washing for many of the houses in that district, washing their curtains and coverlets. Clémentine had a blossom of burns on her cheek, and one of her children had been scalded to death when a copper overturned.

“Then do not teach her,” says Clémentine.

“I teach her, but she does not see what is valuable—all she sees is what she can do with it. I give her diamonds, but she cares only for pretty glass. I give her a demi-bouteille of the best claret and she drinks river water. I give her quail and she wishes to eat only rat.”

“Then why do you persist?” asks Clémentine.

Mama Zouzou shrugs her thin shoulders, causing her withered arm to shake.

She cannot answer. She could say that she teaches because she is grateful to be alive, and she is: she has seen too many die. She could say that she dreams that one day the slaves will rise, as they rose (and were defeated) in LaPlace, but that she knows in her heart that without the gods of Africa they will never overcome their white captors, will never return to their homelands.

When she woke that terrible night almost twenty years earlier, and felt the cold steel between her ribs, that was when Mama Zouzou’s life had ended. Now she was someone who did not live, who simply hated. If you asked her about the hate she would have been unable to tell you about a twelve-year-old girl on a stinking ship: that had scabbed over in her mind—there had been too many whippings and beatings, too many nights in manacles, too many partings, too much pain. She could have told you about her son, though, and how his thumb had been cut off when their master discovered the boy was able to read and to write. She could have told you of her daughter, twelve years old and already eight months pregnant by an overseer, and how they dug a hole in the red earth to take her daughter’s pregnant belly, and then they whipped her until her back had bled. Despite the carefully dug hole, her daughter had lost her baby and her life on a Sunday morning, when all the white folks were in church…

Too much pain.

“Worship them,” Mama Zouzou told the young Widow Paris in the bayou, one hour after midnight. They were both naked to the waist, sweating in the humid night, their skins given accents by the white moonlight.

The Widow Paris’s husband Jacques (whose own death, three years later, would have several remarkable features) had told Marie a little about the gods of St. Domingo, but she did not care. Power came from the rituals, not from the gods.

Together Mama Zouzou and the Widow Paris crooned and stamped and keened in the swamp. They were singing in the blacksnakes, the free woman of color and the slave woman with the withered arm.

“There is more to it than just, you prosper, your enemies fail,” said Mama Zouzou.

Many of the words of the ceremonies, words she knew once, words her brother had also known, these words had fled from her memory. She told pretty Marie Laveau that the words did not matter, only the tunes and the beats, and there, singing and tapping in the blacksnakes, in the swamp, she has an odd vision. She sees the beats of the songs, the Calinda beat, the Bamboula beat, all the rhythms of equatorial Africa spreading slowly across this midnight land until the whole country shivers and swings to the beats of the old gods whose realms she had left. And even that, she understands somehow, in the swamp, even that will not be enough.

She turns to pretty Marie and sees herself through Marie’s eyes, a black-skinned old woman, her face lined, her bony arm hanging limply by her side, her eyes the eyes of one who has seen her children fight in the trough for food from the dogs. She saw herself, and she knew then for the first time the revulsion and the fear the younger woman had for her.

Then she laughed, and crouched, and picked up in her good hand a blacksnake as tall as a sapling and as thick as a ship’s rope.

“Here,” she said. “Here will be our voudon.”

She dropped the unresisting snake into a basket that yellow Marie was carrying.

And then, in the moonlight, the second sight possessed her for a final time, and she saw her brother Agasu, not the twelve-year-old boy she had last seen in the Bridgetown market so long ago, but a huge man, bald and grinning with broken teeth, his back lined with deep scars. In one hand he held a machete-knife. His right arm was barely a stump.

She reached out her own good left hand.

“Stay, stay a while,” she whispered. “I will be there. I will be with you soon.”

And Marie Paris thought the old woman was speaking to her.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Shadow drove west, across Wisconsin and Minnesota and into North Dakota, where the snow-covered hills looked like huge sleeping buffalo, and he and Wednesday saw nothing but nothing and plenty of it for mile after mile. They went south, then, into South Dakota, heading for reservation country.

Wednesday had traded in the Lincoln town car, which Shadow had liked driving, for a lumbering and ancient Winnebago, which smelled non-specifically but pervasively and unmistakably of male cat, and which he didn’t enjoy driving at all.

As they passed their first signpost for Mount Rushmore, still several hundred miles away, Wednesday grunted. “Now that,” he said, “is a holy place.”

Shadow had thought Wednesday was asleep. He said, “I know it used to be sacred to the Indians.”

“It’s a holy place,” said Wednesday. “That’s the American Way—they need to give people an excuse to come and worship. These days, people can’t just go and see a mountain. Thus, Mister Gutzon Borglum’s tremendous presidential faces. Once they were carved, permission was granted, and now the people drive out in their multitudes to see something in the flesh that they’ve already seen on a thousand postcards.”

“I knew a guy once. He did weight training at the Muscle Farm, years back. He said that the Dakota Indians, the young men climb up the mountain, then form death-defying human chains off the heads, just so that the guy at the end of the chain can piss on the president’s nose.”

Wednesday guffawed. “Oh, fine! Very fine! Is any specific president the particular butt of their ire?”

Shadow shrugged. “He never said.”

Miles vanished beneath the wheels of the Winnebago. Shadow began to imagine that he was staying still while the American landscape moved past them at a steady sixty-seven miles per hour. A wintry mist fogged the edges of things.

It was midday on the second day of the drive, and they were almost there. Shadow, who had been thinking, said, “A girl vanished from Lakeside last week. When we were in San Francisco.”

“Mm?” Wednesday sounded barely interested.

“Kid named Alison McGovern. She’s not the first kid to vanish there. There have been others. They go in the wintertime.”

Wednesday furrowed his brow. “It is a tragedy, is it not? The little faces on the milk-cartons—although I can’t remember the last time I saw a kid on a milk-carton—and on the walls of freeway rest areas. Have you seen me? they ask. A deeply existential question at the best of times. Have you seen me? Pull off at the next exit.”

Shadow thought he heard a helicopter pass overhead, but the clouds were too low to see anything.

“Why did you pick Lakeside?” asked Shadow.

“I told you. It’s a nice quiet place to hide you away. You’re off the board there, under the radar.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the way it is. Now hang a left,” said Wednesday.

Shadow turned left.

“There’s something wrong,” said Wednesday. “Fuck. Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle. Slow down, but don’t stop.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Trouble. Do you know any alternative routes?”

“Not really. This is my first time in South Dakota,” said Shadow. “Also I don’t know where we’re going.”

On the other side of the hill something flashed redly, smudged by the mist.

“Roadblock,” said Wednesday. He pushed his hand deeply into first one pocket of his suit then another, searching for something.

“I can stop and turn around. If we had a jeep I’d go off-road, but the Winnebago’s just going to tip if I try and drive her across that ditch.”

“We can’t turn. They’re behind us as well,” said Wednesday. “Take your speed down to ten, fifteen miles per hour.”

Shadow glanced into the mirror. There were headlights behind them, under a mile back. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

Wednesday snorted. “Sure as eggs is eggs,” he said. “As the turkey-farmer said when he hatched his first turtle. Ah, success!” and from the bottom of a pocket he produced a small piece of white chalk.

He started to scratch with the chalk on the dashboard of the camper, making marks as if he were solving an algebraic puzzle—or perhaps, Shadow thought, as if he were a hobo, scratching long messages to the other hobos in hobo code—bad dog here, dangerous town, nice woman, soft jail in which to overnight…

“Okay,” said Wednesday. “Now increase your speed to thirty. And don’t slow down from that.”

One of the cars behind them turned on its lights and siren and accelerated toward them. “Do not slow down,” repeated Wednesday. “They just want us to slow before we get to the roadblock.” Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

They crested the hill. The roadblock was less than a quarter of a mile away. Twelve cars arranged across the road, and on the side of the road, police cars, and several big black SUVs.

“There,” said Wednesday, and he put his chalk away. The dashboard of the Winnebago was now covered with rune-like scratchings.

The car with the siren was just behind them. It had slowed to their speed, and an amplified voice was shouting, “Pull over!” Shadow looked at Wednesday.

“Turn right,” said Wednesday. “Just pull off the road.”

“I can’t take this thing off-road. We’ll tip.”

“It’ll be fine. Take a right. Now!”

Shadow pulled the wheel down with his right hand, and the Winnebago lurched and jolted. For a moment he thought he had been correct, that the camper was going to tip, and then the world through the windshield dissolved and shimmered, like the reflection in a clear pool when the wind brushes the surface, and the Dakotas stretched and shifted.

The clouds and the mist and the snow and the day were gone.

Now there were stars overhead, hanging like frozen spears of light, stabbing the night sky.

“Park here,” said Wednesday. “We can walk the rest of the way.”

Shadow turned off the engine. He went into the back of the Winnebago, pulled on his coat, his Sorel winter boots, and his gloves. Then he climbed out of the vehicle and waited. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Wednesday looked at him with amusement and something else—irritation perhaps. Or pride. “Why don’t you argue?” asked Wednesday. “Why don’t you exclaim that it’s all impossible? Why the hell do you just do what I say and take it all so fucking calmly?”

“Because you’re not paying me to ask questions,” said Shadow. And then he said, realizing the truth as the words came out of his mouth, “Anyway, nothing’s really surprised me since Laura.”

“Since she came back from the dead?”

“Since I learned she was screwing Robbie. That one hurt. Everything else just sits on the surface. Where are we going now?”

Wednesday pointed, and they began to walk. The ground beneath their feet was rock of some kind, slick and volcanic, occasionally glassy. The air was chilly, but not winter-cold. They sidestepped their way awkwardly down a hill. There was a rough path, and they followed it. Shadow looked down to the bottom of the hill, and realized that what he was looking at was impossible.

“What the hell is that?” asked Shadow, but Wednesday touched his finger to his lips, shook his head sharply. Silence.

It looked like a mechanical spider, blue metal, glittering LED lights, and it was the size of a tractor. It squatted at the bottom of the hill. Beyond it were an assortment of bones, each with a flame beside it little bigger than a candle-flame, flickering.

Wednesday gestured for Shadow to keep his distance from these objects. Shadow took an extra step to the side, which was a mistake on that glassy path, as his ankle twisted and he tumbled down the slope as if he had been dropped, rolling and slipping and bouncing. He grabbed at a rock as he went past, and the obsidian snag ripped his leather glove as if it were paper.

He came to rest at the bottom of the hill, between the mechanical spider and the bones.

He put a hand down to push himself to his feet, and found himself touching what appeared to be a thighbone with the palm of his hand, and he was…

…standing in the daylight, smoking a cigarette, and looking at his watch. There were cars all around him, some empty, some not. He was wishing he had not had that last cup of coffee, for he dearly needed a piss, and it was starting to become uncomfortable.

One of the local law enforcement people came over to him, a big man with frost in his walrus moustache. He had already forgotten the man’s name.

“I don’t know how we could have lost them,” says Local Law Enforcement, apologetic and puzzled.

“It was an optical illusion,” he replies. “You get them in freak weather conditions. The mist. It was a mirage. They were driving down some other road. We thought they were on this one.”

Local Law Enforcement looks disappointed. “Oh. I thought it was maybe like an X-Files kinda thing,” he says.

“Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid.” He suffers from occasional hemorrhoids and his ass has just started itching in the way that signals that a flare-up is coming. He wants to be back inside the Beltway. He wishes there was a tree to go and stand behind: the urge to piss is getting worse. He drops the cigarette and steps on it.

Local Law Enforcement walks over to one of the police cars and says something to the driver. They both shake their heads.

He wonders if he should simply grit his teeth, try to imagine that he is in Maui with no one else around, and piss against the rear wheel of the car. He wishes he weren’t so utterly pee-shy, and he thinks maybe he can hold it in for longer but he finds himself remembering a newspaper clipping that someone had tacked up in the lounge in his frat house, thirty years before: the cautionary tale of an old man who had been on a long bus ride with a busted rest-room, who had held it in, and, at the end of his journey, needed to be catheterized in order ever to piss again…

That was ridiculous. He isn’t that old. He is going to celebrate his fiftieth birthday in April, and his waterworks work just fine. Everything works just fine.

He pulls out his telephone, touches the menu, pages down, and finds the address entry marked “Laundry” which had amused him so much when he typed it in—a reference to The Man from U.N.C.L.E., and as he looks at it he realizes that it’s not from that at all, that was a tailor’s, he’s thinking of Get Smart, and he still feels weird and slightly embarrassed after all these years about not realizing it was a comedy when he was a kid, and just wanting a shoephone…

A woman’s voice on the phone. “Yes?”

“This is Mister Town, for Mister World.”

“Hold please. I’ll see if he’s available.”

There is silence. Town crosses his legs, tugs his belt higher on his belly—got to lose these last ten pounds—and away from his bladder. Then an urbane voice says, “Hello, Mister Town.”

“We lost them,” says Town. He feels a knot of frustration in his gut: these were the bastards, the lousy dirty sons of bitches who killed Woody and Stone, for Chrissakes. Good men. Good men. He badly wants to fuck Mrs. Wood, but knows it’s still too soon after Woody’s death to make a move, so he is taking her out for dinner every couple of weeks, an investment in the future, she’s just grateful for the attention…

“How?”

“I don’t know. We set up a roadblock, there was nowhere they could have gone and they went there anyway.”

“Just another one of life’s little mysteries. Not to worry. Have you calmed the locals?”

“Told ’em it was an optical illusion.”

“They buy it?”

“Probably.”

There was something very familiar about Mr. World’s voice—which was a strange thing to think, he’d been working for him directly for two years now, spoken to him every day, of course there was something familiar about his voice.

“They’ll be far away by now.”

“Should we send people down to the rez to intercept them?”

“Not worth the aggravation. Too many jurisdictional issues, and there are only so many strings we can pull in a morning. We have plenty of time. Just get back here. I’ve got my hands full at this end trying to organize the policy meeting.”

“Trouble?”

“It’s a pissing contest. I’ve proposed that we have it out here. The techies want it in Austin, or maybe San Jose, the players want it in Hollywood, the intangibles want it on Wall Street. Everybody wants it in their own back yard. Nobody’s going to give.”

“You need me to do anything?”

“Not yet. I’ll growl at some of them, stroke others. You know the routine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carry on, Town.”

The connection is broken.

Town thinks he should have had a SWAT team to pick off that fucking Winnebago, or land-mines on the road, or a tactical friggin’ nukuler device, that would have showed those bastards they meant business. It was like Mr. World had once said to him, We are writing the future in Letters of Fire, and Mr. Town thinks that Jesus Christ if he doesn’t piss now he’ll lose a kidney, it’ll just burst, and it was like his pop had said when they were on long journeys, when Town was a kid, out on the interstate, his pop would always say, “My back teeth are afloat,” and Mr. Town could hear that voice even now, that sharp Yankee accent saying, “I got to take a leak soon. My back teeth are afloat”…

…and it was then that Shadow felt a hand opening his own hand, prising it open one finger at a time, off the thighbone it was clutching. He no longer needed to urinate; that was someone else. He was standing under the stars on a glassy rock plain, and the bone was down on the ground beside the other bones.

Wednesday made the signal for silence again. Then he began to walk, and Shadow followed.

There was a creak from the mechanical spider, and Wednesday froze. Shadow stopped and waited with him. Green lights flickered and ran up and along its side in clusters. Shadow tried not to breathe too loudly.

He thought about what had just happened. It had been like looking through a window into someone else’s mind. And then he thought, Mr. World. It was me who thought his voice sounded familiar. That was my thought, not Town’s. That was why that seemed so strange. He tried to identify the voice in his mind, to put it into the category in which it belonged, but it eluded him.

It’ll come to me, thought Shadow. Sooner or later, it’ll come to me.

The green lights went blue, then red, then faded to a dull red, and the spider settled down on its metallic haunches. Wednesday began to walk forward, a lonely figure beneath the stars, in a broad-brimmed hat, his frayed dark cloak gusting randomly in the nowhere wind, his staff tapping on the glassy rock floor.

When the metallic spider was only a distant glint in the starlight, far back on the plain, Wednesday said, “It should be safe to speak, now.”

“Where are we?”

“Behind the scenes,” said Wednesday.

“Sorry?”

“Think of it as being behind the scenes. Like in a theatre or something. I just pulled us out of the audience and now we’re walking about backstage. It’s a shortcut.”

“When I touched that bone. I was in the mind of a guy named Town. He’s with that spookshow. He hates us.”

“Yes.”

“He’s got a boss named Mister World. He reminds me of someone, but I don’t know who. I was looking into Town’s head—or maybe I was in his head. I’m not certain.”

“Do they know where we’re headed?”

“I think they’re calling off the hunt right now. They didn’t want to follow us to the reservation. Are we going to a reservation?”

“Maybe.” Wednesday leaned on his staff for a moment, then continued to walk.

“What was that spider thing?”

“A pattern manifestation. A search engine.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“You only get to be my age by assuming the worst.”

Shadow smiled. “And how old would that be?”

“Old as my tongue,” said Wednesday. “And a few months older than my teeth.”

“You play your cards so close to your chest,” said Shadow, “that I’m not even sure that they’re really cards at all.”

Wednesday only grunted.

Each hill they came to was harder to climb.

Shadow began to feel headachy. There was a pounding quality to the starlight, something that resonated with the pulse in his temples and his chest. At the bottom of the next hill he stumbled, opened his mouth to say something and, without warning, he vomited.

Wednesday reached into an inside pocket, and produced a small hip flask. “Take a sip of this,” he said. “Only a sip.”

The liquid was pungent, and it evaporated in his mouth like a good brandy, although it did not taste like alcohol. Wednesday took the flask away, and pocketed it. “It’s not good for the audience to find themselves walking about backstage. That’s why you’re feeling sick. We need to hurry to get you out of here.”

They walked faster—Wednesday at a solid trudge, Shadow stumbling from time to time, but feeling better for the drink, which left his mouth tasting of orange peel, of rosemary oil and peppermint and cloves.

Wednesday took his arm. “There,” he said, pointing to two identical hillocks of frozen rock-glass to their left. “Walk between those two mounds. Walk beside me.”

They walked, and the cold air and bright daylight smashed into Shadow’s face at the same time. He stopped, closed his eyes, dazzled and light-blinded, then, shading his eyes with his hand, he opened them once more.

They were standing halfway up a gentle hill. The mist had gone, the day was sunny and chill, the sky was a perfect blue. At the bottom of the hill was a gravel road, and a red station wagon bounced along it like a child’s toy car. A gust of wood smoke stung Shadow’s face, making his eyes tear. The smoke came from a building nearby, which looked as if someone had picked up a mobile home and dropped it on the side of the hill thirty years ago. It was much repaired, patched, and, in places, added onto: Shadow was certain that the galvanized tin chimney, from which the wood smoke was coming, was not part of the original structure.

As they reached the door it opened, and a middle-aged man with dark skin, sharp eyes and a mouth like a knife-slash looked down at them and said, “Eyah, I heard that there were two white men on their way to see me. Two whites in a Winnebago. And I heard that they got lost, like white men always get lost if they don’t put up their signs everywhere. And now look at these two sorry beasts at the door. You know you’re on Lakota land?” His hair was gray, and long.

“Since when were you Lakota, you old fraud?” said Wednesday. He was wearing a coat and a flap-eared cap, and already it seemed to Shadow unlikely that only a few moments ago under the stars he had been wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a tattered cloak. “So, Whiskey Jack. You sad bastard. I’m starving, and my friend here just threw up his breakfast. Are you going to invite us in?”

Whiskey Jack scratched an armpit. He was wearing blue jeans and an undershirt the gray of his hair. He wore moccasins, and he seemed not to notice the cold. Then he said, “I like it here. Come in, white men who lost their Winnebago.”

There was more wood smoke in the air inside the trailer, and there was another man in there, sitting at a table. The man wore stained buckskins, and was barefoot. His skin was the color of bark.

Wednesday seemed delighted. “Well,” he said, “it seems our delay was fortuitous. Whiskey Jack and Apple Johnny. Two birds with one stone.”

The man at the table, Apple Johnny, stared at Wednesday, then he reached down a hand to his crotch, cupped it and said, “Wrong again. I jes’ checked and I got both of my stones, jes’ where they oughta be.” He looked up at Shadow, raised his hand, palm out. “I’m John Chapman. You don’t mind anything your boss says about me. He’s an asshole. Always was an asshole. Always goin’ to be an asshole. Some people is jes’ assholes, and that’s an end of it.”

“Mike Ainsel,” said Shadow.

Chapman rubbed his stubbly chin. “Ainsel,” he said. “That’s not a name. But it’ll do at a pinch. What do they call you?”

“Shadow.”

“I’ll call you Shadow, then. Hey, Whiskey Jack”—but it wasn’t really Whiskey Jack he was saying, Shadow realized; too many syllables—“how’s the food looking?”

Whiskey Jack took a wooden spoon and lifted the lid off a black iron pot, bubbling away on the range of the wood-burning stove. “It’s ready for eating,” he said.

He took four plastic bowls and spooned the contents of the pot into the bowls, put them down on the table. Then he opened the door, stepped out into the snow, and pulled a plastic gallon jug from the snow bank. He brought it inside, and poured four large glasses of a cloudy yellow-brown liquid, which he put beside each bowl. Last of all, he found four spoons. He sat down at the table with the other men.

Wednesday raised his glass suspiciously. “Looks like piss,” he said.

“You still drinking that stuff?” asked Whiskey Jack. “You white men are crazy. This is better.” Then, to Shadow, “The stew is mostly wild turkey. John here brought the applejack.”

“It’s a soft apple cider,” said John Chapman. “I never believed in hard liquor. Makes men mad.”

The stew was delicious, and it was very good apple cider. Shadow forced himself to slow down, to chew his food, not to gulp it, but he was more hungry than he would have believed. He helped himself to a second bowl of the stew and a second glass of the cider.

“Dame Rumor says that you’ve been out talking to all manner of folk, offering them all manner of things. Says you’re takin’ the old folks on the war path,” said John Chapman. Shadow and Whiskey Jack were washing up, putting the leftover stew into Tupperware bowls. Whiskey Jack put the bowls into the snowdrifts outside his front door, and put a milk crate on top of the place he’d pushed them, so he could find them again.

“I think that’s a fair and judicious summary of events,” said Wednesday.

“They will win,” said Whiskey Jack flatly. “They won already. You lost already. Like the white man and my people. They won. And when they lost, they made treaties. Then they broke the treaties. And they won again. I’m not fighting for another lost cause.”

“And it’s no use you lookin’ at me,” said John Chapman, “for even if I fought for you—which’n I won’t—I’m no use to you. Mangy rat-tailed bastards jes’ picked me off and clean forgot me.” He stopped. Then he said, “Paul Bunyan.” He shook his head slowly and he said it again. “Paul Bunyan.” Shadow had never heard two such innocuous words made to sound so damning.

“Paul Bunyan?” Shadow said. “What did he ever do?”

“He took up head space,” said Whiskey Jack. He bummed a cigarette from Wednesday and the two men sat and smoked.

“It’s like the idiots who figure that hummingbirds worry about their weight or tooth decay or some such nonsense, maybe they just want to spare hummingbirds the evils of sugar,” explained Wednesday. “So they fill the hummingbird feeders with fucking NutraSweet. The birds come to the feeders and they drink it. Then they die, because their food contains no calories even though their little tummies are full. That’s Paul Bunyan for you. Nobody ever told Paul Bunyan stories. Nobody ever believed in Paul Bunyan. He came staggering out of a New York ad agency in 1910 and filled the nation’s myth stomach with empty calories.”

“I like Paul Bunyan,” said Whiskey Jack. “I went on his ride at the Mall of America, few years back. You see big old Paul Bunyan at the top then you come crashing down. Splash. He’s okay by me. I don’t mind that he never existed, means he never cut down any trees. Not as good as planting trees though. That’s better.”

“You said a mouthful,” said Johnny Chapman.

Wednesday blew a smoke ring. It hung in the air like something from a Warner Bros. cartoon, dissipating slowly in wisps and curls. “Damn it, Whiskey Jack, that’s not the point and you know it.”

“I’m not going to help you,” said Whiskey Jack. “When you get your ass kicked, you can come back here and if I’m still here I’ll feed you again. You get the best food in the fall.”

Wednesday said, “All the alternatives are worse.”

“You have no idea what the alternatives are,” said Whiskey Jack. Then he looked at Shadow. “You are hunting,” he said. His voice was cigarette-roughened, and it resonated in that space, smoky with leaking wood smoke and cigarettes.

“I’m working,” said Shadow.

Whiskey Jack shook his head. “You are also hunting something,” he said. “There is a debt that you wish to pay.”

Shadow thought of Laura’s blue lips and the blood on her hands, and he nodded.

“Listen. Fox was here first, and his brother was the wolf. Fox said, people will live forever. If they die they will not die for long. Wolf said, no, people will die, people must die, all things that live must die, or they will spread and cover the world, and eat all the salmon and the caribou and the buffalo, eat all the squash and all the corn. Now one day Wolf died, and he said to the fox, quick, bring me back to life. And Fox said, No, the dead must stay dead. You convinced me. And he wept as he said this. But he said it, and it was final. Now Wolf rules the world of the dead and Fox lives always under the sun and the moon, and he still mourns his brother.”

Wednesday said, “If you won’t play, you won’t play. We’ll be moving on.”

Whiskey Jack’s face was impassive. “I’m talking to this young man,” he said. “You are beyond help. He is not.” He turned back to Shadow. “You know, you cannot come to me here unless I wish it.”

Shadow realized that he did know this. “Yes.”

“Tell me your dream,” said Whiskey Jack.

Shadow said, “I was climbing a tower of skulls. There were huge birds flying around it. They had lightning in their wings. They were attacking me. The tower fell.”

“Everybody dreams,” said Wednesday. “Can we hit the road?”

“Not everybody dreams of the Wakinyau, the thunderbirds,” said Whiskey Jack. “We felt the echoes of it here.”

“I told you,” said Wednesday. “Jesus.”

“There’s a clutch of thunderbirds in West Virginia,” said Chapman, idly. “A couple of hens and an old cock-bird at least. There’s also a breeding pair in the land, they used to call it the State of Franklin, but old Ben never got his state, up between Kentucky and Tennessee. Course, there was never a great number of them, even at the best of times.”

Whiskey Jack reached out a hand the color of the red clay, and he touched Shadow’s face, gently. His irises were light brown banded with dark brown, and in that face those eyes seemed luminous. “Eyah,” he said. “It’s true. If you hunt the thunderbird you could bring your woman back. But she belongs to the wolf, in the dead places, not walking the land.”

“How do you know?” asked Shadow.

Whiskey Jack’s lips did not move. “What did the Buffalo tell you?”

“To believe.”

“Good advice. Are you going to follow it?”

“Kind of. I guess.” They were talking without words, without mouths, without sound. Shadow wondered if, for the other two men in the room, they were standing, unmoving, for a heartbeat or for a fraction of a heartbeat.

“When you find your tribe, come back and see me,” said Whiskey Jack. “I can help.”

“I shall.”

Whiskey Jack lowered his hand. Then he turned to Wednesday. “Are you going to fetch your Ho Chunk?”

“My what?”

“Ho Chunk. It’s what the Winnebago call themselves.”

Wednesday shook his head. “It’s too risky. Retrieving it could be problematic. They’ll be looking for it.”

“Is it stolen?”

Wednesday looked affronted. “Not a bit of it. The papers are in the glove compartment.”

“And the keys?”

“I’ve got them,” said Shadow.

“My nephew, Harry Bluejay, has an ’81 Buick. Why don’t you give me the keys to your camper? You can take his car.”

Wednesday bristled. “What kind of trade is that?”

Whiskey Jack shrugged. “You know how hard it will be to bring back your camper from where you abandoned it? I’m doing you a favor. Take it or leave it. I don’t care.” He closed his knife-wound mouth.

Wednesday looked angry, and then the anger became rue, and he said, “Shadow, give the man the keys to the Winnebago.” Shadow passed the car keys to Whiskey Jack.

“Johnny,” said Whiskey Jack, “will you take these men down to find Harry Bluejay? Tell him I said for him to give them his car.”

“Be my pleasure,” said John Chapman.

He got up and walked to the door, picked up a small Hessian sack sitting next to it, opened the door and walked outside. Shadow and Wednesday followed him. Whiskey Jack waited in the doorway. “Hey,” he said to Wednesday. “Don’t come back here, you. You are not welcome.”

Wednesday extended his middle finger heavenward. “Rotate on this,” he said affably.

They walked downhill through the snow, pushing their way through the drifts. Chapman walked in front, his bare feet red against the crust-topped snow. “Aren’t you cold?” asked Shadow.

“My wife was Choctaw,” said Chapman.

“And she taught you mystical ways to keep out the cold?”

“Nope. She thought I was crazy,” said Chapman. “She used t’say, ‘Johnny, why don’t you jes’ put on boots?’” The slope of the hill became steeper, and they were forced to stop talking. The three men stumbled and slipped on the snow, using the trunks of birch trees on the hillside to steady themselves, and to stop themselves from falling. When the ground became slightly more level, Chapman said, “She’s dead now, a’course. When she died I guess maybe I went a mite crazy. It could happen to anyone. It could happen to you.” He clapped Shadow on the arm. “By Jesus and Jehosophat, you’re a big man.”

“So they tell me,” said Shadow.

They trudged down that hill for another half an hour, until they reached the gravel road that wound around the base of it, and the three men began to walk along it, toward the cluster of buildings they had seen from high on the hill.

A car slowed and stopped. The woman driving it reached over, wound down the passenger window, and said, “You bozos need a ride?”

“You are very gracious, madam,” said Wednesday. “We’re looking for a Mister Harry Bluejay.”

“He’ll be down at the rec hall,” said the woman. She was in her forties, Shadow guessed. “Get in.”

They got in. Wednesday took the passenger seat, John Chapman and Shadow climbed into the back. Shadow’s legs were too long to sit in the back comfortably, but he did the best he could. The car jolted forward, down the gravel road.

“So where did you three come from?” asked the driver.

“Just visiting with a friend,” said Wednesday.

“Lives on the hill back there,” said Shadow.

“What hill?” she asked.

Shadow looked back through the dusty rear window, looking back at the hill. But there was no high hill back there; nothing but clouds on the plains.

“Whiskey Jack,” he said.

“Ah,” she said. “We call him Inktomi here. I think it’s the same guy. My grandfather used to tell some pretty good stories about him. Of course, all the best of them were kind of dirty.” They hit a bump in the road, and the woman swore. “You okay back there?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Johnny Chapman. He was holding on to the back seat with both hands.

“Rez roads,” she said. “You get used to them.”

“Are they all like this?” asked Shadow.

“Pretty much,” said the woman. “All the ones round here. And don’t you go asking about all the money from casinos, because who in their right mind wants to come all the way out here to go to a casino? We don’t see none of that money out here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She changed gears with a crash and a groan. “You know the white population all round here is falling? You go out there, you find ghost towns. How you going to keep them down on the farm, after they seen the world on their television screens? And it’s not worth anyone’s while to farm the Badlands anyhow. They took our lands, they settled here, now they’re leaving. They go south. They go west. Maybe if we wait for enough of them to move to New York and Miami and L.A. we can take the whole of the middle back without a fight.”

“Good luck,” said Shadow.

They found Harry Bluejay in the rec hall, at the pool table, doing trick shots to impress a group of several girls. He had a blue jay tattooed on the back of his right hand, and multiple piercings in his right ear.

“Ho hoka, Harry Bluejay,” said John Chapman.

“Fuck off, you crazy barefoot white ghost,” said Harry Bluejay, conversationally. “You give me the creeps.”

There were older men at the far end of the room, some of them playing cards, some of them talking. There were other men, younger men of about Harry Bluejay’s age, waiting for their turn at the pool table. It was a full-sized pool table, and a rip in the green baize on one side had been repaired with silver-gray duct tape.

“I got a message from your uncle,” said Chapman, unfazed. “He says you’re to give these two your car.”

There must have been thirty, maybe even forty people in that hall, and now they were every one of them looking intently at their playing cards, or their feet, or their fingernails, and pretending as hard as they could not to be listening.

“He’s not my uncle.”

A cigarette-smoke fug hung over the hall like a cirrus cloud. Chapman smiled widely, displaying the worst set of teeth that Shadow had seen in a human mouth. “You want to tell your uncle that? He says you’re the only reason he stays among the Lakota.”

“Whiskey Jack says a lot of things,” said Harry Bluejay, petulantly. But he did not say Whiskey Jack either. It sounded almost the same, to Shadow’s ear, but not quite: Wisakedjak, he thought. That’s what they’re saying. Not Whiskey Jack at all.

Shadow said, “Yeah. And one of the things he said was that we’re trading our Winnebago for your Buick.”

“I don’t see a Winnebago.”

“He’ll bring you the Winnebago,” said John Chapman. “You know he will.”

Harry Bluejay attempted a trick shot and missed. His hand was not steady enough. “I’m not the old fox’s nephew,” said Harry Bluejay. “I wish he wouldn’t say that to people.”

“Better a live fox than a dead wolf,” said Wednesday, in a voice so deep it was almost a growl. “Now, will you sell us your car?”

Harry Bluejay shivered, visibly and violently. “Sure,” he said. “Sure. I was only kidding. I kid a lot, me.” He put down the pool cue on the pool table, and took a thick jacket, pulling it out from a cluster of similar jackets hanging from pegs by the door. “Let me get my shit out of the car first,” he said.

He kept darting glances at Wednesday, as if he were concerned that the older man was about to explode.

Harry Bluejay’s car was parked a hundred yards away. As they walked toward it, they passed a small whitewashed Catholic church, and a fair-haired man in a priest’s collar who stared at them from the doorway as they went past. He was sucking on a cigarette as if he did not enjoy smoking it.

“Good day to you, father!” called Johnny Chapman, but the man in the dog-collar made no reply; he crushed his cigarette under his heel, picked up the butt, and dropped it into the bin beside the door, and went inside.

“I told you not to give him those pamphlets last time you were here,” said Harry Bluejay.

“It is he that is in error, not me,” said Chapman. “If he’d jes read the Swedenborg I gave him he’d know that. It’d bring light into his life.”

Harry Bluejay’s car was missing its side mirrors, and its tires were the baldest Shadow had ever seen: perfectly smooth black rubber. Harry Bluejay told them the car drank oil, but as long as you kept pouring oil in, it would just keep running forever, unless it stopped.

Harry Bluejay filled a black garbage bag with shit from the car (said shit including several screw-top bottles of cheap beer, unfinished, a small packet of cannabis resin wrapped in silver foil and badly hidden in the car’s ashtray, a skunk-tail, two dozen country and western cassettes and a battered, yellowing copy of Stranger in a Strange Land). “Sorry I was jerking your chain before,” said Harry Bluejay to Wednesday, passing him the car keys. “You know when I’ll get the Winnebago?”

“Ask your uncle. He’s the fucking used-car dealer,” growled Wednesday.

“Wisakedjak is not my uncle,” said Harry Bluejay. He took his black garbage bag and went into the nearest house, and closed the door behind him.

They dropped Johnny Chapman in Sioux Falls, outside a whole-food store.

Wednesday said nothing on the drive. He was brooding.

In a family restaurant just outside St. Paul Shadow picked up a newspaper someone else had put down. He looked at it once, then again, then he showed it to Wednesday. Wednesday was in a black sulk, as he had been since they left Whiskey Jack’s place.

“Look at that,” said Shadow.

Wednesday sighed, and looked down at the paper with an expression of pain, as if lowering his head hurt more than he could put into words. “I am,” he said, “delighted that the air-traffic controllers’ dispute has been resolved without recourse to industrial action.”

“Not that,” said Shadow. “Look. It says it’s the fourteenth of February.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“So we set out January the what, twentieth, twenty-first? I wasn’t keeping track of the dates, but it was the third week of January. We were three days on the road, all told. So how is it the fourteenth of February?”

“Because we walked for almost a month,” said Wednesday. “In the Badlands. Backstage.”

“Hell of a shortcut,” said Shadow.

Wednesday pushed the paper away. “Fucking Johnny Appleseed, always going on about Paul Bunyan. In real life Chapman owned fourteen apple orchards. He farmed thousands of acres. Yes, he kept pace with the western frontier, but there’s not a story out there about him with a word of truth in it, save that he went a little crazy once. But it doesn’t matter. Like the newspapers used to say, if the truth isn’t big enough, you print the legend. This country needs its legends. And even the legends don’t believe it any more.”

“But you see it.”

“I’m a has-been. Who the fuck cares about me?”

Shadow said softly, “You’re a god.”

Wednesday looked at him sharply. He seemed to be about to say something, and then he slumped back in his seat, and looked down at the menu and said, “So?”

“It’s a good thing to be a god,” said Shadow.

“Is it?” asked Wednesday, and this time it was Shadow who looked away.

In a gas station twenty-five miles outside Lakeside, on the wall by the restrooms, Shadow saw a homemade photocopied notice: a black and white photo of Alison McGovern and the handwritten question Have You Seen Me? above it. Same yearbook photograph: smiling confidently, a girl with rubber-band braces on her top teeth who wants to work with animals when she grows up. Have you seen me?

Shadow bought a Snickers bar, a bottle of water, and a copy of the Lakeside News. The above-the-fold story, written by Marguerite Olsen, our Lakeside Reporter, showed a photograph of a boy and an older man, out on the frozen lake, standing by an outhouse-like ice-fishing shack, and between them they were holding a big fish. They were smiling. Father and Son Catch Record Northern Pike. Full story inside.

Wednesday was driving. He said, “Read me anything interesting you find in the paper.”

Shadow looked carefully, and he turned the pages slowly, but he couldn’t find anything.

Wednesday dropped him off in the driveway outside his apartment. A smoke-colored cat stared at him from the driveway, then fled when he bent to stroke it.

Shadow stopped on the wooden deck outside his apartment and looked out at the lake, dotted here and there with green and brown ice-fishing huts. Many of them had cars parked beside them. On the ice nearer the bridge sat the old green klunker, just as it had sat in the newspaper. “March the twenty-third,” said Shadow, encouragingly. “Round nine fifteen in the morning. You can do it.”

“Not a chance,” said a woman’s voice. “April third. Six P.M. That way the day warms up the ice.” Shadow smiled. Marguerite Olsen was wearing a ski suit. She was at the far end of the deck, refilling the bird feeder with white blocks of suet.

“I read your article in the Lakeside News on the Town Record Northern Pike.”

“Exciting, huh?”

“Well, educational, maybe.”

“I thought you weren’t coming back to us,” she said. “You were gone for a while, huh?”

“My uncle needed me,” said Shadow. “The time kind of got away from us.”

She placed the last suet brick in its cage, and began to fill a net sock with thistle-seeds from a plastic milk-jug. Several goldfinches, olive in their winter coats, twitted impatiently from a nearby fir-tree.

“I didn’t see anything in the paper about Alison McGovern.”

“There wasn’t anything to report. She’s still missing. There was a rumor that someone had seen her in Detroit, but it turned out to be a false alarm.”

“Poor kid.”

Marguerite Olsen screwed the top back onto the gallon jug. “I hope she’s dead,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Shadow was shocked. “Why?”

“Because the alternatives are worse.”

The goldfinches hopped frantically from branch to branch of the fir-tree, impatient for the people to be gone. A downy woodpecker joined them.

You aren’t thinking about Alison, thought Shadow. You’re thinking of your son. You’re thinking of Sandy.

He remembered someone saying I miss Sandy. Who was that?

“Good talking to you,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “You, too.”

February passed in a succession of short, gray days. Some days the snow fell, most days it didn’t. The weather warmed up, and on the good days it got above freezing. Shadow stayed in his apartment until it began to feel like a prison cell, and then, on the days that Wednesday did not need him, he began to walk.

He would walk for much of the day, long trudges out of the town. He walked, alone, until he reached the national forest to the north and the west, or the corn fields and cow pastures to the south. He walked the Lumber County Wilderness Trail, and he walked along the old railroad tracks, and he walked the back roads. A couple of times he even walked along the frozen lake, from north to south. Sometimes he’d see locals or winter tourists or joggers, and he’d wave and say hi. Mostly he saw nobody at all, just crows and finches and, a few times, he spotted a hawk feasting on a roadkill possum or raccoon. On one memorable occasion he watched an eagle snatch a silver fish from the middle of the White Pine River, the water frozen at the edges, but still rushing and flowing at the center. The fish wriggled and jerked in the eagle’s talons, glittering in the midday sun; Shadow imagined the fish freeing itself and swimming off across the sky, and he smiled.

If he walked, he discovered, he did not have to think, and that was just the way he liked it; when he thought, his mind went to places he could not control, places that made him feel uncomfortable. Exhaustion was the best thing. When he was exhausted, his thoughts did not wander to Laura, or to the strange dreams, or to things that were not and could not be. He would return home from walking, and sleep without difficulty and without dreaming.

He ran into Police Chief Chad Mulligan in George’s Barber Shop in the town square. Shadow always had high hopes for haircuts, but they never lived up to his expectations. After every haircut he looked more or less the same, only with shorter hair. Chad, seated in the barber’s chair beside Shadow’s, seemed surprisingly concerned about his own appearance. When his haircut was finished he gazed grimly at his reflection, as if he were preparing to give it a speeding ticket.

“It looks good,” Shadow told him.

“Would it look good to you if you were a woman?”

“I guess.”

They went across the square to Mabel’s together, ordered mugs of hot chocolate. Chad said, “Hey. Mike. Have you ever thought about a career in law enforcement?”

Shadow shrugged. “I can’t say I have,” he said. “Seems like there’s a whole lot of things you got to know.”

Chad shook his head. “You know the main part of police work, somewhere like this? It’s just keeping your head. Something happens, somebody’s screaming at you, screaming blue murder, you simply have to be able to say that you’re sure that it’s all a mistake, and you’ll just sort it all out if they just step outside quietly. And you have to be able to mean it.”

“And then you sort it out?”

“Mostly, that’s when you put handcuffs on them. But yeah, you do what you can to sort it out. Let me know if you want a job. We’re hiring. And you’re the kind of guy we want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, if the thing with my uncle falls through.”

They sipped their hot chocolate. Mulligan said, “Say, Mike, what would you do if you had a cousin? Like a widow. And she started calling you?”

“Calling you how?”

“On the phone. Long distance. She lives out of state.” His cheeks crimsoned. “I saw her last year at a family wedding, out in Oregon. She was married, back then, though, I mean, her husband was still alive, and she’s family. Not a first cousin. Pretty distant.”

“You got a thing for her?”

Blush. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well then, put it another way. Does she have a thing for you?”

“Well, she’s said a few things when she called. She’s a very fine-looking woman.”

“So…what are you going to do about it?”

“I could ask her out here. I could do that, couldn’t I? She’s kind of said she’d like to come up here.”

“You’re both adults. I’d say go for it.”

Chad nodded, and blushed, and nodded again.

The telephone in Shadow’s apartment was silent and dead. He thought about getting it connected, but could think of no one he wanted to call. Late one night he picked it up and listened, and was convinced that he could hear a wind blowing and a distant conversation between a group of people whose voices were too faint to distinguish. He said, “Hello?” and “Who’s there?” but there was no reply, only a sudden silence and then the faraway sound of laughter, so faint he was not certain he was not imagining it.

Shadow made more journeys with Wednesday in the weeks that followed.

He waited in the kitchen of a Rhode Island cottage, and listened while Wednesday sat in a darkened bedroom and argued with a woman who would not get out of bed, nor would she let Wednesday or Shadow look at her face. In the refrigerator was a plastic bag filled with crickets, and another filled with the corpses of baby mice.

In a rock club in Seattle Shadow watched Wednesday shout his greeting, over the noise of the band, to a young woman with short red hair and blue-spiral tattoos. That talk must have gone well, for Wednesday came away from it grinning delightedly.

Five days later Shadow was waiting in the rental when Wednesday walked, scowling, from the lobby of an office building in Dallas. Wednesday slammed the car door when he got in, and sat there in silence, his face red with rage. He said, “Drive.” Then he said, “Fucking Albanians. Like anybody cares.”

Three days after that they flew to Boulder, where they had a pleasant lunch with five young Japanese women. It was a meal of pleasantries and politeness, and Shadow walked away from it unsure of whether anything had been agreed to or decided. Wednesday, though, seemed happy enough.

Shadow had begun to look forward to returning to Lakeside. There was a peace there, and a welcome, that he appreciated.

Each morning, when he was not away working for Wednesday, he would drive across the bridge to the town square. He would buy two pasties at Mabel’s; he would eat one pasty then and there, and drink a coffee. If someone had left a newspaper out he would read it, although he was never interested enough in the news to purchase a newspaper himself.

He would pocket the second pasty, wrapped in its paper bag, and eat it for his lunch.

He was reading USA Today one morning when Mabel said, “Hey, Mike. Where you going today?”

The sky was pale blue. The morning mist had left the trees covered with hoarfrost. “I don’t know,” said Shadow. “Maybe I’ll walk the wilderness trail again.”

She refilled his coffee. “You ever gone east on County Q? It’s kind of pretty out thataway. That’s the little road that starts acrost from the carpet store on Twentieth Avenue.”

“No. Never have.”

“Well,” she said, “it’s kind of pretty.”

It was extremely pretty. Shadow parked his car at the edge of town, and walked along the side of the road, a winding, country road that curled around the hills to the east of the town. Each of the hills was covered with leafless maple trees, and bone-white birches, and dark firs and pines. There was no footpath, and Shadow walked along the middle of the road, making for the side whenever he heard a car.

At one point a small dark cat kept pace with him beside the road. It was the color of dirt, with white forepaws. He walked over to it. It did not run away.

“Hey, cat,” said Shadow, unselfconsciously.

The cat put its head on one side, looked up at him with emerald eyes. Then it hissed—not at him, but at something over on the side of the road, something he could not see.

“Easy,” said Shadow. The cat stalked away across the road, and vanished into a field of old unharvested corn.

Around the next bend in the road Shadow came upon a tiny graveyard. The headstones were weathered, although several of them had sprays of fresh flowers resting against them. There was no wall about the graveyard, and no fence, only low mulberry trees, planted at the margins, bent over with ice and age. Shadow stepped over the piled-up ice and slush at the side of the road. There were two stone gateposts marking the entry to the graveyard, although there was no gate between them. He walked into the graveyard between the two posts.

He wandered around the graveyard, looking at the headstones. There were no inscriptions later than 1969. He brushed the snow from a solid-looking granite angel, and he leaned against it.

He took the paper bag from his pocket, and removed the pasty from it. He broke off the top: it breathed a faint wisp of steam into the wintry air. It smelled really good, too. He bit into it.

Something rustled behind him. He thought for a moment it was the cat, but then he smelled perfume, and under the perfume, the scent of something rotten.

“Please don’t look at me,” she said, from behind him.

“Hello, Laura,” said Shadow.

Her voice was hesitant, perhaps, he thought, even a little scared. She said, “Hello, puppy.”

He broke off some pasty. “Would you like some?” he asked.

She was standing immediately behind him, now. “No,” she said. “You eat it. I don’t eat food any more.”

He ate his pasty. It was good. “I want to look at you,” he said.

“You won’t like it,” she told him.

“Please?”

She stepped around the stone angel. Shadow looked at her, in the daylight. Some things were different and some things were the same. Her eyes had not changed, nor had the crooked hopefulness of her smile. And she was, very obviously, very dead. Shadow finished his pasty. He stood up and tipped the crumbs out of the paper bag, then folded it up and put it back into his pocket.

The time he had spent in the funeral home in Cairo made it easier somehow for him to be in her presence. He did not know what to say to her.

Her cold hand sought his, and he squeezed it gently. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. He was scared, and what scared him was the normality of the moment. He felt so comfortable with her at his side that he would have been willing to stand there forever.

“I miss you,” he admitted.

“I’m here,” she said.

“That’s when I miss you most. When you’re here. When you aren’t here, when you’re just a ghost from the past or a dream from another life, it’s easier then.”

She squeezed his fingers.

“So,” he asked. “How’s death?”

“Hard,” she said. “It just keeps going.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, and it almost undid him. He said, “You want to walk for a bit?”

“Sure.” She smiled up at him, a nervous, crooked smile in a dead face.

They walked out of the little graveyard, and made their way back down the road, toward the town, hand in hand. “Where have you been?” she asked.

“Here,” he said. “Mostly.”

“Since Christmas,” she said, “I kind of lost you. Sometimes I would know where you were, for a few hours, for a few days. You’d be all over. Then you’d fade away again.”

“I was in this town,” he said. “Lakeside. It’s a good little town.”

“Oh,” she said.

She no longer wore the blue dress in which she had been buried. Now she wore several sweaters, a long, dark, skirt, and burgundy boots. Shadow commented on them.

Laura ducked her head. She smiled. “Aren’t they great boots? I found them in this great shoe store in Chicago.”

“So what made you decide to come up from Chicago?”

“Oh, I’ve not been in Chicago for a while, puppy. I was heading south. The cold was bothering me. You’d think I’d welcome it. But it’s something to do with being dead, I guess. You don’t feel it as cold. You feel it as a sort of nothing, and when you’re dead I guess the only thing that you’re scared of is nothing. I was going to go to Texas. I planned to spend the winter in Galveston. I think I used to winter in Galveston, when I was a kid.”

“I don’t think you did,” said Shadow. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“No? Maybe it was someone else, then. I don’t know. I remember seagulls—throwing bread in the air for seagulls, hundreds of them, the whole sky becoming nothing but seagulls as they flapped their wings and snatched the bread from the air.” She paused. “If I didn’t see it, I guess someone else did.”

A car came around the corner. The driver waved them hello. Shadow waved back. It felt wonderfully normal to walk with his wife.

“This feels good,” said Laura, as if she was reading his mind.

“Yes,” said Shadow.

“I’m pleased it feels good for you, too. When the call came I had to hurry back. I was barely into Texas.”

“Call?”

She looked up at him. Around her neck the gold coin glinted. “It felt like a call,” she said. “I started to think about you, about how much more fun I would have with you than down in Galveston. About how much I needed to see you. It was like a hunger.”

“You knew I was here, then?”

“Yes.” She stopped. She frowned, and her upper teeth pressed into her blue lower lip, biting it gently. She put her head on one side and said, “I did. Suddenly, I did. I thought you were calling me, but it wasn’t you, was it?”

“No.”

“You didn’t want to see me.”

“It wasn’t that.” He hesitated. “No. I didn’t want to see you. It hurts too much.”

The snow crunched beneath their feet and it glittered diamonds as the sunlight caught it.

“It must be hard,” said Laura, “not being alive.”

“You mean it’s hard for you to be dead? Look, I’m still going to figure out how to bring you back, properly. I think I’m on the right track—”

“No,” she said. “I mean, I’m grateful. And I hope you really can do it. I did a lot of bad stuff…” She shook her head. “But I was talking about you.”

“I’m alive,” said Shadow. “I’m not dead. Remember?”

“You’re not dead,” she said. “But I’m not sure that you’re alive, either. Not really.”

This isn’t the way this conversation goes, thought Shadow. This isn’t the way anything goes.

“I love you,” she said, dispassionately. “You’re my puppy. But when you’re really dead you get to see things clearer. It’s like there isn’t anyone there. You know? You’re like this big, solid, man-shaped hole in the world.” She frowned. “Even when we were together. I loved being with you because you adored me, and you would do anything for me. But sometimes I’d go into a room and I wouldn’t think there was anybody in there. And I’d turn the light on, or I’d turn the light off, and I’d realize that you were in there, sitting on your own, not reading, not watching TV, not doing anything.”

She hugged him then, as if to take the sting from her words, and she said, “The best thing about Robbie was that he was somebody. He was a jerk sometimes, and he could be a joke, and he loved to have mirrors around when we made love so he could watch himself fucking me, but he was alive, puppy. He wanted things. He filled the space.” She stopped, looked up at him, tipped her head a little to one side. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt your feelings?”

He did not trust his voice not to betray him, so he simply shook his head.

“Good,” she said. “That’s good.”

They were approaching the rest area where he had parked his car. Shadow felt that he needed to say something: I love you, or please don’t go, or I’m sorry. The kind of words you use to patch a conversation that had lurched, without warning, into the dark places. Instead he said, “I’m not dead.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “But are you sure you’re alive?”

“Look at me,” he said.

“That’s not an answer,” said his dead wife. “You’ll know it, when you are.”

“What now?” he said.

“Well,” she said, “I’ve seen you now. I’m going south again.”

“Back to Texas?”

“Somewhere warm. I don’t care.”

“I have to wait here,” said Shadow. “Until my boss needs me.”

“That’s not living,” said Laura. She sighed; and then she smiled, the same smile that had been able to tug at his heart no matter how many times he saw it. Every time she smiled at him had been the first time all over again.

“Will I see you again?”

She looked up at him and she stopped smiling. “I guess so,” she said. “In the end. Nothing’s finished, yet, is it?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

He went to put his arm around her, but she shook her head and pulled out of his reach. She sat down on the edge of a snow-covered picnic table, and she watched him drive away.

The war had begun and nobody saw it. The storm was lowering and nobody knew it.

Wars are being fought all the time, with the world outside no more the wiser: the war on crime, the war on poverty, the war on drugs. This war was smaller than those, and huger, and more selective, but it was as real as any.

A falling girder in Manhattan closed a street for two days. It killed two pedestrians, an Arabic taxi-driver and the taxi-driver’s passenger.

A trucker in Denver was found dead in his home. The murder instrument, a rubber-gripped claw-headed hammer, had been left on the floor beside his corpse. His face was untouched, but the back of his head was completely destroyed, and several words in a foreign alphabet were written on the bathroom mirror in brown lipstick.

In a postal sorting station in Phoenix, Arizona, a man went crazy, went postal as they said on the evening news, and shot Terry “The Troll” Evensen, a morbidly obese, awkward man who lived alone in a trailer. Several other people in the sorting station were fired on, but only Evensen was killed. The man who fired the shots—first thought to be a disgruntled postal worker—was not caught, and was never identified.

“Frankly,” said Terry “The Troll” Evensen’s supervisor, on the News at Five, “if anyone around here was gonna go postal, we would have figured it was gonna be The Troll. Okay worker, but a weird guy. I mean, you never can tell, huh?”

That interview was cut when the segment was repeated, later that evening.

A community of nine anchorites in Montana was found dead. Reporters speculated that it was a mass suicide, but soon the cause of death was reported as carbon monoxide poisoning from an elderly furnace.

A lobster tank was smashed in the lobby of an Atlanta seafood restaurant.

A crypt was defiled in the Key West graveyard.

An Amtrak passenger train hit a UPS truck in Idaho, killing the driver of the truck. No passengers were seriously injured.

It was still a cold war at this stage, a phony war, nothing that could be truly won or lost.

The wind stirred the branches of the tree. Sparks flew from the fire. The storm was coming.

The Queen of Sheba, half-demon, they said, on her father’s side, witch-woman, wise-woman and queen, who ruled Sheba when Sheba was the richest land there ever was, when its spices and its gems and scented woods were taken by boat and camel-back to the corners of the earth, who was worshiped even when she was alive, worshiped as a living goddess by the wisest of kings, stands on the sidewalk of Sunset Boulevard at 2:00 A.M. staring blankly out at the traffic like a slutty plastic bride on a black and neon wedding cake. She stands as if she owns the sidewalk and the night that surrounds her.

When someone looks straight at her, her lips move, as if she is talking to herself. When men in cars drive past her she makes eye-contact and she smiles. She ignores the men who walk past her on the sidewalk (it happens, people walk everywhere, even in West Hollywood); she ignores them, does her best to pretend that they are not there.

It’s been a long night.

It’s been a long week, and a long four thousand years.

She is proud that she owes nothing to anyone. The other girls on the street, they have pimps, they have habits, they have children, they have people who take what they make. Not her.

There is nothing holy left in her profession. Not any more.

A week ago the rains began in Los Angeles, slicking the streets into road accidents, crumbling the mud from the hillsides and toppling houses into canyons, washing the world into the gutters and storm drains, drowning the bums and the homeless camped down in the concrete channel of the river. When the rains come in Los Angeles they always take people by surprise.

Bilquis has spent the last week inside. Unable to stand on the sidewalk, she has curled up in her bed in the room the color of raw liver, listening to the rain pattering on the metal box of the window air conditioner and placing personals on the Internet. She has left her invitations on Adultfriendfinder.com, LA-escorts.com, Classyhollywoodbabes.com, has given herself an anonymous e-mail address. She was proud of herself for negotiating the new territories, but remains nervous—she has spent a long time avoiding anything that might resemble a paper trail. She has never even taken a small ad in the back pages of the LA Weekly, preferring to pick out her own customers, to find by eye and smell and touch the ones who will worship her as she needs to be worshiped, the ones who will let her take them all the way…

And it occurs to her now, standing and shivering on the street corner (for the late February rains have left off, but the chill they brought with them remains), that she has a habit as bad as that of the smack whores and the crack whores, and this distresses her, and her lips begin to move again. If you were close enough to her ruby-red lips you would hear her say,

“I will rise now and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek the one I love.” She is whispering that, and she whispers, “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine. He said, this stature of mine is like to a palm tree, and my breasts like clusters of grapes. He said he would come to me then. I am my beloved’s and his desire is only toward me.”

Bilquis hopes that the break in the rains will bring the johns back. Most of the year she walks the two or three blocks on Sunset, enjoying the cool L.A. nights. Once a month she pays off a man named Sabbah, an officer in the LAPD, who replaced another officer in the LAPD she used to pay off, who had vanished. That man’s name was Jerry LeBec, and his disappearance had been a mystery to the LAPD. He had become obsessed with Bilquis, had taken to following her on foot, and one afternoon she woke, startled by a noise, and opened the door to her apartment, and found Jerry LeBec in civilian clothes kneeling and swaying on the worn carpet, his head bowed, waiting for her to come out. The noise she had heard was the noise of his head, thumping against her door as he rocked back and forth on his knees.

She stroked his hair and told him to come inside, and later she put his clothes into a black plastic garbage bag and tossed them into a Dumpster behind a hotel several blocks away. His gun and his wallet she put into a grocery store bag. She poured used coffee grounds and food waste on top of them, folded the top of the bag and dropped it into a trashcan at a bus-stop.

She kept no souvenirs.

The orange night-sky glimmers to the west with distant lightning, somewhere out to sea, and Bilquis knows that the rain will be starting soon. She sighs. She does not want to be caught in the rain. She will return to her apartment, she decides, and take a bath, and shave her legs, it seems to her she is always shaving her legs, and sleep.

“By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth,” she whispers. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth. My beloved is mine and I am his.”

She begins to walk up a side-street, walking up the hillside to where her car is parked.

Headlights come up behind her, slowing as they approach her, and she turns her face to the street and smiles. The smile freezes when she sees the car is a white stretch limo. Men in stretch limos want to fuck in stretch limos, not in the privacy of Bilquis’s shrine. Still, it might be an investment. Something for the future.

A tinted window hums down and Bilquis walks over to the limo, smiling. “Hey, honey,” she says. “You looking for something?”

“Sweet loving,” says a voice from the back of the stretch. She peers inside, as much as she can through the open window: she knows a girl who got into a stretch with five drunk football players and got hurt real bad, but there’s only one john in there that she can see, and he looks kind of on the young side. He doesn’t feel like a worshiper, but money, good money that’s passed from his hand to hers, that’s an energy in its own right—baraka they called it, once on a time—which she can use and frankly these days, every little helps.

“How much?” he asks.

“Depends on what you want and how long you want it for,” she says. “And whether you can afford it.” She can smell something smoky drifting out of the limo window. It smells like burning wires and overheating circuit boards. The door is pushed open from inside.

“I can pay for anything I want,” says the john. She leans into the car and looks around. There’s nobody else in there, just the john, a puffy-faced kid who doesn’t even look old enough to drink. Nobody else, so she gets in.

“Rich kid, huh?” she says.

“Richer than rich,” he tells her, edging along the leather seat towards her. He moves awkwardly. She smiles at him.

“Mm. Makes me hot, honey,” she tells him. “You must be one of them dot-coms I read about?”

He preens then, puffs like a bullfrog. “Yeah. Among other things. I’m a technical boy.” The car moves off.

“So,” he says. “Tell me, Bilquis, how much just to suck my cock?”

“What you call me?”

“Bilquis,” he says, again. And then he sings, in a voice not made for singing, “You are an immaterial girl living in a material world.” There is something rehearsed about his words, as if he’s practiced this exchange in front of a mirror.

She stops smiling, and her face changes, becomes wiser, sharper, harder. “What do you want?”

“I told you. Sweet loving.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” she says. She needs to get out of the limo. It’s moving too fast for her to throw herself from the car, she figures, but she’ll do it if she can’t talk her way out of this. Whatever’s happening here, she doesn’t like it.

“What I want. Yes.” He pauses. His tongue runs over his lips. “I want a clean world. I want to own tomorrow. I want evolution, devolution, and revolution. I want to move our kind from the fringes of the slipstream to the higher ground of the mainstream. You people are underground. That’s wrong. We need to take the spotlight and shine. Front and center. You people have been so far underground for so long you’ve lost the use of your eyes.”

“My name’s Ayesha,” she says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s another girl on that corner, her name Bilquis. We could go back to Sunset, you could have both of us…”

“Oh, Bilquis,” he says, and he sighs, theatrically. “There’s only so much belief to go around. They’re reaching the end of what they can give us. The credibility gap.” And then he sings, once again, in his tuneless nasal voice, “You are an analog girl, living in a digital world.” The limo takes a corner too fast, and he tumbles across the seat into her. The driver of the car is hidden behind tinted glass. An irrational conviction strikes her, that nobody is driving the car, that the white limo is driving through Beverly Hills like Herbie the Love Bug, under its own power.

Then the john reaches out his hand and taps on the tinted glass.

The car slows, and before it has stopped moving Bilquis has pushed open the door and she half-jumps, half-falls out onto the blacktop. She’s on a hillside road. To the left of her is a steep hill, to the right is a sheer drop. She starts to run down the road.

The limo sits there, unmoving.

It starts to rain, and her high heels slip and twist beneath her. She kicks them off and runs, soaked to the skin, looking for somewhere she can get off the road. She’s scared. She has power, true, but it’s hunger-magic, cunt-magic. It has kept her alive in this land for so long, true, but for everything else that’s not simply living she uses her sharp eyes and her mind, her height and her presence.

There’s a metal guard-rail at knee-height on her right, to stop cars from tumbling over the side of the hill, and now the rain is running down the hill-road turning it into a river, and the soles of her feet have started to bleed.

The lights of L.A. are spread out in front of her, a twinkling electrical map of an imaginary kingdom, the heavens laid out right here on earth, and she knows that all she needs to be safe is to get off the road.

I am black but comely, she mouths to the night and the rain. I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.

A fork of lightning burns greenly across the night sky. She loses her footing, slides several feet, skinning her leg and elbow, and she is getting to her feet when she sees the lights of the car descending the hill toward her. It’s coming down too fast for safety and she wonders whether to throw herself to the right, where it could crush her against the hillside, or the left, where she might tumble down the gully, and she runs across the road, intending to push herself up the wet earth, to climb, when the white stretch limo comes fishtailing down the slick hillside road, hell it must be doing eighty, maybe even aquaplaning on the surface of the road, and she’s pushing her hands into a handful of weeds and earth, and she’s going to get up and away, she knows, when the wet earth crumbles and she tumbles back down onto the road.

The car hits her with an impact that crumples the grille and tosses her into the air like a glove puppet. She lands on the road behind the limo, and the impact shatters her pelvis, fractures her skull. Cold rainwater runs over her face.

She begins to curse her killer: curse him silently, as she cannot move her lips. She curses him in waking and in sleeping, in living and in death. She curses him as only someone who is half-demon on her father’s side can curse.

A car door opens. Someone approaches her. “You were an analog girl,” he sings again, tunelessly, “living in a digital world.” And then he says, “You fucking madonnas. All you fucking madonnas.” He walks away.

The car door slams.

The limo reverses, and runs back over her, slowly, for the first time. Her bones crunch beneath the wheels. Then the limo comes back down the hill toward her.

When, finally, it drives away, down the hill, all it leaves behind on the road is the smeared red meat of roadkill, barely recognizable as human, and soon even that will be washed away by the rain.

“Hi, Samantha.”

“Mags? Is that you?”

“Who else? Leon said that Auntie Sammy called when I was in the shower.”

“We had a good talk. He’s such a sweet kid.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll keep him.”

A moment of discomfort for both of them, barely a crackle of a whisper over the telephone lines. Then, “Sammy, how’s school?”

“They’re giving us a week off. Problem with the furnaces. How are things in your neck of the Northwoods?”

“Well, I’ve got a new next-door neighbor. He does coin tricks. The Lakeside News letter column currently features a blistering debate on the potential rezoning of the town land down by the old cemetery on the southeast shore of the lake and yours truly has to write a strident editorial summarizing the paper’s position on this without offending anybody or in fact giving anyone any idea what our position is.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It’s not. Alison McGovern vanished last week—Jilly and Stan McGovern’s oldest. I don’t think you met them. Nice kid. She babysat for Leon a few times.”

A mouth opens to say something, and it closes again, leaving whatever it was to say unsaid, and instead it says, “That’s awful.”

“Yes.”

“So…” And there’s nothing to follow that with that isn’t going to hurt, so she says, “Is he cute?”

“Who?”

“The neighbor.”

“His name’s Ainsel. Mike Ainsel. He’s okay. Too young for me. Big guy, looks…what’s the word. Begins with an M.”

“Mean? Moody? Magnificent? Married?”

A short laugh, then, “Yes, I guess he does look married. I mean, if there’s a look that married men have, he kind of has it. But the word I was thinking of was melancholy. He looks melancholy.”

“And mysterious?”

“Not particularly. When he moved in he seemed kinda helpless—he didn’t even know to heat-seal the windows. These days he still looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. When he’s here—he’s here, then he’s gone again. I’ve seen him out walking from time to time. He’s no trouble.”

“Maybe he’s a bank robber.”

“Uh-huh. Just what I was thinking.”

“You were not. That was my idea. Listen, Mags, how are you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“No.”

A long pause then. “I’m coming up to see you.”

“Sammy, no.”

“It’ll be after the weekend before the furnaces are working and school starts again. It’ll be fun. You can make up a bed on the couch for me. And invite the mysterious neighbor over for dinner one night.”

“Sam, you’re matchmaking.”

“Who’s matchmaking? After Claudine-the-bitch-from-hell, maybe I’m ready to go back to boys for a while. I met a nice strange boy when I hitchhiked down to El Paso for Christmas.”

“Oh. Look, Sam, you’ve got to stop hitchhiking.”

“How do you think I’m going to get to Lakeside?”

“Alison McGovern was hitchhiking. Even in a town like this, it’s not safe. I’ll wire you the money. You can take the bus.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sammy.”

“Okay, Mags. Wire me the money if it’ll let you sleep easier.”

“You know it will.”

“Okay, bossy big sister. Give Leon a hug and tell him Auntie Sammy’s coming up and he’s not to hide his toys in her bed this time.”

“I’ll tell him. I don’t promise it’ll do any good. So when should I expect you?”

“Tomorrow night. You don’t have to meet me at the bus station—I’ll ask Hinzelmann to run me over in Tessie.”

“Too late. Tessie’s in mothballs for the winter. But Hinzelmann will give you a ride anyway. He likes you. You listen to his stories.”

“Maybe you should get Hinzelmann to write your editorial for you. Let’s see. On the Rezoning of the Land by the Old Cemetery, it so happens that in the winter of ought three my grampaw shot a stag down by the old cemetery by the lake. He was out of bullets, so he used a cherry-stone from the lunch my grandmama had packed for him. Creased the skull of the stag and it shot off like a bat out of heck. Two years later he was down that way and he sees this mighty buck with a spreading cherry tree growing between its antlers. Well, he shot it, and grandmama made cherry pies enough that they were still eating them come the next Fourth of July…”

And they both laughed, then.

“The sign says ‘help wanted.’”

“We’re always hiring.”

“I can only work the night shift. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Shouldn’t be. I can get you an application to fill out. You ever worked in a gas station before?”

“No. I figure, how hard can it be?”

“Well, it ain’t rocket science, that’s for sure.”

“I’m new here. I don’t have a telephone. Waiting for them to put it in.”

“I surely know that one. I surely do. They just make you wait because they can. You know, ma’am, you don’t mind my saying this, but you do not look well.”

“I know. It’s a medical condition. Looks worse than it is. Nothing life-threatening.”

“Okay. You leave that application with me. We are really shorthanded on the late shift right now. Round here we call it the zombie shift. You do it too long, that’s how you feel. Well now…is that Larna?”

“Laura.”

“Laura. Okay. Well, I hope you don’t mind dealing with weirdos. Because they come out at night.”

“I’m sure they do. I can cope.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was Saturday morning. Shadow answered the door.

Marguerite Olsen was there. She did not come in, just stood there in the sunlight, looking serious. “Mister Ainsel…?”

“Mike, please,” said Shadow.

“Mike, yes. Would you like to come over for dinner tonight? About six-ish? It won’t be anything exciting, just spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Not a problem. I like spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Obviously, if you have any other plans…”

“I have no other plans.”

“Six o’clock.”

“Should I bring flowers?”

“If you must. But this is a social gesture. Not a romantic one.” She closed the door behind her.

He showered. He went for a short walk, down to the bridge and back. The sun was up, a tarnished quarter in the sky, and he was sweating in his coat by the time he got home. It had to be above freezing. He drove the 4Runner down to Dave’s Finest Foods and bought a bottle of wine. It was a twenty-dollar bottle, which seemed to Shadow like some kind of guarantee of quality. He didn’t know wines, but he figured that for twenty bucks it ought to taste good. He bought a Californian Cabernet, because Shadow had once seen a bumper sticker, back when he was younger and people still had bumper stickers on their cars, which said LIFE IS A CABERNET and it had made him laugh.

He bought a plant in a pot as a gift. Green leaves, no flowers. Nothing remotely romantic about that.

He bought a carton of milk, which he would never drink, and a selection of fruit, which he would never eat.

Then he drove over to Mabel’s and bought a single lunchtime pasty. Mabel’s face lit up when she saw him. “Did Hinzelmann catch up with you?”

“I didn’t know he was looking for me.”

“Yup. Wants to take you ice-fishing. And Chad Mulligan wanted to know if I’d seen you around. His cousin’s here from out of state. She’s a widow. His second cousin, what we used to call kissing cousins. Such a sweetheart. You’ll love her.” And she dropped the pasty into a brown paper bag, twisted the top of the bag over to keep the pasty warm.

Shadow drove the long way home, eating one-handed, the steaming pasty’s pastry-crumbs tumbling onto his jeans and onto the floor of the 4Runner. He passed the library on the south shore of the lake. It was a black and white town in the ice and the snow. Spring seemed unimaginably far away: the klunker would always sit on the ice, with the ice-fishing shelters and the pickup trucks and the snowmobile tracks.

He reached his apartment, parked, walked up the drive, up the wooden steps to his apartment. The goldfinches and nuthatches on the bird feeder hardly gave him a glance. He went inside. He watered the plant, wondered whether or not to put the wine into the refrigerator.

There was a lot of time to kill until six.

Shadow wished he could comfortably watch television once more. He wanted to be entertained, not to have to think, just to sit and let the sounds and the light wash over him. Do you want to see Lucy’s tits? something with a Lucy voice whispered in his memory, and he shook his head, although there was no one there to see him.

He was nervous, he realized. This would be his first real social interaction with other people—normal people, not people in jail, not gods or culture heroes or dreams—since he was first arrested, over three years ago. He would have to make conversation, as Mike Ainsel.

He checked his watch. It was two-thirty. Marguerite Olsen had told him to be there at six. Did she mean six exactly? Should he be there a little early? A little late? He decided, eventually, to walk next door at five past six.

Shadow’s telephone rang.

“Yeah?” he said.

“That’s no way to answer the phone,” growled Wednesday.

“When I get my telephone connected I’ll answer it politely,” said Shadow. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t know,” said Wednesday. There was a pause. Then he said, “Organizing gods is like herding cats into straight lines. They don’t take naturally to it.” There was a deadness, and an exhaustion, in Wednesday’s voice that Shadow had never heard before.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s hard. It’s too fucking hard. I don’t know if this is going to work. We might as well cut our throats. Just cut our own throats.”

“You mustn’t talk like that.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Well, if you do cut your throat,” said Shadow, trying to jolly Wednesday out of his darkness, “maybe it wouldn’t even hurt.”

“It would hurt. Even for my kind, pain still hurts. If you move and act in the material world, then the material world acts on you. Pain hurts, just as greed intoxicates and lust burns. We may not die easy and we sure as hell don’t die well, but we can die. If we’re still loved and remembered, something else a whole lot like us comes along and takes our place and the whole damn thing starts all over again. And if we’re forgotten, we’re done.”

Shadow did not know what to say. He said, “So where are you calling from?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Not yet. I just keep thinking about Thor. You never knew him. Big guy, like you. Good hearted. Not bright, but he’d give you the goddamned shirt off his back if you asked him. And he killed himself. He put a gun in his mouth and blew his head off in Philadelphia in 1932. What kind of a way is that for a god to die?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t give two fucking cents, son. He was a whole lot like you. Big and dumb.” Wednesday stopped talking. He coughed.

“What’s wrong?” said Shadow, for the second time.

“They got in touch.”

“Who did?”

“The opposition.”

“And?”

“They want to discuss a truce. Peace talks. Live and let fucking live.”

“So what happens now?”

“Now I go and drink bad coffee with the modern assholes in a Kansas City Masonic hall.”

“Okay. You going to pick me up, or shall I meet you somewhere?”

“You stay there and you keep your head down. Don’t get into any trouble. You hear me?”

“But—”

There was a click, and the line went dead and stayed dead. There was no dial tone, but then, there never was.

Nothing but time to kill. The conversation with Wednesday had left Shadow with a sense of disquiet. He got up, intending to go for a walk, but already the light was fading, and he sat back down again.

Shadow picked up the Minutes of the Lakeside City Council 1872–1884 and turned the pages, his eyes scanning the tiny print, not actually reading it, occasionally scanning something that caught his eye.

In July of 1874, Shadow learned, the city council was concerned about the number of itinerant foreign loggers arriving in the town. An opera house was to be built on the corner of Third Street and Broadway. It was to be expected that the nuisances attendant to the damming of Mill Creek would abate once the mill-pond had become a lake. The council authorized the payment of seventy dollars to Mr. Samuel Samuels, and of eighty-five dollars to Mr. Heikki Salminen, in compensation for their land and for the expenses incurred in moving their domiciles out of the area to be flooded.

It had never occurred to Shadow before that the lake was man-made. Why call a town Lakeside, when the lake had begun as a dammed mill-pond? He read on, to discover that a Mr. Hinzelmann, originally of Hüdemuhlen in Brunswick, was in charge of the lake-building project, and that the city council had granted him the sum of $370 toward the project, any shortfall to be made up by public subscription. Shadow tore off a strip of a paper towel and placed it into the book as a bookmark. He could imagine Hinzelmann’s pleasure in seeing the reference to his grandfather. He wondered if the old man knew that his family had been instrumental in building the lake. Shadow flipped forward through the book, scanning for more references to the lake-building project.

They had dedicated the lake in a ceremony in the spring of 1876, as a precursor to the town’s centennial celebrations. A vote of thanks to Mr. Hinzelmann was taken by the council.

Shadow checked his watch. It was five thirty. He went into the bathroom, shaved, combed his hair. He changed his clothes. Somehow the final fifteen minutes passed. He got the wine and the plant, and he walked next door.

The door opened as he knocked. Marguerite Olsen looked almost as nervous as he felt. She took the wine bottle and the potted plant, and said thank you. The television was on, The Wizard of Oz on video. It was still in sepia, and Dorothy was still in Kansas, sitting with her eyes closed in Professor Marvel’s wagon as the old fraud pretended to read her mind, and the twister-wind that would tear her away from her life was approaching. Leon sat in front of the screen, playing with a toy fire truck. When he saw Shadow an expression of delight touched his face; he stood up and ran, tripping over his feet in his excitement, into a back bedroom, from which he emerged a moment later, triumphantly waving a quarter.

“Watch, Mike Ainsel!” he shouted. Then he closed both his hands and he pretended to take the coin into his right hand, which he opened wide. “I made it disappear, Mike Ainsel!”

“You did,” agreed Shadow. “After we’ve eaten, if it’s okay with your mom, I’ll show you how to do it even smoother than that.”

“Do it now if you want,” said Marguerite. “We’re still waiting for Samantha. I sent her out for sour cream. I don’t know what’s taking her so long.”

And, as if that was her cue, footsteps sounded on the wooden deck, and somebody shouldered open the front door. Shadow did not recognize her at first, then she said, “I didn’t know if you wanted the kind with calories or the kind that tastes like wallpaper paste so I went for the kind with calories,” and he knew her then: the girl from the road to Cairo.

“That’s fine,” said Marguerite. “Sam, this is my neighbor, Mike Ainsel. Mike, this is Samantha Black Crow, my sister.”

I don’t know you, thought Shadow desperately. You’ve never met me before. We’re total strangers. He tried to remember how he had thought snow, how easy and light that had been: this was desperate. He put out his hand and said, “Pleased to meetcha.”

She blinked, looked up at his face. A moment of puzzlement, then recognition entered her eyes and curved the corners of her mouth into a grin. “Hello,” she said.

“I’ll see how the food is doing,” said Marguerite, in the taut voice of someone who burns things in kitchens if they leave them alone and unwatched even for a moment.

Sam took off her puffy coat and her hat. “So you’re the melancholy but mysterious neighbor,” she said. “Who’da thunk it?” She kept her voice down.

“And you,” he said, “are girl Sam. Can we talk about this later?”

“If you promise to tell me what’s going on.”

“Deal.”

Leon tugged at the leg of Shadow’s pants. “Will you show me now?” he asked, and held out his quarter.

“Okay,” said Shadow. “But if I show you, you have to remember that a master magician never tells anyone how it’s done.”

“I promise,” said Leon, gravely.

Shadow took the coin in his left hand, then moved Leon’s right hand in, cupping it in his own hand, huge by comparison, showing him how to appear to take the coin in his right hand while actually leaving it in Shadow’s left hand. Then he put the coin into Leon’s left hand and made him repeat the movements on his own.

After several attempts the boy mastered the move. “Now you know half of it,” said Shadow. “Because the moves are only half of it. The other half is this: put your attention on the place where the coin ought to be. Look at the place it’s meant to be. Follow it with your eyes. If you act like it’s in your right hand, no one will even look at your left hand, no matter how clumsy you are.”

Sam watched all this with her head tipped slightly on one side, saying nothing.

“Dinner!” called Marguerite, pushing her way in from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of spaghetti in her hands. “Leon, go wash your hands.”

The food was good: crusty garlic bread, thick red sauce, good spicy meatballs. Shadow complimented Marguerite on it.

“Old family recipe,” she told him, “from the Corsican side of the family.”

“I thought you were Native American.”

“Dad’s Cherokee,” said Sam. “Mag’s mom’s father came from Corsica.” Sam was the only person in the room who was actually drinking the Cabernet. “Dad left her when Mags was ten and he moved across town. Six months after that, I was born. Mom and Dad got married when the divorce came through and I think they tried to make it work for a while, and when I was ten he went away. I think he has a ten-year attention span.”

“Well, he’s been out in Oklahoma for ten years,” said Marguerite.

“Now, my mom’s family were European Jewish,” continued Sam, “from one of those places that used to be communist and now are just chaos. I think she liked the idea of being married to a Cherokee. Fry bread and chopped liver.” Sam took another sip of the red wine.

“Her mom’s a wild woman,” said Marguerite, semi-approvingly.

“You know where she is now?” asked Sam. Shadow shook his head. “She’s in Australia. She met a guy on the Internet, who lived in Hobart. When they met in the flesh she decided he was actually kind of icky. But she really liked Tasmania. So she’s living down there, with a woman’s group, teaching them to batik cloth and things like that. Isn’t that cool? At her age?”

Shadow agreed that it was, and helped himself to more meatballs. Sam told them how all the aboriginal natives of Tasmania had been wiped out by the British, and about the human chain they made across the island to catch them which trapped only an old man and a sick boy. She told him how the Tasmanian tigers, the thylacines, had been killed by farmers, scared for their sheep, how the politicians in the 1930s noticed that the thylacines should be protected only after the last of them was dead. She finished her second glass of wine, poured her third.

“So, Mike,” said Sam, suddenly, her cheeks reddening, “tell us about your family. What are the Ainsels like?” She was smiling, and there was mischief in that smile.

“We’re real dull,” said Shadow. “None of us ever got as far as Tasmania. So you’re at school in Madison. What’s that like?”

“You know,” she said. “I’m studying art history, women’s studies, and casting my own bronzes.”

“When I grow up,” said Leon, “I’m going to do magic. Poof. Will you teach me, Mike Ainsel?”

“Sure,” said Shadow. “If your mom doesn’t mind.”

Marguerite shrugged.

Sam said, “After we’ve eaten, while you’re putting Leon to bed, Mags, I think I’m going to get Mike to take me to the Buck Stops Here for an hour or so.”

Marguerite did not shrug. Her head moved, an eyebrow raised slightly.

“I think he’s interesting,” said Sam. “And we have lots to talk about.”

Marguerite looked at Shadow, who busied himself in dabbing an imaginary blob of red sauce from his chin with a paper napkin. “Well, you’re grown-ups,” she said, in a tone of voice that did its best to imply that they weren’t, and that even if they were they shouldn’t be.

After dinner Shadow helped Sam with the washing up—he dried—and then he did a trick for Leon, counting pennies into Leon’s palm: each time Leon opened his hand and counted them there was one less coin than he had counted in. And as for the final penny—“Are you squeezing it? Tightly?”—when Leon opened his hand, he found it had transformed into a dime. Leon’s plaintive cries of “How’d you do that? Momma, how’d he do that?” followed him out into the hall.

Sam handed him his coat. “Come on,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine.

Outside it was cold.

Shadow stopped in his apartment, tossed the Minutes of the Lakeside City Council into a plastic grocery bag and brought it along. Hinzelmann might be down at the Buck, and he wanted to show him the mention of his grandfather.

They walked down the drive side by side.

He opened the garage door, and she started to laugh. “Omigod,” she said, when she saw the 4Runner. “Paul Gunther’s car. You bought Paul Gunther’s car. Omigod.”

Shadow opened the door for her. Then he went around and got in. “You know the car?”

“When I came up here two or three years ago to stay with Mags. It was me that persuaded him to paint it purple.”

“Oh,” said Shadow. “It’s good to have someone to blame.”

He drove the car out onto the street. Got out and closed the garage door. Got back into the car. Sam was looking at him oddly as he got in, as if the confidence had begun to leak out of her. He put on his seatbelt, and she said, “I’m scared. This was a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it? Getting into a car with a psycho-killer.”

“I got you safe home last time,” said Shadow.

“You killed two men,” she said. “You’re wanted by the Feds. And now I find out you’re living under an assumed name next door to my sister. Unless Mike Ainsel is your real name?”

“No,” said Shadow, and he sighed. “It’s not.” He hated saying it. It was if he was letting go of something important, abandoning Mike Ainsel by denying him, as if he were taking his leave of a friend.

“Did you kill those men?”

“No.”

“They came to my house, and said we’d been seen together. And this guy showed me photographs of you. What was his name—Mister Hat? No. Mister Town. That was him. It was like The Fugitive. But I said I hadn’t seen you.”

“Thank you.”

“So,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on. I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.”

“I don’t know any of yours,” said Shadow.

“Well, you know that it was my idea to paint this thing purple, thus forcing Paul Gunther to become such an object of scorn and derision for several counties around that he was forced to leave town entirely. We were kind of stoned,” she admitted.

“I doubt that bit of it’s much of a secret,” said Shadow. “Everyone in Lakeside must have known. It’s a stoner sort of purple.”

And then she said, very quiet, very fast, “If you’re going to kill me please don’t hurt me. I shouldn’t have come here with you. I am so dumb. I am so fucking fucking dumb. I should have run away or called the cops when I first saw you. I can identify you. Jesus. I am so dumb.”

Shadow sighed. “I’ve never killed anybody. Really. Now I’m going to take you to the Buck,” he said. “Or if you give the word, I’ll turn this car around and take you home. I’ll buy you a drink, if you’re actually old enough to drink, and I’ll buy you a soda if you’re not. Then I’ll take you back to Marguerite, deliver you safe and sound, and hope you aren’t going to call the cops.”

There was silence as they crossed the bridge.

“Who did kill those men?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I would.” She sounded angry now. He wondered if bringing the wine to the dinner had been a wise idea. Life was certainly not a Cabernet right now.

“It’s not easy to believe.”

“I,” she told him, “can believe anything. You have no idea what I can believe.”

“Really?”

“I can believe things that are true and I can believe things that aren’t true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they’re true or not. I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Marilyn Monroe and the Beatles and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen—I believe that people are perfectible, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones that look like wrinkledy lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women. I believe that the future sucks and I believe that the future rocks and I believe that one day White Buffalo Woman is going to come back and kick everyone’s ass. I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating and that the decline in good sex in America is coincident with the decline in drive-in movie theatres from state to state. I believe that all politicians are unprincipled crooks and I still believe that they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going to sink into the sea when the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and alligators and toxic waste. I believe that antibacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we’ll all be wiped out by the common cold like the Martians in War of the Worlds. I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian shaman. I believe that mankind’s destiny lies in the stars. I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it’s aerodynamically impossible for a bumblebee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there’s a cat in a box somewhere who’s alive and dead at the same time (although if they don’t ever open the box to feed it it’ll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself. I believe in a personal god who cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an impersonal god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her girlfriends and doesn’t even know that I’m alive. I believe in an empty and godless universe of causal chaos, background noise and sheer blind luck. I believe that anyone who says that sex is overrated just hasn’t done it properly. I believe that anyone who claims to know what’s going on will lie about the little things too. I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies. I believe in a woman’s right to choose, a baby’s right to live, that while all human life is sacred there’s nothing wrong with the death penalty if you can trust the legal system implicitly, and that no one but a moron would ever trust the legal system. I believe that life is a game, life is a cruel joke and that life is what happens when you’re alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it.” She stopped, out of breath.

Shadow almost took his hands off the wheel to applaud. Instead he said, “Okay. So if I tell you what I’ve learned you won’t think that I’m a nut.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Try me.”

“Would you believe that all the gods that people have ever imagined are still with us today?”

“…maybe.”

“And that there are new gods out there, gods of computers and telephones and whatever, and that they all seem to think there isn’t room for them both in the world. And that some kind of war is kind of likely.”

“And these gods killed those two men?”

“No, my wife killed those two men.”

“I thought you said your wife was dead.”

“She is.”

“She killed them before she died, then?”

“After. Don’t ask.”

She reached up a hand and flicked her hair from her forehead.

They pulled up on Main Street, outside the Buck Stops Here. The sign over the window showed a surprised-looking stag standing on its hind legs holding a glass of beer. Shadow got out. He grabbed the bag with the book in it, and got out.

“Why would they have a war?” asked Sam. “It seems kind of redundant. What is there to win?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Shadow.

“It’s easier to believe in aliens than in gods,” said Sam. “Maybe Mister Town and Mister Whatever were Men in Black, only the alien kind.”

“Maybe they were, at that,” said Shadow.

They were standing on the sidewalk outside the Buck Stops Here and Sam stopped. She looked up at Shadow, and her breath hung on the night air like a faint cloud. She said, “Just tell me you’re one of the good guys.”

“I can’t,” said Shadow. “I wish I could. But I’m doing my best.”

She looked up at him, and bit her lower lip. Then she nodded. “Good enough,” she said. “I won’t turn you in. You can buy me a beer.”

Shadow pushed the door open for her, and they were hit by a blast of heat and music, enveloped by a cloud of warmth that smelled of beer and hamburgers. They went inside.

Sam waved at some friends. Shadow nodded to a handful of people whose faces—although not their names—he remembered from the day he had spent searching for Alison McGovern, or who he had met in Mabel’s in the morning. Chad Mulligan was standing at the bar, with his arm around the shoulders of a small red-haired woman—the kissing cousin, Shadow figured. He wondered what she looked like, but she had her back to him. Chad’s hand raised in a mock salute when he saw Shadow. Shadow grinned, and waved back at him. Shadow looked around for Hinzelmann, but the old man did not seem to be there this evening. He spied a free table at the back and started walking toward it.

Then somebody began to scream.

It was a bad scream, a full-throated, seen-a-ghost hysterical scream, which silenced all conversation. Shadow looked around, certain somebody was being murdered, and then he realized that all the faces in the bar were turning toward him. Even the black cat, who slept in the window during the day, was standing up on top of the jukebox with its tail high and its back arched and was staring at Shadow.

Time slowed.

“Get him!” shouted a woman’s voice, parked on the verge of hysteria. “Oh for god’s sake, somebody stop him! Don’t let him get away! Please!” It was a voice he knew.

Nobody moved. They stared at Shadow. He stared back at them.

Chad Mulligan stepped forward, walking through the people. The small woman walked behind him warily, her eyes wide, as if she was preparing to start screaming once more. Shadow knew her. Of course he knew her.

Chad was still holding his beer, which he put down on a nearby table. He said, “Mike.”

Shadow said “Chad.”

Audrey Burton was a step behind Chad Mulligan. Her face was white, and there were tears in her eyes. She had been screaming. “Shadow,” she said. “You bastard. You murderous evil bastard.”

“Are you sure that you know this man, hon?” said Chad. He looked uncomfortable. It was obvious that he hoped that whatever was happening here was all some kind of case of mistaken identity, something that one day they might be able to laugh about.

Audrey Burton looked at him incredulously. “Are you crazy? He worked for Robbie for years. His slutty wife was my best friend. He’s wanted for murder. I had to answer questions. He’s an escaped convict.” She was way over the top, her voice trembling with suppressed hysteria, sobbing out her words like a soap actress going for a daytime Emmy. Kissing cousins, thought Shadow, unimpressed.

Nobody in the bar said a word. Chad Mulligan looked up at Shadow. “It’s probably a mistake. I’m sure we can sort this all out,” he said, sensibly. Then he said, to the bar, “It’s all fine. Nothing to worry about. We can sort this out. Everything’s fine.” Then, to Shadow. “Let’s step outside, Mike.” Quiet competence. Shadow was impressed.

“Sure,” said Shadow.

He felt a hand touch his hand, and he turned to see Sam staring at him. He smiled down at her as reassuringly as he could.

Sam looked at Shadow, then she looked around the bar at the faces staring at them. She said to Audrey Burton, “I don’t know who you are. But. You. Are. Such. A cunt.” Then she went up on tiptoes and pulled Shadow down to her, and kissed him hard on the lips, pushing her mouth against his for what felt to Shadow like several minutes, and might have been as long as five seconds in real, clock-ticking time.

It was a strange kiss, Shadow thought, as her lips pressed against his: it wasn’t intended for him. It was for the other people in the bar, to let them know that she had picked sides. It was a flag-waving kiss. Even as she kissed him, he became certain that she didn’t even like him—well, not like that.

Still, there was a tale he had read once, long ago, as a small boy: the story of a traveler who had slipped down a cliff, with man-eating tigers above him and a lethal fall below him, who managed to stop his fall halfway down the side of the cliff, holding on for dear life. There was a clump of strawberries beside him, and certain death above him and below. What should he do? went the question. And the reply was, Eat the strawberries.

The story had never made any sense to him as a boy. It did now.

So he closed his eyes, threw himself into the kiss and experienced nothing but Sam’s lips and the softness of her skin against his, sweet as a wild strawberry.

“C’mon, Mike,” said Chad Mulligan, firmly. “Please. Let’s take it outside.”

Sam pulled back. She licked her lips, and smiled, a smile that nearly reached her eyes. “Not bad,” she said. “You kiss good for a boy. Okay, go play outside.” Then she turned to Audrey Burton. “But you,” she said, “are still a cunt.”

Shadow tossed Sam his car keys. She caught them, one-handed. He walked through the bar, and stepped outside, followed by Chad Mulligan. A gentle snow had begun to fall, the flakes spinning down into the light of the neon bar sign. “You want to talk about this?” asked Chad.

“Am I under arrest?” asked Shadow.

Audrey followed them out onto the sidewalk. She looked as if she were ready to start screaming again. She said, her voice trembling, “He killed two men, Chad. The FBI came to my door. He’s a psycho. I’ll come down to the station with you, if you want.”

“You’ve caused enough trouble, ma’am,” said Shadow. He sounded tired, even to himself. “Please go away.”

“Chad? Did you hear that? He threatened me!” said Audrey.

“Get back inside, Audrey,” said Chad Mulligan. She looked as if she were about to argue, then she pressed her lips together so hard they went white, and went back into the bar.

“Would you like to comment on anything she said?” asked Chad Mulligan.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” said Shadow.

Chad nodded. “I believe you,” he said. “I’m sure we can deal with these allegations easily enough. It’s probably nothing. I have to do this. You won’t give me any trouble, will you, Mike?”

“No trouble,” said Shadow. “This is all a mistake.”

“Exactly,” said Chad. “So I figure we ought to head down to my office and sort it all out there?”

“Am I under arrest?” asked Shadow, for the second time.

“Nope,” said Chad. “Not unless you want to be. I figure, we go down to my office together, you come with me out of a sense of civic duty, and we do whatever we can to straighten all this out.”

Chad patted Shadow down, found no weapons. They got into Mulligan’s car. Again Shadow sat in the back, looking out through the metal cage. He thought, SOS. Mayday. Help. He tried to push Mulligan with his mind, as he’d once pushed a cop in Chicago—This is your old friend Mike Ainsel. You saved his life. Don’t you know how silly this is? Why don’t you just drop the whole thing?

“I figure it was good to get you out of there,” said Chad. “All you needed was some loudmouth deciding that you were Alison McGovern’s killer and we’d’ve had a lynch mob on our hands.”

“Point.”

“So you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

“Nope. Nothing to say.”

They were silent for the rest of the drive to the Lakeside police offices. The building, Chad said, as they pulled up outside it, actually belonged to the county sheriff’s department. The local police had a few rooms in there. Pretty soon the county would build something modern. For now they had to make do with what they had.

They walked inside.

“Should I call a lawyer?” asked Shadow.

“You aren’t accused of anything,” said Mulligan. “Up to you.” They pushed through some swing doors. “Take a seat over there.”

Shadow took a seat on the wooden chair with cigarette burns on the side. He felt stupid and numb. There was a small poster on the notice board, beside a large NO SMOKING sign: ENDANGERED MISSING it said. The photograph was Alison McGovern’s.

There was a wooden table, with old copies of Sports Illustrated and Newsweek on it, with the place on the cover where an address label had been pasted cut neatly away. The light was bad. The paint on the wall was yellow, but it might once have been white.

After ten minutes Chad brought him a watery cup of vending machine hot chocolate. “What’s in the bag?” he asked. And it was only then that Shadow realized he was still holding the plastic bag containing the Minutes of the Lakeside City Council.

“Old book,” said Shadow. “Your grandfather’s picture’s in here. Or great-grandfather maybe.”

“Yeah?”

Shadow flipped through the book until he found the portrait of the town council, and he pointed to the man called Mulligan. Chad chuckled. “If that don’t beat all,” he said.

Minutes passed, and hours, in that room. Shadow read two of the Sports Illustrateds and he started the Newsweek. From time to time Chad would come through, checking to see if Shadow needed to use the restroom, once to offer him a ham roll and a small packet of potato chips.

“Thanks,” said Shadow, taking them. “Am I under arrest?”

Chad sucked the air between his teeth. “Well,” he said, “we’ll know pretty soon. It doesn’t look like you came by the name Mike Ainsel legally. On the other hand, you can call yourself whatever you want in this state, if it’s not for fraudulent purposes. You just hang loose.”

“Can I make a phone call?”

“Is it a local call?”

“Long-distance.”

“It’ll save money if I put it on my calling card, otherwise you’ll just be feeding ten bucks’ worth of quarters into that thing in the hall.”

Sure, thought Shadow. And this way you’ll know the number I dialed, and you’ll probably be listening in on an extension.

“That would be great,” said Shadow. They went into an empty office, next to Chad’s. The light was slightly better in there. The number Shadow gave Chad to dial for him was that of a funeral home in Cairo, Illinois. Chad dialed it, handed Shadow the receiver. “I’ll leave you in here,” he said, and went out.

The telephone rang several times, then it was picked up.

“Jacquel and Ibis. Can I help you?”

“Hi. Mister Ibis, this is Mike Ainsel. I helped out there for a few days over Christmas.”

A moment’s hesitation, then, “Of course. Mike. How are you?”

“Not great, Mister Ibis. In a patch of trouble. About to be arrested. Hoping you’d seen my uncle about, or maybe you could get a message to him.”

“I can certainly ask around. Hold on, uh, Mike. There’s someone here who wishes a word with you.”

The phone was passed to somebody, and then a smoky female voice said, “Hi, honey. I miss you.”

He was certain he’d never heard that voice before. But he knew her. He was sure that he knew her…

Let it go, the smoky voice whispered in his mind, in a dream. Let it all go.

“Who’s that girl you were kissing, hon? You trying to make me jealous?”

“We’re just friends,” said Shadow. “I think she was trying to prove a point. How did you know she kissed me?”

“I got eyes wherever my folk walk,” she said. “You take care now, hon…” There was a moment of silence, then Mr. Ibis came back on the line and said, “Mike?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a problem getting hold of your uncle. He seems to be kind of tied up. But I’ll try and get a message to your aunt Nancy. Best of luck.” The line went dead.

Shadow sat down, expecting Chad to return. He sat in the empty office, wishing he had something to distract him. Reluctantly, he picked up the Minutes once more, opened it to somewhere in the middle of the book, and began to read.

An ordinance prohibiting expectoration on sidewalks and on the floors of public buildings, or throwing thereon tobacco in any form, was introduced and passed, eight to four, in December of 1876.

Lemmi Hautala was twelve years old and had, “it was feared, wandered away in a fit of delirium” on December the thirteenth, 1876. “A search being immediately effected, but impeded by the snows, which are blinding.” The council had voted unanimously to send the Hautala family their condolences.

The fire at Olsen’s livery stables the following week was extinguished without any injury or loss of life, human or equine.

Shadow scanned the closely printed columns. He found no further mention of Lemmi Hautala.

And then, on something slightly more than a whim, he flipped the pages forward to the winter of 1877. He found what he was looking for mentioned as an aside in the January minutes: Jessie Lovat, age not given, “a Negro child,” had vanished on the night of the twenty-eighth of December. It was believed that she might have been “abducted by traveling so-called pedlars, who were run out of town the previous week, having been discovered to be engaged in certain larcenous acts. They were said to be making for St. Paul.” Telegrams had been sent to St. Paul, but no results were reported. Condolences were not sent to the Lovat family.

Shadow was scanning the minutes of winter 1878 when Chad Mulligan knocked and entered, looking shamefaced, like a child bringing home a bad report card.

“Mister Ainsel,” he said. “Mike. I’m truly sorry about this. I appreciate how easy you’ve been about all this. Personally, I like you. But that don’t change anything, you know?”

Shadow said he knew.

“I got no choice in the matter,” said Chad, “but to place you under arrest for violating your parole.” Then Police Chief Chad Mulligan read Shadow his rights. He filled out some paperwork. He took Shadow’s prints. He walked him down the hall to the county jail, on the other side of the building.

There was a long counter and several doorways on one side of the room, two holding cells and a doorway on the other. One of the cells was occupied—a man slept on a cement bed under a thin blanket. The other was empty.

There was a sleepy-looking woman in a brown uniform behind the counter, watching Jay Leno on a small white portable television. She took the papers from Chad, and signed for Shadow. Chad hung around, filled in more papers. The woman came around the counter, patted Shadow down, took all his possessions—wallet, coins, front door key, book, watch—and put them on the counter, then gave him a plastic bag with orange clothes in it and told him to go into the open cell and change into them. He could keep his own underwear and socks. He went in and changed into the orange clothes and the shower footwear. It stank evilly in there. The orange top he pulled over his head had LUMBER COUNTY JAIL written on the back, in large black letters.

The metal toilet in the cell had backed up, and was filled to the brim with a brown stew of liquid feces and sour, beerish urine.

Shadow came back out, gave the woman his clothes, which she put into the plastic bag with the rest of his possessions. She had him sign for them. Shadow signed for them as Mike Ainsel, although he found that he was already thinking of Mike Ainsel as someone he had liked well enough in the past but would no longer be seeing in the future. He had thumbed through the wallet before he handed it over. “You take care of this,” he had said to the woman. “My whole life is in here.” The woman took the wallet from him, and assured him that it would be safe with them. She asked Chad if that wasn’t true, and Chad, looking up from the last of his paperwork, said Liz was telling the truth, they’d never lost a prisoner’s possessions yet.

Shadow had slipped the four hundred-dollar bills that he had palmed from the wallet into his socks, when he had changed, along with the silver Liberty dollar he had palmed as he had emptied his pockets.

“Say,” Shadow asked, when he came out. “Would it be okay if I finished reading the book?”

“Sorry, Mike. Rules are rules,” said Chad.

Liz put Shadow’s possessions in a bag in the back room. Chad said he’d leave Shadow in Officer Bute’s capable hands. Liz looked tired and unimpressed. Chad left. The telephone rang, and Liz—Officer Bute—answered it. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. No problem. Okay. No problem. Okay.” She put down the phone and made a face.

“Problem?” asked Shadow.

“Yes. Not really. Kinda. They’re sending someone up from Milwaukee to collect you. Okay, do you have any history of medical problems, diabetes, anything like that?”

“No,” said Shadow. “Nothing like that. Why is that a problem?”

“Because I got to keep you in here with me for three hours,” she said. “And the cell over there”—she pointed to the cell by the door, with the sleeping man in it—“that’s occupied. He’s on suicide watch. I shouldn’t put you in with him. But it’s not worth the trouble to sign you in to the county and then sign you out again.” She shook her head. “And you don’t want to go in there”—she pointed to the empty cell in which he’d changed his clothes—“because the can is shot. It stinks in there, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. It was gross.”

“It’s common humanity, that’s what it is. The sooner we get into the new facilities, it can’t be too soon for me. One of the women we had in yesterday must’ve flushed a tampon away. I tell ’em not to. We got bins for that. They clog the pipes. Every damn tampon down that john costs the county a hundred bucks in plumbers’ fees. So, I can keep you out here, if I cuff you. Or you can go in the cell.” She looked at him. “Your call,” she said.

“I’m not crazy about them,” he said. “But I’ll take the cuffs.”

She took a pair from her utility belt, then patted the semi-automatic in its holster, as if to remind him that it was there. “Hands behind your back,” she said.

The cuffs were a tight fit: he had big wrists. Then she put hobbles on his ankles, and sat him down on a bench on the far side of the counter, against the wall. “Now,” she said. “You don’t bother me, and I won’t bother you.” She tilted the television so that he could see it.

“Thanks,” he said.

“When we get our new offices,” she said, “there won’t be none of this nonsense.”

The Tonight Show finished. Jay and his guests grinned the world good night. An episode of Cheers began. Shadow had never really watched Cheers. He had only ever seen one episode of it—the one where Coach’s daughter comes to the bar—although he had seen that several times. Shadow had noticed that you only ever catch one episode of shows you don’t watch, over and over, years apart; he thought it must be some kind of cosmic law.

Officer Liz Bute sat back in her chair. She was not obviously dozing, but she was by no means awake, so she did not notice when the gang at Cheers stopped talking and getting off one-liners and just started staring out of the screen at Shadow.

Diane, the blonde barmaid who fancied herself an intellectual, was the first to talk. “Shadow,” she said. “We were so worried about you. You’d fallen off the world. It’s so good to see you again—albeit in bondage and orange couture.”

“What I figure, is, the thing to do,” pontificated bar-bore Cliff, “is to escape in hunting season, when everybody’s wearing orange anyway.”

Shadow said nothing.

“Ah, cat got your tongue, I see,” said Diane. “Well, you’ve led us a merry chase!”

Shadow looked away. Officer Liz had begun, gently, to snore. Carla, the little waitress, snapped, “Hey, jerk-wad! We interrupt this broadcast to show you something that’s going to make you piss in your friggin’ pants. You ready?”

The screen flickered and went black. The words “LIVE FEED” pulsated in white at the bottom left of the screen. A subdued female voice said, in voice-over, “It’s certainly not too late to change to the winning side. But you know, you also have the freedom to stay just where you are. That’s what it means to be an American. That’s the miracle of America. Freedom to believe means the freedom to believe the wrong thing, after all. Just as freedom of speech gives you the right to stay silent.”

The picture now showed a street scene. The camera lurched forward, in the manner of hand-held video cameras in real-life documentaries.

A man with thinning hair, a tan, and a faintly hangdog expression filled the frame. He was standing by a wall sipping a cup of coffee from a plastic cup. He looked into the camera and said, “Terrorism is too easy a word to bandy about. It means that the real terrorists hide behind weasel-words, like freedom fighter, when they are murdering scum, pure and simple. It doesn’t make our job any easier, but at least we know we’re making a difference. We’re risking our lives to make a difference.”

Shadow recognized the voice. He had been inside the man’s head once. Mr. Town sounded different from inside—his voice was deeper, more resonant—but there was no mistaking it.

The cameras pulled back to show that Mr. Town was standing outside a brick building on an American street. Above the door was a set-square and compass framing the letter G.

“In position,” said somebody off-screen.

“Let’s see if the cameras inside the hall are working,” said the female voice-over voice. It was the kind of reassuring voice they use on commercials to try to sell you things only people as smart as you are going to take this opportunity to buy.

The words LIVE FEED continued to blink at the bottom left of the screen. Now the picture showed the interior of a small hall: the room was underlit. Two men sat at a table at the far end of the room. One of them had his back to the camera. The camera zoomed in to them awkwardly, in a series of jagged movements. For a moment they were out of focus, and then they became sharp once more. The man facing the camera got up and began to pace, like a bear on a chain. It was Wednesday. He looked as if, on some level, he was enjoying this. As they came into focus the sound came on with a pop.

The man with his back to the screen was saying, “—we are offering is the chance to end this, here and now, with no more bloodshed, no more aggression, no more pain, no more loss of life. Isn’t that worth giving up a little?”

Wednesday stopped pacing and turned. His nostrils flared. “First,” he growled, “you have to understand that you are asking me to speak for all of us, for each and every individual in my position across this country. Which is manifestly nonsensical. They will do what they will do, and I have no say in it. Secondly, what on earth makes you think that I believe that you people are going to keep your word?”

The man with his back to the camera moved his head. “You do yourself an injustice,” he said. “Obviously you people have no leaders. But you’re the one they listen to. They pay attention to you, Mister Cargo. And as for keeping my word, well, these preliminary talks are being filmed and broadcast live,” and he gestured back toward the camera. “Some of your people are watching as we speak. Others will see videotapes. Others will be told, by those they trust. The camera does not lie.”

“Everybody lies,” said Wednesday.

Shadow recognized the voice of the man with his back to the camera. It was Mr. World, the one who had spoken to Town on the cell phone while Shadow was in Town’s head.

“You don’t believe,” said Mr. World, “that we will keep our word?”

“I think your promises were made to be broken and your oaths to be forsworn. But I will keep my word.”

“Safe conduct is safe conduct,” said Mr. World, “and a flag of truce is what we agreed. I should tell you, by the way, that your young protégé is once more in our custody.”

Wednesday snorted. “No,” he said. “He’s not.”

“We were discussing the ways to deal with the coming paradigm shift. We don’t have to be enemies. Do we?”

Wednesday still seemed shaken. He said, “I will do whatever is in my power…”

Shadow noticed something strange about the image of Wednesday on the television screen. A red glint burned on his left eye, the glass one. The eye burned with a scarlet light. The glint left a phosphor-dot after-image as he moved. Wednesday seemed unaware of it.

“It’s a big country,” said Wednesday, marshaling his thoughts. He moved his head and the scarlet glitter-blur slipped to his cheek, a red laser-pointer dot. Then it edged up to his glass eye once more. “There is room for—”

There was a bang, muted by the television speakers, and the side of Wednesday’s head exploded. His body tumbled backward.

Mr. World stood up, his back still to the camera, and walked out of shot.

“Let’s see that again, in slow motion this time,” said the announcer’s voice, reassuringly.

The words LIVE FEED became REPLAY. Slowly now the red laser pointer traced its bead onto Wednesday’s glass eye, and once again the side of his face dissolved into a cloud of blood. Freeze frame.

“Yes, it’s still God’s Own Country,” said the announcer, a news reporter pronouncing the final tag line. “The only question is, which gods?”

Another voice—Shadow thought that it was Mr. World’s, it had that same half-familiar quality—said, “We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.”

On Cheers Coach assured his daughter that she was truly beautiful, just like her mother.

The telephone rang, and Officer Liz sat up with a start. She picked it up. Said, “Okay. Okay. Yes. Okay, I’ll be over there,” put the phone down and got up from behind the counter. She said to Shadow, “Sorry. I’m going to have to put you in the cell. Don’t use the can. If you need to go, press the buzzer by the door, and I’ll come down as soon as I can and escort you to the restrooms out back. The Lafayette sheriff’s department should be here to collect you soon.”

She removed the cuffs and the hobble, locked him into the holding cell. The smell was worse, now that the door was closed.

Shadow sat down on the concrete bed, slipped the Liberty dollar from his sock and began moving it from finger to palm, from position to position, from hand to hand, his only aim to keep the coin from being seen by anyone who might look in. He was passing the time. He was numb.

He missed Wednesday, then, sudden and deep. He missed the man’s confidence, his attitude. His conviction.

He opened his hand, looked down at Lady Liberty, a silver profile. He closed his fingers over the coin, held it tightly. He wondered if he’d get to be one of those guys who got life for something they didn’t do. If he even made it that far. From what he’d seen of Mr. World and Mr. Town, they would have little trouble pulling him out of the system. Perhaps he’d suffer an unfortunate accident on the way to the next holding facility. He could be shot while making a break for it. It did not seem at all unlikely.

There was a stir of activity in the room on the other side of the glass. Officer Liz came back in. She pressed a button, a door that Shadow could not see opened, and a black deputy in a brown sheriff’s uniform entered and walked briskly over to the desk.

Shadow slipped the dollar coin back into his sock, pushing it down toward his ankle.

The new deputy handed over some papers, Liz scanned them and signed. Chad Mulligan came in, said a few words to the new man, then he unlocked the cell door and walked inside.

“It stinks in here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Okay. Folk are here to pick you up. Seems you’re a matter of national security. You know that?”

“It’ll make a great front-page story for the Lakeside News,” said Shadow.

Chad looked at him without expression. “That a drifter got picked up for parole violations? Not much of a story.”

“So that’s the way it is?”

“That’s what they tell me,” said Chad Mulligan. Shadow put his hands in front of him this time, and Chad cuffed him. Chad locked on the ankle hobbles, and a rod from the cuffs to the hobbles.

Shadow thought, They’ll take me outside. Maybe I can make a break for it, some kind of break for it, in hobbles and cuffs and lightweight orange clothes, out into the snow, and even as he thought it he knew how stupid and hopeless it was.

Chad walked him out into the office. Liz had turned the TV off now. The black deputy looked him over. “He’s a big guy,” he said to Chad. Liz passed the new deputy the paper bag with Shadow’s possessions in it, and he signed for it.

Chad looked at Shadow, then at the deputy. He said to the deputy, quietly, but loudly enough for Shadow to hear, “Look. I just want to say, I’m not comfortable with the way this is happening.”

The deputy nodded. His voice was deep, and cultured: the voice of a man who could as easily organize a press briefing as a massacre. “You’ll have to take it up with the appropriate authorities, sir. Our job is simply to bring him in.”

Chad made a sour face. He turned to Shadow. “Okay,” said Chad. “Through that door and into the sally port.”

“What?”

“Out there. Where the car is.”

Liz unlocked the doors. “You make sure that orange uniform comes right back here,” she said to the deputy. “The last felon we sent down to Lafayette, we never saw the uniform again. They cost the county money.” They walked Shadow out to the sally port, where a car was waiting. It wasn’t a sheriff’s-department car. It was a black town car. Another deputy, a grizzled white guy with a moustache, stood by the car, smoking a cigarette. He crushed it out underfoot as they came close, and opened the back door for Shadow.

Shadow sat down, awkwardly, his movements hampered by the cuffs and the hobble. There was no grille between the back and the front of the car.

The two deputies climbed into the front of the car. The black deputy started the motor. They waited for the sally port door to open.

“Come on, come on,” said the black deputy, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

Chad Mulligan tapped on the side window. The white deputy glanced at the driver, then he lowered the window. “This is wrong,” said Chad. “I just wanted to say that.”

“Your comments have been noted, and will be conveyed to the appropriate authorities,” said the driver.

The doors to the outside world opened. The snow was still falling, dizzying into the car’s headlights. The driver put his foot on the gas, and they were heading back down the street and onto Main Street.

“You heard about Wednesday?” said the driver. His voice sounded different, now, older, and familiar. “He’s dead.”

“Yeah. I know,” said Shadow. “I saw it on TV.”

“Those fuckers,” said the white officer. It was the first thing he had said, and his voice was rough and accented and, like the driver’s, it was a voice that Shadow knew. “I tell you, they are fuckers, those fuckers.”

“Thanks for coming to get me,” said Shadow.

“Don’t mention it,” said the driver. In the light of an oncoming car his face already looked older. He looked smaller, too. The last time Shadow had seen him he had been wearing lemon-yellow gloves and a check jacket. “We were in Milwaukee. Still had to drive like demons when Ibis called.”

“You think we let them lock you up and send you to the chair, when I’m still waiting to break your head with my hammer?” asked the white deputy gloomily, fumbling in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. His accent was east European.

“The real shit will hit the fan in an hour or less,” said Mr. Nancy, looking more like himself with each moment, “when they really turn up to collect you. We’ll pull over before we get to Highway 53 and get you out of those shackles and back into your own clothes.” Czernobog held up a handcuff key and smiled.

“I like the moustache,” said Shadow. “Suits you.”

Czernobog stroked it with a yellowed finger. “Thank you.”

“Wednesday,” said Shadow. “Is he really dead? This isn’t some kind of trick is it?”

He realized that he had been holding on to some kind of hope, foolish though it was. But the expression on Nancy’s face told him all he needed to know, and the hope was gone.

Cold it was, and dark, when the vision came to her, for in the far north daylight was a gray dim time in the middle of the day that came, and went, and came again: an interlude between darknesses.

They were not a large tribe as these things were counted then: nomads of the Northern Plains. They had a god, who was the skull of a mammoth, and the hide of a mammoth fashioned into a rough cloak. Nunyunnini they called him. When they were not traveling, he rested on a wooden frame, at man height.

She was the holy woman of the tribe, the keeper of its secrets, and her name was Atsula, the fox. Atsula walked before the two tribesmen who carried their god on long poles, draped with bearskins, that it should not be seen by profane eyes, nor at times when it was not holy.

They roamed the tundra, with their tents. The finest of the tents was made of caribou-hide, and it was the holy tent, and there were four of them inside it: Atsula, the priestess, Gugwei, the tribal elder, Yanu, the war leader, and Kalanu, the scout. She called them there, the day after she had her vision.

Atsula scraped some lichen into the fire, then she threw in dried leaves with her withered left hand: they smoked, with an eye-stinging gray smoke, and gave off an odor that was sharp and strange. Then she took a wooden cup from the wooden platform, and she passed it to Gugwei. The cup was half-filled with a dark yellow liquid.

Atsula had found the pungh mushrooms—each with seven spots, only a true holy woman could find a seven-spotted mushroom—and had picked them at the dark of the moon, and dried them on a string of deer-cartilage.

Yesterday, before she slept, she had eaten the three dried mushroom caps. Her dreams had been confused and fearful things, of bright lights moving fast, of rock mountains filled with lights spearing upward like icicles. In the night she had woken, sweating, and needing to make water. She squatted over the wooden cup and filled it with her urine. Then she placed the cup outside the tent, in the snow, and returned to sleep.

When she woke, she picked the lumps of ice out from the wooden cup, as her mother had taught her, leaving a darker, more concentrated liquid behind.

It was this liquid she passed around the skin tent, first to Gugwei, then to Yanu and to Kalanu. Each of them took a large gulp of the liquid, then Atsula took the final draught. She swallowed it, and poured what was left on the ground in front of their god, a libation to Nunyunnini.

They sat in the smoky tent, waiting for their god to speak. Outside, in the darkness, the wind wailed and breathed.

Kalanu, the scout, was a woman who dressed and walked as a man: she had even taken Dalani, a fourteen-year-old maiden, to be her wife. Kalanu blinked her eyes tightly, then she got up and walked over to the mammoth-skull. She pulled the mammoth-hide cloak over herself, and stood so her head was inside the mammoth-skull.

“There is evil in the land,” said Nunyunnini. “Evil, such that if you stay here, in the land of your mothers and your mother’s mothers, you shall all perish.”

The three listeners grunted.

“Is it the slavers? Or the great wolves?” asked Gugwei, whose hair was long and white, and whose face was as wrinkled as the gray skin of a thorn tree.

“It is not the slavers,” said Nunyunnini, old stone-hide. “It is not the great wolves.”

“Is it a famine? Is a famine coming?” asked Gugwei.

Nunyunnini was silent. Kalanu came out of the skull and waited with the rest of them.

Gugwei put on the mammoth-hide cloak and put his head inside the skull. “It is not a famine as you know it,” said Nunyunnini, through Gugwei’s mouth, “although a famine will follow.”

“Then what is it?” asked Yanu. “I am not afraid. I will stand against it. We have spears, and we have throwing rocks. Let a hundred mighty warriors come against us, still we shall prevail. We shall lead them into the marshes, and split their skulls with our rocks.”

“It is not a man thing,” said Nunyunnini, in Gugwei’s old voice. “It will come from the skies, and none of your spears or your rocks will protect you.”

“How can we protect ourselves?” asked Atsula. “I have seen flames in the skies. I have heard a noise louder than ten thunderbolts. I have seen forests flattened and rivers boil.”

“Ai…,” said Nunyunnini, but he said no more. Gugwei came out of the skull, bending stiffly, for he was an old man, and his knuckles were swollen and knotted.

There was silence. Atsula threw more leaves on the fire, and the smoke made their eyes tear.

Then Yanu strode to the mammoth-head, put the cloak about his broad shoulders, put his head inside the skull. His voice boomed. “You must journey,” said Nunyunnini. “You must travel to sun-ward. Where the sun rises, there you will find a new land, where you will be safe. It will be a long journey: the moon will swell and empty, die and live, twice, and there will be slavers and beasts, but I shall guide you and keep you safe, if you travel toward the sunrise.”

Atsula spat on the mud of the floor, and said, “No.” She could feel the god staring at her. “No,” she said. “You are a bad god to tell us this. We will die. We will all die, and then who will be left to carry you from high place to high place, to raise your tent, to oil your great tusks with fat?”

The god said nothing. Atsula and Yanu exchanged places. Atsula’s face stared out through the yellowed mammoth-bone.

“Atsula has no faith,” said Nunyunnini in Atsula’s voice. “Atsula shall die before the rest of you enter the new land, but the rest of you shall live. Trust me: there is a land to the east that is manless. This land shall be your land and the land of your children and your children’s children, for seven generations, and seven sevens. But for Atsula’s faithlessness, you would have kept it forever. In the morning, pack your tents and your possessions, and walk toward the sunrise.”

And Gugwei and Yanu and Kalanu bowed their heads and exclaimed at the power and wisdom of Nunyunnini.

The moon swelled and waned and swelled and waned once more. The people of the tribe walked east, toward the sunrise, struggling through the icy winds, which numbed their exposed skin. Nunyunnini had promised them truly: they lost no one from the tribe on the journey, save for a woman in childbirth, and women in childbirth belong to the moon, not to Nunyunnini.

They crossed the land-bridge.

Kalanu had left them at first light to scout the way. Now the sky was dark, and Kalanu had not returned, but the night sky was alive with lights, knotting and flickering and winding, flux and pulse, white and green and violet and red. Atsula and her people had seen the northern lights before, but they were still frightened by them, and this was a display like they had never seen before.

Kalanu returned to them, as the lights in the sky formed and flowed.

“Sometimes,” she said to Atsula, “I feel that I could simply spread my arms and fall into the sky.”

“That is because you are a scout,” said Atsula, the priestess. “When you die, you shall fall into the sky and become a star, to guide us as you guide us in life.”

“There are cliffs of ice to the east, high cliffs,” said Kalanu, her raven-black hair worn long, as a man would wear it. “We can climb them, but it will take many days.”

“You shall lead us safely,” said Atsula. “I shall die at the foot of the cliff, and that shall be the sacrifice that takes you into the new lands.”

To the west of them, back in the lands from which they had come, where the sun had set hours before, there was a flash of sickly yellow light, brighter than lightning, brighter than daylight: a burst of pure brilliance that forced the folk on the land bridge to cover their eyes and spit and exclaim. Children began to wail.

“That is the doom that Nunyunnini warned us of,” said Gugwei the old. “Surely he is a wise god and a mighty one.”

“He is the best of all gods,” said Kalanu. “In our new land we shall raise him up on high, and we shall polish his tusks and skull with fish oil and animal fat, and we shall tell our children, and our children’s children, and our seventh children’s children, that Nunyunnini is the mightiest of all gods, and shall never be forgotten.”

“Gods are great,” said Atsula, slowly, as if she were comprehending a great secret. “But the heart is greater. For it is from our hearts they come, and to our hearts they shall return…”

And there is no telling how long she might have continued in this blasphemy, had it not been interrupted in a manner that brooked no argument.

The roar that erupted from the west was so loud that ears bled, that they could hear nothing for some time, temporarily blinded and deafened but alive, knowing that they were luckier than the tribes to the west of them.

“It is good,” said Atsula, but she could not hear the words inside her head.

Atsula died at the foot of the cliffs when the spring sun was at its zenith. She did not live to see the New World, and the tribe walked into those lands with no holy woman.

They scaled the cliffs, and they went south and west, until they found a valley with fresh water, and rivers that teemed with silver fish, and deer that had never seen man before, and were so tame it was necessary to spit and to apologize to their spirits before killing them.

Dalani gave birth to three boys, and some said that Kalanu had performed the final magic and could do the man-thing with her bride; while others said that old Gugwei was not too old to keep a young bride company when her husband was away; and certainly once Gugwei died, Dalani had no more children.

And the ice times came and the ice times went, and the people spread out across the land, and formed new tribes and chose new totems for themselves: ravens and foxes and ground sloths and great cats and buffalo, each a taboo beast that marked a tribe’s identity, each beast a god.

The mammoths of the new lands were bigger, and slower, and more foolish than the mammoths of the Siberian plains, and the pungh mushrooms, with their seven spots, were not to be found in the new lands, and Nunyunnini did not speak to the tribe any longer.

And in the days of the grandchildren of Dalani and Kalanu’s grandchildren, a band of warriors, members of a big and prosperous tribe, returning from a slaving expedition in the north to their home in the south, found the valley of the First People: they killed most of the men, and they took the women and many of the children captive.

One of the children, hoping for clemency, took them to a cave in the hills, in which they found a mammoth-skull, the tattered remnants of a mammoth-skin cloak, a wooden cup, and the preserved head of Atsula the oracle.

While some of the warriors of the new tribe were for taking the sacred objects away with them, stealing the gods of the First People and owning their power, others counseled against it, saying that they would bring nothing but ill luck, and the malice of their own god (for these were the people of a raven tribe, and ravens are jealous gods).

So they threw the objects down the side of the hill, into a deep ravine, and took the survivors of the First People with them on their long journey south. And the raven tribes, and the fox tribes, grew more powerful in the land, and soon Nunyunnini was entirely forgotten.