To the Vanishing Point

2

It took a moment for Alicia to react. She made his name into an extended question. "Frank?"

He nodded. "Some fool hitchhiking."

She leaned forward. The solitary shape was unmistakable now, motionless as a monument. "You aren’t thinking of picking him up?"

"Why not? Everybody’s so bored, maybe some company would add a little excitement. I could do with some conversation."

His wife didn’t try to conceal her anxiety. "What kind of person would be hitchhiking way out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Someone trying to get to somewhere." He took a perverse delight in her obvious unease. "That’s something that would be interesting to find out. Besides, I wouldn’t leave a dog on the side of the road on a day like this." He squinted as he rode down on the brake. "Don’t see any luggage. Maybe he had a breakdown. Good thing we came along."

"Frank, I don’t know if this is such a good idea."

Steven had his nose pressed against the window. Conscious that something out of the ordinary was taking place, Wendy had removed her headphones and had actually turned off her Walkman.

If he hadn’t been so fed up with his family, Frank would ordinarily have cruised on past, but he was ready to do anything to shake them out of their lethargy. Now he found himself wondering if maybe Alicia wasn’t right and he was about to do something foolish. Certainly the absence of any luggage was peculiar. He scanned the ground bordering the road, but there was no place for malign accomplices to hide. The skinny bushes concealed nothing. There were no large boulders and the ground was flat.

If his supposition was correct and the hitcher’s vehicle had broken down somewhere close by, their ride-to-be had already disobeyed the first rule of desert survival: namely, to stay with your car. The people who died out here were the ones who naively thought they could walk to safety. No sign of a stalled vehicle, though. An off-road machine, maybe, stuck somewhere out in the sand. He strained but could see only isolated plant growth spotting dirty beige terrain. A couple of beer cans slowly disintegrated in the sun amid a tiara of crumpled plastic packaging.

As he pulled over, the hitchhiker turned to face them. The right hand which had been extended in the classic hitcher’s pose, hand out, thumb up, now fell to the figure’s side. Wendy had come forward to lean between her parents for a better view.

"How old is he?"

Frank’s eyes widened slightly. It was Alicia who replied. "It doesn’t look like a he, dear." She turned to her husband. "I apologize, Frank."

"What?" His eyes followed the lone figure as it walked slowly toward them.

"It’s probably a good thing you stopped. She’s in trouble or she wouldn’t be out here alone like this. I wonder what happened. I wonder where her car is?"

"Bet she had a fight with her boyfriend," said Wendy. "Bet he kicked her out and left her here."

"If so, it wasn’t long ago." Frank stopped staring. "She’s not even sweating."

Alicia eyed him curiously. "I didn’t think your eyesight was that good, dear."

Frank ignored the gentle dig. "Wendy, get the door for the lady."

His daughter nodded vigorously and moved to do so.

Compared to the air-conditioned interior of the motor home, the air that came flowing through the open door had the force of blast furnace exhaust. Wendy automatically retreated from it. As she stepped back, the hitchhiker climbed in, thoughtfully closing the door behind her.

She was Wendy’s height and slim as a reed. It was impossible to tell if the purple and gold scarf she wore wound around her head was a separate piece of clothing or merely part of her sari-like dress. Wispy folds of multihued silk wrapped round and round her body, tenuous as cirrus clouds. They moved slightly in the blast of air-conditioning, like sleeping snakes. There was just a hint of dark skin beneath, and none of undergarments. Even as he stared, a layer of silk fell into place, leaving Frank to wonder if he’d seen anything at all.

He’d been wrong about something else. The hitchhiker had only looked cool. Beads of sweat hung like flattened pearls from her dark forehead. She used a hand to wipe them away. As she did so she moved some of the silk, revealing thin, brilliantly blond hair. It fell almost to her feet, a golden cascade incongruous against her olivine skin.

"No wonder she’s hot," Alicia murmured. "Look at all that hair."

The woman must have overheard because she turned to look at them and smiled. Frank saw she had violet eyes. The only other woman Frank knew of who had violet eyes was Elizabeth Taylor. He’d always suspected it to be a trick of glamour photography. But this young woman’s eyes were a light violet, the color of tanzanite. They were too large for that small, heart-shaped face, like the eyes of those Keene paintings that had been so popular back in the sixties. Big-eyed children and dogs. The mouth was tiny, the nose and chin almost nonexistent. Everything was overwhelmed by those eyes.

Her head and neck appeared almost too thin to support the weight of all that hair, but closer inspection revealed that while extraordinarily long, those gleaming blond tresses were thin and wispy, the ends trailing off to near invisibility.

"It’s not so very uncomfortable," she said in reply to Alicia’s observation. Her voice was high-pitched, ethereal. Not frail. Just soft and distant.

Quit staring, Frank told himself. She’s just a small-boned little gal. No pointed ears and no tendrils sprouting from her forehead. Not much to her at all. What was it Spencer Tracy had said about Katharine Hepburn? "Not much, but what there is is choice." He felt himself flush, turned back to face the dash.

"I really like your clothes." Diplomacy is an alien conception to sixteen-year-olds. "And, oh, wow, check out these nails, Mom!" Wendy’s eyes were wide, admiring.

The woman smiled and held up her right hand. Frank saw that each of her inch-long fingernails was painted a different iridescent hue. She raised her other hand, holding them side by side, the ends of her fingers forming a perfect rainbow from left thumb to right. Placed next to one another like that, the colors appeared to flow into each other. He wondered if her toenails were similarly decorated. Her feet were concealed by slipperlike shoes.

He was still trying to reconcile the Mediterranean coloring with that blond hair. Blondes were inordinately popular among his Hispanic employees. While her coloring it was a possibility, the pale golden hue looked natural to him. Somehow he doubted a woman wanting to dye her hair would take the color to such an extreme. He hunted in vain for buttons, zippers, hooks, saw not even a safety pin, and wondered how the loose assemblage of veils stayed in place.

Wendy hadn’t stopped talking. "Do you do your own makeup?"

"Makeup? Oh, you mean these." She held out one hand. Light exploded off the glittering, almost transparent polish. "I do most everything myself."

That’s when Frank took note of the lavender eye shadow and faintly purple lipstick. On this woman it looked right, though he’d never been big on makeup himself. Neither had Alicia, though Wendy was a real bear on the subject. Good thing the woman’s skin wasn’t as fair as her hair, caught out on a desert highway the way she’d been. It struck him that the thin silk would protect its wearer from the sun’s rays while still allowing any breezes to circulate.

She had backed up next to the couch. "May I sit?"

"Sure, sit anywhere," Frank told her expansively. "Don’t mind the kids. They spend most of their time on the floor anyway."

The couch was directly behind Alicia’s chair. Alicia swiveled around to face their guest, who extracted a tortoise-shell compact from the folds of her clothing and began to comb her hair.

"Could I do that?" asked Wendy eagerly.

"Thank you, but not now. Perhaps later." She was working on the ends, untangling them with the comb while the children gaped at her.

It dawned on Frank there was no reason to sit there idling in the middle of the desert with the air conditioner running on high. He checked the sideview mirror, pulled back out into the slow lane.

"Car break down?" The big Winnebago slowly crawled back toward cruising speed.

"No. I have been traveling with the helpful, as you found me, for quite a long time."

Alicia sounded disapproving. "You shouldn’t be doing that. Especially way out here, and without any luggage."

"I always like to travel light." Their guest shook her head. A simple necklace of purple beads flashed light from her throat. Frank struggled to remember his high school geology. Amethyst, most likely. Unfaceted, it would be very inexpensive. She wore a matching ring on the long finger of her right hand. Hardly a target for prospective muggers, he mused.

That’s when he realized she wasn’t even carrying a purse. That was more than just peculiar. He could rationalize the absence of baggage, but he’d never seen a woman without a purse. Not even a poor woman down on her luck.

Inquiring would have been impolite and, besides, he was sure Alicia would notice it eventually and ask.

"Neat outfit," Wendy was saying. "I’ll bet it’s comfortable."

"Comfortable enough." The woman looked past her. "Might you have something to drink? I am a little thirsty."

"Inconsiderate of me." Alicia was honestly upset with herself. "I should have asked you right away."

"I’ll get it." Wendy moved to the fridge. "What would you like? We’ve got Coke, cherry RC, kiwi soda, ginger ale, orange juice."

"Some cold water would be most welcome," said the woman gratefully.

"How 'bout some lemonade?" chirped Steven. "Hey, I’d like some lemonade."

"Get it yourself." Wendy made a face at him, replaced it with a wide smile as she looked back at their guest. "With ice?"

"Ice would be wonderful." The woman looked around, taking in her surroundings for the first time. "These odd vehicles and their luxuries. Quite extraordinary." Her voice trailed away, each word not so much ending as fading like a puff from a silver flute.

"You interested in cars?" Frank asked conversationally.

"I am interested in everything."

Frank set the cruise control and relaxed. In a little while they’d reach Baker, pull off, and find someplace to have lunch. By tilting the overhead rearview mirror down slightly he could watch as Wendy handed the woman a plastic glass full of cold water. Ice cubes clinked against the yellow acrylic. The hitchhiker sipped delicately instead of gulping. She reminded Frank of a doe lapping at a forest stream. He knew about deer drinking from streams because his chain of sporting goods stores sold a lot of hunting rifles. His gaze traveled down their visitor’s body, a petite enigma wrapped in rainbow silks.

Knock it off, he told himself. This isn’t a wholesalers' convention and your wife and kids are with you. You’re just giving a stranger a lift. That she happens to be uncommonly beautiful has nothing to do with it. Your thoughts were virtuous before you got a look at her. Keep 'em that way.

As the woman sipped ice water, Wendy reached out to finger a trailing flap of orange fantasy.

"Ow — hey!" She drew back her fingers, shaking her hand. "I got a shock."

"Static electricity." The woman lowered her glass and smiled reassuringly. "Touch again if you want."

Wendy looked uncertain. "You sure?"

"It’ll be okay. Go ahead."

This time Wendy was able to rub the thin material between thumb and forefinger. "It’s so soft. Where’d you find it? Rodeo Drive, I bet. Or maybe San Marino? There are some neat new shops in San Marino."

The woman shook her head. "Not on Rodeo Drive and not in San Marino."

Frank struggled to place their passenger. She didn’t look a day over twenty-six, but her manner of speaking suggested someone a lot older. Or non-American.

"It’s really rad. How many pieces in it?"

The hitchhiker glanced down at herself. "Just one piece."

"Aw, c’mon! Really? How does it stay in place, like, here?" Wendy tugged at the waistband of her jeans.

"Practice, and knowing what you’re doing." Abruptly she turned her head to look forward, straight at the rearview mirror that was providing Frank with his view.

There was a brief flash of light, as though the mirror had unexpectedly jerked around to catch the sun. Frank blinked. Reflection from something in the road, he told himself. She hadn’t moved.

"I want to thank you, Mr….?"

"Sonderberg. Frank Sonderberg. My wife Alicia, our daughter Wendy, son Steven."

"Hi," said the boy.

"Hello yourself, little man." Steven beamed.

"How long were you waiting before we picked you up?" Wendy wanted to know.

"Quite a while. I was beginning to think no one would stop for me, and my destination is too far to walk."

"Anywhere out here is too far to walk." Wendy shifted on the couch. "Couldn’t you have found some shade?"

"There is no shade out there." The woman’s voice was solemn. "No place to hide."

"You’re damn lucky we did stop." Frank glanced at his wife. "Told you we were doing a good deed. How far you going?" he called out.

"We’re going to Las Vegas," said Steven helpfully. "I’m gonna play video games all day and go swimming until I fall asleep!"

"You are not going to play video games all day, Steven." Alicia tried hard not to make it sound reproachful. "You need to get some exercise."

You need to get off your fat little butt once in a while, Frank murmured to himself.

"You wouldn’t be interested in where I’m going," the hitchhiker told him.

"I would!" said Steven.

The woman looked back down at him. "You might at that." She held her glass out to Wendy. "Perhaps I will have some of that lemonade."

"Sure. We have lots."

"What am I thinking of?" The woman rose from the couch in a single, flowing motion. "Let me help." She followed Wendy back into the compact kitchen. Alicia watched them dig the lemonade out of the refrigerator, turned her chair toward her husband.

"Frank, I wonder if we did the right thing."

"What …?" He lowered his voice. "What are you talking about? You saw her, standing out there all by herself. If we hadn’t picked her up she could be in serious trouble by tonight." He gestured at the road. "Rides look about as scarce as she said they were."

"Some trucker would have stopped for her," Alicia declared with conviction. "She’s pretty. I’m surprised one hadn’t picked her up already."

"You can’t tell she’s pretty until you see her up close," Frank pointed out, "and there haven’t been that many trucks, either. As soon as it starts getting hot like this they try running at night. What’s wrong with helping someone in trouble?"

"It’s not like you, Frank. You never stop for hitchhikers."

"So this is my trip for doing different things. Don’t tell me you’re worried about her? Look at her. She’s barely as big as Wendy."

"I don’t mean that. It’s the way she talks. So soft, you can hardly hear her."

"Kind of nice for a change, isn’t it? Maybe the kids’ll pick up on it."

"Those strange clothes she’s wearing, and not having any luggage, not even a purse."

"Yeah, I noticed. So she’s down on her luck or something. None of our business. We’re just giving her a lift. That doesn’t entitle us to know her life story."

Alicia turned her chair full around so she was facing forward once more. "Maybe she’s a hippie or something."

Frank almost laughed aloud. "You’ve been watching too much TV, sweetheart. Hippies are like dinosaurs. They’re both extinct."

"Then what if she’s a drug addict or like that?"

Her husband made a disgusted noise. Alicia folded her arms, refusing to back down.

"I’m just saying there’s something abnormal about her. You can tell just by looking at her."

"Poor kid probably hasn’t had a decent meal in no telling how long. Skinny as a rail."

"Not so skinny," said Alicia carefully, "though she is on the slim side. Doesn’t that go with taking drugs?"

"So I’ve heard. It also goes with exercise, dieting, and good genes. A few days out in this country would sweat poundage off anybody."

"Hush. She’s coming back." Alicia pretended to find something of interest in the unchanging scenery.

Frank shook his head. Funny gal, his Alicia. Calm, composed, charming, and ever ready to see a conspiracy in everything from a cluster of Libyans to a line of talkative nuns. A glance upward revealed that their guest had resumed her seat on the couch, holding her lemonade like a glass of rare wine. She was smiling and whispering to Wendy, who giggled and whispered back. He wondered what they were chatting about. As the thought left his mind, the hitchhiker looked toward him. Guiltily he dropped his eyes from the mirror.

"Since all of you have introduced yourselves I suppose the turn is mine. My name is Mohostosocia." Her tongue twisted around the syllables, adding at least two impossible inflections. Frank tried and failed to place the accent. No linguist he. Central European at a quick guess, possibly Slavic. Certainly not Spanish, which he had a nongrammatical but efficient grasp of. "Now that we are all friends, though, you may call me Mouse."

Wendy giggled. Steven grinned. "We’ve got some cheese, if you want."

"Steven!" His sister took a swipe at him and he was forced to duck.

"It is all right. As a matter of fact," she said, staring at the mesmerized boy out of strangely transparent eyes, "I do like cheese. Swiss, colby, longhorn, Brie, Gruyere, Gouda, shannon — "

"I like American!" said Steven proudly, interrupting before she could finish.

"Most little boys like you do, I understand."

"I’m not a little boy. I’m eleven."

"Ten," Alicia said patiently.

"I’ll be eleven in six months." Steven subsided, but only slightly.

"I stand corrected. You are not a little boy."

Steven looked mollified. Frank was straining to listen to the conversation. Though Mouse’s couch wasn’t far behind the front seats, her breathy voice tended to get lost in the motor home’s copious interior.

With a start he realized that their guest was far more interesting than anything else they’d encountered since commencing this ill-conceived journey. He wasn’t sure about Alicia, but he found her fascinating. So did his daughter. As for Steven, the boy was giving the woman the sort of attention he usually reserved only for fried foods and large desserts. It was easy to understand. That exquisite and mysterious face, the unknown figure enshrouded in yards of iridescent silk, the whispery, musical voice — those could hypnotize a ten-year-old boy as easily as they could a much older male.

"Frank, you’re drifting over the center line again."

"What? Sorry, hon." He conscientiously eased the motor home back into the slow lane. Steven could freely fall under Mouse’s spell. Frank had to drive.

Alicia looked back, made an effort to be pleasant. "Where are you from?"

Mouse turned slightly on the couch to wave indifferently at the rear of the motor home. "Back that way."

"Los Angeles?" It made sense, Frank knew. On Hollywood or Sunset boulevards her attire would be positively subdued.

"No. Farther than that. Farther" — she hesitated for a fraction of a second — "south."

He grinned to himself. Let her affect an air of mystery if that was her pleasure. "Where you headed?"

Once again Steven spoke before she had a chance to answer. "We’re on vacation already 'cause we go to private school, so we get out earlier than the other kids."

"That’s nice," said Mouse. "Myself hasn’t had a vacation in quite some time."

"What is it you do?" Alicia asked her.

"I help others out of their troubles."

Frank guffawed. "In Vegas? No wonder you don’t get any time off. That’s a town where just about everybody needs help."

"No, not in Las Vegas. I’m not going there. I am going to the Vanishing Point."

"Vanishing Point." His brows drew together in thought. "A lot of little towns up the interstate between Vegas and Salt Lake. Never gone that far north ourselves, but I see them on the map. Cedar City, St. George, Littlefield, even a place called Hurricane." He tried to see the fine detail on the map stuck to the dash. "Vanishing Point doesn’t ring any bells."

"It’s quite small and very big." Mouse wasn’t smiling and Frank couldn’t tell if she was making a joke or not. "I would not be surprised if your map omits it, though one never knows."

"What’s in Vanishing Point?" He drove with one hand resting easily on the wheel, the cruise control doing the drudge work.

"My task."

"Helping somebody with a problem?"

She nodded. "I must try to regulate the Spinner."

"You a psychologist of some kind?" He’d always envisioned psychologists, male or female, in severe business suits. Of course, there were all kinds of unorthodox philosophies of mental health abroad in the land, especially if that land was Southern California. "Vanishing Point. Nevada or Utah?"

"Yes," she said, replying without answering. "I am afraid I am the only one practiced enough to do it."

"You wouldn’t expect to see a psychologist hitchhiking," said Alicia tartly.

"It is not my preferred mode of travel. In this instance circumstances compelled me to adopt this method of reaching my destination. I really cannot thank you enough for picking me up."

Her gratitude was so obvious and heartfelt that Alicia’s suspicions were dampened. Frank kept trying to read the small print on the map.

"I bet I’ve seen it on the Utah map."

"We’re only going as far as Las Vegas," Alicia informed their rider.

"I understand. I will travel with you as far as you will take me and go the rest of the way on my own. I am used to traveling on my own."

"Then the least we can do is take you all the way into Vegas." Frank gave Alicia a the-matter-is-settled look.

As her father concentrated on his driving, Wendy moved closer to their guest, lowering her voice to an anxious whisper. "C’mon, now, where’d you get all that great stuff?" She tentatively ran fingers over the material again. "I bet this is imported. Indian?"

"Not Indian." Mouse ran an index finger down the front of her dress. "My clothing is woven from the fabric of existence, which is very fine and light and quite stable." Her hand rose. Delicate dark fingers touched the single strand of purple beads that hung from her neck. "This is the blood of past transgressions. The past is always bleeding, I fear. At long intervals I have to add a new bead, so that my emotions keep pace with what has gone before. I remember when this necklace was but a bracelet." She extended a leg, revealing ankle and slipper.

"My shoes are very strong and very soft, so that my passing disturbs the earth as little as possible. I am careful not to touch it any more often than is necessary. Floating is easier than walking anyway." She smiled at the girl next to her. "Have you ever tried floating?"

"Not me, but some of my friends have. You know, you’re really weird. But I like you."

"I like you, too, Wendy." She surveyed her surroundings. "I like all of you."

"Except for my little brother," Wendy added distastefully. "Nobody can like him."

Mouse laughed; fingertips teasing the keys of an electric piano. "I suppose it is not the nature of elder sisters to like younger brothers. Nevertheless, you should be nice to him. What elder sisters fail to realize is that little brothers have a tendency to become very big brothers as they mature. Big brothers of any age can be very nice to have around."

"Yeah, that’s what Mom keeps telling me." Wendy studied the radiant material of her new friend’s dress. "Fabric of existence, huh? There’s so many brand names around these days, you can’t keep up. Not Indian, okay, but I still bet it’s imported."

Mouse nodded slightly. Her every movement was barely more than a suggestion, yet in no ways uncertain. "You could say that, after a fashion."

"After a fashion — hey, a joke, right? You like punk?"

"I like anything that makes people smile or feel better about themselves."

Alicia was trying to make small talk with Frank and listen in on her daughter’s conversation at the same time. Though she had excellent hearing, she was unable to make out more than an occasional word or phrase. Wendy seemed to have lowered her own voice to match that of their guest. Whatever the hitchhiker was saying it appeared to enrapture the teenager.

She would have felt better about the situation if she could have heard more. No telling what sort of nonsense this half-wild young woman they’d picked up in the middle of the desert might be pouring into Wendy’s ear. There was no point in trying to forbid the conversation. Wendy would ignore any directive so blatant and the motor home was too small to isolate someone anyhow. Alicia decided she was being silly. Strange their guest might be, but she’d been nothing if not friendly and polite, not to mention effusively grateful for the lift. She had a strange but captivating personality, like some exotic fish washed up on a public beach amid the empty beer cans and plastic bags. Certainly she’d captivated Frank and the kids.

If only she could be sure their guest wasn’t into drugs. Wendy was at an impressionable age.

If I can’t forbid conversation, she thought, at least I can participate in it.

"You said you help others but that you’re not a psychologist. That doesn’t leave a whole lot. Are you some kind of traveling social worker?"

"Something like that." Mouse was unable or unwilling to answer any personal inquiries directly. "I just help others feel better."

"I know. You’ve already said that." This time Alicia was determined not to be put off. "But just how do you go about doing that? I mean, exactly what kind of therapy do you employ?"

"Musical. I am a singer."

"A singer, wow!" said Wendy.

"A singer." Steven sounded disappointed. He’d been hoping their beautiful visitor was something much more mysterious. A spy, like, or a lady commando. Although spies and commandos usually didn’t help people to feel better.

If Alicia had been hoping that pinning a specific profession on the hitchhiker would dilute her daughter’s interest, she found Mouse’s admission had just the opposite effect.

"I’ve never met anyone who sang professionally before," Wendy was saying rapidly. "I mean, I’ve got friends who want to and a couple of the kids at school have parents who are pretty big in show business, but they’re not singers. What do you sing? I know! The way you dress and the kind of voice you’ve got, I bet you’re a lot like Stevie Nicks."

"Who is Stevie Nicks?" asked Mouse politely.

"You don’t know who Stevie Nicks is?" Wendy hesitated, then grinned broadly. "You’re putting me on, right? Sure you are. Hey, could you sing something for us?"

"Oh, I don’t think it’s right to ask something like that." Alicia was beginning to wonder if she mightn’t have pressed her inquiry too far.

"Your mother’s right." Frank had been listening while driving. "We don’t want to embarrass our guest."

"Besides," said Steven snidely, "she doesn’t have a band. Every singer’s gotta have a band."

That’s my boy, Frank thought admiringly. An overweight junk food junkie he is, but he’s got brains. He listens to stuff between the commercials.

"I do not use a band," said Mouse. For a moment her expression turned dreamy. "It helps, but it is very rare I find musicians who know how to play just the right music. I usually have to sing a cappella."

"A cappella? What’s that?" Steven wondered.

"Without accompaniment." Mouse stared down at him, then back at Wendy. "I would be happy to sing you a little tune. It is what I do."

Alicia’s bluff had been called, but once Mouse began to sing she no longer minded. She was as enthralled by the music as the rest of her family.

It was a wordless song Mouse sang. Alicia’s formal musical education extended to a single music appreciation class taken in the tenth grade. Despite that, she knew the hitchhiker’s range was extraordinary. The soprano that flowed from Mouse’s throat was pure as spring ice, and just as clear. In actuality Mouse’s voice was effortlessly spanning six octaves. This was quite impossible, but no one in the motor home knew enough about music to realize it. They knew only that the sweet sounds that filled the motor home were achingly lovely.

Mouse sang without visible effort. Beneath the folds of silk her chest did not seem to rise and fall with each breath. Sometimes her song imitated the sounds of waves lapping at a beach. The slower sections reminded Frank of pictures he’d seen of South Pacific lagoons, pristine sheets of water, flat as mirrors, disturbed only by the fleeting musical ping of a fish breaking the surface.

Individual notes rippled and flashed through the underlying melody, like brightly colored tropical fish darting among a coral reef. Bells and chimes echoed in the air, lingered in the ear. Certain notes were like pebbles tossed in a pond, each initial sound framed by spreading, decreasing vibrations.

As the last of the song faded to silence, an exquisite yet disturbing chill ran through his spine.

Mouse closed her eyes. She’d kept them open while singing. Now she gathered herself as she relaxed. Throughout it all her body had hardly moved. Steven and Wendy sat as if gently frozen. Even television couldn’t hold Steven like that. No one spoke until the last echo of the final note had finally died, dissipating itself against the metal walls. Frank cleared his throat, was surprised how dry it was. It was almost as if he’d forgotten to breathe or swallow for the duration of the song.

"That was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard in my life," he said slowly. "Maybe the most beautiful thing. I mean, I’m no music expert or anything like that, but I know what I like. And I liked that."

"I am pleased you did." Mouse sipped her lemonade. "I like to sing. To sing for pleasure, as now, is fun. When I do my work it can be something of a strain. The notes you cannot hear are difficult to sing."

Frank chuckled good-naturedly. "Now how can you sing notes nobody can hear? If we can’t hear them, that means you can’t either, and if you can’t hear them, then how do you know they’re being sung?"

"Vibrations. Those are the most beautiful notes of all. You must feel what you cannot hear."

"I don’t know about that, but I know I heard what I felt. How about it, kids? Not heavy metal, but…"

"It was amazing." Wendy was gazing at their guest out of worshipful eyes.

"Yeah, pretty," said Steven, equally overwhelmed if not as descriptive.

Wendy’s expression turned sly. "I just figured it out. You are going to Las Vegas."

"She said she wasn’t, kiddo," said Frank.

"I’ll bet she is, Pops. I’ll bet she was just too shy to tell us. That’s why you didn’t recognize this Vanishing Point place. In art class they told us the vanishing point is where all the lines on a drawing meet. It sounds like a perfect name for a club."

The Vanishing Point. You had to hand it to his daughter, Frank thought. Considering where their old man had come from they’d turned out damn bright. Of course it was a nightclub, or something similar. Mouse was a young singer, maybe just trying to get started. She’d landed this important gig in Vegas but didn’t have the bucks to get there. So she’d decided to hitch it across the desert.

"I mean," Wendy was saying, "it’s so obvious. Anybody can see you’re good enough to sing professionally. I’m right, aren’t I?"

Mouse smiled enigmatically, then abruptly put a small hand to her forehead. Those expansive violet eyes closed tightly. Lines appeared on that perfect face.

"What’s wrong?" Wendy was suddenly concerned. "You okay?"

Mouse’s hand fell from her forehead and she managed another smile. "I just need to rest. My journey thus far has been a long and difficult one. Singing is exhausting."

"Standing out in that heat would knock anyone for a loop." Frank glanced at Alicia, who spoke up reluctantly.

"The big bed is in the back. It’ll be quieter there." She tried to set her suspicions and concerns aside. "You lie down for as long as you like. Shall we wake you when we get to Baker?"

"Whatever you will be comfortable with," Mouse replied as she stood. "I just need some sleep. And this." She hefted the half-empty glass of lemonade.

"There are holders for glasses and stuff built into the headboard," Wendy informed her. "They’re kinda neat. You won’t spill anything if we hit a bump. I’ll show you." She scrambled to her feet.

Mouse followed, pausing and turning outside the bedroom door. "Thank you many times afresh. For your kindness and caring."

"Hey, enough already," said Frank. "We’ve got plenty of room and we were going the same way anyhow, right?"

"The same way. Yes." Mouse wore an odd expression as she spoke.

"Thanks for the song."

"I hope I may be able to sing for you again some time soon." She followed Wendy into the bedroom.

Alicia waited until she was certain their guest couldn’t overhear before muttering to her husband. "Now, no matter what you think of her musical talents, Frank, that is one peculiar young woman."

"Who’d you expect to find hitchhiking in the middle of the Mojave? Someone from your bridge club? Encounters like this are what makes life interesting." He was feeling pleased with himself.

"More than interesting," Alicia argued. "You’re fascinated by her. So are the children."

"Aren’t you, sweetheart? Who knows? We may have given a helping hand to a budding star. With a voice like that she could be on the Carson show in a couple of months. Then we can say we picked her up in the back of beyond and gave her a hand when nobody knew who she was." He paused, then added, "Don’t tell me she’s still got you worrying?"

Alicia leaned back in the captain’s chair. "Not worried, exactly. It’s just that she’s so strange."

"This from a woman who lives in L.A.? The rest of the country thinks everybody who lives in Southern California is strange."

"She must have some luggage somewhere."

"I don’t remember that being in the Constitution. And in spite of what you’ve been thinking, she’s no doper."

"How can you tell, Frank? How can you be sure?"

He thought fast. "If she was on something, regular, like an addict, there’s no way she could sing a song like that. You need real breath control and concentration."

"You’re right." Alicia sounded relieved. "I hadn’t thought of that." Frank had the knack of always saying the right thing. Her husband wasn’t particularly brilliant, but he had a way of going right to the heart of a problem. As he’d once told her, he wasn’t smart enough to be distracted by subtleties. It was one of the things that had made him such a successful businessman. No, Mouse couldn’t have sung like that if she’d been high.

"Then let’s relax. We’ve decided what we’re going to do and everybody’s happy and we’ve even managed a good deed for the day. I wonder," he said thoughtfully, "if she’d let us record some of her music. We can borrow your daughter’s tape recorder, if you can pry those earphones off her head for an hour or two."

"If she’s really serious about a show business career she might not want somebody taping her compositions, Frank."

He shrugged. "No harm in asking. I might even be able to help her out when we get home. We’ve got some pretty big names who shop in the Westwood and Valley stores. I could try to make a few contacts for her."

"Let’s not get too involved, dear. We really don’t know anything about her yet."

"There you go, worrying again. How could that hurt? You’ve seen how grateful she is just for a lift. She’s an interesting young gal who’s having a hard time making it. Her being a singer explains a lot. Some of these young people trying to break into the business can’t afford but one decent set of clothes. They travel in it, audition in it, perform in it, and sleep naked." He lowered his voice further. "Wonder when’s the last time she had a decent meal."

Alicia gave it one last try. "Frank, you’re a good-hearted man. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you." She reached across to pat his arm. "But you can’t go involving yourself in the problems of everyone you meet."

"I’ve no intention of involving myself in the problems of everyone I meet. But I can be selective, can’t I? I wish there’d been someone to give the two of us a helping hand when we were starting out. Just because there wasn’t doesn’t mean I can’t help somebody if I’m given the chance."

"You’ve helped already. You picked her up and you’re taking her closer to her destination. If Wendy’s right and this Vanishing Point is a club, I’m sure she’ll tell us when we get to the city. We can drop her off right by the front door. That’s a big enough favor to perform."

"What’s the matter, Alicia? Don’t you like her? She could be our Wendy ten years older."

"God forbid! Are you sure you haven’t been talking to those big names you mentioned?"

He shook his head. "Relax, hon. I’m interested in stomach crunchers and basketballs and running shoes. Show biz ain’t for me. I’m smart enough to know that. People are always trying to get me to invest in their projects. The only projects I’m interested in investing in are newer and bigger stores." He blew her a quick kiss. "You’re all the bright life I want."

They were both silent for a while. Then Frank gestured cheerfully toward the sign coming up fast on their right. "What we need is a break."

Alicia frowned at the sand-scoured marker.

DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND

1 Mile

GAS — EAT

"I thought we weren’t going to stop until we got to Baker?"

"This’ll be more interesting." He was slowing gradually, lining up with the off ramp. "The station in Baker’ll be full of screaming rug rats and overheated people with overheated tempers. This looks quiet."

Alicia strained to see as they rolled up to the stop sign at the crest of the off ramp. "It looks dead. I don’t see anybody at all."