To the Vanishing Point

3

The station looked like it had been built in the twenties or thirties, walls of local volcanic rock mortared together, an archaic arch reaching out to the twin pumps like a dirty stucco hand.

"Bet this was here on the old highway before the interstate was put through," Frank commented as he pulled across the access road and up to the pumps. "We need some gas anyway if we’re going to run the rest of the way straight through to Vegas."

Alicia checked the gauge and frowned. "But we just filled up back in Barstow. We haven’t come anywhere near far enough to burn up that much gas."

Frank put the transmission into park. "We’ve been climbing all the way and running the air conditioner on high. It’s a lot hotter here than it was in L.A. You know how these things burn fuel."

"I didn’t think we’d come up that far, but you’re right. What do I know about motor homes?" She leaned forward and studied the station through the window. "Doesn’t look like it’s been very well kept up."

"Ahhhh, c’mon," he chided her. "You’re intrigued and you know it." He leaned close, trying to see past her. "I’ll bet whoever runs this place has rattler skins on the walls and a stuffed deer head over the cash register. I could do with a cold beer."

"We have a whole refrigerator full of beer," she reminded him.

He sat back, disappointed. "There you go, taking all the romance out of it. Anyway, we do need the unleaded. Then it’s a straight shot all the way across the border and into Vegas. I promise. This is my last chance to show the kids something different, the last time we’ll stop."

"Not if we keep gulping gas at this rate," she pointed out as she moved her legs so he could pass.

It was pretty run-down, he had to admit as he stepped out of the motor home and into the heat. One of those ancient old gas stations that used to line the state highways of the Southwest made redundant by the bypassing interstates. This one had managed to hang on because it was fortunate enough to sit next to an off ramp. Closer inspection confirmed his initial appraisal.

It was all dark volcanic rock and cement, the pitted round stones garish in their setting of faded concrete. The twin gas pumps looked brand-new, though, in striking contrast to the cracked cement island on which they sat. Whoever owned the place had enough sense to maintain his equipment if not his home. The neglect could be intentional. The thick stone walls probably stayed cooler during the day than modern slat and steel. He didn’t see an air conditioner. Probably in the back.

Poised atop the station was one of those flame-red flying horses that had been common in Frank’s parents' day. Like the pumps, it looked new. It was also probably worth more than the station. He sensed movement behind him, glimpsed his children filling the doorway.

"Check it out, kids." Shading his eyes with one hand, he used the other to indicate the flying horse. "Major-brand gas and a real antique."

Wendy had slipped off the earphones, proving anew they weren’t rooted to the bone. "Why are we stopping?"

"Because I thought this would be an interesting place to stop."

"Looks like trash to me."

Frank tried not to growl. "It’s not trash. It’s history. We’re going to get something cold to drink, and we need to get some gas."

"We just filled up in Barstow, Pops."

I don’t even have to watch the gauge, he told himself sourly. The women in this family monitor everything for me. "In case you haven’t noticed, young lady, this ain’t exactly a compact wagon we’re driving." He let out a sigh of resignation. "If you don’t want anything you don’t have to get out. Steven," he asked, none too hopefully, "you coming?"

"Sure, Dad." To Frank’s surprise his son hopped out and scuttled past him, heading for a high chain-link fence that enclosed a small area between worn house trailer and station.

"Hey, Dad! They got snakes in here, and I think I see a Gila monster, and a chuckawalla, an' a…!"

The attendant or owner would probably want a dollar in payment for Steven’s looking. Frank would gladly fork it over. At last his son was showing some real interest in something besides billboards.

"Look all you want, kiddo, but don’t touch. And keep your hands outside the links, okay?"

"Okay, Dad." Steven quickly and guiltily withdrew his fingers from one gap.

Frank checked the pumps. Somewhat to his surprise he found premium unleaded. Considering the location, the prices were quite reasonable. He unhitched one of the pumps, glanced toward the station office. No one had appeared to greet them. The door that secured the repair bay was closed.

Surely the place wasn’t deserted, as Alicia had suggested. The door to the office was ajar and there were no padlocks on the pumps.

"Anybody home?" he yelled.

There was no response. Not even wind to reply at midday. He shrugged and turned to the motor home. No doubt as soon as he started pumping gas someone would show up fast enough. He flipped the pump switch up, saw the digital readout on the machine’s flank flop to zero, and unlocked the motor home’s filler cap, setting it carefully aside. The nozzle rattled its way into the tank. As he squeezed the trigger, gas began to flow.

The digital readout counted the cost silently. He missed the friendly musical ding gas pumps had made when he was young. Steven was walking slowly around the chain-link enclosure, intently surveying something inside.

"Fingers!" Frank shouted.

"Sure, Dad," his son replied in that special tone children utilize for acknowledging parents' admonitions without actually devoting any attention to them.

The sharp, vaguely threatening aroma of gasoline stung Frank’s nostrils as he topped off the tank. Except for the gurgle of gas it was silent outside the motor home. You could hear a mouse gallop out here, he mused silently. Not a leaf stirred on the salt-tolerant trees that shaded the old station. The petals of a single paralyzed fuchsia drooped tiredly in the sun. Listen hard enough and you could hear ants scurrying underfoot, the slither of a king snake off in the bushes. And one other sound.

Frowning, he slipped the pump back in its steel saddle, then bent to check the tires. An intermittent hissing sound. The tires on this side looked full. Bending toward the ground he spotted a pair of legs walking past the wheels on the other side of the motor home. Rotting dirty denims were stuffed into scruffy brown boots. Boots used for work, not dancing. He still didn’t know the source of the hissing, but at least he’d located the station’s attendant. The legs kept coming. Frank straightened.

"Howdy."

"Howdy yourself." Frank returned the appraising smile.

The old man was tall, well over six feet, and thin as a fencepost. A weathered scarecrow, Frank thought. Shaving was a casual affair and he had stubble the consistency of beach sand. Bright, unblinking eyes stared out from beneath brows fashioned of steel wool. Perched on his head was a filthy baseball cap with a John Deere emblem sewn to the front. Like its wearer, the cap’s original color had been overwhelmed by generations of fossilized grease and oil stains. As threads had broken and unraveled, the torso of the jumping deer had parted company from its legs.

A short-sleeved work shirt was loosely tucked into faded coveralls. Gloves concealed both hands. Frank decided this emaciated ghost of the modern West was old enough to have preyed on migrating Okies back in the thirties, before the interstate had usurped old Route 66.

"Glad to have your business," the relic declared cheerily. "Most folks go on through to Baker. Got three stations there now. A real metropolis." He chuckled. Maybe he’d gone batty living alone in the desert, but he’d retained a sense of humor.

"We thought your place looked interesting. I like stopping off the beaten track." Frank nodded at the sky. "Thought we’d make a stop before sundown."

"Glad you did." The old man was standing close now. A soiled handkerchief protruded from a pocket of the coveralls. For a change the stains weren’t from oil or grease. Red or maroon paint, Frank decided.

"I heard a funny noise. Kind of hissing, or sniffing like."

"That was me, all right." He still hadn’t blinked, Frank noted. "Thought you might’ve had a gas leak." A gloved hand patted the motor home’s flank. "These self-propelled trailers got so many pipes and lines crisscrossing underneath 'em, you never know when one’s going to rub against another and make a hole. First you get a leak, then you get friction, and then" — the old man’s eyes went startlingly wide — "bwoom! Charcoal time."

"Yeah." Charming sense of humor, Frank thought.

"Where you folks staying in Vegas?"

"How’d you know that’s where we’re going?"

A soft chuckle. "Where else would anybody be going east on this road?"

"We’re not sure yet." He jerked a thumb at the motor home. "We were gonna stay in this, but the kids and wife don’t think that’s much of a vacation. I got outvoted."

"Nothing personal, but I’d side with them." Stepping past Frank, he used the soiled handkerchief to wipe gas from the still-open filler cap before flipping the cap cover shut. "Folks these days in such a hurry they don’t take the time to appreciate the world around 'em. One of these days the end’ll come and then they’ll be damn sorry for what they missed."

Uh-oh, Frank thought, detecting the first faint whiff of an oncoming sermon in the air. Time to be moving on. He reached for his wallet.

"I don’t see the stickers. You take credit cards?"

"Ain’t really big on plastic around here. Usually like for folks to pay in kind for what they owe. But I’ll make an exception for you, you being such a relaxed customer and all. Most folks get to this point, they’re pretty nervous and upset. Not you, though. Coolest one I’ve seen in some time."

"Thanks." Frank felt flattered without knowing why. "American Express okay?"

The ancient shrugged. "Good as any of 'em, I expect." He took the card, then seemed to freeze. As Frank stared, the man sniffed ostentatiously, tilting back his head and flaring his nostrils. He walked toward the back of the motor home and sniffed a second time. "You smell something funny?"

Frank joined him, took a few sniffs himself, feeling foolish as he did so. "Just the fresh gas."

The attendant straightened. "Reckon you’re right. Just me and my suspicious nature, I expect."

"If you think there’s a leak why not take a whiff underneath?" Frank asked curiously.

"Fumes would rise. The underchassis’d stink without any leaks. Get a truer appraisal standing up." He waggled the card at Frank. "Be right back with your bill. Got to get an authorization number, you know." He hesitated. "You didn’t by any chance pick up anybody down the road apiece? Somebody stranded, somebody’s car broke down? Like, maybe, somebody hitchhiking?"

Most people would have responded instinctively to the casual inquiry. Frank Sonderberg had spent too many years in business, too much time listening for the real meaning behind obfuscatory soliloquies to offer a straight reply without giving the matter careful consideration. Instead of answering, he evaded.

"That’s a funny thing to ask." He turned and gestured at the highway. "I mean, who’d be dumb enough to stand out on that stretch of road and hitch this direction, when it’d make more sense to go back to Barstow?"

"Depends how anxious they are to get somewheres besides Barstow." The old man was staring at him with perverse intensity, unexpectedly alert. And he had yet to blink. Of course, Frank had looked away from him several times. He could have blinked then.

Instead of replying, Frank checked his watch. "Getting late." He’d planned to accompany the old man inside the station, hoping for a glimpse of such treasures as antique bottles and fifties-era advertising posters. Now all he wanted was to regain the comforting interior of the motor home and gun the big Detroit powerplant. It occurred to him they hadn’t passed or been passed by a highway patrol car all day.

The oldster slumped slightly. "Guess so. Be dark soon. Don’t want to hold you up. Just that sometimes folks come through this way, they ask to use the facilities and then they just kinda walk off with something. You know, forget to pay for their soda or candy. Not that many people pull off here. Somebody swipes something from a small dealer like myself, it hurts."

"Are you saying somebody stole from you recently?"

"Maybe, maybe not." The brown-toothed smile made a curtain call. "That ain’t your problem, though, is it? I’ll get that authorization number and be right back with your card."

Frank discovered he’d been holding his breath. Now he exhaled as the attendant sort of loped toward the stone building to be swallowed by the single door. With the old man gone he could hear Wendy and Alicia chatting inside the motor home.

What’s with the nerves? he asked himself. So the old fossil’s peculiar, so what? Living out here alone would set anybody slightly off kilter. He found himself remembering the stained handkerchief that hung from the coverall pocket like a linen leech. Red or maroon paint — except it didn’t really look like paint. But what else could it have been? And the John Deere cap with the familiar image of the leaping stag. With the legs separated from the body. Those legs had been sewn in awfully strange positions. Skewed, as if they’d been torn away only to be replaced haphazardly beneath the jumping torso.

Not much of an imagination, he told himself, but what little you’ve got is making a break for it. He rubbed at his cuticles, a nervous habit he’d failed to break in twenty-five years of trying. At least he didn’t bite his nails anymore.

Old fart’s taking his time. Of course, phone service to an outpost like this might not be in the best of repair. Even in downtown Los Angeles it could take awhile to get through if the volume of calls to the authorization center was heavy. Probably had to use a rotary phone without an automatic redial, for chrissake.

"Hey, Dad!"

"What?" Frank looked down, saw Steven flinch. The boy had come up quietly behind his father. "Sorry, kiddo. Find something interesting to look at?"

"Sure did. Birds and lizards. Something else, too. I went around the back and there was a place where it looked like something had tried to dig under the fence. I saw some stuff sticking out — it was on my side of the fence, honest, Dad — and so I sorta picked it up. See? Neat, huh?"

He held up a handful of old bones. They were deeply scored and mostly detached from one another. Too big to be chicken bones. Most likely from a holiday turkey. Not hog or cattle.

Frank accepted the offering, nudged them with his finger. "Interesting. But maybe the gentleman who owns this place doesn’t want strange kids digging around in his yard. That hole under the fence could’ve been an exit for a rattler. You could’ve been bit. Did you think about that?"

Steven looked downcast, his initial enthusiasm muted. "Naw. But it’s all right, Dad. I was careful. Besides, you said snakes and stuff don’t come out this time of day 'cause it’s too hot. I didn’t see anything moving."

You had to hand it to the kid, Frank thought. He remembered. Then a cold chill ran down his back and the waistband of his shorts was suddenly tight against his skin.

Not all the bones were disconnected. A few were still attached to others. Three of them in sequence, which he carefully held up to the light. At the tip of the last small bone was a suggestion of something besides bone. It was broken and brief, but unmistakable.

A nail.

Frank was no anatomist, but he was pretty sure he was holding most of a human finger. A small finger, bigger than an infant’s, smaller than a man’s. A woman’s, perhaps, or a teenager’s. There were spots on the bit of nail, but too old and dirty to tell if they were polish.

Fighting to contain his emotions, he let the amputated finger bones fall back among the others. "Steven, I want you to listen to me very closely." The boy’s eyes got wide, as they usually did on those rare occasions when his father turned solemn. "This is private property and should not have been disturbed. So I want you to put them back exactly where you found them." He glanced toward the station office. Still no movement there.

"I want you to put them back in the ground, quietly and quickly." He handed back the bones.

"Aw, gee, Dad. I was kinda hoping that if the man didn’t want 'em maybe I could…"

"Put them back." Frank kept his voice low. "Now."

Steven stared up at him. "Is something wrong, Dad? I mean, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong."

"It’s not a question of right or wrong. You just don’t bother other people’s property, understand? Go on. Go bury them back and then get your butt back here and inside. We’re leaving."

"Okay, Dad." Steven shrugged, turned to scamper back to the enclosure. Frank noticed for the first time that the fence was a high one. Higher than was needed to keep snakes and lizards in and the prowling coyote out. High enough to keep strangers from climbing over to disturb the inhabitants. Or to keep anyone from climbing out. The four posts that held the chain link taut were oversized and sunk deep.

His head jerked around to see the attendant emerge from the office. He wore the smile he’d first used to greet his customers. One gloved hand held Frank’s credit card and the unsigned receipt. Steven was out of sight behind the enclosure. Trying to look casual and relaxed, Frank moved to the front of the motor home. The old man changed direction to meet him without breaking stride.

"Here you go, sir. Eighteen even. Guess she wasn’t quite empty."

"Not quite." Do I sound normal? he wondered. Though his thoughts were in turmoil, his fingers were steady as he signed for the gas. Just let us get out of here, he thought wildly. Just let us get away from this place and, I swear to God, I won’t stop until we’re on the Strip.

The old man’s back faced the enclosure. Frank tried not to stare past him, tried not to locate Steven. He wondered if Alicia was in her seat, staring down at him. He didn’t look to find out for fear she’d notice the strain on his face. He signed very carefully, not wanting to tear the fragile paper and have to start over again.

"Here we are." He handed back the pen and clipboard. The oldster didn’t so much as glance at it.

"Thanks."

"Guess we’ll be on our way." He turned to go.

"Don’t forget your card."

"Right." Frank grabbed at the plastic, shoved it back in a pocket without bothering to replace it in his wallet. There was still no sign of his son.

"Something the matter, sir?" The old man hitched up the coveralls.

"No." An awkward moment of silence passed. "Just looking for my little boy. You know kids. Always underfoot until you’re ready to go someplace."

"Yeah, I know kids."

"You have children?"

"Naw. Never been married. Never appealed to me. I’d just rather bang 'em and leave 'em, y’know?" He opened his mouth and laughed, an unpleasant sound, like cats fighting inside a garbage can.

"Right, sure." Frank forced a smile. It turned to one of relief as Steven reappeared. "Here he is. Go on, kiddo. Get inside."

The boy just nodded. He glanced quickly at the old man, who grinned down at him. Then he was safely back inside the motor home.

"Thanks again." Frank didn’t extend his hand to shake the old man’s because he wasn’t sure he’d get it back. "Have a nice day," he finished lamely.

"I’ll sure try to." Gloved hands plunged into coverall pockets. "Drive careful, now. Don’t take any wrong turns, and watch out for hitchhikers. All kinds of unpleasant folks try to get picked up along this stretch of highway."

"We’ll be careful. We’re driving straight through. I wouldn’t pick anybody up. I’ve got a family to watch out for."

"That’s right. You’ve got a family to watch out for." With a final nod, the attendant turned and strolled back toward the station office. Relieved, Frank turned to reenter the motor home.

What the dickens was wrong with him? He’d been watching too much TV, especially the kind of gruesome R-rated horror videos his son and friends were beginning to favor. The station’s isolation, the soiled handkerchief, the emblem of the deer on the hat, with the four dismembered legs, all had other, more plausible explanations than the one that had made evil connections between them in his thoughts. Been out in the sun too long, he told himself. Alicia and the kids were right, after all. What they needed were not stimulating encounters but air-conditioning, neon, television, and prepared food.

So what about the bones?

Yeah, what about them? What did he know about bones? They could have come from anything. Or they might have been plastic fakes planted there as a gag. That would fit the attendant’s sense of humor. Buy some from a medical supply house and bury them near the enclosure to scare prying kids like Steven. Furthermore, if anything illegal was somehow involved, that didn’t mean the old man had a part in it. It made no sense. Anyone wanting to dispose of a body and who’d take the time to dismember the bones wouldn’t bury the incriminating results only a few inches deep.

As he reached the entrance to the motor home, he spared a last look for the subject of his musings — and paused. There was something moving at the back of the old man’s pants, up near the beltline. He squinted. The bright sunlight made it difficult to concentrate. A tuft of black attached to a wire or stick protruded from a corner of the coveralls. Funny he hadn’t noticed it before, but he’d been looking the old man in the eyes, not staring at his backside. Despite the fact it was still blazing hot outside, a chill ran through him.

The twitching black tuft looked just like the tip of a tail.

You have been out in the sun too long, he admonished himself.

Alicia greeted him as he slid back into the driver’s seat. "Everything all right, dear? You were out there a long time."

"Fine," he muttered as he fumbled with the ignition key. "Everything’s fine."

The engine grumbled. Come on, dammit, he thought tensely. Catch, you steel bastard! Don’t you die on me here.

With the third wrench on the key the big engine came to life. Frank let it idle for a minute, then put it in drive. The motor home exited smoothly from the station. As soon as they were clear, he leaned slightly forward so he could see the whole image presented by the rearview mirror on Alicia’s side. Nothing stirred behind them. The station and its attendant trailer home appeared as still and lifeless as they had when he’d first pulled in.

He turned onto the on ramp, flooring the accelerator. The motor home picked up speed like a runaway juggernaut, roaring onto the deserted sanctuary of the slow lane.

Alicia didn’t speak until her husband set the cruise control. "Frank, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine."

"You’re lying. I can always tell when you’re lying."

He clung to the wheel, didn’t look around at her. "Tell you later. It’s no big deal, okay? We’re on our way again and everything’s fine. Just don’t press me about it right now."

Maybe she saw the tension in his face. Certainly she heard it in his voice. "All right. You’ll tell me about it when you’re ready."

"Right."

He ought to have been able to relax then but could not. The landscape was beginning to bother him as much as his memories. For one thing it seemed darker than it should have been outside. There wasn’t a cloud in sight and the external thermometer hadn’t fallen a degree, but suddenly it didn’t look as bright as it had before they’d pulled into the strange little gas station. The interstate was unchanged, but the desert didn’t seem right anymore.

The plants, the sandy shoulder pushing up against the pavement, even the mountains no longer looked the same. Steep slopes had acquired a rusty red hue instead of the familiar beige and brown. Several plants hovered over the barbed-wire fence that isolated the interstate from the surrounding terrain. Branches reached for the concrete. At sixty it was impossible to say for certain, but a few appeared to be dripping dark liquid. Probably creosote, Frank told himself. Creosote bushes were supposed to be common in this part of the world. But should a bush drip creosote?

The ocotillos looked shriveled and drawn, like anorexic octopuses. Then there were the Joshua trees, not as common here as elsewhere in the desert, with their contorted limbs that resembled broken arms. That was to be expected. All Joshua trees looked like that.

But they shouldn’t have had faces with wide, imploring eyes and mouths frozen in midscream.

He thought about pointing them out, found himself wondering if he was the only one to notice what might not actually be there. All desert plants looked funny. Just because he was seeing their gnarled shapes as ominous didn’t mean someone else would view them in the same way. They might find the distortions amusing, and laugh at his interpretations. So as badly as the sights unnerved him, he kept his observations to himself.

No one passed them from behind and there was no traffic in the oncoming lanes. That was starting to worry him as much as the appearance of some of the vegetation when something rocketed past in the fast lane. The low jet-black sports car must have been traveling well in excess of a hundred miles an hour.

Damn highway patrol’s never around when they should be, he grumbled silently.

The truck convoy that passed a few minutes later was moving at a more sedate velocity. There were three of the big eighteen-wheelers. He tried to see the drivers, but the three cabs were wrapped in smoked glass. All were painted a bright red-orange and were devoid of company logos or identification except for the big crimson H stenciled on each side. Very catchy, Frank mused.

The last truck had vanished over the horizon when he pulled hard on the steering wheel, forgetting that he wasn’t driving a sports car himself. Wendy squealed and was immediately angry at herself for doing so, while Alicia let out a startled gasp. Then the motor home steadied again. Frank clung to the wheel, trying to drive and stare at the rearview mirror at the same time. There was sweat on his forehead.

"Snake."

Alicia gaped at him. "You almost wrecked us to avoid hitting a snake? I know you love animals, Frank, but…"

"Not a snake. I thought it was at first, but it had legs. Short, stubby legs, and it was about eight feet long."

"I don’t care how big it was! You" — she hesitated, leaned toward him — "Frank, you’re sweating."

Reflexively he drew a forearm across his brow, sopping up the moisture. "It had stripes, Alicia. Legs and orange and black stripes. Eight feet long. And it had — a face."

She stared uncomprehendingly. "A face? Oh. You mean, like a lizard face."

"Yeah, that was it. A lizard face."

Except it hadn’t looked anything like a lizard. It had been distorted, the expression a frozen alien grimace, but humanoid. Much too human. As the motor home had roared down on it, the wide mouth had parted in a hiss of fear and loathing. He’d barely avoided it, careening wildly into the fast lane, fighting weight and wheel as he’d brought it back under control.

A crawling abomination, a stripe-slashed monstrosity born of some fevered nightmare, that’s what it had been. Nothing so normal and healthy as a snake. What was happening?

The gas station. That heat-ravaged gas station with its damned attendant. That’s where it had started. Had they taken a wrong turn somehow? Had he driven onto the wrong on ramp, the wrong highway? They’d driven into a part of the desert people didn’t know about. Perhaps a desert that lay just under or parallel to the real Mojave? Or maybe he was going a little crazy from all the driving and the heat. The latter explanation was the more reasonable of the two.

A glance revealed Wendy locked in the blissful catatonia provided by her tape player, Steven absorbed in a comic book. Say nothing to them, don’t involve them. So far the nightmare was still a private one. Alicia had only been brushed by the horror. Leave her out of it, too. The snake that was something less than a reptile and the station attendant who might have been something more than a man had him seriously unsettled.

"I’m going to lie down in back for a few minutes." Alicia climbed free of her chair. "Just a few minutes so I can rest my eyes. Then I’m taking over. You’ve been driving too long, Frank."

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe I have." He nodded his thanks, followed her with his eyes as she moved toward the back of the motor home. "Steven? Hey, come on up and sit with your old man for a few minutes, kiddo."

Silence, then a resigned sigh as his son reluctantly set the comic aside. "Okay, Dad." Moments later a rotund little form plopped itself down in the big captain’s chair next to his. Father and son watched the passing scenery quietly for a while.

"Tell me something, kiddo. What do you see out there?"

Steven had to sit up straight in order to be able to see out the window. He gazed for a moment before turning back to his father. "Same old shi — stuff, Dad. Sand and rocks."

"That’s all? It doesn’t look different to you? I mean, different from when we started out from Barstow."

"Different?" Steven frowned, wondering as he made a second survey of their surroundings if this was some new kind of game. He pressed his face against the glass. "I dunno. Some of the plants look kind of funny. Weird, like. Isn’t that how desert plants always look?"

Frank stiffened in his seat. So he wasn’t imagining everything. "How do you mean, weird, like?"

"Sorta twisted." Suddenly he was on his knees on the seat, his head turning to look back the way they’d come. "Hey, neat!"

"What?"

"There went one that looked just like a little kid!"

"Really." Frank kept his voice even. "A kid, huh?"

"Yeah. It looked like it was running. That’s what was so neat. I mean, lots of these plants have branches that look like arms and hands, right? But this one musta had two trunks. They looked just like legs, like they were running. Too bad you missed it."

"Too bad." How deeply did he want to involve his son in this nightmare? Did he have any choice, or were they all already deeply involved? If his son was seeing similar apparitions, then there was nothing personal about the nightmare. If it was a nightmare.

It had to be. Had to. "Remember the gas station where we just stopped?"

"Sure, Dad." The boy looked simultaneously small and overweight in the oversized, velour-upholstered chair. "What about it?"

Frank struggled with the words. "Did you notice anything, well, funny there? Besides the bones you found?"

Steven thought a moment before shaking his head. "Naw." His expression brightened. "Well, maybe one thing. You know the old weirdo who ran the place?"

"The elderly gentleman, yes."

"When we first got there and I was over lookin' around at that pen or whatever it was, I saw him trying to peek inside the motor home. He was standin' on his tiptoes trying to see in one of the back windows. I didn’t think about it 'cause I thought he was helping you, Dad. He had his face right up against it, real close, like." Steven demonstrated by putting both hands in front of his face and pressing his nose against them. "He was, like, sniffing or something. I guess that was pretty funny, huh? Is that what you meant?"

Frank nodded slowly. "Funny enough. He was standing up and sniffing? Not looking underneath?"

"Nope. Just sniffing along the side, like a big dog." The boy laughed at the memory. "That’s pretty silly, isn’t it?"

"Hysterical. Do me a favor and go get your mom."

Steven looked around the seat. "But she just went and laid down."

"Just get her. Tell her I need to see her for a minute."

"Okay." Steven shrugged, slipped off the chair, and jogged toward the rear bedroom. A few moments later Alicia appeared, blinking and rubbing at one eye.

"That wasn’t much of a rest, dear." She settled into the chair. "But if you’re ready for me to drive, I’ll take it."

"It’s not that. There’s something wrong."

She was suddenly alert and awake. "With the motor home?"

"No. I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s something else. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I’m tired of wondering about it and I think I’ve figured out how to fix it." He tapped the map clipped to the dash. "In a few minutes we’ll be in Baker. That’s where our hitchhiker is getting off."

"In Baker? I thought you wanted to take her all the way to Vegas?"

He nodded vigorously. "That’s what I thought at first, yeah. On reflection, I think maybe we’d be better off dropping her sooner. I have this feeling we’re getting ourselves too involved in someone else’s personal business, some kind of business we don’t know anything about and that we’re better off not knowing about. I’ll think of some reason. It’s not like we’re dumping her in the middle of nowhere. She ought to be able to get a ride out of Baker easy if she just hangs around one of the gas stations."

"You’re not making a whole lot of sense, Frank. That’s not like you."

"Didn’t you want to get rid of her?" he asked challengingly.

"Well, I wouldn’t put it that way." She glanced toward the back bedroom. "She looks so frail and innocent when she’s sound asleep. What happened to change your mind?"

"Tell you later. You agree we should put her off, then?"

"I don’t know. I know what I said when we first picked her up, but we’ve agreed to take her all the way to Las Vegas. I don’t feel right about changing my mind."

"This is our vacation, isn’t it? She oughta be grateful that we brought her this far instead of leaving her standing where we found her."

"If you think this is the best way, Frank."

"I do."

There was silence between them for a while before she spoke up anew.

"Frank?"

"Yeah."

"Can’t you tell me what’s going on? Please?"

He chewed at his lower lip. "Hon, I’m not sure I know what’s going on. I just know that she’s involved somehow and that I don’t want us to be a part of it. She still sleeping?" Alicia nodded.

"I think what’s going on is she’s in some kind of trouble. She may be a singer like she claims. I mean, we know she can sing, but we don’t know that that’s her profession. Now, you know me. I’m always ready to go the extra mile to help somebody out of a jam. But not if I think it’s going to touch my family."

"Us?" Alicia was genuinely puzzled. "How could any problems Mouse might be having affect us?"

"Like I’ve been saying, I’m not sure. It’s just that there are a number of things that don’t feel right."

"Your funny-looking snakes troubling you again?" She half smiled, uncertain whether she expected to be taken seriously.

"Among other things. You remember the old attendant who sold us gas?"

"Not really. I hardly got a look at him. I was talking to Wendy."

"He asked me if we’d picked up any hitchhikers. He tried to be casual about it, but I could tell he was real interested in my answer."

She frowned. "Why would he ask a question like that?"

"He said something about having problems with people swiping stuff, but I don’t think that had anything to do with it. I think it’s something else, something a lot more serious. Steven said he saw him trying to sneak a look inside while I was pumping gas. Sniffing around, you might say."

"You think he was looking for Mouse?"

"I don’t know, but he sure as hell was looking for something, and I don’t want any part of what’s going on. He wouldn’t give me any straight answers, and she" — he jerked his head in the direction of the back bedroom and their sleeping guest — "hasn’t given us any straight answers and I think the best thing under the circumstances is to let people like that work out their problems among themselves. Let her find another ride. I’ve had enough of her and enough of this."

Then maybe life would return to normal, he thought desperately. Whatever else Mouse might be, she wasn’t normal. Her appearance wasn’t normal and her voice wasn’t normal and her whole aspect was slightly skewed. Once they were rid of her maybe the world would return to normal. Unless he was the only one who’d gone crazy. But Steven had seen the attendant sniffing.

Alicia thought her husband was overreacting, but she kept quiet. She accepted his change of heart gratefully. Not because she didn’t like Mouse. She just didn’t like strangers. Obviously Mouse’s presence was putting a strain on their vacation. That was reason enough to ask her to find another ride.

It had nothing to do with funny-looking snakes and curious gas station attendants.