“They were selling cold drinks and T-shirts and stuff off the hay wagon,” Curtis explains. “The sign for Grandma’s salsa said it was hot enough to blow your head clean off, though I personally doubt that any method of decapitation could be clean.”
The twins are silent again, this time for a quarter of a mile. Then Polly says, “You’re a strange lad, Curtis Hammond.” “I’ve been told that I’m not quite right, too sweet for this world, and a stupid Gump,” Curtis acknowledges, “but I sure would like to fit in someday.”
“I’ve been thinking sort of Rain Man,” says Cass. “Good movie!” Curtis exclaims. “Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise. Did you know that Tom Cruise is friends with a serial killer?”
“I didn’t know that,” Polly confesses.
“A guy named Vern Tuttle, old enough to be your grandfather, collects the teeth of his victims. I heard him talking to Tom Cruise in a mirror, though I was so scared, I didn’t register whether the mirror was a communications device linking him to Mr. Cruise, like the mirror the evil queen uses in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, or just an ordinary mirror. Anyway, I’m sure Mr. Cruise doesn’t know Vern Tuttle is a serial killer, cause if he did, he’d bring him to justice. What’s your favorite Tom Cruise movie?”
“Jerry Maguire,” says Cass.
“Top Gun,” says Polly.
“What’s your favorite Humphrey Bogart movie?” Curtis asks.
“Casablanca,” the twins say simultaneously.
“Mine too,” Curtis confirms. “Favorite Katharine Hepburn movie?”
Polly says, “Woman of the Year,” Cass says, “The Philadelphia Story,” but they change their minds in unison: “Bringing Up Baby.”
And so they proceed north through the night, socializing with the ease of old friends, never once discussing the shootout at the crossroads store, the shape-changing assassins, or the dog’s use of the laptop computer to warn Polly of the presence of evil aliens.
Curtis doesn’t deceive himself that his rapidly developing ability to socialize and his conversational legerdemain will distract the sisters from these subjects forever. Castoria and Polluxia aren’t fools, and sooner or later, they are going to request explanations.
In fact, recalling the aplomb with which they handled themselves at the crossroads, they are likely to demand explanations when they are ready to broach the subject. Then he’ll have to decide how much truth to tell them. They are his friends, and he is loath to lie to friends; the more they know, however, the more they’ll be endangered.
After topping off the fuel tank in Jackpot, pausing neither for one of the buffets nor to observe a suicide, they cross the state line into Idaho and continue north to the city of Twin Falls, which is surrounded by five hundred thousand acres of ideal farmland irrigated by the Snake River. Curtis knows a great many facts about the geological and human history of the city, the “Magic Valley” area, and the vast lava beds north of the Snake River, and he dazzles the sisters by sharing this wealth of knowledge.
With a population of more than twenty-seven thousand Twin Falls offers some cover, making the boy less easily detectable than he’s been since he arrived in Colorado and first became Curtis Hammond. He is safer here, but not reliably safe.
Dawn is not yet two hours old when Cass parks the Fleetwood in an RV campground. A night without rest and the long drive have taken a toll, though the sisters still look so glamorous and so desirable that the campground attendant, assisting with the utility hookups, seems in danger of polishing his shoes with his tongue.
Curtis doesn’t need to sleep, but he fakes a yawn as the twins extend the sofabed in the lounge and dress it with sheets. Old Yeller has recently learned more about the dark side of the universe than any dog needs to know, and has been a bit edgy since the shootout. She’ll benefit from sleep, and Curtis will share her dreams for a while before spending the rest of the day planning his future.
While the sisters prepare the bed, they switch on the TV. Every major network is offering exhaustive coverage of the manhunt for the drug lords who may possess military weapons. At last the government has confirmed that three FBI agents died in a gun battle at the truck stop in Utah; three others were wounded.
Reports are circulating of a more violent confrontation in a restored ghost town, west of the truck stop. But FBI and military spokesmen decline to comment on these rumors.
In fact, the government is providing so few details about the crisis that the TV reporters have insufficient information to fill the ample air time given to this story. Inanely, they interview one another on their opinions, fears, and speculations.
Authorities haven’t provided photographs or even police-artist sketches of the men they’re hunting, which convinces some reporters that the government doesn’t know all the identities of their quarry.
“Idiots,” says Polly. “There aren’t any drug lords, only evil aliens. Right, Curtis?”
“Right.”
Cass says, “Are the feds searching just for you—“
“Right.”
“—because you saw these ETs and know too much—“
“Yeah, exactly.”
“—or are they also after the aliens?”
“Uh, well, both of us, I guess.”
“If they know you’re alive, why have they put out the story that you were killed by drug lords in Colorado?” Polly wonders.
“I don’t know.” Mom had counseled that eventually every cover story develops contradictions and that instead of devising elaborate explanations to patch over those holes, which will only create new contradictions, you should instead simply express bafflement whenever possible. Liars are expected to be slick, whereas bafflement usually sounds sincere. “I just don’t know. It doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Cass says, “If they said you’d survived, they could plaster your face all over the media, and everyone would help them look for you.”
“I’m baffled.” Curtis is remorseful about this deceit, but also proud of the smoothness with which he applies his mother’s advice, controlling a situation that might have aroused suspicion. “I really am baffled. I don’t know why they haven’t done that. Strange, huh?”
The sisters exchange one of those blue-laser glances that seem to transmit encyclopedias of information between them.
They resort to one of their mesmerizing duologues that cause Curtis’s eyes to shift metronomically from one perfect frosted-red mouth to the other. Tucking in a sheet, Polly starts with: “Well, this isn’t—“
“—the time,” Cass continues.
“—to get into all that—“
“—UFO stuff—“
“—and what happened—“
“—back at the service station.” Cass stuffs a pillow into a case. “We’re too tired—“
“—too fuzzy-headed—“
“—to think straight—“
“—and when we do sit down to talk—“
“—we want to be sharp—“
“—because we have a lot—“
“—of questions. This whole thing is—“
“—mondo weird,” Polly concludes.
And Cass picks up with: “We haven’t wanted—“
“—to talk about it—“
“—during the drive—“
“—because we need to think—“
“—to absorb what happened.”
Sister to sister, by telemetric stare, volumes are communicated without a word, and then all four blue eyes fix on Curtis. He feels as though he is being subjected to an electron-beam CT scan of such a sophisticated nature that it not only reveals the condition of his arteries and internal organs, but also maps his secrets and the true
