him realize just how crazy things had gotten. There were plenty of questions to ask. Why were Isabella and the Walkers leaving the lake after all these years? Where were they going from here? Perhaps the others didn't want to know more. Perhaps they understood on some instinctive level that what he'd told them was true, and that was enough for them.
Janet shook her head uncomprehendingly. 'Did you see your father?' she asked Miles.
He nodded. 'Yeah.'
She turned to Garden. 'Your grandfather?'
'And my uncle.'
'Uncle John wasn't there.' Her voice was filled with something like relief. 'Maybe we did bury him. Maybe he is back in Cedar City and he's not involved in all this.'
'Maybe,' Miles agreed. He wasn't at all sure that Uncle
John's fate was so benign, but he wanted to ease her suffering. She did not deserve this. He was sorry he'd brought her along, but he knew that the only reason he could say that was because Garden and Rossiter were here. The truth was, he had had her come along solely because he hadn't wanted to be alone. Now he wished that he had left Janet back in Utah.
Garden was staring at the spot where they had last seen the Walkers heading into the desert, toward the hills. The track of disturbed sand that marked their passing was clearly visible. 'What do you think we should do?'
'Follow them,' Rossiter said, but his voice lacked conviction and his face betrayed a complete lack of desire to do any such thing.
Miles shook his head. Logically, that should be their plan, but something about it seemed wrong. It didn't feel right, although that seemed like a nebulous objection. 'No,' he said.
His authority challenged, Rossiter's spine stiffened.
''they'll get away. If you're right, they need to be stopped.
And we're the only ones who've seen them. We're the only ones who know where they are.'
'It's too dangerous,' Miles said, and though he didn't know why he thought that, he did
'You coming?' the agent asked Garden.
The young man looked confused, ttmaed from Rossiter to
Miles, licking his lips.
'Fine.' Rossiter started off on his own. 'I'm not letting them out of my sight.' He started down the slope, jogging to maintain his balance until he reached the beach at the bottom.
'Don't!' Miles called after him, and he was surprised by the power of his own voice.
'I have to! They'll get away!'
'Let them. We'll go after them later. We need to talk about this. We need to plan--'
'Nothing to talk about. Nothing to plan. You pussies stay here. I'm going.' He was already moving away from shore and was past the first paloverde, heading around the column-like bulk of a saguaro.
'Maybe we should go,' Garden said.
Janet shook her head fiercely. 'Miles is right. It's dangerous You saw them.'
'I saw my gram pa and uncle.'
'Tthat's not who they are anymore,' Miles told him. He looked Garden in the eye and saw that he was only stating what the young man already knew,
Rossiter disappeared into the deert.
'What do we do?' Garden asked.
Miles didn't know. He knew what felt wrong, but he didn't know what felt right. Isabella needed to be stopped. But he did not know how to do that, and it seemed criminal and irresponsible to stand around here, waiting for inspiration to strike instead of taking action.
'What's going to happen to him?' Janet was looking off toward where Rossiter had disappeared into the desert brash. 'I hope nothing.'
'But you don't think so?
Miles shook his head. Until Janet had forced him to confront the fact, he had not realized that he never expected to see the agent again. He was surprised at himself for not feeling anything, and once again he realized what a bizarre turn everything had taken, how. off it all seemed.
'Where do you think they're all going?' Garden asked. 'Maybe we could call the police. I don't know how strong that Isabella is, but maybe they can be overpowered. Maybe
if we get a group together and confront them we can...'
He trailed off. 'I don't know what we can do, but maybe we can do something.'
Miles nodded absently. He was listening for the sound of gunfire, expecting Rossiter to catch up with the Walkers and, once cornered, use his revolver. =
But there were no shots, and the optimistic thought briefly occurred to him that the agent was trained in this sort of thing. He might be tailing them without their knowledge. Maybe he would see something or learn something that they could use to stop Isabella.
Hope died in his chest as Rossiter emerged from the brush, shuffling through the sand, hands hanging loosely at his sides, eyes white and wide, his mouth open in a stunned expression.
His face was bright lobster red. The thudding of Miles' heart rose to a drumbeat loud enough to drown out all incoming sounds. Rossiter looked as though his skin had been doused with red paint, but as he drew closer, starting up the slope toward the parking lot, Miles saw that the redness came from a transformation of the skin itself, like some ultra-extreme sunburn. The agent looked up at them and began talking, but the noises that came out of his mouth were like nothing that had ever issued from either human or animal.
Rossiter reached the parking lot and promptly sat down, his legs folding naturally into a lotus position as he lowered himself onto the gravel.
That's what his voice Sounded like. Rossiter was still talking, but his mouth closed as his but locks touched the earth. The disturbing noise stopped, and Rossiter looked up at the sky..' and froze.
Miles thought of Medusa, the gorgon, who, according to
Greek legend, would turn to stone any man who looked upon her.
Was that what had happened here?
What exactly had Rossiter seen?
Miles was not sure he wanted to know.
He looked down at the agent's unmoving form. Behind him, from the road, he heard tires on dirt, the sound of a car engine.
'Someone's coming,' Janet said. Her voice was small and uncharacteristically squeaky.
Miles turned. A car pulled into the gravel parking lot, slowed to a stop. 'I know that car,' he said. 'It's from my
It was the longest trip of her life.
Even without May chattering nonsensically in the backseat, Claire would have been anxious and unable to sleep. Ordinarily on a long drive, the rhythm of the wheels lulled her and she dozed. But the homeless woman kept alternately muttering to herself and making sudden absurd pronouncements, making for a long and stressful trip. ::..
Claire stared out the windshield.
Hal was a progressive rock fan, and he had an endless supply of tapes that he played throughout the night: Triumvirat and ELP and Yes and Gentle Giant and PFM. She herself was more of a smooth jazz, New Age kind of listener, and after a while she found the sheer number of notes and the tortured time changes of the music wearying. She longed for something soothing, relaxing, but this was Hal's car, and he was good enough to drive her, and she didn't say a word.
She prayed that Miles was okay, that nothing had happened to him, that he had not found Bob.
