projectionist’s booth to the screen. Beside me, my rider took my hand.
“I had to,” I said.
“I know,” she repliedas there too. We did it together.”
“If I hadn’t—”
“Shh.”
I turned back to the movie. It was just like all my other nightmares except for the distance that came from watching it all from outside. I felt the same sickening grief and guilt and fear, but maybe not as vividly. When I woke up crying, it was just weeping instead of the violent sobs I was used to. Ozzie was at the bedside looking concerned. Her breath was warm and stank. I scratched her between the ears, and, reassured, she went back to her place on the couch.
I WAS sure when I went back to sleep, I would dream of the desert. Instead, I spent the rest of the night talking to my boyfriend from college about his plan to start a business delivering ice cream wirelessly over the Internet and walking through a cathedral-sized shopping mall trying to return a cookbook my mother had written for me while sparrows did complex mating dances with bits of trailing ribbon and twine. I woke up to the yellow-blue light of approaching dawn, feeling more rested, peaceful, and calm than I had in weeks.
I got dressed in yesterday’s clothes, cooked the last eggs, and scouted around the RV for paper and something to write with—a stub of dull pencil and the back of the envelope Midian had left for me. The radio muttered the best of the nineties, bringing with it some surprisingly vivid memories of my church preschool classroom and Mrs. Springsteen, who’d taught it. I couldn’t think she’d ever played Nirvana during our nap time, but the two things had become conflated in my memory. I let Ozzie out, and she bolted after a half dozen crows that were going through the restaurant’s trash. I still had a few hours before I had to do anything, but then the new car would come—the new shoes—and break time would be over.
My first order of business was the other rider. I couldn’t leave things with Ex and Chogyi and Father Chapin the way they stood. I had to find proof that there had been another rider. How to go about that …
I took the pencil stub and wrote
If she could tell them what had happened to her, it would give my story some weight. The problem, of course, being that what I knew about her was her first name, that she’d had an exorcism go south on her four days ago, and that she probably lived somewhere in northern New Mexico or southern Colorado. Or maybe farther afield. I didn’t really know how wide an area Father Chapin covered, but I, at least, had come to him from Austria. I didn’t have the impression that Dolores’s family was quite the jet-set type, given their cars …
Their cars. There was something about that. It took me a couple of minutes before my subconscious handed me the thing I’d been trying to remember. They’d had a vanity plate. I picked up the little stub of pencil and wrote on the back of the envelope:
I turned to how another rider could have been there in the first place. If I’d been a rider, a circle of exorcists was pretty much the last place I’d want to be: the sanctuary was consecrated, and I’d had the rider-stopping medallion on during the rite. When I started listing the reasons that the sewer-stink thing really couldn’t have been there, it was a pretty strong argument. I wrote my questions on the envelope:
I sat looking at the words for a long time, wondering what I’d do if I found Dolores and she didn’t know what I was talking about. It was possible that the Black Sun really had been tricking me. Footsteps crunched through the snow, and I shoved the envelope into my pocket before the knock came. The guy was midtwenties, wearing jeans that actually fit, a thick flannel shirt, and curly dark hair that had been gelled to within an inch of its life. He had a black suitcase in his hand too big to be called an overnight bag, but too small to hide a body in. His smile was cautious.
“I’m looking for Jane Heller?” he said.
“Close enough,” I said. “Tell me those are my new clothes.”
He handed up the suitcase.
“I have the car out in the parking lot,” he said. “There’s some paperwork I need you to sign.”
“No problem,” I said. “Give me ten minutes to change, and I’ll meet you inside.”
“That’ll be great,” he said with a bobbing, deferential nod.
I put the case on the kitchen counter, unzipped it, and popped it open. The top of the pile was fresh underwear, two different sizes of sports bra, and thick white wool socks. I couldn’t stop grinning. Tights that were right on the line between panty hose and thermal underwear. Two pairs of slacks, one black and one tan. Low- heeled boots that zipped up the side that could pass for businesswear, but had enough tread and arch support to take hiking. A pack of undershirts still in their plastic, three blouses, a dark overcoat not that different from the one I’d left behind, a package of ponytail holders, a black baseball cap with insulated foam lining, a pair of sunglasses, a discreet emergency pack with a variety of feminine protection products, a wallet filled with hundreds and twenties, a New Hampshire driver’s license with a picture of me I didn’t remember seeing before, and a black case with a smartphone in it. I pushed the power button, and the little thing sprang to life. It was thicker than the other ones I’d seen, and the matte black case had an almost military feel. The opening touch screen was filled with application icons. The address book had only one entry: my lawyer’s private line. I could have kissed her.
It took me twenty minutes to change, and when I stepped out of the RV for the last time, I looked like someone from a SWAT team. My hair was pulled back through the adjustment band of the baseball cap. I had the dark slacks, the black overcoat, the sunglasses. The shoes were a little too big and the sports bra was still a little too tight, but walking around to the front of O’Keefe’s, I felt more comfortable than I had in days. Just before I turned the corner, I looked back. The snow was mostly melted off the RV. Its sides were scabby with sun damage. I still smelled like Midian’s cigarettes and probably would until my hair grew out.
“Thanks,” I said to the broken-down old vehicle and the vampire I’d borrowed it from.
My car was a blue SUV with the dealer’s paperwork taped to the back window. It stood out in the parking lot because of its lack of mud and wear. I walked into O’Keefe’s to find Mr. Hair Gel chatting up the underage waitress I’d had the first time I came in. He looked pleased and nervous when I sat down across from him.
“I just need a signature on a few things saying you took possession,” he said, setting a pack of legal-sized papers in front of me with neon-green sticky notes showing me where to sign. He also handed me a really nice ballpoint pen.
“Thank you,” I said, and started making all the right marks. In the corner of my eye, I saw the waitress trying not to stare at me.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Hair Gel said. “I’m sorry for asking, but are you a movie star or something?”
“Nope,” I said, putting my initials on an insurance policy for the new car.
“It’s just we don’t usually get this kind of service request. I mean, there was this one time Julia Roberts had a bunch of people out in Arroyo Seco, and—“
“I’ve never met Julia Roberts,” I said. “I think we travel in different circles.”
“Right. I just had to ask,” he said. “You looked like you could be.”
I glanced up. His smile was bashful and cocksure at the same time. I was being hit on. I smiled back.
“Anything else you need me to sign?” I asked. He shook his head and passed a single key on a remote control fob across the table. I picked it up, weighing it in my hands. All right, then. Time to hunt down demons. “Thanks. You do have a ride back to town, right?”
“He’ll be along shortly,” Mr. Hair Gel said, but his tone suggested that he’d be open to the offer of a lift back in my car. For half a second, I was tempted.
Once I was in the SUV, I cranked up the heater, letting the engine run. The cell phone had great reception, even here. I called my lawyer.
“Jayné!” she said, answering before it could ring. “Is everything all right, dear?”
“It’s great,” I said. “You’re a miracle worker. But I need something else. Can we get an address for a someone if I give you a license plate? I’m not sure if it’s New Mexico or Colorado plates, though.”
“Of course, dear. Give me what you’ve got, and I’ll be right back.”
I spelled out GODSWRK to her and waited while she repeated it all back in military code.
