It was the eighteenth by now, Mary realized. Lord Jack would be waiting for her at two o'clock in the afternoon.
But if he wasn't there, what was she going to do?
Mary smiled grimly in her purple haze. That was CinCin talking.
But what if the pigs are there?
Shoot the baby first. Then take as many pigs with you as you can.
Reasonable.
Mary opened her eyes and stood up on mile-long legs. She was a walking heartbeat, the roar of blood through her veins like the noise of the freight-hauling trucks. She went into the room where Drummer was sleeping, and she sat on the bed and looked at him. She watched a frown pass over his face: a storm in babyland. Drummer sucked busily on the pacifier, and peace came to his face again. Lately he'd been waking up at three or four in the morning wanting to be fed. Mary was getting efficient at feeding him and changing his diapers. Motherhood suited her, she'd decided.
She could kill him if she had to. She knew she could. And then she would keep shooting until the pigs cut her down and she would join Drummer and her brothers and sisters in a place where the love generation had never died.
Mary lay down on the bed beside Drummer, close enough to feel his heat. She loved him more than anything in the world, because he was hers.
If they had to leave this world together, so be it.
Karma. That was the way things worked.
Mary drifted off to sleep, the acid slowing her pulse. Her last thought was of Lord Jack, bright with beauty in the winter sun, as he accepted the gift she had brought him.
6: A Real Popular Lady
Ten hours before Mary Terror's converstation with the dead, Laura rang the doorbell of a red brick house four miles west of Ann Arbor, Michigan. It was a sunny day, huge white clouds moving slowly across the sky, but the air was bitterly cold. Mark had his hands buried in his fleece-lined jacket, and puffs of breath plumed from his mouth. Laura and Mark had left Chattanooga on Friday morning, had driven to Dayton, Ohio, and spent Friday night there before continuing the rest of the way. They had driven through the sprawling University of Michigan, once a hotbed of student dissent in the late sixties and early seventies, and now better known for its Wolverines.
The door opened. An elderly man with a pleasant, leathery face and sun freckles on his scalp peered out. 'Yes?'
'Hello.' Laura offered a tight smile. 'We're trying to find Diane Daniells. Do you know where she might be?'
He took a long look at her, another long look at Mark, and then he squinted toward the other side of the road, up at the stone cottage surrounded by oaks and elms at the end of a long dirt driveway. 'Diane's not at home,' he told her.
'We know. We were wondering if you had any idea where she is.' This house and the one belonging to Diane Daniells – once known as Bedelia Morse – were the only ones on this stretch of road.
'Gone on a trip,' he said. 'Not sure where.'
'When did she leave?' Mark asked.
'Oh, Thursday afternoon, I suppose it was. Said she was goin' north, if that's any help.'
Laura had a knot in her throat, and she had to struggle to clear it. Being so close to where Bedelia Morse lived and being unable to find her was pure torture. 'Did she say when she might be back?'
'Weekend trip, she said. You folks friends of Diane's?'
'I'm an old friend,' Mark answered.
'Well, I'm sorry you missed her. If it's any help to you, I think she's gone birdin'.'
'Birding?' Laura asked.
'Yep. Diane asked to borrow my binoculars. See, my wife and I are bird-watchers. We belong to the society.' He scratched his chin. 'Diane's a solitary kind of woman. Be a real good birder if she put her mind to it.'
Laura nodded absently, turned, and looked at the stone cottage again. The mailbox had a peace sign painted on it. In front of the cottage stood an abstract clay sculpture, all sharp angles and edges.
'Diane's a real popular lady all of a sudden,' the old man said.
'What?'
'Real popular,' he repeated. 'Diane usually don't have no visitors. She comes over and plays chess with me sometimes. Beats my socks off, too. Other fella was askin' about her yesterday.'
'Other fellow?' Mark frowned. 'Who?'
'Friend of hers,' he said. 'Fella with a bad throat. Had to plug a doohickey into his neck and talk through a speaker. Damnedest thing.'
'Did Diane tell you who she might be going to visit?' Laura asked, getting the conversation back on track.
'Nope. Just said she was goin' away for the weekend. Headin' north, she said.'
It was obvious the man didn't know anything else. 'Thank you,' Laura said, and the old man wished them a good day and closed his door.
On the walk back to Laura's BMW, Mark kicked a pinecone and said, 'Sounds weird.'
'What does?'
'About the guy with the bad throat. Sounds weird.'
'Why? Maybe he's one of her pottery students.'
'Maybe.' Mark stood next to the car and listened to the wind roaming in the bare trees. 'I've just got a funny feeling, that's all.' He got into the car, and Laura slid behind the wheel. Their drive up from the South had been, for Laura, an education in radical philosophy and the teachings of Zen. Mark Treggs was a fount of knowledge about the militant struggles of the sixties, and they had gotten into a long discussion about the assassination of John F. Kennedy as the point when America had become poisoned. 'So what do we do now?' he asked as Laura started the engine.
'I'm going to wait for Bedelia Morse to come home,' she told him. 'You've done your part. If you want, I'll buy you a plane ticket back to Chattanooga.'
Mark deliberated as they drove back toward Ann Arbor. 'Didi won't talk to you if I'm not there,' he said. 'She won't even let you in the door.' He swept his long hair back over his shoulders and watched the countryside pass. 'No, I'd better stick around,' Mark decided. 'I can get Rose to call in sick for me on Monday. No problem.'
'I thought you'd be eager to get home.'
'I am, but… I guess I'd like to see Didi. You know, for old times' sake.'
There was something Laura had been meaning to ask, and now seemed the time. 'In your book you dedicated a line to Didi: 'Keep the faith and love the one you're with.' Who were you talking about? Is she living with someone?'
'Yeah,' Mark said. 'Herself. I talked her out of slitting her wrists last summer.' He glanced quickly at Laura and then away. 'Didi's carrying a lot of heavy freight. She's not the same person she used to be. I guess the past eats at her.'
Laura looked at her hands on the steering wheel and realized something that almost startled her. She was wearing no fingernail polish, and her nails were dirty. Her shower this morning had been a speed drill. The diamond of her engagement ring – a link to Doug – looked dull. Before this ordeal she'd been meticulous about her manicures and her ring cleaning. Such things now seemed incredibly pointless.
'A dude with a bad throat,' Mark said quietly. 'Asking for Didi. I don't know. That gives me the creeps.'
'Why?'
'If he was one of her students, wouldn't he know she was going out of town for the weekend?'
'Not necessarily.'
He grunted. 'Maybe you're right. But it still sounds weird to me.'
Laura said, 'This okay?' and motioned to a Days Inn coming up on the left. Mark said it was fine with him,
