Cell

'Who?' Alice asked

'Listen to that elephant walk,' Clay said, and laughed. He was tired and feeling goofy. It occurred to him that Johnny would love that music.

Packsack gave him a glance of passing contempt, then looked back at Tom. 'That's Lawrence Welk, all right,' he said. 'My eyes aren't half-right anymore, but my ears are fine. My wife and I used to watch his show every fucking Saturday night.'

'Dodge had a good time, too,' Rucksack said. It was his only addition to the conversation, and Clay hadn't the slightest idea what it meant.

'Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Band,' Tom said. 'Think of it.'

'Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music Makers,' Packsack said. 'Jesus Christ.'

'Don't forget the Lennon Sisters and the lovely Alice Lon,' Tom said.

In the distance, the ghostly music changed. 'That one's 'Calcutta,' ' Packsack said. He sighed. 'Well, we'll be getting along. Nice passing the time of day with you.'

'Night,' Clay said.

'Nope,' Packsack said. 'These're our days now. Haven't you noticed? Have a good one, boys. You too, little ma'am.'

'Thank you,' the little ma'am standing between Clay and Tom said faintly.

Packsack started along again. Rucksack fell sturdily in beside him. Around them, a steady parade of bobbing flashlight beams led people deeper into New Hampshire. Then Packsack stopped and looked back for a final word.

'You don't want to be on the road more than another hour,' he said. 'Find a house or motel unit and get inside. You know about the shoes, right?'

'What about the shoes?' Tom asked.

Packsack looked at him patiently, the way he'd probably look at anyone who couldn't help being a fool. Far down the road, 'Calcutta'—if that's what it was—had given way to a polka. It sounded insane in the foggy, drizzly night. And now this old man with the big pack on his back was talking about shoes.

'When you go inside a place, you put your shoes out on the stoop,' Packsack said. 'The crazy ones won't take them, don't worry about that, and it tells other people the place is taken and to move along, find another. Saves'—his eyes dropped to the heavy automatic weapon Clay was carrying—'Saves accidents.'

'Have there been accidents?' Tom asked.

'Oh yes,' Packsack said, with chilling indifference. 'There's always accidents, people being what they are. But there's plenty of places, so there's no need for you to have one. Just put out your shoes.'

'How do you know that?' Alice asked.

He gave her a smile that improved his face out of all measure. But it was hard not to smile at Alice; she was young, and even at three in the morning, she was pretty. 'People talk; I listen. I talk, sometimes other folks listen. Did you listen?'

'Yes,' Alice said. 'Listening's one of my best things.'

'Then pass it on. Bad enough to have them to contend with.' He didn't have to be more specific. 'Too bad to have accidents among ourselves on top of that.'

Clay thought of Natalie pointing the .22. He said, 'You're right. Thank you.'

Tom said, 'That one's 'The Beer Barrel Polka,' isn't it?'

'That's right, son,' Packsack said. 'Myron Floren on the squeezebox. God rest his soul. You might want to stop in Gaiten. It's a nice little village two miles or so up the road.'

'Is that where you're going to stay?' Alice asked.

'Oh, me and Rolfe might push on a dight farther,' he said.

'Why?'

'Because we can, little ma'am, that's all. You have a good day.'

This time they didn't contradict him, and although the two men had to be pushing seventy, they were soon out of sight, following the beam of a single flashlight, which Rucksack—Rolfe—held.

'Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music Makers,' Tom marveled.

' 'Baby Elephant Walk,' ' Clay said, and laughed.

'Why did Dodge have a good time, too?' Alice wanted to know.

'Because it could, I guess,' Tom said, and burst out laughing at her perplexed expression.

11

The music was coming from gaiten, the nice little village packsack had recommended as a place to stop. It was not nearly as loud as the AC/DC concert Clay had gone to in Boston as a teenager—that had left his ears ringing for days—but it was loud enough to make him think of summer band concerts he'd attended in South Berwick with his parents. In fact he had it in his mind that they would discover the source of the music on the Gaiten town common—likely some elderly person, not a phone-crazy but disaster-addled, who had taken it into his head to serenade the ongoing exodus with easy-listening oldies played through a set of battery-powered loudspeakers.

There was a Gaiten town common, but it was deserted save for a few people eating either a late supper or an early breakfast by the glow of flashlights and Coleman lanterns. The source of the music was a little farther to the north. By then Lawrence Welk had given way to someone blowing a horn so mellow it was soporific.

'That's Wynton Marsalis, isn't it?' Clay asked. He was ready to call it quits for the night and thought Alice looked done almost to death.

'Him or Kenny G,' Tom said. 'You know what Kenny G said when he got off the elevator, don't you?'

'No,' Clay said, 'but I'm sure you'll tell me.'

' 'Man! This place rocks!' '

Clay said, 'That's so funny I think my sense of humor just imploded.'

'I don't get it,' Alice said.

'It's not worth explaining,' Tom said. 'Listen, guys, we've got to call it a night. I'm about kilt.'

'Me too,' Alice said. 'I thought I was in shape from soccer, but I'm really tired.'

'Yeah,' Clay agreed. 'Baby makes three.'

They had already passed through Gaiten's shopping district, and according to the signs, Main Street—which was also Route 102—had now become Academy Avenue. This was no surprise to Clay, because the sign on the outskirts of town had proclaimed Gaiten home to Historic Gaiten Academy, an institution of which Clay had heard vague rumors. He thought it was one of those New England prep schools for kids who can't quite make it into Exeter or Milton. He supposed the three of them would be back in the land of Burger Kings, muffler-repair shops, and chain motels soon enough, but this part of New Hampshire 102 was lined with very nice-looking homes. The problem was, there were shoes—sometimes as many as four pairs—in front of most of the doors.

The foot-traffic had thinned considerably as other travelers found shelter for the coming day, but as they passed Academy Grove Citgo and approached the fieldstone pillars flanking Gaiten Academy's entrance drive, they began to catch up to a trio just ahead: two men and a woman, all well into middle age. As these three walked slowly up the sidewalk, they inspected each house for one without shoes placed at the front door. The woman was limping badly, and one of the men had his arm around her waist.

Gaiten Academy was on the left, and Clay realized this was where the music (currently a droning, string- laden version of 'Fly Me to the Moon') was coming from. He noticed two other things. One was that the road-litter here—torn bags, half-eaten vegetables, gnawed bones—was especially heavy, and that most of it turned in at the gravel Academy drive. The other was that two people were standing there. One was an old man hunched over a cane. The other was a boy with a battery-powered lantern parked between his shoes. He looked no more than twelve and was dozing against one of the pillars. He was wearing what looked like a school uniform: gray pants, gray sweater, a maroon jacket with a crest on it.

As the trio ahead of Clay and his friends drew abreast of the Academy drive, the old man—dressed in a