There was a long pause. Clay watched, fascinated, Johnny completely out of his mind for the first time since Kent Pond. The older man seemed to be thinking furiously,
On top of the volunteer fire station, which was nothing but a glorified garage, the siren went off with a brief
But the talking was done, it seemed. The young man lowered his head, ran at the older man, and butted him in the chest. The older man went sprawling. The younger man tripped over his legs and went to his knees.
They picked themselves up again and stood about fifteen feet apart. Clay could feel their hate. It was in his head; it was pushing at his eyeballs, trying to get out.
The young man said, 'That'n . . .
The older man drew in breath. Jerkily raised one scabbed-over arm. And shot the young man the bird. 'Sit. On this!' he said with perfect clarity.
The two of them lowered their heads and rushed at each other. Their heads met with a thudding crack that made Clay wince. This time all the windows in the garage blew out. The siren on the roof gave a long war-cry before winding down. The fluorescent lights in the station house flashed on, running for perhaps three seconds on pure crazypower. There was a brief burst of music: Britney Spears singing 'Oops! . . . I Did It Again.' Two power- lines snapped with liquid twanging sounds and fell almost in front of Clay, who stepped back from them in a hurry. Probably they were dead, they
The older man dropped to his knees with blood pouring down both sides of his head.
The younger one turned to Clay, as if to recruit him as witness to his victory. Blood was pouring out of his matted, filthy hair, between his eyes, in a double course around his nose, and over his mouth. His eyes, Clay saw, weren't blank at all. They were insane. Clay understood—all at once, completely and inarguably—that if this was where the cycle led, his son was beyond saving.
Clay shot him, then reholstered the .45.
He woke from this dream long before dark, but sleep was done for him and he decided to start walking again. And once he'd cleared Gurleyville—what little of Gurleyville there was to clear—he'd drive. There was no reason not to; Route 160 now seemed almost entirely clear and probably had been since the nasty pileup where it crossed Route 11. He simply hadn't noticed it in the dark and the rain.
He topped a rise and this thought broke off cleanly. Parked in the middle of the road below was a little yellow schoolbus with MAINE SCHOOL DISTRICT 38NEWFIELDprinted on the side. Leaning against it was a man and a boy. The man had his arm around the boy's shoulders in a casual gesture of friendship Clay would have known anywhere. As he stood there, frozen, not quite believing his eyes, another man came around the schoolbus's blunt nose. He had long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. Following him was a pregnant woman in a T-shirt. It was powder blue instead of Harley-Davidson black, but it was Denise, all right.
Jordan saw him and called his name. He pulled free of Tom's arm and started running. Clay ran to meet him. They met about thirty yards in front of the schoolbus.
'Clay!' Jordan shouted. He was hysterical with joy. 'It's really you!'
'It's me,' Clay agreed. He swung Jordan in the air, then kissed him. Jordan wasn't Johnny, but Jordan would do, at least for the time being. He hugged him, then set him down and studied the haggard face, not failing to note the brown circles of weariness under Jordan's eyes. 'How in God's name did you get here?'
Jordan's face clouded. 'We couldn't. . . that is, we only dreamed . . .'
Tom came strolling up. Once again he ignored Clay's outstretched hand and hugged him instead. 'How you doin, van Gogh?' he asked.
'Okay. Fucking delighted to see you guys, but I don't understand—'
Tom gave him a smile. It was both tired and sweet, a white flag of a smile. 'What computer-boy's trying to tell you is that in the end we just didn't have any choice. Come on down to the little yellow bus. Ray says that if the road stays clear—and I'm sure it will—we can be in Kashwak by sundown, even traveling at thirty miles an hour. Ever read
Clay shook his head, bewildered. 'Saw the movie.'
'There's a line there that resonates in the current situation—'Journeys end in lovers meeting.' Looks like I might get to meet your kid after all.'
They walked down to the schoolbus. Dan Hartwick offered Clay a tin of Altoids with a hand that was not quite steady. Like Jordan and Tom, he looked exhausted. Clay, feeling like a man in a dream, took one. End of the world or not, it was curiously strong.
'Hey, man,' Ray said. He was behind the wheel of the schoolbus, Dolphins cap tipped back, a cigarette smoldering in one hand. He looked pale and drawn. He was staring out through the windshield, not at Clay.
'Hey, Ray, what do you say?' Clay asked.
Ray smiled briefly. 'Say I've heard that one a few times.'
'Sure, probably a few hundred. I'd tell you I'm glad to see you, but under the circumstances, I'm not sure you'd want to hear it.'
Still looking out the windshield, Ray replied, 'There's someone up there you'll