1990 - Mine v4

by Robert McCammon

"Six hundred dollars would buy us airline tickets," Didi said. "We could catch a flight to San Francisco from Omaha and rent a car to Freestone."

  "We couldn't rent a car without a driver's license. Anyway, we'd have to give up the gun to board a plane."

  Didi drove on a few more miles before she spoke again, bringing up a subject that had been needling her since the incident at the lumberyard. "What good is a gun going to be, anyway? I mean… how are you going to get David back, Laura? Mary's not going to give him up. Shell die first. Even with a gun, how're you going to get David back alive?" She emphasized the last word.

  "I don't know," Laura answered.

  "If Mary finds Jack Gardiner… well, who knows what she'll do? Who knows what he'll do? If she shows up at his door after all these years, he might flip out." She glanced quickly at the other woman and then away, because the pain had crept back onto Laura's face and latched there in the lines. "Jack was a dangerous man. He could talk other people into doing his killing for him, but he did his share of murders, too. He was the mind behind the Storm Front. The whole thing was his idea."

  "And you really think that's him? In Freestone?"

  "I think that's him in the photo, yeah. Whether he's in Freestone now or not, I don't know. But when Mary gets to him with David as some kind of a… love offering, God only knows how he'll react."

  "So we've got to find Jack Gardiner first," Laura said.

  "There's no telling how far Mary is ahead of us. She'll get to Freestone before us if we don't go by plane."

  "She can't be that far ahead. She's hurt, too, maybe worse than I am. The weather's going to slow her down. If she gets off the interstate, it'll just slow her down more."

  "Okay," Didi said. "Even if we do find Jack first, what then?"

  "We wait for Mary. She'll give the baby to Jack. That's why she's going to Freestone." Laura gently touched her bandaged hand. It was hot enough to sizzle, and throbbed with a deep, agonizing pulse. She would have to stand the pain, because she had no choice. "When my baby is out of Mary's hands… that's why I might need the gun."

  "You're not a killer. You're tough as old leather, yeah. But not a killer."

  "I'll need the gun to hold Mary for the police," Laura told her.

  There was a long silence. The Cutlass's tires hummed. "I don't think Jack would like that," Didi said. "Whatever identity he's built for himself, he's not going to let you call the police on Mary. And once you get David back… I'm not sure I can let you do that either."

  "I understand," Laura said. She'd already thought about this, and her thoughts had led her to this destination. "I was hoping we could work something out."

  "Right. Like a presidential pardon?"

  "More like a plane ticket to either Canada or Mexico."

  "Oh boy!" Didi smiled bitterly. "Nothing like starting life over in a foreign country with;zilch money and a K-Mart sweater!"

  "I could send you some money to help you get settled."

  "I'm an American! Get it? I live in America!"

  Laura didn't know what else to say. There was nothing else, really. Didi had started her journey to this point a long time ago, when she'd cast her lot with Jack Gardiner and the Storm Front. "Damn," Didi said quietly. She was thinking of a future in which the fear of someone coming up behind her suffocated the days and haunted the nights, and everywhere she walked she carried a target on her back. But there were a lot of islands in the waterways of Canada, she thought. A lot of places where the mail came in by seaplane and your closest neighbor lived ten miles away. "Would you buy me a kiln?" she asked. "For my pottery?"

  "Yes."

  "That's important to me, to do my pottery. Canada's a pretty country. It would be inspiring, wouldn't it?" Didi nodded, answering her own query. "I could be an expatriate. That sounds better than exile, don't you think?"

  Laura agreed that it did.

  The Cutlass passed from Iowa into Nebraska, following I-80 as it snaked around Omaha and on across the flat, white-frosted plains. Laura closed her eyes and rested as best she could, with the wipers scraping across the windshield and the tires a dull roar.

  Thursday's child, she thought.

  Thursday's child has far to go.

  She remembered one of the nurses saying that, at David's birth.

  And she hadn't thought of this before, but it came to her between the scrape and the roar: she'd been born on a Thursday, too.

  Far to go, she thought. She'd come a long way, but the most dangerous distance still lay ahead. Somewhere on that dark horizon, Mary Terror was traveling with David, getting closer to California with the passing of every mile. Behind Laura's eyes, she saw David lying in a pool of blood, his skull shattered by a bullet, and she shoved the image away before it took root. Far to go. Far to go. Into the golden West, dark as a tomb.

  3

  He Knows

  THREE HOURS AHEAD OF THE CUTLASS, THE SNOW WAS WHIRLING before Mary's headlights. It was coming down fast and heavy now from the solid night, a blowing snow that the wipers were straining to clear. Every so often a gust of wind would broadside the Cherokee and the wheel would shudder in Mary's hands. She could feel the tires wanting to slew on the slick interstate, and around her the other traffic — which had thinned out dramatically since nightfall — had slowed to half the posted speed.

  "We're going to be fine," she told Drummer. "Don't you worry, Mama'll take care of her sweet baby." But the truth was that the ants of fear were crawling under her skin, and she'd passed two pileups since she'd left a McDonald's in North Platte, Nebraska, twenty minutes before. This kind of driving shredded the nerves and shot the eyes, but the interstate was still clear and Mary didn't want to stop until she had to. Drummer had been fed and changed at the McDonald's, and he was getting sleepy. Mary's injured leg was numb from driving, but the pain in her forearm wound woke up occasionally and bit her hard and deep just to let her know who was really in charge. She felt feverish, too, her face moist and swollen with heat. She had to go on, as far as she could tonight, before her suffering body gave out on her.

  "Let's sing," Mary said. "'Age of Aquarius,'" she decided. "The Fifth Dimension, remember?" But of course Drummer did not. She began to sing the song, in a voice that might have been pleasant in her youth, but was now harsh and incapable of carrying a tune. " 'If You're Going to San Francisco,'" she said: another song title, but she couldn't recall the artist's name. She began to sing that, too, but she knew only the part about going to San Francisco with flowers in your hair, so she sang that over and over a few times and then let it go.

  The snow blew against the windshield and the Cherokee trembled. The flakes hit the glass and stuck there, large and intricate like Swiss lace, for a few seconds before the wipers could plow them aside and the next ones came.

  " 'Hot Fun in the Summertime,'" Mary said. "Sly and the Family Stone." Except she didn't know the words to it, all she could do was hum the tune. '"Marrakesh Express.' Crosby, Stills, and Nash." She knew almost all of that one; it had been one of Lord Jack's favorites.

  " 'Light My Fire,'" the man in the backseat said in a voice like velvet and leather.

  Mary looked into the rearview mirror and saw his face and part of her own. Her skin was glistening with fever sweat. His was white, like carved ice.

  " 'Light My Fire,'" God repeated. His dark hair was a thick mane, his face sculpted with shadows. "Sing it with me."

  She was shivering. The heater was blasting, she was full of heat, but she was shivering. God looked just like he did when she'd seen him up close in Hollywood. She smelled the phantom aromas of pot and strawberry incense, the combination like an exotic and lost perfume.

  He began to sing, there in the back of the Cherokee, as the snow flailed down and Mary Terror gripped the wheel.

  She listened to his half moan, half snarl, and after a while she joined him. They sang "Light My Fire" together, his voice tough and vibrant, hers searching for the lost chord. And they were on the part about setting the night o
n fire when Mary saw red flames erupt in the windshield. Not flames, no: brake lights. A truck, its driver stomping on the brakes just in front of her.

  She wrenched the wheel to the right and felt the tires defy her. The Cherokee was sliding into the rear of a tractor-trailer rig. She made a choked noise as God sang on. And then the Cherokee lurched as the tires found traction; the vehicle went off onto the right shoulder and missed slamming into the truck by about two feet. Maybe she had screamed; she didn't know, but Drummer was awake and crying shrilly. '

  Mary put the emergency brake on, picked up Drummer, and hugged him against her. The song had stopped. God was no longer in the backseat; he had abandoned her. The truck was moving on, and a hundred yards ahead blue lights spun and figures stood in the sweeping snow. It was another wreck, two cars jammed together like mating roaches. "It's all right," Mary said as she rocked the child. "It's all right, shhhhhh." He wouldn't stop, and now he was wailing and hiccuping at the same time. "Shhhhh, shhhhhh," she whispered. She was burning up, her leg was hurting again, and her nerves were raw. He kept crying, his face squeezed with anger. "SHUT UP!" Mary shouted. "SHUT UP, I SAID!" She shook him, trying to rattle his crybox loose. His breath snagged on a series of hiccups, his mouth open but nothing coming out. Mary felt a jolt of panic, and she pressed Drummer against her shoulder and thumped his back. "Breathe!" she said. "Breathe! Breathe, damn you!"

  He shuddered, pulling the air into his lungs, and then he let out a holler that said he was through taking shit.

  "Oh, I love you, I love you so much!" Mary told him as she rocked him and tried to quiet him down. What if he'd strangled to death just then? What if he hadn't been able to breathe and he'd died right here? What good would a lump of dead baby be for Jack? "Oh Mama loves her baby, her sweet sweet Drummer, yes she does," Mary crooned, and after a few minutes Drummer's tantrum subsided and his crying ceased. "Good baby. Good baby Drummer." She found the pacifier he'd spat out and stuck it back in his mouth. Then she laid him on the floorboard again, snuggled deep in a dead man's parka, and she got out of the Cherokee and stood in the falling snow trying to cool her fever.

  She limped away a distance, picked up a handful of snow, and rubbed it over her face. The air was wet and heavy, the snowflakes whirling down from a heaven as dark as stone. She stood watching other cars, vans, and trucks go past, heading west. The cold made her head clear and sharpened her senses. She could go on. She had to go on.

  Jack was waiting for her, and when they were joined again life would be incense and peppermints.

  Back behind the wheel, Mary repeated the three names over and over again as the night went on and the miles clicked away. "Hudley… Cavanaugh… Walker… Hudley…"

  "Cavanaugh… Walker," God said, returned to the Cherokee's backseat.

  He came and went, at his whim. There were no chains on God. Sometimes Mary looked back at him and thought he favored Jack, other times she thought there had never been another face like his and there never would be again. "Do you remember me?" she asked him. "I saw you once." But he didn't answer, and when she glanced in the rearview mirror again the backseat was empty.

  The snow was getting heavier, the wind rocking the Cherokee like a cradle. The land changed from flat to rolling, a preview of Wyoming. Mary stopped at a gas station near Kimball, twenty-five miles east of the Wyoming state line, and she filled the Cherokee's tank and bought a pack of glazed doughnuts and black coffee in a plastic cup. The brassy-haired woman behind the counter told her she ought to get off the interstate, that the weather was going to get worse before it got better, and there was a Holiday Inn a couple of miles north. Mary thanked her for the advice, paid what she owed, and pulled out.

  She crossed the Wyoming line, and the land began to rise toward the Rocky Mountains. The lights of Cheyenne emerged from the snow-torn dark, then disappeared in Mary's rearview mirror as she drove on. The wind's force had increased, shrieking around the Cherokee and shaking it like an infant with a rattle. The wiper blades were losing their combat with the snow, the headlights showing cones of whirling white. Fever sweat glistened on Mary's face, and from the backseat the voice of God urged her on. Forty miles past Cheyenne, Laramie went past like a white dream, and the Cherokee's tires began to slip as I-80 rose on its rugged ascent between mountain ranges.

  Another twenty miles beyond Laramie, into the teeth of the wind, and Mary suddenly realized there were no more vehicles coming from the west. She was alone on the highway. An abandoned tractor-trailer truck, its emergency lights flashing, came out of the snow on her right, its back freighted with frost. The highway's ascent was steeper now, the Cherokee's engine lugging. She felt the wheels slide on patches of ice, the wind savage as it howled across the mountain peaks. The wiper blades were getting loaded down, the windshield as white as a cataract. She had to fight the wheel from side to side as the wind beat at the Cherokee, and she passed two more abandoned cars that had slammed together and skidded off onto the median. Yellow emergency lights were flashing ahead of her again, and in another moment she could make out the big blinking sign that stood on the interstate: STOP ROAD CLOSED. A highway patrol car was parked nearby, its lights spinning in the murk of snowflakes. As Mary slowed the Cherokee, two troopers in heavy overcoats began to wave red flashlights at her, flagging her down. She stopped, rolled her window down, and the cold that swept in iced her lungs and overpowered the heater in four seconds. Both the troopers wore ski masks and caps with earflaps, and the one who stepped up to her window to speak to her shouted, "Can't go any farther, ma'am! I-80's closed between here and Creston!"

  "I have to get through!" Her lips were already freezing, the air's temperature fallen below zero and snowflakes clinging to her eyebrows.

  "No, ma'am! Not tonight! Highway's iced up over the mountains!" He aimed his flashlight to Mary's right. "You'll have to pull off here!"

  She looked where the light was pointed, and saw a sign that said EXIT 272. Below the exit number were MCFADDEN and ROCK RIVER. A snowplow was shoving a mound of white off the exit road.

  "The Silver Cloud Inn's about two miles toward McFadden!" the trooper went on. "That's where we're sending everybody!"

  "I can't stop! I've got to keep going!"

  "We've had three fatalities on that stretch of highway since this storm started, ma'am, and it's not going to get any better before daylight! You're not in a big enough hurry to get yourself killed!"

  Mary looked at Drummer, swaddled in the parka. Again the question came to her what good would a lump of dead baby be for Jack? Her leg was hurting her, she was tired and it had been a long day. It was time to rest until the storm had passed. "All right!" she told the trooper. "I'll pull off!"

  "Just follow the signs!" he said, and he waved her toward the exit with his flashlight.

  Mary trailed the snowplow for a few hundred yards and then eased the Cherokee around it. Her headlights caught a sign that said SILVER CLOUD INN NEXT LEFT. SEE THE WORLD-FAMOUS DINOSAUR GARDENS! She took the left turn when it came, and had to fight the Cherokee uphill on a curving road bordered with dense, snow-weighted woods. The tires moaned as they lost their grip, and the Cherokee skidded violently to the right and careened off the guardrail before rubber found pavement again. Mary kept pushing the Cherokee onward, and around the next curve she saw abandoned cars on the sides of the road. Maybe a hundred yards farther, and the Cherokee's tires lost their purchase again, this time swinging the vehicle toward the left and slamming into a four-foot-high snowbank. The engine rattled and died with an exhausted moan, and the wind's shriek reigned over all. Mary started the engine again, backed away from the snowbank, and tried to force the Cherokee on, but the tires slipped and slid and she realized the rest of the way would have to be on foot. She turned onto the left shoulder, cut the engine, and pulled up the emergency brake. Then she buttoned up her corduroy coat to her neck, zipped Drummer securely in the parka, and put her bag with its cache of baby supplies and guns over her shoulder. She picked Drummer up, ope
ned her door, and stepped out into the storm.

  The cold overpowered her fever as it had the Cherokee's heater. It was a solid thing, hard as iron, and it locked around her and turned every movement into an agony of slow motion. But the wind was fast and loud, and the snow-covered trees thrashed in white torment. She limped along the left lane, her arms folded around the infant and snow slashing into her face like bits of razor blade. She felt wet heat on her thigh wound: new blood oozing up through the broken crust, like lava seething from a volcanic core.

  The road leveled off. The woods gave way to mounds of blowing snow, and Mary could see the yellow lights of a long, ranch-house-type building ahead. Something gargantuan was suddenly towering above Mary and the baby, its reptilian head agrin with jagged teeth. Another massive form with armor plates on its back stood nearby, the snow up to its snout. The world-famous Dinosaur Gardens, Mary realized as she limped between the concrete monsters. A third huge beast reared up from the snow on her left, an alligator's head on a hippo's body. On her right what looked like a tank with glass eyes and concrete horns stood as if about to charge the rearing statue. Between her and the Silver Cloud Inn was a prehistoric landscape, dozens of dinosaurs frozen on the snowfield. She limped onward, carrying her own history. Around her stood fourteen-foot-tall thunder lizards and meat eaters, their sculpted heads white with snow and bearded with icicles, snow wedged into the cracks of their skins. The wind roared like a great monstrous voice, a memory of dinosaur song, and it almost knocked Mary to her knees amid the beasts.

  Headlights hit her. An enclosed vehicle on treads was coming toward her, snow whirling up in its wake. When it reached her, a man in a cowboy hat and a long brown coat got out and grasped her shoulder, guiding her around to the passenger side. "Anybody else behind you?" he shouted into her ear, and she shook her head.

  When they were inside the snow buggy, the heater on full blast, the man picked up a CB radio's microphone and said, "Found the new arrivals, Jody. Takin' 'em in."