“I’m not quite sure of my exact condition,” he told the woman in the potato cellar. “I never had the time to take as many psychology courses as I wanted to.”
She came to the doorway, but he did not back off.
He said, “Do you hear that? Do you hear iambic pentameter? The rapping, rapping, rap-rap-rapping.”
“No,” she said.
“Oh, I do. I hear it all the time. This is so sad. You would have been such an exciting woman to keep in the potato cellar. Then I could have had it all. But look what this rustic world has made of me in just one day. This isn’t who I am or want to be, and clearly there can be no going back for me in any sense.”
“Move, Jim,” she said, and tried to push him backward.
“I’ve got to go upstairs now,” he said, “and get the hand grenade from the refrigerator.”
He went to the stairs. After ascending three, he glanced back at her. “Do you want to come with me to get the hand grenade?”
“No, Jim. I’ll wait here.”
“Okay. Thank you for waiting. I’ll bring a grenade for you, and we’ll pull the pins in the potato cellar.”
He continued up the stairs. He was sorry to hear the outside cellar door open, and the rain doors over the stairs. He really didn’t want to go out alone in the potato cellar. Oh, right. Not alone. There was Nora.
Seventy
The Mountaineer coasted through the moonlight. Not daring to look back, Cammy ran around the front of it as Grady pulled to a stop. She yanked open the passenger door, clambered into the SUV, and couldn’t find her voice.
Lamar was in the backseat. In the cargo area with Merlin, Puzzle and Riddle were giggling.
Cammy had never heard them giggle before. Under the circumstances, their sweet childlike voices sounded sinister.
Her cry at last broke free of her throat: “Move, move, move!”
Grady accelerated away from the house before he asked, “What? What’s wrong?”
“Hell if I know. Jim … he … I don’t know, I think he killed Nora, she’s dead in the potato cellar.”
This announcement put the damper on whatever fun the three pals were having, and left Grady gaping.
After a moment, she turned to Lamar and said, “You predicted chaos, and you were right. Was that it? What’s ahead of us?”
“Just the future,” Puzzle said from behind Lamar. “Just where we’re meant to be.”
Henry Rouvroy, alias Jim Carlyle, descended the cellar stairs, a grenade in each hand.
Nora remained on the floor, eyes open, in the potato cellar.
He sat on the floor beside his sister-in-law, his wife.
He pulled the ring from the first grenade but kept the safety lever depressed.
For reasons he could not imagine, in his mind’s eye he saw not Jim’s naked corpse in the chicken house, among the cackling hens, but instead the senator at a press conference, waving the photo of Marcus Pipp and demanding a court-martial. Henry had advised him on that strategy, but he’d done so based on misinformation, and it had not gone well.
The senator didn’t fire him because the senator thought the episode achieved exactly what he wanted it to achieve. The senator was an idiot.
Henry couldn’t get Marcus Pipp’s face out of his mind. He didn’t want to die while thinking about Marcus Pipp. That’s how he died, anyway.
Grady drove as fast as the winding road would allow, heading south out of the county, into a somewhat more settled area, where the dark hills were speckled with house lights. They were a long way still from a small city with its own TV station, but if their escape had not yet been noticed, the odds were in their favor.
They passed a roadhouse where the parking lot was packed with pickups and the marquee advertised a country band.
A quarter of a mile later, when they topped a hill and saw the roadblock at the intersection below, Grady braked and slid into a turn, and Cammy said, “The roadhouse. All those people. It’s some kind of chance.”
As he crested the hill he had topped from the other direction a moment earlier, Grady glanced at the rearview mirror and saw that the pursuit was already under way.
Bailing from the Mountaineer in the roadhouse parking lot, Cammy sprinted to the back, opened the tailgate. “Out, out, hurry!”
Merlin leaped from the vehicle, and the lantern-eyed duo sprang after him.
As the six of them ran toward the roadhouse entrance, Lamar said, “Where’s the music? Never heard a country crowd this quiet.”
Inside, the joint was packed, as the herd of pickups indicated that it ought to be, but the band played no music, no dancers danced, and people were gathered in peculiar configurations at the bar, at an area to the left of the stage, and in a separate raised lounge area near the rest rooms.
“Must be a hundred people here,” Cammy said. “Maybe a hundred fifty. Homeland Security can’t arrest them all, can’t shut up all these people. Come on. It’s time. Come on, Puzzle, Riddle, it’s time for your debut.”
