“Thank you, sir.”
“Can I take charge of this one while we’re waiting, sir?” The younger officer had advanced to put both arms around Wendy. He held her easily in spite of her struggles. She moaned in his grasp. “She’s a squirmer. I like squirmers.”
“Corporal, you’re a patrolman. You asking for a transfer to field operations?”
“No, sir. But it’d be nice to have something to play with between handing out tickets and keeping the traffic moving.”
“Don’t count your bonus until it’s approved. But I’ll note your request.” The lieutenant turned back to Frank, who clung to his remaining composure with great difficulty. “Sorry about this, but you’ve got to see my side of it.”
“I’m sure you’ll do the right thing,” Frank replied through clenched teeth.
“The right thing?” The demon found this amusing, though not as hilarious as Frank’s request to meet with his superior. “We never do the right thing here. That’s not my business. What I do is the appropriate thing, which isn’t the same at all.”
“Yeah, right.” Frank’s voice fell to a mumble. “That’s what I meant. Thanks.”
The two patrolmen escorted them out of the office. Trailing the crying, battered Steven, the three young bullies kept up a relentless barrage of taunts and kicks, pinching and punching him hard enough to cause pain but not injury. Wendy’s patrolman devoted equal attention to her, easily warding off her rejecting blows. Possibly sensing a favorable forthcoming decision, the sergeant was eyeing Alicia with intense interest.
Frank suffered persistent visions of arteries tightening like cords around his brain, of little wiggly worm-things swarming into his eyes and nostrils like sentient cholesterol in search of his stroke center.
Only Mouse remained unaffected and aloof. Frank wondered how long her immunity might last. Not that it mattered what they did to her. All that mattered was that she would be trapped here along with them, prevented from reaching her Vanishing Point. It occurred to him that if the fabric of existence came apart completely, Hell might go to pieces along with everywhere else. Somehow that was no comfort at all.
With obvious reluctance they were shoved into an empty room. Frank heard the sergeant lock them in.
The room was identical to the sort you might find in any government building. A couch, several battered chairs, a couple of end tables boasting lamps fashioned from what looked like human bones, and a magazine rack next to the single coffee table. Frank glanced at the magazines, quietly scooped them up, and dumped them behind the couch so Alicia and Wendy wouldn’t see them. He couldn’t do anything to conceal the scratches on the walls and door or the gouges that had been dug in the floor.
Wendy sat down on the couch next to her mother, who tried to comfort her as best she could. Steven had stopped crying and was rubbing his eyes.
There were no windows and only the single doorway. A shadowy alcove suggested the presence of a bathroom. There was a drinking fountain bolted to the wall just inside.
Steven put his lips to the spigot and pressed the lever. Frank paid no attention to him until the boy screamed in pain. He jerked sharply away from the fountain, holding his mouth with both hands and bawling anew.
His parents were at his side in an instant. Forcing his hands down, they examined him. His reddened, burned lips were already beginning to blister.
“They let me bring my purse,” Alicia murmured. “I’ve got some ChapStick.” Frank nodded wordlessly, moving to examine the fountain. A flick of the lever brought forth a stream of clear water. As might have been suspected, though not by a ten-year-old, the liquid was boiling hot.
“All we can do is wait,” said Mouse into the silence.
“Wait?” He turned away from the diabolic fountain. “Wait for what? Can’t you get us out of here? I wouldn’t want to bet that lieutenant or whatever he reports to is going to end up deciding anything in our favor.”
Her expression turned sorrowful. “I have the ability to heal and to soothe, to regulate and relax, but I cannot work miracles. If I could do such things I would not have to stand by the side of strange highways begging for a ride. It may yet be that when they realize we do not belong here we shall be sent on our way.”
“Sure. I know we can rely on that lieutenant’s inherent good nature.” He watched while Alicia applied balm to their son’s seared lips. Wendy had found something to look at.
He’d missed one of the magazines. She was gazing at it transfixed by horror. Covering the distance between them in a single step, he wrenched it out of her hands and threw it across the room. She stared at him in shock, then let him take her in his arms. It had been a long time since she’d allowed that.
He held her for a long while. When he let her go she managed a slight, hopeful smile. But as she resumed her seat he saw she was staring worriedly at the hallway door, perhaps remembering the intentions of a certain uniformed demon.
An hour passed, then another. Somehow they endured the stifling heat. There was a metal cup in the bathroom. Frank filled it with boiling water from the tap, let it stand until it was cool enough to drink. Lukewarm water was better than none.
No one checked in on them. Whatever procedure the lieutenant was having to go through was evidently complex and time-consuming.
Of course, if they all perished of heat stroke in the interim it would solve all his problems.
He longed for the motor home’s well-stocked pantry, but all they had to eat was a package of crackers Alicia found in her purse. While providing some nourishment the crackers also intensified their thirst. Frank also had to go to the bathroom, but after his son’s experience with the water fountain he wasn’t sure he was ready to try the dark alcove’s facilities.
Fifteen minutes later the door clicked as it was unlocked from outside. Wendy and Steven retreated to their mother’s side. Frank took up a stance in front of them, ready to confront whatever entered.
It was only a man. Tall and powerfully built, he wore stained dungarees, flannel shirt, and battered cowboy boots. A red headband controlled his shoulder-length straight black hair. One hand pulled the handle of a galvanized metal cart that contained two mops, a wire broom, and a bucket of steaming, soapy water. The intruder silently soaked one mop in the bucket, ignored them as he began swabbing the bathroom floor.
Other than being the size of an NFL lineman, the janitor looked perfectly normal. Normal eyes and face and no more than the accepted number of appendages. He worked silently, moving the mop back and forth, pausing only to wring it out and resoak it.
“Hey, Dad,” Steven whispered urgently, “he looks like a real Indian!”
“Be quiet. Nothing here’s what it appears to be.” He kept his voice down, but not enough.
“Now that’s where you’re wrong, friend.” The mop-wielder spoke with a soft, Southwestern drawl, his enunciation almost too precise. “Everything here’s exactly what it appears to be. No need for subterfuge.”
Something in the man’s manner, in his tone, impelled Frank to take a chance. “You don’t look like one of them.” He nodded toward the hallway beyond the door. “You don’t talk like one of them, either.”
“Probably because I am not one of them.” He smiled. Frank was immensely relieved to see that his teeth were not pointed. “Name is Burnfingers Begay. First thing now is you will ask yourselves how I come by such a name.”
“Oh, no, we wouldn’t—” Alicia began.
He answered before she could finish. “When I was born, I came out so hot in the delivery that I burned the doctor’s hands.” Still smiling, he turned back to his work.
Alicia wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not. Wendy didn’t care. She just laughed, until her mother shushed her. What if the janitor didn’t find it amusing?
“Go ahead and laugh. It is pretty funny.”
She gaped at him. “Can you read minds?”
“No. But after a while you get a pretty good idea how folks are thinking, even if you don’t know for sure what they’re thinking.”
Frank was eyeing him dubiously. “I don’t get it. You seem normal to me.”
“Oh, no. Not normal at all.” He paused, leaning on his mop. “You see, I am crazy. Very much out of my head. Major wacko. Isn’t that obvious? What sane person would be working here?”
“But you’re not a devil, or a demon.”
“Only to a few folks who’ve gotten in my way. Actually I am Navajo and Comanche. Begay is Navajo. Burnfingers is the Anglo translation of my Comanche name, which you could not pronounce. My mother was visiting the all-Indian powwow in Gallup one year, where my father was exhibiting. They begot yours truly.” He laughed softly. “Half of me wants to settle down and make jewelry and the other half wants to go on the warpath. No wonder I am crazy.”
“You don’t sound crazy to me,” said Alicia hesitantly.
He raised a cautionary finger. “Ah: the sign of the truly mad.”
“Is this your torment, your punishment?” Frank asked him curiously.
“Punishment? This isn’t punishment. I was on my way to L.A. when my pickup broke down. Going to meet a girl. The local police gave me a ride.”
