Burnfingers smiled. “No. This I bought for myself, in a pawnshop in Flagstaff. It is not traditional, but I find it comforting. Its chant is short.”
Alicia sat up in the seat opposite her husband’s, moaned when she got a look at what had smeared itself all over her window.
“They let you bring a gun in with you?” Frank’s tone was disbelieving.
“It was part of my personal goods. Why take it away from me? They knew I dared not use it back there.”
Mouse was gulping lemonade from the refrigerator. The effort of holding the single note for so long had put a severe strain on her throat. “This will not stop them. They won’t give up so easily.”
Burnfingers leaned forward for a look at one of the rearview mirrors. “I know they will not, but we have a good start now. In a little while I think we will be out of their jurisdiction.”
“That’s no guarantee of safety. Not when the fabric of existence is coming apart. Nothing is as it should be. Realities are crossing unpredictably. Not even Hell is stable anymore.”
“Maybe not, but we have someone who I think can drive his way even out of Hell.” He clapped a huge hand on Frank’s shoulder.
Frank felt as though he’d just been knighted.
After a while he was able to stop glancing at the mirrors. There’d been no indication of further pursuit for some time. Wendy and Steven filled glasses with ice and soda for everyone. The longer they drove, the more the land outside grew normal. The endless procession of the Damned shrank until the oncoming lanes were empty again save for the occasional car or truck. Cacti straightened, green and brown, once more healthy succulents instead of human beings frozen in poses of eternal torment. The sky brightened and there were no unwelcome stains on the pavement.
“Check it out.” He gestured forward. They were coming up fast on another road sign. It gave only the distance remaining to Las Vegas and several small intervening towns. There was no mention of a Hades Junction or anything like it.
“We’ll make it by tonight.” He settled back against the padding, the feeling of relief almost painful. “Everything’s okay again. No gambling for a few days, though. I think we’ve done enough gambling for a while.” He laughed, but it was a forced sound. Alicia knew it but smiled back anyway.
He glanced around. “Wendy! Why don’t you put a tape in and turn up your machine so we can all hear?”
His daughter didn’t try to hide her surprise. “You want to listen to my music?”
“Why not? Come on, put something really radical on. After what we’ve been through a little heavy metal would be soothing.”
“I don’t listen to that much metal, Pops.”
Pops. How delighted he was to hear that mildly contemptuous appellation once more. “Well, then, whatever you’re into right now.”
“Okay, you asked for it.” She removed her earphones and turned up the volume on the compact recorder. Soon they were rolling down the highway to the accompanying strains of Huey Lewis, Bon Jovi, and Cyndi Lauper.
“Real food.” Frank whispered as he drove. “Gaming. Television. Civilization.”
“It’s funny,” Alicia was saying, “but we can’t ever tell anybody what happened to us. No one would ever believe.”
“I’m having a hard time believing myself.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Steven! Why don’t you come up here and join your folks, kiddo?”
“That’s cool, Dad. I’d rather stay back here for a while, if it’s okay.”
“Sure it’s okay.” Despite his son’s smile Frank knew the boy had suffered badly from their experience, maybe worse than any of them. Just seeing parents threatened could traumatize a sensitive child deeply. “There’s ice cream in the freezer.”
“I know, Dad.” The boy smiled wanly. “It’s all right. I’m okay.”
Mouse started to turn. “Perhaps I can help him.”
“No.” Burnfingers stopped her. “It’s been a long time since I had the chance to talk to a worthy child. The few who passed me in that hot place deserved to be there.”
Mouse stared up into his eyes, then nodded sagely. “You are crazy. No wonder you were able to keep your sanity.”
Burnfingers just smiled cryptically and walked back through the motor home until he came to Steven’s couch. He sat down on the floor and crossed his legs.
“Troubles, boy?”
Steven glanced past him, toward the front of the vehicle where his parents sat. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m still scared, Mr. Begay.”
“Burnfingers will do.” The boy’s knuckles were white where his fingers clutched at the upholstery. “They cannot bother us no more, Steven. Mouse’s singing made most of the bad things give up. I took care of the rest.”
“You sure did.” Steven’s grip relaxed slightly and a flicker of interest replaced some of the terror in his eyes. “You shot ’em, didn’t you?”
“That’s just what I did. Want to see my gun?”
The boy drew back slightly. “No! I’m afraid of guns.”
“No reason to be afraid, if you know what you are doing. You’re not afraid of a hammer, are you? Or a saw?”
“N-no.”
“Well, a gun is just another kind of tool.”
“I never thought of it like that before.”
“That is because you live in the city, where people think of guns wrongly. Tell me what else you are afraid of.”
“Fire. I’m scared of fire. That’s one reason why I was so frightened back there.”
Burnfingers shook his head and chuckled. “Another tool. Fire is a gift the gods gave man long ago. If you learn to know it and how to make use of it, then it will be your good friend forever. There is no reason to be frightened of it.”
Steven sounded uncertain. “Mom always warned me to be careful of matches and the stove and things like that. I just don’t feel comfortable around them.” Burnfingers noted that the boy’s hands had finally relaxed, no longer dug for dear life at the fabric of the couch.
“Be careful, of course. But friendly, too. There’s more than one reason why I am called Burnfingers Begay. Want to see a trick?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Just between you and me. Not for your mom or dad or anyone else.”
Steven peered past the big stranger. His parents were in the front seats, chatting to each other. Wendy had her eyes closed as her feet tapped time to the music. Despite not reacting to the rhythm, Mouse looked as if she was listening. He turned back to the powerful, soft-spoken man who had saved him and his family, and suddenly he was no longer afraid.
“All right. Sure.”
“Good. Put out your hand like this.” Burnfingers extended his left hand, demonstrating how to place the thumb against the tip of the forefinger.
Steven struggled to position his much smaller fingers. “Like this?”
“No. Cross them a little more.” Burnfingers gently adjusted the boy’s hand. “Now you do—this.” He snapped his fingers. A tiny dancing flame burst from the tip of his thumb, burning merrily.
Even for a ten-year-old, Steven’s eyes became very wide. “Wow, that’s neat! How’d you do that?”
“Practice, and knowing how things are.” He gestured with his burning thumb. “Blow it out. Go on, go ahead.”
