The elderly figure of the motel manager joined them. He was puffing hard, his robe hanging loose across his bony shoulders. “Holy Bejesus! What happened here? That guy looks dead.”
Frank started to reply, until Mouse’s stare induced him to swallow his words. “Could be.”
“I’m going for the cops.”
“Yeah, you do that.” He waited until the old man was out of earshot, looked across at Mouse. “I’m going after them.”
“It may be just what they want.”
“You don’t have to go.”
She shook her head. “We are bound together in the rest of this, Frank. Wherever we go, we must go together.”
“Then I guess you’re coming with me, ‘cause I ain’t goin’ anywhere without my wife and kids.”
She sighed. “I know that. I will accompany you.”
“Lucky me.” He started across the pavement. “I’m gonna throw on some clothes, get my wallet and keys. Keep an eye on the bus until I get back.”
“Hurry, Frank Sonderberg.”
“Don’t worry.” He broke into a jog.
She followed him with her eyes until he vanished into the motel room. Then her gaze dropped to the motionless form at her feet. Poor, crazed Burnfingers Begay. Was he really as mad as he’d claimed? Or was he normal and the rest of the universe slightly unbalanced? She’d met Wanderers before, but never one who’d ranged quite so far or contentedly as he. That huge body had been home to an equally massive spirit. Had it fled, or did it linger still? Burnfingers was a stubborn man.
She knelt and leaned forward until her lips were only a few inches from Burnfingers’s ear, and began to sing in a tremulous whisper. Across the street, the Doberman patrolling the back lot of a hardware store began to howl. He was not an animal easily spooked, but now he railed at the moon until his throat threatened to crack.
His cry was picked up by every dog in town, from poodles to stray mutts to the coyotes fighting over garbage they’d dragged up to their ravines, a mournful canine chorus accompanying the extraordinary sweet sound Mouse poured into a dead man’s head. Its rhythm was subtle and serene, familiar yet unique.
A moment passed; two. The rhythm was echoed by the sudden movement of Burnfingers Begay’s chest, then by a twitching of one hand, and at last by the opening of both eyes as he slowly sat erect. Letting out a long wheeze, he put both hands to his temples and rubbed hard. She sat down on the bottom step of the motor home and regarded him silently, the wind playing with the silken edges of her dress.
“Thank you.”
“It was not all me,” she explained. “There had to be something left to hear me. It works but rarely. You claim to have no soul. You are lying.”
He sounded embarrassed. “I didn’t say I never had one. I just said I didn’t have one at the time. It floats around, like excess baggage.” He struggled to his feet, feeling the back of his head. “A mule kicked me. What were they?” He described his attackers as best he could.
“Some local evil, or perhaps from a nearby reality line. They tried to fool you by imitating humanity, at which Evil is always poor. They came looking for a way to divert me from my course. It was only luck that enabled me to escape, but they may have achieved their purpose anyway. They took Frank Sonderberg’s wife and children, didn’t they?”
Burnfingers glanced reflexively at the motel, nodded.
“I feared so. When he returns we will try to find them. He will not go on without them. I did not think he would.”
She didn’t ask if he was coming with them. She was correct in her assumptions, of course, but he would have appreciated the request nonetheless.
“I did not know Evil could be subtle, but I ought to. Native Americans know more about subtle evils than most people—though whatever put me on the ground was anything but subtle.”
Frank rejoined them, slowing precipitously when he saw Burnfingers Begay standing in the moonlight caressing his neck. Frank’s shirt hung over his belt, the buttons were unfastened, and he’d forgotten to zip his fly. He glanced quickly at Mouse, then back at Burnfingers.
“I thought you were dead.”
“Was,” said the Indian ruefully. “Colder than Spider Rock. Do not look so shocked, Frank, friend. I have been dead before. It is different each time and always an educational experience, though on the whole I would have to say I prefer the alternative. Strange how darkness can be enlightening.”
“But how, who …?” His gaze drifted back to Mouse. Burnfingers nodded solemnly.
“The little lady has some prickly tunes in her harmonic arsenal. I have been sung to sleep before, but never awake. I should not be so surprised. She is a special Mouse.”
Frank hesitated the briefest of instants before pushing past him. “I’m going after my family. Who’s coming with me?”
“I must,” said Mouse, “but I would help anyway.”
Frank paused in the doorway to look back at Burnfingers. “You?”
“Of course I am coming, Frank. What can they do but kill me again?”
“Yeah. Only maybe this time they’ll cut off your ears so you won’t be able to hear her songs.” He headed for the driver’s seat, Mouse’s response ringing in his head.
“You don’t need your ears to hear my songs, Frank. You don’t need even a tympanum.” She sat down next to him. Burnfingers settled himself between the front seats.
It should be Alicia sitting there, Frank told himself. Gentle, understanding Alicia, who was now being dragged God knew where by the hands of unmentionable things.
Mouse brought him out of his sorrowful lethargy, her hand on his arm, the contact as electrifying as before. “Drive, Frank Sonderberg, and no matter where they have been taken, we will track your family.”
“Sure you know what you are getting into?” Burnfingers asked him.
“No.” He turned the key in the ignition, heard the engine respond. “I don’t.” He nodded out into the not-quite-Utah night. “But that’s my wife and kids out there. Money, security, success—nothing means much without ’em. You wouldn’t understand. You aren’t married; you don’t have kids.”
“It is true I am not married, but I do have children. My sense of family is as strong as yours. Now shut up and drive.”
“Yeah. Right!” Frank almost wrenched the gear lever loose as he put the motor home in drive.
He pulled out into the main drag, turned toward the interstate. As he did so, a blue and white police cruiser pulled into the parking lot behind them. Frank followed its progress in the rearview mirror.
“Just drive,” Mouse instructed him, sensing his uncertainty.
“What if they could help?” His foot let up on the accelerator. The motor home slowed. “This reality line is almost identical to ours.”
“Where we are going they cannot follow, and if they did they would not long survive.”
“They would not follow, Frank,” said Burnfingers, “but they will ask questions you do not want to have to try to answer. They will delay you with reports. They will kill your hopes with bureaucratese. Do not stop for them.”
Frank considered the advice of his friends. Resolutely, he turned his gaze away from the rearview and back to the road ahead.
The officers who entered the motel lot didn’t quite know what to expect, but when they saw the pool of blood where Burnfingers Begay had lain, their early morning lethargy was swept aside by professional concern. The motel owner was standing nearby, staring up the road.
“You the guy who called?”
“Yes.” The old man didn’t turn to look at the policeman. He was muttering to himself. “That fella was dead. I’m sure of it.”
