“I don’t mean that. It’s the way she talks. So soft, you can hardly hear her.”
“Kind of nice for a change, isn’t it? Maybe the kids’ll pick up on it.”
“Those strange clothes she’s wearing, and not having any luggage, not even a purse.”
“Yeah, I noticed. So she’s down on her luck or something. None of our business. We’re just giving her a lift. That doesn’t entitle us to know her life story.”
Alicia turned her chair full around so she was facing forward once more. “Maybe she’s a hippie or something.”
Frank almost laughed aloud. “You’ve been watching too much TV, sweetheart. Hippies are like dinosaurs. They’re both extinct.”
“Then what if she’s a drug addict or like that?”
Her husband made a disgusted noise. Alicia folded her arms, refusing to back down.
“I’m just saying there’s something abnormal about her. You can tell just by looking at her.”
“Poor kid probably hasn’t had a decent meal in no telling how long. Skinny as a rail.”
“Not so skinny,” said Alicia carefully, “though she is on the slim side. Doesn’t that go with taking drugs?”
“So I’ve heard. It also goes with exercise, dieting, and good genes. A few days out in this country would sweat poundage off anybody.”
“Hush. She’s coming back.” Alicia pretended to find something of interest in the unchanging scenery.
Frank shook his head. Funny gal, his Alicia. Calm, composed, charming, and ever ready to see a conspiracy in everything from a cluster of Libyans to a line of talkative nuns. A glance upward revealed that their guest had resumed her seat on the couch, holding her lemonade like a glass of rare wine. She was smiling and whispering to Wendy, who giggled and whispered back. He wondered what they were chatting about. As the thought left his mind, the hitchhiker looked toward him. Guiltily he dropped his eyes from the mirror.
“Since all of you have introduced yourselves I suppose the turn is mine. My name is Mohostosocia.” Her tongue twisted around the syllables, adding at least two impossible inflections. Frank tried and failed to place the accent. No linguist he. Central European at a quick guess, possibly Slavic. Certainly not Spanish, which he had a nongrammatical but efficient grasp of. “Now that we are all friends, though, you may call me Mouse.”
Wendy giggled. Steven grinned. “We’ve got some cheese, if you want.”
“Steven!” His sister took a swipe at him and he was forced to duck.
“It is all right. As a matter of fact,” she said, staring at the mesmerized boy out of strangely transparent eyes, “I do like cheese. Swiss, colby, longhorn, Brie, Gruyère, Gouda, shannon—”
“I like American!” said Steven proudly, interrupting before she could finish.
“Most little boys like you do, I understand.”
“I’m not a little boy. I’m eleven.”
“Ten,” Alicia said patiently.
“I’ll be eleven in six months.” Steven subsided, but only slightly.
“I stand corrected. You are not a little boy.”
Steven looked mollified. Frank was straining to listen to the conversation. Though Mouse’s couch wasn’t far behind the front seats, her breathy voice tended to get lost in the motor home’s copious interior.
With a start he realized that their guest was far more interesting than anything else they’d encountered since commencing this ill-conceived journey. He wasn’t sure about Alicia, but he found her fascinating. So did his daughter. As for Steven, the boy was giving the woman the sort of attention he usually reserved only for fried foods and large desserts. It was easy to understand. That exquisite and mysterious face, the unknown figure enshrouded in yards of iridescent silk, the whispery, musical voice—those could hypnotize a ten-year-old boy as easily as they could a much older male.
“Frank, you’re drifting over the center line again.”
“What? Sorry, hon.” He conscientiously eased the motor home back into the slow lane. Steven could freely fall under Mouse’s spell. Frank had to drive.
Alicia looked back, made an effort to be pleasant. “Where are you from?”
Mouse turned slightly on the couch to wave indifferently at the rear of the motor home. “Back that way.”
“Los Angeles?” It made sense, Frank knew. On Hollywood or Sunset boulevards her attire would be positively subdued.
“No. Farther than that. Farther”—she hesitated for a fraction of a second—“south.”
He grinned to himself. Let her affect an air of mystery if that was her pleasure. “Where you headed?”
Once again Steven spoke before she had a chance to answer. “We’re on vacation already ‘cause we go to private school, so we get out earlier than the other kids.”
“That’s nice,” said Mouse. “Myself hasn’t had a vacation in quite some time.”
“What is it you do?” Alicia asked her.
“I help others out of their troubles.”
Frank guffawed. “In Vegas? No wonder you don’t get any time off. That’s a town where just about everybody needs help.”
“No, not in Las Vegas. I’m not going there. I am going to the Vanishing Point.”
“Vanishing Point.” His brows drew together in thought. “A lot of little towns up the interstate between Vegas and Salt Lake. Never gone that far north ourselves, but I see them on the map. Cedar City, St. George, Littlefield, even a place called Hurricane.” He tried to see the fine detail on the map stuck to the dash. “Vanishing Point doesn’t ring any bells.”
“It’s quite small and very big.” Mouse wasn’t smiling and Frank couldn’t tell if she was making a joke or not. “I would not be surprised if your map omits it, though one never knows.”
“What’s in Vanishing Point?” He drove with one hand resting easily on the wheel, the cruise control doing the drudge work.
“My task.”
“Helping somebody with a problem?”
She nodded. “I must try to regulate the Spinner.”
“You a psychologist of some kind?” He’d always envisioned psychologists, male or female, in severe business suits. Of course, there were all kinds of unorthodox philosophies of mental health abroad in the land, especially if that land was Southern California. “Vanishing Point. Nevada or Utah?”
“Yes,” she said, replying without answering. “I am afraid I am the only one practiced enough to do it.”
“You wouldn’t expect to see a psychologist hitchhiking,” said Alicia tartly.
“It is not my preferred mode of travel. In this instance circumstances compelled me to adopt this method of reaching my destination. I really cannot thank you enough for picking me up.”
Her gratitude was so obvious and heartfelt that Alicia’s suspicions were dampened. Frank kept trying to read the small print on the map.
