Set This House In Order Part 34

Maledicta crooked a finger, gesturing for Julie to lean in close. When Julie did, Maledicta whispered in her ear: "I need you to do me a f.u.c.king favor. You see this f.u.c.king c.u.n.t behind me? I need you to get her away from the bar for a minute."

"What?"Julie said.

"Just go back to the bathroom for a few seconds, then come back up here and tell her there's no f.u.c.king toilet paper. Or no, wait, that might not be f.u.c.king good enough, she might not give a s.h.i.t. . . I know! Tell her the f.u.c.king sink is broken, that it's flooding back there. . ."

"Mouse -- Maledicta!" Julie said. "What did Andrew say to you?"

"Ah!" Maledicta dismissed her, annoyed. She turned back to the bar, and rapped her shot gla.s.s on the wood counter to get the vampire's attention "Hit me."

"Love to," said the vampire. She started to pour another shot of vodka, but suddenly there was a loud crash from the rear of the barroom, followed by roars of laughter. It was the two noisy drunks, who had somehow contrived to smash the light fixture above their booth. "G.o.dd.a.m.nit!" the vampire spat.

Leaving the vodka bottle on the counter, she went to yell at the drunks. Maledicta was delighted; as soon as the vampire's back was to her, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the bottle and ran out of the bar.

"Hey!" Mouse squeaked impotently from the cave mouth. "You can't do that! That's stealing!"

"f.u.c.king-A," said Maledicta. "The stupid c.u.n.t should've taken the forty bucks when she had the chance."

"But. . . I'm going to be blamed for that!"

"Yeah." Maledicta laughed. "It wouldn't be the first time."

They were at the car now. Julie Sivik came running after them: "Maledicta!. . . Maledicta, wait!

You have to tell me what happened with Andrew!"

"Don't f.u.c.king stress about it," Maledicta said, fishing for her keys. "We're going to bring him back."

"Bring him back? You mean you know where he is?"

"We know how to f.u.c.king find him."

"I'm coming with you. . ."

"The f.u.c.k you are."

"Maledicta --"

The front door of the bar banged open; the vampire came out. "Hey!" she yelled.

"Gotta go," Maledicta said, ducking down into the driver's seat. As she sped away, she looked back to see Julie making a dash for her own car, only to be body-checked by the vampire. No doubt they would have an interesting conversation.

"Ha ha ha -- f.u.c.k!" Maledicta hooted joyously. She tipped up the vodka bottle, which was still capped by a speed server, and poured a perfectly measured shot into her open mouth. "Aaaahhh . . . that was pretty f.u.c.king exciting, huh?"

"You're horrible," said Mouse.

"Yeah, I'm a worthless piece of s.h.i.t, all right," Maledicta said, and laughed again.

That was two and a half hours ago. Once they were on the Interstate, it took them less than an hour to catch up to the truck (or what Maledicta says is the truck; Mouse hopes they've got the right one). Since then they've been tailing it in a relatively low-speed pursuit that, after the previous excitement, has already become tedious.

For the past hour Maledicta and Malefica have been spelling each other at the wheel, switching off every ten minutes or so; Mouse suspects she could probably cut in during one of these switches, but she doesn't want to risk a car wreck, so she stays in the cave mouth and waits for a safer opportunity. It doesn't look like they will be stopping anytime soon, however, and as the miles drag on, it gets harder and harder for her to stay alert -- -- and then she is back in the body.

It's dawn, the sky brightening to a gray overcast. The Buick is parked in a rest area off the highway, outside an International House of Pancakes. A memorandum tucked into the sun visor above Mouse's head reads: I-90 REST STOP, 10 MI. PAST IDAHO BORDER.

Mouse yawns and stretches, rubs her face. She checks the dashboard clock: 5:31. Strange. In one sense, she's been asleep for the last few hours; in another sense, she hasn't slept at all. Her soul is rested -- sort of -- but her body has been up all night. This is not a new experience for her, but it's the first time it's happened that she's fully understood it, and the understanding leaves her feeling disjointed, punch-drunk.

Or maybe she's just drunk. She sniffs. Her breath, her clothes, her car, all reek of vodka and cigarettes. The pack of Winstons Maledicta bought in Autumn Creek lies crumpled on the dash, empty.

The Popov bottle, on the floor beneath her feet, is empty too, but on closer inspection most of its contents appear to have been spilled, not consumed -- the floor mat is soaked.

Mouse pulls down the memorandum from the sun visor and reads the whole message: I-90 REST STOP, 10 MI. PAST IDAHO BORDER. 4-CAR PILEUP ON ROAD = s.h.i.t TRAFFIC.

LAST HOUR, SHOUDVE LET YOU f.u.c.kING DRIVE AFTER ALL. TRUCK DROPPED.

ANDWHO OFF HERE & LEFT WITHOUT HIM SO YOUR UP DONT f.u.c.k UP.

Mouse is grimly amused by Maledicta's gripe about the traffic -- serves her right, she thinks, for stinking up my car. And Andrew. . . Andrew is on foot again, it seems. But where exactly is he? The memorandum doesn't say.

"Where's Andrew?" Mouse asks, aloud. "Did he go into the IHOP?"

No answer. Maledicta and Malefica must be back in the cavern, sleeping off the drive; and whatever other Society members are awake either don't know or aren't talking.

Mouse gathers the empty cigarette pack and the Ding Dong wrappers, and picks up the vodka bottle, holding it by the neck between two fingers. She gets out of the car. The air outside is bracing, but she doesn't mind; after disposing of the trash, she just stands there for a while, leaning into the wind with her arms outstretched, letting the cold deodorize her. It's not especially effective; what she really needs is a hot shower and a change of clothes. A good tooth-brushing wouldn't hurt, either. But first things first.

She goes over to the IHOP and peers in one of the windows. Sure enough, Andrew is inside: he's got a big table all to himself, and is skimming a newspaper as he works his way through two separate stacks of pancakes -- one swimming in b.u.t.ter and syrup, one dry.

There's a pay phone right outside the restaurant. Mouse doesn't have enough change for a long-distance call, so she dials Dr. Eddington's number collect. She gets his answering machine, and the operator won't let her leave a message. Next she tries Mrs. Winslow's number; her phone is busy.

Mouse hangs up. Now what? She could dial 911, but she's not sure the police would believe her story, particularly in her current condition; they might decide to lock her up for drunk driving and send Andrew on his way. She also doesn't want to get Andrew in trouble: what if the police question him, and he starts talking about his stepfather?

Still trying to come up with a plan, Mouse returns to the window. Inside, Andrew has finished one stack of pancakes and pushed the other aside. He sips coffee and reads his newspaper. Now he sets the coffee cup down, picks up a teaspoon, and begins beating on the tabletop with it.

No, not beating -- he's drumming on it, tapping out a rhythm. . .

"Hi," Mouse says, as she slips into an empty chair at Andrew's table.

"h.e.l.lo," he says, looking curious but not all that surprised to see her. "What are you doing here?"

A high-pitched, quick-tempoed voice. . . Mouse guessed correctly: this is the person she met at the bus stop last night, the one who accepted her offer of a ride. Now if she can just finesse this next part without bringing out that other guy. . .

"Just pa.s.sing through," Mouse says simply, in answer to his question, and he nods, like it's no big coincidence that she'd just happen to drive three hundred miles and show up at the same rest stop he's at.

"But what about you? I thought you were going to fly to Michigan last night."

"Oh," he says, missing a beat. "Oh, it, uh, turned out I couldn't get a flight."

"Oh," says Mouse. "Well that's too bad."

"Yeah. . . after you, after you dropped me off at the airport, I, there must not have been, there were no flights available." He gets lost for a moment, then continues: "It's OK, though, I got a ride on a truck."

"Oh." Mouse makes a point of looking around. "Is the driver --"

"Well actually, it's not totally OK," he interrupts her. "The way I understand it, the truck was supposed to take me all the way to Chicago -- that's near Michigan, right? -- but then the truck driver and I had a, I guess you'd call it a personality conflict, and he made me get off here. Which is not a very responsible thing to do, going back on a promise you made, even if you decide you don't like a person. .

. So do you think it'll be hard for me to get another ride?"

Mouse hesitates, trying to gauge how much subtlety is required here. Probably not much. "I could give you a ride," she says.

"Yeah?" He hesitates too, and Mouse can tell he's debating whether to ask if this ride will cost money.

"No charge," Mouse says, sparing him the question. "I feel bad that your plane ride didn't work out."

"Oh, well. . . that's not your fault, I'm sure. So you're driving to Michigan now?"

Mouse nods. "I'm hoping to see a friend there."

"Well, OK then. . . let's go!" Ready to leave that instant, he starts to get up from the table, notices that Mouse isn't doing the same, and pauses, confused. "Oh," he says, after a moment's thought, "are you. . . did you want to eat something first?" He gestures at his leftover pancake stack. "The waitress brought me two orders by mistake. So if you'd like. . ."

"No thank you," says Mouse. The cigarettes Maledicta smoked have temporarily suppressed her appet.i.te, and when it comes back she's afraid she's going to be sick to her stomach, so eating someone else's leftovers is probably not a good idea. "But there is one thing," she says. "I know you don't want to make any detours, but I am going to have to stop and rest for a few hours."

"What?"

"I've been driving all night. I need sleep, or at least a nap. Not right away -- I could go another hour yet, probably -- but then I'm going to need to stop at a motel for a while."

He frowns. "A motel?"

Mouse nods, thinking: Someplace off the Interstate, where you'll be stranded while I call Dr.

Eddington.

"And how long would you want to stop?"

"Not long," Mouse promises. "A few hours."

"A few hours. . . well. . ."

"I understand you don't want to delay, but I'd be worried that if you stay here, you might not get a ride at all. . . at least, not a free ride. . ."

It doesn't take much of this to persuade him. Once he's agreed, Mouse asks: "By the way, what's your name?"

"Xavier," he tells her. "Xavier Reyes."

"h.e.l.lo, Xavier, I'm Penny." Mouse shakes his hand, then adds: "Now you just wait here a second while I go use the bathroom, OK? I'll be right back."

Mouse intends to freshen up quickly and then duck outside to the pay phone to try Mrs.

Winslow's number again, but when she comes out of the bathroom, Xavier is waiting by the door for her.

He jerks his head impatiently, indicating that they should go, and Mouse has little choice but to follow him.

Outside, he walks straight to her car without bothering to ask where she's parked -- and instead of standing aside and waiting for her to unlock the doors, he steps up to the driver's side and holds out his hand for the keys. "I think I'll drive for a while," he says. "Since you're so tired."

"You'll --"

". . . Mouse, " he adds, grinning savagely.

Him. Mouse draws back fearfully and very nearly disappears; only the all-too-recent memory of being trapped in the cave mouth stops her from giving up control. Instead she gathers herself to run away physically. But he doesn't pounce, or try to grab her; in fact he makes no threatening overtures at all, except for that nasty grin.

"Now you listen," he says. "I'm not stealing your car, all right? If you want to tag along with me, that's fine -- but I'm not going back to Autumn Creek, and I'm not going to tap my toes at some motel while you call for the men in the white coats."

"Who are you?" Mouse asks.

He ignores the question, and gestures impatiently with his outstretched hand. "Give me the keys."

She shakes her head.

"Fine," he says, and shrugs. "I'll just get another ride, then. Feel free to follow me if you think you can stay awake. . ." He starts to walk away.

"Wait!"

He turns back.

"I don't," Mouse stammers, "I don't trust you."

"I don't trust you either," he says, "and I've got better cause not to. But I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're afraid of -- not unless you try to hurt me first." He holds out his hand again. "Keys."

Mouse takes her keys out of her pocket but doesn't hand them over. "You. . . you're sure you can drive?"

"I might be out of practice," he allows, "but I won't fall asleep at the wheel."

"What about your head? You were awfully drunk last night. . ."

"That wasn't me."

"It was your body."

"Yours too, by the smell of things." He shrugs. "Maybe I am a little hung over this morning -- I'm tough, I can cope with that. It's not my hangover. And I did get some sleep in that truck, once I got the driver to shut the h.e.l.l up. . ." Losing patience again: "So are we doing this, or not?"

Still full of misgivings, but with no idea of what else to do, Mouse gives him the keys. As he s.n.a.t.c.hes them out of her hand, the panic comes welling up again: she's a fool, he's tricked her, he is going to steal the car, just drive off and leave her here. . .

He reads the fear in her eyes, and laughs. "I could leave you behind," he says, "but I won't. I'm going to need you to drive when I get tired." He unlocks the Centurion's back door for her, and opens it.

"Go on, lie down -- I'll wake you when it's your turn."

She gets in, but she doesn't lie down. Though no less tired than she was five minutes ago, she can't imagine sleeping now. Instead she sits up straight, her hands worrying at the Buick's rear seatbelts, which are tangled and frayed and have never buckled properly anyway.

"G.o.d," he says, sliding in behind the wheel, "what a stench!" He looks over his shoulder at her.

"Not your fault, I suppose."