A crack. The verse came to him, singsong, the way he had heard it at school. “Step on a crack, and you’ll break your mother’s back.” But that was a sidewalk crack. Again, not big enough.
There was Fat Crack, but he wasn’t a crack at all. He was a person.
Then, finally, Davy remembered the cave he and Bone had found, the chimney in the mountain behind the house. Now that he thought about it, maybe that cave wasn’t a cave at all. It was a crack-a crack in the mountain. That was where he would go, where he would run to hide if he ever got a chance.
Suddenly, there were voices on the other side of the door. Davy’s heart pounded, wondering how soon the door would fly open again, how soon before he would have to make his dash for freedom.
At first, Davy heard only the man’s voice, talking on and on, but then he heard another voice, that of a woman, softer and higher. Straining, he recognized his mother’s voice. She wasn’t dead after all.
Rita had finally managed to free herself. Davy tugged at the old woman’s hand, wanting to tell her the news, but she laid her fingers on his lips, warning him to silence. Carefully they moved into position. A sliver of light had appeared under the door. They used that as a guide.
They stood on either side of the door for what seemed like forever. Eventually, the smell of frying bacon came wafting into Davy’s nose. It was a long time since he and the Bone had shared their last tortillas. The smell of that frying bacon filled Davy’s nostrils and made his mouth water. His feet itched. He needed to go to the bathroom. Davy began to doubt that the door would ever open. He fidgeted a little, but Rita clamped her good hand down hard on his shoulder, poking him painfully with the awl in the process. After that, he stood quietly and waited.
A hundred yards or so from the turnoff, Fat Crack doused the lights and parked the truck. He had kept the lights flashing almost the entire way, but as they neared the house, he turned off everything, flashers and headlights included.
“Now what?” he asked, shutting down the ignition and parking the truck just beyond a curve that concealed the house from view.
“We go down there and try to take him by surprise.”
“Good luck,” Fat Crack returned. “What about the dog?”
“Dog?”
“Rita has a huge dog named Oh’o. When I was here earlier, he almost bit my leg off.”
“He must be inside,” Looks At Nothing said.
Right, Fat Crack thought. Sure he is. Famous last words. With a disgusted shake of his head, the younger man hurried around to the passenger side and helped Looks At Nothing climb down. Moving as quietly as possible, they headed for the driveway that led down to the house. The dark made no difference to the blind medicine man, but when they stepped off the pavement, Fat Crack had some difficulty negotiating the rocky terrain.
They’d gone only a few steps when Fat Crack saw, a mile or so away, the approaching headlights of another vehicle. That other car worried him. What if Looks At Nothing was wrong? What if the ohb was only now coming to the house, only now beginning his attack? If he drove up right then, they would be trapped in the open driveway with no means of retreat or defense.
“I have my stick,” the old man was saying. “What will you use for a weapon?”
“A rock, I guess,” Fat Crack replied. “I don’t see anything else.”
“Good,” Looks At Nothing said. “Get one.”
Fat Crack was bent over picking one up when he heard the dog. This time there was no warning bark, only a hair-raising, low-throated growl. The night was black, and Bone was a black and brown dog, totally invisible to the naked eye. Fat Crack straightened up and looked around, expecting to fend off an all-out attack. Instead, Looks At Nothing spoke forcefully into the darkness.
“Oh’o, ihab!” the medicine man commanded. “Bone, here!”
To Fat Crack’s astonishment, the dog obeyed at once, materializing out of the brush beside the road. He went directly to the old man, tail lowered and wagging tentatively.
Preoccupied with the dog, they failed to notice the other car again until it braked at the head of the drive. Too late Fat Crack tugged at Looks At Nothing’s arm, trying to pull him down the hill toward the meager cover of a mesquite tree.
All the way from TMC, Brandon had cursed himself for being in his mother’s car instead of the Galaxy, for being cut off from all communications. If only he had talked to Maddern again, they might have coordinated some kind of game plan. As it was, the only thing he’d thought to tell Hank was for him to call Diana and warn her.
He reached down and checked the.38 Smith amp; Wesson Special in his ankle holster. Police officers were required to be armed at all times. Ankle holsters were the only feasible choice when wearing ordinary clothing.
Brandon’s car sped over the top of the rise and roared down the long canyon road. Ahead and to the right, he could see lights glowing peacefully in the windows of Diana Ladd’s solitary house. Maybe he and Farrell were pushing panic buttons for no good reason.
Walker slowed and switched on his turn signal. As his tires dropped off the hard surface onto the dirt driveway, the headlights caught two shadowy figures dodging into the underbrush ahead of him. Walker felt a rush of adrenaline. He had surprised them, caught them in the act.
He jammed on the brakes, cutting the motor, turning off the lights. Expecting gunfire, he ducked down on the seat and drew his weapon. Heart pounding, he lay there waiting, with the desert night still and expectant around him.
Two of them, he thought. So who had that bastard Carlisle brought along with him? Whoever it was, Brandon thought, they’re going to get more than they bargained for. Not only was he here, Geet Farrell was on his way with plenty of reinforcements. In addition, there was that godawful dog. If those two jokers ran into Bone out there in the dark somewhere, they’d have yet another rude awakening.
Carlisle scrounged through the refrigerator and came away with a pound of bacon and half a dozen eggs, which he handed over to Diana. “Bacon, crisp. Eggs, over easy. Toast. Orange juice and coffee. Think you can handle that, honey? You know, if you’re a good-enough cook, maybe I’ll keep you around awhile. We’ll play house, just the two of us-cooking and fucking-and not necessarily in that order. What do you think of that?”
Diana said nothing. Carlisle, enamored with the sound of his own voice, didn’t notice. While he continued with his rambling monologue, Diana gathered what she needed for cooking-frying pan, salt and pepper shakers, the spatula. What would happen if she turned on the gas in the oven and didn’t light it? Would enough propane accumulate to cause an explosion, or would the oven just come on eventually when the gas seeped out far enough to reach the pilot lights on top of the stove? Anything was worth a try. Diana turned on the control.
She worked mechanically, trying not to think about Rita and Davy. That would divert her, take her mind away from the problem. She put a few pieces of bacon into the frying pan, started the fire under it, and loaded coffee and water into the percolator.
Still talking, Carlisle had meandered into a long self-pitying dissertation about prison life. “Do you know what they do to people like me in places like that?” he was saying. “Do you have any idea? Answer me when I speak to you.”
“No,” she said, “I have no idea.”
A spatter of hot fat leaped out of the frying pan as she turned the bacon, stinging Diana’s wrist. She jumped back, but the pain on her bare wrist gave her the beginning glimmer of an idea. Quickly, she dumped the rest of the pound of bacon into the frying pan and turned up the heat.