"I'll be lucky to keep her in sight." For once Mavranos had both hands on the wheel. His beer can had fallen onto the floor, and rolled against the door with each abrupt lane change. "What do you want me to do if we get a cop behind us with his lights on?"
"Jesus," said Ozzie. "Just keep going."
"Look for my phase-change cancer cure in jail, huh?" No one answered him. The only sound was the on and off roaring of the engine as Mavranos's foot hopped from the gas to the brake and back.
By the time she pulled to a stop at the curb in front of the white duplex on Venus Avenue, the woman obviously knew she was being followed; she hopped out of the car and took off at a flat-out run toward the front door.
Crane leaned out his open window. "Diana!" he yelled. "It's Scott and Oz!"
She stopped then, stared at him and at Ozzie, who was leaning out of the back window and waving furiously, and then she sprinted back across the grass to the Suburban.
"Do you know where my son is?"
"No," said Crane. "Uh … sorry."
Ozzie had his door open and stepped carefully down to the sidewalk, carrying his aluminum cane. "Let's go inside," he said.
A pudgy young man with a scruffy beard was sitting on the worn living-room couch, his eyes closed and his hands waving as if he were conducting a symphony. "If we could all calm down!" he said loudly, on a rising note. "A tad of silence, if you please!"
Everyone did stop talking, and now stared at him. Ozzie was frowning at him angrily, his wrinkled lip quivering with contempt. Crane imagined Ozzie had caught the scent of the young man's cologne.
"Who are you?" the old man asked.
"My name is Hans. I'm Diana's life-partner, and I care for Scat as deeply as if he were my own son, but he's only fifteen minutes late." He widened his eyes and looked around. "Di, I'm sorry I even called you. I'm certain he'll be returning at any moment."
Crane looked at Diana, then looked away. She had grown into the beautiful woman he had always known she would become, tall and slim and goldenly blond, and there were twenty years of her life that he passionately wanted to know about, and if he and Ozzie were successful here tonight, he would never see her again.
Diana turned to the chubby little boy who was standing by the fireplace. "Oliver, where did you last see him? How did you lose him? Didn't I tell you to take care of your little brother?"
The boy rolled his eyes. "Which question do you want me to answer first?" he asked, nervously defiant. "Okay!" he said quickly when Diana took a step forward. "We rode our bikes to Hebert Park, and I got talking to some … older kids. They call me Bitin Dog," he added, glancing toward Mavranos and Crane.
"You ditched him again, didn't you?" said Diana.
"Sheesh! He'll be home in a minute, like Hans says."
"I suppose you've lost your job?" said Hans neutrally.
Diana ignored him and turned on Crane, who flinched. "Does this have anything to do with that stuff you told me on the phone Friday?"
"I—I don't know," Crane said. "So far I don't think so."
"How's your leg?"
"It's okay."
"Ozzie," she said, crossing to the old man and hugging him, "it's good to see you; it's just a bad time."
"I know, honey." Ozzie's spotted old hand patted her back. "Listen, as soon as he comes home, you've got to leave town, understand? Tonight. Pack as little as you can—I'll give you money—and then just go away, to some distant place, ditch your car as soon as you can and go on by bus, and give me a call and we'll figure a way to get more money to you. Western Union would be quick enough; you could have the money and be long gone within ten minutes of calling me. I'm sorry about your life here, but you must have known this wasn't smart, living here."
Her face was buried in the old man's shoulder, but Crane saw her nod. "Okay, Ozzie," she said, her voice muffled. "Wally, my husband, insisted on living here, and then after the divorce it just seemed too silly to leave."
"It's still silly," said Hans angrily, standing up. "What are you people talking about? We can't leave Vegas; I've got the screenplay deal with Mike. What have you—you fellows been telling her?"
Diana had stood back from the old man, and now Ozzie looked at Hans with widened eyes. "A screenplay deal? You know what, I think you'd better stay. You can meet another woman to be life-partners with."
Crane glanced at the little boy, who was calmly scuffing the carpet with the sole of his tennis shoe. The idea of leaving town, leaving these friends who called him Bitin Dog, didn't seem to bother him. Crane wondered what the boy's father, Wally, was like.
Hans bit back a quick response, then said loftily, "I have confidence in myself—something I think some people around here should work on."
Mavranos grinned at him through his unkempt mustache. "I can see you've done real well with it."
Diana waved her hands. "Don't fight. I always knew we didn't belong here, and all I really own is the stereo anyway. Oliver, throw some clothes in your sausage bag, underwear and socks and shirts, and your toothbrush and your retainer."
The telephone rang. Hans waved dramatically for silence and turned toward it.
"No," said Mavranos sharply. "Let the lady get it. Scott, you listen in."
Diana looked at Mavranos as if he'd slapped her, but she let Crane walk her to the phone on the kitchen counter.
"Hello?" she said when she'd picked it up.
"Isis," said a nervous young man's voice on the other end, "I have your son."
CHAPTER 21: Old Images Out of the Ruins
"My name's not Isis, you've got a wrong number—"
Mavranos and Ozzie were both nodding at her. You are Isis, both of them mouthed.
"You are so Isis," said the caller. He giggled. "I've seen your face, Mother. On the Queen of Hearts card and in the lines on my maps. Otherwise, what would—would—be the pointing go?"
Crane beckoned to Ozzie and Mavranos, and as they hurried to the open kitchen, he wrote with a pencil on the white Formica counter.
NUT IN BAKER, he wrote. MAPS, GO FISH.
Maybe we can help in this, he thought excitedly. Maybe we can rescue her son for her. For Diana, I can stay sober.
"Mother, I need to talk to you," said the caller. "I'm at a telephone right now, as you might say, but I'll be going to my Las Vegas box, which doesn't have a phone, which is where your son is, with tape holding him in a chair. It's a Skinner box, like the bowling pigeons. It's out of town on Boulder Highway past Sunset Road, go till you see a gas station on your right that's boarded up, and there's a dirt road that goes behind it. My box is, can't see it from the road, just."
"Is my son all right?"
"Scat, he tells me. His real name is Aristarchus. He's fine, I didn't tape his nose. I won't hurt him if you'll come and talk to me tonight; if you don't, I'll cut his head off and talk to you later." He chuckled. "A man tried to sink a head in Lake Mead yesterday, can you imagine? The lake made the bats chase him away."
"I'll come and talk to you," Diana said hastily. Her phone-clutching hand was against Crane's cheek, and her fingers were cold.
"I know," the caller went on, "exactly how long it takes to drive from your Isis temple, where you are, to the box, so don't talk to police. If police are in our picture, I'll kill Aristarchus. But you won't call them, and we can talk. You're bothered, by this, and that's arctic should be. I don't mean to—to get you bothered, but I had to do something to make sure you'd talk to me. At least I didn't visit you yesterday, right? It was my day yesterday, and that would have been rude, visiting you with my feathers on."