Beyond the living room is a bathroom, a large closet crammed with Frannie’s clothes, and a bedroom with a smaller closet filled with Jack’s wardrobe. In less than three minutes he strips naked and dresses in new underwear, white athletic socks, jeans, a red-and-brown-checkered shirt, a pair of battered sneakers, and a brown leather jacket to replace his black one. The inseam of the pants is just right; the waist is two inches too big, but he cinches it in with a belt. The shoes are slightly loose though wearable, and the shirt and jacket fit perfectly.
He carries the Rockport shoes into the kitchen. To confirm his suspicion, he takes a serrated bread knife from a drawer and saws off several thin layers of the rubber heel on one shoe until he discovers a shallow cavity packed tightly with electronics. A miniaturized transmitter is connected to a series of watch batteries that seems to extend all the way around the heel and perhaps the sole as well.
Not paranoid after all.
They’re coming.
Abandoning the shoes in a litter of rubber shavings on the kitchen counter, he urgently searches Jack’s body and takes the money out of the old man’s wallet. Sixty-two bucks. He searches for Frannie’s purse, finds it in the bedroom. Forty-nine dollars.
When he leaves the motorhome, the mottled gray-black sky is convex, bent low with the weight of the thunder-heads. Rain by the megaton batters the earth.
Coils of fog serpentine among the trunks of the pine trees and seem to be reaching for him as he splashes to the Honda.
On the interstate again, speeding through the perpetual twilight beneath the storm, he turns the car heater to its highest setting and soon crosses the state line into Texas, where the flat land becomes impossibly flatter. Having shed the last of the meager belongings from his old life, he feels liberated. Soaked by the cold rain, he shivers uncontrollably, but he is also trembling with anticipation and excitement.
His destiny lies somewhere to the west.
He peels the plastic wrapper off a Slim Jim and eats while he drives. A subtle flavor, threaded through the primary taste of the cured meat, reminds him of the metallic odor of blood in the house in Kansas City, where he left the nameless dead couple in their enormous Georgian bed.
The killer pushes the Honda as fast as he dares on the rain-slick highway, prepared to kill any cop who pulls him over. Reaching Amarillo, Texas, just after dusk on Sunday evening, he discovers that the Honda is virtually running on empty. He pulls into a truckstop only long enough to tank up, use the bathroom, and buy more food to take with him.
After Amarillo, rocketing westward into the night, he passes Wildorado, with the New Mexico border ahead, and suddenly he realizes that he is crossing the badlands, in the heart of the Old West, where so many wonderful movies have been set. John Wayne and Montgomery Clift in Red River, Walter Brennan stealing scenes left and right. Rio Bravo. And Shane was set back there in Kansas—wasn’t it?—Jack Palance blowing away Elisha Cook, Jr. decades before Dorothy took the tornado to Oz. Stagecoach, The Gunfighter, True Grit, Destry Rides Again, The Unforgiven, High Plains Drifter, Yellow Sky, so many great movies, not all of them set in Texas but at least in the spirit of Texas, with John Wayne and Gregory Peck and Jimmy Stewart and Clint Eastwood, legends, mythical places now made real and waiting out there beyond the highway, obscured by rain and mist and darkness. It was almost possible to believe that those stories were being played out right now, in the frontier towns he was passing, and that he was Butch Cassidy or the Sundance Kid or some other gunman of an earlier century, a killer but not really a bad guy, misunderstood by society, forced to kill because of what had been done to him, a posse on his trail . . .
Memories from theater screens and late-night movies on TV—which constitute by far the largest portion of the memories he possesses—flood his troubled mind, soothing him, and for a while he is lost so completely in those fantasies that he pays too little attention to his driving. Gradually he becomes aware that his speed has fallen to forty miles an hour. Trucks and cars explode past him, the wind of their passage buffeting the Honda, splashing dirty water across his windshield, their red taillights swiftly receding into the gloom.
Assuring himself that his mysterious destiny will prove to be as great as any that John Wayne pursued in films, he accelerates.
Empty and half-empty packages of food, crumpled and smeary and full of crumbs, are heaped on the passenger seat. They cascade onto the floor, under the dashboard, completely filling the leg space on that side of the car.
From the litter, he extracts a new box of doughnuts. To wash them down he opens a warmish Pepsi.
Westward. Steadily westward.
An identity awaits him. He is going to be someone.
15
Later Sunday, at home, after huge bowls of popcorn and two videos, Paige tucked the girls into bed, kissed them goodnight, and retreated to the open doorway to watch Marty as he settled down for that moment of the day he most cherished. Story time.
He continued with the poem about Santa’s evil twin, and the girls were instantly enraptured.
“Reindeer sweep down out of the night. See how each is brimming with fright? Tossing their heads, rolling their eyes, these gentle animals are so very wise— they know this Santa isn’t their friend, but an imposter and far ’round the bend. They would stampede for all they’re worth, dump this nut off the edge of the earth. But Santa’s bad brother carries a whip, a club, a harpoon, a gun at his hip, a blackjack, an Uzi—you better run!— and a terrible, horrible, wicked raygun.”
“Raygun?” Charlotte said. “Then he’s an alien!”
“Don’t be silly,” Emily admonished her. “He’s Santa’s twin, so if he’s an alien, Santa is an alien too, which he isn’t.”
With the smug condescension of a nine-year-old who had long ago discovered Santa Claus wasn’t real, Charlotte said, “Em, you have a lot to learn. Daddy, what’s the raygun do? Turn you to mush?”
“To stone,” Emily said. She withdrew one hand from under the covers and revealed the polished stone on which she had painted a pair of eyes. “That’s what happened to Peepers.”
“They land on the roof, quiet and sneaky. Oh, but this Santa is fearfully freaky. He whispers a warning to each reindeer, leaning close to make sure they hear: ‘You have relatives back at the Pole— antlered, gentle, quite innocent souls. So if you fly away while I’m inside, back to the Pole on a plane I will ride. I’ll have a picnic in the midnight sun: reindeer pie, pâté, reindeer in a bun, reindeer salad and hot reindeer soup, oh, all sorts of tasty reindeer goop.’ ”
“I hate this guy,” Charlotte announced emphatically. She pulled her covers up to her nose as she had done the previous evening, but she wasn’t genuinely frightened, just having a good time pretending to be spooked.
“This guy, he was just born bad,” Emily decided. “For sure, he couldn’t be this way just ’cause his mommy and daddy weren’t as nice to him as they should’ve been.”
Paige marveled at Marty’s ability to strike the perfect note to elicit the kids’ total involvement. If he’d given her the poem to review before he’d started reading it, Paige would have advised that it was a little too strong and dark to appeal to young girls.