I pulled Arnold aside. "What are you doing in here?"
He hesitated for only a moment: "I'm staying with her."
"You can't do that!"
"Why not? You think they're gonna treat us like criminals once I tell 'em who we are and what's happened to us? You think they're not gonna believe me once her makeup starts slipping off in there? After the number you just laid on that rent-a-cop, they'll believe me if I tell 'em Rebecca and me seen Elvis Presley, still alive and well. They're gonna treat us like heroes, Mark. We'll be fine." He showed me an envelope in his jacket pocket. "I've got all of Rebecca's information in here, and mine, too—not that I need it. I've had the address and phone number memorized for a long time. I'm just sorry I won't get to see you do your little routine for my family." He looked toward the automatic doors. "She's gonna be okay, right?"
"I sure hope so. I think we caught her before she crashed really bad. We sure got here fast enough, though, didn't we?"
"They'll be peelin' those tire tracks off the road for a week." He looked back at me. "Look, Mark, I got everything we need right in here"—he patted his shoulder bag—"and they're gonna be so busy making sure the two of us are okay, they won't bother asking us too many serious questions until our folks get here." He shook his head. "I can almost smell the Social Services' lady's perfume now."
"What's in the bag?"
"Hundred thousand dollars in cash. We agreed that we'd split Grendel's money even between us. Don't worry, it's all wrapped up inside my shirts and pants and socks. You gotta get out of here before your buddy comes back or her makeup starts coming off."
I reached out and touched his cheek. "What makes you think I'd leave you two at a time like this?"
"Because if you don't, then Christopher's gonna be all alone out there and I wouldn't like that. Neither would Rebecca. He's more scared than all of us about going home. You know how long he's been missing?"
"Eleven, twelve years?"
"You bet. People can change a lot over that long. They can… they can forget about things if forgetting makes it easier for them to go on living."
I smiled at him. "You know, you sure as hell don't sound like a twelve-year-old."
"I ain't never been twelve, which is okay—I hear it ain't such a hot age to be, anyway." He looked away for a moment, considering something. "You know, it never occurred to me before—Christopher's been missing as long as I've been alive. Damn, that's sad." He looked back at me. "You gotta go with him. He can't be by himself, he'll chicken out or do something stupid. Please go, Mark. Do it for Rebecca and me. I'll make sure she knows you're the one who brought her in, and that you didn't want to leave us. She'll understand. She understands about most things. She's pretty cool that way."
I couldn't help it; I started crying again.
"Aw, now—what'cha wanna go and start that crap again for?"
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry, my ass—you can't wimp out on me now. This is almost over. You gotta be the one to finish this for us, Mark. Christopher ain't too good unless he's got someone around he thinks he's in charge of. He ain't been taking his pills like he's supposed to—that's why he keeps changing the way he acts—and if you don't go with him, he'll keep not taking it and then he'll really go crazy and I don't want that to happen, that's not him, he's not really that way. We'll be—ah, well, shit!" He started crying, too. "Ain't this a bitch? Standing here bawling like a couple of old ladies at a funeral."
"I'm so sorry for everything that's happened to you, Arnold. I'm sorry for what he did. I'm sorry for all the time you've lost, I'm just… I'm just sorry."
"What for? You didn't do it." Suddenly he sounded like a little boy, lost and tired and alone so very, very afraid.
"No, but you… you need to know that somebody gives a shit, all right? Somebody needs to be angry for you."
He nodded his head, spattering tears and snot onto his jacket. "Yeah, I know. It's real… real nice of you to say that, to… to feel that way. I sure wish you'd leave—nothing personal."
"I know." But I couldn't; I couldn't just turn around and walk away from him, even though every sensible impulse told me that's exactly what I should be doing; Ransom would be back any second, the doctors had to have at least discovered Rebecca's false teeth by now, if not her glass eye and wig, and on top of that how long could Christopher stay parked out there before someone gave the bus and trailer more than a passing glance? It was close to five-thirty in the morning, and while the silver butter dishes might be a forgettable oddity on the highway or at a truck stop, they were bound to draw attention parked outside an emergency room entrance. Sure, every sensible impulse dictated that I hightail it out of here fifteen seconds ago… but I couldn't just leave them.
"If you don't leave right now," Arnold said, getting back some control, "then I'm gonna… I'll…" He sighed, his shoulders slumping, and looked up at me. "I got nothin'."
I did my best to suck it up, as well; pulled in a deep breath, straightened myself, held out my hand. "It's been a real pleasure traveling with you, Arnold."
He took my hand. "Yeah, same here."
"Take care of yourself."
"Count on it."
I started to pull my hand away. Arnold let go and threw himself into me, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face in my chest. "You kick ass, my man. Don't ever think any different." And with that he was gone, shoulder bag in hand, banging on the automatic doors and asking where his sister Rebecca was, was she all right, the U.S. Marshal-man said she was in here, couldn't anyone hear back there?
I went out the doors and climbed into the bus, slamming the door and burying my face in my hands as Christopher drove off.
To his credit, he didn't say anything for a very long time. He just let me sit there and cry in peace and pretend I still had some remnant of dignity left.
13. Bury the Cow
"So… I understand you're a Marshall Tucker man, right?"
"Yeah," I said, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "I always… always thought they were every bit as good as the Allman Brothers."
He popped in a CD with a shaking hand and there were the Marshall Tucker boys once more, singing about taking the highway, 'cause Lord knows they'd been gone so long. "Oh, now, I don't know about that," said Christopher. "I mean, we are talking about Duane and Gregg and Dickie Betts, after all."
I stared out at the dawn-filtered road. "Looks like it's just you and me now, sport."
"They'll be fine. Arnold will have them jumping through hoops in no time flat. They'll be just… just fine."
I turned toward him. "How do you know?"
"Like I said before—I have magic powers; all who ride in this bus will stay protected."
"Did you make that up yourself or get it from a movie?"
"I don't remember." On the highway, morning commuters were starting to cluster in the pre-rush-hour traffic, on their way to get the worm, as the early bird is said to do.