27

The car that stopped was a Volkswagen bug. The driver was a thirtyish woman, wearing an imitation fur coat and garish sparkles on her hideously long fingernails. Her name was Winnie, she said, and she flattened me to the seat with acceleration before I had an opportunity to settle in and buckle my seat belt.

“What the hellya doing out on a night like this?”

“Traveling to Red Creek,” I replied. I was grate­ful for the ride, and I knew if I could endure Rose­mary for as long as I had, I could endure Winnie for a couple of hours. I could do anything as long as it led to Sarah.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Legs,” I said, realizing too late that it was the wrong response to discourage conversation.

“Legs, then. What happened?”

“They froze.”

“Ooooh, Gawd, you froze your legs? How awful. How didya manage to do that?”

I sighed. Winnie was going to extract her fee from me. “I was outside in the snow, and my legs froze.”

“Gawd, I can’t imagine anything worse than freezing. I hate it when it’s cold. Hawaii. I oughtta live in Hawaii, ya know? I mean I’m just not built for this kind of weather. Brrr.” She pulled her coat closer around her and stepped on the accelerator, as if that would help. Then she reached between the seats and pulled up a lever with a red plastic knob. Heat flooded the little interior. It smelled faintly of exhaust, and it blew bits of debris around the inside of the car, but it was warm.

“I just love the heaters in these V-­Dubs. That’s why I’ve got one, you know? They’re great, these cars. Don’t worry. You’ll be gasping for breath soon. These heaters are great. So why’re ya going to Red Creek?”

“To see a friend. I have a friend there.”

“Good. Good.” She snapped on the radio and rudely ran the knob back and forth, looking for some music to suit her mood. When she found none, she snapped it off again, looked down at my cane, and scratched around in her orangey-­ratted hair.

“Nice cane. How is it to walk with a cane? I mean, do lots of people stare at you?”

“No.”

“I think of old people with canes, you know? I always think of young people with crutches, or wheel­chairs, but never a cane. Actually, a cane has class. Especially one like that. Wow. Look at that lizard.” She reached a hand over and touched it, then lifted it closer to her eyes. With brief flicks of attention paid to the road before us, she examined the brass end of my cane, then handed it back to me with a searching look at my face. “Wow,” she said. “That’s quite a cane.”

I settled my cane between my knees, feeling more and more proud of it, more protective of it by the minute. The cane had become a symbol of my commitment. I had been to the gates of Hell for this cane. No. I had endured Rosemary as my price to get well. I had paid my price, and received the cane as a bonus. The cane would help me reach my destination.

Of course I had a cane. Of course. One such as I ought to have a symbol of achievement, and having come from where I did, what could possibly be more fitting? . . . I rubbed my fingers lightly over the cast-brass scales . . .

“I’ve got a job waitin’ down at Carlsbad. My brother works down there, and he said they needed a little help, so he called me up. Pretty good, eh? I don’t even know what kind of job it is, but I trust him. My brother’s all right. He and I kind of look out for each other, know what I mean? At least it will be warmer than Colorado, I mean, Gawd, I wish he’d get me a job in Hawaii.”

I settled back, listening with a small slice of my consciousness while Winnie entertained herself talking of Hawaii, and I concentrated on the ache in my legs. The blowing heat felt like it was searing right into the meat of my calves. I felt the heat with my hand; it wasn’t very hot, or blowing very strong, so I knew it could be doing no damage. I closed my eyes and relaxed, then delved into the feeling of the pain to try to separate the different sensations.

The pain was almost like a musical chord, strumming in a universal key. The ache, which ebbed and flowed with each breath, strummed the same chord over and over. I could define each string, see the vibration of each separate sensation; I could see, in my mind’s eye, the strumming of the chord, but I could not see the hand that stroked the strings. I wondered if, by the very use of my will, I could snip the strings and thus be rid of the pain. Actually, the pain wasn’t really pain anymore—it was more like intense pressure. I had dissected the pain until it no longer hurt; much like saying the word “darkness” over and over and over again until it loses its meaning and becomes merely an absurd sound.

So. Pain could be controlled by the mind. Sarah would know about that, about yoga and mind control and all that. I would be her disciple.

Winnie droned on, obviously not caring whether I responded or not—as I never did—and the two of us in the little Volks­wagen drove through the cold New Mexican night toward Red Creek. Eventually, in the heat and the sound of her voice, I slept.

I awakened with a start at the first chug of the engine. My legs fired to life with a blast of agony, and I rubbed them, hard, and tried to bring myself into focus again in the situation. We slowed down.

The Volkswagen chugged again, stalled, then started, as Winnie cussed it and ground the gears, popped the clutch, and finally coasted off to the side of the road. The lights dimmed as she ground the starter, until there was just a terrible clicking as the battery died.

She punched the light button in with a slap of her hand and a curse, and we sat in the darkness, in the quiet, for a long moment.

Finally a long sigh escaped her lips and she yanked on the door handle, threw the door open, jumped out, and slammed it so hard my ears popped. I saw her stomp up and down the shoulder of the road behind the car, her coat flapping around her legs in the backwash of the cars that whizzed past without slowing down. I huddled down into my coat, feeling the slight rocking of the Volkswagen with each passing car. I tried to think, to figure what to do. I had no knowledge of cars; I could do nothing to help this situation.

I could only begin a new situation.

The cold was beginning to seep in, riding the darkness, riding the wind.

Winnie got back in the car, bringing with her a rush of frozen darkness, popping my ears once again as she slammed us all inside together.

“Fuck,” she said.

“What is it?”

“How the hell do I know? Do I look like a mechanic to you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, we’re all sorry here. But what do we do now, shoot ourselves?”

“I’ve got to get—”

“To Red Creek. Yeah, I know. And I’ve got to get to Carlsbad. Any great ideas?” She turned and looked at me, her shiny eye shadow glowing in the harsh illumination of the oncoming traffic. Her lined face was thickly made up, cracking around the edges, her crooked teeth suddenly menacing behind the curve of her snarling orange-colored lips.

I shook my head, my eyes unable to meet hers. They fell, instead, on the lovely expanse of her neck, softly wrinkled, powdered. I saw a faint thrumming under the skin as her heart beat in agitated double time, and it brought such feelings up from the depths . . .

She pulled back from me and flipped up the collar on her coat, bringing me harshly back to the present. I noticed with embarrassment that saliva had slipped out the corners of my mouth. I swiped it with my coat sleeve, but the damage had been done.

Winnie’s eyes were round and wide, her orange lips stretched over her teeth as she clutched the door handle in fear.

“I’ll get us a ride,” I said, and I opened the door and swung my legs out. Leaning heavily on my cane, I tried to stomp a little life back into the ache that had replaced my bones. Winnie reached over and slammed the door. I heard the lock click.

I walked away from the front of the car; far enough so oncoming traffic could see me, and within minutes, a car had stopped. It was a young couple, huddled together on the front seat. I opened the back door and threw in my pack, my cane, then followed, painfully.

“Car trouble, huh?” the boy asked.

I looked back at the Volkswagen, could barely make out the puffed outline of Winnie’s hair in the dark.

“Yes,” I said, almost blind with the ache. I shut the door behind me. “I’ll send someone for it in the morning.”

“We’re going to Texas,” the girl said, then disengaged herself from under her boyfriend’s arm and turned around on the seat to face me. Her wispy blonde hair seemed to float about her head; her features blurred in the pulsing, reddening madness of my pain. I had moved too fast—too far too fast. For a moment, I looked at her through the veil of the pain and thought . . . thought . . . “Where are you going?” she asked, and it reverberated in my mind: Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going? And then it was Her face, and it was Her voice, and the car was speeding away and I was trapped—trapped in the car with the woman who would do anything to have me, the woman who would never leave me alone—not as long as I refused Her advances.

I closed my eyes and sank to the car seat, resting my head awkwardly on my pack. In a few moments, the fire that raced through my legs died down and my head no longer spun. I opened my eyes and the girl still looked at me over the back of the seat.

“Are you sick?”

I breathed deeply. Was this the woman? Was this Her? I could no longer tell. I wasn’t safe, not anywhere. Not with the power this woman had. I had to be very careful. “Just my legs. The cold . . .”

“Oh,” she said, and nodded with understanding. “Where are you going?”

“Red Creek,” I breathed.

“Why’d you leave your friend in the car?” Our eyes met for a brief moment. I could feel her judgment, her disapproval. “Didn’t she want to come with you?”

How could I explain that Winnie’s fears had locked me out of her car? How could I explain the compulsion that overtook me, the escape route I was following? How could I explain that I had some terrible disease, or so it seemed, and my salvation lay in a little cottage in Red Creek?

I was too tired to explain.

Instead, I remembered my talent, long dormant, for charging the air in a room, and I closed my eyes and brought romance and mystery into the car, and a sense of adventure for the two young lovers.

“Leave her alone, Marsh,” the boy said. “Let her rest.”

The girl gave me a weak smile and turned around again, facing forward, snuggling under his arm, and again I was on the way to Sarah. Safe, for the time being.

“I’d prepared all my life for Angelina. I didn’t know it, of course, but I had done my homework, and done it well. I learned how to track, how to sniff the air, how to learn habits and predict movements, how to develop my intuition.

“The police in Seven Slopes wanted to publish a picture of Angelina, so I gave her description to the police artist. It was very strange, seeing her face again as it came to life on his sketch pad. He added just the right touches, too, a little feral look, thin and desperate, wild and cagey, sort of like her apartment smelled.

“I took a copy of that drawing to the bar with me and just sat and stared at it. It was a face I’ve known all my life.

“I got off track there for a while in Seven Slopes, I was so bloody disappointed, but as soon as I got word that she’d been spotted in Santa Fe, all my senses returned. This was no crank call, either. This was an accurate sighting, by six policemen, for Christ’s sake, and I flew.

“She was one step ahead of me.

“But one step behind was a lot closer than I’d gotten before.”