“I told him,” said Shadow. “And you know what he said to me? He said to tell the little snot, if ever I saw him again, to remember that today’s future is tomorrow’s yesterday.” Wednesday had never said any such thing, but Shadow delivered it as Wednesday would have done. These people seemed to like clichés. The black sunglasses reflected the flickering candle-flames back at him, like eyes.
The fat kid said, “This place is such a fucking dump. No power. Out of wireless range. I mean, when you got to be wired, you’re already back in the Stone Age.” He sucked the last of his Coke through the straw, dropped the cup on the table and walked away down the corridor.
Shadow reached over and placed the fat kid’s garbage back into the paper sack. “I’m going to see the center of America,” he announced. He got up and walked outside, into the night. Mr. Nancy followed him. They strolled together, across the little park, saying nothing until they reached the stone monument. The wind gusted at them, fitfully, first from one direction, then from another. “So,” he said. “Now what?”
The half-moon hung pale in the dark sky.
“Now,” said Nancy, “you should go back to your room. Lock the door. You try to get some more sleep. At midnight they give us the body. And then we get the hell out of here. The center is not a stable place for anybody.”
“If you say so.”
Mr. Nancy inhaled on his cigarillo. “This should never have happened,” he said. “None of this should have happened. Our kind of people, we are…” he waved the cigarillo about, as if using it to hunt for a word, then stabbing forward with it, “…exclusive. We’re not social. Not even me. Not even Bacchus. Not for long. We walk by ourselves or we stay in our own little groups. We do not play well with others. We like to be adored and respected and worshiped—me, I like them to be tellin’ tales about me, tales showing my cleverness. It’s a fault, I know, but it’s the way I am. We like to be big. Now, in these shabby days, we are small. The new gods rise and fall and rise again. But this is not a country that tolerates gods for long. Brahma creates, Vishnu preserves, Shiva destroys, and the ground is clear for Brahma to create once more.”
“So what are you saying?” asked Shadow. “The fighting’s over, now? The battle’s done?”
Mr. Nancy snorted. “Are you out of your mind? They killed Wednesday. They killed him and they bragged about it. They spread the word. They’ve showed it on every channel to those with eyes to see it. No, Shadow. It’s only just begun.”
He bent down at the foot of the stone monument, stubbed out his cigarillo on the earth, and left it there, like an offering.
“You used to make jokes,” said Shadow. “You don’t any more.”
“It’s hard to find the jokes these days. Wednesday’s dead. Are you comin’ inside?”
“Soon.”
Nancy walked away, toward the motel. Shadow reached out his hand and touched the monument’s stones. He dragged his big fingers across the cold brass plate. Then he turned and walked over to the tiny white church, walked through the open doorway, into the darkness. He sat down in the nearest pew and closed his eyes and lowered his head, and thought about Laura, and about Wednesday, and about being alive.
There was a click from behind him, and a scuff of shoe against earth. Shadow sat up, and turned. Someone stood just outside the open doorway, a dark shape against the stars. Moonlight glinted from something metal.
“You going to shoot me?” asked Shadow.
“Jesus—I wish,” said Mr. Town. “It’s only for self-defense. So, you’re praying? Have they got you thinking that they’re gods? They aren’t gods.”
“I wasn’t praying,” said Shadow. “Just thinking.”
“The way I figure it,” said Town, “they’re mutations. Evolutionary experiments. A little hypnotic ability, a little hocus-pocus, and they can make people believe anything. Nothing to write home about. That’s all. They die like men, after all.”
“They always did,” said Shadow. He got up, and Town took a step back. Shadow walked out of the little chapel, and Mr. Town kept his distance. “Hey,” Shadow said. “Do you know who Louise Brooks was?”
“Friend of yours?”
“Nope. She was a movie star from south of here.”
Town paused. “Maybe she changed her name, and became Liz Taylor or Sharon Stone or someone,” he suggested, helpfully.
“Maybe.” Shadow started to walk back to the motel. Town kept pace with him.
“You should be back in prison,” said Mr. Town. “You should be on fucking death row.”
“I didn’t kill your associates,” said Shadow. “But I’ll tell you something a guy once told me, back when I was in prison. Something I’ve never forgotten.”
“And that is?”
“There was only one guy in the whole Bible Jesus ever personally promised a place with him in Paradise. Not Peter, not Paul, not any of those guys. He was a convicted thief, being executed. So don’t knock the guys on death row. Maybe they know something you don’t.”
The driver stood by the Humvee. “G’night, gentlemen,” he said, as they passed.
“Night,” said Mr. Town. And then he said, to Shadow, “I personally don’t give a fuck about any of this. What I do, is what Mr. World says. It’s easier that way.”
Shadow walked down the corridor to room nine.
He unlocked the door, went inside. He said, “Sorry. I thought this was my room.”
“It is,” said Media. “I was waiting for you.” He could see her hair in the moonlight, and her pale face. She was sitting on his bed, primly.
“I’ll find another room.”
“I won’t be here for long,” she said. “I just thought it might be an appropriate time to make you an offer.”
“Okay. Make the offer.”
“Relax,” she said. There was a smile in her voice. “You have such a stick up your butt. Look, Wednesday’s dead. You don’t owe anyone anything. Throw in with us. Time to Come Over to the Winning Team.”
Shadow said nothing.
“We can make you famous, Shadow. We can give you power over what people believe and say and wear and dream. You want to be the next Cary Grant? We can make that happen. We can make you the next Beatles.”
“I think I preferred it when you were offering to show me Lucy’s tits,” said Shadow. “If that was you.”
“Ah,” she said.
“I need my room back. Good night.”
“And then of course,” she said, not moving, as if he had not spoken, “we can turn it all around. We can make it bad for you. You could be a bad joke forever, Shadow. Or you could be remembered as a monster. You could be remembered forever, but as a Manson, a Hitler…how would you like that?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m kind of tired,” said Shadow. “I’d be grateful if you’d leave now.”
“I offered you the world,” she said. “When you’re dying in a gutter, you remember that.”
“I’ll make a point of it,” he said.