Another several hours’ pointless driving, and by now Town hated the GPS almost as much as he hated Shadow. There was no passion in the hate, though. He had thought finding his way to the farm, to the great silver ash tree, had been hard; finding his way away from the farm was much harder. It did not seem to matter which road he took, which direction he drove down the narrow country lanes—the twisting Virginia back roads which must have begun, he was sure, as deer trails and cow paths—eventually he would find himself passing the farm once more, and the hand-painted sign, ASH.
This was crazy, wasn’t it? He simply had to retrace his way, take a left turn for every right he had taken on his way here, a right turn for every left.
Only that was what he had done last time, and now here he was, back at the farm once more. There were heavy storm clouds coming in, it was getting dark fast, it felt like night, not morning, and he had a long drive ahead of him: he would never get to Chattanooga before afternoon at this rate.
His cell phone gave him only a No Service message. The fold-out map in the car’s glove compartment showed the main roads, all the interstates and the real highways, but as far as it was concerned nothing else existed.
Nor was there anyone around that he could ask. The houses were set back from the roads; there were no welcoming lights. Now the fuel gauge was nudging Empty. He heard a rumble of distant thunder, and a single drop of rain splashed heavily onto his windshield.
So when Town saw the woman walking along the side of the road, he found himself smiling, involuntarily. “Thank God,” he said, aloud, and he drew up beside her. He thumbed down her window. “Ma’am? I’m sorry. I’m kind of lost. Can you tell me how to get to Highway 81 from here?”
She looked at him through the open passenger-side window and said, “You know, I don’t think I can explain it. But I can show you, if you like.” She was pale and her wet hair was long and dark.
“Climb in,” said Town. He didn’t even hesitate. “First thing, we need to buy some gas.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I needed a ride.” She got in. Her eyes were astonishingly blue. “There’s a stick here, on the seat,” she said, puzzled.
“Just throw it in the back. Where are you heading?” he asked. “Lady, if you can get me to a gas station, and back to a freeway, I’ll take you all the way to your own front door.”
She said, “Thank you. But I think I’m going further than you are. If you can get me to the freeway, that will be fine. Maybe a trucker will give me a ride.” And she smiled, a crooked, determined smile. It was the smile that did it.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I can give you a finer ride than any trucker.” He could smell her perfume. It was heady and heavy, a cloying scent, like magnolias or lilacs, but he did not mind.
“I’m going to Georgia,” she said. “It’s a long way.”
“I’m going to Chattanooga. I’ll take you as far as I can.”
“Mmm,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“They call me Mack,” said Mr. Town. When he was talking to women in bars, he would sometimes follow that up with “And the ones that know me really well call me Big Mack.” That could wait. They would have many hours in each other’s company to get to know each other, after all. “What’s yours?”
“Laura,” she told him.
“Well, Laura,” he said, “I’m sure we’re going to be great friends.”
The fat kid found Mr. World in the Rainbow Room—a walled section of the path, its window glass covered in clear plastic sheets of green and red and yellow film. He was walking impatiently from window to window, staring out, in turn, at a golden world, a red world, a green world. His hair was reddish-orange and close-cropped to his skull. He wore a Burberry raincoat.
The fat kid coughed. Mr. World looked up.
“Excuse me? Mister World?”
“Yes? Is everything on schedule?”
The fat kid’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips, and said, “I’ve set up everything. I don’t have confirmation on the choppers.”
“The helicopters will be here when we need them.”
“Good,” said the fat kid. “Good.” He stood there, not saying anything, not going away. There was a bruise on his forehead.
After a while Mr. World said, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
A pause. The boy swallowed and nodded. “Something else,” he said. “Yes.”
“Would you feel more comfortable discussing it in private?”
The boy nodded again.
Mr. World walked with the kid back to his operations center: a damp cave containing a diorama of drunken pixies making moonshine with a still. A sign outside warned tourists away during renovations. The two men sat down on plastic chairs.
“How can I help you?” asked Mr. World.
“Yes. Okay. Right, two things, Okay. One. What are we waiting for? And two. Two is harder. Look. We have the guns. Right. We have the firepower. They have fucking swords and knives and fucking hammers and stone axes. And like, tire irons. We have fucking smart bombs.”
“Which we will not be using,” pointed out the other man.
“I know that. You said that already. I know that. And that’s doable. But. Look, ever since I did the job on that bitch in L.A. I’ve been…” He stopped, made a face, seemed unwilling to go on.
“You’ve been troubled?”
“Yes. Good word. Troubled. Yes. Like a home for troubled teens. Funny. Yes.”
“And what exactly is troubling you?”
“Well, we fight, we win.”
“And that is a source of trouble? I find it a matter of triumph and delight, myself.”
“But. They’ll die out anyway. They are passenger pigeons and thylacines. Yes? Who cares? This way, it’s going to be a bloodbath. If we just wait them out, we get the whole thing.”
“Ah.” Mr. World nodded.
He was following. That was good. The fat kid said, “Look, I’m not the only one who feels this way. I’ve checked with the crew at Radio Modern, and they’re all for settling this peacefully; and the Intangibles are pretty much in favor of letting market forces take care of it. I’m being. You know. The voice of reason here.”
“You are indeed. Unfortunately, there is information you do not have.” The smile that followed was twisted and scarred.
The boy blinked. He said, “Mister World? What happened to your lips?”
World sighed. “The truth of the matter,” he said, “is that somebody sewed them together. A long time ago.”
“Whoa,” said the fat kid. “Serious omertà shit.”
“Yes. You want to know what we’re waiting for? Why we didn’t strike last night?”
The fat kid nodded. He was sweating, but it was a cold sweat.
“We didn’t strike yet, because I’m waiting for a stick.”
“A stick?”
“That’s right. A stick. And do you know what I’m going to do with the stick?”
A head shake. “Okay. I’ll bite. What?”
“I could tell you,” said Mr. World, soberly. “But then I’d have to kill you.” He winked, and the tension in the room evaporated.