Mason's hand curled into a fist, but he prudently kept it behind his back. "This is crazy," he persisted. "She's not going to go wandering off with a total stranger, especially at that hour of the morning. Nobody in her right mind would."
Madam Celeste closed her eyes and put her fingers on her temples. "I am having a vision, Mason. It is of…of a '77 Chevy with less than ninety thousand miles. It has had only one owner. The interior is immaculate. The price is painted on the windshield, and it is an excellent deal."
"All right, all right. That's not real funny, you know. I will go over to this policewoman's house and ring the bell. After I explain why I'm there, she can decide for herself if she's willing to come back here with me. But I'm not going to drag her out the door and into my car. That's called kidnapping or assault or something, and I'm not having anything to do with it."
"I shall be in the solarium when you return with her. Now, I must rest because it will be most difficult for me in the morning. Stop fidgeting and leave me alone."
Mason went downstairs and into the kitchen, wishing he had stayed in the army long enough to learn something more useful than how to hurl grenades at gooks. He'd been offered further electronics training if he reenlisted, but he was too eager to get as far away from the army as he could. So now he was qualified to sell used cars, dig ditches, twiddle his thumbs, or do as Sarah Lou Dickerson Grinolli Vizzard, a.k.a. Madam Celeste, ordered.
He looked out the window at the chicken house across the pasture. The roof had caved in on one end, and the sides were boarded up with scrap lumber, old signs, and sheet metal. There hadn't been a chicken there for twenty years, but it still reeked so badly of manure that he could smell it on sultry days when the wind came up the valley. He was about as useful as an old chicken house, he thought as he took a can of soda pop from the refrigerator and went to the living room. He fiddled with the TV controls until he picked up a sumo wrestling match from Tokyo. The lack of action lulled him to sleep before the soda was half gone.
Hammet, David Allen, and I ended up at the drive-in movie, where we were treated to nonstop violence, bloodshed, an improbable storyline that included the removal of vital anatomical attachments of almost everyone in the cast, and enough fake blood to fill a swimming pool. Hammet adored it. He ended up in the front seat, crouched in a ball and yelling encouragement to the mass murderer. David Allen kept the popcorn coming.
In the middle of one of the more grisly scenes my beeper beeped. "Damn it," I said under my breath, remembering that I still hadn't called Mrs. Jim Bob. Approach avoidance at its zenith.
David Allen reached across Hammet. "Let me have that insidious cricket. I know the perfect place for it."
"You can't throw Jiminy out the window. He's official police equipment, I'm sorry to say."
He took the beeper, wrapped it in a handful of napkins, and stuffed the bundle in the glove compartment. "See? No violence to the little chap."
"I wish I could ignore it, but I've been ignoring it for too long. I need to find a telephone to get the message. I was about to do it earlier, but you two abducted me."
"You're going to miss a particularly fine decapitation."
"The sacrifices we have to make in the line of duty. Can I bring back anything from the concession stand?"
"I wants some more candy bars," Hammet said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "And another sody and a hot dog."
I went to the concession stand and asked where to find a pay telephone. I listened to concise directions, then made it halfway to the door before hearing that the phone was out of order. I inquired if I might use the office phone. I was informed that only the manager could permit it. I asked to speak to the manager. I learned the manager was home with a stomach virus. I showed my badge. I was told that only the manager could permit the use of the office phone by an unauthorized party. I argued some more. I gave up when told that the manager with the stomach virus who was the only one who could permit the use of the office phone by an unauthorized party also had the only key, so it wasn't going to do a damn bit of good to stand around and argue the point. Did I wish to purchase anything before the concession stand closed? Wishing I had a chain saw, I bought drinks, candy bars, and a hot dog, then went back to David Allen's wagon and watched the last dozen people get their heads cut off. It suited my mood perfectly.
Brother Verber, dressed in pajamas and a robe, stared at the simulated walnut paneling above the television set, unmindful of the chatter from the sitcom. He kept trying to convince himself that he wasn't being cowardly, but he was losing the argument. Poor Sister Barbara had come to him in her hour of need. He'd comforted her and offered spiritual guidance-or at least he'd intended to do a bushel of comforting and guiding until he'd learned the name of the mother of the poor little orphan bastards. Just thinking the name made him a mite sweaty under his elastic waistband.
But, he told himself as he peeked at the television on the off chance that the blond girl in the miniskirt might cross her legs, Sister Barbara was a strong woman, with a solid Christian sense of duty and a pair of fine, muscular thighs from all that pious praying. She could handle those awful bastards, and instill in them a healthy fear of the Lord and a feverish desire to battle the wickedness of their souls. Why, she didn't need any help from him. She was a battleship armed with cannons of righteousness. She was a rock of piety. She was an army tank that could run right over Satan and squish him into the mud. It was arrogant of him to think she needed his help. Sinfully arrogant.
Brother Verber got on his knees to beg the Lord's forgiveness for his arrogance. He glanced a bit nervously at the telephone receiver dangling below the coffee table, then closed his eyes and settled his knees on the braided rug. It might well take hours of seclusion and prayer to regain his humility, he thought with a windy sigh. If the Lord chanced to be occupied with more important things (like striking down evolutionists and homosexuals and feminists), it might even take days.
It was nearly one o'clock before we got back to Maggody. Hammet, bloated from an incredible amount of junk food, was snoring in the backseat, while visions of blood-drenched sugarplums danced in his head.
"What do we do with him?" David Allen asked as we drove past the Emporium.
"I don't know. He's supposed to be staying with Mizzoner, but it's pretty late and supposedly she knows he's with me." I looked back at the little liar. "I guess I'll let him sleep on my sofa tonight. Tomorrow morning I'll go by there and find out what's happening, but I'm too tired to face it now."
David Allen slammed on the brakes as a blackclad figure on a motorcycle roared from out of a side street and vanished down the highway. "Officer, arrest that maniac!"
"I prefer to let that sort self-destruct," I said, turning around to make sure Hammet hadn't rolled off the seat. He hadn't. "I feel sorry for Hammet and his siblings. I've given up trying to find his mother. I searched part of the ridge today and realized how absurd it was to think I might find her. I'm going to call the sheriff and request assistance, which is what I should have done in the first place. If his posse has no luck, he can contact the state police for a helicopter. I should have called Social Services, too, and had them take responsibility for the children. Mrs. Jim Bob's on the anal-retentive side, but her gesture was generous. However, she and I are both amateurs and way out of our league. The professionals have institutions and foster homes for this situation."