Now, still chatting with the Hole, he checked the mirror on the visor. The Hand sat at the dinette table. Reading.
What was it they called a condemned man in prison? Dead man walking. Yes, that was it.
See here: Dead girl reading.
His real reasons for tracking down ETs and making contact were personal. They had nothing to do with the Hand. He knew, however, that the Black Hole would not be inspired by his true motives.
Every activity must somehow revolve around the Hole. Otherwise, she would not cooperate in the pursuit of it.
He had figured that this healing-aliens story would be one that she would buy. Likewise, he had been confident that when at last he killed her children and claimed they had been beamed up to the stars, the Hole would accept their disappearance with wonder and delight — and would fail to recognize her own danger.
This had proved to be the case. If nature had given her a good mind, she had methodically destroyed it. She was a reliable dimwit.
The Hand was another matter. Too smart by half.
Preston could no longer risk waiting until her tenth birthday.
After he visited the Teelroy farm and assessed the situation there, if he saw no likelihood of making contact with ETs, he would drive east into Montana first thing in the morning. By three o’clock in the afternoon, he would take the girl to the remote and deeply shaded glen in which her brother waited for her.
He would open the grave and force her to look at what remained of the Gimp.
That would be cruel. He recognized the meanness of it.
As always, Preston forthrightly acknowledged his faults. He made no claim to perfection. No human could honestly make such a claim.
In addition to his passion for homicide, he had over the years gradually become aware of a taste for cruelty. Killing mercifully— quickly and in a manner that caused little pain — had at first been immensely satisfying, but less so over time.
He took no pride in this character defect, but neither did it shame him. Like every person on the planet, he was what he was — and had to make the best of it.
All that mattered, however, was that he remained useful in a true and profound sense, that what he contributed to this troubled society continued to outweigh the resources he consumed to sustain himself. In the finest spirit of utilitarian ethics, he had put his faults to good use for humanity and had behaved responsibly.
He reserved his cruelty strictly for those who needed to die anyway, and tormented them only immediately before killing them.
Otherwise, he quite admirably controlled every impulse to be vicious. He treated all people — those he had not marked for death— with kindness, respect, and generosity.
In truth, more like him were needed: men — and women! — who acted within a code of ethics to rid an overpopulated world of the takers, of the worthless ones who, if left alive, would drag down not merely civilization with all their endless needs, but nature as well.
There were so many of the worthless. Legions.
He wanted to subject the Hand to the exquisite cruelty of seeing her brother’s remains, because he was annoyed by her pious certainty that God had made her for a purpose, that her life had meaning she would one day discover.
Let her look for meaning in the biological sludge and bristling bones of her brother’s decomposed body. Let her search hopelessly for any sign of any god in that reeking grave.
North to Nun’s Lake under a darkening sky.
Soaring mountains, vast forests. Eagles gone to roost.
Dead girl reading.
Chapter 62
According to the inset chart of estimated driving times on the AAA map, Micky should have required eight hours and ten minutes to travel the 381 miles between Seattle and Nun’s Lake. Speed limits and rest stops were factored into this estimate, as were the conditions of the narrower state and county roads that she had to use after she exited Interstate 90 southeast of Coeur d’Alene.
After leaving Seattle promptly at 5:30 A.M., she reached her destination at 12:20 P.M., one hour and twenty minutes ahead of schedule. Light traffic, a disregard for speed limits, and a lack of interest in rest stops served her well.
Nun’s Lake proved to be true to its name. A large lake lay immediately south of it, and an imposing convent, built of native stone in the 1930s, stood on a high hill to the north. An order of Carmelite nuns occupied the convent, while fish of many denominations meditated in the deeps of the lake, bracketing the community between a monument to the power of the spirit and a flourishing recreational enterprise.
Evergreen forests embraced the town. Under a threatening sky, great pines sentineled the looming storm, orders upon orders of symbolic sisters in green wimples and guimpes and habits, needled garments so dark in this somber light that at a distance, they looked almost as black as the vestments of the real nuns in the convent.
Although the town had fewer than two thousand residents in the off season, a steady influx of fishermen, boaters, campers, hikers, and jet-ski enthusiasts doubled the population during the summer.
At a busy sportsman’s store that sold everything from earthworms by the pint to six-packs of beer, Micky learned that three facilities in the area provided campsites with power-and-water hookups to motor homes and travel trailers. Favoring tenters, the state park dedicated only twenty percent of its sites to campers requiring utilities. Two privately owned RV campgrounds were a better bet for those roughing it in style.
Within an hour, she visited all three places, inquiring whether the Jordan Banks family had checked in, certain that Maddoc would not be traveling under his real name. They were in residence at none of the campgrounds, nor did they have a reservation at one.
Because the stagnant economy had crimped some people’s vacation plans and because even in better times the area had a surplus of RV campsites, reservations weren’t always required, and space was likely to be available at all three facilities when Maddoc pulled into town.
She asked each of the registration clerks not to mention her inquiry to the Banks family when eventually they showed up. “I’m Jordan’s sister. He doesn’t know I’m here. I want to surprise him. It’s his birthday.”
If Maddoc had false ID supporting his Jordan Banks identity, he probably had identification in other names, as well. He might already be in one of these campgrounds, using a name that she didn’t know.
Leilani had described the motor home as a luxurious converted Prevost bus: “When people see it rolling along the highway, they get all excited ’cause they assume Godzilla is on vacation.” Furthermore, Micky had seen the midnight-blue Dodge Durango parked at the house trailer next door to Gen’s place, and she knew Maddoc towed it behind the Prevost. Consequently, if he was registered under a third name, she’d be able to find him anyway during a tour of the campgrounds.
The problem was that at each facility, she needed to know a registered guest in order to obtain a visitor’s pass. Until Maddoc either checked in under the Banks name or until she learned what other identity he might be using, she wasn’t able to undertake such a search.
She could have rented a site at each campground, which would have allowed her to come and go as she pleased. But she had no tent or other camping gear. While you could sleep in a van and pass as RV royalty, sleeping in a car branded you as hall a step up the social ladder from a homeless person, and you were not welcome.
Besides, her budget was so tight that if she plucked it, the resulting note would be heard only by dogs. If she connected with Maddoc here but was unable to find an opportunity to grab Leilani, she might have to follow them elsewhere. Because she didn’t know where this quest might lead, she needed to conserve every dollar.