The storm was the best security they could have. At least for the next day or so, Grace Spivey would not be able to reach them even if, by some miracle, she learned their whereabouts.
When they finally reached the cabin, they found Joey in a better mood than when they'd left. There was color in his face again. He was energetic and talkative for the first time in a couple of days. He even smiled. The change in him was startling and, for a moment, mysterious, but then it became clear that he took the same comfort from the storm as Christine did. He said, "We'll be okay now, huh, Mom? A witch can't fly a broom in a blizzard, can she, huh?"
"Nope," Christine assured him as she took off the backpack she'd been carrying." All the witches are grounded tonight."
" FWA rules," Charlie said.
Joey looked at him quizzically." What's FWA?"
"Federal Witch Administration," Charlie said, pulling off his boots."
That's the government agency that licenses witches."
"You gotta have a license to be a witch?" the boy asked.
Charlie feigned surprise." Oh, sure, whatd you think-just anybody can be a witch? First, when a girl wants to be a witch, she's got to prove she has a mean streak in her. For instance, your mom would never qualify. Then a would-be witch has got to be ugly because witches are always ugly, and if a pretty lady like your mom wants to be a witch she's got to go have plastic surgery to make herself ugly."
" Wow," Joey said softly, wide-eyed." Really?"
"But that's not the worst of it," Charlie said." The hardest thing if you want to be a witch is finding those tall, pointy black hats."
" It is?"
"Well, just think about it once. You've gone shopping with your mom when she was buying clothes. You ever see any of those tall, pointy black hats in any stores you were ever in?"
The boy frowned, thinking about it.
"No, you haven't," Charlie said as he carribd one of the heavy backpacks into the kitchen." Nobody sells those hats because nobody wants witches coming in their stores all the time. Witches smell like the wings of bats and tails of newts and salamander tongue and all those other weird things they're always cooking in their cauldrons. Nothing will chase off a storekeeper's customers faster than a witch who reeks of boiled pig's snout."
"Yuck," Joey said.
"Exactly," Charlie said.
Christine was so happy and relieved to see Joey acting like a six-year-old again that she had trouble holding back tears. She wanted to put her arms around Charlie, squeeze him tight, and thank him for his strength, for his way with children, for just being the man he was.
Outside, the wind howled and huffed and wailed and whistled.
Night hugged the cabin. Snow dressed it.
In the living room fireplace, the big logs sputtered and crackled.
They worked together to make dinner. Afterwards, they sat on the floor in the living room, where they played Old Maid and Tic-Tac-Toe, and Charlie told knock-knock jokes that Joey found highly amusing.
Christine felt snug. Secure.
In South Lake Tahoe, the snowmobile shop was about to close when Grace Spivey, Barlowe, and the eight others arrived. They had come from just down the street, where they had all purchased ski suits and other insulated winter clothing. They had changed into their new gear and now looked as if they belonged in Tahoe. To the surprise and delight of the owner of Mountain Country Sportmobile-a portly man whose name was Orley Treat and who said his friends called him "Skip"-they purchased four Skidoos and two custom-designed flatbed trailers to haul them.
KyIe Barlowe and a churchman named George Westvec did most of the talking because Westvec knew a lot about snowmobiles, and Barlowe had a knack for getting the best price possible on anything he bought. His great size, forbidding appearance, and air of barely controlled violence gave him an advantage in any bargaining session, of course, but his negotiating skills were not limited to intimidation. He had a first-rate businessman's knack of sensing an adversary's strengths, weaknesses, limits, and intentions. This was something he had learned about himself only after Grace had converted him from a life of self-hatred and sociopathic behavior, and it was a discovery that was as gratifying as it was surprising. He was in Mother Grace's everlasting debt not only because she had saved his soul but because she had provided him the opportunity to discover and explore the talents which, without her, he would never have known were there, within himself.
Orley Treat, who was too beefy to have such a boyish nickname as "Skip," kept trying to figure out who they were. He kept asking questions of Grace and Barlowe and the others, such as whether they belonged to a club of some kind or whether they were all related.
Keeping in mind that the police were still interested in talking to Grace about certain recent events in Orange County, worried that one of the disciples would inadvertently say too much to Treat, Barlowe sent everyone but George Westvec to scout the nearby motels along the main road and find one with sufficient vacancies to accommodate them.
When they paid for the snowmobiles with stacks of cash, Treat gaped at their money in disbelief. Barlowe saw greed in the man's eyes, and figured Treat had already thought of a way to doctor his books and hide this cash from the IRS. Even though his curiosity had an almost physically painful grip on him, Treat stopped prying into their business because he was afraid of queering the deal.
The white Ford vans weren't equipped with trailer hitches, but Treat said he could arrange to have the welding done overnight.
"They'll be ready first thing in the morning. say. ten o'clock."
"Earlier," Grace said." Much earlier than that. We want to haul these up to the north shore come first light."
Treat smiled and pointed to the showroom windows, beyond which winddriven snow was falling heavily in the sodium-glow of the parking lot lights." Weatherman's calling for maybe eighteen inches. Stormfront won't pass until four or five o'clock tomorrow morning, so the road crews won't have the highway open around to the north shore until ten, even eleven o'clock.
No point you folks starting out earlier."
Grace said, "If you can't have the hitches on our trucks and the Skidoos ready to go by four-thirty in the morning, the deal's off."
Barlowe knew she was bluffing because this was the only place they could get the machines they needed. But judging from the tortured expression on Treat's face, he took her threat seriously.
Barlowe said, "Listen, Skip, it's only a couple of hours worth of welding. We're willing to pay extra to have it done tonight."
"But I've got to prep the Skidoos and-"
"Then prep them."
"But I was just closing for the day when you-"
"Stay open a couple more hours," Barlowe said." I know it's inconvenient. I appreciate that. I really do. But, Skip, how often do you sell four snowmobiles and two trailers in one clip?"
Treat sighed." Okay, it'll be ready for pickup at four-thirty in the morning. But you'll never get up to the north shore at that hour."
Grace, George Westvec, and Barlowe went outside, where the others were waiting.
Edna Vanoff stepped forward and said, "We've found a motel with enough spare rooms to take us, Mother Grace. It's just a quarter of a mile up the road here. We can walk it easy."
Grace looked up into the early-night sky, squinting as the snow struck her face and frosted her eyebrows. Long tangled strands of wet frizzy gray hair escaped the edges of her knitted hat, which she had pulled down over her ears." Satan brought this storm. He's trying to delay us. Trying to keep us from reaching the boy until it's too late. But God will get us through."