Sissy looked at Rosie, started to reply, then turned and smiled at Yong. “Rosie’s probably right. False prophets and all. I wouldn’t put too much stock in it. Like I said, it’s just something to have fun with.” Sissy seemed embarrassed.
“It’s simply a playful diversion,” Sam said. “It’s like astrology. No science to it.”
“Well, I’m not too worried,” Yong said. “We all got to die sometime, right?” He looked in Cutbirth’s direction, and in a voice that sounded much too casual said, “If the razor wire doesn’t get me then the .50-caliber machineguns will, right?”
“Or a landmine,” Cutbirth said, his eyes on the road ahead. “Don’t forget about the landmines.”
Sissy said, “But death in Tarot can mean many things, Yong. It can be a good thing. It can mean a transformation to a higher state of being.”
“Aren’t Tarot cards illegal?” Rosie asked, setting her Bible aside and locking eyes with Sissy.
Sissy nodded. “They are these days, but my mother gave them to me when I was about Emily’s age. I’m not breaking any law. Besides, in another couple of days it won’t make any difference.” She turned toward Cutbirth. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Cutbirth? A couple more days?”
“Anything’s possible,” Cutbirth said.
Yong looked at Sissy and said, “Have you ever had the Death card appear before?”
“Oh, sure, lots of times,” Sissy said in an offhanded manner.
“The people…are they…?”
Sissy grinned. “Yeah, they’re still alive.”
“Good to know.”
***
Many of the smaller California communities along Interstate 40 were ghost towns these days, blown away by the heat and the dust, and the changing dynamics of a global economy. The towns had been replaced by roadside parks, and every hour or so, Cutbirth would pull into one such rest area and a few of his party would get out and stretch their legs. Cutbirth did not permit smoking in the motor home, and Henry used the breaks to light up. The blistering desert heat was unbearable and no one remained outside the coach for long.
It was no surprise to Diego that the electric-powered, six-wheeled Goliath followed them into each rest stop, sticking to the Winnebago like gum to a shoe. If the bounty hunters’ presence was intended to keep the rabbits in a state of confusion, well, as far as Diego was concerned, it was working. He found himself constantly monitoring the pickup’s presence.
Everyone had re-boarded the motor home at the Ludlow rest stop when Cutbirth came back to where Diego, Adriana, and Sissy were seated at the galley table. Emily was in the master bedroom napping.
Standing over Sissy and shaking one eel-shaped finger at her, he said, “Your kid has the mistaken impression that we’re on some sort of goddamned field trip. I have no idea where she might have gotten such a screwball idea, but I’d advise you to tell her that we are not headed to Disneyland, Six Flags or the Emerald City, and that some dangerous, hair-raising days lie ahead.”
“I have no intention of telling my daughter anything of the kind,” Sissy said. “I don’t want to scare her.”
Cutbirth continued to shake his finger at her. “Listen, we’re not stopping at the Grand Canyon or Meteor Crater or any other sightseeing venue. We’re going to cross the 38th latitude and I can guaran-fucking-tee you that—”
Adriana interrupted. “You don’t have to curse to get your point across, Mr. Cutbirth.”
“Adriana’s right,” Diego said.
Cutbirth looked at Diego, then at Adriana, as if he were looking at them for the first time. He finally brought his gaze back to Sissy again. “I can guarantee you that some very tense, bloodcurdling moments are ahead. Your daughter should be prepared for said tense, bloodcurdling moments or she’ll freak out, and if she freaks out, that will put everyone at risk. Hysteria from a ten-year-old kid will not serve us well.”
“I’ll handle it,” Sissy said tersely.
Cutbirth make a snorting noise through his nose and returned to his cab seat.
***
Cutbirth was pulling away from the rest area five minutes later when he slammed on the brakes and came to an abrupt stop on the highway’s shoulder.
In a loud voice, he said, “What was that I heard?” He set the emergency brake, climbed out of his cab seat and faced everyone, his eyes piercing. He raised his head and sniffed the air. “And what’s that I smell?”
“What does it smell like?” Yong asked from the large sofa.
Cutbirth said, “It smells like a—”
“—like a puppy?” Sam said. He was sitting beside Yong, his backpack at his feet.
“Yeah, like a puppy!”
“It is a puppy,” Sam said, opening his backpack and removing a mixed-breed male pup. “Someone abandoned him. He wouldn’t have lasted an hour in the heat. I couldn’t just let him die.” Sam cradled the pup in his arms. The pup was trying to get at Sam’s face with his tongue.
Cutbirth said, “And just what do you plan on doing with this half-breed mongrel? If you think you’re taking that mangy mutt across the border, your trolley is off its tracks.” Cutbirth closed his eyes, massaged his temples with his fingers, and speaking to no one in particular, he said in low voice, “I can see that this is going to be a very long trip.”
Sam said, “The first thing I’d like to do is give him some water. I’m sure he must be very thirsty.” Supporting the pup with one arm, Sam went into the galley and filled a small bowl with water. He set the bowl and the pup on the floor. The brown and white runt began immediately to lap the water, his tail wagging joyfully. Sam looked up, his straight white teeth framed by a wide smile. “I knew he was thirsty.”
“Water’s expensive,” Cutbirth complained.
“Lighten up,” Diego said.
“He’s also probably hungry,” Henry observed. “Look at his ribs.” The skin over the pup’s ribcage was stretched rubber-band tight.
Emily had awakened from her nap and poked her head out of the bedroom. Seeing the pup, she gave a squeal and hurried down the hall. She lifted the pup and gave him a welcoming hug. He whimpered and licked her face.
“But I don’t have a clue what you’ll feed him,” Cutbirth said. “No meat here. Why not take him back where you found him and maybe someone with the proper food will—”
“I’m not dumping him, Mr. Cutbirth,” Sam said.
“I used to have a puppy,” Emily said. “We fed him hamburgers from McDonald’s.”
“It’s true,” Sissy said with an embarrassed grin. “That’s all he would eat.”
“He got run over by a truck when I was seven,” Emily said. “His name was Rags because he chewed everything into rags.” She set the pup down beside the bowl of water, and then snatched up her camera from the galley table, crouched for the best angle, and snapped a picture as he lapped the water.
“Then we’ll call him Rags Junior,” Sam said.
“I like that.” Emily’s whole face shined.
“Rags Junior,” Cutbirth mocked in a quiet, frustrated voice.
“I have something he might like,” Henry said, rifling through his backpack. He found a package of beef jerky. He opened the package and set a piece on the floor. “Come on, Rags,” he encouraged, clapping his hands.
The pup had satisfied his thirst, and he bounced across the floor and attacked the beef jerky in earnest, devouring it in several seconds. The dog looked up at Henry and whined.
Henry grinned broadly and stroked the pup’s head. “Good puppy.” He gave the dog a second piece of jerky. It went faster than the first piece, and within minutes Rags Junior had eaten the entire package.
When the pup whined for more, Henry said in a gentle voice, “Sorry, Rags, all gone.” Losing interest, the pup headed back toward Emily. Henry bent down and grabbed him by the hind quarters with both hands. “Stay!”
10
As the soft colors of twilight washed over the desert landscape, the Winnebago made a mandatory stop at Arizona�
�s Port of Entry. Interstate monitoring stations flourished in each of the 25 provinces making up the Republic of País Nuevo, and highway travelers had become accustomed to the brief interruptions. Minutes earlier the motor home had stopped at the Needles, California McDonald’s and Rags Junior had wolfed down two Quarter-Pounders in several hurried bites, buns and all.
“Everyone just keep their cool,” Cutbirth said as the Winnebago approached the entrance to the eastbound inspection terminal. “Show your photo IDs, your Travel Passes, and don’t speak unless spoken to.” He glanced at them in his dashboard mirror. “If the officer asks, say we’re going on a camping trip, which we are.”
Diego and Adriana looked at one another, the telepathy that had united them years ago speaking: We’re one Travel Pass short. He could see the worry in her eyes. But there was something else. “How you doing?”
“I may have to add a second Z patch,” Adriana said, her eyes glazed with pain.
Diego did some quick math. Adriana was on her fourth Z patch, but the drug was already losing it potency. If she added a second one today, that would leave her five. The vivid image of Adriana’s cancer cells eating away at the base of her tongue appeared in Diego’s head and he felt like screaming. “Then do it,” he told his wife.
“I will…later.” Adriana closed her eyes and rolled her head. “Neck’s stiff again.”
The eastbound Arizona Port of Entry was a six-lane affair consisting of small, glass-enclosed gatehouses, each with its own crossing gate. A small stucco building sat at the edge of a dirt parking lot a hundred feet or so to the south of the gatehouses. Half a dozen cars were parked in the dusty lot. Cutbirth drove into the far right lane—the Toyota pickup entered the far left lane—and the Winnebago rolled to a stop at a crossing gate. A flashing sign attached to the gate read:
ALL VEHICLES MUST STOP – PREPARE TO BE INSPECTED
A six-lane westbound California Port of Entry depot was situated on the opposite side of the interstate highway.
From the Winnebago’s galley table, Diego said, “Cutbirth, remember, Adriana doesn’t have a Travel—”
“So all of a sudden you want a favor?” Cutbirth asked, turning in his seat. “This from a man who earlier said ‘Screw you and your policy!’”
“I said it and I meant it,” Diego said. “We had a bargain and you—”
“Yeah, remember what I said, Ad Man. No guarantees.”
Adriana reached across the table and grabbed Diego’s hand. Her hand was cold as winter ice.
Diego said, “I have a good feeling, Adriana.” It was a lie, of course. He did not have a good feeling. He had a terrible feeling. Adriana had no Travel Pass and there was the business about the death of judge’s son in Phoenix. Had the Phoenix cops finally run a DNA test? Stupid question. Of course, they had run a DNA test, and since everyone’s DNA was on file in this brave new world, the Phoenix cops had by now linked Diego to the death. It had taken three months—there was a backlog of cases at every National Police department in País Nuevo—but now they were ready to release the hounds. There was a hearing set for Friday the 13th, but he wouldn’t be there. He hoped. Maybe the Homicide Division in San Francisco didn’t communicate with the Port of Entry authorities. Maybe the right hand didn’t know what the left hand was doing.
Diego wiped the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand.
Relax.
“I’m trying,” he muttered.
Cutbirth opened the door, and an officer with the National Police emerged from the small gatehouse and approached the Winnebago. In his fifties, the man was short and stocky with a bulbous nose. He was dressed in a black uniform, black boots, and a black beret. He reminded Diego of the World War II Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini. And he didn’t walk. He strutted. Just like the Mussolini pictured in those old black and white newsreels. An insignia the size of Texas adorned the front of his shirt: Raul Perez – País Nuevo Department of Immigration. Diego’s bowels cramped and for a split second he was certain a trip to the bathroom was in his future. But the painful spasm passed.
The Immigration official climbed the steps and entered the motor home. “Good evening!” Raul Perez told Cutbirth in a pleasant voice.
“Yes, it is,” Cutbirth said. “A very good evening.”
Raul stood on the top step, his eyes sweeping suspiciously over the Winnebago’s occupants. He said, “What’s happening, folks?” He presented a wide smile. Two of his upper front teeth were gold.
“Not too much, officer,” Henry said, one hand firmly attached to his orange backpack, the other cradling the pup, which was struggling to break free from Henry’s grip.
Raul looked at Cutbirth. “What’s this thing you’re driving?” He scanned the interior of the old motor home as if he was looking for something he had lost.
“A 1999 Winnebago.” Cutbirth smiled.
Raul looked surprised. “What does it run on?”
“Synthetic diesel.”
“Uh-huh, and where do you find such diesel these days?”
“The Laiwu farms.”
That seemed to satisfy Raul, and he said, “Papers.”
“Right here, officer.” Cutbirth leaned forward and removed several documents from a shelf beneath the dash. Included in the papers were Cutbirth’s photo ID, Travel Pass, and all the necessary vehicle travel documents, including insurance records, the VIN number, his chauffer’s license, and the ownership title.
Raul Perez scrutinized the documents carefully, and then looked at Cutbirth with a predatory glare. “Purpose of your trip?”
“A five-day camping and canoeing trip,” Cutbirth said from behind his sunglasses, his voice brimming with hospitality. “You may have noticed the canoes on top.”
“I’ve seen you before,” Raul said. “You and this relic you’re driving.”
Arnold Cutbirth laughed confidently. “Nobody forgets a face like mine. It is a burden I have carried all my life, officer. And who could forget such an antique as this. I was through here several months ago. I’ve made this trip many times over the past three years.”
“The sun has set, my friend,” Raul said with an eerie calmness. “You can remove your sunglasses.”
“Of course.” Cutbirth pushed the side-shield glasses up onto his head.
“Another camping trip, eh? Business must be good.” Raul turned his head and snatched another glimpse of the passengers.
“Yes, officer, another camping trip. And to answer your question, business has never been better.”
Quit talking and get to it! Diego inwardly shrieked.
“And where’d you say you were headed?” Raul looked leery.
“I didn’t say, officer.”
“Well, where is it, smart guy?” Raul said, his disposition souring.
“To a campground in Missouri.”
Missouri? Diego thought. Christ, that’s another thousand miles. Maybe more.
Raul said, “Why would you go all the way to Missouri for a five-day camping trip?” His eyes were filled with the distrust of someone who had heard his share of bullshit over the years.
“Ever been to Missouri in the summer, officer?”
“No, nor in any other season.”
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