Part 34 (1/2)

”Can you give us a hand here?” one of the paramedics called. They had Ca.s.sie on the stretcher and were ready to carry it up the slope.

”Coming,” Mel said, and started toward them.

B.T. took his arm. ”What about the others who are looking for Him? The watchman website?”

”UFO nuts,” Mel said, and went over to the stretcher. ”It doesn't mean anything.”

Ca.s.sie lay under a gray blanket, her head turned to the side, the way it had been when Mel found her.

”Are you all right?” B.T., taking hold of the other side of the stretcher, asked.

”No,” she said, and a tear wobbled down her plump cheek. ”I'm sorry I put you to all this trouble.”

The kid from the carnival took hold of the front of the stretcher. ”Things aren't always as bad as they look,” he said, patting the blanket. ”I saw a guy fall off the top of the Ferris wheel once, and he wasn't even hurt.”

Ca.s.sie shook her head. ”It was a mistake. I shouldn't have come.”

”Don't say that,” B.T. said. ”You got to see Mark Twain's house. And Gene Stratton Porter's.”

She turned her face away. ”What good are they? I'm not even an English teacher anymore.”

Things might not have been as bad as they looked for the guy who fell off the Ferris wheel, but they were even worse than they looked when it came to the snowy slope and getting Ca.s.sie up it. By the time they got her into the ambulance, her face was as gray as the blanket and twisted with pain. The paramedics began hooking her up to a blood-pressure cuff and an IV.

”I'll meet you at the hospital,” Mel said. ”You can call Mrs. Bilderbeck and tell her we're coming.” ”What if the roads are closed?” B.T. said. ”You heard the clerk last night. Clear both directions.” He looked at B.T. ”I thought this was what you wanted, for me to come to my senses, to admit I was crazy.”

B.T. looked unhappy. ”Animals don't always leave tracks,” he said. ”I learned that five years ago banding deer for a Lyme disease project. Sometimes they leave all sorts of sign, other times they're invisible.”

The paramedics were shutting the doors. ”Wait,” he said. ”I'm going with her.”

He clambered up into the back of the ambulance. ”Do you know the only way you can tell for sure the deer are there?”

Mel shook his head.

”By the wolves,” he said.

”Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign. . .”

- ISAIAH 7:14.

It took nearly an hour for the tow truck to get there. Mel waited in his car with the heater running for a while and then got out and went over to stare at Ca.s.sie's Honda.

Wolves, B.T. had said. Predators. ” 'For wheresoever the carca.s.s is,'” he quoted,” 'there will the eagles be gathered together.' MT2428.”

”The Devil can quote Scripture,” he said aloud, and got back into the car.

The crack in the winds.h.i.+eld had split again, splaying out in two new directions from the center. A definite sign.

You've had dozens of signs, he thought. Blizzards, road closures, icy and snow-packed conditions. You just chose to ignore them.”Why, anybody'd have to be Hind not to recognize them,” the radio evangelist had said, and that was what he had been, willfully blind, pretending the yellow arrow, the roads closing behind him, were signs he was going in the right direction, that Ca.s.sie's ”Westward, ho!” was outside confirmation.

”It didn't mean anything,” he said.

It was getting dark by the time the tow truck finally got there, and pitch black by the time they got Ca.s.sie's Honda pulled up the slope.

And that was a sign, too, Mel thought, following the tow truck. Like the fog and the carnival truck jackknifed across the highway and the ”No Vacancy” signs on the motels. All of them flas.h.i.+ng the same message. It was a mistake. Give up. Go home.

The tow truck had gotten far ahead of him. He stepped on the gas, but a very slow pickup pulled in front of him, and an even slower recreation vehicle was blocking the right lane. By the time he got to the gas station, the mechanic was already sliding out from under the Honda and shaking his head.

”Snapped an axle and did in the transmission,” he said, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. ”Cost at least fifteen hundred to fix it, and I doubt if it's worth half that.” He patted the hood sympathetically. ”I'm afraid it's the end of the road.”

The end of the road. All right, all right, Mel thought, I get the message.

”So what do you want to do?” the mechanic asked.

Give up, Mel thought. Come to my senses. Go home. ”It's not my car,” he said. ”I'll have to ask the owner.

She's in the hospital right now.”

”She hurt bad?”

Mel remembered her lying there in the weeds, saying, ”It didn't mean anything.”

”No,” he lied.

”Tell her I can do an estimate on a new axle and a new transmission if she wants,” the mechanic said reluctantly, ”but if I was her I'd take the insurance and start over.”

”I'll tell her,” Mel said. He opened the trunk and took out her suitcase, and then went around to the pa.s.senger side to get her green bag out of the backseat.

There was a bright yellow flyer rolled up and jammed in the door handle. Mel unrolled it. It was a flyer from the carnival. The kid must have stuck it there, Mel thought, smiling in spite of himself.

There was a drawing of a trumpet at the top, with ”Come one, come all!” issuing from the mouth of it.

Underneath that, there was a drawing of the triple Ferris wheel, and scattered in boxes across the page, ”Marvel at the Living Fountains,” ”Ride the Sea Dragon!,” ”Popcorn, Snow Cones, Cotton Candy!,” ”See a Lion and a Lamb in a Single Cage!”

He stared at the flyer.

”Tell her if she wants to sell it for parts,” the mechanic said, ”I can give her four hundred.”

A lion and a lamb. Wheels within wheels. ”For the Lamb shall lead them unto living fountains of waters.”

”What's that you're reading?” the mechanic said, coming around the car.

A midway with stuffed animals for prizes-bears and lions and red dragons-and a ride called the Shooting Star, a hall of mirrors. ”For now we see in a gla.s.s darkly but then we shall see face to face.”

The mechanic peered over his shoulder. ”Oh, an ad for that crazy carnival,” he said. ”Yeah, I got a sign for it in the window.”

A sign. ”For behold, I give you a sign.” And the sign was just what it said, a sign. Like the Siamese twins.

Like the peace sign on the back of the kid's hand. ”For unto us a son is given, and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Prince of Peace.” On the kid's scarred hand.

”If she wants an estimate, tell her it'll take some time,” the mechanic said, but Mel wasn't listening. He was gazing blindly at the flyer. ”Peer into the Bottomless Pit!” it said. ”Ride the Merry-Go-Round!”