Part 32 (1/2)
”Well. . . it's late,” says Mouse. That doesn't satisfy him, so she stumbles on: ”It's late, and these buses are mostly for commuting back and forth to the city. . .”
”And? So?”
”So. . . most people don't commute this time of night.”
”Oh,” he says. ”Oh, right.” He slaps out a quick percussion riff on his stomach, then asks, with forced casualness: ”What city?”
”Seattle,” says Mouse. Just in case: ”Seattle, Was.h.i.+ngton.”
”Right.” He nods, like he knew it all along. ”How far is that from Michigan?”
”A long way. About two thousand miles.”
His reaction to this news is difficult to interpret. He seems to go blank for a second, and then, just as abruptly, he's nodding, frowning, and drumming his hands again. ”So. . . I guess that's too far to walk, huh?”
”Uh. . . yes,” says Mouse. ”Yes, it would be.”
”A plane ride, though,” he says slyly. ”A plane ride could take you that far. . . right?”
”Sure.”
Frowning: ”But plane rides are expensive.”
”Yes, they are,” says Mouse. ”Why do you want to go to Michigan?”
He pats his back pockets, looks momentarily confused, then nods, reaches into one of his front pockets, and pulls out a wallet. He opens the wallet and takes out a small wad of bills: a few twenties, some tens, and some singles. ”Is this enough for a plane ride to Michigan?”
”No,” says Mouse. ”Even a discount ticket would be more than that.”
”I have this, too,” he tells her, and produces a credit card. ”It was hidden,” he adds proudly, showing her a secret fold in the wallet, ”but I found it.” His pride deflates. ”But I don't know how much credit is on it. . . If I tried to buy a plane ticket and I went over the limit, do you think I'd get in trouble?”
”I don't know,” says Mouse. ”Probably not, if. . . if it's your credit card.”
He doesn't respond to that, just stuffs the money and the credit card back in the wallet.
”You know what, though,” Mouse continues, ”if you need some more cash, I bet I know where you could get some. There's a house, just a few blocks from here, and if you came with me I'm sure the lady who lives there would --”
”I should try to get a taxi, I guess,” he says, putting the wallet away. ”If there are no more buses tonight.”
”I could give you a ride,” Mouse offers.
His brows knit in suspicion again: ”How much?”
”For free. . . and like I was saying, if you need more cash, we can stop at this house. . .”
But he shakes his head. ”I shouldn't make any detours. I really need to get to Michigan as soon as possible.”
”Why?” Mouse asks, for the third time. By this point she's not expecting an answer, but her persistence pays off.
”I have to collect the inheritance, OK?” He sighs impatiently. ”The money I was supposed to get from the stepfather.”
”The stepfather. . . Andrew's stepfather?”
”Of course Andy's stepfather.” He seems amazed by the question. ”What other stepfather would I get money from?”
”So he died?”
In the same tone of voice used to complain about the missing bus schedule: ”He should have. He looked like he was dying. He was on the floor in the living room, and there was blood all over the carpet.
. .” Unhappily: ”But I didn't stick around. I was cold, and I just wanted to get away.” He hugs himself.
”So you don't think I'd get in trouble if I used the credit card?”
”I-I don't know,” says Mouse, struggling to maintain her composure. ”But, but listen, why don't we --”
He steps out over the curb, glancing up and down the street. ”Where would I go to get a taxi?”
”I don't know. I don't know if you can, here.”
”No taxis, either? What kind of place is this?”
”It's a small town,” Mouse says.
There's a pause, and then his head starts bobbing. ”Where I'm going in Michigan is like that too,”
he tells her. ”They don't even have buses there.” He frowns again. ”How far is the airport?”
”Pretty far,” says Mouse. ”Too far to walk. But I could drive you.”
He looks at her: ”No detours?”
”No detours,” Mouse lies. She is thinking: if he needs to ask what part of the country he's in, he probably won't be able to tell that she's driving him back to Mrs. Winslow's before they actually get there. She can drive right up on the lawn if need be, right up to the porch, where Mrs. Winslow, with her psychic powers and her bionic ear, will surely be waiting -- and between her, Mouse, and Dr. Eddington, they should be able to keep Andrew from running away again.
”Free of charge?” he says, still uncertain.
”Sure,” says Mouse. She gestures towards her Buick. ”Come on.”
The offer of a free ride quickly overcomes his suspicions; within moments they are seated in the Centurion. ”Nice car,” he says, checking over the interior.
”Thank you,” says Mouse.
”If you need to get gas,” he adds magnanimously, ”I could probably chip in for that. If it's a long drive to the airport, I mean.”
”OK,” says Mouse. Half a block from the bus stop, she has to stop for a red light. She tries to appear nonchalant as she flicks on her blinker.
The light goes green. Mouse depresses the accelerator and starts to turn right. . . and a third hand grabs the steering wheel, fighting the turn. Mouse has to hit the brakes to keep from plowing into the curb at the far side of the intersection.