Part 3 (1/2)

But when I tried to watchThe Searchers and saw Buddy instead, everything changed. My brain knew that he couldn't really be talking and singing from a pressurized, heated radiation-s.h.i.+elded bubble on a satellite of Jupiter; my brain knew that someone had rigged up the fraud and had framed me for it.

My soul, however, could feel that Buddy had come back to life. I had seen him and heard him, and no actor or computer-generated simulacrum could have done what the figure on my Sony had done. He was real. He wasalive.

So I would ride Peggy Sue to Lubbock. I would screw up my courage by going to the statue first, and then, if no one stopped me, I would go to the grave. I would discover for myself, for both brain and soul, whether his body was still there.

I turned on Peggy Sue's lights and dismounted to examine the contents of my wallet in the glare. My credit cards would be worse than useless; buying gas with Visa would be like revealing my position with a flare gun. I would have to rely on whatever cash I happened to have.

I had fifty-eight dollars and twenty-three cents. Based on Peggy Sue's usual fuel consumption, I calculated that I might make it to Lubbock if I didn't eat and if I stole a few bucks from vending machines or video games on the way. I was already a Federal fugitive, so what difference would a misdemeanor or two make?

Before remounting, I looked down at the bike's left exhaust pipe. Ringo had bitten off approximately seven inches, and a canine fang was wedged into a ragged tear in the chrome. I grasped the tooth and tugged, my gloves protecting my hands from the heat, and it came free. Examining it, I discovered that its base was not a b.l.o.o.d.y root, but a bent metal screw.

Veterinary dentistry had made strides of which I hadn't been aware. I was glad that I was miles away from Ringo and about to increase the distance.

I dropped the tooth into a Moonsuit pocket, then straddled Peggy Sue and put her into gear. It was only as I twisted the throttle that I noticed how different she sounded with the shortened, ragged exhaust pipe.

The noise was as loud and raucous as that of a piston-engine airplane.

We headed south across the low-water bridge. If we managed to make it as far as Oklahoma, I'd buy or steal a road map. Until then, I wouldn't worry about getting lost. I knew that my best route would pa.s.s through or near Oklahoma City, and I had been there once before, visiting the Cowboy Hall of Fame on an eighth-grade field trip.

The cloud cover was thick now, and snow began to fall. There was no wind, so the flakes fell straight and gentle before Peggy Sue's light. We pa.s.sed farms where men in coveralls and earflapped caps were herding Holsteins to white buildings for the morning milking. Most of the men waved.

”Oh, boy!” I shouted, strangely joyful.

It felt like Christmas.

SHARON Notes on client Oliver Vale, continued...

2/3/89; 4:22 A.M.: Two Kansas Bureau of Investigation agents and three uniformed state troopers have just left. They were looking for Oliver, but Oliver never arrived. I wasn't able to look for him either, because the agents and troopers showed up just as I was heading out the door.

I don't believe that a broadcasting violation is within the KBI's purview, and I said so. They threatened me with a charge of obstructing justice. Bruce commented that if they tried that he would be forced to recommend that I sue them until they became old and sick. That made them still more abusive, but despite that, I was as cooperative as my professional ethics would allow.

When I explained that I had not seen Oliver in over a week (they didn't ask whether I had telephoned him, so I didn't mention it), they left, muttering about a statewide manhunt.

I can only imagine what would have happened if Oliver/Buddy's initial interruption had occurred during prime time. In all likelihood, the governor would have called out the National Guard.

The KBI agents informed me that other officers were already on their way to Oliver's home. I have no way of knowing whether he left before they arrived, or whether they intercepted him en route here. I've just tried to phone him again, but after three rings his machine took the call. I recorded the answering tape, which I had not heard before: ”h.e.l.lo, this is Oliver Vale. I can't come to the phone right now, but you probably have a wrong number anyway. If not, leave a message at the primal scream, and I'll send you the money I owe you. If you're one of Mother's old Flying Saucer cronies, she doesn't live here anymore. In fact, she doesn't live anywhere, because she's dead, like Jim Morrison. The only difference is that Morrison is supposedly buried in France, and Mother was definitely cremated in Topeka. As stipulated in her will, I scattered her ashes in a field near Clear Lake, Iowa. You can look for her there, if you like, but I've got to tell you, it's just a field.Beeeeep.”

Oliver needs even more help than I had realized.

It is now 4:47 A.M. I intend to stay awake as long as I can in the hope that I will hear some news of him, and so that I can help him if he has been arrested. Bruce, however, went to bed as soon as the KBI agents left. I am angry with him for that, which is interesting, because there is no reason for anger. Oliver is my client, not Bruce's, and the truth is that I am not doing Oliver any good by sitting up by the telephone. So why should I be angry with Bruce for doing the sensible thing?

Anger = Anxiety + Fatigue.

I can hear the son of a b.i.t.c.h snoring.

CATHY AND JEREMY.

They waited in the pale circle cast by Vale's yard light while Ringo bounded up to them with a chunk of chrome pipe in his mouth. He was wagging his bobbed stump of a tail, and the blue sparks in his eyes were bright. ”I was hoping to provoke him,” Cathy said, speaking loudly to be heard over the approaching sirens.

”The fact that he simply fled presents a complication, but we can deal with it.”

Jeremy jerked a thumb toward the end of the driveway, where a blue automobile with flas.h.i.+ng red lights on its roof was entering. ”Cheese it,” he said, turning toward their house. ”The cops.”

Cathy grasped his arm and gave him a look of disgust as three more shrieking, flas.h.i.+ng automobiles crammed into the driveway. ”You still don't know the first thing about how to handle the fleshbound, do you?” she said. Then she put her hands to her head and began screaming. ”Oh, my G.o.d! Oliver Vale messed up our TV and tried to attack us! After that he jumped on his horrible motorcycle and went that way!” She pointed south.

The cars stopped and the sirens' wails droned down. The driver of the first car opened his door and began to step out.

”That way, I tell you!” Cathy screamed.

Jeremy gave her a quizzical look. ”Do we want them after him?” he asked.

Cathy waved her arms and smacked the back of Jeremy's head. Jeremy's right eye popped out and fell to the gravel.

The police officer who was emerging from his car stopped halfway and stared at Ringo, who still had the short length of exhaust pipe clenched in his jaws.

”Uh, I need to ask-” the officer began.

Ringo growled.

”That way!”Cathy shrieked, pointing south again.

The shriek galvanized the officer into action. ”Right!” he shouted, turned to face the other three cars. ”He went south! He's on a motorcycle!”

”Armed and dangerous!” Cathy cried, jumping up and down.

Jeremy got down on his hands and knees and began searching for his eye. ”I really don't think we want these people to-”

Cathy collided with him, knocking him onto his side. ”Well, go!” she told the police officer.

”Don't worry,” the officer said, reentering his cruiser. ”We have a warrant.” He slammed his door shut, and one by one, the four cars backed out onto the pavement and sped away to the south, their sirens wailing again as they accelerated.

”A warrant from whom? I wonder,” Jeremy said, still searching for his eye. ”You'd think that the jurisdictional questions would need to be untangled first.”

”Who cares?” Cathy said. ”No doubt some high-powered judge didn't like having his Portuguese p.o.r.n cut off. All that matters to me is that they're after him.” ”Why?” Jeremy spotted his eye and crawled toward it.

Cathy reached down and plucked the eye from the gravel before Jeremy's fingers could close on it. She tossed the blue-and-white sphere from one hand to the other. ”For six years we've been waiting for Vale to try to contact the pro-flesh agitators so that we could prevent him and maintain the status quo,” she said, ”but in all that time he's done nothing-and until now, they haven't tried to communicate with him either.”

”I guess they got tired of waiting.”

”They aren't the only ones.” Cathy s.h.i.+vered. ”It's going to snow, and I hate snow. Flesh gets cold, and bored. So as long as Vale's running, I want the fleshbound police after him. If they lock him up, our problem's as good as solved, and if they don't, his fear may force him to finally act. If that happens, then either the pro-flesh experiment succeeds or we're able to foil it. But no more limbo.” She slapped her legs with her free hand. ”No more limbs.”

Jeremy stood. ”But if they don't catch him quickly, we'll have to follow him. In the Datsun, for Christ's sake.”