Set This House in Order (37 page)

—and then she is back in the body.

It's dawn, the sky brightening to a gray overcast. The Buick is parked in a rest area off the highway, outside an International House of Pancakes. A memorandum tucked into the sun visor above Mouse's head reads:
I-
90
REST STOP,
10
MI. PAST IDAHO BORDER.

Mouse yawns and stretches, rubs her face. She checks the dashboard clock: 5:31. Strange. In one sense, she's been asleep for the last few hours; in another sense, she hasn't slept at all. Her soul is rested—sort of—but her body has been up all night. This is not a new experience for her, but it's the first time it's happened that she's fully understood it, and the understanding leaves her feeling disjointed, punch-drunk.

Or maybe she's just drunk. She sniffs. Her breath, her clothes, her car, all reek of vodka and cigarettes. The pack of Winstons Maledicta bought in Autumn Creek lies crumpled on the dash, empty. The Popov bottle, on the floor beneath her feet, is empty too, but on closer inspection most of its contents appear to have been spilled, not consumed—the floor mat is soaked.

Mouse pulls down the memorandum from the sun visor and reads the whole message:
I-
90
REST STOP,
10
MI. PAST IDAHO BORDER.
4
-4-CAR PILEUP ON ROAD = SHIT TRAFFIC LAST HOUR, SHOUDVE LET YOU FUCKING DRIVE AFTER ALL. TRUCK DROPPED AND WHO OFF HERE & LEFT WITHOUT HIM SO YOUR UP DONT FUCK UP..

Mouse is grimly amused by Maledicta's gripe about the traffic—
serves her right,
she thinks,
for stinking up my car.
And Andrew…Andrew is on foot again, it seems. But where exactly is he? The memorandum doesn't say.

“Where's Andrew?” Mouse asks, aloud. “Did he go into the IHOP?”

No answer. Maledicta and Malefica must be back in the cavern, sleeping off the drive; and whatever other Society members are awake either don't know or aren't talking.

Mouse gathers the empty cigarette pack and the Ding Dong wrappers, and picks up the vodka bottle, holding it by the neck between two fingers. She gets out of the car. The air outside is bracing, but she doesn't mind; after disposing of the trash, she just stands there for a while, leaning into the wind with her arms outstretched, letting the cold deodorize her. It's not especially effective; what she really needs is a hot shower and a change of clothes. A good tooth-brushing wouldn't hurt, either. But first things first.

She goes over to the IHOP and peers in one of the windows. Sure enough, Andrew is inside: he's got a big table all to himself, and is skimming a newspaper as he works his way through two separate stacks of pancakes—one swimming in butter and syrup, one dry.

There's a pay phone right outside the restaurant. Mouse doesn't have enough change for a long-distance call, so she dials Dr. Eddington's number collect. She gets his answering machine, and the operator won't let her leave a message. Next she tries Mrs. Winslow's number; her phone is busy. Mouse hangs up. Now what? She could dial 911, but she's not sure the police would believe her story, particularly in her current condition; they might decide to lock her up for drunk driving and send Andrew on his way. She also doesn't want to get Andrew in trouble: what if the police question him, and he starts talking about his stepfather?

Still trying to come up with a plan, Mouse returns to the window. Inside, Andrew has finished one stack of pancakes and pushed the other aside. He sips coffee and reads his newspaper. Now he sets the coffee cup down, picks up a teaspoon, and begins beating on the tabletop with it.

No, not beating—he's
drumming
on it, tapping out a rhythm…

“Hi,” Mouse says, as she slips into an empty chair at Andrew's table.

“Hello,” he says, looking curious but not all that surprised to see her. “What are you doing here?”

A high-pitched, quick-tempoed voice…Mouse guessed correctly: this is the person she met at the bus stop last night, the one who accepted her offer of a ride. Now if she can just finesse this next part without bringing out that
other
guy…

“Just passing through,” Mouse says simply, in answer to his question, and he nods, like it's no big coincidence that she'd just happen to drive three hundred miles and show up at the same rest stop he's at. “But what about you? I thought you were going to fly to Michigan last night.”

“Oh,” he says, missing a beat. “Oh, it, uh, turned out I couldn't get a flight.”

“Oh,” says Mouse. “Well that's too bad.”

“Yeah…after you, after you dropped me off at the airport, I, there must not have been, there were no flights available.” He gets lost for a moment, then continues: “It's OK, though, I got a ride on a truck.”

“Oh.” Mouse makes a point of looking around. “Is the driver—”

“Well actually, it's not
totally
OK,” he interrupts her. “The way I understand it, the truck was
supposed
to take me all the way to Chicago—that's near Michigan, right?—but then the truck driver and I had a, I guess you'd call it a personality conflict, and he made me get off here. Which is not a very responsible thing to do, going back on a promise you made, even if you decide you don't
like
a person…So do you think it'll be hard for me to get another ride?”

Mouse hesitates, trying to gauge how much subtlety is required here. Probably not much. “I could give you a ride,” she says.

“Yeah?” He hesitates too, and Mouse can tell he's debating whether to ask if this ride will cost money.

“No charge,” Mouse says, sparing him the question. “I feel bad that your plane ride didn't work out.”

“Oh, well…that's not your fault, I'm sure. So you're driving to Michigan now?”

Mouse nods. “I'm hoping to see a friend there.”

“Well, OK then…let's go!” Ready to leave that instant, he starts to get up from the table, notices that Mouse isn't doing the same, and pauses, confused. “Oh,” he says, after a moment's thought, “are you…did you want to eat something first?” He gestures at his leftover pancake stack. “The waitress brought me two orders by mistake. So if you'd like…”

“No thank you,” says Mouse. The cigarettes Maledicta smoked have temporarily suppressed her appetite, and when it comes back she's afraid she's going to be sick to her stomach, so eating someone else's leftovers is probably not a good idea. “But there is one thing,” she says. “I know you don't want to make any detours, but I am going to have to stop and rest for a few hours.”

“What?”

“I've been driving all night. I need sleep, or at least a nap. Not right away—I could go another hour yet, probably—but then I'm going to need to stop at a motel for a while.”

He frowns. “A motel?”

Mouse nods, thinking:
Someplace off the Interstate, where you'll be stranded while I call Dr. Eddington.

“And how long would you want to stop?”

“Not long,” Mouse promises. “A few hours.”

“A few hours…well…”

“I understand you don't want to delay, but I'd be worried that if you stay here, you might not get a ride at all…at least, not a
free
ride…”

It doesn't take much of this to persuade him. Once he's agreed, Mouse asks: “By the way, what's your name?”

“Xavier,” he tells her. “Xavier Reyes.”

“Hello, Xavier, I'm Penny.” Mouse shakes his hand, then adds: “Now you just wait here a second while I go use the bathroom, OK? I'll be right back.”

Mouse intends to freshen up quickly and then duck outside to the pay phone to try Mrs. Winslow's number again, but when she comes out of the bathroom, Xavier is waiting by the door for her. He jerks his head impatiently, indicating that they should go, and Mouse has little choice but to follow him.

Outside, he walks straight to her car without bothering to ask where she's parked—and instead of standing aside and waiting for her to unlock the doors, he steps up to the driver's side and holds out his hand for the keys. “I think I'll drive for a while,” he says. “Since you're so tired.”

“You'll—”

“…Mouse,”
he adds, grinning savagely.

Him.
Mouse draws back fearfully and very nearly disappears; only the alltoo-recent memory of being trapped in the cave mouth stops her from giving up control. Instead she gathers herself to run away physically. But he doesn't pounce, or try to grab her; in fact he makes no threatening overtures at all, except for that nasty grin.

“Now you listen,” he says. “I'm not stealing your car, all right? If you want to tag along with me, that's fine—but I'm
not
going back to Autumn Creek, and I'm not going to tap my toes at some motel while you call for the men in the white coats.”

“Who are you?” Mouse asks.

He ignores the question, and gestures impatiently with his outstretched hand. “Give me the keys.”

She shakes her head.

“Fine,” he says, and shrugs. “I'll just get another ride, then. Feel free to follow me if you think you can stay awake…” He starts to walk away.

“Wait!”

He turns back.

“I don't,” Mouse stammers, “I don't trust you.”

“I don't trust you either,” he says, “and I've got better cause not to. But I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're afraid of—not unless you try to hurt me first.” He holds out his hand again. “Keys.”

Mouse takes her keys out of her pocket but doesn't hand them over. “You…you're sure you can drive?”

“I might be out of practice,” he allows, “but I won't fall asleep at the wheel.”

“What about your head? You were awfully drunk last night…”

“That wasn't me.”

“It was your body.”

“Yours too, by the smell of things.” He shrugs. “Maybe I am a little hung over this morning—I'm tough, I can cope with that. It's not
my
hangover. And I did get some sleep in that truck, once I got the driver to shut the hell up…” Losing patience again: “So are we doing this, or not?”

Still full of misgivings, but with no idea of what else to do, Mouse gives him the keys. As he snatches them out of her hand, the panic comes welling up again: she's a fool, he's tricked her, he
is
going to steal the car, just drive off and leave her here…

He reads the fear in her eyes, and laughs. “I
could
leave you behind,” he says, “but I won't. I'm going to need you to drive when I get tired.” He unlocks the Centurion's back door for her, and opens it. “Go on, lie down—I'll wake you when it's your turn.”

She gets in, but she doesn't lie down. Though no less tired than she was five minutes ago, she can't imagine sleeping now. Instead she sits up straight, her hands worrying at the Buick's rear seatbelts, which are tangled and frayed and have never buckled properly anyway.

“God,” he says, sliding in behind the wheel, “what a stench!” He looks over his shoulder at her. “Not your fault, I suppose.”

“I,” Mouse begins, and then gives up. He doesn't really care whose fault it is that the car smells; he's just taunting her.

Moving slowly, like a pilot at the controls of an unfamiliar plane, he gets the Buick's engine started, then spends a long moment studying the dashboard gauges and indicators, the blinker switches, and the gearshift. Mouse expects him to be reckless behind the wheel, like Maledicta, but just the opposite is true—when he finally releases the parking brake and gets moving, he turns out to be even more cautious a driver than Mouse herself. On the way out of the rest stop, he yields to every vehicle that crosses his path, and at the top of the highway on-ramp hesitates so long before merging, waiting for the perfect gap in traffic, that other cars and trucks stacked up
behind him start to honk. Once on the Interstate, he keeps to the right-hand lane and holds the speedometer at fifty, twenty-five miles per hour below the posted speed limit.

“So,” says Mouse, thinking to make small talk, maybe learn his name and something about him, but he cuts her off.

“Don't distract me while I'm driving,” he says.

“Sorry,” Mouse apologizes. Chagrined, she slides down in her seat a little—

—and the car is stopped again, and she's being shaken awake. When Mouse opens her eyes and sees him leaning over her, a hand on her leg, she lets out a sharp squeak, and he starts, thumping his head hard against the roof of the car.

“OW!” he roars, stumbling backwards out of the Centurion, hand pressed to the back of his skull. “Damn it, you stupid bitch!…I wasn't trying to hurt you, it's just your turn to drive…”

Mouse sits up. They're parked at another rest stop. It's smaller than the last one, set in a broad green valley among snow-capped mountains, the Rockies most likely. Mouse checks the dashboard clock: 11:25. “Where are we?”

“Montana,” he tells her, wincing. “Past Missoula, coming up on Butte. I just got us gas…Ow!”

“Sorry,” says Mouse, though she isn't, really. She gently fingers the back of her own neck; she's mostly recovered from her run-in with the tree, but there's still some residual tenderness, and she's going to have to watch that it doesn't flare up again. For now, though, she feels OK.

She's also starving. She climbs out of the car, and looks around to see what the rest stop has to offer in the way of food.

“I've got you covered,” he says.

“What?”

“You're hungry, right?” He points to a white paper sack on the roof of the car. “I got you a hamburger and fries. There's a Pepsi in there, too.”

“Oh…thank you.” Of course he's not really being considerate; he just doesn't want to have to worry about her sneaking off to use the phone. Mouse thinks about going into a restaurant anyway, just to defy him—now that she's seen him bump his head, he's not so scary anymore. But scary or not, he's still got the car keys, and if he gets mad he might drive off without her.