Joe wasn't so far ahead after all. They came upon him sitting on the back bumper of a blue Ford parked in a driveway. He was looking at a girlie magazine he had found somewhere, and Larry observed uncomfortably that the boy had an erection. He shot a glance at Nadine, but she was looking elsewhere-perhaps on purpose.
When they reached the driveway Larry asked, "Coming?"
Joe put the magazine aside and instead of standing up made a guttural interrogative sound and pointed up in the air. Larry glanced up wildly, for a moment thinking the boy had seen an airplane. Then Nadine cried: "Not the sky, the barn!" Her voice was close and tight with excitement. "On the barn! Thank God for you, Joe! We never would have seen it!"
She went to Joe, put her arms around him, and hugged him. Larry turned to the barn, where white letters stood out clearly on the faded shingle roof:
HAVE GONE TO STOVINGTON, VT. PLAGUE CENTER.
Below that were a series of road directions. And at the bottom:
LEAVING OGUNQUIT JULY 2, 1990.
HAROLD EMERY LAUDER.
FRANCES GOLDSMITH.
"Jesus Christ, his ass must have been out to the wind when he put that last line on," Larry said.
"The plague center!" Nadine said, ignoring him. "Why didn't I think of it? I read an article about it in the Sunday supplement magazine not three months ago! They've gone there!"
"If they're still alive."
"Still alive? Of course they are. The plague was over over by July second. And if they could climb up on that barn roof, they surely weren't feeling sick." by July second. And if they could climb up on that barn roof, they surely weren't feeling sick."
"One of them was surely feeling pretty frisky," Larry agreed, feeling a half-reluctant excitement building in his own stomach. "And to think I came right across Vermont."
"Stovington is north of Highway 9 by quite a ways," Nadine said absently, still looking up at the barn. "Still, they must be there by now. July second was two weeks ago today." Her eyes were alight. "Do you think there might be others at that plague center, Larry? There might be, don't you think? Since they know all about quarantines and sterile clothing? They would have been working on a cure, wouldn't they?"
"I don't know," Larry said cautiously.
"Of course they would," she said impatiently and a trifle wildly. Larry had never seen her so excited, not even when Joe performed his amazing feat of mimicry on the guitar. "I'll bet Harold and Frances have found dozens dozens of people, maybe of people, maybe hundreds. hundreds. We'll go right away. The quickest route-" We'll go right away. The quickest route-"
"Wait a minute," Larry said, taking her by the shoulder.
"What do you mean, wait? Do you realize-"
"I realize that sign's waited two weeks for us to come by, and this can wait a little longer. In the meantime, let's have some lunch. And ole Joe the Guitar-Picking Fool is falling asleep on his feet."
She glanced around. Joe was looking at the girlie magazine again, but he had started to nod and blink over it in a glassy way. There were circles under his eyes.
"You said he just got over an infection," Larry said. "And you've done a lot of hard traveling, too ... not to mention Stalking the Blue-Eyed Guitar-Player."
"You're right ... I never thought."
"All he needs is a good meal and a good nap."
"Of course. Joe, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."
Joe made a sleepy and mostly disinterested grunt.
Larry felt a lump of residual fear rise up in him at what he had to say next, but it ought to be said. If he didn't, Nadine would as soon as she had a chance to think ... and besides, it was time, maybe, to find out if he had changed as much as he thought.
"Nadine, can you drive?"
"Drive? Do you mean do I have a license? Yes, but a car really isn't that practical with all the stalls in the road, is it? I mean-"
"I wasn't thinking about a car," he said, and the image of Rita riding pillion behind the mysterious black man (his mind's symbolic representation of death, he supposed) suddenly rose up behind his eyes, the two of them dark and pale, bearing down on him astride a monstrous Harley hog like weird horsemen of the apocalypse. The thought dried out the moisture in his mouth and made his temples pound, but when he went on, his voice was steady. If there was a break in it, Nadine did not seem to notice. Oddly, it was Joe who looked up at him out of his half-doze, seeming to notice some change.
"I was thinking about motorbikes of some kind. We could make better time with less effort and walk them around any ... well, any messes in the road. Like we walked our bikes around those town trucks back there."
Dawning excitement in her eyes. "Yes, we could do that. I've never driven one, but you could show me what to do, couldn't you?"
At the words I've never driven one, I've never driven one, Larry's dread intensified. "Yes," he said. "But most of what I'd teach you would be to drive slowly until you get the hang of it. Larry's dread intensified. "Yes," he said. "But most of what I'd teach you would be to drive slowly until you get the hang of it. Very Very slowly. A motorcycle-even a little motorbike-doesn't forgive human error, and I can't take you to a doctor if you get wrecked up on the highway." slowly. A motorcycle-even a little motorbike-doesn't forgive human error, and I can't take you to a doctor if you get wrecked up on the highway."
"Then that's what we'll do. We'll ... Larry, were you riding a cycle before we came across you? You must have been, to make it up here from New York City so quickly."
"I ditched it," he said steadily. "I got nervous about riding alone."
"Well, you won't be alone anymore," Nadine said, almost gaily. She whirled to Joe. "We're going to Vermont, Joe! We're going to see some other people! Isn't it nice? Isn't it just great?" great?"
Joe yawned.
Nadine said she was too excited to sleep but she would lie down with Joe until he was under. Larry rode into Ogunquit to look for a motorcycle dealership. There was none, but he thought that he had seen a cycle shop on their way out of Wells. He went back to tell Nadine and found them both asleep in the shade of the blue Ford where Joe had been perusing Gallery. Gallery.
He lay down a little way from them but couldn't sleep. At last he crossed the highway and made his way through the knee-high timothy grass to the barn where the sign was painted. Thousands of grasshoppers jumped wildly to get out of his way as he walked toward them, and Larry thought: I'm their plague. I'm their dark man. I'm their plague. I'm their dark man.
Near the barn's wide double doors he spotted two empty Pepsi cans and a crust of sandwich. In more normal times the gulls would have had the remains of sandwich long ago, but times had changed and the gulls were no doubt used to richer food. He toed the crust, then one of the cans.
Get these right down to the crime lab, Sergeant Briggs. I think our killer has finally made a mistake.
Right-o, Inspector Underwood. The day Scotland Yard decided to send you was a lucky day for Squinchly-on-the-Green.
Don't mention it, Sergeant. All part of the job.
Larry went inside-it was dark, hot, and alive with the softly whirring wings of the barnswallows. The smell of hay was sweet. There were no animals in the stalls; the owner must have let them out to live or die with the superflu rather than face certain starvation.
Mark that down for the coroner's inquest, Sergeant.
I will indeed, Inspector Underwood.
He glanced down at the floor and saw a candy wrapper. He picked it up. A chocolate Payday candy bar had once been stowed inside it. The signpainter had had guts, maybe. Good taste, no. Anyone with a taste for chocolate Paydays had been spending too much time in the hot sun.
Steps leading to the loft were nailed to one of the loft's supporting beams. Greasy with sweat already, not even knowing why he was here, Larry climbed up. In the center of the loft (he was walking slowly and keeping an eye out for rats), a more conventional flight of stairs went up to the cupola, and these stairs were splattered with drips of white paint.
We've stumbled on another find, I believe, Sergeant.
Inspector, I stand amazed-your deductive acumen is exceeded only by your good looks and the extraordinary length of your reproductive organ.
Don't mention it, Sergeant.
He went up to the cupola. It was even hotter up here, explosively so, and Larry reflected that if Frances and Harold had left their paint up here when the job was done, the barn would have burned merrily to the ground a week ago. The windows were dusty and festooned with decaying cobwebs which had no doubt been freshly spun when Gerald Ford was President. One of these windows had been forced up, and when Larry leaned out, he had a breathtaking view of the country for miles around.
This side of the barn faced east, and he was high enough for the roadside concessions, which seemed so monstrously ugly when seen at ground level, to look as inconsequential as a little strewing of roadside litter. Beyond the highway, magnificent, was the ocean, with the incoming waves neatly broken in two by the breakwater stretching out from the northern side of the harbor. The land was an oil painting depicting high summer, all green and gold, wrapped in a still haze of afternoon. He could smell salt and brine. And looking down along the slope of the roof, he could read Harold's sign, upside down.
Just the thought of crawling around on that roof, so high above the ground, made Larry's guts feel dauncy. And he really must have hung his legs right over the raingutter to get the girl's name on.
Why did he go to the trouble, Sergeant? That, I think, is one of the questions to which we must address ourselves.
If you say so, Inspector Underwood.
He went back down the stairs, going slowly and watching his footing. This was no time for a broken leg. At the bottom, something else caught his eye, something carved into one of the support beams, startlingly white and fresh and in direct contrast to all the rest of the barn's old dusty darkness. He went over to the beam and peered at the carving, then ran the ball of his thumb over it, part in amusement, part in wonder that another human being had done it on the day he and Rita had been trekking north. He ran his nail along the carved letters again.
In a heart. With an arrow.
I believe, Sergeant, that the bloke must have been in love.
"Good for you, Harold," Larry said, and left the barn.
The cycle shop in Wells was a Honda dealership, and from the way the showroom bikes were lined up, Larry deduced that two of them were missing. He was more proud of a second find-a crumpled candy wrapper near one of the wastebaskets. A chocolate Payday. It looked as if someone-lovesick Harold Lauder probably-had finished his candy bar while deciding which bikes he and his inamorata would be happiest with. He had balled up his wrapper and shot it at the wastebasket. And missed.
Nadine thought his deductions were good, but she was not as fetched by them as Larry was. She was eyeing the remaining bikes, in a fever to be off. Joe sat on the showroom's front step, playing the Gibson twelve-string and hooting contentedly.
"Listen," Larry said, "it's five o'clock now, Nadine. There's absolutely no way to get going until tomorrow."
"But there's three hours of daylight left! We can't just sit around! We might miss them!"
"If we miss them, that's that," he said. "Harold Lauder left instructions once, right down to the roads they were going to take. If they move on, he'll probably do it again."
"But-"
"I know you're anxious," he said, and put his hands on her shoulders. He could feel the old impatience building up and forced himself to control it. "But you've never been on a motorcycle before."
"I can ride a bike, though. And I know how to use a clutch, I told you that. Please, Please, Larry. If we don't waste time we can camp in New Hampshire tonight and be halfway there by tomorrow night. We-" Larry. If we don't waste time we can camp in New Hampshire tonight and be halfway there by tomorrow night. We-"
"It's not like like a bike, goddammit!" he burst out, and the guitar came to a jangling stop behind him. He could see Joe looking back at them over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed and instantly distrustful. Gee, I sure do have a way with people, Larry thought. That made him even angrier. a bike, goddammit!" he burst out, and the guitar came to a jangling stop behind him. He could see Joe looking back at them over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed and instantly distrustful. Gee, I sure do have a way with people, Larry thought. That made him even angrier.
Nadine said mildly: "You're hurting me."
He looked and saw that his fingers were buried in the soft flesh of her shoulders, and his anger collapsed into dull shame.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Joe was still looking at him, and Larry recognized that he had just lost half the ground he had gained with the boy. Maybe more. Nadine had said something.
"What?"
"I said, tell me why it's not like a bike."
His first impulse was to shout at her, If you know so much, go on and try it. See how you like looking at the world with your head on backward. If you know so much, go on and try it. See how you like looking at the world with your head on backward. He controlled that, thinking it wasn't only the boy he had lost ground with. He'd lost some with himself. Maybe he had come out the other side, but some of the old childish Larry had come out with him, tagging along at his heels like a shadow which has shrunk in the noonday sun but has not entirely disappeared. He controlled that, thinking it wasn't only the boy he had lost ground with. He'd lost some with himself. Maybe he had come out the other side, but some of the old childish Larry had come out with him, tagging along at his heels like a shadow which has shrunk in the noonday sun but has not entirely disappeared.
"They're heavier," he said. "If you overbalance, you can't get rebalanced as easily as you can with a bicycle. One of these 360s goes three hundred and fifty pounds. You get used to controlling that extra weight very quickly, but it does does take some getting used to. In a standard shift car, you operate the gearshift with your hand and the throttle with your foot. On a cycle it's reversed: the gearshift is foot-operated, the throttle hand-operated, and that takes a take some getting used to. In a standard shift car, you operate the gearshift with your hand and the throttle with your foot. On a cycle it's reversed: the gearshift is foot-operated, the throttle hand-operated, and that takes a lot lot of getting used to. There are two brakes instead of one. Your right foot brakes the rear wheel, your right hand brakes the front wheel. If you forget and just use the handbrake, you're apt to fly right over the handlebars. And you're going to have to get used to your passenger." of getting used to. There are two brakes instead of one. Your right foot brakes the rear wheel, your right hand brakes the front wheel. If you forget and just use the handbrake, you're apt to fly right over the handlebars. And you're going to have to get used to your passenger."
"Joe? But I thought he'd ride with you!"
"I'd be glad to take him," Larry said. "But right now I don't think he'd have me. Do you?"
Nadine looked at Joe for a long, troubled time. "No," she said, and then sighed. "He may not even want to ride with me. It may scare him."
"If he does, you're going to be responsible for him. And I'm responsible for both of you. I don't want to see you spill."
"Did that happen to you, Larry? Were you with someone?"
"I was," Larry said, "and I took a spill. But by then the lady I was with was already dead."
"She crashed her motorcycle?" Nadine's face was very still.
"No. What happened, I'd say it was seventy percent accident and thirty percent suicide. Whatever she needed from me ... friendship, understanding, help, I don't know ... she wasn't getting enough." He was upset now, his temples pounding thickly, his throat tight, the tears close. "Her name was Rita. Rita Blakemoor. I'd like to do better by you, that's all. You and Joe."
"Larry, why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because it hurts to talk about it," he said simply. "It hurts a lot." That was the truth, but not the whole truth. There were the dreams. He found himself wondering if Nadine had bad dreams-last night he had awakened briefly and she had been tossing restlessly and muttering. But she had said nothing today. And Joe. Did Joe have bad dreams? Well, he didn't know about them, them, but fearless Inspector Underwood of Scotland Yard was afraid of the dreams ... and if Nadine took a spill on the motorcycle, they might come back. but fearless Inspector Underwood of Scotland Yard was afraid of the dreams ... and if Nadine took a spill on the motorcycle, they might come back.
"We'll go tomorrow, then," she said. "Teach me how tonight."
But first there was the matter of getting the two small bikes Larry had picked out gassed up. The dealership had a pump, but without electricity it wouldn't run. He found another candy wrapper by the plate covering the underground tank and deduced that it had recently been pried up by the ever-resourceful Harold Lauder. Lovesick or no, Payday freak or not, Larry had gained a lot of respect for Harold, almost a liking in advance. He had already developed his own mental picture of Harold. Probably in his mid-thirties, a farmer maybe, tall and suntanned, skinny, not too bright in the book sense, maybe, but plenty canny. He grinned. Building up a mental picture of someone you had never seen was a fool's game, because they were never the way you had imagined. Everybody knows the one about the three-hundred-pound disc jockey with the whipcord-thin voice.
While Nadine got a cold supper together, Larry prowled around the side of the dealership. There he found a large steel wastecan. Leaning against it was a crowbar and curling over the top was a piece of rubber tubing.
I've found you again, Harold! Take a look at this, Sergeant Briggs. Our man siphoned some gas from the underground tank to get going. I'm surprised he didn't take his hose with him.
Perhaps he cut off a piece and that's what's left, Inspector Underwood -begging your pardon, but it is in the wastecan.