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“Do that,” Scott urged. “Rose is out of it.”
“I can hear people talking, I think they’re coming. I better turn this off.”
Scott: “Give them the excuse, George, but don’t give up your names. You could tell them that Clarice is dead and buried up themountain somewhere. Like Carey. Tell them that you don’t know where she is, but that Carey is straight up the mountain under a red rock. That’ll make them believe you’re telling the truth about Clarice. If they put…pressure on you…give them my name and Clarice’s. They must already know those.”
“I can do that, I think,” Smithe said. “Don’t have much left here…somebody’s coming. I’m gonna go. Good luck, guys, get it done.”
He was gone, and Foss said, “We need to wreck those phones, now, the ones we used.”
Scott: “Yes. I saw a brick in the garage, we can beat them to death. I’ll go do that now.”
—
Scott went todo that, and Foss got a ’net connection using his personal cell phone as a hot spot—“Not a problem. No reason I couldn’t be a tourist.”
Scott came back with a handful of shattered plastic and electronics, and said, “Put ‘Taos’ in Google and see what comes up.”
Foss did, and a lot came up, but it was all history and advertisements for motels and useless crap. Nothing about any police action. They renewed the search occasionally, and nothing relevant came up.
The night seemed to creep up on them. Foss became worried about using his cell phone as a hot spot: “If they really know what we’re doing…and if one of the guys gives up my name…they’ll sic the NSA on us. I don’t think we can use any electronics. Those fuckers have been doing surveillance on Americans for seventy years.”
“Then we should stop,” Scott said.
“And sit here in the dark,” Callister said.
Catton: “A very small sacrifice when you consider the goal. And Randall is correct in his fears.” And then, “I wonder if the toilet still works?”
“Unless it’s electric,” Scott said. “You can find out by trying any of the water taps.”
She disappeared into the gloom. Scott and the others heard the water come on, and then the bathroom door close.
In the quiet of the old house, Scott thought about prospects and possibilities: the authorities would certainly have his photo. He might obscure things by continuing to grow a beard…and when he thought that, it occurred to him to create some kind of disguise.
He said to Callister and Foss, “We need food and some other things. We’ll make a list. You two could walk out to that supermarket we saw. It’s not far. Besides food, I’ll want you to look around and see if they have hair coloring. I want to change my hair color to something darker. Or red, perhaps. If they have any hair clippers, and some disposable razors. I’m thinking we could shave Clarice’s head.”
“Why?”
“So we can make her into a cancer victim who’s doing chemo. They must know that Clarice isn’t a cancer victim…”
“How about if I bought a pink ribbon so we could make a breast-cancer ribbon?” Callister asked. “That tends to make people not look at somebody too close because, you know, she’s…sick.”
“Even better.”
“And a Covid mask,” Foss added. “Breast cancer victims who’ve lost their hair are immune-suppressed and have to worry about Covid. With a shaved head and a Covid mask, nobody would recognize her.”
“That’s creepy,” Callister said.
“We’re way past creepy, Danielle,” Scott said. “If you could find those things…”
They heard the toilet flush. Catton emerged from the bathroom and said, “I heard you talking. Did something happen?”
“No…but I’m afraid you have breast cancer and have lost your hair,” Scott said.
“What?”
13
Letty stood thirty feet from the RV and watched as the woman, Marta De León, climbed out of the bus, carrying a black metal box that might once have held extraordinarily expensive cigars. She put the box on the ground and called, “There’s a safe bag with a green strip around the top. I need you to get the big red canister out of it.”
