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Jake’s terror gave way to anger. Will was a ghost. Even in death, Will Fitzgerald had managed to best him.
“Go away, Will!” Marlowe screamed. He threw the glass, and it shattered against the empty mirror.
Jake raced for his telephone. Though it was nearly midnight, he rang Harriet Henderson.
“Mrs. Henderson? It’s Jake Marlowe. I’m terribly sorry to call you so late, but it’s rather important. I wondered if you might be able to write a column for me tomorrow. Ah, you’re too kind. You see, it’s about this new machine I’m working on, something beyond anything we’ve imagined. Oh, I’m afraid I can’t say too much more than that. The military is involved, you see, but don’t print that. When the time comes, you’ll have an exclusive on it, I promise. Yes, just say that you’ve got a well-placed source and you’ve heard that it’s more than just a machine, it’s a revolution. Yes, that’s it—a new American Revolution. And it’s going to make America the jewel of nations for generations to come. Why, I can promise you that’s true, Mrs. Henderson. Harriet. The name? Yes, indeed.
“It’s called the Eye of Providence.”
ASHES TO ASHES
The Harlem Haymakers had been driving across Illinois for hours. “Gonna need to get more gasoline if we want to make it to Chicago,” Doc announced over the noisy engine. “Keep your eyes peeled for a filling station.”
A haze hung on the day; the sun was formless. The land was hillier here. Spring had come up fine and fair. Another five miles down the road, though, the green gave way to patchy, drought-stricken grass that blew across the cracked road in broken tufts. It should have been full spring here. Instead, brittle leaves drooped from ash-pale branches. The grass and shrubs by the road were coated in a fine gray dust. It was like being in a petrified forest, Ling thought. A white sign with black lettering announced that they were now entering the town of Beckettsville.
Lupe wiped gray flecks from Jericho’s shirtsleeve. “Is there a smelting plant nearby?”
“Don’t see one,” Jericho said.
Lupe gave him a flirtatious grin, and Jericho smiled back. He hoped they’d have some private time tonight after the show. Chicago, Illinois, would be better seen with her.
“Gonna take you dancing,” Lupe whispered.
“Well, you know how much I enjoy dancing now,” Jericho said with a wink.
“Lord, the two of you gonna be like this the whole way?” Alma muttered.
Doc turned down another street. It, too, was empty.
“Where is everybody?” he said.
Small clouds of flies were everywhere. Two leering vultures perched on the wires of a telephone pole that had gone white with disease. Newspapers skittered down a sidewalk covered in dead leaves. The street came out on a downtown square surrounding a town hall with a clock mounted to its tower. The clock had stopped. There were plenty of automobiles and trucks parked here, but no people. The town square seemed as deserted as everything else.
Doc parked in an empty spot. “I’ll go ask where we can find a service station. Don’t want to waste too much gasoline. If you’re stretching your legs, be quick about it.”
Most of the girls elected to stay on the bus. “Gotta sleep while we can,” Babe said, shutting her eyes. “And there’s sure nothing here to see.”
Ling grabbed her crutches.
Alma made a pleading face, with her hands pressed together, prayer-style. “Oh, come on, honey. Let’s stay on the bus. We can grab forty winks. Even twenty winks,” she begged.
“You can stay on the bus. I want to see what’s going on,” Ling said and headed for the bus steps, maneuvering them with care.
Lupe shot Alma a Hey, you picked her look. “Curiosity killed the cat,” Lupe said, shutting her eyes.
“Somebody’s curiosity is a pain in Alma’s rear end,” Alma grumbled and exited the bus after Ling and Doc.
Jericho kissed Lupe’s forehead. “I better go with them. I won’t be a minute.”
With her eyes still shut, Lupe waved good-bye.
In the deserted street, Ling covered her nose with the scarf Alma had lent her. “Smells bad. Like something’s gone rotten.” Gnats garlanded Ling’s head. She batted them away. “Shoo!”
“This is farm country. Maybe it’s manure?” Alma said.
“Doesn’t smell like farmland to me,” Jericho said, coming to stand beside them. “More like a slaughterhouse.”
Alma crossed the quiet street to a bank. “Gotta be people in here,” she said, jogging up the marble steps. A deep gray residue was baked into the limestone façade in varying shapes, almost as if someone had tried to paint a dull mural and abandoned it midway through. The smell was strong here. Alma had to breathe through her mouth. She tried the doors.
