The Night Parade(75)

“Because sometimes you can’t trust them,” said Laura.

“Trust what? The blood tests?”

“Yes, that’s right. But not just the tests. Them. Do you understand?” She whispered this last part.

“No. Who’s ‘them’?”

“Them,” she said. “Them. You want to know something? We don’t let anyone come over anymore. I suggest you do the same.”

“We’re keeping to ourselves,” he said, suddenly wondering how this panicked woman on the other end of the line had managed to usurp this conversation.

“And Burt and I, we keep watching them. Because I think part of this whole thing—the part they don’t report about on the news, I mean—is the sneaking part, the part that creeps up on you and gets you, infiltrates you, even when they tell you the blood tests are all fine. Fine and dandy.” Again, she lowered her voice to a whisper: “But I don’t believe it. Not for one goddamn second. You might think we don’t notice those . . . slight changes . . . in their behavior, David, but we do. We do.”

“Who are you talking about?”

Laura Langstrom’s response was a single whistling exhalation.

“Are you feeling all right?” David asked.

“Me? Oh, I’m just fine, David.” Her normal voice again, as if some pill had just kicked in and regulated her. “We’re just all so scared, David.”

“Burt mentioned something about packing up and driving off somewhere.”

“Now?”

“No, not now. He said something about renting an RV and—”

“It’s beyond that,” Laura said flatly, once more cutting him off. “I’m afraid it’s beyond all of that, David.” She cleared her throat. “It’s David, isn’t it? I’ve forgotten.”

“Yes,” he said. This was a bad idea.

“Maybe,” she said, “it’s beyond that for all of us.”

“I’m not sure I—”

Laura Langstrom hung up.





37


They stopped for milk shakes at a dusty curbside burger joint, slurping them down while seated at a picnic table, a yellow and white umbrella over their heads for shade. At one point, when Ellie got up to use the restroom, David went inside the place and bought a road map and a pen. His phone had GPS but he was reluctant to use it. Opening up the map at the picnic table, he found their current location, which was halfway across Kansas, then located the area in Colorado where he knew Funluck Park to be. He penned some calculations in the margin, estimating the time it would take to get to the park in Colorado, and then how long it would take to make it to Wyoming from there. It was a lot of driving.

A man in white shirtsleeves and dusty slacks ambled over to the Oldsmobile. David glanced up at him and watched him, unobserved. The man was spooning frozen custard from a Styrofoam cup into his mouth while he walked around the front of the Oldsmobile. He was a large fellow with an expansive midsection. Beads of perspiration stood out on his sun-pinked forehead. The man turned and saw David staring at him.

“Ninety-nine Cutlass, am I right?” said the man, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the car.

“You’re right,” David said.

“Used to have one just like it, ’cept in powder blue. How many miles?”

“More than you’d think.”

“Don’t you know mine went for just over three hundred thousand? And she was still purring when I sold her for five hundred bucks to some teenager.”

David forced a grin. He was uncomfortable talking to the man. Something about the guy reminded him of Detective Watermere.

Ellie came out of the bathroom and joined David at the table. She wasted no time popping the milk shake straw back into her mouth.

“That your boy?” the man said. David watched as the stranger shoveled another spoonful of frozen yogurt into his mouth.

David nodded, hoping the man would take the hint that he was not interested in conversation.

“Well, then. You folks have a good one.” The man raised a hand and ambled off, apparently taking the hint. A minute or two later, the man pulled out onto the roadway behind the wheel of a silver Honda. He tapped the horn twice, waved at David, then motored on down the highway.

“Who was that?” Ellie asked.

“Don’t know. Just a guy.” But he hadn’t liked his questions, hadn’t liked the way he’d been looking at the car. Scrutinizing the car.

Midway through his milk shake—mint chocolate chip, his favorite ever since he was a kid—his cell phone trilled. He saw the blocked caller ID and worried that Tim’s plans had changed.

“Yeah, hello,” he said, answering the call.

“Is this David Arlen?” A man’s voice, frank and clipped. He didn’t wait for a confirmation. “My name’s Craddock. I’ve taken over the CDC’s northeast operations formerly overseen by Dr. Kapoor.”

“You guys are relentless. You tell Kapoor he can go jump off a goddamn bridge.”

“Kapoor’s dead,” said Craddock. “Most of his staff are, too. I’ve been flown in from Atlanta to pick up where he left off. You and your daughter, Mr. Arlen, are our number-one priority at the moment.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’m hanging up.”