“Care to elaborate?”
“Trouble. Do you know any alternative routes?”
“Not really. This is my first time in South Dakota,” said Shadow. “And I don’t know where we’re going.”
On the other side of the hill something flashed redly, smudged by the mist.
“Roadblock,” said Wednesday. He pushed his hand deeply into first one pocket of his suit, then another, searching for something.
“I can stop and turn around.”
“We can’t turn. They’re behind us as well,?
? said Wednesday. “Take your speed down to ten, fifteen miles per hour.”
Shadow glanced into the mirror. There were headlights behind them, under a mile back. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.
Wednesday snorted. “Sure as eggs is eggs,” he said. “As the turkey farmer said when he hatched his first turtle. Ah, success!” and from the bottom of a pocket he produced a small piece of white chalk.
He started to scratch with the chalk on the dashboard of the camper, making marks as if he were solving an algebraic puzzle—or perhaps, Shadow thought, as if he were a hobo, scratching long messages to the other hobos in hobo code—bad dog here, dangerous town, nice woman, soft jail in which to overnight . . .
“Okay,” said Wednesday. “Now increase your speed to thirty. And don’t slow down from that.”
One of the cars behind them turned on its lights and siren and accelerated toward them. “Do not slow down,” repeated Wednesday. “They just want us to slow before we get to the roadblock.” Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
They crested the hill. The roadblock was less than a quarter of a mile away. Twelve cars arranged across the road, and on the side of the road, police cars, and several big black SUVs.
“There,” said Wednesday, and he put his chalk away. The dashboard of the Winnebago was now covered with runelike scratchings.
The car with the siren was just behind them. It had slowed to their speed, and an amplified voice was shouting, “Pull over!” Shadow looked at Wednesday.
“Turn right,” said Wednesday. “Just pull off the road.”
“I can’t take this thing off-road. We’ll tip.”
“It’ll be fine. Take a right. Now!”
Shadow pulled the wheel down with his right hand, and the Winnebago lurched and jolted. For a moment he thought he had been correct, that the camper was going to tip, and then the world through the windshield dissolved and shimmered, like the reflection in a clear pool when the wind brushes the surface.
The clouds and the mist and the snow and the day were gone.
Now there were stars overhead, hanging like frozen spears of light, stabbing the night sky.
“Park here,” said Wednesday. “We can walk the rest of the way.”
Shadow turned off the engine. He went into the back of the Winnebago, pulled on his coat, his boots and gloves. Then he climbed out of the vehicle and said “Okay. Let’s go.”
Wednesday looked at him with amusement and something else—irritation perhaps. Or pride. “Why don’t you argue?” asked Wednesday. “Why don’t you exclaim that it’s all impossible? Why the hell do you just do what I say and take it all so fucking calmly?”
“Because you’re not paying me to ask questions,” said Shadow. And then he said, realizing the truth as the words came out of his mouth, “Anyway, nothing’s really surprised me since Laura.”
“Since she came back from the dead?”
“Since I learned she was screwing Robbie. That one hurt. Everything else just sits on the surface. Where are we going now?”
Wednesday pointed, and they began to walk. The ground beneath their feet was rock of some kind, slick and volcanic, occasionally glassy. The air was chilly, but not winter-cold. They sidestepped their way awkwardly down a hill. There was a rough path, and they followed it. Shadow looked down to the bottom of the hill.
“What the hell is that?” asked Shadow, but Wednesday touched his finger to his lips, shook his head sharply. Silence.