The Sixth Station(42)

She walked to the driver’s side and smiled at me through the closed window, demanding I look at her, which I finally did. Her eyes seemed glazed over.

Jeez, just what I need—a town full of stoned lunatics.

She lifted her left hand, which caused me to flinch, but instead she crossed herself twice—the first one in the traditional manner and the second one starting at the chest!

Have another toke, lady, before your high wears off.

She pulled back a bit, blew on the glass, and lifted a single finger. In the fogged area she drew a double cross with these sorts of v shapes at the four ends. I acknowledged it with a nod of my head, as though I were one of them, when in fact I had no damned idea—then—what the hell she meant, but it seemed to satisfy her. She moved away from the car and waved me on like a demented traffic cop.

Had the whole world gone insane in my one-day absence?

And where the hell was the car without the lights?





15





I wouldn’t find the answer to that question until the next day. Meantime, the GPS was barking orders: “Make a slight left, make a slight right, obey the local traffic ordinances.” If I weren’t afraid of being completely lost (or more than I already felt), I would have shut the damned thing off. “Christine” was not following me—or so it seemed—which should have given me more than enough food for thought.

When you think you’re not being tailed, then for sure you are.

With the satellite radio tuned to Fox, I listened for any updates on the story, watching in the rearview mirror for the tail.

I exited off the turnpike in Albany. It was a big enough city that for sure there had to be a twenty-four-hour drugstore. It was a little after 9:25.

At a strip mall, I found a CVS and went quickly as possible through the aisles, picking up a small Crest, a hairbrush, a travel hair dryer with an international currency switch, disposable razors, a thick cloth headband with an elastic closure at the back, six cotton gramma panties—all white—in a bag, and a good pair of surgical-looking scissors.

I browsed the hair-color aisle. Blondes have more fun, but I wasn’t looking for a good time, so I was thinking redhead.

I picked up a box of L’Oréal Féria with a seductive-looking model on the front with bright red hair. It was a color called “R76 Spicy Red.” Punk red. Too old for that one—perfect! The directions seemed pretty easy, but since I had no ability to do anything but comb my hair, I knew I could end up bald or worse—with clown hair. But the price was right: $9.95 including everything. Since the kit had shampoo and conditioner already in it, I didn’t have to buy those.

I turned the cart and headed to the checkout, which had no line, thank God, at this hour. My immediate impulse was to pull out my AmEx card, but for the first time it consciously hit me that since I was suddenly on the lam (I always wanted to say that—or so I thought until I actually was on the lam), I could no longer use a credit card—nor even get money from the ATM.

I reached into my red bag, knowing that surveillance cameras were watching me—and everyone else.

Do not look in any way like you’re trying to boost even a hairpin.

I rooted around until I found my wallet and counted up the cash I had on me—$176.46. I quickly added up what was in my cart and realized that I didn’t need a $50 hairdryer. I put it on the side. The damned scissors were $22, but that wasn’t something I could skimp on—even though I suspected that I’d have to leave them behind. Damn! I estimated the total at less than $45.

As I was checking out, my bag started vibrating and then ringing with an old-fashioned bell-ringer sound—the phone. Afraid to pick it up, I smiled weakly at the sneering kid, who didn’t notice since he was staring at my breasts.

“Ya phone’s ringin,’” he said without looking up.

Do not call attention to yourself.

Yes, I know,” I answered, handing him $45. His sneer turned into a leer.

“Boyfriend?”

I grunted, which he interpreted as an answer, and nodded his head conspiratorially.

Moron!

I waited for my change, which he counted out in my hand: three quarters. “The penny’s on me.”

“Thanks.” Sport.

I rushed back to the car, which was one of three or so in the entire parking lot, hit the “unlock” remote key, and hopped in quickly, happy to hear the automatic lock click behind me.

Duck your head; surveillance cameras must be everywhere.

I reached into my bag and dug out the phone. “Unknown voice mail.”

I immediately hit the voice-mail arrow and heard Dona’s lovely voice. “What the hell?” was how she started. Then: “Call me back. I’m at a phone booth. Or filthy phone kiosk, anyway. In case the number doesn’t come up,” which it didn’t, “call me back at, let me see here, what the heck does it say on the phone thingy? Oh, it says nothing. You can’t call me back.