Asmador awakes from his short, marijuana-assisted nap in the back of the Cherokee. The razzle-dazzle of late afternoon sunlight glinting off the cars makes the little parking lot look as though it were ablaze with brightly colored stars.
Driving up from the county road earlier that day, Asmador had noticed that the line of telephone poles by the side of the winding driveway ended at the parking lot. The highest aerial wire, a power line with ceramic insulators, descended the last pole and burrowed itself into the earth; the lower wire led to a rusty, gray-painted metal box mounted on the pole beneath a sign instructing those in need to call for assistance.
Asmador opens the cabinet, which encloses a telephone handset wired into a single line that exits through a hole in the bottom of the cabinet before disappearing underground. He slices through the wire above the box with the serrated inner edge of Peter Daniel’s hunting knife, then punctures all four tires on every vehicle save the Cherokee.
Having done what he can to buy himself time to complete the mission, Asmador changes into a night-camo jumpsuit, splotchy blacks and grays with elasticized waist and cuffs, blacks his face and white sneakers, jams all the gear that will fit, including the night-vision goggles, into the backpack, and fills the built-in, hard-walled quiver with an assortment of arrows.
“Wish me luck, Pocket Pal,” he calls to the starlings perched on the telephone wire. From behind him comes the sound of mocking laughter. He turns to see Sammael sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Cherokee, jingling a set of car keys. Asmador reaches for them; the redhead pulls one of his vanishing acts. But to Asmador’s considerable relief, when he peers through the window of the Cherokee, he sees the keys dangling from the ignition; the door, fortunately, is unlocked.
“Thank you,” he calls sheepishly, locking the car and pocketing the keys; not surprisingly, the only response is a burst of disembodied laughter.