A soft carpet of fallen needles in the clearing under the redwoods. Overhead a lacy pattern of green boughs and blue sky. The cheerful, human-sounding babble of a nearby stream freshened by late spring rains. In the distance, the sound of waves crashing along the rocky coast.
Irene and Barbara lay next to each other on their backs. After draping a car blanket over them to hide the fact that Irene's left ankle was cuffed to Barbara's right, Maxwell had cleared the redwood needles from a patch of ground nearby and was sitting in the dirt, having Mose memorize the AAA maps of central and northern California he'd found in the glove compartment of the Volvo, then burning them.
“How are you doing?” whispered Irene. Maxwell had given them each an apple and a bottle of springwater to share, then allowed each woman to urinate in relative privacy in the low brush.
“ ‘I'm dead,’ ” Barbara whispered back, in what may have been a stab at black humor. Her panic attack had passed. As long as that knife was out of sight-and as long as she didn't think about Sam and the boys-she thought she could maintain for a little while longer.
“Not necessarily.” Irene was feeling better too-even hopeful. “Think about it-he didn't kill that girl until he was about to be captured. And why would he have gone to all that trouble to kidnap us, if he didn't want us alive?”
“You, not us. You're the one he came after. I'm extra baggage.”
“That can work in our favor. I'm sure I can make him understand that whatever he wants from me, he won't get it if he harms you.”
Barbara tried to roll onto her side, but the cuff was fastened too tightly around her ankle; she turned her head instead. “I have a feeling that whatever he wants, he takes,” she whispered into Irene's ear.
“I think this alter is intelligent and rational enough to understand that there are some things that can't be taken. If he wants to kill both of us, there's not much we can do about it, but if he wants my cooperation, he'll have to let you go first.”
“I won't go-I won't leave you alone with him.”
“Of course you will. And when you get back, you'll give Sam and the boys a big kiss for me. I'll be all right-he didn't go to all this trouble just to kill me.”
“But why did he go to all this trouble? What do you think he wants from you?”
Irene turned her head, looked into Barbara's eyes, so dark they were almost black in the dappled shade under the trees. “Help,” she said softly. “I think he wants help.”
“And if you're wrong?”
“Then you can say a kiddush for me.”
“That's kaddish,” said Barbara, smiling in spite of herself. “Kiddush is the blessing over wine.”
“So I'm a shiksa,” said Irene. “So sue me.”
It wasn't easy memorizing maps. Just glancing at them didn't work-Mose couldn't visualize later what wasn't captured visually now. He had to scan the big sheets slowly, left to right, then top to bottom. When he finished one map he'd test himself before burning it and moving on to the next-once the information was fixed in Mose's memory, it would always be available.
When the last map was in ashes, and the ashes ground into the dirt, and the redwood needles scuffed back over the ashes, Max took over and pondered his next problem, how to get rid of Barbara without alienating Irene.
He weighed the pros and cons of letting Barbara live. Pro: not only would Irene be grateful, she'd have more incentive for cooperating with him in the future. Con: Barbara would be able to tell the cops about the pink jogging suit, the blond hair, and the green Volvo.
But dead or alive, she would still serve to point the cops southward. And once the bodies in Prunedale were discovered and the house searched, he'd have to ditch the car anyway, so why not do it sooner rather than later? No sense taking chances. As for clothes, and a hat to disguise the hair, he'd pick them up along with his next car-once he turned north again, he'd need to be less conspicuous anyway.
He felt himself leaning toward letting the chubby brunette live. The only joker in the pack was Kinch. He would be mightily pissed off-maybe even pissed off enough to try to take control himself. And once Kinch got going, there was no stopping him-Max might lose Irene along with Barbara.
So whom should he try to please, Kinch or Irene?
Sometimes having a dissociated identity was no frigging picnic.