"Gotcha."

"I love you, Tanya."

"You'd better.  Love you, too, baby.  See you tomorrow night."

"Tell Gayle and the kids I… I can't wait to see them."

"Will do.  'Night."

"Good night."  I snapped closed the phone, then looked over at Christopher.  "So?  How'd I do?"

"You think fast, Pretty Boy.  You did good.  Real good."  He took the phone.  "I'd almost forgotten about that note."

"I don't like having to lie to my wife."

"Sorry.  On the bright side, by this time tomorrow night, more or less, you'll be home, safe and sound."  He pulled one of the laptops out from underneath his seat, fired it up, and checked something, all the while making sure to keep the screen angled away from me.  He checked the screen, then looked up as we approached a sign.

"I'm not looking at anything," I said.

"I know you're not."  He read the sign, then checked the screen once more.  "Let me ask you a hypothetical question:  Say you're me, and you know something the others don't.  But this thing you know, it would upset them.  But at the same time, it's something they would want to know, regardless.  Got it?"

"I think so."

"Would you tell them?"

"No."

He blinked, surprised.  "You didn't even have to think about it."

"What's to think about?  They've got more than enough to deal with for the rest of their lives.  Why upset them anymore?"

Christopher looked back.  Rebecca, Arnold, and Thomas were deep asleep.  "I really love them."  He looked at me.  "If you believe nothing else I say, believe that."

"I do."  And I did.

"Remember the silver square on the map?"

"Yeah…?"

"I was going to skip it—that's why I decided to nap-out for an hour-and-a-half.  But I woke up.  So you're going to help me with this.  The next rest stop's coming up in two miles.  Pull in.  You'll have to park on the 'Trucks and Campers' side."

I remembered Arnold's explanation of the color schemes.  "That's a red spot."

"Your point being…?"

My stomach felt suddenly queasy and tight.  "What are you going to do?"

"Wrong pronoun, Mark."  This was the first time he'd called me by name.  "You mean to say, what are we going to do."

I saw the rest stop entrance up ahead.  Everything about this felt wrong.

And bad.

Very, very bad.

I pulled off the highway and drove around to the proper side.  Christopher had me park at the farthest end, as close to the exit as possible, and in a straight line across four parking spaces; whatever we were here to do, he did not want to waste time afterward backing out.

There were six semis and one behemoth Winnebago parked over here.  I started to turn off the ignition but Christopher shook his head.

"As long as the engine's running, they'll stay asleep."

I checked the gas gauge; three-quarters of a tank.  I'd forgotten what great mileage these things got.

We sat in silence for several minutes, the only sounds that of our engines and those of the park and darkened semis.

Three slices of pizza, two cans of Pepsi, and a very tense drive.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said.

"Good.  So do I.  You go first."

I made it to the toilet just in time.

As I was washing my hands, I noticed something in my shirt pocket and pulled it out.

Cletus's business card, with his home phone number written on the back.

The bathrooms were inside the main building.  In the lobby—if that's what they called the common areas in rest stops—were a couple of large maps mounted on the walls, several shelves of brochures, a couple of water fountains… and a bank of payphones.

I checked my pockets and was shocked to find thirty-seven cents in one of them.  How the change hadn't fallen out when the pants were being washed and then hung over a shower curtain rod, I didn't know and didn't much care.  It was a good bet that I was well out of local-call range, but I could call collect.  Something told me Cletus was the type to accept the charges.

I walked out of the bathroom.  Slowly.

I wondered if Christopher could see the payphones from the bus.

I thought about Tanya.  About my sister.  My niece and nephew.

I looked at the card in my hand.

And then I thought about Dad; whenever I find myself in anything remotely resembling a moral quandary, I tend to ask myself what he would do were he in the same situation.  My dad was one of the best people I'd ever known.  It wasn't just that I'd loved him, I'd liked him so much.  He was a decent, dependable, hard-working man; he had his faults, no arguments there—he could be a royal pain when he was in a bad mood, and he was a mean drunk (though he didn't get drunk very often)—but he was the one his friends always turned to when there was a problem they couldn't handle on their own.  So tell me, Dad, what the hell would you do if you were in my shoes?

I'd keep my word, is what I'd do.  You said you'd help them.  So, help.

I looked once more at Cletus's number, released the breath I didn't know I'd been holding, slipped the card back into my pocket, and went back to the bus.

"Jesus," said Christopher as I climbed back in.  "Did you fall in or something?"

"Some activities cannot be hurried."

"Yeah, whatever."  He all but ran to the building after he got out.  Behind me, everyone was still sawing logs; Thomas snored softly, Arnold slept with his mouth open, and Rebecca drooled a little bit.  They looked almost peaceful.

I leaned back my head and closed my eyes.  A few minutes later, Christopher was back.

"You're still here."

"Why wouldn't I be?" I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.

"You just passed your first major test."

"I'm thrilled.  What are we doing here, anyway?"

He said nothing, only pointed to where another vehicle was driving around toward our area.

I thought I was imagining things at first, but as it passed under the sole streetlight on this side of the building, I realized it was no hallucination.

Another silver VW Microbus pulling another silver Airstream trailer parked across the lot from us.  If one of the truck drivers were to wake up right now, the poor guy would swear he needed glasses.

I pointed to our doppelganger.  "So what happens if a cop runs those plates?"

"Beowulf Antiquities, Inc., that's what.  These guys are a lot of things, Pretty Boy—stupid isn't one of them."  He reached into his shoulder bag and removed an unmarked, shrink-wrapped videotape.  "I'll go around to the driver's side, you stand by the passenger window."  He sat very still, as if rallying himself.

"What's with the tape?" I asked.

"Grendel has—had—a network of customers who pay top-dollar for entertainment of a very specific nature."  He gave the tape a little wave.  "You're looking at Connie's final performance, with stereo sound.  A thousand dollars a copy."  He nodded toward the other bus and trailer.  "That gentleman over there is one of Grendel's distributors.  He copies and sells this…'entertainment for specific tastes'.  Whenever enough orders are taken, a meeting is arranged.  Grendel had one scheduled for tonight.  We give that guy this tape, and he gives us the cash taken in from the last few orders—minus his twenty-five percent commission, of course."

"Of course."  I wanted to vomit.  "How many… distributors are there?"