When she was done, she put the empty bottle and the torn paper and stuff in a little wastebasket built into the wall, cut the tv off, took off her shoes, and lay back on the bed.

It was strange, to stretch out on a bed in a little room that was moving, she didn’t know where, and she wondered where she’d be tomorrow.

Just before she fell asleep, she remembered that she still had Codes’ bag of dancer stuck down in her pants. She’d better get rid of that. She figured there was enough there to go to jail for.

She thought about how it made you feel, and how weird it was that people spent all that money to feel that way.

She sure wished Lowell hadn’t liked to feel that way.

She woke up when he lay down beside her, the RV moving but she knew it must’ve stopped before. The lights were off.

“Who’s driving?” she said.

“Mrs. Armbruster.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Elliott. Mrs. Armbruster was this teacher I had, looked like her.”

“Where’s she driving to?”

“Los Angeles. Told her I’d take over when she got tired. Told her not to bother waking us up when she goes through at the state line. Lady like that, if she tells ’em she’s not carrying any agricultural products, they’ll probably let her through without checking back here.”

“What if they do?”

He was close enough to her on the narrow bed that she could feel it when he shrugged.

“Rydell?”

“Huh?”

“How come there’s Russian cops?”

“How do you mean?”

“You watch on tv, like a cop show, about half the big cops are always Russian. Or those guys back there on the bridge. How come Russian?”

“Well” he said, “they kind of exaggerate that on tv, ’cause of the Organizatsiya thing, how people like to see shows about that. But the truth is, you get a situation where there’s Russians running most of your mob action, you’ll want to get you some Russian cops…” She heard him yawn. Felt him stretch.

“Are they all like those two came to Dissidents?”

“No” he said. “There’s always some crooked cops, but that’s just the way it is…”

“What’ll we do, when we get to Los Angeles?”

But he didn’t answer, and after a while he started to snore.

Rydell opened his eyes. Vehicle not moving.

He held his Timex up in front of his face and used the dial-light. 3:15 PM. Chevette Washington was curled up beside him in her biker jacket. Felt like sleeping next to a piece of old luggage.

He rolled over until he could find the shade over the window beside him and raise it a little. As dark out there as it was in here.

He’d been dreaming about Mrs. Armbruster’s class, fifth grade at Oliver North Elementary. They were about to be let out because LearningNet said there was too much Kansas City flu around to keep the kids in Virginia and Tennessee in school that week. They were all wearing these molded white paper masks the nurses had left on their seats that morning. Mrs. Armbruster had just explained the meaning of the word pandemic. Poppy Markoff, who sat next to him and already bad tits out to here, had told Mrs. Armbruster that her daddy said the KC flu could kill you in the time it took to walk out to the bus. Mrs. Armbruster, wearing her own mask, the micropore kind from the drugstore, started in about the word panic, tying that into pandemic because of the root, but that was where Rydell woke up.

He sat up on the bed. He had a headache and the start of a cold. Kansas City flu. Maybe Mokola fever.

“Don’t panic” he said, under his breath.

But he sort of had this feeling.

He got up and felt his way to the front. A little bit of light there, coming from under the door. He found the handle. Eased it open a crack.

“Hey there.” Gold at the edges of a smile. Square little automatic pointing at Rydell’s eye. He’d swung the passenger-side bucket around and tilted it back. Had his boots up on the middle seat. Had the dome-light turned down low.

“Where’s Mrs. Elliott?”

“Mrs. Elliott is gone.”

Rydell opened the door the rest of the way. “She work for you?”

“No” the man said. “She’s IntenSecure.”

“They put her on that plane to keep track of me?”

The man shrugged. Rydell noticed that the gun didn’t move at all when he did that. He was wearing surgical gloves, and that same long coat he’d had on when he’d gotten out of the Russians’ car, like an Australian duster made out of black micropore.

“How’d she know to pick us up by that tattoo parlor?”

“Warbaby had to be good for something. He had a couple of people on you for backup.”

“Didn’t see anybody” Rydell said.

“Weren’t supposed to.”

“Tell me something” Rydell said. “You the one did that Blix guy, up in the hotel?”

The man looked at him over the barrel of the gun. That small a bore, ordinarily, wouldn’t mean much damage, so Rydell figured the ammunition would be doctored some way. “I don’t see what it’s got to do with you” he said.

Rydell thought about it. “I saw a picture of it. You just don’t look that crazy.”

“It’s my job” he said.

Uh-huh, Rydell thought, just like running a french-fry computer. There was a fridge and sink on the right side of the door, so he knew he couldn’t move that way. If he went left, he figured the guy’d just stitch through the bulkhead, probably get the girl, too.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“About what?”

“The hero thing. The cop shit.” He took his feet off the center bucket. “Just do this. Slowly. Very. Get into the driver’s seat and put your hands on the wheel. Nine o’clock and two o’clock. Keep them there. If you don’t keep them there, I’ll shoot you behind your right ear. But you won’t hear it.” He had this kind of slow, even tone, reminded Rydell of a vet talking to a horse.

Rydell did like he was told. He couldn’t see anything outside. Just dark, and the reflections from the dome light. “Where are we?” he asked.

“You like malls, Rydell? You got malls back in Knoxville?” Rydell looked at him sideways.

“Eyes front, please.”

“Yeah, we got malls.”

“This one didn’t do so well.”

Rydell squeezed the foam padding on the wheel.

“Relax.”

Rydell heard him give the bulkhead a kick with the heel of one boot. “Miss Washington! Rise and shine, Miss Washington! Do us the favor of your presence.”

Rydell heard the double thump as she startled from sleep, tried to jump up, hit her head, fell off the bed. Then he saw her white face reflected in the windshield, there in the doorway. Saw her see the man, the gun.

Not the screaming kind. “You shot Sammy Sal” she said.

“You tried to electrocute me” the man said, like he could afford to see the humor in it now. “Come out here, turn around, and straddle the central console. Very slowly. That’s right. Now lean forward and brace your hands on the seat.”

She wound up next to Rydell, her legs on either side of the instrument console, facing backward. Like she was riding some cafe-racer.

Gave him about a two-inch difference of arc between shooting either one of them in the head.

“I want you to take your jacket off” he said to her, “so you’ll have to take your hands off the seat to do that. See if you can manage to keep at least one hand on the seat at all times. Take plenty of time.”

When she’d gotten it to where she could shrug it off her left shoulder, it fell over against the man’s legs.

“Are there any hypodermic needles in here” he said, “any blades, dangerous objects of any kind?”

“No” she said.

“How about electrical charges? You don’t have a great record for that.”

“Just the asshole’s glasses and a phone.”

“See, Rydell” he said, “the asshole. How he’ll be remembered. Nameless. Another nameless asshole…” He was going through the jacket’s pockets with his free hand. Came up with the case and the phone and put them on the RV’s deep, padded dash-panel. Rydell had his head turned now and was watching him, even though he’d been told not to. He watched the gloved hand open the case by feel, take out the black glasses. That was the only time those eyes left him, to check those glasses, and that took about a second.