something else?”
“You have done so already—I see nothing barring you from doing so again.”
“Did you ever know a Laura Alvarez here?”
“Here in Wink?”
“Yeah. She would have left about thirty years ago or so. She worked at the lab up on the mountain. I’m trying to find out more about her. She’s—she was my mom.”
“Hm,” he says. “I am afraid I cannot help you. I am not the most social of people. I remember very few names.”
“Even in a town this small, you don’t know?”
“Small?” he says. “Is it so small?” He looks up, examines the room numbers, and selects one. “Ah. Here we are. Our bridal suite.” He smiles at her, but does not open the room.
“Thanks,” she says.
“We do not really have a bridal suite,” he says. “It was a joke.”
“Okay,” she says.
He unlocks and opens the door and shows her in. The carpet is brown shag, and the lamps on the walls are made out of deer horns. The bedspread is done in a colored diamond pattern that Mona identifies as Native American, and it looks comfortable enough.
“The TV,” says Parson firmly, “does not work.”
“Okay.”
“I will help you move in,” he says, and begins to walk back to her car.
“That’s okay,” she says. “I have all my things in my bag.”
He stops and peers at her bag. “Oh,” he says, both irritated and disappointed. “All right, then.”
“Is there a good place to eat around here?” she asks.
“There is the diner, but it is likely closed for the funeral.”
“Oh. Yeah, I saw. Who died, the mayor or something?”
“Someone important,” he says. But he adds, “Ostensibly.”
“And you didn’t go to the funeral?”
He gives her a cryptic look, face suddenly closed. “I do not go to funerals. It would not befit my station. Luckily for you, I do offer a complimentary breakfast. I may provide it now, if you wish, rather than in the morning.”
“I’d be much obliged.”
“Excellent,” he says. “I will return shortly.” Then he turns and shuffles back across the parking lot.
Mona has had a lot of weird encounters in her life, but she feels like this one has just made top seed. But before she can think on it more, there is a flicker of light in the sky. Startled, she looks and sees that blue clouds have gathered around the mountains behind the mesa. They are small but violent: each one flickers with lightning every thirty seconds or so, which makes the mountains look like they’re crowned with a tangle of blue neon lights. It is a powerfully unearthly sight to see this island of chaos in an otherwise peaceful night sky.
It is then that she sees the moon is up, but there is something strange about it. It takes her a few moments to put her finger on it.
“It’s pink,” she says out loud. “Why is the moon so pink?”
Parson’s voice comes from behind her. “It always is, here.”
She looks and sees the old man has sneaked up on her. He’s carrying an aluminum tray with an egg sandwich and sausage that look like they came out of a vending machine. To her amusement, the meal is paired with a Corona and a Pop-Tart.
“Bon appétit,” says Parson.
CHAPTER SIX
Every night it is the same, Bolan thinks. Every night the truckers spill into the Roadhouse, reeking of cheap tobacco and old sweat, sleep-deprived and claustrophobic and half-blind from the sight of endless highways. Every night they order the same drinks and demand the same songs and shriek the same half-intelligible catcalls. There is always some lout who gets too hopped up on whichever substance is available that night and has to get hauled out and spanked in the parking lot. (And just three months ago Zimmerman and Dee laid one man out and left him breathing under a timber truck, yet in the morning they found him frigid and pale and still, one eye dark with blood and his fingers at many angles; the boys admitted they’d been overzealous, and the man still sleeps somewhere out in the woods under
“You have done so already—I see nothing barring you from doing so again.”
“Did you ever know a Laura Alvarez here?”
“Here in Wink?”
“Yeah. She would have left about thirty years ago or so. She worked at the lab up on the mountain. I’m trying to find out more about her. She’s—she was my mom.”
“Hm,” he says. “I am afraid I cannot help you. I am not the most social of people. I remember very few names.”
“Even in a town this small, you don’t know?”
“Small?” he says. “Is it so small?” He looks up, examines the room numbers, and selects one. “Ah. Here we are. Our bridal suite.” He smiles at her, but does not open the room.
“Thanks,” she says.
“We do not really have a bridal suite,” he says. “It was a joke.”
“Okay,” she says.
He unlocks and opens the door and shows her in. The carpet is brown shag, and the lamps on the walls are made out of deer horns. The bedspread is done in a colored diamond pattern that Mona identifies as Native American, and it looks comfortable enough.
“The TV,” says Parson firmly, “does not work.”
“Okay.”
“I will help you move in,” he says, and begins to walk back to her car.
“That’s okay,” she says. “I have all my things in my bag.”
He stops and peers at her bag. “Oh,” he says, both irritated and disappointed. “All right, then.”
“Is there a good place to eat around here?” she asks.
“There is the diner, but it is likely closed for the funeral.”
“Oh. Yeah, I saw. Who died, the mayor or something?”
“Someone important,” he says. But he adds, “Ostensibly.”
“And you didn’t go to the funeral?”
He gives her a cryptic look, face suddenly closed. “I do not go to funerals. It would not befit my station. Luckily for you, I do offer a complimentary breakfast. I may provide it now, if you wish, rather than in the morning.”
“I’d be much obliged.”
“Excellent,” he says. “I will return shortly.” Then he turns and shuffles back across the parking lot.
Mona has had a lot of weird encounters in her life, but she feels like this one has just made top seed. But before she can think on it more, there is a flicker of light in the sky. Startled, she looks and sees that blue clouds have gathered around the mountains behind the mesa. They are small but violent: each one flickers with lightning every thirty seconds or so, which makes the mountains look like they’re crowned with a tangle of blue neon lights. It is a powerfully unearthly sight to see this island of chaos in an otherwise peaceful night sky.
It is then that she sees the moon is up, but there is something strange about it. It takes her a few moments to put her finger on it.
“It’s pink,” she says out loud. “Why is the moon so pink?”
Parson’s voice comes from behind her. “It always is, here.”
She looks and sees the old man has sneaked up on her. He’s carrying an aluminum tray with an egg sandwich and sausage that look like they came out of a vending machine. To her amusement, the meal is paired with a Corona and a Pop-Tart.
“Bon appétit,” says Parson.
CHAPTER SIX
Every night it is the same, Bolan thinks. Every night the truckers spill into the Roadhouse, reeking of cheap tobacco and old sweat, sleep-deprived and claustrophobic and half-blind from the sight of endless highways. Every night they order the same drinks and demand the same songs and shriek the same half-intelligible catcalls. There is always some lout who gets too hopped up on whichever substance is available that night and has to get hauled out and spanked in the parking lot. (And just three months ago Zimmerman and Dee laid one man out and left him breathing under a timber truck, yet in the morning they found him frigid and pale and still, one eye dark with blood and his fingers at many angles; the boys admitted they’d been overzealous, and the man still sleeps somewhere out in the woods under
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