"Mom..."

"What?"

"You're not a scout."

The needle hadn't been as big as he had let himself imagine, but it had been plenty big enough, and Teri had felt that terrible guilt of motherhood when a silent tear had slipped out of the corner of the boy's eye and trailed down his cheek.

But that was over now, and behind them.

"What do you say to an ice cream?" she asked, buckling the seat belt.

He nodded, still a little angry at her.

"Baskin Robbins?"

Another nod, just as unforgiving.

She started up the car, the engine cold and registering its complaint with a knocking sound that Michael would have described as nothing more than a ping. It was a tight squeeze backing out. An old Toyota pickup had moved into the space on her left and there was a concrete block wall on the right. She backed out slowly, making a hard turn once the front bumper was clear.

"I'm sorry it hurt so much," she said apologetically.

"You said it wouldn't hurt."

"I know. And I'm sorry." She shifted into first and started out of the lot. "It's just that sometimes adults forget how much things can hurt."

"Did you ever have to give blood?"

"Uh-huh."

"Did it hurt?"

"You bet," she said, checking the rear view mirror. There was a black, late model Ford in the outside lane, maybe half a block behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she hadn't lost sight of a car in her blind spot, then turned on her signal and moved to the inside lane.

"But sometimes you just have to do things you'd rather not have to do," she said. "You remember when you and your father drove over to Reno to pick up your grandfather's bedroom set?"

"Yeah."

"You remember how you got caught in that snow storm, and how your father had to get out of the truck and put chains on the tires?" She turned left at Bellows Road and moved back into the right lane. Baskin Robbins was another two miles down the road, a small shop that sat just outside the Shasta Valley Mall.

"It made his fingers hurt," the boy said.

"But he still had to get the chains on, didn't he?"

"It's like the summer, when you make me mow the lawn every week."

She laughed and glanced across the seat at him. He seemed so tiny, sitting there staring out the window. She had almost missed the fact that for a moment he had been Gabe in her mind and they had taken a trip far back in time. She wondered now who he really was, this boy. She found herself wondering even louder when he began to chew on his fingernails again.

The weather had been moody all morning, a little patch of sunshine here, a little sprinkle of raindrops there. But it was beginning to turn serious now. The sky had darkened noticeably, and off to the west, she could see a sheet of rain falling out of the clouds, all the way to the ground like a huge drape across the horizon.

"Mom?"

"What?" She checked the rearview mirror again. There was a white van keeping a safe distance not far behind, and a small foreign car-a Yugo or some such thing-in the other lane, a little further back. Traffic was light for this time of day.

"What about Dad?"

"What about him?"

"Where is he?"

And there was something else. She had come away from the doctor's office with a feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach. For awhile, she thought it might have been something the doctor had said or maybe something he had done, some little signal he had sent that her brain had missed but her intuition had caught. Only now, she realized it hadn't had anything at all to do with the doctor. It had been about the black, late model Ford she had noticed outside his office. It had pulled out behind her innocently enough, but it was still trailing along not far behind the white van.

That was the reason for her sense of unease.

They were being followed.

[28].

Walt answered the phone in that tone of his that could be gruff and unforgiving. He was like that most often when he felt interrupted. In this case, though, it was because he hadn't been expecting a call, and a call unexpected was usually bad news.

"Yeah?"

"Walt?"

"Who's this?"

"It's Mark."

Mark Sessions worked in the computer section of the local baby Bell. Walt had met him years ago in the midst of a department tap on a suspected drug smuggler. The tap had snagged the smuggler; Mark had received a letter of appreciation from the department; and Walt had made himself a friend inside the phone company.

"What's up?" Walt asked.

"I can't talk long, but I thought I'd let you know that you were right. There was a call made from the Knight house a couple nights ago."

"What time?"

"A little before ten."

"That's what I wanted to hear, Mark. Hold on a sec and let me get a pencil and paper." He pulled open the drawer of the night stand and rummaged around blindly under the Gideon Bible.

"Don't bother."

"Why? What's the problem?"

"You aren't going to like this. The number belongs to a phone booth."

"Jesus."

"Sorry, Walt."

"Don't be. I should have known." He closed the drawer, suddenly feeling tired again, and leaned back against the stack of pillows.

"It was only a block away."

"What?"

"The phone booth... it was only a block away. At the 7-Eleven on Kirkwood. I can't be sure of this, of course, but it looks like they linked that number to a number in Chico."

"Another phone booth, right?"

"You got it," Mark said. "And from there, it went down to the Bay Area. After that, it's anybody's guess. Sorry."

"No need. At least that confirms what we're dealing with."

"If anything else comes up..."

"Thanks, Mark."

"No problem."

Walt hung up and gazed out the window. He watched a puff of gray-white clouds go sauntering past the Motel Six sign and disappear into the distant blue sky like one of David Copperfield's illusions.

Illusions were showing up everywhere it seemed.

[29].

"Have you got your seat belt on?" Teri did her best to keep the calm in her voice. In the side mirror, the black Ford drifted toward the inside of the lane then back behind the white van again. It was like looking up to find someone staring at you from across the room, and it stood the hairs up on the back of Teri's neck.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because you're supposed to," she said.

She pressed down on the accelerator, and the car gradually increased speed from thirty-five to forty. The white van began to fall back, shrinking in the rearview mirror, and for a brief moment Teri let herself hope for the best. It did not last long.

The black Ford crossed to the inside lane. The sky, dark and cloudy, rolled across its windshield like an old grainy movie, and beneath the gray veil she could barely make out the figure of someone sitting in the passenger seat. He shifted forward briefly; his hands on the dashboard, then sank back into the shadows again "So where is he?" the boy asked again about Michael.

"Not now, honey."

"He's okay, isn't he?"

"Please." The tires began to pound out a sudden rhythm, and she realized the car had drifted too close to the lane divider. She made a small correction back into the outside lane, and focused once again on the black Ford.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing, honey."

The boy glanced over his shoulder out the back window. "It's a cop, isn't it?"

"No, I don't think so."

The Ford slowly inched forward, trailing along slightly less than a car-length back now. An endless parade of dark-gray clouds went swimming across its windshield, like a sea of whitecaps, and barely discernible beneath them, Teri thought she caught a glimpse of the driver's face. It was Mitch.

"Oh, my God."

"What's the matter?"

"It's him," she said.

"Who?"

"That man from the other night."

Up ahead, the stop light turned green and she said a silent prayer that it would hold. She pressed down on the accelerator and brought the speed up to just under fifty.

"What do they want?"

"I don't know."

In the rearview mirror, she watched the white van pull into a Chevron station on the right. The Ford immediately increased its speed, moving up along side her on the left. The light turned yellow as both cars sailed through the intersection. On the far side, the Ford switched lanes and cut in front of her.

"So what are we gonna do?"

"I'm not sure," she said honestly. She thought she had heard a hint of fear in the boy's voice, and she didn't want to add to that, not even a little, because it was everything she could do to keep her own fears under control.

A light drizzle began to fall. Teri turned on the wipers. They made a maddening, rasping sound as they scraped across the surface of the glass for the first stroke or two, then settled into the steady tempo of a metronome.

Up ahead, the rear passenger-side window of the Ford slowly rolled down. She watched a black-gloved hand emerge like a vampire bat flitting out of its cave just after twilight. With the index finger in the air, it motioned toward the curb, and she knew time was quickly running short.

"You aren't going to stop, are you?"

Teri checked her rearview mirror.

"Mom?"

"Hold on," she said.

[30].

Walt hung up the phone, uneasy with the knowledge that whoever was after Teri, they were obviously sophisticated and very well-funded. He didn't care much for the implications of that thought. There was a chance-a good chance, in fact-that he might be getting in over his head. Though he tried to remind himself that chance was a two-headed coin. The fact that they were sophisticated at least narrowed down some of the suspects.

All this whirled around in his head like a wind storm shifting the sands, and eventually he fluffed up the pillows and settled back for a short nap.

With the nap, came the dream.

"Write your name, Mr. Travis."

Walt looked up from his desk. He was in the first row, second to last seat, farthest from the window that looked out across the school yard. Someone had carved the initials W.T. into the desktop, and circled it with a black permanent marker. It was not a nice thing to have done.

"Huh?"