Institution,” stamped on his face. Kelloggs was wearing a cheap green Sears suit and a black tie and white shirt. It was the cheapest looking suit Dillon had ever seen. The gang posed as magazine salesmen—or, in Southern California, roofing salesmen—and dressed accordingly.
“Look, I have to tell you something,” Dillon said.
A black man named Earnest Flood, once an NFL linebacker in the ‘80s, had gone into the bathroom and was pouring himself a glass of water. He walked back into the room. A Taco Bell bag lay open on the unmade bed. Flood was a junk-food freak and always ate the same thing before a robbery. The black man was wearing two .45s: one tucked in the small of his back, the other in a shoulder harness.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Dillon said, “but I’m going to tell you anyway. There’s something happening to people.”
“What do you mean?” Flood said. The California State Prison system had marked him as a Class One Felon, which meant that if he was arrested again he would spend the rest of his life at the state’s infamous maximum-security prison at Pelican Bay. “People starting to like magazine salesmen?”
“I saw something in Elko. Your wife’s in Elko, isn’t she?” Dillon said to Kelloggs.
“Close, in the desert, about twenty miles away. Why?”
“Try calling her,” Dillon said. “Go ahead.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Go ahead. Try calling her.”
“Hey, is this a joke?” Kelloggs said. He went to the desk and sat down.
“No. There’s some kind of—I don’t know how to explain it, exactly,” Dillon said. He looked across the room at Flood. Flood had sat on the room’s ratty sunk-down-in-the-middle couch. “Just try and call her,” Dillon said.
“Are you saying something’s happened to my wife?”
“I’m saying that if you try and call on a land line you won’t get through, that’s what I’m saying. You’re not going to get through because they took over down there. The things took over. The Howlers,” Dillon said.
Flood smiled. It was the kind of smile cons get when someone bugged out in the yard, or some pretty eighteen-year-old punk said he wasn’t going to blow you. “White boy lost it,” he said. “White boy gone crazy.”
They watched Kelloggs dial the room’s phone. He ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. He had been born in East Texas; his father had been a Texas Ranger, no less. The room was quiet. Kelloggs looked at Dillon in a strange way while he dialed the phone. He held the old-school black receiver for a long time before he put it back down on its cradle.
“Lines are down, it says,” Kelloggs said. “They said to try later.”
“The lines are fine,” Dillon said. That’s not the problem.”
“Yeah? So what’s the problem, then?” Kelloggs asked.
Dillon sat down on the edge of the bed, opened a pint bottle of brandy he’d bought on Main Street and took a long pull. Then he told them what exactly he’d seen the day before.
CHAPTER 7
Lacy Collier looked up from her medical textbook. She was alone in the big knotty-pine living room at her family’s ranch. The morning had a stillness she had not experienced in years. She’d lost her cell phone on a horseback ride and didn’t miss it, she decided, putting the book down . It was liberating to go without it. There were dimensions to morning she’d forgotten existed. It was liberating not to be interrupted by a random text message. The idea of being cut off completely— from her friends at school, from her boyfriend, from everyone —was liberating.
A light was on by the couch where she’d been trying to read, but the decision she had to make distracted her. Go back to medical school—or not?
She got up and walked to the picture windows that looked out on the barn, and the Sierra Madre behind in the distance. It was snowing hard, the bad weather obscuring almost everything.
I couldn’t be happy living here in Timberline again.
She
“Look, I have to tell you something,” Dillon said.
A black man named Earnest Flood, once an NFL linebacker in the ‘80s, had gone into the bathroom and was pouring himself a glass of water. He walked back into the room. A Taco Bell bag lay open on the unmade bed. Flood was a junk-food freak and always ate the same thing before a robbery. The black man was wearing two .45s: one tucked in the small of his back, the other in a shoulder harness.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Dillon said, “but I’m going to tell you anyway. There’s something happening to people.”
“What do you mean?” Flood said. The California State Prison system had marked him as a Class One Felon, which meant that if he was arrested again he would spend the rest of his life at the state’s infamous maximum-security prison at Pelican Bay. “People starting to like magazine salesmen?”
“I saw something in Elko. Your wife’s in Elko, isn’t she?” Dillon said to Kelloggs.
“Close, in the desert, about twenty miles away. Why?”
“Try calling her,” Dillon said. “Go ahead.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Go ahead. Try calling her.”
“Hey, is this a joke?” Kelloggs said. He went to the desk and sat down.
“No. There’s some kind of—I don’t know how to explain it, exactly,” Dillon said. He looked across the room at Flood. Flood had sat on the room’s ratty sunk-down-in-the-middle couch. “Just try and call her,” Dillon said.
“Are you saying something’s happened to my wife?”
“I’m saying that if you try and call on a land line you won’t get through, that’s what I’m saying. You’re not going to get through because they took over down there. The things took over. The Howlers,” Dillon said.
Flood smiled. It was the kind of smile cons get when someone bugged out in the yard, or some pretty eighteen-year-old punk said he wasn’t going to blow you. “White boy lost it,” he said. “White boy gone crazy.”
They watched Kelloggs dial the room’s phone. He ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. He had been born in East Texas; his father had been a Texas Ranger, no less. The room was quiet. Kelloggs looked at Dillon in a strange way while he dialed the phone. He held the old-school black receiver for a long time before he put it back down on its cradle.
“Lines are down, it says,” Kelloggs said. “They said to try later.”
“The lines are fine,” Dillon said. That’s not the problem.”
“Yeah? So what’s the problem, then?” Kelloggs asked.
Dillon sat down on the edge of the bed, opened a pint bottle of brandy he’d bought on Main Street and took a long pull. Then he told them what exactly he’d seen the day before.
CHAPTER 7
Lacy Collier looked up from her medical textbook. She was alone in the big knotty-pine living room at her family’s ranch. The morning had a stillness she had not experienced in years. She’d lost her cell phone on a horseback ride and didn’t miss it, she decided, putting the book down . It was liberating to go without it. There were dimensions to morning she’d forgotten existed. It was liberating not to be interrupted by a random text message. The idea of being cut off completely— from her friends at school, from her boyfriend, from everyone —was liberating.
A light was on by the couch where she’d been trying to read, but the decision she had to make distracted her. Go back to medical school—or not?
She got up and walked to the picture windows that looked out on the barn, and the Sierra Madre behind in the distance. It was snowing hard, the bad weather obscuring almost everything.
I couldn’t be happy living here in Timberline again.
She
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