request.
Yet, as was her nature, she still had hope. Her heart clenched like a fist around a nugget of hope; and if not as much as a nugget, then at least a pebble; and if not a pebble, a grain. But around a single grain of sand, an oyster builds a pearl.
Rain. Rain. Rain.
15
THE SECOND ABANDONED VEHICLE, A LINCOLN Navigator, stood in the northbound lane, facing the Explorer as it traveled southbound. The engine was idling, as had been the case with the Infiniti, and none of the tires was flat, suggesting that the SUV had in no way failed its driver.
The headlights were doused, but the emergency flashers flung off rhythmic flares, with stroboscopic effect, so that the million tongues of rain appeared to stutter, stutter in their fall.
On the Infiniti, three of four doors had stood open, but in this case only one. The rear door on the driver’s side admitted rain and offered a view of the backseat illuminated by the Lincoln’s interior lights.
“Neil, my God.”
Molly braked, stopped, as Neil said, “What?”
The smeared glass in her door, the blurring rain, and the metronomic dazzle of the flashers all combined to deceive the eye, yet Molly knew what she saw, and knew what she must do.
“There’s a child,” she said, shifting the Explorer into park. “A baby.”
“Where?”
“On the backseat of that Navigator,” she said, and threw open her door.
“Molly, wait!”
If the rain was toxic, she had been poisoned beyond the hope of antidote when they had fled Harry Corrigan’s house. Another dose could do no worse injury than the damage she had already sustained.
As if the rain were warmer than it was, the beaten blacktop sweated oil and made slick the path beneath her feet.
Molly slipped, slid, almost went down. Regaining her balance, she was gripped by the conviction that something watched her, some creature in hiding, and that if she had fallen, the nameless thing would have slithered out of the wet gloom, would have seized her in cruel jaws, and in an instant would have carried her off the pavement, over the crest of the ridge, into trees and weeds and brambles, down into the thorny belly of the night.
Reaching the open door of the Navigator, she discovered that the abandoned child—not an infant but a barefoot little girl in pink pedal pushers and a yellow T-shirt—was a large doll, only a couple of inches shorter than two feet. Its chubby jointed arms were extended as if in supplication or in hope of an embrace.
Molly looked into the front seat, then into the cargo space at the back of the SUV. No one.
The child to whom the doll belonged had gone wherever her parents had gone. To shelter, perhaps.
And what is the most enduring place of shelter if not death?
Rebelling against that thought, Molly pressed through the rain to the back of the Navigator.
Neil called worriedly to her. She turned and saw that he had gotten out of the Explorer and stood, shotgun in both hands, giving her cover.
Although she couldn’t quite hear his words, she knew that he wanted her to get behind the wheel once more and drive them into town.
Shaking her head, she went around behind the Navigator and then to the passenger’s side. She wanted to be sure that the child, the owner of the doll, had not crouched behind the vehicle, hiding from whatever menace might come along the highway, from whatever evil might have taken her parents.
No child huddled there. Nor under the SUV, either, when Molly dropped to her knees and searched that low space.
The shoulder of the road was narrow. Spalled-off asphalt and gravel and the sparkling shards of tossed-away bottles and the bright aluminum ring-pulls from uncounted beverage cans dimly reflected the luminous rain, a meaningless mosaic in an unstable bed of mud.
When Molly rose to her feet again, she thought that the woods, already crowding the highway before she dropped to her hands and knees, had grown closer while her back was turned. The saturated boughs of the
Yet, as was her nature, she still had hope. Her heart clenched like a fist around a nugget of hope; and if not as much as a nugget, then at least a pebble; and if not a pebble, a grain. But around a single grain of sand, an oyster builds a pearl.
Rain. Rain. Rain.
15
THE SECOND ABANDONED VEHICLE, A LINCOLN Navigator, stood in the northbound lane, facing the Explorer as it traveled southbound. The engine was idling, as had been the case with the Infiniti, and none of the tires was flat, suggesting that the SUV had in no way failed its driver.
The headlights were doused, but the emergency flashers flung off rhythmic flares, with stroboscopic effect, so that the million tongues of rain appeared to stutter, stutter in their fall.
On the Infiniti, three of four doors had stood open, but in this case only one. The rear door on the driver’s side admitted rain and offered a view of the backseat illuminated by the Lincoln’s interior lights.
“Neil, my God.”
Molly braked, stopped, as Neil said, “What?”
The smeared glass in her door, the blurring rain, and the metronomic dazzle of the flashers all combined to deceive the eye, yet Molly knew what she saw, and knew what she must do.
“There’s a child,” she said, shifting the Explorer into park. “A baby.”
“Where?”
“On the backseat of that Navigator,” she said, and threw open her door.
“Molly, wait!”
If the rain was toxic, she had been poisoned beyond the hope of antidote when they had fled Harry Corrigan’s house. Another dose could do no worse injury than the damage she had already sustained.
As if the rain were warmer than it was, the beaten blacktop sweated oil and made slick the path beneath her feet.
Molly slipped, slid, almost went down. Regaining her balance, she was gripped by the conviction that something watched her, some creature in hiding, and that if she had fallen, the nameless thing would have slithered out of the wet gloom, would have seized her in cruel jaws, and in an instant would have carried her off the pavement, over the crest of the ridge, into trees and weeds and brambles, down into the thorny belly of the night.
Reaching the open door of the Navigator, she discovered that the abandoned child—not an infant but a barefoot little girl in pink pedal pushers and a yellow T-shirt—was a large doll, only a couple of inches shorter than two feet. Its chubby jointed arms were extended as if in supplication or in hope of an embrace.
Molly looked into the front seat, then into the cargo space at the back of the SUV. No one.
The child to whom the doll belonged had gone wherever her parents had gone. To shelter, perhaps.
And what is the most enduring place of shelter if not death?
Rebelling against that thought, Molly pressed through the rain to the back of the Navigator.
Neil called worriedly to her. She turned and saw that he had gotten out of the Explorer and stood, shotgun in both hands, giving her cover.
Although she couldn’t quite hear his words, she knew that he wanted her to get behind the wheel once more and drive them into town.
Shaking her head, she went around behind the Navigator and then to the passenger’s side. She wanted to be sure that the child, the owner of the doll, had not crouched behind the vehicle, hiding from whatever menace might come along the highway, from whatever evil might have taken her parents.
No child huddled there. Nor under the SUV, either, when Molly dropped to her knees and searched that low space.
The shoulder of the road was narrow. Spalled-off asphalt and gravel and the sparkling shards of tossed-away bottles and the bright aluminum ring-pulls from uncounted beverage cans dimly reflected the luminous rain, a meaningless mosaic in an unstable bed of mud.
When Molly rose to her feet again, she thought that the woods, already crowding the highway before she dropped to her hands and knees, had grown closer while her back was turned. The saturated boughs of the
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