blind on the road to Damascus by the sight of his Savior. The immense face of Bug House, however, emitted no great radiance and rather than struck blind he found himself only slightly nauseous.
Delandra Hummer had put away the gun and taken up a redfaced Gibson Hummingbird. She was sitting on the passenger side of the seat with the door propped open and her legs stretched out in front of her so the moonlight could hit her boots. A simple three-chord progression wafted across the land. Obadiah imagined the softly glowing eyes of whatever it was they had stolen staring back at him from the glass-and-wood coffin. He imagined the eyes of the Mystery of the Mojave finding the Thorazine-blasted eyes of Bug House far above him and he felt himself gone weightless once more, strung like catgut between them. Delandra plucked the guitar and he himself was the sound—the waterfall of notes dissipating in the darkness. “Well Obo was a good old bo,” Delandra composed in country twang. “But I don’t know where he’s been. Obo why don’t you crawl on over and play with me. Obo why don’t you crawl on over and we’ll have a partee.”
Obadiah lay on his stomach in the cool sand, little bits of gravel sticking to his face and hair. He rolled onto his back and looked down the length of his body, across the tips of his shoes. He watched Delandra Hummer at the open door of the Dodge. Her song seemed to have driven his image of Bug House from the sky, leaving only the night, and it occurred to him that he was, in spite of everything, a lucky man. He thought about pulling himself together and getting to his feet but he let the idea slide. He was vaguely worried about scorpions and snakes but even that fear was not enough to overcome the inertia of the moment. He called out to Delandra across the tops of his shoes. “Delandra,” he called, and she stopped singing. He saw her turn in his direction though he imagined he would be hard to see—given his distance from her and his supine position. “What is it, Delandra? I mean, really. What is that Thing?”
Delandra Hummer strummed a chord. “Beats me,” she said. “But I’ll wager I can sell it.”
W hen Rex found the Thing gone he had been seized by something more than panic, by an emotion as malign and ravenous as any he had yet endured. In a cold sweat he had climbed the hill back of the empty museum, boots sliding in the loose soil, a knot of white-hot pain riding high in his chest. And there was nothing for it but to run. And he had, driven by a dumb animal fear: fear of the men who had threatened him, fear of a new and unspeakable emptiness at the center of his being. “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone,” Rex said. By the dim light of his dashboard he could see his miserable face reflected in the windshield of his father’s truck and it was to this flabby, translucent phantom that he occasionally addressed himself. “Man’s not stupid,” he said, repeating what the Indian had said to him. “Gracious no. Not this dumb suck butt. Not Rex Hummer.” The apparition grinned stupidly and Rex’s words came back to him like rain on a hard wind.
• • •
The men had been waiting for him in front of the bar, the two black men, the Indian. They were driving a 1959 Cadillac de Ville. The car was fire-engine red with white leather upholstery and so bright it was hard to look at by the light of midmorning. There was some kind of wooden chest riding lengthways in the backseat, making it necessary for all four men to ride up front as they returned to the museum.
It was a short, cramped ride and on the way the cadaverous black man offered an explanation. “My boss runs a business out of L.A.,” the man told him. “I make trips all over and I buy things. Take them back to the city. The Man owns a shop; he fixes them up, sells them.”
“Kind of an antiques dealer,” Rex offered.
“That’s it,” the man said. “But it doesn’t have to
Delandra Hummer had put away the gun and taken up a redfaced Gibson Hummingbird. She was sitting on the passenger side of the seat with the door propped open and her legs stretched out in front of her so the moonlight could hit her boots. A simple three-chord progression wafted across the land. Obadiah imagined the softly glowing eyes of whatever it was they had stolen staring back at him from the glass-and-wood coffin. He imagined the eyes of the Mystery of the Mojave finding the Thorazine-blasted eyes of Bug House far above him and he felt himself gone weightless once more, strung like catgut between them. Delandra plucked the guitar and he himself was the sound—the waterfall of notes dissipating in the darkness. “Well Obo was a good old bo,” Delandra composed in country twang. “But I don’t know where he’s been. Obo why don’t you crawl on over and play with me. Obo why don’t you crawl on over and we’ll have a partee.”
Obadiah lay on his stomach in the cool sand, little bits of gravel sticking to his face and hair. He rolled onto his back and looked down the length of his body, across the tips of his shoes. He watched Delandra Hummer at the open door of the Dodge. Her song seemed to have driven his image of Bug House from the sky, leaving only the night, and it occurred to him that he was, in spite of everything, a lucky man. He thought about pulling himself together and getting to his feet but he let the idea slide. He was vaguely worried about scorpions and snakes but even that fear was not enough to overcome the inertia of the moment. He called out to Delandra across the tops of his shoes. “Delandra,” he called, and she stopped singing. He saw her turn in his direction though he imagined he would be hard to see—given his distance from her and his supine position. “What is it, Delandra? I mean, really. What is that Thing?”
Delandra Hummer strummed a chord. “Beats me,” she said. “But I’ll wager I can sell it.”
W hen Rex found the Thing gone he had been seized by something more than panic, by an emotion as malign and ravenous as any he had yet endured. In a cold sweat he had climbed the hill back of the empty museum, boots sliding in the loose soil, a knot of white-hot pain riding high in his chest. And there was nothing for it but to run. And he had, driven by a dumb animal fear: fear of the men who had threatened him, fear of a new and unspeakable emptiness at the center of his being. “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone,” Rex said. By the dim light of his dashboard he could see his miserable face reflected in the windshield of his father’s truck and it was to this flabby, translucent phantom that he occasionally addressed himself. “Man’s not stupid,” he said, repeating what the Indian had said to him. “Gracious no. Not this dumb suck butt. Not Rex Hummer.” The apparition grinned stupidly and Rex’s words came back to him like rain on a hard wind.
• • •
The men had been waiting for him in front of the bar, the two black men, the Indian. They were driving a 1959 Cadillac de Ville. The car was fire-engine red with white leather upholstery and so bright it was hard to look at by the light of midmorning. There was some kind of wooden chest riding lengthways in the backseat, making it necessary for all four men to ride up front as they returned to the museum.
It was a short, cramped ride and on the way the cadaverous black man offered an explanation. “My boss runs a business out of L.A.,” the man told him. “I make trips all over and I buy things. Take them back to the city. The Man owns a shop; he fixes them up, sells them.”
“Kind of an antiques dealer,” Rex offered.
“That’s it,” the man said. “But it doesn’t have to
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