“That’s what I know,” Crawford said. “Just keep doing it.”
“I’d rather go back to Birmingham.”
“No,” Crawford said. “Stay with me on this.”
The last of Friday burned down the west.
Ten days to go.
35
“Ready to tell me what kind of an ‘outing’ this is?” Reba McClane asked Dolarhyde on Saturday morning when they had ridden in silence for ten minutes. She hoped it was a picnic.
The van stopped. She heard Dolarhyde roll down his window.
“Dolarhyde,” he said. “Dr. Warfield left my name.”
“Yes, sir. Would you put this under your wiper when you leave the veh
icle?”
They moved forward slowly. Reba felt a gentle curve in the road. Strange and heavy odors on the wind. An elephant trumpeted.
“The zoo,” she said. “Terrific.” She would have preferred a picnic. What the hell, this was okay. “Who’s Dr. Warfield?”
“The zoo director.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“No. We did the zoo a favor with the film. They’re paying back.”
“How?”
“You get to touch the tiger.”
“Don’t surprise me too much!”
“Did you ever look at a tiger?”
She was glad he could ask the question. “No. I remember a puma when I was little. That’s all they had at the zoo in Red Deer. I think we better talk about this.”
“They’re working on the tiger’s tooth. They have to put him to . . . sleep. If you want to, you can touch him.”
“Will there be a crowd, people waiting?”
“No. No audience. Warfield, me, a couple of people. TV’s coming in after we leave. Want to do it?” An odd urgency in the question.
“Hell fuzzy yes, I do! Thank you . . . that’s a fine surprise.”
The van stopped.
“Uh, how do I know he’s sound asleep?”
“Tickle him. If he laughs, run for it.”
The floor of the treatment room felt like linoleum under Reba’s shoes. The room was cool with large echoes. Radiant heat was coming from the far side.
A rhythmic shuffling of burdened feet and Dolarhyde guided her to one side until she felt the forked pressure of a corner.