Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 111

“You could keep this.” Ed offers me his Calabi Yau model. He puts it in the palm of my hand and it wobbles there, eleven-plus dimensions, all mine.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ve got a ton of ’em to sell in the Putopia gift shops. People like to bring souvenirs back. It says you care.”

“Cool.” I stuff it in my bag. “Thanks for the veggie tacos. And if you can think of where Dr. X might be, give us a call.”

“I told you where he is,” Ed says.

“You said he went to tomorrow,” I remind him gently.

“Yeah.” He puts his taco-smudged finger on my E-ticket meter, right on top of Tomorrowland, and grins. “Get some ears. They’ll even put your name on them if you want.”

I trip over something by my feet. An orange tabby with a purple collar rubs against my legs with a loud purr. Dr. T scoops it up and gives it a scratch behind the ears.

“Schrödinger, you old devil. Where have you been? You must be starving. Come on. Let’s get you some kibble.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Of What Happens When We Pick Up Three Hitchhikers and Free the Snow Globes

The radio’s warning us about wildfires blazing out of control along the roads in Florida. The brown smoke swallows us like earth. I can barely see the road ahead.

Since we left Putopia, I’ve been completely on edge. We’re practically a big fat target driving around in the Rocinante with its bull horns front and center, and we can’t stick to the back roads forever. Could Dr. X really be at Disney World? Wouldn’t I have seen a sign by now?

“Do you think those really are just wildfires?” Gonzo asks. The three of us are strung so tight you could play us.

“Maybe,” I answer.

Balder pulls a rune from his pouch.

“What’d you get?” Gonzo asks.

Frowning, Balder holds up a completely blank rune. “Wyrd. The beginning and the end. Fate.”

I don’t know what that means, but it’s not doing anything to uncreep me. In another five miles, the smoke clears, and the sun glints off the asphalt in hard sparks. A siren wails behind us, and I swear I nearly choke on my heartbeat.

“Shit,” I say. “Be cool, be cool.”

The cop car soars past chasing somebody else, and we all let out our breath.

“We need some cover,” I say, like I know what I’m talking about, like I do this all the time.

“I fear we cannot trade this car for another,” Balder muses. “It hasn’t enough value.”

Just then I spy three guys camped out by the side of the road hoisting up a sign, PARTEE HOUSE OR BUST. It gives me an idea. I pull onto the shoulder a few feet ahead of them.

Gonzo’s eyes are wide. “Dude, what are you doing?”

“Giving them a ride. We’re going to Disney. We can drop them in Daytona. It’s on the way.”

Gonzo slaps his knee and rolls his head back to the roof like it might understand his plight. “No one ever picks up hitchers. That’s, like, the kind of safety rule they don’t even put on kids’ milk cartons anymore because they figure everybody f**king knows it already.”

“They misspelled ‘party.’ How evil genius can they be?”

He angles his body around to get a good look at the guys scrambling toward the car dragging their packs.

“Look,” I explain. “These guys could be our cover, okay? The cops are looking for two crazy teens, not a carload of college kids on the way to spring break. With those guys on board, we just look like any other caravan on the way to Daytona for spring break. We slide under the radar.”

Balder speaks up. “Cameron’s battle plan is sound. But I have seen these types before. They take pictures,” he says, exhibiting a little yard-gnome post-traumatic stress disorder.

“Don’t worry, Balder. Nobody’s taking any pictures. You’re totally safe,” I say.

“Still, I think it best if I assume my enchanted form. I shall ride beside Gonzo.”

Quickly, Balder scrambles over the front seat and gets gnomy with it just as this big, doughy guy throws open the back car door.

“Hey, man. Thanks for picking us up. We’ve been standing out there for hours.”

“Because other people, sane people, know not to stop,” Gonzo mutters under his breath.

“No prob,” I say. “I’ll pop the trunk.”

Five minutes later, we’re back on the interstate.

“So what school are y’all from?” the doughy guy sitting in the middle asks.