“You and your bloody loopy syntax,” said Keith Moon. “You always talked just like you played. Too damned busy for its own good.”

“Coming from you,” said Entwistle, “I take that as a compliment.”

“You would.” Then Moon smiled. “Good to see you again, Ox.”

“Likewise.”

I looked at the Reverend. “I’m scared.”

He said nothing in return, and I knew.

Despite what Morrison had said to us, the Reverend was scared, as well.

6

It didn’t help that none of them said a word after that, just sat back there staring out at the night and looking more and more like the ghosts they claimed not to be.

They filed into the shelter silently, each finding a cot or a chair at various spots around the main floor, where they sat, watching all the doors and windows.

The dog—Lump—sat up as soon as we came inside, his ears jerking. Missy sat down to pet him when he started growling, and Beth looked at her daughter, then to me.

“Lump never growls,” she said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him all of a sudden.”

“It’s just a bad night,” I said, as if that could explain everything. “Where’s your son—sorry, I forgot his name.”

“Kyle? He’s downstairs taking a shower.”

“How’re you doing?”

“Hm? Oh, me…I’m okay.” She patted her stomach. “The food really hit the spot.”

“Well, if anybody wants seconds…”

“You’re very nice.”

“I try.”

“Would it be all right if the kids watched Rudolph again? Kyle and Missy really like it, even though the Bumble kinda scares them.”

“The Bumble?”

“The Abominable Snow Monster. Remember, Yukon Cornelius calls it the ‘Bumble’?”

“That’s right. Huh. Thing scared me half to death when I was a kid and saw it for the first time.”

The Reverend called me over to the kitchen area, where he, Jackson, and Grant McCullers were warming up some stew and wrapping other food for the refrigerator. Grant was doing most of the wrapping, and doing it quickly. I only mention this because he’s got a bad hand that looks more like a claw than it does a human hand. It’s been that way for as long as I’ve known him. Arthritis. But he can play a mean harmonica better, serve drinks more smoothly, and wrap food faster and with more dexterity than anyone I’ve ever seen.

“Hey, Sam, I hear you’re something of a music expert,” said Grant.

“Not an expert, but I know trivia. Some trivia.”

“Did you ever hear of a band called Parallax?” asked Grant.

I looked at Jackson and the Reverend, both of whom were staring at me like the answer to this was something important.

“Sure. They only did three albums, but they were pretty good.”

Grant finished wrapping a half-pound of hamburger, tossed it onto the pile of to-be-frozen foods. “They were from Ohio, right?”

I nodded. “Two of them were from Zanesville, but the guitarist, Byron Knight, he was from here, from Cedar Hill.”

Grant exchanged an I-told-you-so look with Jackson, who nodded his head and gestured for the Reverend and me to follow him into the back.