The communal showers—a large wood-paneled building, women to the left, men to the right—were practically empty. An attendant at the towel and soap station lounged back on his stool and only leaned forward when Edward approached. "Step right up," the young man said, flourishing a small bar of soap and a towel. "No waiting."

Edward smiled. "Must be dull."

"It's wonderful," the attendant said.

"How many people here?"

"In the entire valley? Maybe two, three hundred. At Camp Curry, no more than thirty. Perfectly peaceful."

Edward showered in a clean, virtually unused stall, then shaved himself with a disposable razor in a mirror long enough to accommodate fifteen or twenty men. One other came in to shower, smiling cheerfully. Edward nodded cordially, feeling like privileged nobility, packed up his kit, and returned to the tent cabin.

By eight, he had had enough of reading the books he had bought in the shopping mall bookstore. He turned out the overhead light and plumped up the pillows, and then lay sleepless for an hour, thinking, listening.

Somewhere in the valley, a group of kids sang folk songs, their young voices rising high in the starry darkness. They sounded like cheerful ghosts.

I'm home.

Chapter 55

55

Reuben turned nineteen on March 15, in Alexandria, Virginia. He celebrated by buying himself a doughnut and a carton of milk in a small bakery, and then stood on the street, drawing suspicious glances. He had bought a new overcoat and a fedora, but tall, muscular young blacks, standing idle, dressed even in inconspicuous nonconformity, were not a favored attraction in the tourist district. He did not care. He knew what he was doing.

With a flourish, he tossed the carton and the waxed-paper doughnut wrapper into a public trash can, wiped his lips delicately with the knuckle of his index finger, and unlocked the door of a faded silver 1985 Chrysler LeBar-on. He had purchased the car with cash in Richmond and had already, in just three days, put four hundred miles on it. It was the first car he had ever bought, and he didn't care whether he owned it or not. He had sole use of it, and that was what counted.

The remainder of the bag full of cash—about ten thousand dollars—he had stashed in the trunk under the spare tire.

"Okay," he said, listening to the engine smoothly idling. "Where to?"

He squinted a moment. Now, the orders usually came from people, and not from the indefinite nonvoice of what those on the network called the Boss. Reuben had even come to recognize the "signatures" of certain human personalities he communicated with, but this time, they were not familiar to him.