by God learned to play the guitar backward by now. They also gathered in a couple named Henderson, who had come into town for a funeral earlier in the day and said they could use a wake. About an hour later a skinny bald man in his seventies, who was easily six-foot-six, knocked on the door and asked to join the party.
He produced a business card: "Mr. Kite, Layman Activist, The Church of the Sub-Genius."
"It's the world's first industrial Church," he explained to Father Adam.
"Industrial?" asked the priest.
"Right. We pay taxes and everything," replied Mr. Kite.
"I'm not sure I understand. What is it you believe in?"
"Everything," said Mr. Kite with a smile. "But mostly the free-market economy."
So they all had another drink on that, for the benefit of Mr. Kite.
Felix sat stone still and staring throughout. He didn't speak, didn't get up, didn't acknowledge anyone. There was something so threatening about his somber posture that none of the strangers even tried to approach him. And inquires were put off by Team members.
Only Davette seemed unable to stay away. She got close enough to him to change his ashtray twice. And Annabelle thought she was going to speak to him a few times, almost on impulse. But she didn't and neither did anyone else.
But Jack seemed happy about it all. Weirdly content in fact. Occasionally the Team would spot him standing off to one side, catching his party breath and grinning at Felix's back.
Does he know something we don't know? wondered Cat. Or is he just blind?
By three thirty the party was running out of steam for those with nothing to celebrate. The Hendersons, who had been trying to teach two of the truckers to dance and sing, had finally given up. Their only decent pupil had been a barrel-chested old man with "Pop" on his uniform who had actually learned a few steps of soft shoe in his heavy boots before collapsing from alcohol and years. Once that last person was off his feet, the sleepies began to creep in on all non-Team members. They could have reinvigorated for more fun - Team Crow had its ways. But no one wanted them to stay.
Felix had started talking to himself.
Angrily, forcefully, furiously... but in total silence. His lips moved, his face warped in rage, the words spitting bitterly out, but not one sound came with them.
Jack gave Annabelle a look. She used her deft touch and less than five minutes later the revelers had been poured out and the door locked behind them. Then they stood, Cat and Carl, Annabelle and Davette, Adam and Kirk, and Jack Crow, and watched. It was eerie. The music still played softly. The cheap overhead lights of the motel room reached Felix's corner only in shadows that played oddly on his working silent face.
Annabelle stood next to Jack. She sounded more concerned than frightened. "Oh, Jack! How much has he had to drink?"
Jack smiled softly down at her. "He's not drunk."
"Not drunk? I find that hard to believe."
Jack shrugged. "Oh, he is drunk. But not drunk drunk. This isn't booze."
"What is it?"
Jack paused a moment, thinking.
He seems so confident, Annabelle thought, looking up at him.
"What is it?" she repeated.
"Claustrophobia."
"What?" Cat whispered suspiciously.
Jack laughed quietly, looked at them all. "C'mon, people. Let's all have a seat."
And except for Davette, they did. She stayed fussing idly in the kitchen while the rest of them found a seat on the floor or sprawled on the couches. Jack took the only other easy chair and drew it up to face Felix's, about six feet directly in front of him.
Felix saw him, knew he was there. His lips went still. But he didn't look directly at him or anyone else.
"Davette," Jack called out softly, "turn that off."
She eyed him nervously, then smiled and stepped over and turned off the music. Very quiet, all of a sudden.
Then Jack leaned forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees and smiling pleasantly into his drink.
"Okay..." he said.
It took a couple of beats. Then the gunman's eyes riveted onto Jack's. Still staring, Felix took a sip from his bottle, lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and spoke. Drunk as he was, his words were clear. Very cold, like very sharp ice.
But clear.
"You're out of this, Crow. It's blown. They know who you are. They know what you do. They know your name."
"So?"
"So. Change your name, change what you do. Quit. Or every job from now on will be another trap."