Ill Wind Page 0,46

like Vogue would be banging down the door, but I looked yummy enough to turn heads. And my hands were almost steady again.

I didn't have a lot to pack, just the one duffel bag. I jammed things in, zipped it, and was ready to go. I yanked open the door and started to leave, but something stopped me.

The room still felt like David. Still smelled like him. I couldn't shake the feeling, even though I knew it was crap, that he was still in there somewhere, just out of sight, hiding. But there was no place to hide, and no matter how much of a practical joker he might be, this joke just wasn't funny.

I'd been intending to slam the door, but instead I closed it quietly, the way David must have when he left me alone with my dreams.

Pretty Miss Delilah glinted and glittered in the parking lot. I unlocked the driver's side and tossed my duffel in the back and thought about breakfast. I could, I decided, have breakfast, since my stomach was rumbling like an unexploded volcano. And coffee. Thick truck-stop coffee that was more like day-old espresso.

I needed something to live for.

Waffles sounded like as good a place to start as any.

The Waffle House came in the usual yellow, brown, and orange color scheme, bringing back all that nostalgia for avocado appliances and rust-colored shag carpeting from my childhood. I suppose the fact they were still stuck in the '70s was lucky, all things considered, since their prices shared the same time warp. I ordered a large pecan waffle with powdered sugar and crispy bacon. The waitress poured me a gallon-size cup of generic black caffeine. I fiddled with silverware until the food arrived, then gulped down juicy syrup-rich bites, alternating with crunchy bacon nibbles, until I felt better about my world and David's absence from it.

Business was sparse. Just me and four tired-looking men all in grimy baseball caps, sporting the bouncy physique of guys who spent most of their time driving and eating Ho Hos. Everybody had coffee, straight up, nothing froufrou like latte or decaf; we were all here for the straight stuff, mainlined in big chunky ceramic mugs.

Three extra-large cups later, I was ready to rock 'n' roll. I paid the tab to the ancient cashier and turned to look out the big picture windows. In between Day-Glo advertisements for the manager's specials, I saw that the storm was crawling closer. Not hell-driven, but making a pretty good clip. Still, not a problem yet. I could still outrun it. I didn't want to do any manipulation; too much risk of discovery by either my secret stalking enemy or the Association, and I wasn't so sure which, at this point, would be worse. Paul's tolerance had probably expired at about the point his time limit had clicked off. By now, every Warden in the country might be looking out for me.

As I shoved my wallet back in my pocket, I accidentally knocked over a saltshaker sitting on the counter. The silver top spiraled off, made loopy progress to the edge, and spun in a circle.

I hardly noticed, because of the interesting thing the spilled salt was doing.

It was . . . talking.

It mounded itself into little white salty letters, which said, Joanne.

I looked around. The cashier had moved on; the waitresses were all making rounds with coffeepots. Just me and the talking salt.

"Um . . . yeah?" I asked tentatively.

The salt dissolved into a flat white heap again, then scattered wider over the counter. More words. These said, South 25 mi, L on Iron Road.

My heart started pounding harder. I stared at it and finally whispered, "Is this Lewis?"

A pause. The salt wiped itself into one snowy drift, then scattered back out across the faux-wood counter.

Ya think?

"Very funny. I have to get condiments with a sense of humor. Salt was, technically, of the earth. . . . Lewis would be able to control it. In fact, in a place as generally unnatural as this, it might very well be the only thing he could control enough to get his point across. I was just happy he hadn't tried to spell out things in runny egg yolks.

Got your attention? the salt asked. Not only arrogant, but pushy, too.

"South twenty-five miles, left on Iron Road," I repeated. "Got it." I took in a