don’t seem so bad,” Morse said after they were out of earshot.
“No,” said Stephens. “I think that speeding thing must have been a…well, a miscalculation. I mean, how would they have known there would be bicyclists on the road? You have to agree, we weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Neither were they,” Zak said.
As the five of them walked down the hill a few minutes later, Muldaur had his false teeth in, his Coke-bottle glasses on, and his helmet adjusted tight and low over his ears. Zak turned to him and said, “You sure you want to do this?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Muldaur strode ahead in an awkward gait neither Stephens nor Morse had seen before. The walk alone made Zak laugh.
Giancarlo smiled at Zak and said, “
He’s
Hugh? The guy who’s always visiting your station?”
“Yep.”
“Does anybody else know?”
“Just me.”
“What’s so funny?” asked Morse. “What the hell is he up to?”
“Just play along, okay?”
“Yeah,” Giancarlo said to the others. “You’re going to have to see this to believe it.”
8
A s they walked down the hill Zak and Muldaur threw each other looks to show their unease over the venture, while Morse and Stephens, seemingly content, led the way into the camp at a leisurely pace. Muldaur was in full disguise and was moving in that ungainly, jerky motion he was so good at. Even his friends at the station hadn’t been able to see through his modest getup, the slightly altered modulation in his voice, or the distorted body language. As far as Zak could tell, he was the only one who knew that Hugh, who had been regularly visiting the fire station for months, was actually Muldaur playing his most elaborate practical joke yet.
Every fire station has at least one learning-disabled civilian with an obsession for firefighting apparatus who hangs around the station as much as he can. With few exceptions, most crews treat him with tolerance and generosity and enjoy having someone they can think of as their station mascot. So it wasn’t all that surprising that no one at the station saw through the Hugh disguise or that, undetected, Muldaur chose to keep his alter ego alive. It was unclear, however, why Muldaur had chosen to play Hugh just now, or why he’d bothered to bring the glasses and fake teeth along on the trip. But Muldaur was full of surprises.
The encampment below was far more elaborate than theirs. In addition to the vehicles, they’d set up four tents, camp chairs, a battery-operated television, and a barbecue grill complete with sizzling steaks. The campfire in the middle of the encampment was growing larger by the minute. So was the beer-fueled bonhomie.
Nadine’s brother sat in front of the grill in one of the camp chairs next to William Potter III—Scooter. Zak recognized most of the others, even if he didn’t know them all real well. Roger Bloomquist. Ryan Perry. While the others made introductions and ignored the fact that an hour and a half earlier these people had come as close to killing them as was humanly possible without actually doing so, Zak stood outside the circle in a disbelieving stupor. This had to be about him. There was no other reason for them to be here.
Scooter had tailed Zak before, back when Zak and Nadine were spending time together, but they weren’t an item anymore and Scooter knew that. So what was going on now?
“Don’t get too paranoid.” Roger Bloomquist was standing alongside him, speaking in a normal tone that Zak knew nobody else would be able to hear over the truck radio Fred Finnigan had just turned on full blast, both doors of his Ford winged open to send Oasis off into the hills. Zak had met him twice before at Newcastle family functions. Bloomquist, who was living on a trust fund, had started a number of half-assed rock bands and wanted to be a famous guitarist more than he wanted to breathe. Zak had heard him play the guitar and figured his chances were about one in ten thousand. His
“No,” said Stephens. “I think that speeding thing must have been a…well, a miscalculation. I mean, how would they have known there would be bicyclists on the road? You have to agree, we weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Neither were they,” Zak said.
As the five of them walked down the hill a few minutes later, Muldaur had his false teeth in, his Coke-bottle glasses on, and his helmet adjusted tight and low over his ears. Zak turned to him and said, “You sure you want to do this?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Muldaur strode ahead in an awkward gait neither Stephens nor Morse had seen before. The walk alone made Zak laugh.
Giancarlo smiled at Zak and said, “
He’s
Hugh? The guy who’s always visiting your station?”
“Yep.”
“Does anybody else know?”
“Just me.”
“What’s so funny?” asked Morse. “What the hell is he up to?”
“Just play along, okay?”
“Yeah,” Giancarlo said to the others. “You’re going to have to see this to believe it.”
8
A s they walked down the hill Zak and Muldaur threw each other looks to show their unease over the venture, while Morse and Stephens, seemingly content, led the way into the camp at a leisurely pace. Muldaur was in full disguise and was moving in that ungainly, jerky motion he was so good at. Even his friends at the station hadn’t been able to see through his modest getup, the slightly altered modulation in his voice, or the distorted body language. As far as Zak could tell, he was the only one who knew that Hugh, who had been regularly visiting the fire station for months, was actually Muldaur playing his most elaborate practical joke yet.
Every fire station has at least one learning-disabled civilian with an obsession for firefighting apparatus who hangs around the station as much as he can. With few exceptions, most crews treat him with tolerance and generosity and enjoy having someone they can think of as their station mascot. So it wasn’t all that surprising that no one at the station saw through the Hugh disguise or that, undetected, Muldaur chose to keep his alter ego alive. It was unclear, however, why Muldaur had chosen to play Hugh just now, or why he’d bothered to bring the glasses and fake teeth along on the trip. But Muldaur was full of surprises.
The encampment below was far more elaborate than theirs. In addition to the vehicles, they’d set up four tents, camp chairs, a battery-operated television, and a barbecue grill complete with sizzling steaks. The campfire in the middle of the encampment was growing larger by the minute. So was the beer-fueled bonhomie.
Nadine’s brother sat in front of the grill in one of the camp chairs next to William Potter III—Scooter. Zak recognized most of the others, even if he didn’t know them all real well. Roger Bloomquist. Ryan Perry. While the others made introductions and ignored the fact that an hour and a half earlier these people had come as close to killing them as was humanly possible without actually doing so, Zak stood outside the circle in a disbelieving stupor. This had to be about him. There was no other reason for them to be here.
Scooter had tailed Zak before, back when Zak and Nadine were spending time together, but they weren’t an item anymore and Scooter knew that. So what was going on now?
“Don’t get too paranoid.” Roger Bloomquist was standing alongside him, speaking in a normal tone that Zak knew nobody else would be able to hear over the truck radio Fred Finnigan had just turned on full blast, both doors of his Ford winged open to send Oasis off into the hills. Zak had met him twice before at Newcastle family functions. Bloomquist, who was living on a trust fund, had started a number of half-assed rock bands and wanted to be a famous guitarist more than he wanted to breathe. Zak had heard him play the guitar and figured his chances were about one in ten thousand. His
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