By the light of the moon

Arizona,
and Nevada, staying in touch with the culture that had shaped her,
keeping her shtick sharp, refining her material in front of
boot-stompin' audiences that would relate to every righteous
observation with whoops of approval but would likewise hoot her off
the stage if she tried to pass off ketchup as salsa or if she went
show-biz phony on them. Driving between these gigs was part of
remaining a real and true sandsucker, and although she loved the
barren badlands and the sweeping vistas of silver sage, she
understood how the daunting emptiness of the desert could leave you
smiling as vacuously as a sock puppet, and set you to talking of
death and peanuts to an imaginary friend.
    In the refreshments alcove, the vending machines offered three
brands of diet cola, two brands of diet lemon-lime soda, and diet
Orange Crush, but in the matter of root beer, her choice was
between abstinence or the sugar-packed, big-ass-makin' real stuff.
She pumped quarters with the abandon of a gambling grandma feeding
a hot slot machine, and as three cans clattered one at a time into
the delivery tray, she murmured a Hail Mary prayer, not with a
physiology-related request attached, but just to store up a little
goodwill in Heaven.
    Carrying three cans of soda and a plastic bucket brimming with
ice cubes, she made the short trip back to her room. She'd left the
door ajar in anticipation of having full hands upon her return.
    As soon as she opened a root beer, she'd have to call her mom in
Los Angeles, have a good long mother-daughter gab about the curse
of the family ass, new material for the act, who'd been shot
recently in the neighborhood, whether the cutting from Fred was
continuing to thrive under Mom's good care, whether Clone Fred was
as cute as Fred the First....
    Shouldering inside, the first thing that she noticed was Fred,
of course, who was a breath of Zen serenity in the colorful chaos
of the clown-closet decor. And then on the desk, in the shade of
Fred, she spotted the can of Coke, beaded with icy condensation,
and the three bags of peanuts.
    A fraction of an instant later, she saw the open black satchel
on the bed. The smiling salesman had been carrying it. Probably his
sample case.
    Snake-cracking, sand-striding, Southwest Amazons need to be both
mentally and physically quick to cope with romance-minded
honky-tonk cowboys, both those who are loaded with Lone Star and
those who are inexplicably sober. Jilly could fend off the most
persistent cowpoke Casanova as fast and forcefully as she could
dance Western swing, and her collection of swing-dance trophies
filled a display case.
    Nevertheless, although she understood the danger when she'd been
in the motel room shy of two seconds, she couldn't react fast
enough to save herself from the salesman. He came from behind her,
locking one arm around her neck, pressing a rag over her face. The
soft cloth stank of chloroform or ether, or perhaps of nitrous
oxide. Not being a connoisseur of anesthetics, Jilly failed to
identify the variety and the vintage.
    She told herself Don't breathe , and knew that she should
stamp hard on one of his feet, should drive an elbow into his gut,
but her initial gasp of surprise, in the instant when the rag
covered mouth and nose, undid her. When she tried to move her right
foot, it was wobbly and seemed to be coming loose at the ankle, and
she couldn't remember where her elbows were located or how they
worked. Instead of not breathing, she breathed in again to
clear her head, and this time she filled her lungs with the essence
of darkness, as though she were a drowning swimmer, sinking,
sinking....

5
    'Doodle-deedle-doodle.'
    Was a name I gave my poodle.
    'Doodle-deedle-doodle.'
    On a flute my dog could tootle.
    Dylan O'Conner's game had long been an effective defense against
being driven into a screaming fit by his brother's occasional
spells of monotonous chanting. In the current crisis, however, if
he was not able to shut out Shep's voice, he would not be able to
stay focused on the challenge posed by his bonds. He would still be
taped to this chair, chewing on a cotton cud, when the nameless
assassins arrived with the intention of testing his blood for the
presence of stuff and then chopping him into bite-size
carrion for the delectation of desert vultures.
    As his fluttering hands rapidly constructed the two-dimensional
temple, Shep said, 'Doodle-deedle-doodle.'
    Dylan concentrated on his predicament.
    The size of the rag in his mouth