One Door From Heaven

aspirations, the mirror revealed cheap flash, awkwardness, naivete- and a desperate yearning, the sight of which made her cringe.
        She'd thought that she had merely grown beyond the need to use her beauty as either a tool or a weapon, but something more profound had happened. Her concept of beauty had changed entirely; and when she looked in the mirror, she saw frighteningly little that matched her new definition. This might be maturity, but it scared her; always before, her confidence in her physical beauty was something to fall back on, an ultimate consolation in bad times. Now that confidence was gone.
        An urge to shatter the mirror overcame her. But the past could not be broken as easily as glass. It was the past that stood before her, the stubborn past, relentless.

Chapter 38
        
        BOY AND DOG-the former better able to tolerate the August sun than is the latter, the latter somewhat better smelling than is the former, the former thinking again about Gabby's strangely hysterical exit from the Mountaineer, the latter thinking about frankfurters, the former marveling at the beauty of an azure-blue bird perched on a section of badly weathered and half-broken rail fence, the latter smelling the bird's droppings and thereby deducing its recent history in significant detail-are grateful for each other's company as they seek their future, first across open land and then along a lonely country road that, around a bend, is suddenly lonely no more.
        Thirty or forty motor homes, about half that many pickup trucks with camper shells, and a lot of SUVs are gathered along the side of the two-lane blacktop and in the adjacent meadow. Attached to some of the motor homes, canvas awnings create shaded areas for socializing. At least a dozen colorful tents have been pitched, as well.
        The only permanent structures in sight are in the distance: a ranch house, a barn, stables.
        A green John Deere tractor connected to a hay wagon serves as the rental office, manned by a rancher in jeans, T-shirt, and straw sombrero. A hand-lettered sign states that meadow spaces cost twenty dollars per day. It's also emblazoned with one disclaimer and one condition: NO SERVICES PROVIDED, LIABILITY WAIVER REQUIRED.
        Encountering this bustling encampment, Curtis is disposed to pass quickly and with caution. So many motor homes in one location worry him. For all he knows, this is a convention of serial killers.
        Here might be where the murderous tooth fetishists were bound. That while-haired couple could be nearby, proudly displaying their denial trophies while admiring the even more hideous collections of other homicidal psychopaths in this summer festival of the damned.
        Old Yeller, however, smells no trouble. Her natural sociability is engaged, and she wants to explore the scene.
        Curtis trusts her instincts. Besides, a crowd offers him some camouflage if the wrong scalawags come prowling with electronics, searching for the unique energy signature that the boy produces.
        The meadow is enclosed by a ranch fence of whitewashed boards needing repair and fresh whitening. The tractor guards the open gate.
        A tarp on four tall poles shields the hay wagon from the direct sun, and under the tarp, merchandise awaits sale. From a series of picnic coolers filled with crushed ice, the rancher and a teenage boy dispense cans of beer and soft drinks. They offer packaged snack foods like potato chips, as well as homemade cookies, brownies, and jars of "Grandma's locally famous" black-bean-and-corn salsa, which a sign promises is "hot enough to blow your head clean off."
        Curtis can conceive of no way in which anyone's head could be blown off cleanly. Decapitation by any means is a messy event.
        He has no difficulty understanding why Grandma's deadly salsa is locally famous, but he can't comprehend why anyone would buy it. Yet several jars are missing from the geometric display, and as he watches, two more are sold.
        This seems to indicate that a portion of those gathering in the meadow are suicidal. The dog has discounted the theory of a serial-killer convention, since she detects none of the telltale pheromones of full-blown psychosis, but Curtis is equally unenthusiastic about a gathering of the suicide-prone, regardless of their reasons for considering self-destruction.
        In addition to beverages, snacks, and the infamous salsa, the