One Door From Heaven

island. These are taller than contemporary service-station pumps, perhaps seven feet, and each is crowned by what appears to be a large crystal ball.
        "Fantastic. Those probably date back to the thirties," Polly says. "You rarely see them anymore. When you pump the fuel, you can watch it swirl through the globe."
        "Why?" Curtis asks.
        She shrugs. "It's the way they work."
        A faint exhalation of wind lazily stirs the string of Christmas lights, and reflections of the red and amber bulbs glimmer and circle and twinkle within the gas-pump glass, as though fairy spirits dance inside each sphere.
        Entranced by this magical machinery, Curtis wonders: "Does it also tell your fortune or something?"
        "No. It's just cool to look at."
        "They went to all the trouble of incorporating that big glass globe in the design just because it's cool to look at?" He shakes his head with admiration for this species that makes art even of daily commerce. With affection, he says, "This is a wonderful planet."
        The twins disembark first-Cass with a large purse slung from one shoulder-intent on conducting a service-stop routine that is military in its thoroughness and precision: All ten tires must be inspected with a flashlight, the oil and the transmission fluid must be checked, the window-washing reservoir must be filled…
        Old Yeller's mission is more prosaic: She needs to toilet. And Curtis goes along to keep her company.
        He and the dog stand at the foot of the steps and listen to a mere whisper of a breeze that travels to them out of the moonlit plains in the northwest, from beyond the service station that is now blocked from sight by the Fleetwood. Apparently the night air carries a disturbing scent that inspires Old Yeller to raise her talented nose, to flare her nostrils, and to ponder the source of the smell.
        The antique pumps are on the farther side of the motor home. As the twins disappear around the bow in search of service, the sniffing dog trots toward the back, not with typical wayward doggy curiosity, but with focus, purpose. Curtis follows his sister-become.
        When they round the stern of the Fleet wood to the port side, they come into sight of the weather-beaten store about forty feet away, past the pumps. The door stands half open on hinges stiff enough to resist the breeze.
        The dog halts. Backs up a step. Perhaps because the fantastical pumps disconcert her.
        On closer consideration, Curtis finds them to be no less magical but less Tinkerbellish than they appeared from inside the vehicle. As he stares up at the globes, which are currently filled with darkness instead of with churning fuel, reflections of the red and amber Christmas lights shimmer on the surface of the glass but appear to swarm within it, and suddenly this display has an air of malevolence. Something needful and malign seems to be pent up in the spheres.
        Near the bow of the motor home, a tall bald man is talking to the twins. His back is toward Curtis, and he's forty feet away, but something seems wrong with him.
        The dog's hackles rise, and the boy suspects that the uneasiness he feels is actually her distrust transmitted to him through their special bond.
        Although Old Yeller growls low in her throat and clearly has no use for the station attendant, her primary interest lies elsewhere. She scampers away from the motor home, almost running, toward the west side of the building, and Curtis hurries after her.
        He's pretty sure this isn't about toileting anymore.
        The store sets eater-corner on the lot, facing the crossroads rather than fronting one highway, and all the lights are at its most public face. Night finds a firmer purchase along the flank of the building. And behind the place, where the clapboard wall offers one door but no windows, the darkness is deeper still, relieved only by a parsimonious moon carefully spending its silver coins.
        A Ford Explorer stands in this gloom, its contours barely traced by the lunar light. Curtis supposes that the SUV belongs to the man who's out front talking to the twins.
        The silver Corvette, which passed them on the highway earlier in the night, waits here, as well. Intently studying this vehicle, Old Yeller whimpers.
        The moon favors the sports car over the SUV, plating its chrome and paint to a sterling standard.
        Even as Curtis