One Door From Heaven

two hours old when Cass parks the Fleetwood in an RV campground. A night without rest and the long drive have taken a toll, though the sisters still look so glamorous and so desirable that the campground attendant, assisting with the utility hookups, seems in danger of polishing his shoes with his tongue.
        Curtis doesn't need to sleep, but he fakes a yawn as the twins extend the sofabed in the lounge and dress it with sheets. Old Yeller has recently learned more about the dark side of the universe than any dog needs to know, and has been a bit edgy since the shootout. She'll benefit from sleep, and Curtis will share her dreams for a while before spending the rest of the day planning his future.
        While the sisters prepare the bed, they switch on the TV. Every major network is offering exhaustive coverage of the manhunt for the drug lords who may possess military weapons. At last the government has confirmed that three FBI agents died in a gun battle at the truck stop in Utah; three others were wounded.
        Reports are circulating of a more violent confrontation in a restored ghost town, west of the truck stop. But FBI and military spokesmen decline to comment on these rumors.
        In fact, the government is providing so few details about the crisis that the TV reporters have insufficient information to fill the ample air time given to this story. Inanely, they interview one another on their opinions, fears, and speculations.
        Authorities haven't provided photographs or even police-artist sketches of the men they're hunting, which convinces some reporters that the government doesn't know all the identities of their quarry.
        "Idiots," says Polly. "There aren't any drug lords, only evil aliens. Right, Curtis?"
        "Right."
        Cass says, "Are the feds searching just for you-"
        "Right."
        "-because you saw these ETs and know too much-"
        "Yeah, exactly."
        "-or are they also after the aliens?"
        "Uh, well, both of us, I guess."
        "If they know you're alive, why have they put out the story that you were killed by drug lords in Colorado?" Polly wonders.
        "I don't know." Mom had counseled that eventually every cover story develops contradictions and that instead of devising elaborate explanations to patch over those holes, which will only create new contradictions, you should instead simply express bafflement whenever possible. Liars are expected to be slick, whereas bafflement usually sounds sincere. "I just don't know. It doesn't make sense, does it?"
        Cass says, "If they said you'd survived, they could plaster your face all over the media, and everyone would help them look for you."
        "I'm baffled." Curtis is remorseful about this deceit, but also proud of the smoothness with which he applies his mother's advice, controlling a situation that might have aroused suspicion. "I really am baffled. I don't know why they haven't done that. Strange, huh?"
        The sisters exchange one of those blue-laser glances that seem to transmit encyclopedias of information between them.
        They resort to one of their mesmerizing duologues that cause Curtis's eyes to shift metronomically from one perfect frosted-red mouth to the other. Tucking in a sheet, Polly starts with: "Well, this isn't-"
        "-the time," Cass continues.
        "-to get into all that-"
        "-UFO stuff-"
        "-and what happened-"
        "-back at the service station." Cass stuffs a pillow into a case. "We're too tired-"
        "-too fuzzy-headed-"
        "-to think straight-"
        "-and when we do sit down to talk-"
        "-we want to be sharp-"
        "-because we have a lot-"
        "-of questions. This whole thing is-"
        "-mondo weird," Polly concludes.
        And Cass picks up with: "We haven't wanted-"
        "-to talk about it-"
        "-during the drive-"
        "-because we need to think-"
        "-to absorb what happened."
        Sister to sister, by telemetric stare, volumes are communicated without a word, and then all four blue eyes fix on Curtis. He feels as though he is being subjected to an electron-beam CT scan of such a sophisticated nature that it not only reveals the condition of his arteries and internal organs, but also maps his secrets and the true condition of his soul.
        "We'll catch eight hours of sleep," says Polly, "and discuss the situation over an early