One Door From Heaven

of trouble ahead. Though he may be dead, J. Edgar Hoover is no fool, and if his restless spirit guides the organization from which he so reluctantly departed, then two squads of FBI agents, and probably various other authorities, are already establishing roadblocks on the interstate both northeast and southwest of the truck stop.
        Sitting on the edge of the bed once more, Curtis extracts the wadded currency from the pockets of his jeans. He smooths the bills and sorts them. Not much to sort. He counts his treasury. Not much to count.
        He certainly doesn’t have enough money to bribe an FBI agent, and by far the most of them can't be bribed, anyway. They aren't politicians, after all. If the National Security Agency also has operatives in the field here, which now seems likely, and possibly the C1A, as well-those guys won't sell out their country and their honor for a few wrinkled five-dollar bills. Not if movies, suspense novels, and history books can be believed. Maybe the history texts are written with political bias, and maybe some of those novelists took literary license, but you could trust most of what you saw in movies, for sure.
        With his meager resources, Curtis has little hope of being able to bribe his way past even state or local authorities. He shoves the currency into his pockets once more.
        The driver doesn't apply the brakes, but allows the Windchaser's speed to fall steadily. Not good, not good. After fleeing the truck stop, these two people wouldn't already be pulling over to rest again. Traffic must be clotting ahead of them.
        "Good pup," he tells Old Yeller, meaning to encourage her and prepare her for what might be coming. Good pup. Stay close.
        As their speed continues to fall precipitously to fifty, then below forty, under thirty, as the brakes are tapped a time or two, Curtis goes to the bedroom window.
        The dog follows at his heels.
        Curtis slides a pane open. Wind blusters like restless bears at the bars of a cage, but this is a mildly warm and toothless zephyr.
        He boosts himself against the sill. Leaning out, he squints into the wind, toward the front of the motor home.
        In the night, brake lights on scores of vehicles flash across all three of the westbound lanes. More than half a mile ahead, at the top of a rise, traffic has come to a complete stop.
        As the Windchaser slows steadily, Curtis slides shut the window and takes up a position at the bedroom door. The faithful dog stays at his side.
        Good pup.
        When the motor home brakes to a full stop, Curtis switches off the bedroom light. He waits in darkness.
        More likely than not, both sociopathic owners of the Windchaser will remain in their cockpit seats for a while. They'll be studying the roadblock with acute interest, planning strategy in the event of a vehicle inspection.
        At any moment, however, one of them might retreat here to the bedroom. If a search by authorities seems imminent, these tooth fetishists will try to gather up and dispose of their incriminating collection of grisly souvenirs.
        The advantage of surprise will belong to Curtis, but he's not confident that surprise alone will carry the day. Either of the murderous pair up front will enjoy the greater advantages of size, strength, and psychotic disregard for his or her personal safety.
        In addition to surprise, however, the boy has Old Yeller. And the dog has teeth. Curtis has teeth, too, though his aren't as big and sharp as those of the dog, and unlike his four-legged companion, he doesn't have the heart to use them.
        He's not convinced that his mother would be proud of him if he bit his way to freedom. Fighting men and women have seldom, if ever, to his knowledge, been decorated for bravery after gnawing their way through their adversaries. Thank God, then, for his sister-becoming.
        Good pup.
        After the Windchaser has been stopped for a couple minutes, it eases forward a few car lengths before halting again, and Curtis uses this distraction to open the bedroom door a crack. The lever-action handle squeaks softly, as do the hinges, and the door swings outward.
        He puts one eye to the inch-wide gap and studies the bathroom beyond, which separates the bedroom from the galley, lounge, and cockpit. The door at the opposite end of the bath stands less than halfway open, admitting light from the forward part