We’re simply following up on this article in the local paper about your neighbor’s son, the Diviner? When did he first exhibit these Diviner talents, as you say?
Did you or anyone else see these ghosts?
Have you ever heard him make mention of seeing a funny gray man in a stovepipe hat?
No, I’m sure you’re not in any danger, but such people should be watched. You needn’t worry. We’ll take care of that. Just go on and live your normal life.
But remain alert.
Report anything suspicious.
The windows of a roadside cafe smiled a golden welcome into the night.
“Pie sounds good, Mr. Adams,” the driver said, angling off the road.
“I do like pie, Mr. Jefferson,” the passenger replied.
Inside, it was warm. A few locals bent their heads over plates of eggs and sandwiches, just a few islands of humanity, together in their aloneness. The men took their seats and blended in. The waitress poured two cups of hot black coffee and brought out plates of apple pie, and the men finished both. The cafe had a radio. A program burbled from the speakers, some girl preacher leading sinners to Jesus: “Let the Holy Ghost be your senator and your congressman.…”
“You fellas from around here?” the waitress asked, clearing the empty plates and leaving the bill.
“Not far.”
“What line of work you in?”
“We’re salesmen…” Mr. Adams glanced at the waitress’s name tag. “Hazel.”
“Oh? Whatcha selling?”
He smiled. “America.”
“Would you fellas like more coffee for the road?” Hazel the waitress asked.
Mr. Adams gave an apologetic smile. “I expect we should be moving on,” he said, taking on the vocal inflections of the locals in the cafe. Even speech patterns could give one away. “Thanks for the pie.”
He paid the bill, tipped a dime, and stepped out into the brisk air with his partner. Dusk hung gnarled garlands of winter clouds over the rolling hills.
“Telephoned Mr. Hamilton. He’ll confer with the Oracle,” Mr. Jefferson announced. He worked at his teeth with a toothpick.
“Nifty. Let’s tend to that other business.”
They drove the sedan to a less friendly part of town, down into a ravine where the long fingers of neon barely reached. The driver opened the trunk and hauled out the hog-tied girl, forcing her to her knees in the dirt. He removed her hood, and she took in shaky gulps of air, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings. Her face was snot-and tear-streaked.
“Wh-where are we?” she asked.
Mr. Adams leaned against the back of the sedan. “We’re going to ask you again: Have you ever spoken to a creature of immense power, a gray-faced man in a stovepipe hat?”
The girl shook her head. Fresh tears slid down both cheeks. “P-please, Mister. I was just playing at that card-reading business. I’m not a Diviner. I d-don’t know n-nothin’ about that.” She sniffled, unable to wipe her nose, and the snot ran free. “I just wanted somebody to pay attention to me.”
Mr. Adams smiled. “And here we are. Attentive.”
The girl started to sob. Sobs were an annoyance.
“You’re absolutely certain you’re telling us the truth now?”
The girl nodded violently.
Mr. Adams let out a long, weary sigh. “Pity.”
In the blinking white light of the roadside arrow—THIS WAY TO PARADISE!—the Shadow Man was rendered nearly gray, a shadow’s shadow, as he pulled on his leather gloves. He opened his case and selected a length of wire.
“What are you doing?” the girl asked. Fear had taken her tears from her.
Mr. Adams wrapped the ends of the wire around his gloved hands, pulling it taut. “Defending democracy.”
Later, the Shadow Men stood in a field under an empty night sky pierced by the false hope of winking light, the delayed SOS of dying stars. Mr. Adams finished taking a piss. He zipped up and wiped his hands on the girl’s scarf, then set it alight, watching as the flames crawled up the length of fabric like a flock of orange birds swirling toward the sky. His face was mottled by smoke. The burning scarf grew too hot to hold, and he dropped it in the dirt.
“That’s done, then,” Mr. Adams said. “What’s next?”
Mr. Jefferson folded back the newspaper to the small article circled in black. Another Diviner in another nameless town.
Mr. Adams opened the passenger door. “And miles to go before we sleep.”
The long road cut through night-hushed land, over hills and down into rain-swollen valleys, past moldering scarecrows and graveyards and telephone poles with timber arms outstretched like Toltec gods. It wound around sleeping towns, the silent factory whistles and the quiet school bells. It pressed against the straining borders of the prairies and showed up in the dreams of the nation’s people as a symbol; the pursuit of happiness needs endless thoroughfares. On the edges, the ghosts peeked through spaces between the trees, remembering, attracted to the restless yearning of the people, to the pull of a country built on dreams.
