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〃Really？〃 Her heart quickened a little。 〃What is it？〃
〃Well； it's kinda weird。 I think it must be from some crazy customer。 Valerye wrote it down〃…Valerye was the daytime bartender…〃and she said the guy spelled it out real careful and swore it was important。〃
〃What is it？〃 she repeated。 The phone booth she had found in the parking lot of a seafood shack near the riverbend was private； but hot and claustrophobic。 Eddy felt the beginnings of a headache。
〃Well； it says 'Wax Jism。' 〃
〃What？〃
Loup spelled out the two words； and Eddy wrote them down in her notebook。 Her head was pounding now。 She thanked Loup； told him almost as an afterthought that she wasn't ing back to work； then hung up and stood staring at the ridiculous message。 Wax jism。 It had to be from Zach。 But what in hell did it mean？
She looked out at the parking lot。 Over the green hump of the levee she could see a sliver of the Mississippi； a tugboat and barge riding on the mighty polluted current。 Her eyes slid back to the keypad of the phone； and something clicked in her mind。 There were letters on the keys as well as numbers。 Eddy looked back at the message。 Two words： three letters； then four。 The same configuration as a phone number。
Eddy grabbed the unwieldy metal…covered phone book that hung from a coiled cord in the booth。 It was battered but miraculously intact。 She riffled through the opening pages； found the listing of area codes for all states。 Missing Mile had been fairly near Raleigh and Chapel Hill on the map； and the area code was the same for both places。 She dropped in a handful of change； punched in the area code； and with shaking fingers picked out the number。
It rang twice。 Three times。 Then the receiver was lifted； and a slightly hoarse male voice said； 〃Howdy； this is the Sacred Yew。〃
〃Hi； you don't know me； but I'm looking for…〃
〃No one's within earshot right now； but we have lots of great shows ing up this week。 Wednesday night it's vintage swamp rock with GUMBO！！！ Thursday…〃
Eddy leaned her forehead against the hot glass； felt hot tears of frustration trickling from the corners of her eyes。 It was a recording。
〃If you'd like to leave a message for me or anyone who works here；〃 the voice was saying； 〃start talking at the beep。 And remember； please e out and support your local bands at THE SACRED YEW！〃 The guy sounded nervous and slightly desperate。 At last the accursed machine beeped。
〃This is a message for a boy named Zach；〃 Eddy said without much hope。 She didn't know if he'd be using his real first name； but she was sure he wouldn't be using his last； and she didn't want to give it away。 〃He's nineteen； about five…eight； skinny； black hair； green eyes； very pale； very striking。 If you know him； will you please tell him he's in terrible danger？ My name is Eddy。 I have to get in touch with him。 I'll try to call back。〃 She checked her watch。 〃I don't know when。 Tell him 。 。 。〃 She realized tears were spilling from her eyes； pouring down her face。 〃Tell him I'm ing to get him。〃
Eddy hung up； swiped at her eyes； posed herself。 She had one more call to make； to a local number she knew by heart。 She dialed it； listened to the phone ring and ring； then closed her eyes in relief as it was picked up。 A rhythmic swath of reggae pulsed in the background； and for a moment she thought it was another recording。 Then a deep musical voice said 〃Hello？〃
〃Dougal；〃 she said。 〃This is Eddy。 Have you heard what happened to Zach？〃
〃Ya mon。 Busted。 Terrible fing。〃 She imagined him shaking his head； long bright…threaded dreadlocks swaying gently around his face。
Eddy closed her eyes and counted to five。 〃No；〃 she forced herself to say calmly； 〃he wasn't busted。 He got away； but they're still after him； and I think they're closing in。 Do you want to help？〃
〃Oh； ya mon。 I would help Zachary any way I can。 'Specially 'gainst de damn government。〃 She wasn't sure； but she thought she heard him spit。 She took a deep breath； felt relief spreading through her。 At last she wasn't alone in this anymore。
〃Could you start by picking me up outside Liberty's Fish Camp？ I need to tell you all about it。 And I need your help too。〃
〃Sweetheart； don' you worry 'bout a t'ing； hear？ You jus' wait right there outside Liberty's。 I know de very place。〃
〃Are you sure？〃
〃Irie；〃 Dougal St。 Clair's beautiful voice soothed her。 〃No problem。〃
At the Sacred Yew； the rehearsal was still blasting away onstage。 Kinsey had gone down the street to get pretzels for the bar。 As he came back in； he saw that the message light on the answering machine was blinking。 But when he tried to play back the message； the machine just emitted a long series of beeps； then made a sound like a car going up a hill stuck in first gear。 Kinsey peered inside and saw that it had eaten the tape。 The machine had been on its last legs for weeks； erasing as many messages as it took。 Now it was finally dead。
He picked up the phone to call tonight's doorman and realized with much greater consternation that it was dead too； though he knew it had been on earlier because Trevor had gotten that mysterious call。
Kinsey looked at the clock； saw that it was just after five： cutoff time。 He'd let the bill go too long。 Now there was no way to get the phone turned back on until tomorrow； and Kinsey would have to drive the cash all the way to Raleigh。 That was if the bar took in enough tonight to pay for it and the other bills too。 The phone was important； but water was more so。 And in a club； electricity took the highest priority of all； it was what kept the band loud and the beer cold。 He had to get that damn power bill paid。
Kinsey had always loved summer in Missing Mile。 But just lately it was a cruel season。
Dougal St。 Clair lived in a tree in a secluded corner of City Park。 His little wooden house was nestled high among the big oak's spreading canopy of branches； accessible by a long； twisty； terrifying rope ladder that was barely visible against the tree trunk。 He parked his car at the nearby fairgrounds； made use of public rest rooms and afternoon rainstorms； ate at the city's many fine restaurants with the money he saved on rent； and often relied on the kindness of friends。 Dougal had so much slack that it was considered something of a privilege among French Quarter bohos to buy him lunch once in a while。
The outside of his treehouse was painted in a drab brown camouflage pattern。 The inside pensated with a riot of color。 The walls were red； yellow； green； and purple； covered with snapshots of Dougal's American and Jamaican friends； the former a motley cross…section of New Orleans freak society； the latter invariably dreadlocked and grinning。
The striped ceiling was not quite high enough for Dougal to stand up straight； though Eddy could do so fortably。 The floor was covered with a woven straw mat。 There was a nest of blankets in one corner； a crate of books and a boom box with some tapes stacked around it in another。 He kept a lot of stuff in his car in case the treehouse was ever discovered； but somehow it never was。
〃How do you get phone service up here？〃 Eddy asked a