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  Mrs. Sigsby stopped struggling, perhaps as much from exhaustion as the threat of strangulation. Roper scissored neatly around her slacks two inches above the wound. The pantleg collapsed around her ankle, exposing white skin, a tracery of varicose veins, and something that looked more like a knife-slash than a bullet hole.

  “Well, sugar,” Roper said, sounding relieved. “This isn’t bad. Worse than a graze, but not much. You got lucky, ma’am. It’s already clotting.”

  “I am badly hurt!” Mrs. Sigsby cried.

  “You will be, if you don’t shut up,” Drummer said.

  The doctor swabbed the wound with disinfectant, wrapped a bandage around it, and secured it with butterfly clips. By the time he finished, it seemed that all of DuPray—those who lived in town, at least—were spectating. Tim, meanwhile, looked at the woman’s phone. A button on the side lit up the screen and a message reading POWER LEVEL 75%.

  He powered it down again and handed it to Luke. “You keep this for now.”

  As Luke put it into the pocket containing the flash drive, a hand tugged his pants. It was Evans. “You need to be careful, young Luke. If you don’t want to have to hold yourself responsible, that is.”

  “Responsible for what?” Wendy asked.

  “For the end of the world, miss. For the end of the world.”

  “Shut up, you fool,” Mrs. Sigsby said.

  Tim considered her for a moment. Then he turned to the doc. “I don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with here, but I know it’s something extraordinary. We need some time with these two. When the state cops show up, tell them we’ll be back in an hour. Two, at most. Then we’ll try to get on with something at least approximating normal police procedure.”

  This was a promise he doubted he would be able to keep. He thought his time in DuPray, South Carolina, was almost certainly over, and he was sorry for that.

  He thought he could have lived here. Perhaps with Wendy.

  39

  Gladys Hickson stood in front of Stackhouse at parade rest, her feet apart and her hands behind her back. The fake smile that every child in the Institute came to know (and hate) was nowhere in evidence.

  “You understand the current situation, Gladys?”

  “Yes, sir. The Back Half residents are in the access tunnel.”

  “Correct. They can’t get out, but as of now, we can’t get in. I understand that they have tried to . . . shall we say fiddle with some of the staff, using their psychic abilities?”

  “Yes, sir. It doesn’t work.”

  “But it’s uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, sir, a bit. There’s a kind of . . . humming. It’s distracting. It’s not here in admin, at least not yet, but everybody in Front Half feels it.”

  Which made sense, Stackhouse thought. Front Half was closer to the tunnel. Right on top of it, you could say.

  “It seems to be getting stronger, sir.”

  Maybe that was just her imagination. Stackhouse could hope so, and he could hope Donkey Kong was right when he insisted that Dixon and his friends couldn’t influence prepared minds, not even if the gorks were adding their undeniable force to the equation, but as his grandfather used to say, hope don’t win horse races.

  Perhaps made uneasy by his silence, she went on. “But we know what they’re up to, sir, and it’s no problem. We got em by the short and curlies.”

  “That’s well put, Gladys. Now as to why I asked you here. I understand that you attended the University of Massachusetts in the days of your youth.”

  “That’s correct, sir, but only for three semesters. It wasn’t for me, so I left and joined the Marines.”

  Stackhouse nodded. No need to embarrass her by pointing out what was in her file: after doing well in her first year, Gladys had run into fairly serious trouble during her second. In a student hangout near the campus, she had knocked a rival for her boyfriend’s affections unconscious with a beer stein and been asked to leave not just the joint but the college. The incident had not been her first outburst of bad temper. No wonder she’d picked the Marines.

  “I understand you were a chem major.”

  “No, sir, not exactly. I hadn’t declared a major before I . . . before I decided to leave.”

  “But that was your intention.”

  “Um, yes, sir, at that time.”

  “Gladys, suppose we needed—to use an unjustly vilified phrase—a final solution concerning those residents in the access tunnel. Not saying it will happen, not saying that at all, but supposing it did.”

  “Are you asking if they could be poisoned somehow, sir?”

  “Let’s say I am.”

  Now Gladys did smile, and this one was perfectly genuine. Perhaps even relieved. If the residents were gone, that annoying hum would cease. “Easiest thing in the world, sir, assuming the access tunnel is hooked up to the HVAC system, and I’m sure it is.”

  “HVAC?”

  “Heating, ventilation, and air conditioning, sir. What you’d want is bleach and toilet bowl cleaner. Housekeeping will have plenty of both. Mix em up and you get chlorine gas. Put a few buckets of the stuff under the HVAC intake duct that feeds the tunnel, cover it with a tarp to get a good suck going on, and there you are.” She paused, thinking. “Of course, you might want to clear out the staff in Back Half before you did it. There might be only one intake for that part of the compound. Not sure. I could look at the heating plans, if you—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Stackhouse said. “But perhaps you and Fred Clark from janitorial could get the . . . uh . . . proper ingredients ready. Just as a contingency, you understand.”

  “Yes, sir, absolutely.” Gladys looked raring to go. “Can I ask where Mrs. Sigsby is? Her office is empty, and Rosalind said to ask you, if I wanted to know.”

  “Mrs. Sigsby’s business is none of yours, Gladys.” And since she seemed to be determined to remain in military mode, he added: “Dismissed.”

  She left to find Fred the janitor and start gathering the ingredients that would put an end to both the children and the hum that had settled over Front Half.

  Stackhouse sat back in his chair, wondering if such a radical action would become necessary. He thought it might. And was it really so radical, considering what they had been doing here for the last seven decades or so? Death was inevitable in their business, after all, and sometimes a bad situation required a fresh start.

  That fresh start depended on Mrs. Sigsby. Her expedition to South Carolina had been rather harebrained, but such plans were often the ones that worked. He remembered something Mike Tyson had said: once the punching starts, strategy goes out the window. His own exit strategy was ready in any case. Had been for years. Money put aside, false passports (three of them) put aside, travel plans in place, destination waiting. Yet he would hold here as long as he could, partly out of loyalty to Julia, mostly because he believed in the work they were doing. Keeping the world safe for democracy was secondary. Keeping it safe full stop was primary.

  No reason to go yet, he told himself. The apple cart is tipping, but it hasn’t turned over. Best to hang. See who’s still standing once the punching is over.

  He waited for the box phone to give out its strident brrt-brrt. When Julia filled him in on the outcome down there, he would decide what to do next. If the phone didn’t ring at all, that would also be an answer.

  40

  There was a sad little abandoned beauty shop at the junction of US 17 and SR 92. Tim pulled in and walked around to the van’s passenger side, where Mrs. Sigsby was sitting. He opened her door, then pulled the slider back. Luke and Wendy were on either side of Dr. Evans, who was staring morosely down at his misshapen foot. Wendy was holding Tag Faraday’s Glock. Luke had Mrs. Sigsby’s box phone.

  “Luke, with me. Wendy, sit where you are, please.”

  Luke got out. Tim asked for the phone. Luke handed it over. Tim powered it up, then leaned in the passenger door. “How does this baby work?”

  She said nothing, simpl
y looked straight ahead at the boarded-up building with its faded sign reading Hairport 2000. Crickets chirruped, and from the direction of DuPray they could hear the sirens. Closer now, but still not in town, Tim judged. They would be soon.

  He sighed. “Don’t make this hard, ma’am. Luke says there’s a chance we can make a deal, and he’s smart.”

  “Too smart for his own good,” she said, then pressed her lips together. Still looking through the windshield, arms crossed over her scant bosom.

  “Given the position you’re in, I’d have to say he’s too smart for yours, as well. When I say don’t make this hard, I mean don’t make me hurt you. For someone who’s been hurting children—”

  “Hurting them and killing them,” Luke put in. “Killing other people, as well.”

  “For someone who’s been doing that, you seem remarkably averse to pain yourself. So stop the silent treatment and tell me how this works.”

  “It’s voice activated,” Luke said. “Isn’t it?”

  She looked at him, surprised. “You’re TK, not TP. And not that strong in TK, at that.”

  “Things have changed,” Luke said. “Thanks to the Stasi Lights. Activate the phone, Mrs. Sigsby.”

  “Make a deal?” she said, and barked a laugh. “What deal could possibly do me any good? I’m dead no matter what. I failed.”

  Tim leaned in the sliding door. “Wendy, hand me the gun.”

  She did so without argument.

  Tim put the muzzle of Deputy Faraday’s service automatic to the pantleg that was still there, just below the knee. “This is a Glock, ma’am. If I pull the trigger, you will never walk again.”

  “The shock and blood loss will kill her!” Dr. Evans squawked.

  “Five dead back there, and she’s responsible,” Tim said. “Do you think I really care? I’ve had it with you, Mrs. Sigsby. This is your last chance. You might lose consciousness at once, but I’m betting your lights will stay on for awhile. Before they go out, the pain you feel will make that bullet-groove in your other leg feel like a kiss goodnight.”

  She said nothing.

  Wendy said, “Don’t do it, Tim. You can’t, not in cold blood.”

  “I can.” Tim wasn’t sure this was the truth. What he did know for sure was that he didn’t want to find out. “Help me, Mrs. Sigsby. Help yourself.”

  Nothing. And time was short. Annie wouldn’t tell the State Police which way they went; neither would Drummer or Addie Goolsby. Doc Roper might. Norbert Hollister, who had kept prudently out of sight during the Main Street shoot-out, was an even more likely candidate.

  “Okay. You’re a murderous bitch, but I’m still sorry I have to do this. No three-count.”

  Luke put his hands over his ears to stifle the sound of the gunshot, and that was what convinced her. “Don’t.” She held out her hand. “Give me the phone.”

  “I think not.”

  “Then hold it up to my mouth.”

  Tim did so. Mrs. Sigsby muttered something, and the phone spoke. “Activation rejected. You have two more tries.”

  “You can do better,” Tim said.

  Mrs. Sigsby cleared her throat and this time spoke in a tone that was almost normal. “Sigsby One. Kansas City Chiefs.”

  The screen that appeared looked exactly like the one on Tim’s iPhone. He pushed the phone icon, then RECENTS. There, at the very top of the list, was STACKHOUSE.

  He handed the phone to Luke. “You call. I want him to hear your voice. Then give it to me.”

  “Because you’re the adult and he’ll listen to you.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  41

  Almost an hour after Julia’s last contact—much too long—Stackhouse’s box phone lit up and began to buzz. He grabbed it. “Have you got him, Julia?”

  The voice that replied was so astounding that Stackhouse almost dropped the phone. “No,” Luke Ellis said, “you’ve got it backward.” Stackhouse could hear undeniable satisfaction in the little shit’s voice. “We’ve got her.”

  “What . . . what . . .” At first he could think of nothing else to say. He didn’t like that we. What steadied him was the thought of the three passports locked in his office safe, and the carefully thought-out exit strategy that went with them.

  “Not following that?” Luke asked. “Maybe you need a dunk in the immersion tank. It does wonders for your mental abilities. I’m living proof. I bet Avery is, too.”

  Stackhouse felt a strong urge to end the call right there, to simply gather up his passports and get out of here, quickly and quietly. What stopped him was the fact that the kid was calling at all. That meant he had something to say. Maybe something to offer.

  “Luke, where is Mrs. Sigsby?”

  “Right here,” Luke said. “She unlocked her phone for us. Wasn’t that great of her?”

  Us. Another bad pronoun. A dangerous pronoun.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding,” Stackhouse said. “If there’s any chance we can put this right, it’s important that we do so. The stakes are higher than you know.”

  “Maybe we can,” Luke said. “That would be good.”

  “Terrific! If you could just put Mrs. Sigsby on for a minute or two, so I know she’s all right—”

  “Why don’t you talk to my friend instead? His name is Tim.”

  Stackhouse waited, sweat trickling down his cheeks. He was looking at his computer monitor. The kids in the tunnel who had started the revolt—Dixon and his friends—looked like they were asleep. The gorks weren’t. They were walking around aimlessly, gabbling away and sometimes running into each other like bumper cars in an amusement park. One had a crayon or something, and was writing on the wall. Stackhouse was surprised. He wouldn’t have thought any of them still capable of writing. Maybe it was just scribbling. The goddam camera wasn’t good enough to make it out. Fucking substandard equipment.

  “Mr. Stackhouse?”

  “Yes. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Tim. That’s all you need right now.”

  “I want to speak to Mrs. Sigsby.”

  “Say something, but make it quick,” said the man calling himself Tim.

  “I’m here, Trevor,” Julia said. “And I’m sorry. It just didn’t work out.”

  “How—”

  “Never mind how, Mr. Stackhouse,” said the man calling himself Tim, “and never mind the queen bitch here. We need to make a deal, and we need to do it fast. Can you shut up and listen?”

  “Yes.” Stackhouse drew a notepad in front of him. Drops of sweat fell on it. He mopped his forehead with his sleeve, turned to a fresh page, and picked up a pen. “Go ahead.”

  “Luke brought a flash drive out of this Institute place where you were holding him. A woman named Maureen Alvorson made it. She tells a fantastic story, one that would be hard to believe, except she also took video of what you call either Ward A or Gorky Park. With me so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “Luke says that you are holding a number of his friends hostage along with a number of children from Ward A.”

  Until this moment, Stackhouse hadn’t thought of them as hostages, but he supposed that from Ellis’s point of view . . .

  “Let’s say that’s the case, Tim.”

  “Yes, let’s say that. Now here comes the important part. As of now, only two people know Luke’s story and what’s on that flash drive. I’m one. My friend Wendy is the other, and she’s with me and Luke. There were others who saw it, all cops, but thanks to the queen bitch here and the force she brought with her, they’re all dead. Most of hers are dead, too.”

  “That’s impossible!” Stackhouse shouted. The idea that a bunch of small-town cops could have taken out Opal and Ruby Red combined was ludicrous.

  “Boss lady was a little too eager, my friend, and they were blindsided in the bargain. But let’s stay on point, shall we? I have the flash drive. I also have your Mrs. Sigsby, and a Dr. James Evans. Both of them are wounded, but if they get out of this, they’ll mend. Yo
u have the children. Can we trade?”

  Stackhouse was dumbfounded.

  “Stackhouse? I need an answer.”

  “It would depend on whether or not we can keep this facility secret,” Stackhouse said. “Without that assurance, no deal makes any sense.”

  A pause, then Tim was back. “Luke says we might be able to work that out. For now, where am I going, Stackhouse? How did your pirate crew get here from Maine so fast?”

  Stackhouse told him where the Challenger was waiting outside of Alcolu—he really had no choice. “Mrs. Sigsby can give you exact directions once you reach the town of Beaufort. Now I need to talk to Ellis again.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s vital.”

  There was a brief pause, then the boy was on the secure line. “What do you want?”

  “I assume you have been in touch with your friends,” Stackhouse said. “Perhaps one friend in particular, Mr. Dixon. No need to confirm or deny, I understand that time is short. In case you don’t know exactly where they are—”

  “They’re in the tunnel between Back Half and Front Half.”

  That was unsettling. Nevertheless, Stackhouse pressed on.

  “That’s right. If we can reach an agreement, they may get out and see the sun again. If we can’t, I will fill that tunnel with chlorine gas, and they will die slowly and unpleasantly. I won’t see it happen; I’ll be gone two minutes after I give the order. I’m telling you this because I feel quite certain that your new friend Tim would like to leave you out of whatever deal we make. That cannot happen. Do you understand?”

  There was a pause, then Luke said: “Yes. I understand. I’ll come with him.”

  “Good. At least for now. Are we done?”

  “Not quite. Will Mrs. Sigsby’s phone work from the airplane?”

  Faintly, Stackhouse heard Mrs. Sigsby say that it would.

  “Stay close to your phone, Mr. Stackhouse,” Luke said. “We’ll need to talk again. And you need to stop thinking about running. If you do, I’ll know. We have a policewoman with us, and if I tell her to contact Homeland Security, she will. Your picture will be at every airport in the country, and all the fake ID in the world won’t do you any good. You’ll be like a rabbit in an open field. Do you understand me?”