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They drove for another ten minutes. Josh kept glancing over at Fran, checking on her, and twice he caught her looking back at him. If they got through this, when they got through this, Josh wanted to see as much of Fran as he could. He hoped she felt the same. They had a lot of lost time to make up for.

He turned off of Old Mason, onto a sand and gravel road surrounded by forest.

“This is Duck Bill?” Stubin asked. “Why hasn’t it been paved?”

“That comes up every few years at the town meeting. The residents here say they like their roads rustic and old-fashioned and want to keep them that way. I think it’s because they don’t like change.”

“Change is inevitable,” Stubin said. “You can’t ignore technology.”

“Ignoring it and choosing not to embrace it are two different things, I think,” Josh said. “Here we are.”

He parked the Roadmaster on the grass next to Doc Wainwright’s house and touched Fran’s shoulder. “I’m going to see if he’s home. Do you and Duncan want to come in with me?”

“Duncan’s asleep. I don’t want to wake him up.”

“Will you be okay?”

Fran met his eyes. “We’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

Josh let his hand linger for longer than necessary, then nodded and exited the vehicle. The general practitioner lived in a ranch, on the west shore of Big Lake McDonald, surrounded by trees. His electricity seemed to be out, just like everyone else’s. Josh had visited him once at his office in town to have a large splinter removed from his palm. He found Wainwright’s bedside manner excellent and his skill with a scalpel and tweezers adequate at best. The quintessential country doctor.

He approached the front door warily, as if something might pop out at him at any moment. The woods—a source of tranquility for Josh as long as he could remember—no longer seemed safe or familiar. Josh stopped and studied a shadow on the porch, judged it to be a lawn chair, and continued onward. He knocked three times, waited, and knocked again.

“Doc? It’s Josh VanCamp, from the fire department. I have some people here that need medical attention.”

Josh waited and knocked once more. No sounds of life from inside the house. The doctor was either a heavy sleeper or he’d been lured into town by the promise of lottery riches. On impulse, Josh tried the doorknob. Unlocked, just like most houses in the Northwoods.

“I’m going to check if he’s home!” Josh shouted back to Fran.

He wondered whether she and Duncan would be okay with Dr. Stubin and decided to chance it. Even with everything that had happened to her, Fran seemed able to take care of herself just fine. When they were dating, Fran had told him she suffered from panic attacks. He’d even seen it happen once, during a Tilt-a-Whirl ride at a carnival he’d taken her and Duncan to. Fran froze up when the ride ended, and it took Josh and two carnies to pry her hands off the safety bar and remove her from the car. Perhaps she’d since conquered her demons.

Josh entered the house cautiously. He was breaking and entering, and if Wainwright was waiting in the darkness with a shotgun he’d have every right to blow Josh’s head off. But Josh was willing to risk it. Even if the doctor wasn’t in he probably had medical supplies. God only knew when they’d get Fran to a hospital. At the very least she needed antibiotics.

“Doc! You home? Anyone here?”

No answer.

He tried the light switch on the wall, which didn’t work, and made his way into the kitchen by feel. People kept flashlights in easy-to-reach places, like drawers, or atop the refrigerator. The latter is where Josh found a Maglite, one of the models that used half a dozen D batteries, making it a weapon, as well. He spotted Wainwright’s phone. A busy signal. Then he searched cabinets, discovering only dishes and canned goods.

Moving on, Josh located Wainwright’s office and quickly found a medical cabinet stuffed with equipment. Josh filled a pillowcase with free samples of Cipro, a vial of lidocaine hydrochloride, a can of aerosol antiseptic spray, two sealed syringes, some acetaminophen samples, forceps, hydrogen peroxide, and a sealed suture needle package.

Outside he heard Woof bark.

Not a friendly bark. A warning bark.

Something was happening. Something bad.

Josh rushed out of the office, through the front door, just in time to see the Roadmaster pulling away down Duck Bill Lane.

• • •

Taylor noted that Olen had begun wheezing. While the gas mask protected the man from inhaling hydrogen cyanide, the chemical had soaked into his clothing and subsequently his skin. From there, it bonded with every cell it could, preventing them from getting oxygen. Taylor figured he had perhaps five minutes left to live. Because of this he took over the driving. They were currently on a rarely used dirt road and had to slow down to navigate the sharp turns.

“How far are we?” Logan asked, poking Olen with the knife. Olen was bleeding from a dozen or so previous pokes.

“We’re … close. Feel … sick …”

Then he puked in his gas mask and fell forward, banging his head onto the dashboard.

Logan stabbed him again. Olen didn’t flinch.

“He’s dead,” Logan said.

Taylor hit the brakes. He and Logan tugged Olen out of the Honey Wagon and left him on the side of the road. Then they took off their masks and protective plastic garments and tossed them into the trees. Taylor opened the MMDSC and pressed the talk button.

“Location 1.6 kilometers east on Deer Tick Road. Attempting to locate nest.”

Logan spat. “Now we have to search for him. You could have given the guy some of your Charge.”

“You could have given him some of yours,” Taylor snapped back. “This road is a dead end. If Warren Streng lives anywhere on it, we’ll find him.” Taylor scanned the tree line and saw a rusty sign nailed to a tree that read “Private Property, Trespassers Will Be Shot.”

“Besides,” he said. “I think we’re close.”

When the perimeter alarm went off, Warren “Wiley” Streng switched the video monitor feed to his plasma-screen TV and sat in his lounger, watching the Honey Wagon approach. It stopped, and two people in gas masks pulled a third out of the truck.

The camera used night vision technology, so everything glowed green. But even though it cost a fortune, it wasn’t high-definition like the monitor, and the figures were blurry. Wiley used the remote to zoom in and, from the dirty clothing, recognized Olen Porrell as the dead man.

The two others moved quickly and efficiently. Soldiers. No. Special Forces. Their black uniforms were somewhat stiff. Body armor, probably that new liquid kind he’d read about on the Net. One of them used some sort of device to call for backup, then stared at the No Trespassing sign for so long that Wiley was sure he spotted the hidden camera. But the moment passed, and they climbed back into the truck and continued up the road.

They found me, Wiley thought. After more than thirty years, they finally found me.

He pulled himself out of the chair and began to prepare for the attack.

• • •

It happened so fast Fran didn’t have time to react. Woof barked, and then the car doors were open and men were climbing into the Roadmaster. One of them was tall and thin, and the other was enormous. The giant got into the back seat, tossed Woof out of the vehicle, and placed a huge hand on Fran’s scalp, his fingers draping down over her face.

“If you move, he’ll twist your head off,” said the thin man, his accent foreign and heavy. Fran guessed him to be Santiago, and the large one, Ajax. “Then we’ll do the same to your boy.”