With cold terror weighing upon her, she slid back to the floor and sat hugging her knees to her chest.
Please call back, Jack. You'll know what to do, I know you will.
10
Sandy peered around the corner of one of the plywood-box bungalows that were stacked up and down these sandy lanes like Monopoly houses. Luckily they were mostly empty; probably occupied during the summer and that was it. With barely a few yards of gravel and sand separating the houses, hiding places were scarce.
He'd parked near the end of a parallel street where he could hear the surf rumbling on the far side of the dunes. He'd moved between the bungalows until he found Holdstock's car parked in front of a bright yellow box, distinguishable from its neighbors only by its color. He'd been about to move closer when Terry emerged with a heavyset brunette built like a Rottweiler and the two had driven off in her car. Sandy had run back to his car to follow, but by the time he'd reached the highway they were out of sight. Since Terry had left his own car behind, Sandy had decided to wait.
Good thing, too. A few minutes ago the pair had returned with grocery bags.
Do I risk it? Sandy wondered as he eyed a lighted window on the east side of the tiny house, the only lighted window in sight. With the neighborhood so deserted, who'd know? Besides, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He wished he'd brought a jacket, though. The salty breeze flowing over the dunes blew cool and damp. Faint flashes from the storm they'd left behind in the city flickered to the north. He hoped it stayed up there. He was chilled; he didn't need to be wet too.
Sandy decided on a circuitous route around to the house, removing his shoes for the final approach to minimize any noise on the gravel. The cold stones jabbed him through his socks but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. Finally he reached the window and peeked inside.
Eight chairs had been arranged in a circle in the front room. A small round table in the center was laden with cheese, crackers, chips, and dips. More than two people could put away. Obviously they were expecting company.
A party? Sandy thought. Is that why I followed Terry here—to snoop on a party? But then he supposed cult members had to eat like anyone else.
Hey, maybe they were planning an orgy. That would be cool. Then again, maybe not if Terry and the Rottweiler woman were any indication of the looks of the participants.
Sandy looked around for liquor but saw only bottled water. Okay, so it was an alcohol-free cult. But was it talk-free too?
The silence was deafening. No radio, no stereo, no TV. Terry and the woman sat in two of the chairs, staring into space, not speaking a word, seemingly unaware of each other's existence.
It gave him the creeps.
Lights flashed on the street—Sandy ducked into a crouch behind a nearby propane tank as tires crunched on the gravel. He heard car doors open and slam, shoes scuffing on the stones, the front door opening. He looked back inside and saw two men and two women enter. Neither Terry nor the first woman greeted them, or even acknowledged their presence. The newcomers said nothing as they helped themselves to the food and took their seats, leaving two empty. One of the new-comers placed a black-framed photo on one of the empty seats but it was angled so that Sandy couldn't the face.
Fascinated, he kept watching. This was the most bizarre scene he'd ever witnessed.
11
"Nu?" Abe said. "In such weather you're out? You're dripping on my floor. Even rats are smart enough to stay inside on a night like this."
Jack looked around. They had the store to themselves. The storm was keeping people indoors, and Abe did not encourage repeat business in his off-the-street sporting goods customers anyway.
"Got a bit of an emergency," Jack said.
"Before you go on…" Abe reached under the counter and came up with a paper-wrapped parcel. "See what you think of this."
Jack unwrapped it and found a tiny automatic pistol. He turned it over in his hands. He liked the feel of it. It ran maybe five inches from its muzzle to its concealed hammer, and couldn't have weighed much more than a pound.
"Looks like a .380."
"Correct," Abe said. "An AMT. Smallest U.S.-manufactured .380 ACP."
"So it's not a .45."
"Right. It's a backup. A .45 for backup you don't need, especially using those frangibles you like. And it's got a five-shot clip. Carry it with a round chambered—as you should—and you've got six shots. For you I've pre-loaded it. The first three rounds are your beloved MagSafe Defenders in .380. The last three are hardballs. Whatever you need you've got, and you can use the same ankle holster as the Semmerling. Like a glove it will fit."
Jack thought of his little Semmerling and felt a burst of irrational sentiment. They'd been through a lot together. He felt as if he were deserting an old friend.
"I don't know, Abe…"
"Don't be a shnook. The AMT gives you more rounds and is a true blowback autoloader. No more of this jerking the slide back and forth for every shot. And most important, I can get you parts—replacement barrels and firing pins I've stocked already. Can't say the same for the Semmerling."
Everything Abe said made sense. The Semmerling had to go. Reckless even to keep it around, let alone carry it.
"All right," he said. "You've sold me."
"The light he sees—at last! Give me the Semmerling and I'll dispose of it for you."
"Can't. It's back home."
For a disturbing instant he couldn't remember where it was, then it came back to him. In the top drawer of the secretary. He'd dumped it there the other day before he'd collapsed into bed with the fever.
"So bring it when you remember. Nu. What's this emergency then?"
"Remember that knockout gas you sold me last December?"
"The T-72?"
"That's it. Tell me you've got some more, or something just like it."
"Lucky for you I had to buy three canisters to supply you with that one." He stepped out from behind the counter and began to waddle toward the door to the cellar. "You're putting someone to sleep?"
"Seven someones, I hope."
"Seven? I should get you both cans. How are you going to do this?"
"Not sure yet. Lock them all in a closed room or a basement and break the vials."
"That'll work. As long as someone doesn't break a window. If someone should do that, what do you do?"
Jack sighed. Good question. But he was getting tired of this problem. Tired of worrying about Kate. Tired of pussyfooting around the obvious solution.
"Better throw in a box of nine-millimeter MagSafes while you're at it."
One way or another, he thought, this ends tonight.
12
Kate knew now what had to be done. The hard part had been deciding how to do it. But after solving that—in a stroke of inspiration—the decision as to who would do it was easy. Only one person in the world fit the job description: Kate Iverson.
The first thing she had to do was get to Jack's old oak secretary.
She rose to her feet. She didn't know the effective radius of the oven's microwaves. It couldn't be far. But just how far could she go without letting the Unity back in? She needed to know.
But first she had to blank her mind about what she was planning. She couldn't allow even a faint residue to remain for the Unity to pick up on.
That done, she took one small step away from the oven. Okay. No change.
Another… did the air seem a little warmer? The kitchen a little brighter?
A little further, half a step this time…
Kate? The voice was faint, as if heard through a wall. Kate, are you there?
Quickly she stepped back to the oven. Four or five feet, that was it. Beyond that the Unity waited. And the secretary was a good fifteen feet away. Still, she had to reach it.