“Nothing! Nothing is going on. I don’t hear anything.” He had to play it cool, relaxed, chillsville. He couldn’t let on that the Triangles’ hours were numbered. He had to keep them in the dark. It was only a matter of time before this game was over, and if Perry wanted to win, he had to play it cool. Just like Fonzie, honeybunny…play it cool. new noises, what are the new noises we are hearing
“Noises? I didn’t hear anything. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” no one is here no columbos anyone
“Nope, just relax, man, just chill.” Perry felt the Triangles’ oddly black emotions flowing through him. He tried to nail down the vibe; anxiety, perhaps. His own emotions-excitement, hope, fear, rage-stirred them up like a bunch of hyperactive kids dropped in the midst of the Hershey’s chocolate factory. is something wrong who is there who
Perry took a very deep breath and let it out slowly, telling himself over and over again to relax. He repeated the process ten times, feeling calm spread over his body. Discipline, as Dear Old Dad would say. Without discipline you’re no better than some two-bit cooze, crying over this and crying over that.
Perry knew he had to calm down, to chill out the Three Stooges.
“It’s okay, fellas.” Perry’s voice exuded control. “There’s no one here. Just relax. We’re all going to go to sleep now, just chill.”
Perry closed his eyes. Relaxation swept over him like a warm wind. This was not the time for weakness-if he’d ever had a moment of self-control in his life, now was the time to exercise it. You gotta have discipline, boy. Without discipline, people are going to walk all over you, and nobody but nobody walks all over a Dawsey.
He laid his head on the back of the couch. This was a game, that’s all, just like football, although this time the stakes were a bit higher than a Big Ten title. It was a game, and he was winning. A smile touched his face, only for a second, as sleep came and he drifted away.
53.
Agent Otto handed Margaret his cell phone. The weight surprised her-the cell phone was larger than any she’d seen in years.
“Hello, Dew,” she said.
“I assume you’re calling because you have information for me, Doc,” he said. “I’m trying to run an op here.” Even through the cell phone, she could hear his annoyance. She didn’t have time for his attitude.
“We need satellite coverage,” Margaret said. “Can you get that?”
“Why do we need it?”
“You know what, Phillips? Answer the fucking question, okay? Can you or can you not get satellite coverage?”
There was a pause. “You might want to talk to me with a little more respect there, Doc.”
“Screw your respect. Answer the damn question or I hang up and go right to Murray. Can you, or can you not, get dedicated satellite coverage for the Ann Arbor area?”
“This isn’t the movies, Doc,” Dew said. “We can’t just dial in an address and see a full-color picture of Mister and Misses Jones doing it doggy-style. It will take some time, but we can get the coverage. Now, if you’re done with the potty mouth, you want to tell me why?”
Margaret held the phone with her right hand. With her left she rubbed her knuckles against her hair, so hard it hurt. None of this made any sense, none of this was science, but she knew what had to be done-she couldn’t explain why, yet it had to be done anyway.
“The paintings of Nguyen,” she said. “They had all the known victims, then eleven other people.”
“So?”
“So there are victims we haven’t found yet.”
“You know we’re working on that,” Dew said. “We have scans of the faces, all-points out on them, over the whole state and into Ohio and Indiana. We’re trying to track them down. Why is a satellite going to help with that?”
Margaret winced as her knuckles dug too deep. She forced herself to put her hand at her side.
“They’re building something,” Margaret said. “I think the victims are supposed to build something, something big.”
“What? What are they supposed to build?”
“Something in the woods, maybe. I think there are trees involved. Deep woods, even.”
“So then what shall I tell the satellite to look for?”
Margaret sighed. “I don’t know. Something with arches. Maybe twenty feet high.”
“And how long is this thing?”
“Dew, I just don’t know.”
“Margaret,” Dew said. He spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “Changing a satellite’s tracking is a big deal. We have to drop scheduled coverage from an area to redirect. Plus, we have to get squints assigned to look at the pictures, try and find what you’re looking for-and since you don’t really know what it is you’re looking for, and we’re covering a huge area, it’s a practically impossible job. Now, with all that in mind, is this just a hunch of yours, or do you have something real for me?”
Margaret thought about it. She had nothing solid, nothing to go on other than the painting of an insane, murdering artist.
“It’s a hunch,” she said. “But I feel it, Dew.”
Even through the rough connection, she heard Dew’s heavy sigh. “Fine, fuck it. What have we got to lose? So this will take four or five hours. I’m telling them to look for something unusual, with arches, twenty feet high, length unknown. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Margaret said. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“It will be done. And if you change your mind and want the satellite to look for unicorns or Santa’s sleigh, just let me know.” With that, Dew hung up.
54.
Murray Longworth’s desk intercom buzzed softly. He pressed the “talk” button.
“What is it, Victor?”
“Sir, I thought you’d want to know that something came in over the web.”
Murray felt his pulse quicken. “When?”
“Less than an hour ago, sir.”
“Where is the client?”
“Ann Arbor, Michigan, sir.”
“Bring me the info immediately.”
Victor entered the office with a sealed folder. The computer boys were under strict orders to print any web info that came through, then delete all traces of the data from the system. Murray didn’t like using the Internet, but he agreed with Montoya that it was one way to possibly reach victims without raising the press’s attention. Apparently the hunch had paid off.
Victor left the room, and Murray broke the seal.
Ann Arbor, Michigan. Perry Dawsey. Dew was already there, had already had a run-in with one of the infected freaks, as had Otto and Margaret. It was a slam-dunk home run. Margaret’s work had put Dew close. Dawsey listed no contacts-that was good. That made things easier. Apartment complex-that wasn’t good. No description of Dawsey’s condition.
Dew was already there. So was Margaret, and she had an analysis facility ready and waiting. Finally, it was the break that Murray needed.
55.
The voice tickled his thoughts, teased his muddled mind.
Where are they?
It was the voice of the Triangles: mechanical, and yet still alive.
Are you there?
Another is missing.
The voice of the Triangles, and yet it was different. Somehow almost…feminine. Not a woman’s voice, but a woman’s concern, a woman’s depth of feeling.
Why don’t they answer?
Where are they?.
His eyes fluttered sleepily. The voice was something important, something he knew he needed to think about. The pain hung on his body like a weighted suit. Every inch seemed to throb and pulse in a muted symphony of complaint.