What?
Henry Lightstone said the word silently, not wanting to move any part of his body any more than he had to, because every one of those terribly sensitive parts seemed to be directly connected to that glowing pinpoint of light that he understood now was the very thing he'd been trying to hide from.
He was becoming aware that the glowing pinpoint of light was nothing more and nothing less than pure, undiluted pain.
"Can you hear me?" the voice repeated.
"Yes," Lightstone whispered, managing to make the word audible, but just barely.
"Can you open your eyes?"
No.
He might have whispered the word, or maybe he just thought he said it. He really couldn't tell. He thought he could feel the warmth of a person's breath against some part of his body, but nothing felt connected.
"Why not?"
Hurts. Leave me alone.
"What hurts?"
Lightstone tried to make some sense out of it all. It seemed like the soft and gentle voice-a woman's voice- was responding to his answers, which meant that he must be making sound.
And the other thing she said. Or asked. Something about hurt. Or what hurts.
Right. What hurts? A question.
Easy answer.
Everything.
Somewhere in the back of his mind an urgent voice was trying to warn him that the tiny point of light had managed to come in much closer while he had been trying to listen to the voice. But he couldn't tell if that was true or not, because he could see that it wasn't a pinpoint of light anymore; rather, it was a slowly rotating disk, with edges that looked like they were very sharp and ragged.
Like an etching tool.
That's how they did it, he realized. They'd used an etching tool to warn him. Hell of an idea, he smiled to himself, having no idea of what he was talking about-or thinking about, for that matter-but for some strange reason, still confident that it all made some sort of sense.
"Listen," the other voice, the voice that was much more feminine and caring, whispered, "I'm going to try to move your arm."
No, don't do that.
The rotating disk advanced cautiously, looking for all the world like a curious puppy trying to get in closer to get a better look.
Goddamned dog, he thought. Should have warned me sooner. Wouldn't have had to go through all this.
But of course it wasn't a dog. That was exactly the point, he reminded himself. Which didn't explain why they were making such a big deal over the number eight, or the word. Why eight?
"What?"
Why eight? he thought louder, really wanting to know, because it seemed to mean something. Something important.
"I don't know. Something about a phone call. I think they missed it," the voice explained.
Oh.
"Listen, we're going to have to move you over to the other truck so we can go home. We're going to try very hard not to hurt you, but we need you to help us if you can."
Much closer now. So close that he could see every single glistening edge of the rotating blades that were starting to pick up speed now.
"No…" he whispered as loudly as he could, trying to make himself heard. But now the only sound that came out of his mouth was a raspy groan.
"Okay, hold on, here we go…"
Then the whirling disk lunged forward.
And he screamed.
Chapter Twenty
Carl Scoby was still on the phone taking notes when he heard footsteps and then a knock on the door of his newly acquired Prime Rate motel room.
"Hold it a second. I've got company."
Rising slowly from the chair, a loaded and ready to fire. 45 SIG-Sauer automatic in his hand, Scoby-deputy supervisor of Paul McNulty's Special Operations team and the covert agent who invariably looked an awful lot like a cop-walked cautiously to the door and looked through the peephole.
Then, smiling in visible relief, he slipped the SIG-Sauer back into his shoulder holster. He quickly unlatched the chain bolt and opened the door.
"Thank God you're here," Scoby said, stepping aside as Paul MeNulty walked into the room carrying a suitcase and a field duffel bag. As MeNulty set the suitcase and bag next to the far bed, Carl Scoby closed and relocked the door behind him.
"What's going on?" MeNulty asked, alerted by the stress in his partner's voice. MeNulty had worked with Carl Scoby for over twelve years and had long considered him the most unflappable member of his covert team.
"I'm not sure," Scoby replied honestly, "but whatever it is, I don't like it. Hold on a second."
Scoby walked over to the small motel table, sat down and picked up the phone.
"It's MeNulty. He just walked in. Yeah, I think you should. Maybe it'll make some sense to him."
"Who is it?" MeNulty asked as he came over and sat down across from Scoby.
"Larry. He and Stoner spotted Sonny Chareaux in Bozeman a little over an hour ago. They've been tracking him all over the city ever since, just a second. Let me see if I can figure out how to switch this thing over to the speakerphone," Scoby said as he picked up the complex- looking telephone receiver.
"When did Mike get back?" MeNulty asked, noticing that the motel phone had been replaced with one of Mike Takahara's outwardly crude but highly sophisticated communications rigs.
"He hasn't. That's another part of the problem."
MeNulty blinked in surprise.
"'You mean he's still out at the airport with that goddamn plane?"
"We think he's still out there," Scoby corrected, gesturing with his head at the silent packset radio lying on the table. "But he hasn't responded to any of our radio calls, and we can't get anybody to answer at the airport manager's office."
"Christ! How long has he been out there?"
Scoby looked at his watch. "A little over four hours."
"It shouldn't have taken him that long," MeNulty said, shaking his head. "All he had to do was to borrow a maintenance uniform, walk out to the tarmac, look around a little bit, and then pop the door on the plane."
"Yeah, I know," Scoby nodded. "I was getting ready to have Stoner and Paxton cruise by, see if they could find out what he's doing. But then they called in saying that they'd spotted Sonny. I'll let Larry tell you about that." Scoby pushed the small recessed button marked "SP" and then set the com-rig back down on the table so that the speaker faced both him and McNulty. "Larry, can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," Larry Paxton acknowledged, his normally bass voice sounding even more deep and gravelly over the open speakerphone.
"Larry, I've got Paul sitting here next to me. You want to walk him through the situation with Sonny?"
"Yeah, no problem. Tell you the truth, Boss, we're not real sure what we have out here, other than one hell of a confused mess," Larry Paxton said. "What happened is that Stoner and I were out cruising Bozeman when we spotted Sonny as a gas station on Kagy Boulevard, parked next to an outside phone booth."
"How do you spell that?" McNulty asked as he set his ever-present notebook out on the table.
"K-a-g-y." It's one of the main cross streets at the south end of town."
"Any sign of Alex or Butch?"
"No, we didn't see either of them."
"Don't those three usually stick together on a hunt?" McNulty looked up at Scoby.
"As far as we know, that's the way they've always worked," Carl Scoby nodded.
"Larry, about what time did you spot Sonny?" McNulty asked, turning back to face the speakerphone.
"A little over two hours ago." Paxton paused to check his diary. "Make that nineteen thirty-nine hours exactly."
"What's he driving?"
"At the time, he was driving an old Chevy pickup. Red, short bed, no cover on the back. Montana plates. I gave Carl the description and the license number. But listen, before you start taking too many notes, you need to know that things have changed one hell of a lot since then."