“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, simply 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.”