Luke didn’t argue.
Mrs. Sigsby stood at the stop of the air-stairs and raised her hands over her head. “It’s Mrs. Sigsby! If anyone is out there, hold your fire!”
Luke caught Tim’s thought clearly: Not as sure as she claimed.
There was no response; no outside sound but the crickets, no inside sound except the faint hum. Mrs. Sigsby made her way slowly down the stairs, holding onto the railing and favoring her bad leg.
Tim knocked on the cockpit door with the butt of the Glock. “Thank you, gentlemen. It was a good flight. You have one passenger still onboard. Take him wherever you want.”
“Take him to hell,” Luke said. “Single fare, no return.”
Tim started down the steps, bracing for a possible gunshot—he hadn’t anticipated her calling out and identifying herself. He should have, of course. In the event, no gunshot came.
“Front passenger seat,” Tim said to Mrs. Sigsby. “Luke, you get in behind her. I’ll have the gun, but you’re my backup. If she tries to make a move on me, use some of your mental juju. Got it?”
“Yes,” Luke said, and got in back.
Mrs. Sigsby sat down and fastened her seatbelt. When she reached to close the door, Tim shook his head. “Not yet.” He stood with one hand on the open door and called Wendy, safe in her room at the Beaufort Econo Lodge.
“The Eagle has landed.”
“Are you all right?” The connection was good; she could have been standing next to him. He wished she was, then remembered where they were going.
“Fine so far. Stand by. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
If I can, he thought.
Tim walked around to the driver’s side and got in. The key was in the cup holder. He nodded to Mrs. Sigsby. “Now you can close the door.”
She did, looked at him disdainfully, and said what Luke had been thinking. “You look remarkably stupid with your hat on that way, Mr. Jamieson.”
“What can I say, I’m an Eminem fan. Now shut up.”
14
In the darkened Maine Paper Industries arrival building, a man knelt by the windows, watching as the Suburban’s lights came on and it started rolling toward the gate, which stood open. Irwin Mollison, an unemployed millworker, was one of the Institute’s many Dennison River Bend stringers. Stackhouse could have ordered Ron Church to stay, but knew from experience that issuing an order to a man who might choose to disobey it was a bad idea. Better to use a stooge who only wanted to make a few extra dollars.
Mollison called a number pre-programmed into his cell. “They’re on their way,” he said. “A man, a woman, and a boy. The woman’s wearing a cap over her hair, couldn’t make out her face, but she stood in the doorway of the plane and yelled out her name. Mrs. Sigsby. Man’s also wearing a cap, but turned around backward. The boy’s the one you’re looking for. Got a bandage on his ear and a hell of a bruise on the side of his face.”
“Good,” Stackhouse said. He had already gotten a call from the Challenger’s co-pilot, who told him Dr. Evans had stayed on the plane. Which was fine.
So far, everything was fine… or as fine as it could be, under the circumstances. The bus was parked by the flagpole, as requested. He would place Doug the chef and Chad the caretaker in the trees beyond the admin building, where the Institute’s driveway began. Zeke Ionidis and Felicia Richardson would take up their stations on the admin building’s roof, behind a parapet that would hide them until the shooting began. Gladys would start the poison sucking into the HVAC system, then join Zeke and Felicia. Those two positions would enable a classic crossfire when the Suburban pulled in—that, at least, was the theory. Standing beside the flagpole with his hand on the hood of the bus, Stackhouse would be at least thirty yards from the crisscrossing bullets. There would be some risk of taking a spare round, he knew that, but it was an acceptable one.
Rosalind he would send to stand guard outside the door to the access tunnel on F-Level of Front Half. He wanted to make sure she didn’t have a chance to realize her long-time and beloved boss was also in the crossfire, but there was more to it than that. He understood that the constant hum was power. Maybe it wasn’t enough to breach the door yet, but maybe it was. Maybe they were just waiting for the Ellis boy to arrive, so they could attack from the rear and cause the sort of chaos they had already brought about in Back Half. The gorks didn’t have brains enough to think of something like that, but there were the others. If that was the case, Rosalind would be there with her S&W .45, and the first ones through that door would wish they had stayed behind it. Stackhouse could only hope the twice-damned Wilholm boy would be leading the charge.
Am I ready for this? he asked himself, and the answer seemed to be yes. As ready as he could be. And it might still be all right. On the outside, after all, it was Ellis they were dealing with. Only a kid and some misguided hero he’d picked up along the way. In just ninety minutes, this shit-show would be over.
15
Three o’clock. The hum was louder now.
“Stop,” Luke said. “Turn there.” He was pointing to a dirt track screened by huge old pines, its mouth barely visible.
“Is this the way you came when you escaped?” Tim asked.
“God, no. They would have caught me.”
“Then how do you—”
“She knows,” Luke said. “And because she does, I do.”
Tim turned to Mrs. Sigsby. “Is there a gate?”
“Ask him.” She nearly spat the words.
“No gate,” Luke said. “Just a big sign that says Maine Paper Industries Experimental Station and no trespassing.”
Tim had to smile at the expression of pure frustration on Mrs. Sigsby’s face. “Kid should be a cop, don’t you think, Mrs. Sigsby? No alibi would get past him.”
“Don’t do this,” she said. “You’re going to get all three of us killed. Stackhouse will stop at nothing.” She looked over her shoulder at Luke. “You’re the mind-reader, you know I’m telling the truth, so tell him.”
Luke said nothing.
“How far to this Institute of yours?” Tim asked.
“Ten miles,” Mrs. Sigsby said. “Maybe a bit more.” She had apparently decided that stonewalling was useless.
Tim turned onto the road. Once he was past the big trees (their branches brushed at the roof and sides of the car), he found it smooth and well maintained. Overhead, a three-quarter moon cleared the slot through the trees, turning the dirt to the color of bone. Tim doused the Suburban’s headlights and drove on.
16
Three-twenty.
Avery Dixon seized Kalisha’s wrist with a cold hand. She had been dozing on Nicky’s shoulder. Now she raised her head. “Avester?”
Wake them up. Helen and George and Nicky. Wake them up.
“What—”
If you want to live, wake them up. It’s going to happen pretty soon.
Nick Wilholm already was awake. “Can we live?” he asked. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“I hear you in there!” Rosalind’s voice, coming from the other side of the door, was only slightly muffled. “What are you talking about? And why are you humming?”
Kalisha shook George and Helen awake. Kalisha could see the colored dots again. They were faint, but they were there. They went whooshing up and down the tunnel like kids on a slide, and that sort of made sense, because in a way they were kids, weren’t they? Or the remains of them. They were thoughts made visible, looping and dancing and pirouetting through the wandering Ward A kids. And did those kids look slightly more lively? A little more there? Kalisha thought so, but maybe that was only her imagination. So much wishful thinking. You got used to wishful thinking in the Institute. You lived on it.