Joey's recovery had also been helped by Chewbacca's miraculous recovery from the blow to the head that one of the assassins had delivered with the butt of a shotgun. The dog had been knocked unconscious, and his scalp had been skinned a bit, but the mild bleeding had stopped in response to pressure which Christine applied with antiseptic pads. There were no signs of concussion. Now the pooch was almost as good as new, and he stayed close to them, lying on the floor by Joey's chair, occasionally rising and looking up at the Pac-Man game, cocking his head, trying to figure out what the noisy device was.
She was no longer so sure that this dog's strong resemblance to Brandy was a bad thing. To endure the horror and turmoil, Joey needed reminders of more placid times, and he needed a sense of continuity that, like a bridge, would let him cross this period of chaos with his wits intact. Chewbacca, largely because of his resemblance to Brandy, could serve both those functions.
Charlie Harrison was in and out of the kitchen every ten or fifteen minutes, checking up on them and on the two new bodyguards he had stationed with them. One man, George Swarthout, sat on a tall stool by the kitchen phone, drinking coffee, watching Joey, watching the police who came in and out, watching Christine as she watched the police. The other, Vince Fields, was outside on the patio, guarding the rear approach to the house.
It wasn't likely that any of Grace Spivey's people would launch a second attack while the house was swarming with cops, but the possibility couldn't be ruled out altogether. After all, kamikaze missions had a certain popularity with religious fanatics.
On each of his visits to the kitchen, Charlie kidded with Joey, played a game of Pac-Man, scratched behind Chewbacca's ears, and did whatever he could to lift the boy's spirits and keep his mind off the carnage in the rest of the house. When the — police wanted to question Christine, Charlie stayed with Joey and sent her into another room, so the boy wouldn't have to listen to such gruesome talk. They wanted to question Joey, too, but, Charlie managed their interrogation of the boy and kept it to a minimum. Christine realized that it wasn't easy for him to be such a rock, such a font of good spirits; he had lost two of his men, not only employees but friends. She was grateful that he seemed determined to conceal his own horror, tension, and grief for Joey's sake.
At eleven o'clock, just as Joey was tiring of Pac-Man, Charlie came in, pulled up a chair to the kitchen table, sat down, and said, "Those suitcases you packed this morning-"
"Still in my car."
"I'll have them put in mine. Go pack whatever else you might need for.
say. a week. We'll be leaving here as soon as you're ready."
"Where are we going?"
"I'd rather not tell you just now. We could be overheard."
Had he, too, considered the possibility that one of Grace Splyey's people might be working as a cop? Christine wasn't sure whether his paranoia made her feel better or worse.
Joey said, "We gonna hole up in a hideout somewhere?"
"Yep," Charlie said." That's exactly what we're going to do."
Joey frowned." The witch has magic radar. She'll find us."
"Not where I'm taking you," Charlie said." We've had a soreerer cast a spell on the place so she can't detect it."
"Yeah?" Joey said, leaning forward, fascinated." You know a soreerer? "
"Oh, don't worry, he's a good guy," Charlie said." He doesn't do black magic or anything like that."
"Well, sure," the boy said." I wouldn't figure a private eye would work with an evil soreerer."
Christine had a hundred questions for Charlie, but she didn't think it was a good idea to ask any of them in front of Joey and perhaps disturb his fragile equilibrium. She went upstairs, where the coroner was overseeing the removal of the red-haired killer's body, and she packed another suitcase. Downstairs, in Joey's room, she packed a second case for him, then, after a brief hesitation, stuffed some of his favorite toys in another bag.
She was gripped and shaken by the unsettling feeling that she would never see this house again.
Joey's bed, the Star Wars posters on his wall, his collection of plastic action figures and spaceships seemed slightly faded, as if they were not really here, as if they were objects in a photograph. She touched the bedpost, touched an E.T. doll, put a hand to the cool surface of the blackboard that stood in one corner, and she could feel those things beneath her fingers, but still, somehow, they didn't seem real any more.
It was a strange, cold, augural feeling that left a hollowness within her.
No, she thought. I'll be back. Of course I will.
But the feeling of loss remained with her as she walked out of her son's room.
Chewbacca was taken out first and put into the green Chevy.
Then, in raincoats, shepherded by Charlie and his men, they left the house, and Christine shuddered when the cold, stinging rain struck her face.
Newspapermen, television camera teams, and a van from an all-news radio station awaited them. Powerful camera lights snapped on as soon as Christine and Joey appeared. Reporters jostled one another for the best position, and all of them spoke at once:
"Mrs. Scavello-"
— a moment, please-',
"— just one question-"
She squinted as the lights lanced painfully at her eyes.
"who would want to kill you and-"
"— is this a drug case-"
She held Joey tightly. Kept moving.
,'-do you-"
"— can you-"
Microphones bristled at her.
"— have you-"
— will You-"
A kaleidoscope of strange faces formed and reformed in front of her, some in shadow, some unnaturally pale and bright in the backsplash of the camera lights.
"— tell us what it feels like to live through-"
She got a glimpse of the familiar face of a man from KTLA's "Ten O'clock News."
"— tell us-" ',-what-"
,'-how-', 6 I — why-', "-terrorists or whatever they were?"
Cold rain trickled under the collar of her coat.
Joey was squeezing her hand very hard. The newsmen were scaring him.
She wanted to scream at them to get away, stay away, shut up.
They crowded closer.
Jabbered at her.
She felt as if she were making her way through a pack of hungry animals.
Then, in the crush and babble, an unfamiliar and unfriendly face loomed: a man in his fifties, with gray hair and bushy gray eyebrows. He had a gun.
No!
Christine couldn't get her breath. She felt a terrible weight on her chest.
It couldn't be happening again. Not so soon. Surely, they wouldn't attempt murder in front of all these witnesses. This was madness.
Charlie saw the weapon and pushed Christine and Joey out of the way.
At that same instant, a newswoman also saw the threat and tried to chop the gun out of the assailant's hand, but took a bullet in the thigh for her trouble.
Madness.
People screamed, and cops yelled, and everyone dropped to the rain-soaked ground, everyone but Christine and Joey, who ran toward the green Chevy, flanked by Vince Fields and George Swarthout. She was twenty feet from the car when something tugged at her, and pain flashed along her right side, just above the hip, and she knew she had been shot, but she didn't go down, didn't even stumble on the rain-slick sidewalk, just plunged ahead, gasping for breath, heart pounding so hard that each beat hurt her, and she held on to Joey, didn't look back, didn't know if the gunman was pursuing them, but heard a tremendous volley of shots, and then someone shouting, "Get me an ambulance!"
She wondered if Charlie had shot the assailant.
Or had Charlie been shot instead?
That thought almost brought her to a stop, but they were already at the Chevy.
George Swarthout yanked open the rear door of the car and shoved them inside, where Chewbacca was barking excitedly.
Vince Fields ran around to the driver's door.
"On the floor!" Swarthout shouted." Stay down!"
And then Charlie was there, piling in after them, half on top of them, shielding them.
The Chevy's engine roared, and they pulled away from the curb with a shrill screeching of tires, rocketed down the street, away from the house, into the night and the rain, into a world that couldn't have been more completely hostile if it had been an alien planet in another galaxy.