Zero Option

55

Carson did not approach the house directly. He had gone back to the truck, retrieved the cylinder, and put it in a bag. He got his revolver, finished the last of his water, and then made his way along the stone wall that paralleled the state road. He hesitated when he reached the eastern property line, but then he decided to stick to the road, go all the way across the front of the school, and then cut across that low dam into the dense stand of willow trees on the other side of the pond. The willows would give him much better cover to approach the house than the widely spaced pecan trees on the other side.

It took him fifteen minutes to cross over in front of the house, get up and across the dam, and make his way through the willows until he was parallel with the back of the house. He could see what looked like kitchen windows, but he needed to get closer to see if Stafford was in there. He also discovered a problem as he pushed through the dense willow branches: He was on the wrong side of the creek that fed the pond. Where he was standing, it was nearly ten feet across, and, although it didn’t look deep, the ravine it had cut over the years offered very steep banks. He didn’t think he could get down and back up those banks with his back the way it was.

Now what? he thought wearily, trying to focus. I’ve got to get over this creek to the yard. He wondered if there was a bridge farther upstream, but the thought of pushing through more of the willow branches deterred him: It had been hard, sweaty work getting this far in the dark, and the branches were full of biting insects. He was having trouble enough concentrating as it was. Okay, he thought, so go back to the dam. Come up the main drive, keeping in the shadow of the line of trees that borders the drive. Not as good cover as the willows, but better than this.

He rested for a few minutes, absorbing the night sounds while he got his breath back, and then started back the way he had come, toward the road, pushing the swaying branches out of his face and fending off the squadrons of bugs he was stirring up. He kept losing his way, and twice he had to retrace his steps until he found the pond. Keep the pond on your left, and you’ll hit the dam and the road, he told himself. He was sweating profusely now in the clammy air around the pond. He had just about reached the edge of the dam when he stopped to catch his breath.

It was then he heard a distinctive noise: a car door being closed, out there on the road.

He froze and listened hard. At first there was nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. How had a vehicle come up that road without his hearing it? The willow branches, he realized.

All those branches in his face and ears had masked the sound. Especially if someone was trying to be quiet. Then he heard another sound, of someone on the other side of the dam pushing his way through the stand of willows over there. Not in a hurry. Deliberate movements, interspersed with moments of silence.

He’s listening before he moves, Carson thought, like I should have been doing. He put the bag carefully down In the grass and pulled out his revolver. There was a mass of greenery right next to the edge of the dam, and he sank down into it, on his knees, trying not to grunt aloud as the shooting pains lit up his back again. Insects whined in his ears, but he ignored them. From his position, he could see clearly across the top of the dam, a space of about twenty.feet

He waited, feeling his back and legs getting stiff. After a few minutes, he heard the unseen intruder pushing through the final willow tree right before the dam, and then he saw a tall gray-haired figure step onto the top of the dam and start across. When the man was halfway across, Carson rose from his hiding place, which was when he saw the star on the other man’s chest.

“That’s far enough,” he announced, and the sheriff iroze, his hands at his side.

“And you musuje the famous Mr. Carson,” the sheriff said. The top of the concrete dam was about a foot and half wide, but the sheriff seemed to have no problem balancing on it. To the sheriff’s right was the still black surface of the pond; to his left, a drop of about ten feet down into a pool. The sheriff stood right in front of a shallow channel. that had been notched into the middle of the dam to let the overflow drop into the pool below. Carson checked over his left shoulder, but the lights from the house were barely visible through the branches of one large willow tree.

“That’s right. Where’d you leave the Army?”

“The Army? They’re up at the rock quarry, waiting for the FBI guys to tell them where to find the weapon.”

“What FBI guys?”

“The ones you were supposed to turn yourself into, Mr. Carson. They’re down at my office in the courthouse.”

“I don’t believe you. There’s just the Army. Stafford was lying. You’re all lying.”

The sheriff slowly raised his right hand and slapped a mosquito on his cheek, prompting Carson to lift the barrel of his revolver. The gun was beginning to feel very heavy in his hand. The sheriff put his hand back down, and Carson noticed that somehow he had managed to undo the safety strap on his sidearm.

“No, he wasn’t,” the sheriff said. “I’ve got a whole passel of Feds drinking my coffee and calling you names down there right now. We’ve got the lawyer laid on and everything. You come in with me, we can get this thing done. Ain’t no need for any trouble.”

Carson shook his head, wincing. He wasn’t going to be fooled again. If everything was the way the sheriff was describing, what was the sheriff doing here? Creeping around in the bushes? He asked the sheriff that question.

“Because I called Mr. Stafford a few minutes ago. Asked him if he’d heard from you, because you hadn’t shown up in town. Asked him if everything was okay here. He said something about your holding a gun to his head and then said everything was fine. Didn’t sound right, so I came to take a look.”

“Alone?”

The sheriff glanced to his left into the dark woods. “Yep. All alone,” he said.

Carson moved a little to put a tree trunk between him and any helpers the sheriff might have out there on the road or in the woods. But then he realized the sheriff was bluffing.

“Take your gun out of that holster and drop it in the pond,” he ordered.

The sheriff gave him a long, flat look, and Carson raised the barrel of Ms. revolver again. “It’s only about fifteen feet,” he said. “Even I can hit you at fifteen feet.” The sheriff continued to look at him, his hand now dangling very close to the butt of his sidearm. “Yeah, Mr. Carson, you might get lucky and hit me. But I wonder whether or not you can actually shoot someone.

That’s harder than it looks on the TV. Specially when the other fella is bringin’ up a forty-five at the same time. Besides, you don’t sound so good to me. You’re weavin’ around a little bit, and your voice sounds a mite strained. I’m thinkin’ this might be a pretty even contest. ‘Cause I know I can hit you at fifteen feet.”

“Pull it out with two fingers and drop it in the pond,” Carson said, steadying his right hand with his left, the way he’d seen shooters do in magazines. His mouth was dry and the pounding in his head had accelerated dangerously. A small breeze rippled across the pond. Carson cocked his revolver and pointed it right at the sheriff’s midsection.

“Doit, Sheriff.”

The sheriff put two fingers on the butt of the automatic, paused for a long moment, and then lifted it out of the holster. He bent and dropped it onto the concrete, but it did not go over the edge. He looked at it for a, second and then continued to bend down slowly.

“Use your foot!” Carson barked, but the sheriff kept reaching down. At the last moment, he nudged the big weapon over the edge with his knuckles, where it went into the pond with scarcely a sound. Carson, who had been holding his breath, started to relax, until he saw the glint of metal in the sheriff’s right hand as he brought up the ankle gun. Carson did not hesitate: He pulled the trigger and the .38 bucked in his hand with a flash of red light that momentarily blinded him. He heard the big man grunt and then there was a sliding noise as the sheriff went over the road side of the dam, tumbling down the sloped surface of the concrete and entering the pool with a heavy splash. Carson knelt down at the edge of the dam and scanned the surface of the pool, but there were only small waves and ripples, and then silence in the black water below.

He noticed there was a dark smear running vertically down the face of the dam, but the overflow stream was already washing it away.

He stood up, his heart pounding, and backed farther into the bushes to retrieve the bag with the cylinder. The smell of gunpowder was very strong in the close branches of the willow trees. His ears still rang, and he realized he had a death grip on the butt of the .38. He stuffed the gun in his waistband, conscious of the warm barrel against his belly. He couldn’t believe what he’d done: He’d killed a policeman. The pain in his back forgotten for the moment, he grabbed the bag and pushed hurriedly across the dam. He broke out of the willows and, gasping for breath, began to run across the lawn toward the side of the house.

Stafford jumped up out of his chair in the kitchen when he heard the gunshot, spilling some coffee onto the table. It had sounded as if it had come from across the pond. He listened for a moment, then reached for the phone. He didn’t know the sheriff’s office phone number, so he dialed 911. A woman’s voice answered, asking in a twangy southern accent what his emergency was.

“Gunshots at the Willow Grove Home,” he shouted. “Get Sheriff Warren up here!”

He slammed down the phone and looked hurriedly around the kitchen for a shotgun, or any other kind of weapon. But he knew that if they had anything, it wouldn’t be out where he or the kids could ever find it.

From upstairs, Mrs. Benning’s voice called down to him, asking what that noise was.

“Stay upstairs, Mrs. Benning,” he called. “Keep the kids up there with you until I tell you differently. I’m going to see what that was. I’ve called the sheriff.”

He turned out the lights in the kitchen and then those in the front hall. The front door was open, but he couldn’t see anything outside because of the front porch lights. He finally found the switch for those, turned them off, and then stood just inside the front door, his face near the screen, listening. All he could hear were the night sounds from the pond and the surrounding trees. A gentle breeze stirred the tops of the pecan trees, then slid across the pond and whispered through the willows. He could hear Mrs. Benning moving around upstairs, a door closing, but it didn’t sound as if the children were awake. He looked at his watch.

Nine-twenty.

He concentrated on the sounds from outside, trying to detect footfalls or any other human noise. The old house made its own night noises as the day’s heat finally gave way to the cooler night air. That had definitely been a gunshot, probably a short-barreled .38, from the sound of it. He felt helpless with only one functioning arm and no weapon, although his ability to shoot left-handed was just about nonexistent.

The problem was that this house had too damned many doors and porches.

He stepped back into the hallway, gently shut the front door, and locked it. Then he went through to Gwen’s part of the house and shut the open French doors leading out to her side porch. He went through to her bedroom, where there were more French doors, which he also shut. Then through the office, with a quick check into the equipment alcove, but there were no doors there. Finally he went back to the enormous kitchen.

He’d forgotten to turn out the porch light by the back steps. By that single white light, he could see that there was no one in the kitchen, although the dining area was in shadow. But because of the light, het;ould not see out into the immediate yard behind the house, nor, for that matter, onto the porch area by the kitchen door. The sheriff had already locked the kitchen door. He stopped just inside the kitchen and listened again, really wishing he had a weapon. But he didn’t, so the best he was going to do was to get the.doors locked and wait for the 911 call to have an effect.

He stepped across the kitchen, trying not to make any noise, past the huge old woodstove, past the table with the bag on it, past the — He froze.

“Wondered when you’d see it,” Carson said from the darkness in the dining area.

Stafford sighed and turned to look in the direction of Carson’s voice.

He could see the man’s shape, sitting in a chair, but nothing else.

“You lied to me, Stafford. You said we had a deal.”

“We did have a deal. There’re a half dozen FBI guys waiting for you with the sheriff at his office in Graniteville right now, wondering where the hell you are.”

“Another lie, you son of a bitch,” Carson said, moving slightly so Stafford could see the glint of the revolver in Carson’s lap. “The sheriff and I just met up. He wasn’t in town. He was sneaking up on the house.”

“What happened?”

“He got shot, that’s what happened. He went into the pool beneath the dam. I made him get rid of his gun, but

Bhe had another one in his boot. Reached for it. He was going to shoot me. It didn’t work out.”

Dave thought about his 911 call. The FBI would come even if the locals didn’t. Except if Carson was telling the truth, the sheriff had already been on his way. He wished he could see Carson’s face; the man didn’t sound right. He started to move closer, but the sound of a revolver being cocked stopped him.

“That’s close enough. I’ve already shot one cop tonight. He didn’t think I had it in me. Hell, didn’t think I had it in me. But in for a penny, in for a pound, you know? A second one wouldn’t make that big a difference. Now, there’s a cylinder in that bag. Take it and put it in that big icebox.”

“In the icebox?”

“Just do it. Something’s cooking in that little jewel, and I’m notyeady for it to pop open. Not yet, anyway. Then get me a phone.”. “A phone?”

“There an echo in here? Yeah, a phone. Put it over here on the table, and then sit down right next to it. I want you to get me the number of the NBC affiliate in Atlanta.

Wendell Carson’s going into the publicity business.”

Stafford opened the bag and extracted the heavy cylinder. It looked just like the drawing and the image on the Army monitor. The metal surface was damp and warm. He shivered-in voluntarily when he realized what he was holding. He opened the oversized refrigerator’s door, slid the cylinder in next to a container of milk, and closed the door. He then walked over to where the phone lay on the kitchen counter. When he picked it up, he realized he’d knocked it off the hook when he slammed it down. He replaced the handset and took it over to the dining table.

As he got closer, he could see a little more of Carson’s face, but not enough to make out an expression. He could hear the man’s labored breathing. As Stafford sat down, the phone rang.

“Go ahead, pick it up.”

Stafford did. It was the 911 operator, asking for confirmation of his call. Stafford looked over at Carson. “I called nine one one,” he told him, tilting the phone so the operator could hear what he was saying to Carson. “What do you want me to tell them?”

“Tell them the truth. Tell them I’m holding you and everyone in this house hostage. Tell them I have a gun and a cylinder full of nerve gas.

Tell them anyone tries to get close to the house, I’ll start killing kids. If they try to storm the house, I’ll open the cylinder, kill everyone in the fucking county. Tell ‘em all that; then hang up. I want to use that phone.”

The wait for the Atlanta television people had not gone peacefully. A small army of vehicles had assembled on the state road in front of the house, with county sheriff cars, the FBI and their three vehicles, the Army and its vehicles, lots of state police, and some curious would-be onlookers and citizen volunteers from the town milling around down there.

Carson had set the tone for things early on. He’d been furious when he found out Gwen and Jessamine were gone. He’d made Stafford go in front of him in a room to-room search before believing it. Then the state police had brought up some portable floods, which they placed in the driveway entrance and behind the house to light up the grounds. Once the lights were on, the phone rang. Carson picked it up and told them to turn the light off. The cops said no, and put a hostage negotiator on the line. Carson responded by forcing Mrs. Benning to bring the little kids downstairs. Herding Mrs. Benning and the kids in front of him, he ordered Stafford to go around the first floor and pull all the curtains and shades closed, plunging the interior into total darkness. Then he assembled the kids and Mrs. Benning into their classroom, made them stand in front of the windows, opened the curtains, and turned on the lights so the cops could see them. He had Stafford crack open the front door, and then get down on his knees. Over Stafford’s head, he fired two rounds down the driveway in the direction of the floodlights. He didn’t hit any of the lights, but they apparently got the message and turned them all off.

After that he turned out the lights in the classroom and had Mrs. Benning pull the curtains shut. He sent them all into the parlor across, the hall, where he made them lie down on the floor, with orders to stay there, after which he locked them in. He took Stafford back into the dark kitchen and made him sit in a chair backlit by the porch light.

Carson then retired to the shadows at the back of the dining area to await the media’s arrival. When the phone rang again, with an FBI negotiator on the line, Carson told them he’d talk to the Atlanta media, and no one else, and that he was going to wait until they showed up. The cops mulled that one over, then called him back and told him they were not going to let the media in. They had hardwired the phone line to the command center in one of their vans, and would await his call.

Stafford had listened to this discussion, and he could just imagine the twelve-monkeys-trying-to-breed-a-football scene that had to be going on down there on the road among the local law, the FBI, the state cops, and the Army. The Army would be shirting little green apples at the thought of the media getting a look at the cylinder, or, worse, Carson trying to open it in an orphanage.

They’d been waiting in the darkened kitchen for over an hour when Stafford asked Carson if he could make some fresh coffee.

“Yes. But first put a pitcher of ice water and a glass over here on the table. No lights and no tricks.”

Stafford got him the water, trying to see Carson’s face in his corner of the dining area when he opened the icebox door, but Carson remained hidden in the shadows. Stafford had forgotten that he had put. the cylinder injhe refrigerator. Its stainless steel sides were sweating visibly when he got the ice tray out, and he realized the refrigerator had been running ever since he’d put the cylinder in there. He wondered about that as he went to make coffee.

He had been trying to think of some way to get an advantage over Carson, but nothing brilliant had come to mind. If that was a six-shooter, then Carson should have three rounds left. Or only two, if he practiced the safety precaution of keeping the hammer chamber empty. But in the whole time Carson had been in the house, Stafford had not actually been able to get a direct look at him. All the interior lights in the house were off, and all the blinds and drapes were drawn, making the darkness just about complete, and while Carson could not see out, no sharpshooter with a night scope could see in, either. Stafford knew the cops outside would not storm the house with the children inside, so somehow, this thing was going to have to run its course. With only one functional arm and no gun, Stafford wasn’t going to be much help in any physical sense. He would have to use his brain instead, and that was small comfort.

Carson remained quiet over there in the darkness, his silhouette barely visible at the end of the table. The standoff was beginning to get to Stafford. He desperately wanted to see the man’s face, to see if the face matched up with the intense weariness in Carson’s voice. More than anything else, he wanted to do something. On the other hand, maybe if they just waited, Carson might collapse on his own. As long as he didn’t go after the kids. The cops had last called thirty minutes ago, but Carson just picked up the phone and hung it up. Standoff.

When the coffee was ready, he asked Carson if he wanted some.

“No. You stay over there. Sit down. There, where I can see you.” Stafford did as he was told. After a few minutes, he asked Carson what had happened to Bud Lambry. Carson told him..

“Wow. What’d he do — put the squeeze on you? Wanted more money than he’d been getting?”

At first Carson didn’t respond. Finally, he did.

“We had us a sweet deal going at that DRMO,” he said. “I guess we all got a little greedy when that thing showed up.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to wait for the TV people.”

“And then what?”

“And then I’m going to put a bullet through your fat head if you don’t shut up.”

That’s perfectly clear, Stafford thought, so he shut up.

Slumping sideways in his chair in the darkness, Carson allowed his eyes to close for just a moment once Stafford had shut his yap down at the other end of the long table. Drinking his fucking coffee. Waiting him out. Well, he could wait until hell froze over, because Wendell Carson wasn’t falling for any more of Stafford’s tricks. Wendell Carson was running out of time and patience. Those people should have been here by now.

He opened his eyes and blinked several times, regaining his focus.

Stafford was still sitting there, in profile to him in the gloom of the darkened kitchen. The fever was bad, and he knew that Advil and water were not going to hack it anymore. The cops had said they weren’t going to let him talk to the media, and the cylinder, for all its deadly contents, was as good as useless sitting in the refrigerator over there.

If he opened it, he would be the first to experience whatever horror lay inside. He thought about getting one of those kids in here, getting on the phone, and telling the cops he’d start shooting the kids unless they sent a television crew in.

He sighed, unintentionally loudly. Stafford looked over in his direction but kept his mouth shut, as ordered. I can make that threat, Carson thought, but I couldn’t do it. He was amazed at what he had done to the sheriff. Bud Lam bry had been as close to a case of self-defense as anything, but not shooting the man on the dam. He could have yelled “Drop it,’ or something. But he hadn’t. Wendell Carson had aimed at that bastard’s midsection and put one right through his heart, like he was some stone-cold killer. He could still hear that mortal grunt, see the dark smear all the way down the face of the dam into the stillness of the pool. And the hell of it was, he didn’t feel an ounce of remorse. He didn’t feel anything at all about shooting that guy. Just like he didn’t feel anything about Tangent’s guy on the conveyor belt.

Goddamn, this thing has gotten way out of hand, thanks mostly to this, piece of shit sitting down the table from me. And that damned weird girl. Twenty-four hours ago, I had my hands on a million bucks and a whole new life in front of me. Now? Now I’m fucked. The government is going to win this one. God, that pisses me off!

He shifted in his chair, precipitating sharp lances of pain throughout every joint in his body. Time is definitely running out. Can’t just let it end with me passing out here in this chair and Stafford calling in the cops. At the very least I’m going to take Stafford with me, and somehow that girl. Suddenly he knew just how to make that happen.

Stafford’s stomach was raising hell about all the coffee. The caffeine was keeping him awake, but the acid and stress were churning up his guts. He had been desperately trying to think of something he could do to break the impasse, something that wouldn’t get him or the kids killed in the process. He jumped when Carson spoke his name from the darkness.

“All right, Stafford,” Carson said, his voice coming out in a hollow croak.

“What?” Stafford said.

Carson slid the phone across the table in Stafford’s direction. “Call them. Get whoever’s in charge of the Army people oh the phone.”

“And tell him what?”

“Do it, goddamn it. I’ll tell you what to say.”

Stafford reached across for the phone and picked it up. A voice answered immediately. “Yes? Wendell?”

“No, it’s Stafford. He wants to talk to the Army honcho. That general.”

A new voice came on the line. “He can talk to me. No one else.” — .;

“Who is this?”

“Kiesling, FBI.”

“There are five kids in here, Kiesling. This man isn’t up to playing games just now.”

“Taking his side, Stafford?”

“I’m the guy with a gun pointed at him. Just get the general, would you, Kiesling? I’m sure he’ll let you listen in.”

There was silence on the line for a few minutes. “What’re they saying?”

Carson asked.

“He said you could talk only to him. But I think he’s getting the Army guy.”

“He’d better.”

There was another wait, almost five minutes this time. Then a voice came on the line. “This is General Carrothers.”. “Dave Stafford here, General. Stand by one.” He looked in Carson’s direction. He could make out the white blur of Carson’s face, but not his features. “Well?”

“Give me the phone. Carefully. Push it over here.”

Stafford leaned forward and pushed the phone across the table as far as he could. Carson told him to sit down in the end chair, away from the phone, and then he got up, very slowly, Stafford noticed, and reached for the phone.

“General? This is Wendell Carson.”

Stafford could not longer hear the other side of the conversation, but it wasn’t very long.

“Here’s the deal, General. You want your little toy back, preferably unopened. I’ll give it to you. Then you can disappear into the woods and deny it ever happened. That’s what you people want more than anything, right?”

Carson was silent for a moment, and then Stafford saw him nod his head.

“Okay, then. But here’s the price for that. You bring me the girl — the one that can’t speak. You know the one I’m talking about. You bring her with you, and then you’ll get your cylinder, the nurse, and the kids.

Otherwise, I’m going to open it. Think about how you’ll explain that to your superiors, General. And to the public. Call me back when you have the girl.”

Stafford heard the phone slam down. “They’ll never do that,” he said to the figure in the darkness.

“Won’t they?’ Carson asked. “They get this thing back, and trade two hostages for seven. It’s not perfect, but life’s not perfect. You watch.

This is end game. They’ll do it.”

“Two hostages?”

“Yeah. I want the girl. I’ve already got you.”

It was Kiesling who briefed Carson’s demands to the state and county law-enforcement supervisors in the mobile command center. He didn’t specifically mention the cylinder, focusing on the hostages instead.

There was a babble of negative reactions around the command van. General Carrothers listened to all the simultaneous opinions, the exclamations of ‘No way in hell,’ the outraged fulminations of Kiesling’s FBI men, and then he quietly excused himself and walked through the cordon of police slouching behind their cars to the other side of the Willow Grove fence. When he had heard that the Atlanta media were inbound, he had ordered his people to break down the stone wall in the adjoining field and drive the military Suburbans up into that field and out of sight behind some trees. Fortunately, the television crews and their antenna-studded trucks were being held back down on the road to Graniteville, about a quarter of a mile from the scene.

Carrothers glanced at his watch. It was now almost three in the morning.

With sunrise would come press helicopters, which would spot his vehicles. He wished like hell that sheriff was around, but he had disappeared, and the consensus was that he might have run into Carson.

His deputies had been frantically searching the grounds all night, while trying not to be seen from the darkened house.

He reached the Suburbans. The captain came forward in the darkness. The rest of the soldiers were doing what sensible soldiers always do: sleeping in their vehicles. The captain was the only one awake.

“Yes, sir, General,” he said, saluting.

“Get the satellite link up, Captain. Get me General Waddell on secure.”

Two minutes later, he was patched through to Waddell, and he described the deal that Carson was offering.

“So he definitely has it in the house,” Waddell said.

“Sounds like it, sir. He’s got Stafford, a night nurse, and five little kids. We give him this girl, we get everybody but Stafford out, and we get the cylinder back. It’ll be daylight in three hours or so, and the Atlanta media is already here.” “What have they been told?”

“That there’s a wacko holding’kids hostage in this orphanage. That we know he has a gun, and that he’s claiming to have some nerve gas, which is why the Army is here, although I said we don’t really believe he does. Just a precaution.”

“What do the civilians on scene say?”

“What you’d expect: No way in hell. The problem is, only the FBI supervisor knows what this thing is really all about. The other problem we have is that no one has any idea of where the girl is. She and the woman who runs this place were spirited away by the sheriff, before he disappeared.”

“This is the so-called psychic?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has Carson ever seen her?”

“Yes, sir, unfortunately. I had the same idea: Get a female FBI agent in here and send her in. But he knows what she looks like.”

At that moment, Agent Kiesling materialized out of the darkness. The captain tried to keep him away from the general, but Carrothers waved him over] “I’ve got Agent Kiesling here, General. Stand by one, please, sir.”

Kiesling stepped close so as not to be overheard. “They’ve found the sheriff,” he said. “He’s dead. Heart shot. He was in the creek below the dam.”

“Jesus,” Carrothers muttered. He had liked the sheriff. “Now what?”

“I’ve talked to my people in Washington. If we can find that damned girl, they’re ready to take his deal. Before daylight and television helicopters, if you take my meaning. But supposedly only the sheriff knows — knew— where they are.”

“I think my boss is ready to do the same thing,” Carrothers said. “But if Carson killed the sheriff, we’d probably be sending the girl to her death. Not to mention Stafford.”

“Why?”

“Because if we retrieve the cylinder and Carson kills them, there’s nothing we can do to him. The government can’t reveal what this has all ben about, and the two witnesses would be dead. So my vote is that we don’t do it.”

Kiesling glanced over in the direction of the captain to make sure he would not be overheard. “My instructions from the Attorney General’s office are to do whatever it takes to get that cylinder back. Whatever it takes. Her understanding is that’s the Pentagon’s position as well.

We get those kids and the Cylinder out of there, then we have a new ball game. He shoots his remaining hostages, we’ll shoot him down like a dog.

But the focus is the cylinder.”

Carrothers just looked at him. The FBI man sighed. “Look, Stafford took his chances when he stuck his nose into this thing. I’m sorry about the girl, but she knows something she should not know. Hell, maybe we can give the girl a weapon and she can get it to Stafford.”

Carrothers just stared, and Kiesling shrugged. It was weak, and he knew it. Carrothers shook his head and went back on the satellite link to brief General Waddell, who immediately seconded Kiesling’s plan. “Find the girl,” he ordered. ‘ Take his deal. That cylinder can kill thousands of people, he lets it loose. The Secdef is willing to trade two people — one actually, when you think in terms of innocent civilians — to get that thing back. Do whatever it takes, General. That’s why you’re there.”

“But first we have to find her, General,” Carrothers reminded him. If we can’t find her, he thought, we can’t send her in there. There was a pause on the net.

“I understand, General. But be advised, if you can’t H find that girl and get her in there before sunrise, we’re authorized and prepared to take other measures to neutralize the Wet Eye.”

Carrothers felt his heart stop. “Other measures, General? You mean like the DRMO?”

“Precisely, General.”

“But there are five—”

“I have those orders from the National Command Authority. This is a weapon of mass destruction. We either get our hands on it or we must ensure its destruction. Do we know that’s Carson in there?”

“Yes, sir. They found his truck.”

“Then find the girl, General, or get everyone away from that house by sunrise. Waddell off net.”

Carrothers looked at the handset in disbelief for a moment before hanging it up. He was sweating despite the cool night air.

He told Kiesling what the general had just said. Kiesling looked at his watch and swallowed. “We’d better find that girl,” he said.

As they pushed their way back across the wet grass to rejoin the command center, two FBI agents, flashlights swinging, met them at the gap in the stone wall.

“There’s a woman down on the Graniteville road,” one reported to Kiesling. “Showed up at the police line in some beat-to-shit pickup truck. Says she’s the owner of this place. A Mrs. Warren? Wants to talk to whoever’s in charge. She has a teenage girl with her.”

Kiesling and Carrothers stared at each other and then hurried down to the mobile command center. As they approached the van, they could see Gwen Warren standing by the side doors. The girl was standing a few feet away from her, looking very frightened, her hands jammed into the pockets of her sweater, her eyes enormous. Three Longstreet County deputies were with them, along with two state troopers. The lights from inside the mobile command center spilled out onto the state road, throwing all the faces into garish relief. Under different circumstances, Carrothers thought, the woman would be quite attractive, but now her face is a mask of worry.

“Don’t say anything about the sheriff,” Carrothers whispered out of the side of his mouth. “He was her ex husband. According to the deputies, they were still close.”

As it turned out, John Lee was Owen’s first question. “Where’s John Lee?” she said to Kiesling. “The deputies called. They said there was trouble here. Has something happened to him?”

Kiesling looked at Carrothers, who wasn’t sure what to say. Gwen looked from one to the other, and then she saw the expression on the deputies’ faces. “Tell me, damn you,” she said.

The senior deputy stepped forward and took off his hat. “Sheriff John Lee’s dead, Miz Warren. Bastard holed up there in the school shot him, best we can tell. Over by the dam. I’m real sorry, ma’am. We’re all real damned sorry.”

Gwen put a hand to her mouth, her face draining of color as the shock set in. She sat down abruptly on the side step of the van, and Carrothers thought for a moment she was going to be sick. He stepped forward, pushing past Kiesling, and squatted down. “Mrs. Warren? I’m General Carrothers, U.S. Army, ma’am. I’m deeply sorry for your loss. I just met Sheriff Warren. He struck me as a good man.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything. The girl pushed her way between the men standing around her and sat down next to Gwen, her hands flying in some kind of sign language. Gwen just turned her face, and the girl made a small mewing noise, and then she began to cry. Gwen put an arm around her and held her while she dabbed at her own eyes.

“What is happening here?” she asked finally. Kiesling started to reply, but Carrothers gave him a sign to wait a minute. “Mrs. Warren, may I suggest we take a little walk, ma’am? Bring the girl if you’d like.”

Gwen looked up at him, momentarily confused, but then got up and went with Carrothers and Kiesling. They walked through the crowd of policemen standing around parked police cars, going away from the driveway in the direction of the field in which the Army vehicles were parked. The three deputies followed ten feet behind.

When they reached the wall, Gwen sat down again, the girl at her side.

Carrothers told her of what had happened that night. He had assumed that since the girl was mute, she was also deaf, but it was obvious as he was talking that she could hear just fine. He was a little nervous when he realized that this must be the psychic. Kiesling said nothing, but he made a show of looking at his watch frequently.

“He’s got the kids up there,” Carrothers concluded. “And an older woman.”

“That would be Mrs. Benning.” “Yes, ma’am,” Carrothers said. “And he’s got Staf ford. He has one gun that we know of, and one other thing.” He waited to see if she knew what he was talking about. According to Stafford’s boss, she was the one who had brought Stafford into it in the first place.

She looked up at him. She has truly beautiful eyes, he thought. “That thing,” she said. “He has that thing with him. The cylinder.”

“Yes, ma’am. He does. Mrs. Warren, that ‘thing’ contains an extremely deadly substance. If that substance gets loose, there is literally no telling how many people in this area might be harmed.”

She nodded, as if this wasn’t news. “And what does he want?” Her voice sounded dead.

“Something very unreasonable, ma’am,” Carrothers said, glancing over at Kiesling. “He’s willing to give us the cylinder, the kids, and Mrs. Benning.”

“In exchange for?”

“He wants this girl here,” Kiesling says. “And he keeps Stafford.”

“You’ve got to be out of your mind,” she said, staring rigidly into the darkness.

“Mrs. Warren, we don’t—” Kiesling began smoothly, but Carrothers cut him off again.

“I agree with you, Mrs. Warren,” he said. “So I’m totally opposed to that course of action. We’re trying desperately to think of something else, but we don’t have much time, and he’s threatening to hurt the kids.”

At the mention of the kids, her head snapped up. Kiesling tried to mollify her. “We don’t think he’ll do that, either, Mrs. Warren. This guy is not a hardened criminal. He’s a middle-aged civil servant who got way the hell out of his depth. But we don’t think he’s the type who could start shooting children.”

“Just full-grown sheriffs?” she asked quietly. Kiesling opened his mouth, but then he shut it. She looked back at Carrothers. “What other plan do you people have in mind, General?”

Carrothers hesitated. “We don’t, Mrs. Warren. We were hoping you could tell us something about the house, some vulnerability we might exploit.

Or maybe I could go in with the girl. I don’t know. But we have to do something.”.

She sighed. “He said he would hurt the kids?” “Yes, ma’am,” Carrothers said, thinking about what he had just offered to do, and wondering where the hell that idea had come from. Kiesling horned in again. “We can also just wait,” he said. “We can cut the power to the house, isolate him, make him understand he has zero options here.

Wear him down. Talk him down.”, “But you can’t storm the house, can you?” she said. “Not while he has that thing in there.”

“There are other measures that could be taken,” Carrothers said, looking over her head at Kiesling, and then back at Gwen. “Measures that will be taken, if we don’t resolve this thing very soon.”

“What does that mean?” she said.

Carrothers again did not know how to tell her. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “The National Command Authority has authorized the destruction of the house,” he said. “My guess is an air strike of some kind at first light. I’m sorry, Mrs. Warren. In its own way, that cylinder is a weapon of mass destruction, not so very different from an atomic weapon. I guess what I’m saying is that the real choice is that the girl goes in, or no one comes out. Again, I volunteer to take her in. Maybe together we—”

“That’s no choice at all, General, is it?” she said, standing up, brushing off her clothes. “This is truly wonderful. You people let this monstrosity get loose, John Lee Warren is dead, and now you’re willing to snuff out five innocent children and two adults, just like that, to cover your tracks? What’s that Army slogan, General? ‘Be all you can be’? Is this all you can bet’

“Yes, ma’am,” Carrothers replied, unable to meet her gaze. Even Kiesling looked embarrassed.

“Well, there is a way to do this. I’ll take Jessamine in.” “You?” Kiesling said. “But—”

“No, I don’t expect you to understand, and according to the general here, we don’t have time to discuss it. I will go in with her. You go tell him that. The kids, Mrs. Benning, the cylinder, in exchange for the two of us.”

Kiesling looked at Carrothers, shrugged, and headed back toward die command center, calling for his agents to get Carson on the phone again.

Carrothers watched him go, then turned back to find both women watching him. Their expressions were disturbingly similar, although the girl looked scared to death, while the woman looked mostly determined. Then he realized what she might have in mind: Take that girl in there, and then the girl was going to do something to Carson. With her mind. He felt a sudden chill of fear, and then a desperate need to know.

“Can she do this?” he asked softly. “It’s real?”

There was a flicker of understanding in her eyes, but then she was all business again. “Make your arrangements, General,” Gwen said. “Then call us when you’re ready. She and I need to talk now. Privately, please.”

Carrothers backed away, his throat dry. He tried not to walk any faster than he absolutely had to. He looked at his watch. Not much time. He’d better call the Pentagon, let them know they might again have a deal to get the weapon back. He wondered how he would ever explain all this to Sue. Be all you can be. Jesus H. Christ!

Carson hung up the phone and pushed it away. Stafford could hear him do it, but he still could not see much in the darkened room.

“Well, well, well,” Carson said. “They’re going to do it. They’re sending in the girl. With the woman who runs this place, it seems, in place of the general. Suits me. You go get the old woman and those brats into the front hall. Remember: No lights, and don’t you try any bullshit. I’ll be right behind you and I’ll put one through your spine.

Then I’ll shoot as many kids as I have bullets.”

Stafford couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was against all procedures for a hostage situation, which meant they had to be trying something. But why at mis hour? Why not wait until daylight?

And why Gwen?

“Move it, I said,” Carson rasped. He was obviously trying to put some force in his voice, but the weakness was clearly evident. Stafford got up, wondering again why the forces outside didn’t simply wait Carson out. Because they don’t know something’s wrong with him, he realized as he went to the parlor door and called Mrs. Benning. If there was only some way he could communicate with them, but every window in the house was shut up tight. Then he was conscious of Carson standing behind him in the hallway as he waited for Mrs. Benning to get the kids up. Carson told him to unlock the door.

He’s got three rounds left, he thought; maybe only two. If I rush him, I might achieve surprise, take him down. He’s feverish, and probably weak.

I know he is: I can hear it in his voice, see it in the way he’s doing everything very slowly. He was standing right next to a chair in the hallway. Maybe wait for the kids to start out, grab the chair and hurl it in Carson’s direction, and then charge him. Even if he got shot, Carson might be out of ammo, and the kids could run for it. But would they know to do that? He sighed. And how well could he throw a chair with one arm? Carson was a desperate man, talking about opening that cylinder, shooting the kids. You’re the one who ought to be desperate, he thought. Why do you suppose Carson wants you and the girl in here?

He kept trying to think of a plan, any plan. Gwen and the girl were coming in. The kids and Mrs. Benning were being released. That would put three of them in the house with Carson. Three rounds left. But maybe only two. Was there some way to get him to shoot? Get the number of bullets left down to fewer than the people facing him and they could take him. But not without coordinating their action.

Hell, I’m going in circles here, he thought. Just play it as it lies.

“Figured out a move?” Carson asked him in a mocking voice from the end of the dark hallway. “Because I don’t think you have one.”

The kids came out into hallway, holding hands, their eyes wide. Mrs. Benning came out behind them, encouraging them to move toward the door but to stay together.

“Hold them right there,” Carson ordered. They all froze when he spoke.

Stafford was standing near the bottom of the steps; he thought he could just make out the kids’ faces. Then he heard Carson pick up the hall telephone.

“Okay,” he said. “Have the woman and the girl come up the walk to the front door. I want them standing on the porch outside the front door, where I can see them. I want them to ring the doorbell when they’re in position.” He hung up the phone before the hostage negotiator at the other end could complicate it. “You people stand in front of the door.

Stafford, you get down on the floor, facedown. Spread out your arms and legs.”

Stafford did as he was ordered, and he thought he felt Carson getting closer, but from his spread-eagled position on the floor, he could not even begin to move without giving Carson plenty of warning. Mrs. Benning herded the kids over in front of the door. Stafford could just see them silhouetted against the glass. Then they waited.

Three minutes later, everyone jumped when the doorbell rang. There was a flare of light out in front of the house, probably from someone pointing a car’s headlights up the drive.

“Stafford,” Carson said, and Stafford tuned his head to look down the hallway. “Catch this.” v

Something came sliding across the floor and collided with Stafford’s left arm. He reached for it with his left hand. It was Carson’s bag.

“Slide it up to the front door. Don’t you move; just slide it over there.”

Stafford did as he was ordered, sliding the bag like a shuffleboard disk into the small knot of children plastered against the front door. As he did, he realized the bag was too light.

Son of a bitch! Was it empty?

“Mrs. Benson, or whatever your name is, pick that up. When I tell you to, step outside and show it to the cops. Then step back in, let the two of them in past you, and then take the kids and the bag and get out of here. Understood?’ ‘

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Benning whispered. The kids were dead silent.

“Open the door. Do what I told you to do.” Mrs. Benning tried to open the door, but it was locked. With shaking hands, she unlocked it and opened it. There were two figures silhouetted against the lights coming from the drive. Mrs. Benning stepped out onto the porch and waved the bag around like some kind of signal lamp. Then she stepped back inside.

“You two out there, step in,” Carson called out. “Step in and close that door.”

Stafford watched helplessly from the floor as Gwen and Jessamine came through the door. He wanted to warn them about the bag, but if he did, Carson might start shooting. “Now, take those children and the bag and get out of here.” Mrs. Benning did not hesitate, and they were out of the house in a flash.

“Close that door,” Carson ordered, Stafford heard the front door close.

“No lights,” Carson said. “Stafford, get up. Move back here toward me.

All of you. Back toward me, into the kitchen.”

Stafford got up slowly off the floor, and then the three of them felt their way along the hallway to the kitchen door. The light was still on out on the back porch, so they could just make out the shapes of the stove and the big refrigerator, the tables and chairs. Carson had backed into his former position at the end of the dining table. He remained in deep shadow.

Stafford could hear the man, but he still couldn’t see him, couldn’t see his eyes, gauge his readiness: It made it impossible for him to formulate any plan, any course of action. It was maddening.

And he had traced the police outside.

“Sit. All of you.”

As they sat down, the phone on the table began to ring. Carson barked out a laugh that ended in a dry, congested cough, but he didn’t pick it up. He did something at the end of the table, and then there was a heavy metallic thump. Dave saw the gleam of metal. The cylinder. He’d been right: Carson had kept the damned thing.

“Insurance, that’s what this is, so no SWAT team comes lunging through the windows with their stun grenades. Not until I’m done in here.” “You are done in here,” Gwen Warren said from her side of the table.

Then, to Stafford’s amazement, she slid her chair back, reached over her shoulder, and hit the light switch.

“Turn that off!” Carson shrieked, but she ignored him, sitting back down in her chair. When Stafford’s eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness and he finally got a look at Carson, he was stunned at what he saw: pale, parchment white face, deep green-black circles under red-rimmed eyes, his hair damp and plastered down on his head like wet weeds, and an angry red swelling like a necklace visible around his neck. The cylinder gleamed malevolently on the table.

Carson stood up in front of his chair, weaving noticeably, and menaced all of them with the gun, a .38 revolver. “I mean it,” he yelled. “Turn that fucking light off, or I’ll … I’ll kill all of you! Turn it off!”

“No,” Gwen said. “If you’re going to kill us anyway, we’re going to look you in the eye while you do it.”

Carson put his left hand down on the edge of the table to steady himself. Stafford cursed himself mentally for not having made a move earlier: The guy was a wreck, obviously on his last legs. But that gun looked pretty functional. Jessamine sat next to Gwen, staring blankly across the table at the far wall, looking as if she were trying to transport herself somewhere else. Gwen held her hand. Then the phone started ringing again. This time, Carson picked it up.

“What do you wanrt” he screamed into it. He listened for a moment. “Of course I have it” He looked up at Stafford. “My partner changed his mind at the last minute. Said you people would storm the house the moment I sent it out.” Another pause. “Stafford. Who else, you fucking idiot? He’s been in on this thing from the start. Why the hell do you think he’s here? Why the hell do you think he hasn’t tried to jump me?”

His feverish eyes were gleaming with triumph. “That’s right, Mr. FBI Man. All along. See, he was a smart little civil servant. Wanted it both ways, especially when the deal started turning to shu” Another pause.

Stafford just stared at him and shook his head.

Carson laughed again, a horrible sound. “How else could he have known about the cylinder, Einstein? Don’t tell me the FBI believes all that psychic bullshit!” Another silence. “Yes, I have it. What I don’t have is my god damned money. You guys need to ask Stafford about that.”

He slammed down the handset, ripped out the wall cord, and pushed the phone onto the floor while he sat down heavily in his chair. He pulled the dripping cylinder over toward himself and rested the barrel of the gun on it.:

“I owed you that,” he said. “You fucked up the best chance I was ever going to have. You and your little spirit medium there.” When he said the word spirit, the girl turned to look at him. Her expression had changed. She no longer looked like some wild animal about to bolt. She shifted her body slightly so that she could look right at him, and Stafford felt a tingle at the base of his spine. Gwen was still holding the girl’s hand, and she, too, was staring at Carson. The expression on her face was unfathomable.

Carson leaned forward, his face getting redder and his wild eyes blazing. “Oh, no you don’t, little girl. I’m ready for you this time. No more mind-fucks like in the airport.

No more bad dreams.” He tapped his forehead with the barrel of the gun.

“You want to take a look in here, you’re going to have a meltdown, because if you do, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to point this gun right into your ugly little face and blow your warped little brains all over the kitchen. You want to take a reading on that, do you? You go right ahead. See what I’m thinking; it’ll fry your fucking circuits!”

Carson’s face was now purple with rage, and there was a thin line-of spittle on the right side,of his mouth. He stopped to gather his breath, but his eyes never left the girl’s. Stafford could almost feel the desperate hatred emanating from this man. Carson had brought the gun down to the table again, and he was pointing it in the girl’s direction.

His left hand maintained a white-knuckled death grip on the cylinder.

Stafford looked over at Jessamine. To his amazement, she had closed her eyes. Her hands appeared to be shaking. She again looked like she was about to cry. Damn! Carson had beaten her. He looked back at Carson, and then something happened. Carson’s eyes began to lose their focus. His right hand, the one holding the gun, began to tremble, and his face became even more distorted. Stafford thought he saw an opening to make a move, but to his surprise, found himself frozen in his chair. Carson was trying to say something, but all that came out was a series of strangulated grunts. His mouth twisted to one side, and then the gun barrel drooped to the table and began to tap, faster and faster, beating out a frantic cadence like some animal thrashing in its death throes. He looked like a man in the grip of a stroke. Then Carson’s whole body relaxed, and he slumped forward with a great sigh, his forehead descending to the table, where it lay against the smooth wet steel of the cylinder.

Stafford finally found his legs and stood up. Gwen had not moved and her eyes remained locked on Carson. He moved carefully around the table to get the gun. Then he stopped short. To his astonishment, he realized Carson was not unconscious. His eyes were still open, fixed on a point two feet in front of his face. The expression in them reminded Stafford of the off-center look a dog gives just before it bites. He was almost afraid to reach for the gun.

“Take the gun,” Gwen commanded.

Stafford looked across at her for a second, but she never took her eyes off of Carson. Her face was frightening, radiating with unfliluted fury.

Stafford reached over and extracted the gun from Carson’s rigid fingers.

Carson’s skin felt hot and.feverish, but there was nothing wrong with his grip. Once he had the gun, he reached for the cylinder, but Gwen spoke again. “No! Don’t touch it,” she ordered. Then she stood up, as did the girl, their chair legs scraping on the linoleum.

“But we can’t leave this thing,” Stafford protested.

“Yes, we must. Feel it.”

Stafford reached out again and touched the cylinder this time. The metal was hot. “Hot,” he whispered. “It’s hot.”

“Yes. It’s going to burst. We must leave. Now.”

“Burst? Jesus Christ, Gwen, we can’t let that happen. That stuff can—”

But Gwen was already moving toward the door. “It’s going to burst. We must get out of the house and warn the others. Now.”

Carson’s left hand was gripping the cylinder so hard, his knuckles were white, but he was still staring into space. Stafford thought about grabbing the cylinder, but he realized it would take a lot of strength and both of own his hands to do it, and he didn’t have two hands.

Besides, did he want to. be standing there when that damned thing popped open? He looked down at Carson’s hand and saw tiny white blisters starting up where Carson’s skin was in contact with the metal. That did it.

He backed away hurriedly and followed Gwen and the girl down the hall.

Gwen turned on the porch lights and opened the front door. The headlights were still fixed on the front on the house, and the three of them were somewhat blinded as they came out. He closed the front door behind him and hurried down the steps. There appeared to be a commotion going on behind the headlights.

They trotted quickly down the front drive, Gwen, the girl, and Stafford, in a line. When they reached the first police car, they were surrounded immediately by state police, one of whom asked Stafford for the gun in his hand. Almost indifferently, he handed it over, and then he saw the general approaching, along with a man who looked like FBI. There was a lot of milling about and then people began asking Gwen questions, but she was suddenly surrounded by some Longstreet County deputies.

“Where is it?” Carrothers asked without preamble.

“It’s in there,” Stafford said. “But—”

“How the hell did you get out?” the FBI man “Where’s Carson?” His tone was not at all solicitous.

Stafford didn’t know what to say. “I’m not sure what happened,” lie replied. “He had some kind of seizure, and we got out of there. But he has the cylinder. And I — we— think it’s going to burst. It’s hot.”

“It’s hot!” The general exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. The house is shut up. All the doors and windows are closed. But I think it’s going to do something. He’s got it in his hand. He had me put it in the refrigerator earlier, but it’s hot.” He looked over toward Gwen for corroboration, but she was drawing away into the crowd, still surrounded by the deputies.

“Why the hell didn’t you take it away from him?” Carrothers thundered.

“I couldn’t,” Stafford said. “He’s got it in a death grip. It would have taken two hands.” He held up his left hand. “I don’t have two hands.”

The general swore forcefully and turned away, then stopped and turned back. “Mr. Kiesling, I strongly recommend you get all these people the hell out of here. We’re about to experience a catastrophic chemical emergency.”

“What the hell is that, a chemical emergency?”

“Let me put it this way: If that thing bursts, every living thing within five miles of this house is going to experience a grotesque death. I mean it. I’ve got to get some help up here. You get these people the hell out of here. Right fucking now!”

There was a sudden stunned silence on the road. The state cops and the county deputies had heard all this and were staring at Kiesling as if to say, What part of grotesque death don’t you understand? They parted for the general, who began running toward his vehicles in the nearby field.

The sight of the general running did it: The cops all started to back away from the house.

“Okay,” Kiesling said in an unnaturally loud voice. “You heard the man.

Let’s clear out. You — Stafford!”

Stafford, who had been looking for Owen, turned to face the FBI man.

“What?” He still felt dazed by what had happened inside.

“We want to talk to you. First I need to know what the hell happened in there. Then we want to discuss what you knew about this mess and when you knew it.”

Stafford nodded absently. He wasn’t thinking very clearly. He couldn’t forget the picture of Carson frozen at that table, as if in a state of suspended animation. And of himself, completely unable to act. He wanted very much to talk to Gwen, but she had disappeared in the great rush to get everyone out of there.

“Yeah, fine. Whatever,” he said. “Where’s Mrs. Warren?” “I don’t know,” Kiesling said, looking nervously over at the house, which was becoming visible in the dawn light. His tone became more solicitous. “Why don’t you come with us,” he said. “I think this is an Army problem from here on out. What the fuck happened in there? How did you guys get out?”

Stafford looked again for Gwen and finally saw her, still surrounded by her phalanx of deputies. There was some kind of altercation going on between the deputies and the state police. Cars were starting to move.

“I’m not sure,” Stafford said. “Carson’s pretty screwed up. Has a hell of a fever, looks like death warmed over.” I know what I saw in there, he thought. But I did not understand it. Yes, you do, a voice in his head told him. Where the hell was Gwen?

Kiesling was trying to hustle him along the line of state police cars, which were all trying to get turned around at the same time in a building circus of revving engines and crunching gravel. Up ahead the mobile command center was being disassembled and made ready for the road. “Well, shit, if he was that fucked up, why couldn’t you jump him?”

Kiesling asked over his shoulder.

Stafford stopped. “I couldn’t see him. Once he had us, he made us close all the curtains and blinds in the house. It was pitch-dark in there. He made sure I never got a look at him. But he’s on his last legs.” He finally spotted Gwen. “Look, I must talk to Gwen Warren.”

Kiesling stopped, and the camaraderie went out of his voice. “Well, I think it would be best if you came-with us. There are some things we need to sort out. After we get the hell out of here.”

“No,” Stafford said, turning around and dodging between two state police cars that were making serious tracks out of there. He didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to get to Gwen. Kiesling was suddenly stuck on the other side of the stream of fleeing vehicles, yelling after him.

By the time Stafford reached Gwen and the deputies, it was apparent that she was refusing to leave. Jessamine stood behind her, still holding her hand and looking apprehensive. The three large deputies were facing off with two state police officers and one young-looking FBI man. The latter was arguing vigorously with her.

“This is my house,” Gwen said as Stafford walked up. “I’m not leaving it.”

“But Mrs. Warren, you yourself said that thing’s gonna pop. You heard the general: Everybody has to clear out of here.”

The largest of the deputies got between Gwen and the FBI man. “Miz Warren don’t want to go, she don’t have to go,” he announced. He was considerably bigger than the FBI agent. The two state troopers looked at each other and made an unspoken decision to back right out of this little federal problem before all their vehicles left.

“Gwen, what’s this?” Stafford said. “I think we have to get out of here.”

“No, Dave. I think the government is going to do something to my house.

That general wasn’t running away. He was running to his phone. I simply won’t have it.”

Kiesling finally reached them and started raising hell about anyone remaining in the area. Stafford put up a hand to silence him, especially after he saw the looks on the deputies’ faces. “Look, Kiesling, she wants to stay, that’s her choice. I’m staying with her. You go get your people and clear out.”

Kiesling’s face hardened. “I don’t give a shit about her, Stafford. But you are coming with us. Carson directly implicated you in this mess, and I want some questions answered. There was a lot of real money that’s gone missing. Now you just—”

The biggest deputy leaned forward and let go a great brown glop of chewing tobacco that landed right between Kiesling’s highly polished shoes. The FBI man stopped talking and stared first at his expensive shoes and then at the deputy. Up at the deputy.

“Time for y’all to be down the road and gone,” the deputy drawled. “We don’t need no G-men tellin’ us or our people what to do hereabouts in Longstreet County.” The other two deputies stepped forward to reinforce the first one’s suggestion. The young FBI agent looked at them and then at Kiesling. “Mr. Kiesling, sir?” he said hopefully. “Remember all that talk about gravel trucks and wolf pits? This sure sounds like a local problem to me, Mr. Kiesling. Mr. Kiesling?”

Kiesling’s face was beet red. But Gwen and the girl had already turned around and started walking back toward the driveway of the house.

Kiesling finally gave in, especially when he realized that, other than the county cruisers, his car was just about the only one left in front of the house, and it was rolling.

“Just remember, Stafford,” he yelled. “When this thing is over, your ass is mine, you understand?”

“Happy to know where your interests lie, Kiesling,” Stafford said, as he followed Gwen and the girl. Kiesling started back toward him, but the younger agent grabbed Riesling’s sleeve and hustled him away toward the waiting FBI car.

When everyone had gone, Gwen thanked the deputies. “Now you boys go on and get back to town. Folks are going to be. stirred up when that mob gets there.”

“Ma’am, we can stay right here, you need some help,” the big man said.

Stafford could not quite read his name tag in the dawn light, but he would have sworn the tag read hand.

. “Mr. Stafford will stay with us. The Army people are still here. We’ll be all right. Y’all get along now.”

With a chorus of “Yes, ma’am,” the deputies retired to their cars and swung them out onto the state road, headed back toward Graniteville.

Stafford thought they weren’t entirely reluctant to get out of there, but he appreciated their loyalty. He was about to ask what in the hell had happened back there in the house when they heard the roar of engines from the adjoining field.

As soon as he had reached the Suburbans, Carrothers ordered the men to suit up immediately and get the satellite link up. He began pulling on his own protective suit while waiting for the link. The soldiers had not moved very quickly until he told them over his shoulder that the cylinder of Wet Eye over there in that house was maybe going to burst, after which it was all assholes and elbows as the men dived into their suits. ”

Carrothers briefed Waddell as soon as the link came up. All the hostages were out of the house, the bad guy was still in there by himself, with the cylinder, and the hostages were reporting that the cylinder was hot.

Waddell asked him to repeat that last, and then he asked Carrothers if he had any thermite with him. Carrothers did not. Waddell told him to get all the civilians away from the house, to establish the downwind danger area, and to get everyone out of that sector for five miles.

“We’ve done that, General. Is there something I should know about that cylinder?”

There was a long hiss of static before Waddell responded. “We weren’t going to distract you with this, Lee, but Fuller’s people ran a simulation on that thing. It’s the biologies. They gave it thirty-six hours before it blew its end caps off.”

“Jesus Christ! Starting when?”

“Thirty-six hours ago. That’s why the airstrike is comm mg’”

P Carrothers thought fast. “We have MOPP gear and weapons. I’d like to take a team into that house, see if we can stop this disaster.”

There was a pause on the net while Waddell had him stand by. Then he was back.

“Our information is that our time on target is thirty five minutes, General. You want to try a run on the house, go to it. But be advised we’ll have Cobras on top in … lemme see, thirty-four minutes. You need to be out of that house before they get there, because they’re gonna shoot it to ribbons, and then there’s a flight of Warthogs coming in right behind them with nape.”

“We’re on our way,” Carrothers replied.

“Oh, and Lee? I recommend just shooting that bastard the moment you see him. Save everybody a lot of trouble, if you get my drift.”

Carrothers acknowledged and then hung up. He gathered his team around him and explained the situation. The soldiers had all their gear on except their hoods.

“No time for any fancy planning here, guys. We have about thirty minutes before Washington drops an air strike on top of us. Captain, I want you to take your men into that house. Nothing sexy here: We’ll complete MOPPing up, then drive the vehicles over there to the front door and go in with guns. He’s supposedly somewhere on the ground floor with the cylinder of Wet Eye. Shoot him if he makes a move, then get the cylinder. If it’s still intact, put it in the freezer of the icebox. If it’s popped, then we bail out and let the games begin.” He looked at his watch. “We have about twenty-nine minutes from right now. After that it’s Warthogs and napalm. Any questions?”

The young captain looked as if he might have a few, but the general’s expression did not encourage a lengthy discussion. The soldiers were reaching for their weapons. One raised his hand.

“What, soldier?”

“This Wet Eye stuff, General? Our MOPP gear good to go for that agent?”

Carrothers had to think fast. Their protective gear would certainly protect them against the chemical constituents of Wet Eye. But the biologies obviously were still alive. If they had mutated … “Yes. This is an old agent. The old-style chem suits would protect you from it. These new suits ought to do just fine. Anything else?”

There were no more questions.

“Okay, hoods on and mount up. Remember: He’s just one guy, he’s physically ill, and he’s a civilian. Take the front door and go in like gangbusters. We’re gonna find him, and if he moves a muscle, shopt him, find the cylinder, freeze it, and get the hell out of there, okay? Move out!” — v

By the time they hit the driveway, all of the other vehicles were gone.

Only the portable, floodlights, standing by the front wall, gave evidence that the police had been there in force not ten minutes ago.

Carrothers drove the lead Suburban so that his driver could join the team going into the house. He turned into the driveway and accelerated toward the house, which was clearly visible now. He drove right up to the front steps, skidded to a stop, and shut off the engine. The other vehicle fishtailed to a stop right next to his in a spray of gravel.

Carrothers got out, and the troops piled out behind him. To his surprise, the DCIS man, Mrs. Warren, and the girl were standing by the steps.

“Get out of the way,” Carrothers shouted. Stafford pulled the woman and the girl to one side. The captain, Carrothers was pleased to see, didn’t hesitate. He charged up the steps, ran right through the front screen door, and then kicked in the front door, their automatic weapons firing directly into the house. The girl made a plaintive noise and covered her ears; the woman’s mouth dropped open in surprise. The other soldiers went right in after the captain.

Carrothers pulled an Armalite rifle out of his vehicle and followed them in. There was a haze of smoke in the front hallway. At the end of the front hall, the kitchen door had been reduced to shards of woods hanging in a shattered frame. He realized he could not hear anything inside the house, especially in full chem gear. He looked at his watch. Twenty-four minutes. After first kicking open the doors to the classroom on the left and Gwen’s parlor on the right, the team had taken up positions in the hallway. One man was kneeling at the bottom of the stairs, pointing his rifle up the steps. There appeared to be lights on in the kitchen.

Carrothers thought quickly. He did not really want to kill Carson, as Waddell had suggested, not unless he actually did something. But they were rapidly running out of time. The captain looked over at him.

Carrothers tried to think of another way to do it, couldn’t, and gave the signal. The 6aptain and two men moved forward cautiously, keeping their weapons pointed at the remains of the kitchen door. Carrothers looked at his watch. Twenty-three minutes.

On signal from the captain, all three rushed the door, colliding with one another as they burst through it. Carrothers followed. He had just about reached the kitchen door when there was another blast of gunfire and the sounds of shattered glass falling on the floor. Then silence.

Carrothers approached the door carefully. The light inside the kitchen was hazy from gunsmoke. He poked his rifle barrel around the corner, took a deep breath, and then stepped in. All three soldiers stood in a crouch inside the kitchen, pointing their weapons at the man at the table. All the glass was blown out of the back door, and there was a string of bullet holes marching up into the ceiling above the door.

Somebody panicked, Carrothers thought. Then he, too, concentrated on the man at the table.

He saw the cylinder — finally, and intact, thank God.

The man was clutching it in his left hand. His head was tilted forward at an odd angle, as if he was paralyzed. His eyes were open and fixed in a fever-bright stare, but he didn’t appear to be focusing on anything at all.

“He won’t hurt you.” The woman’s voice came from behind him, and he whirled and nearly shot her in his surprise. Stafford followed her into the kitchen, with the girl behind him, as Gwen pushed the barrel of Carrother’s rifle aside and walked over to Carson. “He won’t hurt anybody anymore.”

Carfothers stared down at Carson. The man was catatonic. There was no way they could just shoot him, no matter how much the higher-ups at the Pentagon an dover at Justice might appreciate that gesture.

Carrothers walked forward and pried the cylinder out of Carson’s rigid, scorched fingers. It felt hot even through his heavy gloves. He carried it gingerly across the room to the big refrigerator, swiped everything out of the upper freezer compartment onto the kitchen floor, and put the cylinder gently into the space, where it hissed on the cold metal. Then he closed the door.

“General?” the captain said. “The time, sir?”

Carrothers looked at him blankly for a moment, and then he remembered what was coming. He looked down at his watch. Eighteen minutes. Christ on a busted crutch!

He told the three soldiers to bring Carson with them, then told Gwen and the others to get out of the house immediately. As the soldiers scrambled to get Carson, he tried to decide what to do about the cylinder. Take it with them, or leave it in the house? The freezer would slow whatever the hell was going on inside it, so it was safer to just leave it there. If they didn’t manage to call off the air strike in time, it would be destroyed with the house, which was still a safe option. He hesitated. After all this, he didn’t want to leave it. He looked at his watch again.

Seventeen minutes.

He hurried back out onto the front porch and looked up into the dawn sky. There was now plenty of light, although the surrounding mountains blocked most of the skyline. He realized that, with the cylinder intact, he didn’t need this damned mask. He stripped it off and hurried down the steps. The captain, still fully MOPPed up, was already out and had the other Suburban turning around. Carrothers yelled for his driver, who had been the man stationed at the foot of the stairs, to get Out here. The man came tumbling out of the house, tripping in his heavy boots over the door coaming.

“Get me the satellite link, on the double!”

He looked at his watch as the man ran to align the antenna and turn on the gear mounted on the front console of the vehicle. Sixteen minutes.

The rest of the soldiers came out. Two of them were dragging Carson along. There was no sign of the civilians. At that moment his driver popped back out of the Suburban. “No path right here, General.

Mountain’s got it blocked. We have to move the vehicle.”

H Son of a bitch! Carrothers thought. Fifteen minutes. He imagined he could already hear the venomous clatter of approaching attack helicopters. Did he have time to go back in there, warn the woman to get out of there, move the satellite antenna, and still call off the strike?

Would she do it, or would she argue? She’d argue. Fuck it.

“Let’s go,” he yelled. The other soldiers stuffed the catatonic Carson into the second Suburban. “Go! Go! Go!” he yelled. “Air strike inbound! Snakes and Hogs! Chain guns and napalm!”

The soldiers practically levitated into to their vehicle as Carrothers’s driver got the lead Suburban turned around. Carrothers jumped in and the driver peeled out, showering the entire front of the house with gravel and fishtailing wildly down the driveway before he got it under control, only to have to slam. on the brakes when he got to the road to avoid hitting the stone wall on the other side..

“Which way, sir? Which way?!” the driver yelled.

“For God’s sakel” Carrothers shouted. “Go left. Go left! Now! Now! Do it! Back to the fucking field!” Thirteen minutes. He knew the satellite path was clear in the field. He looked back at the house, but there was still no sign of the civilians. He should have gotten them out. Shit!

The driver turned left and then hard left through the gap in the stone wall, fishtailed again, and then the rear tires began to howl as they hit a patch of mud. The driver floored it, winding out the engine until Carrothers thought it would come apart, but the vehicle’s rear end was settling instead. They were a hundred yards from the place in the field where they had had a clear shot to the satellite before. Would it work from here? Did they have time to get out and try? Twelve minutes.

Then there was thunderous bang from behind, will plashing both of them as the other vehicle came through the gap in the wall and ran into the back of them. But the crash punched their vehicle out of the hole and they were off again, banging up the hill, bounding over hummocks of grass and rocks. They reached their earlier parking patch and the driver slammed on the brakes, nearly throwing Carrothers through the windshield.

“Go! Go! Go!” Carrothers yelled again, extricating himself from the dashboard. The driver piled out to set up the satellite antenna and try again for a hit on the bird. This time he got a link. The other vehicle arrived behind them, its front grille smashed all to hell. He could see the captain inside, still in the passenger seat, still in his full chem suit. Nine minutes.

“Link’s up, General. We got comms.”

“Get me General Waddell. Tell the operator this is a flash precedence call.” Eight minutes.

Gwen sat down at the kitchen table and rubbed her face with her hands.

Jessamine settled into the same seat Stafford had occupied. There were dried tear tracks on her cheeks and her hands were trembling. She sat there with her eyes closed, completely withdrawn. For want of something to do, Stafford picked up the coffeepot, sniffed it, and decided to pour the contents down the sink.

“Why on earth would they shoot the back door?” Gwen wondered aloud.

“Somebody probably saw their own reflection. Those suits make them look luce alien storm troopers, but in reality, those are probably nineteen-year-olds. My guess is that they were pretty scared.”

She nodded wordlessly and glanced over at the girl, who appeared to have gone to sleep in the chair. Stafford went down to Gwen’s end of the table and slipped into the chair next to her. He spoke quietly. “I don’t suppose I’m ever going to know what happened in here, am I?” “Do you really want to, Dave?’ she said, giving him a warm, sad smile.

He looked down at the table. “My investigator’s brain wants to know,” he said. “The rest of me is yelling to leave it alone. I figured you brought her in to do what she did in the airport. He was certainly in an agitated state. I thought he would pass out again, and then I could get his gun. Something like that.” He looked over at her. “But he was ready for that. He knew what she’d done in the airport. He wasn’t just agitated; he was enraged. Crazy. Out of Jus damn head. He challenged her. And yet she melted him down.” He looked over at the girl. “That’s not just a passive capability, Gwen,” he said softly. “That’s a serious power.”

But Gwen was shaking her head. She took his hand. “No, I don’t think that’s what happened at all, Dave. I

think he melted down, but not because of some special power on her part.

He was running a high fever: All you had to do was look at him. I think he worked himself up into having a stroke. Everything he tried had gone wrong. He was out of his head, just like you said. I predict they’ll find a cerebrovascular accident of some kind, assuming he survives the infection. This wasn’t Jess. Look at her. She was much too frightened.”

He leaned back in his chair, not knowing what to say. As he remembered it, the only one in the room who had been frightened had been him. A sudden yawn ambushed him as the adrenaline began to subside. His yawn set off one from Gwen. “I guess,” he said. “Maybe now we’ll have some peace. They’ve got their damned cylinder back.” “Actually,” they don’t,” she said, glancing at the refrigerator and the mess on the floor.”;

“Oh. Right. They’ll be back.”

Gwen got up and walked over to the refrigerator. She opened the freezer compartment and ran her hand down the length of the cylinder, which now had a faint covering of frost on it. “So much destruction over just one package.”

“Nothing compared to what that package could do.”

“Not anymore, I think,” she said, closing the freezer door. “Why did they just run out?”

Stafford tried to think of an answer to that, but his mind was still grappling with what had happened to Carson.

“What will happen now?” Gwen asked.

“The Pentagon and the Justice Department will point fingers at each other behind closed doors until it threatens to become public,” he said.

“Then they’ll get scared and bury it. I don’t know what they’ll do to Carson. How on earth did you know to come back?”

“Word came” was all she said. “What will happen to you? After what Carson said, that FBI man practically accused you of being part of this.”

“I think he’ll get over it, especially once the big boys stop shouting long enough to think it through. I’ve already resigned. To link me to it would mean opening the whole thing back up. The only thing I’m very, very sorry about is John Lee.” She nodded. “I know,” she said, sighing.

“I haven’t absorbed that, I’m afraid,…”

“You saw that guy. He was a mess. I can’t imagine how in the hell he could get the drop on John Lee, shape he was in.”.

“John Lee probably thought the same thing,” she said. “And forgot to pay attention.”

Just then there was the roaring, clattering sound of two military helicopters battering the morning air overhead. They both jumped in their chairs, and Jessamine literally jumped out of her chair, her knuckles in her mouth.

“Now what the hell!” Stafford exclaimed, and he ran out the front door.

Two Warthogs and one Cobra gunship helicopter were arcing in formation down the valley toward Graniteville. A second Cobra helicopter executed a wide, slow circle over the farm, while a third helicopter, a Blackhawk configured a for passengers, set up for an approach on the field next door, where the Army Suburbans were parked. The Cobra looked like some giant prehistoric insect, with glistening Perspex eyes and claws of armament racks dangling beneath it. Loaded armament racks, he realized.

That’s why the Army guys had bailed out.

Stafford walked over to the field as the Balckhawk touched down in a cloud of dust and a barrage of rotor noise. The soldiers were still partially dressed out in their MOPP gear, and one of them picked up his Armalite as Stafford approached. Stafford ignored him and headed for General Carrothers. By the time he got near the helicopter, one of the pilots was out on the ground and handing over his flight helmet and harness to the Army captain, who was standing just outside the radius of spinning blades. One of the Suburbans turned around and headed back over toward the house.

Stafford signaled the general that he wanted to talk. Carrothers pointed away from the helo and they walked together down the field until they could hear each other without shouting.

“We all done here?” Stafford asked.

“I think so, Mr. Stafford,” Carrothers replied. There was a hint of a frosty smile on his face. “Personally and professionally, in all likelihood.”

Stafford smiled back, knowing exactly what Carrothers meant.

“Those soldiers are going in to retrieve the cylinder,”’ Carrothers said. “It’s still intact, I take it?”

“Yes, sir. It’s in the freezer.”

Carrothers nodded. “The captain is going to escort it to Anniston.”

“Won’t it just heat up again?”

“They’re going to fly at max altitude and keep the windows open.”

Stafford had visions of the captain flying in the helicopter with the cylinder held out the window. Carrothers must have read his mind, because he just shrugged.

“What will you do with Carson?” Stafford asked. He could just see Carson’s slumped silhouette in the backseat of one of the Suburbans, with a soldier standing beside each back window. The medic was sitting in the backseat with him, and he had an IV running.

“For starters, they’ll put him in a rubber room up in Washington. St. Elizabeth’s probably.” Carrothers looked at his watch. “What did you want, Mr. Stafford?”

“I think you and I need to make a deal, General,” Stafford said. “Each of us knows something the other would rather keep secret, don’t you think?”

Carrothers eyed him and nodded. “What do you propose?”

“You know I had nothing to do with Carson’s little scheme, right?”

“That’s my take, yes.”

“Okay. I may or may not need some support in that area later on. But more importantly, I want nothing to Surface about the girl, Jessamine.

Best I can tell, Carson suffered a stroke in there, that’s all. No psychic probes, no mental telepathy or anything like that. In return for those two concessions, I’ll forget everything I know about this incident. And I mean everything. Under oath, if necessary.”

The general thought about that for a moment and nodded again. “Deal,” he said. Stafford managed to lift his right hand long enough for them to shake on it.

At that moment the other Suburban came back up the field, its smashed-in front bumper dangling dangerously close to the ground. It drew abreast of where they were standing, and a soldier in full MOPP gear got out. He held the cylinder carefully in both hands.

“Sir?” he said.

“That’s it, soldier. Give it to the captain. Remind him that it’s not binary-safe.”

“Yes, sir, General. But sir?”

“What?”

“It isn’t hot anymore, General.”

Carrothers stepped forward and ran a ringer along the frosty metal. He looked over at the house for a moment an4 nodded. “I’ll be damned. Okay, take it to the captain. Tell him they can button up the helo as long as this thing remains cool to the touch.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” The soldier got back into the Suburban and the vehicle went on up the hill, where the captain walked down to meet it.

The general frowned as he watched them go.

“Well, it was in the freezer,” Stafford said.

“Did you see the burns on Carson’s hands? It wasn’t in the freezer that long, Mr. Stafford. Yet it has frost on it now. Well, I’ve got a helo to catch.”

He nodded once, turned away, but then he stopped and turned around. “Mr. Stafford,” he said.

“Yes, General?”

“That girl. Jessamine, is it? She was terrified back there. When they went into the house to face Carson? That girl was white-faced, her knees were shaking, and she looked like she was about to throw up.” He paused and looked over at the house again. “If somebody did burn out Carson’s circuits, Mr. Stafford, I don’t believe it was that girl.” Then he turned away toward the waiting vehicles.

Stafford stared after him. The Blackhawk lifted off in a clatter of rotors, tilted forward, and then buzzed over the field, straining for altitude across the face of Howell Mountain, accompanied by the Cobra.

In a minute they were gone, and the silence in the field was profound.

Stafford looked over at the house, where Gwen Warren and Jessamine were waiting for him on the front steps. Even from this distance, he could make out those lustrous green eyes.