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Not as sure as she claimed
.
There was no response; no outside sound but the crickets, no inside sound except the faint
hum. Mrs. Sigsby made her way slowly down the stairs, holding onto the railing and favoring
her bad leg.
Tim knocked on the cockpit door with the butt of the Glock. “Thank you, gentlemen. It
was a good flight. You have one passenger still onboard. Take him wherever you want.”
“Take him to hell,” Luke said. “Single fare, no return.”
Tim started down the steps, bracing for a possible gunshot—he hadn’t anticipated her
calling out and identifying herself. He should have, of course. In the event, no gunshot came.
“Front passenger seat,” Tim said to Mrs. Sigsby. “Luke, you get in behind her. I’ll have the
gun, but you’re my backup. If she tries to make a move on me, use some of your mental juju.
Got it?”
“Yes,” Luke said, and got in back.
Mrs. Sigsby sat down and fastened her seatbelt. When she reached to close the door, Tim
shook his head. “Not yet.” He stood with one hand on the open door and called Wendy, safe in
her room at the Beaufort Econo Lodge.
“The Eagle has landed.”
“Are you all right?” The connection was good; she could have been standing next to him. He
wished she was, then remembered where they were going.
“Fine so far. Stand by. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
If I can, he thought.
Tim walked around to the driver’s side and got in. The key was in the cup holder. He
nodded to Mrs. Sigsby. “
Now
you can close the door.”
She did, looked at him disdainfully, and said what Luke had been thinking. “You look
remarkably stupid with your hat on that way, Mr. Jamieson.”
“What can I say, I’m an Eminem fan. Now shut up.”
14
In the darkened Maine Paper Industries arrival building, a man knelt by the windows, watching
as the Suburban’s lights came on and it started rolling toward the gate, which stood open. Irwin
Mollison, an unemployed millworker, was one of the Institute’s many Dennison River Bend
stringers. Stackhouse could have ordered Ron Church to stay, but knew from experience that
issuing an order to a man who might choose to disobey it was a bad idea. Better to use a stooge
who only wanted to make a few extra dollars.
Mollison called a number pre-programmed into his cell. “They’re on their way,” he said. “A
man, a woman, and a boy. The woman’s wearing a cap over her hair, couldn’t make out her
face, but she stood in the doorway of the plane and yelled out her name. Mrs. Sigsby. Man’s also
wearing a cap, but turned around backward. The boy’s the one you’re looking for. Got a
bandage on his ear and a hell of a bruise on the side of his face.”
“Good,” Stackhouse said. He had already gotten a call from the Challenger’s co-pilot, who
told him Dr. Evans had stayed on the plane. Which was fine.
So far, everything was fine . . . or as fine as it could be, under the circumstances. The bus was
parked by the flagpole, as requested. He would place Doug the chef and Chad the caretaker in
the trees beyond the admin building, where the Institute’s driveway began. Zeke Ionidis and
Felicia Richardson would take up their stations on the admin building’s roof, behind a parapet
that would hide them until the shooting began. Gladys would start the poison sucking into the
HVAC system, then join Zeke and Felicia. Those two positions would enable a classic crossfire
when the Suburban pulled in—that, at least, was the theory. Standing beside the flagpole with
his hand on the hood of the bus, Stackhouse would be at least thirty yards from the crisscrossing
bullets. There would be some risk of taking a spare round, he knew that, but it was an
acceptable one.
Rosalind he would send to stand guard outside the door to the access tunnel on F-Level of
Front Half. He wanted to make sure she didn’t have a chance to realize her long-time and
beloved boss was also in the crossfire, but there was more to it than that. He understood that
the constant hum was power. Maybe it wasn’t enough to breach the door yet, but maybe it was.
Maybe they were just waiting for the Ellis boy to arrive, so they could attack from the rear and
cause the sort of chaos they had already brought about in Back Half. The gorks didn’t have
brains enough to think of something like that, but there were the others. If that was the case,
Rosalind would be there with her S&W .45, and the first ones through that door would wish
they had stayed behind it. Stackhouse could only hope the twice-damned Wilholm boy would
be leading the charge.
Am I ready for this? he asked himself, and the answer seemed to be yes. As ready as he could
be. And it might still be all right. On the outside, after all, it was Ellis they were dealing with.
Only a kid and some misguided hero he’d picked up along the way. In just ninety minutes, this
shit-show would be over.
15
Three o’clock. The hum was louder now.
“Stop,” Luke said. “Turn there.” He was pointing to a dirt track screened by huge old pines,
its mouth barely visible.
“Is this the way you came when you escaped?” Tim asked.
“God, no. They would have caught me.”
“Then how do you—”
“
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