"Big day, Stranger," said Annabelle, looking neat and put together, as if she were already two cups into her day.
Cole smiled. "Morning, Annabelle," he said. "Quite a storm."
Annabelle glanced toward the window at the end of the hall, then turned to look up at Cole. "Yes," she said. "We will be." She winked, then turned, gesturing with her head. "Get yourself downstairs soon," she said, starting toward the staircase. "Before those young'uns scarf up all the pancakes." She hurried down the steps.
Cole found his socks and jacket and glanced in the bathroom mirror to check his hair. It would have to do. He pulled on his socks, slipped on his shoes, and followed the older woman downstairs.
At Ken's big dining room table sat Stan and Annabelle, Keith and Eddie. Simon was pouring a new griddle's worth of pancakes and Steve Waymax, the reporter, was washing plates. "Morning, all," said Cole as he took the chair across from Annabelle. The others responded in kind.
"How's Gordon?" asked Cole.
"He's good," said Stan. "Doc's got him resting in bed today, which he's not all that happy about. I guess if a guy's complaining, he's feeling pretty good."
"Everybody else doing okay?" asked Cole.
"Doobie's sleeping one off," said Eddie. "Sten's on the phone with the network. Marionette went into town to check on the boat and get some supplies from Andrew. Seems we're mostly doing well."
"Ken?" asked Cole.
"At the hospital, Stranger," said Annabelle.
Cole knew what that meant. Celia was still battling the alien flu.
"The real question here," said Annabelle, "is how are you?" The wind's background roar rose to a howl as she spoke, almost drowning out her voice and adding urgency to the conversation.
Cole looked at Annabelle. There was a note of expectation in her eyes. Or challenge. Part of him wanted to talk about his confusing 'hop.' Or about how he didn't know what to do next. Or about how afraid he was. But that's not what Annabelle wanted or needed. It wasn't what any of them needed. And it wasn't what Cole needed, either. What they needed was courage, and courage wasn't about having no fear. Courage was doing what you needed to do even when you were scared shitless. That's what was in Annabelle's eyes. Lead us, Stranger, her eyes said. Lead us, and let us help. Lead us even though you're terrified. Because we're terrified too. Cole inhaled deeply and smiled. "I'm ready," he said. He didn't know what it meant, really, but he knew, when he said it, that it was true. Cole was tired of feeling afraid.
Annabelle nodded. Stan sat forward in his chair. "You got an idea for how to proceed, Stra... Cole?" he said.
Cole grinned and nodded. "The plan hasn't changed, Stan. We head out to Squirrel Island and get my wife and your President back."
Cole's words spurred a long discussion about all sorts of things: the weather forecast; whether it made sense to go out onto the water in this storm; whether The Pokey Joker was up to that task; whether some other boat would better suit them; whether there was some other way to get there; whether they should wait for the storm to blow out; who should go; how they should proceed once they got there. The discussion was punctuated with crashes of thunder and the slapping rain and the pounding wind. Nerves got frazzled. Tempers flared. Marionette returned just as things were getting heated to report that the boat was fine so far, then threw herself into the debate with gusto. Later, Doobie ambled in and sat listening with a cup of coffee. Stan held down the reasoned, cautious corner of the discussion. Annabelle was quietly insistent that they not lose the day in waiting. Cole asked questions to get as much understanding and information as he could.
In the end, Cole knew it was on him. This was his show. That was his wife over there. He was the Stranger, and this Church was here to serve him. When he'd gathered as much information and opinion as he could, he took a deep breath and spoke. "This is what we do," he said, finishing his last bite of pancake. "Doobie says the Joker can manage these waters. The storm may actually be on our side, giving us cover, getting in the way of their surveillance tech. And the last thing they're going to expect is that we'll do anything today. If it's true that the electricity is out on the Squirrel, then I say this is our one best chance. No telling exactly where Linda is or how she is or whether she'll be safe when the storm hits. The surge alone might swamp the whole island. I say we go get her."
Annabelle nodded her agreement. Stan shrugged his acceptance. Marionette grinned. Doobie scowled. It was then that Sten came into the room. "Sorry I've been so long on the phone," he said, looking around the table. He saw the President's husband. "Morning, Cole," he said. "Guess what? I don't know what you folks have planned, but I've got us a live video feed for the day. We can broadcast the whole thing!"
15.4
Mary was fourteen, running down the sidewalk as her father chased after her. Mary was thirty-two, sitting knee to knee with Mork in her underground cell, trying to understand the strange being's explanations. Mary was twenty-four, struggling to stay awake during a training exercise. Mary was six, watching as the pretty light came down from the sky and landed beside her sandbox. Mary was nineteen, driving with Danny through a sunlit autumn day to her father's funeral. Mary was.
In the background, it was as though a hard drive were spinning, clicking away, backing up, defragging, upgrading, erasing, rewriting. But the hard drive was not her. Not her mind. Not her past. Not her future. It was the world itself that was resetting. It was space and time and cause and effect that were being re-rendered. Not the whole of space and time, but the sections of it that had shifted in response to the amends she had made. Somewhere in there, Mary could imagine a progress bar, moving slowly from left to right. None of it was under her control. She'd just clicked on the Accept button. It was all automatic from there on out.
All Mary had to do was wait.
15.5
According to Sparks - McAfee couldn't help but think of him as Lieutenant Dan - the cables to the island had been severed. Not simply cut through, but completely separated, with a six-foot length taken out, cut clean as if by a laser. And the break was underwater, halfway between the island and the mainland. Divers had no idea how it could have happened.
McAfee shook his head, sitting at his office desk. He had an idea. He'd seen a wok cut through solid stone like it was fog, leaving nothing but empty space behind, no dust, no rubble. You could cut through a cable the same way, and hadn't there been more than one of those alien contraptions on the island recently, coming and going? Why either DuPont or that William fellow would cut the power he couldn't begin to fathom, but this would not be the first time somebody from The Families had acted in ways that were incomprehensible to him. Perhaps they wished to wipe out all evidence of what they'd done to poor POTUS, with the Colonel and his soldiers and techs just more collateral damage. McAfee sighed. They'd have to deal. He and his peeps. What were they gonna do? Complain? Send a bill?
So far, it appeared that his troops had things under control. They had a minimal but well-armed security detail on the fence line. They had rigged up makeshift food and water systems. And they'd secured the lower levels. The hurricane's center was due to hit them dead on in the afternoon. The ocean surge itself could cover the entire island for a time. McAfee intended that they would all have a safe, underground facility in which to ride out the storm. There was the problem of the President's body, of course. He'd really rather not hole up with the old girl still lying in the next room, stinking up the place. But he'd figured out a solution to that one. People got swept out to sea in storms like this all the time, after all. All she'd need was a little help getting up to ground level.
Really, it all looked pretty good. The only thing that bothered him was that he couldn't find his cat. He hoped the little bastard hadn't been blown away. Perhaps he'd snuck back into the basement. How he'd managed that with the freight elevator down McAfee didn't know, but that cat was a resourceful one. When the Colonel had the time, he'd have to go look.
15.6
That was definit
ely light below him. Iain could even hold his hand in front of his face and see the silhouette. Real light. And a real hand. It was amazing how good it felt to see his fingers move, even if he could not feel them.
But the light didn't really cheer him up. Not when he studied it more closely. If he had to describe it, he'd say that he was looking at a huge bucket or bowl filled with hot, red, burning embers. The coals were moving around, sliding and tumbling over each other like worms or bugs or something. And all around the bucket was more blackness. All of which would have been bad enough, but it was quite clear now to Iain that he was falling rapidly toward this giant bucket full of burning coals. There seemed to be no way to stop his fall.
There might have been sound. Not a roar, so much as a growl. And it may be that he was actually feeling some heat. He was still so disconnected from his body that he couldn't quite trust his senses. He fell. He fell some more. And it occurred to him, as he got ever closer, that what he was falling into was a mouth. Iain's heart started pounding and he called out once again. "Emily!" he called. "Grace! Dennis! Mihos!"
He fell. A few moments later, he heard something else, a faint voice finding its way through the background growl. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Dennis, calling Iain's name.
15.7
Staring down on her naked form, Linda had to accept that, at least in this respect, William had not lied to her: her body was clearly dead. The skin was blue and gray and lifeless, and there was not a bit of movement, not a hint of breath, no subtle sign of pulsing blood. The space was lit with emergency lights now, which was unexpected, and the monitors that showed her vitals were black and blank. An eccentric British voice played in her head as she regarded her body, a snippet of old television about a parrot that was very much dead, just as she was. Unlike the old show, this current moment had no laugh track.
She would have thought the sight of her own dead body would cause her to double over in sobs, but nothing of the sort happened. This was far too surreal for tears. And too much of her heart was devoted to anger right now. Even the thought of Cole sitting with the kids and telling them the news left her with nothing but cold rage. Grief would have to wait. For now, there was too much to do.
But what could she do? How would she spend her rage? She moved over to the cabinet and saw the little brown vial William had mentioned, but she had no hands with which to grab it, and no voice with which to tell somebody about it. She was helpless here.
Sighing, she turned back to her body. No signs of any alien flu, as William had said. Just scam after scam and lie after lie and betrayal after betrayal. And at the end of it, a dead Linda Marie Travis, her body cold and stiff on a stainless steel gurney.
A cat jumped up from the darkness under the gurney and landed on the body's stomach, startling Linda. She stepped back with a tiny yelp as the cat sat down on the body's navel and looked up at her.
"Hello, little kitty," said Linda. "Do you see me?"
The cat stretched his head forward, exposing his neck, as if hoping Linda might pet him.
"Maybe you do," said Linda. She reached out to pet the cat, but her hand passed through it, as she had expected it would.
The cat seemed to shudder at the experience, then stood and turned, placing his front paws on the body's sternum. He glanced back over his shoulder for a moment, looking Linda eye to eye, then returned to his work. He stepped forward, put his nose to the body's nostril and sniffed, then stepped back to massage Linda's chest with his front paws, like he was stretching his claws on a cushion. If Linda hadn't known better, she'd have sworn the cat was trying to administer CPR. Too late for that, kitty cat!
Then it occurred to her: once again she was feeling trapped by circumstances without even testing the constraints. This cat hadn't given up on her, but she had. Didn't she live in a world where magical things could and did happen? Hadn't Cole himself been brought back from a death far worse than this? And hadn't William placed the most important choice of their time directly into her hands? Surely he would not have gone to all that trouble had there not been some way for her to take action? Surely there must be more going on here than she could see.
As if he could hear her thoughts, the cat stopped his massage and sat again on the body's stomach. He looked up at Linda and nodded once. He nodded! As if to say, yes, Madam! Exactly and indeed and quite so and brilliant! Linda inhaled deeply and smiled. Without thinking about it, she reached out again to pet the cat. This time, if only in a faint and shadowy way, her fingers touched fur.
She could act. She had to. Maybe she could get back into her body. Maybe the aliens would help her. Maybe they'd rebuild her as they had Cole. Maybe she'd simply find a way to communicate from this side, a ghost in the works. She didn't know. But the cat had nodded. She was on the right track. She did not have to stay sitting in that damned chair!
First she needed information. She'd explore the cabin. See who was here and who was in charge and what they'd done. Then she'd go find Cole. See if she could find some way to talk to him. She'd just touched fur, after all. She wasn't helpless. She'd find a way. She'd tell Cole and he could get that damned vial.
She didn't know what he'd do with it. She didn't know what she wanted him to do with it. Use it? Hide it? Throw it away? Or get it to somebody so they could make more? That decision could wait. That choice. For now, all she knew was that she wanted it. She wanted that vial in her hands. Or somebody's hands. Until then, there was no choice.
"Thanks, little cat," said Linda to the cat. The cat nodded again, then bowed his head forward. Not to be petted, Linda knew. It wasn't that. This cat knew her. Somehow he knew her. And he knew who she was, and the choice before her. This was a bow of respect. Alignment. Encouragement, perhaps. A bow from one realm to another.
The cat looked up at Linda one last time, then leapt softly to the floor and scooted out the door. Linda stopped for a moment to view her body, then thought of where to go next. It was time for her to scoot as well.
15.8
Keeley hovered in sleep, with great waves of joy and acceptance washing over her soul. The Greensleeves virus was neither dying out nor taking her to death, as if it were waiting for events to unfold elsewhere before proceeding. Every few hours a nurse would stop in to check on her, but otherwise she was left alone. It was just her and the television, and the television was still doing all of the talking.
There were reports from the shelters. Reports from the melting Antarctic. Reports from current battlegrounds. There were updates about Greensleeves, the alien flu now responsible for over sixteen thousand deaths, with more falling ill every day. There were reports on Hurricane Alpha, a Category Five storm coming way too early in the season, and now bearing down on coastal Maine, far further north than such a storm should ever be. There were reports on yet another new crop circle, yet another iteration of that strange "circle with an inverted L through the middle" that had now appeared in six different places around the planet, and toward which thousands of people were now being drawn, inexplicably leaving their homes and traveling to, though none of them could explain why. There was a report from the global environmental summit, and on how Linda Travis's participation was being hampered by the storm.
And there was a report from hurricane-blasted Boothbay Harbor, Maine, where ACN's most famous anchorman, and America’s current White House Communications Director, Stendahl Banks, was speaking live to members of a small group of intrepid sailors who were going to accompany the U.S. President's husband on a fishing boat out to Squirrel Island, where Linda Travis was being kept in medical isolation. They were going to brave the rough seas of the harbor in order to confront the doctors and military personnel there and insist that Cole Thomas be allowed to speak directly to his wife, and to bring her away to safety from the storm.
Though Keeley was obviously unconscious, one might fairly wonder whether the slight smile on her face was not a commentary on this last report.
15.9
Doobie was going b
ecause it was his boat. Stan was going because he was the Director of the goddamned Department of Homeland Security, and because he had a gun and knew how to use it. Marionette was going because she was bright and resourceful and fierce and had been there the last time and knew a little of what to expect. Cole was going because his wife was there and because he was the story. Eddie was going to shoot the story. Sten was going to report the story. There would be six of them on The Pokey Joker. Six would be enough. It would have to be. As Sten said, "I'm a public figure. So is Cole. What are they going to do, shoot us on live television?"
Cole zipped up his raincoat and tightened the hood, then took Marionette's offered hand and stepped across to the boat, with Eddie shooting the whole thing. The wind beat against Cole's face as he grabbed the railing and made his way into the cabin. The others were already assembled and the boat was fueled and ready to go. Cole gave Doobie, and Eddie's camera, the thumbs up. Their captain gunned the engines. The weather was only going to get worse. The time to do this was now.
The live feed and the network audience had done wonders for their confidence. The world was watching now. Watching as the President's husband, and his brave crew, ventured out in defiance of the elements to be reunited with his sick and possibly dying wife. Watching as this ragtag bunch stood up to the medical and military establishments and demanded to be included. The live coverage undermined what Cole had thought of as an advantage, that those on the island might not know that they were coming, or where they were in this storm. But Sten had convinced them that, on balance, the live coverage trumped the possibility of surprise. And who knew? Perhaps, with the power out on Squirrel Island, they would not be able to see the news there in any event?
It was good, Cole knew, for his crew to have this new confidence. It might actually prove to be warranted. But he also knew that such things could unravel in an instant. Cameras and microphones and live feeds could fail, especially in conditions such as these. And whomever it was who was really running the show out there likely had other tricks up their sleeve, power outage or not. That was a wok he'd seen last night, after all. They, whoever they were, were involved.
Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2) Page 53
