Marty was talking, but Vincent hardly heard him. All he was aware of for that moment was how much he hated Wiseman. How much he wished he could knock the smarts right out of the guy.
And for some reason, he had a feeling like he'd get the chance to do just that. And soon.
PROMISE
Jorge listened in horror to his sister as she detailed what had happened. He remembered the day she had married Tommy, and how much Jorge had hoped that she would at last find peace; that she would at last have found someone who would treat her as she deserved. It had seemed his wish was granted at first, but then something had changed. Tommy had lost his job, yes, but more than that it was as though something that had always lived within the man had crawled out of the dark places it had been hiding, and slowly consumed him.
Jorge had known Tommy had grown cruel. He had not known how bad it had gotten, however. Not until now. Rachel was too damn self-contained for her own good. And now...
"I think," Rachel said, "I think...Tommy, I think that I might have..."
Her voice was high and strangled sounding, as though her husband was reaching out from hell with icy hands that could hurt her even in death.
Jorge kissed Rachel on the cheek, glancing at Becky pointedly. No matter what had happened, now was not the time to talk about it. Not in front of his niece. She was sitting on the bed beside her mother, holding her Emergency Pack tightly in her hands, looking at nothing. Both of them had faraway stares, reminding Jorge of a tableau from a Holocaust picture, shock and fear the only visible emotions.
"Don't worry," he said. "We'll fix things. We'll be okay."
Rachel shook her head, and Jorge knew his sister would have said more, but at that moment there was a knock at the door, which had paper towels mashed against the doorframe to keep it from closing.
"Yes?" Rachel said automatically. Paul stuck his head in. Jorge liked Paul; even loved him like a brother. But right now he wanted to knock his friend's head off for interrupting.
"Everything all right?" said Paul.
Rachel shrugged noncommittally.
"We're fine," said Jorge. To his sister, in Spanish, he said, "Do you want me to stay?" She shook her head minutely, and he knew better than to argue with his stubborn sibling, so he said in English, "Listen, I've got to get some rest. Not many folks here, and I've got to take care of a lot of stuff. But I'm right down the hall. You or the kid need anything – anything – you come and get me, 'kay?" Rachel nodded. "And when this storm is over, we'll figure everything out, I promise."
He waited for a response.
None came.
He felt as though perhaps it was because she didn't believe his promises of happy endings. He couldn't blame her.
Because neither did he.
BEAR
Paul watched as Jorge hugged Rachel, then kissed the top of Becky's head. The little girl was still almost catatonic, and Paul knew that something had to be done about her mental state or permanent damage would cease to be likely and become inevitable.
Jorge left, and gave Paul a pleading look as he did, which Paul interpreted as a request for help. Either that or a request for Paul to leave, but Paul was a psychiatrist, and he couldn't leave this situation alone. It was one of the reasons he had gotten into the field of psychiatry in the first place: it just wasn't in him to not help someone who was hurting inside.
"You okay, sport?" he asked the little girl once Jorge had left.
She stared at him.
Paul moved to his desk. The little girl's eyes didn't exactly follow him, but he got the sense she was watching. To make sure he didn't try anything harmful, if nothing else.
"'Cause I was thinking," he continued, "if I was in a new place with a bunch of weird folks I didn't even know, I'd need a friend. So...." Paul opened his desk and removed something from a locked drawer. He felt something tugging at his heart.
This was Sammy's. Is Sammy's.
Sammy doesn't need it anymore.
"So I talked to someone I know," he continued. "This guy named Mr. Huggles. And he also needs a friend, coincidentally, and asked me if I knew anyone."
With that, Paul pulled out Sammy's old bear. The guardian who had rested for a moment too long. He had kept the bear in that desk since the day he began work here, and this was the first time he had ever touched it: to touch it more than to move it when absolutely necessary had seemed almost a violation of his son's memory. But now....
"Yeah," he continued, swallowing as though trying to rid himself of a particularly bitter pill. "So I said, 'Well, Mr. Huggles, I know this one girl, but she's tough as nails, and she doesn't look like she needs a friend,' and he says to me," and Paul switched to a funny voice, the silly-bear voice he had always used with Sammy, "'Tough as nails?' 'Yup,' I said. 'Well,' said Mr. Huggles, 'maybe she'll protect me.'"
Paul paused. The little girl's star was still far away, but perhaps not as far away. Her stare was not as blank, and he thought he could see the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
He hesitated a moment, not sure he really wanted to do this, not sure he really wanted to offer up a piece of his past like this, then held out the bear. "How about it?" he said. "Would you mind watching out for my friend?"
A long moment passed; long enough that Paul's arm started to feel tired. Then Becky reached over the desk and took the bear. Paul glanced at the little girl's mother, who was staring at him with wonder, and felt a kind of surprised delight flit across his face in a way that it had not done since the day Sammy died.
Since the day you killed him.
The thought tore away whatever joy he might have been feeling. Tore it away and changed it to anger, to fear. Paul rose and walked out without more than a small smile at Becky.
He almost jumped out of his skin when a hand grabbed him from behind.
It was Jorge. "Gracias, amigo," said his friend. "I know what that bear meant."
"It's okay," said Paul. And in that instant it was. "What's her story?" he asked, though he suspected he already knew the broad outlines.
Jorge's lip curled in a combination of disgust and fear. "She married a scumball. More than that, I can't say. Not now."
Paul looked at his friend, a moment of silent understanding passing between them. Because he had been in there alone with the girl and her mother, he could claim that he had counseled them on an emergency basis, and that would protect their conversations from others in a cloak of psychiatric privilege. But even with that protection, there were certain things a psychiatrist was legally bound to report.
Paul suspected that Jorge was not telling him more because he didn't want Paul to have to call the police.
Paul nodded at Jorge. "They're safe," he tried to communicate.
Jorge nodded back, but Paul got the distinct impression that his friend knew that Paul was not telling the truth.
The walls shook minutely with the force of the storm outside.
No one here was safe.
DISAPPEARED
Hip-Hop watched silently from his vantage point on the third floor, a spot that was well-concealed in shadows, yet that allowed a view of the second floor. Jacky was making his way along the catwalk, cell by cell, moving ever-closer to Steiger's cell. The kid was doing good, being careful. Checking each inner cell to make sure its light was green before putting the food on the ground and sliding it between the electrified bars of the outer cell.
Easy peezy, thought Hip-Hop.
Two twenty one. Two twenty two.
Two twenty three. Steiger's cell.
Hip-Hop crept closer to the edge of the catwalk. The light on the side of Steiger's cell was green as Jacky put the food on the ground, then used the loid to push it into the cell.
What happened next was so fast that Hip-Hop, who was waiting for it to happen, almost missed it.
The food was halfway to the food slot on the inner cell door when the light suddenly turned red. Steiger must have had the key in the lock, just waiting for the right mo
ment to pounce. The madman erupted out of his cell a nanosecond after the light turned red, the explosive movement catching Jacky utterly by surprise. With frightening precision, Steiger darted a hand between the electrified bars, grabbed Jacky by the lapel, and yanked the young man into the bars, letting go of him a moment before Jacky made contact with the iron. Momentum drove Jacky into the bars, and the young guard shrieked when he touched the electrified metal and twitched like a dying fish for a moment before going limp.
Hip-Hop moved away from the edge of the catwalk as Steiger carefully maneuvered Jacky's body away from the bars, touching only the guard's belt and other non-conducting parts of his uniform. Then he turned Jacky to maneuver him around until the guard's key ring was within easy grasp.
Hip-Hop felt himself holding his breath as Steiger opened the outer door one level below. The madman looked around; apparently didn't see Hip-Hop. He dragged Jacky into the cell, closing the outer and inner doors behind them.
Hip-Hop shuddered as Jacky disappeared from view, pulled like a fly into a trapdoor spider's lair. Only a fly would have had more chance of surviving.
CARROT
Jacky blinked, his vision strange and blurry. He had no recollection of what had happened at first, but then he had a flash of Steiger....
Steiger!
He jerked upright, his head pounding. Where was he?
Before he could do more than simply register the white walls, a pleasant voice said, "Oh, you're awake!"
Jacky looked over and saw Steiger. The Hacker was sitting on his bed, playing with Jacky's keyring. He scooted closer to Jacky, who cringed away, terrified. How long before they notice I'm gone? he thought. How long until they come looking?
Steiger either didn't notice or didn't care that Jacky was trying to push himself through the wall in a vain attempt to get away. His expression never changed from one Jacky would more expect to see on the face of a friendly neighborhood grocer or the family doctor: helpful, nurturing, and genuinely happy to see you. Indeed, even as Jacky thought this, Steiger reached out his powerful hands and firmly but gently helped him into a sitting position.
"I was so worried," said Steiger, "what with the way you collapsed and all. How are you feeling, by the way?"
"Uh, fine," said Jacky. He had never been so terrified. He felt vomit rising at the back of his throat, the taste of fear thick in his mouth.
"Oh, thank God," said Steiger. "Can I get you anything?" He laughed lightly, as though this were a friendly chat over the fence with a good neighbor. "I'm afraid I don't have much, but what's mine is yours."
"No," said Jacky. He let his hand drop to his belt and realized his weapons – trank gun, nightstick, mace spray, everything – were all gone. Again, if Steiger saw what he was doing he paid it no heed. "No thanks. I'm fine."
"Let me help you up," said the madman, and again Jacky felt himself in the vise-grip of those too-strong hands, this time helping him into a standing position.
"Actually," said Steiger once Jacky was on his feet, "before we waste too much time, there is something I wanted to talk to you about." Steiger let go of Jacky with one hand and produced something.
A code card.
"I found this in your pocket," he said. "I know from sad experience that it won't work without the code, and I wondered..." and here the madman grinned slyly, and with the expression Jacky could see for the first time tell-tale traces of madness etching their way across Steiger's face. "...would you mind giving me your code?"
Jacky just stared at Steiger, utterly transfixed by terror, completely unable to move or make a sound. Steiger apparently misunderstood the silence as stubbornness, though, for he said, "Oh dear. There are two ways we can go about this: I can be nice, or I can be mean. The carrot or the stick."
Steiger moved suddenly, his motion too fast to be seen, and suddenly Jacky felt a searing pain in his leg. He shrieked and dropped to the floor, cradling his leg and seeing that several of the keys on his key ring had embedded themselves as if by magic right above his knee.
Steiger smiled again, that same genuinely caring smile, but Jacky could also see the insanity behind it. Steiger laughed as he took hold of one of the keys and turned it, slowly, creating new waves of agony that splashed through Jacky's body. Jacky screamed again, this time as much a call for help as a scream of pain.
"Knock, knock," said Steiger, still twisting the key. "Open up, Mr. Hales." He laughed as Jacky screamed again. "Doesn't do any good, you know." He motioned at the walls around them. "Soundproof." He paused a moment, then said, "By the way, that was me being nice. Should I show you what 'mean' means?" Without waiting for an answer, Steiger giggled, his voice growing higher as though he were nervous...or aroused. "'Mean means,'" he said with a giggle. "How funny. Didn't even mean to, and I made a joke. 'Mean means.'"
He laughed again, and reached for Jacky.
Jacky saw the hand coming toward him, and knew he was going to die.
SLIP
Wade looked at his watch. He had to wipe a coat of frost off the crystal to see anything, and even then the heavy buffets of snow made the numbers blurry, but he could make out that it was around 7:10. He didn't have any idea how Steiger would make it past the guards at the front desk, but had no concerns about it. He just kept counting money in his head. His father had been an alcoholic who pissed away a decent job and an even better savings, leaving Wade an orphan with no money and no prospects at the age of sixteen. Wade had lived in foster care for two years, and during that depressing period where he was shuffled from one lackadaisical foster family to another he had decided that no matter what, he would never be poor again.
In spite of that decision, however, no magic doors had opened up for him. He had eked out a subsistence living until finally scoring the job at The Loon. He had immediately begun stockpiling money. Not in a bank; they were part of the system that he deeply distrusted. No, every penny was in a hidden safe under fake floorboards in his bedroom. He had almost one million dollars stashed in there, between his regular pay and the "bonuses" he got for little bits of work like this.
Still, even though he could feel his steel piggy bank growing with every moment, he wished Steiger would get the hell out here so he could do his job and get back inside. Inside was going to be hectic soon, what with the breakout and the probable death and/or maiming Steiger was likely to be involved in on his way out, but at least Wade would be inside for that. Inside and warm.
He looked at The Loon, which was now barely visible in the storm. Indeed, the wind was blowing snow so furiously that Wade had to hold onto the rail or risk being shoved about like a toy doll. The wind died down a bit, and Wade let go to check the heavy trank rifle he held one more time. Can't be too careful with Stei –
The thought ended abruptly as another gust hit him, this one with the force of a small car. Wade swayed, fighting for a moment before the wind pushed his rear foot back. His foot came down on a patch of something. Something slippery.
Wade had a millisecond to look down. A brown patch of ice.
The coffee, he thought. The damn coffee I spilled on Sandy.
The stuff had frozen solid, an icy patch that sent Wade careening backward after he slipped on its slick surface. He dropped the trank rifle, his arms spinning in wide circles as he attempted to regain his balance. But as though it were a sentient predator sensing the perfect moment to strike, another crosswind hit Wade, this time from behind. Again his arms rotated like twin propellers, again he tried to right himself.
It was no use.
Wade fell forward, pushed inexorably. Over the edge.
Falling.
Falling.
Then he felt his shoulder jerk as he grabbed onto the guardrail that surrounded the tower, his feet dangling over the generator shack that was thirty feet below him in the courtyard area. Heat spread out from his shoulder and he knew he had dislocated it.
He called for help, but knew that no one could hear him. Nor would anyone at the monitor stations b
e able to see him through the falling snow.
He called again.
"Help!" he shrieked, hysterical terror marring his voice and rendering it high and terrible. "Help me!"
The wind caught his voice and drowned it out only feet away.
He was alone.
The wind howled, mocking him.
He tried to pull himself up, but even without a dislocated shoulder he didn't know if he could have done a pull-up.
He screamed again. "HELP!"
The wind just laughed.
GOOD
Sandy felt warm inside. She was sitting at the monitor station, chatting with Darryl! And it was as though the storm outside had given her strength, because she felt herself being interested and interesting at the same time: listening for just the right times, making perfectly appropriate sounds, laughing at just the right pitch whenever Darryl made a joke.
She glanced at the monitors. The inside ones were fine, but the outside ones showed only snow.
She looked back at Darryl, feeling herself flush as he leaned in close to whisper a joke in her ear. Leann and Jeff were both at the monitoring station, too, but even with them there it felt as though she and Darryl were finally on a date. Not alone, but he clearly had eyes only for her.
No doubt about it: tonight was going to be a very good night.
DAISIES
Steiger moved quickly; it was now or never.
The guard station, which he knew from long years' experience was usually manned by no fewer than two guards, was devoid of life.
Steiger smiled. Things were coming up daisies.
He moved to the heavy steel door that led from the prison to the umbilical-like tunnel to the staff area.
The Loon Page 15
