“The bulbs are strung along the ceiling,” Beth said. “What if you put your shirt over your head and made a kind of cowl to shade your eyes? Could you see well enough then?”
“Maybe. But what if someone spots me?”
“You’ll have to figure out what to do if and when that happens,” Carl said. “You’re a resourceful guy. I saw that earlier when you were hacking that website.”
“A website can’t kill you.”
“I’m open to any other ideas.”
The Worm didn’t respond right away. Then he sighed. “All right, I’ll do it.”
“Good man,” Carl said. “Before you go . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I’d like to know your real name.”
“Why, because after I’m dead, it’ll be awkward to cluck your tongue and say ‘poor The Worm’?”
“I want to thank you properly for not leaving us.”
“As I mentioned earlier, where would I go? I don’t use my real name much. Even Daniel doesn’t know it.”
“Did he ever ask?”
“Actually, no.”
“That’s all right,” Carl said. “If you don’t want to—”
“It’s Roger,” The Worm said. “Roger Ferguson.”
“Why don’t you use it?” Beth said.
“I always figured Goofy’s last name was Ferguson.”
“Roger Ferguson. It’s a good strong name,” Carl said. “Roger, I’m sorry I got you into this. It was the last thing I wanted.”
“Don’t worry about it. I know people like that have ways to pry information loose. If the situation had been reversed, I’d have probably given you up faster than you did me. Thing to do now is find those cutters. And all this talk isn’t getting that done. I’ll be back when I can.”
Carl heard the rustle of fabric as Roger stood and started walking. In just a few seconds, the sound faded, leaving Carl and Beth alone and wondering if Roger was up to the job he’d been handed.
Chapter 56
THE ADRENALINE rushing through Roger’s body as he set out to find the toolbox quickly caused his pseudo-allergic reaction to return, so that less than a minute after he left Carl and Beth, his face, wrists, and ankles were once again becoming edematous. This affliction was a major reason why he supposed he would never know a woman in the biblical sense. Unless he paid for it. And financially negotiated sex seemed so demeaning to both parties he would never resort to that.
Using the vanishingly tiny amount of light emanating from the walls, Roger navigated the connecting mine shafts without much difficulty, soon finding himself in the last dark leg of his journey. Up ahead, he could see the well-lit main shaft.
Worried that at any moment, one of the thugs he was trying to avoid would walk past the mouth of his shaft with a flashlight and shine it on him, he moved to the left wall of the tunnel and continued walking. His heart was now beating so loudly in his ears he was afraid it was echoing all through the mine.
He crept forward until he was less than ten feet from the main shaft. Then eight . . . then six . . .
Oh shit.
From where he stood, he could see the legs of someone sitting in a chair to the right of the entrance.
He faded back into darker shadows.
That’s it . . . there was no way he could get to those cutters. Whoever was out there, was surely armed. What could he do against that? Nothing. Nada.
But then, with the prospect of his life coming to a premature end, the situation facing him suddenly became symbolic of his entire existence, which could be summed up in one word . . . avoidance.
Unwilling to put up with the stares and ridicule he got in public, he’d retreated to the comfort of his computers and the privacy of his dark world. He’d given in to the “norms” and let them drive him underground as though he was unfit to live with them, even accepted being called a worm, because that’s what he felt like. And now, that same fear was going to deprive him of his life.
All the anger that had festered inside him for years suddenly came bubbling to the surface. Like hell it was.
From his position beyond the penumbra of light filtering into the entrance of his shaft from the main tunnel, he could see that the entrance to his section was shored up on each side by a heavy timber supporting a similar-sized beam across the ceiling. On the left side, where he stood, the supporting timber was hard against the side of the shaft. On the other side, it wasn’t, leaving a Roger Ferguson-sized recess between it and the wall.
Roger wiped his hand over the wall until he felt a seam of what was presumably coal, coat his fingers with dust. He rubbed the dust onto his face and went back for another helping. He spread this too, on his pale skin and returned for more. When he was finished, his white face, which was now nearly as dark as his clothing, had ceased to be a danger to him. Having also given attention to all the surfaces of both hands, it was hard to tell where the sleeves of his pullover ended and his wrists began.
Looking around the floor ahead, Roger darted into the light shadows, gathered up three rocks roughly the size of golf balls, and carried them back into the dark, where he shoved them into his pockets.
Now he needed a much bigger rock. But there were none anywhere within the illuminated area. He retreated down the dark tunnel, weaving from side to side, trying to find what he needed with his foot, yet not kick anything so hard it might make a noise that would give him away.
Finally, after nearly three minutes of searching, he located a rock about half as heavy as a bowling ball. Carrying it poised in front of his chest, he carefully moved over to the right side of the shaft and came forward out of the darkness into the shadows until he reached the recess between the roof support and the wall. Slipping into the recess so he was facing the way he’d come, he put the big rock on the floor at his feet and got one of the small ones from his pocket.
He threw the small rock hard against the far wall so it made a clattering echo, then quickly bent and picked up the large one.
There was a lot wrong with his plan. If whoever was out there came into the shaft, weapon drawn, and saw what he was up to, he would die. But at least he’d have gone down like a man and not a worm.
FREDRIC MEAD figured if he was going to have to sit down there in the mine all night he could at least spend the time learning something. So when he had gone to the parsonage to get a chair, he’d stopped by his room and picked up the book on poisons he’d sent for by mail two weeks ago. He was just about to begin the section titled Deadly Aquatic Life, when he thought he heard something in the mineshaft beside him.
He cocked his head and listened again.
Nothing.
He picked up his flashlight from beside the chair, stood, and drew his gun from his jacket pocket.
IN THE DARK shaft, Roger heard Mead as he got up and walked to the shaft entrance. To make himself as thin as possible and be ready to strike, Roger lifted the big rock over his head. He saw the beam from Mead’s flashlight cut a path down the passage.
Roger’s heart seemed to have grown hands and feet and was using both to claw its way from his chest into his throat. Though the mine was cool, he was perspiring, sending sweat down his cheeks in sooty little rivulets. His palms, too, were clammy, clotting the soot on them and making the big rock he was holding, slippery.
Afraid that at any moment, the rock would slip from his hands and give his plan away, Roger urged Mead to come into the damn shaft and get this over with one way or another.
NOTHING THERE.
Concluding that the noise must have been a loose bit of rock falling, Mead shut off his flashlight, went back to his chair, and started reading about box jellyfish.
ROGER LET OUT a quivering breath and put the big rock down, the muscles in his arms aching from holding it. He took a few more breaths and shook hi
s arms to get ready for a second try.
He pulled another of the small rocks from his pocket and let fly, bouncing it hard off the ceiling and then into the far wall.
MEAD STOPPED reading.
Now, damn it, that was not a natural sound. Had those three swine somehow gotten loose?
This time, he grabbed his flashlight and shot to his feet. Light in his left hand, automatic in his right, he centered himself just outside the opening and raked the passage with his light.
And again saw nothing.
Every sense pegged at full on, he took a step forward and did a quick light check to his right, then his left.
ONCE AGAIN POISED with the big rock over his head, Roger saw the highly focused beam from Mead’s flashlight moving ever closer. Afraid that any respiratory sounds might give him away, he was now holding his breath.
The light crawled along the wall, consuming his ebony safety margin like an old Pac-Man game. Another few inches and . . . He pulled in his gut. Then, miraculously, the light stopped just a few millimeters from him and reversed direction.
Mead stepped into the dark passage.
Roger could now see the flashlight and about eight inches of Mead’s forearm. Not yet. But he couldn’t hold his breath much longer.
Mead took another step.
Still not quite right. Jesus, Roger thought, I have to breathe. Light-headed from lack of oxygen, he began to lose control of his muscles. His hands and legs started to shake. Another two seconds and he was going to piss his pants.
Mead moved forward another pace.
Now able to see all of him, Roger’s nervous system, went off in an electrical firestorm, and he made his move.
At the same instant, sensing danger, Mead whirled to his left, bringing his gun hand around in a looping arc, his finger already applying pressure to the trigger.
Deep in the mine, Carl and Beth heard a gunshot, and their hopes evaporated faster than the echo.
Chapter 57
CARL AND BETH saw a flashlight pop into view. The person behind it came toward them at a steady purposeful pace . . . one of the thugs, come to finish them off.
In seconds, he was barely ten feet away. Now they could see the glint of light off the gun in his hand.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Beth said breathlessly.
“No apology needed,” Carl said in almost a whisper so their assassin wouldn’t hear. “This is where I belong.”
The thug came to a stop in front of them. He played his light in Carl’s face and then shifted it to Beth. Finally, he spoke, “I got the cutters.”
It was Roger. Amazing . . .
“We heard a shot,” Beth said, as Roger knelt at her feet and put the gun on the floor.
“They posted someone at the entrance to the main shaft,” he said, reaching for the clippers in his back pocket. “He almost shot me.”
“Where is he now?” Carl asked as Roger snipped the plastic tie around Beth’s ankles.
“Right where he fell when I hit him in the head with a big rock. Turn around so I can get your wrists.”
“Is he dead?” Beth asked.
“Pretty much.”
The plastic fell away from Beth’s wrists, and her arms came free, allowing her to move them any way she wished. As she brought her hands around in front of her, her shoulder joints, frozen from nearly ten hours of inactivity, screamed in protest.
Roger moved over to Carl and freed his ankles.
“I guess that’s his gun,” Carl said, turning his wrists toward Roger.
“Not anymore.” He cut Carl’s wrist restraints and Carl entered the land of complaining shoulder joints. Roger tossed the cutters on the floor and picked up the gun. “What now?”
Before binding their wrists when they’d first been taken, Echols removed their watches, so even though they were now free and had a source of light, they had no way of knowing the hour.
“Any idea what time it is?” Beth asked, now standing, her voice filled with anxiety.
“About five after nine,” Roger said. “When I was getting the clippers, I caught a look at a clock in the truck that brought us.”
“Church starts at nine,” she moaned, looking at Carl, who was struggling to his feet. “We’ve got to get up there and stop them. Do you know what they’re planning?”
“Sounded to me like they were going to poison the communion wine.”
Beth mulled that over a moment. “That’s not it. In the truck when you were talking to Meggs, he said it was going to happen in the morning. We take communion in the afternoon, just before dinner.”
“Then I don’t know what they’re going to do.”
“We’ve got to warn everyone to get out of the church. Carl, I’m sorry, but you’re just going to slow me down. She looked at Roger. “And with your eyes being so sensitive to light . . .”
“I can go. While I was gone, I came across a pair of sunglasses in one of their cars.”
“Before we leave, find his crutch.”
Roger played his light around them until he located the crutch where Echols had thrown it.
Beth retrieved it and handed it to Carl. “I don’t know how this is going to end, but if I can, I’ll find you when it’s over. Now we have to go.” She stepped close and gave Carl a quick kiss on the lips. Taking the light and the gun with them, as they should have, they headed off down the shaft.
STANDING IN FRONT of his laptop in his room at the parsonage, Lothian connected to the population tracking monitor in the computer center. In the list of locations, he clicked on the sanctuary. It took a few seconds for the data to load, then a rectangle filled with white dots appeared on his monitor. A second later, the count was shown at the bottom: 293. Everyone accounted for.
Without bothering to shut off the computer, he hurried from the room and headed for the stairs. On the ground floor, he quickly made his way to the hall connecting the parsonage with the church.
The hall led to a narrow rectangular room behind the sanctuary, where he could hear the choir singing happily on the other side of the wall. He stepped into the room and slipped through a side door, entering a corridor that ringed the sanctuary. Moving between the sanctuary’s reinforced stained glass windows on his left and the tall windows equipped with transparent bulletproof glass on his right, he hurried to the front entrance and locked both doors so they couldn’t be opened even from the inside.
He then circled the sanctuary, went down the other side corridor, and locked the door that led to Fellowship Hall. At the end of the corridor, he disappeared through a door that led back to the room where he’d started. A few seconds more, and he had all three doors between the back room and the front of the church locked. Now there was no way anyone inside could get out. Finished there, he ducked through the basement door.
Last night, after he and the others had stashed the three meddlers in the mine, Lothian had gone to the church and lowered the thermostat so that in the morning, finding the sanctuary frigid, Hanson would turn on the heat. And he had apparently done just that, because even before reaching the bottom step, Lothian heard the blowers on the two furnaces laboring away. Stepping into the basement, Lothian marveled at how easy it was to get people to help you kill them.
“Everything secured?” Echols, said, looking up from the cheesecloth bag he was filling with pellets of sodium cyanide.
“All done. Is it safe to be standing here?”
“Do I look like I’m worried?”
“You have to admit, it was a reasonable question.”
Echols emptied the last of the pellets from the bottle and drew the drawstring of the bag tight. He picked up a spool of cotton string and threaded the free end through the screw eye he’d installed in the metal shell of the blower compartment. He tied the string to the bag and r
an off a good long length from the spool. With his knife, he cut the string off the spool and tied that end to an overhanging pipe so the drawstring bag and its nasty cargo were suspended over the glass bowl under it. Not far away was the bottle of sulfuric acid he would soon use to fill the bowl.
“Once the pellets are in the acid, how long will it take for . . . you know . . . it all to be over?”
“Ten minutes at the most. Probably much quicker,” Echols replied. “It goes faster when the subjects don’t know what’s happening. That way they don’t try to hold their breath and fight it. Now I just need to finish here and get this party rolling before the sanctuary warms up.”
Chapter 58
BETH AND ROGER needed to get to the surface as quickly as possible. Earlier, when Echols ordered Hanson to review his sermon, Beth remembered that Hanson had gone up a set of steps in the parking area. She concluded at the time that those steps probably led to the parsonage. So when she and Roger emerged into the main mine shaft from the unlit secondary tunnel, she pulled him that way.
A few minutes later, with his recent success in the mine and the gun in his hand making him feel like a real player in this drama, Roger opened the door at the top of the stone stairs as quietly as he could. He put his head out to determine if anyone was there. Seeing nothing but empty hallway, he looked over his shoulder at Beth “It’s okay.”
They quickly moved into the hallway, where, afraid the door might lock behind them, Beth didn’t let it shut. “Hand me one of those candleholders,” she whispered, gesturing to a pair on the small table a few feet away.
Roger handed her the nearest one, and she used it to block the door open.
Beth had never been in the parsonage, so she didn’t know about the connecting passage to the back room of the church. If she had, she would have certainly taken it. As it was, when she saw the front door at the far end of the hall, she bolted in that direction, urging Roger to follow.
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