"NOW DO YOU SEE?" she cries, her booming voice echoing off the buildings. "NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND? THIS WILL BE IF YOU DO NOT STOP VIRUS NOW!"
What does it mean? That this is all a dream? No. Much as Jack wishes it were true, he knows it's not. This is too real.
Averting his face from her giant, blazing eyes, he starts running again, down the center of a treadmill street with cardboard buildings sliding by on each side to give the illusion of forward progress, but he's getting nowhere, and no matter how much speed he pumps into his legs, no matter how he cries and screams at the top of his lungs, he's no closer to home than when he started…
13
"Kevin's being a real dickhead about it, Mom."
"Elizabeth Iverson, that is no way to talk about your brother. And where did you pick up that kind of language?"
"I can't help it, that's what he is. And I don't care if he comes. Who wants him around anyway."
Kate clung to her cell phone as she peeked into Jack's bedroom—he was still tossing this way and that under the covers—then returned her attention to Lizzie. With everything that had happened, she'd missed her morning call to the kids. Just as well; they both slept in on Saturdays. She'd waited till after dinner to check in.
All she'd wanted to do was touch base with them before they went out with their friends, but had wound up in the middle of a sibling contretemps. She should have seen it coming, but this was the last thing she needed now: Kevin was refusing to go to Lizzie's recital on Monday. Lizzie was acting tough but Kate could tell she was hurt. Ron had never been good dealing with arguments between the kids so, exhausted though she was, Kate had been designated referee.
She sighed. "Put him on."
"I said, I don't care!"
"Lizzie, please put your brother on."
A few seconds of muffled sounds, then a sullen, "S'up, Ma?" from Kevin.
"What's up yourself, Kevin? Have you got something better to do Monday night?"
"Aw, Mom, I hate that music, you know that."
"No, it's not Polio, I'll grant you that," she said, referring to her son's favorite band, perpetrators of cacophonies he referred to as "slash metal" or "thrash metal" or some such unlistenable noise. She realized that every generation needed music that rawed their parents' nerves, but please. "The music's not the issue, however. Your sister's feelings are."
"You heard her. She doesn't want me to go."
"That's just a defense because you hurt her feelings. We've always done things as a family, Kevin. Even after the divorce, how many of your soccer games did your father and Lizzie and I miss? Very, very few. And just like your soccer tournament, Kevin, we're planning to attend this concert as a family. Family includes you."
"But Ma, the flute! Of all things, the flute! It's so whipped!"
"It's Lizzie's big moment. She's performing a solo she's been practicing for months and we should be there to share it with her. Are you telling me you can't spare two hours out of your busy schedule to attend her concert? Think about it, Kevin. In the grand scale of things, is two hours on a Monday night such a big deal?"
"No, but—"
"Sleep through the concert if you must, but be there for her."
"Sleep? That music's deadly. When it's over and you find me dead in my seat, how will you feel?"
"Don't worry. I know CPR. I should be home by mid-afternoon Monday. I'll come over to Dad's and we'll all go together. As a family. I'd like to count on that, Kevin. Can I?"
A long pause, then, "I guess so."
"Great. See you then. Love you."
"Me too."
She broke the connection and took a deep breath. Another domestic crisis averted. She empathized with Kevin; her own musical tastes were mired in sixties and seventies pop and she found classical music as trying as he did—except when Lizzie was playing—but the concert was a family thing, not a music thing, and she had to keep the family together. That was her mission, a responsibility that possessed her. Because the divorce had been her doing.
She rose and checked Jack again. He'd finally stopped moaning and lay deeply sunken in sleep; his skin had been cool and dry for almost two hours now.
"Looks like you made it, Jack," she whispered, stroking his matted hair. He might spike another fever around four A.M. or so, but she sensed that his immune system had the upper hand now. "Looks like you beat it."
But beat what? she thought as she wandered back to the front room. Exactly what infection had he been fighting all day? She hoped it was the contaminant. That would mean it was not as invincible or as "inevitable" as it seemed to think.
But the possibility existed that Jack had caught some other virus and his symptoms had been due to his body's war against that.
Only time would tell.
Kate yawned and stretched. Not much sleep last night. She was tired but doubted she could sleep. Not after what she'd been through today, not after learning that something calling itself the Unity was hell bent on erasing her personality, her individuality, her very self.
She felt a sob build in her throat. I don't want to die!
And that was what integration with the Unity would be: death. Sure, her body would live on but the person inside would be obliterated. All her values, the little things that made her who she was, gone. She would no longer care about the music, the paintings, the movies she now loved because they'd serve no practical purpose in expanding the species. And Kevin and Liz would be downgraded from the two most cherished beings in her life to a pair of potential hosts who shared some genes with her, valued only for their capacity to breed more hosts.
She had to see Fielding again—first thing Monday morning, before she headed home. Maybe he was right. He'd said he was Jeanette's best chance; maybe he was hers as well. The Unity clearly was concerned about Fielding. And whatever made it uneasy could orly be good for her.
Come to think of it, she hadn't felt the Unity tugging at her thoughts for the past few hours. Too occupied with something else? She wondered what it was up to. No matter. As long as it wasn't bothering her.
But if sleep was out of the question, at least she could lie down and rest her eyes now that Jack was over the worst.
She stretched out as best she could on the couch and laced her fingers atop her chest. Usually she looked forward to the next day, but not tonight. Would the Unity try to take over again, try to use her to wrest the secret of Jack's resistance from him?
Kate closed her eyes. She had to prevent the Unity from stealing what was hers—what was her. But how?
The question trailed her into sleep…
14
"You don't look like you're having much fun," Jay Pokorny said.
The four of them—Sandy and Beth and Pokorny and his longtime girlfriend Alissa—were standing at the long bar near the front of Kenny's Castaways on Bleecker in the Village, having a few drinks. The bar ran along the left side of the front section; tables cluttered the rear floor where a small stage huddled against the rear wall. Kenny's had been Pokorny's idea—something about a new band they had to hear. But here it was eleven already and still no music.
"So far it's just a bar," Sandy said.
He felt a nudge in his ribs and turned to see Beth smiling up at him. God, she looked great tonight.
"Be nice," she whispered.
He winked at her. "Okay."
"Yeah," Pokorny said, "but wait till you hear this chick in the band. Name's Debbie something. She's this little thing that looks like Betty Boop, but when she opens her mouth to sing—wow."
"Well, I hope she opens her mouth soon."
As much as Sandy liked live music, he wasn't crazy about bars. Especially a bar this packed and smoky and hot. Wasn't the AC working? None of which helped his lousy mood. He was hoping loud music and Beth's company would help him forget a strike-out day.
He hadn't been able to track down the police commissioner, but had cornered the mayor at a fundraising luncheon. He'd ducked Sandy's questions, rambling on about ho
w it was a complex issue and how he'd have to know the details of the crime and run it past the Corporation Counsel and maybe a few judges. Yadda-yadda-yadda. Not much to write about there.
He checked his cell phone to make sure it was on. Yeah, it was, and no new calls. This sucked. Totally.
"Hey, Palmer," Pokorny said. "That's like the fifth time you've checked that phone since we got here. What's up? Expecting another call from the Savior?"
Sandy yielded to an instant of shock, then forced a laugh. "Yeah, right."
Truth was he'd placed two calls to the Savior today, and neither had been answered. Was the guy going to stiff him now?
A girl with lime Kool-Aid hair must have overheard Pokorny's Savior remark. She was leaning back from the bar, craning for a look at Sandy.
"It's you!" she said, her eyes widening with recognition. "You're the guy from the paper, aren't you. The one who was talking to the Savior."
Sandy shrugged, embarrassment and heart-singing joy tugging him in different directions.
"Damn right he is," Pokorny said. "That's Sandy Palmer himself, ace reporter and subway survivor."
Pokorny's sarcasm was lost on the green-haired girl who turned excitedly to her friend. "Kim! Kim! Look who's here! It's that reporter from the subway, the one who talked to the Savior!"
In less than a minute—less than half a minute—Sandy found himself with his back to the bar, enclosed in a tight, steadily thickening semicircle of men and women, all about his age. Pokorny and Alissa were been quickly elbowed out of the way but Sandy kept his arm around Beth's shoulder. This was a little scary.
They started asking him questions, general ones at first—what was it like, how did he feel, tell us how it really went down—then moving on to specifics like how much blood there was and what the Savior's voice was like and what kind of gun had he used. He pretended he hadn't heard that one.
He'd covered all this in his articles and lots of these people seemed to have read them, but that didn't matter. They wanted to hear him tell it, listen to him speak the words. Straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak.
And Sandy gladly obliged.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned, the bartender shoved a Bass Ale into his hand.
"On the house, mac."
And that started a flood of freebies as other people started buying him beers. But he didn't need alcohol. The recognition, the instant acceptance, the sea of rapt faces hanging onto his every word already had him higher than a kite.
This is what it can be like, he thought. Everywhere I go—Right this way, Mr. Palmer. Never mind the line there, we'll have a table ready for you in a moment. Meanwhile, we're chilling a bottle of champagne for you now, compliments of the house.
It's like a drug, he thought. No, it is a drug; a truly bodacious high. And I can see why people get hooked on it. Because there's nothing better than this. Nothing.
And then it occurred to him that Beth had been on the train too. She deserved a little attention. And he wasn't greedy. He could share the spotlight.
The question was, did Beth want this known?
What a question. How could she not?
He raised his hand and pulled her closer. "I'd like to introduce Beth Abrams. We met on the train that night and we've hardly been apart since, which proves that even the darkest cloud can have a silver lining."
The burst of applause and cheers, and the grins from the encircling crowd swept over him in a warm wave. He glanced at Beth and found her smiling up at him.
"That was sweet," she said.
She leaned toward him and they kissed, sending the crowd into another outburst of whoops.
"We're a hit," he said into her ear as he hugged her. "Maybe we should get an act together and take it on the road."
He was only partly kidding. If he could feel just one tenth of this every night…
Another tap on his shoulder. He turned and found a fellow about his age but all in black with a closely shaved head and a stud through his left eyebrow.
"Anytime you want to ditch this scene," he said in a low voice, "let me know."
"I don't get you."
"I'm talking about going some place very cool."
"This seems pretty cool." At least at the moment. Certainly a lot cooler now than when he'd arrived.
"This is nothing. I'm talking about a club. An exclusive club."
"Exclusive, huh?" He didn't have much money on him. The cover here had been only five bucks. In some of those clubs, "exclusive" was just a euphemism for overpriced-up-the-wazoo. "What's it called?"
"It's not called anything. I'm talking about a place so exclusive it doesn't even have a name. Doesn't need one."
"I don't know…"
"Don't worry. I can get you in. You'll be my guest. I think the regulars would like to meet you and your lady."
"Who might these regulars be?"
"Big names who wouldn't want me talking about them. But you've heard of them—everybody has. We're talking household names. You've seen their faces on the screen—the big one, not the little one. And if not their faces, then you've seen their names in big letters. You don't look like the fashion magazine type, but if you check out the Victoria's Secret catalog now and then you've seen some of the ladies' bodies."
Sandy had heard of such places: celebrity hangs for supermodels and movie people—stars, directors, producers—who wanted a place where they wouldn't be ogled and hounded for autographs.
And this guy's inviting me. Me! Shit, I don't believe this!
"All right," Sandy drawled with maximum cool. "I suppose we can check it out." He turned to Beth. "Come on. We're leaving."
"Where are we going?"
"A special place where we can have a little peace and quiet."
"Okay by me. I'll find Jay and Alissa and—"
"They're not invited. Just us."
"You think that's right?" The truth was, he hadn't thought about it. "Believe me, Beth, you'll want to be in this place."
"Fine, but the least we can do is say good-bye. I'll go find them." As he watched her thread through the thicket of people, he thought, I'm out on the town with my conscience.
Which, all things considered, probably wasn't such a bad thing.
15
She thought she'd fallen asleep, but now Kate is up and walking.
She's outside. Where? Somehow she left Jack's and is walking the street. But not Jack's street. It's much wider, with houses instead of brownstones. She's in Queens, in a place called Middle Village.
Somehow she knows that. But how? She knows nothing of Queens.
She feels a buzz of anticipation as she turns up the walk toward one of the houses. It's dark on the first floor, with a single window lit on the second. Up the three steps, across the front porch, she reaches her hand toward the bell—
No! That's not her hand! It's too big, the fingers too thick. And she doesn't own a ring that looks anything like—
She knows that ring. She saw it on Holdstock's hand. But how did she get it? And what's happened to her hands? She watches as one of them pushes the bell button, not with a fingertip but with a knuckle. Strange way to ring. And what is this undercurrent of dread she senses?
The door opens then and it's Dr. fielding standing behind the screen.
"Terrence," he says. "What a surprise."
Terrence? Isn't that Holdstock's first name?
"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Doctor," she hears herself say in Holdstock's voice, "but I need your help."
"Come in, come in," Fielding says, pushing open the screen door. "As a matter of fact, I could use your help too. Maybe we can help each other."
As she follows him inside, kicking the door closed behind her, she begins to realize what this is: another one of those surreal dreams she's been having. What's the symbolism here? What conflict is her unconscious trying to resolve?
Then she sees it: Because he was the first to be infected, Holdstock represents the leadership of the Unity
. She's terrified by the Unity's invasion of her mind and body, so her subconscious is dealing with that by turning the tables and portraying her as having invaded Holdstock's.
But understanding doesn't release her from the dream's iron grip. She's simply going to have to ride it out.
Fielding is leading the way. "Let's go to my study where we can talk."
Her dread increases as she closes on Fielding's back, fumbling in her—Holdstock's—coat pocket and withdrawing a slim wire with a wooden handle on each end. Although she's never seen one, Kate knows it's a garrote. And she knows that Holdstock made it himself this afternoon, spending an hour drilling a midpoint hole through each of two short lengths of doweling, threading electrical wire through, winding it around and around and triple-knotting it.
Kate from the outset disliked this dream, and hates it now, but she can't stop Holdstock from crossing his wrists and looping the wire over the unsuspecting Doctor's head, from wrenching back on those handles and cinching the wire tight around Fielding's throat, from twisting the wire against the nape of his neck to lock it in place.
A grunt from Fielding as he claws at his throat and tries to turn but she—Holdstock—she—Holdstock—dear Lord, she can't be sure—keeps a relentless grip on the handles and stays behind the frantically struggling doctor. She can see half of his panicked, wide-mouthed face as it darkens toward blue, see one of his baffled, bulging, blood-engorged eyes as it pleads for mercy, for air, for life.
And Kate wants to scream but she's mute, tries to loosen her grip on those handles but cannot.
And now Fielding is kicking and spasming and clawing and twisting madly, slamming the both of them against the dining room table, doing anything within his fading power to break free, but Holdstock's body outweighs his by at least fifty pounds and Kate uses that to hang on, a homicidal rodeo rider on a doomed horse.
Stop it! Oh, dear God, let the poor man go!
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