Twelve Days

by Steven Barnes

  The world drowned in syrup as Terry sorted the variables and calculated his options. Bizarrely, an old Bill Cosby routine popped into his mind. Turn in the direction of the skid … He did, the fishtails broad and frightening, then smaller and smaller until the rear wheel found traction and chewed its way back onto the road. He floored it, making up for the lost time as the attackers roared in pursuit.

  He couldn’t exactly see the roads, but Terry navigated as if he could see clearly despite the night and the snowfall.

  Olympia and Nicki were both terrified, but in the front seat beside Terry Hannibal squealed, “Whee!”

  The cars to either side slammed into fences and plowed piles of snow, fountaining white. “Hold on!”

  He pulled the wheel left and then right, and their Chevy wove around an oncoming truck, missing by inches. The car behind them slammed into it. Metal buckled under the impact, screaming like a scrap-metal dinosaur caught in a crusher. The two vehicles rammed against the metal barrier, the impact separating them so that the truck blocked the road … and the car disappeared into the ravine.

  They trundled up the dark, narrow, rutted road.

  * * *

  At the Salvation Sanctuary, Tony Killinger set the phone in its cradle. He felt a mixture of irritation and fear. Oddly, some part of him enjoyed that combination. “I see. Set a cordon.”

  “What do they say?” Madame Gupta asked.

  “We weren’t able to stop them.”

  “I am less than thrilled at your arrangements,” she said coolly.

  He had heard that tone of voice, seen that expression on her face the moment before she cracked the skull of a guard who had stolen from them. Fool. He’d known too much for them to turn him over to the police, and that left them no choice. He, Killinger, was not in real danger … yet. But a few more mistakes could change that. And that was amusing. Feeling a bit like a kid poking a hornets’ nest with a stick, he said: “And I warned you about tryin’ to keep security while tourists are strolling around. All those holy-roller meditation assholes, too. It was your call.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That was very close to impertinence.”

  “It was truth.”

  She studied him. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?”

  “Not particularly,” he said. He smiled. His eyes met hers levelly.

  “Why not? You know I can kill you.”

  He laughed and shrugged. “So can a baby with a hand grenade. Yeah, sure. I also know that you need me. And that the better your project works, the more you need me.”

  “And if that situation changes?” she asked.

  He smiled. “That kinda depends on which of us tweaks to that first.”

  Madame Gupta very nearly smiled in return. One predator could appreciate another. “Seal off the mountain. I suppose it is a good thing that she does not know exactly why we wanted her son. With the current chaos, even if they manage to file a report, soon the police will be too busy to respond. Very soon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Killinger said, saluting.

  “Find them.”

  She left the room.

  Master Bishop turned to look at him. “You really aren’t afraid of her?”

  The Cockney accent seemed a little thicker, perhaps with worry. A black man who talked Limey. He’d never really gotten used to it. Tony laughed. “No.”

  “But she really can kill you?”

  “Or anyone else.”

  Bishop shook his head. “Then why not…?”

  Tony smiled. “If you’re afraid of dying, you’re in the wrong fuckin’ business, old son. Now get on it.”

  * * *

  From his perch at an elevated turnout, Terry peered down the road at a roadblock below. Police and private cars swarmed like ants at a picnic, a symphony of red-and-blue flashing lights. Corrupt cops, or just good men protecting their community?

  This … was getting complicated.

  “What is it?” Olympia asked.

  “I think it would be risky to assume that Gupta hasn’t coopted the Dahlonega Police Department. The roads are blocked. I don’t know what they want with Hannibal, but we can be pretty sure they don’t want us communicating it. They might be willing to shoot, and I can’t risk that.”

  “What are we going to do?” Olympia asked.

  “Hole up until I can think of something.” He pondered a moment, and then a thought occurred to him. “I saw a hunting cabin on a road back a couple of miles. I think we can get there, and hunker down.”

  “Will we be safe?”

  “As safe as anyone’s going to be. They won’t expect us to double back, so that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Olympia watched Terry pull their Chevy in beside a single-level log cabin with a stone chimney and broad bay windows. He peered at it from three directions, as if trying to extend his senses into the darkened rooms, perhaps imagining that he could hear and see and feel what was happening within. “I think its empty,” he said.

  He then pulled into the driveway more deeply, until they were well back from the road. Out of sight. Almost a quarter-mile from the main route. “Wait here,” he said.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

  He exited, crunching down on the snow then moving smoothly toward the side door. Pax jumped out and bounded behind him, kicking up snow as she pranced.

  “Mom…?” Nicki said.

  “Yes?” Olympia couldn’t keep her eyes off their protector. At that moment, Terry seemed like living proof of God’s love.

  “Terry is like, way cooler than I thought.”

  Olympia nodded. “At the very least.”

  “At least,” Hannibal said.

  * * *

  Terry peered in through the windows on the garage. An orange Jeep Cherokee squatted in the shadows. He broke the window on the back door of the house, waited a moment to be sure there was no response, and then reached through and unlocked it, entering the cabin. He cast a Maglite beam around the room. Nothing on the back porch, but on the kitchen refrigerator he found, clipped to a square magnet, a picture of a bearlike Caucasian male, fifty years old with capped teeth, surrounded by cubs and mate. Pictures of a happy summer fishing and hunting.

  All … summer pictures.

  “Excellent,” he whispered. If this was a summer retreat, there was scant chance of an embarrassing winter encounter with the owners.

  Muttering prayers and happy curses, Terry headed back out to the car.

  * * *

  Three cars had driven along the main road a quarter mile away, their lights poking through the falling snow like silver fingers. Searchlights? Friends? Foes? Did Gupta’s people know where to look? Had they been spotted? Wouldn’t it be smarter to just keep moving…?

  Her mind spit out those and a thousand other questions before Terry crunched his way back to them.

  “Well?” Olympia asked. “We must have doubled back. I think I passed this cabin on my way out of the Sanctuary.”

  “Dollars to doughnuts it’s a summer vacation cabin,” he said. “I think we have a clear shot until about May.”

  “That had better be long enough.”

  “That’s the damned truth. We can’t be seen from the road,” he said. “We have power, and food in the freezer. I say we call this home. Hannibal? What do you think?”

  “Not home,” he said.

  Olympia smiled. “For a little while?”

  “Little while,” Hannibal said.

  “All right, then! Everybody out.”

  Like the tiny band of refugees they had become, stiff with cold and fatigue, Olympia, Nicki, and Hannibal pried their way out of the car and headed into the house. “Let’s get a fire going.”

  Nicki was excited. “I saw a wood pile outside.”

  “I don’t think so,” Terry replied after a moment’s thought. “We can use the oil heater, I think.”

  “Why?” Olympia asked.

  “Smoke,” Terry said. “We don’t
want someone over the hill seeing smoke coming up and wondering why Bubbah Wilson is here out of season. Maybe bring over a pie or some Christmas cookies. For the same reason, we’re going to put tin foil over the windows, so that light doesn’t show.”

  “I thought you said we can’t be seen from the road.” Her teeth were chattering, and it wasn’t from the cold.

  “That’s true,” Terry said, “but someone might be cross-country skiing, or snowshoeing, or just looking from across the mountain. We’ll take no chances.”

  She nodded, understanding. Now that she was out of the cold, she was warming enough for the numbness to ease. Her bra was soaked with anxiety sweat, and when she didn’t talk she had to clinch her teeth to stop their burring. Now, for the first time in what felt like days, she felt a measure of safety. The appreciation and relief she felt were more than words could have expressed.

  “Come on, Hannibal,” Terry said to the boy. “Can you help Terry?”

  “Can help Terry.” Flapping his arms in an endearingly awkward manner, Hannibal accompanied Terry to the kitchen.

  It was, Olympia thought, a man’s kitchen, organized not sensually but by some sense of order that existed before the kitchen had been stocked. Perhaps by alphabetical most-common-usage rules. There was no sense of an emotional personality about it, and it seemed more like a tool bench than a place where food was created for hungry families. More show than function. She bet the refrigerator was filled with frozen dinners.

  Somehow, that mismatch of form and function reminded her of the Salvation Sanctuary. Spiritual books and spiritual topiary and inspiring gardens and dazzled aspirants.

  And a rotten, toxic core.

  Everything in its place, and a place for everything, whether or not it related directly to anything positive, or even anything sane at all.

  * * *

  Terry found the aluminum foil in a drawer between neatly placed wooden spoons, a plastic bag filled with something resembling jumbo chunks of Purina Dog Chow, and a rubber band–wrapped packet of steel ballpoint pens. They were industrial strength, sturdy as railroad spikes, like something designed for astronauts. Pressurized ink cartridges. Everything neat and tidy.

  Hannibal seemed to appreciate the kitchen. He searched behind Terry and found a freezer bag filled with animal crackers in the refrigerator, and jumped up and down with simple childlike joy that said all the troubles of the last days had, at least for this moment, been forgotten. Terry enjoyed seeing the kid like this. He didn’t know what O and her son had been through, but the clues he had extracted so far sounded horrid.

  “He’s right,” Nicki said.

  “About what?” Olympia asked.

  “That these people aren’t coming back for a while. But we need to be careful.”

  Nicki squinted at her. “What happened to your arms?”

  Olympia covered the bruises, as if embarrassed. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s see if there’s a phone here.”

  So O didn’t want to tell Nicki something … or didn’t want to remind Hannibal of horrors of the recent past. Or was choosing her moment to tell the story. Something.

  Hannibal spilled the animal crackers onto a kitchen counter, and began to sort them: horse shape, lion shape, giraffe shape, and fish shape, all in different columns.

  With Hannibal safely busy, Olympia and Terry searched drawers and cupboards and closets, seeking to own their temporary shelter as best they could. He found the keys to the Cherokee in the kitchen drawer next to the sink. He was definitely switching vehicles. The electricity was still on, but the phone was dead. “Maybe they turn it off for the winter,” she said. “Let’s get some food going. Heat going. We don’t know how long we’ll be here.”

  “Got any ideas?” Terry asked.

  She gave him a tentative smile, warming and widening even as he watched. “Sit back, Terry. We have the makings of a Christmas feast. I’m hungry enough to eat a moose.”

  * * *

  Ninety minutes later, they were eating a simple meal drawn from a collection of freezer bags: chicken, lentils, and fresh biscuits. They scarfed the food down as if they hadn’t eaten in days. The cabin smelled like normalcy, like family, as if they had borrowed some of the joy and safety on display in the photos.

  The windows were all foil-sealed, and the clan was gathered around the kitchen table, the stove providing enough heat to make things toasty.

  “Reminds me of a Christmas I spent with Mark in Afghanistan,” Terry said, stifling a belch. “We sealed up the windows of an abandoned shepherd’s hut and had ourselves a party.”

  “Dancing girls?”

  “Some pretty cute goats,” he said. “I think Mark fell in love.” That left his mouth before he could stop it, but as soon as the words were spoken, they were regretted. Mark. Geek. Shit. His best friends in all the world. Probably looking to kill him.

  “Mom…” Nicki said. “Are you going to tell us what happened to you?”

  “All right…” she said, and told them. For Hannibal’s sake she skirted details of the waterboarding, saying only: “And then they punished me.”

  “How?” Terry asked, knuckles paling as he gripped the table’s edge.

  Her voice almost broke. “I’d rather not talk about it now.” Her eyes begged him not to demand particulars in front of the children, and he relented. Under the table, she reached out and squeezed his leg.

  By the time she was finished telling her story, Terry was staring at her with new and deeper respect. “Jesus.” This woman was a freaking boss.

  “Just like Tarzan!” Hannibal said.

  Nicki hugged her mother. “Mom … you rock.”

  Olympia laughed shakily. “I just want to say something. We don’t know what’s coming. We don’t know why what has happened has happened. But I wanted to say, right now, that I am as grateful as I’ve ever been in my life. Everyone in the world I care about is in this room, right now, right here. I don’t take things like that for granted anymore.” When she looked at Terry, the heat in her gaze rocked him. It was possible that no one had ever looked at him like that. That level of love, gratitude, trust.

  It was … humbling. Exhilarating. Whatever he had done to earn it, he wanted to do it more, and right now.

  “Terry,” she said. “Nicki said that there was someone after you?”

  “I think so, yes,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Some friends and I were planning to do something … bad. And then I changed my mind.”

  She was confused. “What?”

  He shook his head. Not now. As one who had recently asked for privacy, she seemed to understand. “Why? Why did you change your mind?”

  And that question he was willing, if not quite able to answer. “Ironic as it seems now … Madame Gupta.” He shook his head. “So … what did she want?”

  “I don’t know. Just … crazy cult stuff, I’d guess. End of the world fever.”

  “Hannibal?” Terry asked.

  “Terry?” the boy said, voice flat. He had seen more emotion, more interaction out of the kid in the last hour than in the previous year. And now he was whiplashed back into that emotionless response. Poor brave little soldier.

  “Can you help me, kiddo? What did they ask you to do?”

  His eyes never left the table. “Pictures. People. Monkeys.”

  Olympia shook her head. “I saw some of them. I didn’t see any people. Just … I don’t know. Colors and patterns.”

  Terry sighed. “Well, we may never know. We’ll get out of here, and tell the authorities … assuming there will be anyone left to tell.”

  Nicki had turned on the television. “Mom! Terry! The tube is working.”

  They huddled around. A snowy news broadcast. A CNS feed. “That’s Joyce Chow,” Olympia said. “I work with her.”

  The image was shaky, the broadcaster’s round face glum. “I wish I had good news. What we know is that no one who was on the original Dead List has survived, or at least made public ap
pearance since the date they were projected to die. This image, of the major general of Indonesia, was shown the day after his reported death, but computer analysis of the tape suggests it was actually made the day before.”

  The screen flickered, and the image of a twisted, shattered body appeared. The face was a Halloween mask, distorted, bleeding from mouth and nose and ears, eyes wide with terror and agony. “Jesus!” Olympia screamed. “Who okayed that?”

  She grabbed Hannibal and tried to cover his eyes but he slithered out of her grip, transfixed by the television.

  “Nicki, turn that off!” The girl started toward the set, but before she could touch the control, the image changed back to the newswoman.

  “Okay, wait,” Olympia said. “That producer should be fired. Hani, are you all right?”

  Hannibal seemed unfazed. In fact, more disturbingly to Terry, he seemed eager to see more.

  What the hell had happened up there?

  “Where pictures?”

  “Those aren’t good pictures,” Olympia said. “You’ll have nightmares.”

  He didn’t respond to that. Instead he seemed fascinated by the image of Joyce Chow as the reporter said something Terry couldn’t hear.

  “She’s scared,” Hannibal said.

  “We’re all scared, hon.”

  “Hannibal’s not scared. You’re here. Terry’s here.”

  “Hey!” Nicki said.

  “Nicki’s here.”

  He hugged her, then grinned up at them. “My family is here. Everything is good.”

  Olympia and Terry looked at each other. What in the hell do you say to that?

  Chow continued. “… President Correll has not been seen since her last press conference, and we do not know her status. If she is alive and well—and we sincerely hope that is the case … then she is scheduled for death tomorrow.”

  Joyce Chow doffed her glasses. Her hands were shaking. “We do not know what this means. If she dies … if the most heavily guarded woman in the world can be…” She paused again, unable to speak the thought. “The promise is that this terrible thing will continue, and continue, until…”

  Someone in the studio said something unintelligible. Terry could not make out the words. A man’s voice.