by Robert Maxxe
Patrick sensed she was in no mood for chitchat, and they rode the rest of the way to Bethpage in silence.
Forty minutes later they turned into the complex of buildings where the factory was located. The night was moonless and overcast, but the headlights cut through the misty darkness like bombers' flares baring a blacked-out city.
"Architecture by Frank Lloyd Wrong," Patrick said, looking out at the ruined buildings. When Carrie didn't respond, he gave up attempting to lighten the mood.
The cars wended through the maze of cinder tracks. Lon switched down to his parking lights to be less conspicuous, and Carrie followed suit. But there was no need. On this holiday night, as Carrie had hoped, the place was utterly deserted.
They stopped two buildings away from Peale's factory. If sophisticated security was in use, Lon had suggested, then it wasn't impossible that remote TV cameras, or even noise and heat sensors, had been installed. These might detect the approach of automobiles more quickly than if they went on foot, and came around from the rear.
Carrie and Patrick took up flashlights and got out of the station wagon as Lon walked up to join them.
"Have you two been introduced . . .?" Carrie blurted suddenly, turning from Lon to Patrick.
The nervous reversion to amenities struck both men as comical, which united them more than anything else could have.
"Paddy the Cat," Patrick said, gravely extending a hand.
"Just call me Raffles," Lon answered. They shook hands and chuckled together.
The levity only stretched Carrie tighter. "Jesus, we're not here to do a nightclub act. If you think this is all a joke—"
"Ease up, love," Lon said. "We're not taking this any less seriously if we try to pretend the pressure isn't there."
She bobbed her head apologetically and Lon went on:
"I'm going to dash over to the factory alone and take one quick snoop around the outside. There just may be some easy way in, and we'll kick ourselves if we find it only after we've messed up the whole neighborhood. Be right back." He sprinted away in the direction of the factory.
"What was that about messing up the neighborhood?" Patrick said quickly. "I thought we weren't going to touch a thing except the place where the games are. . . ."
Carrie explained the scheme Lon had evolved based on his assumption that the factory, like the arcade, was guarded by some kind of computer-linked security system. Since Peale could probably receive a silent alarm signal wherever he was and dispatch local police, the alarm would have to be disconnected, or else there wouldn't be sufficient time to get into the building and remove one of the heavy machines.
"But how can we turn off hidden alarms?" Patrick asked anxiously. "If we're not even sure they're in there, how can we turn them off?"
"We'll just shut off the power. Without electricity the computers won't work—their ability to send an alarm signal will be knocked out."
Patrick seemed placated. But after a second he observed, "You still didn't say why we have to mess up the neighborhood."
Then Carrie told Patrick exactly how Lon proposed to shut off the power: a chain would be secured around the base of the poles that supported the overhead power lines, and the other end connected to the bumper of Lon's 300 horsepower Mercedes. Then Lon would pull down the pole and black out the whole area. If pulling it down didn't work, he intended to push it over with the car.
"And crumple up those beautiful fenders?" Patrick protested. "The man's a lunatic! Couldn't you get the same results by cutting the lines that go into Peale's building?"
Carrie shook her head. "Peale would know we'd been there and take inventory right away. But if the whole neighborhood has a blackout—if it looks like maybe a drunk driver knocked over a power line—then Peale might not notice a game missing; not at once, anyway. We can use that extra time to analyze the machine without Peale breathing down our necks."
"You know, Carrie," Patrick said. "That man of yours has the makings of a real criminal mastermind. I hope—"
"CARRIE! OVER HERE, QUICK!"
Lon's urgent shout cut through the night. He was in trouble, obviously. Carrie could hear the desperate edge in his voice.
She broke into a frantic run toward the factory, the adrenaline pumping through her before she had taken two strides. She had her flashlight on, but she barged through the darkness too quickly to focus on the ground. She stumbled over a rock, went down, picked herself up and kept running. Patrick scampered in her wake, unable to keep pace.
Coming up to the factory, she paused to shine the beam of her light around, and saw no sign of Lon. She ran on, around the corner, into the wide alley separating adjacent buildings. Even in the dark he should be easy to find, his own flashlight a beacon to guide her. But there was no other light. Not a trace.
Suddenly she felt herself dangerously exposed. She stopped, switched off her light, and stood listening.
Then a beam appeared, shining out from a door that opened near the rear of the building.
"Lon?" she called tentatively.
"Yah," the voice came back. "Over here, Carrie, come take a look."
She breathed easier and went toward the other light. Patrick caught up and walked beside her. The light stayed on them, giving them a path to follow, and they were nearly there when it occurred to Carrie that behind the glare of the beam it could be anybody—
But it was Lon who met them at the door. "The whole place was wide open," he said. "Every door unlocked. I just walked right in."
Carrie gave him a puzzled look, which he answered by swiveling his light to shine through the door into the cavernous warehouse area.
It was empty. Every last machine had been removed, shipped out.
A period of grace.
Peale had made good use of it, Carrie thought.
They went through the place. The furniture had been left behind, that was all. Not only were the games gone, but even the paint and the brushes that had been used to mark the crates for shipping, and of course all the paperwork. Every last bit of what might constitute evidence. The electric clock was still hanging on a wall in one of the rooms, but it wasn't running, and the incongruous freezer locker no longer spilled cold air into the hallways. Peale was gone for good. He had even taken the trouble to have the electricity turned off.
Lon led the way back to Millport, pushing his Mercedes up to nearly a hundred miles per hour on the expressway, which was lightly traveled at this hour. He was going so fast that Carrie soon lost sight of him, but she took the early turn off the state road to head straight for his house, assuming he had gone first to check on the children.
Had Peale cleared out because somehow he'd been able to learn their plans? If so, it was possible he had taken other measures to thwart them.
And the children had been left alone.
Lon had beaten her back by ten minutes and was waiting at the entrance to his drive when Carrie and Patrick arrived. He motioned her to stop without turning in, and came around to talk to her through the car window.
"They're all tucked up and fast asleep. Nick's in the bunk bed in Wally's room, Emily's sleeping with Dana—little angels every one of 'em."
She nodded with relief.
Then Lon said, "Ready to drive to town?"
She knew why he was asking. She had been thinking about it all the time she was driving. With the factory shut down, the arcade might be gone, too. Only its legacy would remain: some children whose minds had been penetrated, altered, shaped—for reasons no one would ever explain.
Or it might still be there on Elm Street, its business not yet finished. Closure of the factory might only mean that all the games had been sent out to do their work in hundreds of other places—not that Peale had been responding to Carrie's intent to steal a game. Until the work of the arcade was finished—until the spades could "get through"—it would remain.
But how much longer?
All the indications were that the climax was near, the goal not much farther off. Are
we in the ring yet? Just passing the peritor. The throb of imminence had been in those voices, thought Carrie, the spacies guiding themselves as one unit toward their destiny.
If they were going to be saved from it, the only way was to challenge the arcade itself, to get past its defenses and take one of the machines for examination. In that case, though, almost no time would elapse before Peale learned a game was missing. How would he respond? It was possible that she and Lon would become targets of a hunt by the spacies and their master. Even if they got hold of the game, there might be no time to discover its purpose before falling prey to their own children.
Carrie asked Patrick if he would mind staying at Lon's house to safeguard the children, and of course he agreed. Then Carrie turned to Lon.
"I'm ready," she said.
It was far too late to find any safe middle ground between being savior or victim.
33
In the early hours of the morning, Elm Street was as lifeless as the moon.
Coming from Lon's house, they entered the street at the end near the arcade. It was there still—indeed, boasting of its survival. Though long past the midnight closing time, the signs were on.
Lon slowed the station wagon, and they gave the place a careful once-over—it appeared to be locked up—then continued past. In the deserted street any parked car would invite the attention of the Millport police who patrolled the area in a car two or three times every hour.
"Aren't those signs always turned off at closing time?" Lon said.
"It's letting us know that it's ready for us," Carrie replied, "that it isn't asleep."
At the other end of Elm, in front of Carrie's store, Lon turned the station wagon around and headed slowly back toward the arcade. They planned to pull the station wagon around to the back where it would be out of sight and where, once they got the red fire door open, the game could be quickly loaded.
They were only halfway along Elm when one of the maroon-and-white patrol cars of the M.P.D. turned out of a side street one block ahead. It came toward them, traveling on the opposite side, and slowed as it approached. The officer at the wheel stuck out his hand, signaling Lon to stop.
"Oh Christ," Carrie gulped.
"Stay cool. He's just lonely." Lon braked and rolled down his window.
"Evening," said the policeman. He craned for a better look into the station wagon. "That you there, Mrs. Foster . . .?"
By the light from a street lamp, Carrie recognized the sad, creased face of Phil Horton, the oldest veteran of the eighteen-man force.
"Hi, Phil." Did he hear her straining to lay on the bright tone?
"You folks are out pretty late. Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," Carrie replied. "You know Mr. Evans, Phil?"
"Haven't had the pleasure. Nice to meet you, sir. Well . . . drive carefully now. Happy Thanksgiving." He waved and drove on in the opposite direction. Lon also resumed moving toward the arcade.
"Was I wrong to give him your name?" Carrie said. "The way he was looking at you and the car, I thought I'd better assure him that I wasn't being abducted."
"Don't worry about it," Lon said. "Introducing me was the natural thing to do."
"The unnatural thing is being here in the first place," Carrie fretted. "As soon as a break-in at the arcade is reported, Officer Phil's going to think of us. . . ."
"Can't be helped now." Lon glanced at her. "Unless we put this off a day or—"
"No," she said quickly.
In the rear-view mirror, Lon saw the police car reach the other end of Elm and take a turn out of sight on the state road, maybe heading for a coffee break at the all-night diner near the expressway junction.
They approached it again, on the same side of the street now. The glowing signs glared back defiantly—I'm here, I'm waiting—but there was nothing else to steer them off.
The renovated cottage was flanked on both sides by open yards through which the station wagon could be driven around to the back. There were some trees, but with space enough between them to maneuver the car. With one more glance at the mirror to be certain the police patrol had not come back onto the street, Lon pulled the wheel over sharply. The tires bounced up over the sidewalk edge and Lon turned off the headlights. He steered through the trees using the light from the neon signs, which bounced off the night haze somehow so that the whole cottage was wreathed in a blue halo. Coming to the rear, Lon reversed the station wagon to park with the loading gate near the metal fire door.
Their plan had already been hashed over on the drive to town, No point now in sabotaging the town's electricity to delay Peale's discovery of a missing machine. This would be a straight smash-and-grab. Find the lines going into the arcade and cut them. Bust in through the glass doors at the front. Get the machine onto the dolly and wheel it out through the fire door—which should open easily from the inside. Three easy steps. No problem.
Except that it knew they were coming.
Here in the dark, next to it, Carrie could sense its expectation as though feeling the heat coming off the skin of an animal.
Lon turned off the motor and laid his hand over hers. "Better get started," he said. "That cop could come back this way any time."
She might have said a prayer if she had ever invested herself enough in any religion to believe she was entitled to be heard. Though perhaps it was no loss in this situation. Along with everything else she thought about the arcade, Carrie believed it must be beyond the jurisdiction of God.
They found the power terminal right away, a small metal box affixed to a rear corner of the cottage. It had a hinged door held shut by a loop of wire and the electric company's lead seal. A plastic sticker on the front warned that tampering by unauthorized persons was punishable by fine or imprisonment. Lon selected a screwdriver from an assortment of tools they were carrying, put the shaft through the loop and twisted until the wire broke. Inside the box were a meter and a couple of insulated connectors.
Lon pointed his flashlight at the meter. "This is where the electric company turns the power on or off. Should be a switch . . ."
Carrie tapped the domed glass cover of the meter, pointing to the toggle beneath it.
Metermen carried special keys to remove the covers, but a hammer did the job just as well. Carrie struck the blow, the glass fell away, and Lon flipped the toggle.
The blue halo around the cottage disappeared. The signs at the front had been extinguished, the power was off.
They paused for a look at the fire door, but it seemed impenetrable. There was no lock to pick, no outside hinges, and the door fit so snugly into the frame that not even a knife blade could be slipped into the crack.
Flashlights off, they edged along the sides of the cottage, and came around to the front. Standing before the glass doors, Lon took the hammer that Carrie had been holding. He checked the street in both directions, then he lifted the hammer over one shoulder and brought it down into the glass.
The noise seemed like the tolling of a million tiny bells rung for no other purpose than to wake the town. It took forever, Carrie thought, before the last tinkling of tiny shards pattering to the sidewalk faded away. But after she and Lon dodged through the empty frame from which the whole pane had fallen away, they waited by the threshold and watched the street. Nothing changed. No lights went on anywhere. No one landed on the moon.
At last Lon tapped her elbow and whispered, "Let's get to work."
They moved between the two ranks of machines toward the fire door. Then it happened.
The screens suddenly flickered to life. No image, only the sort of plain gray glow that would come from a television tuned to a channel that has ended broadcasting for the night.
"There must be a separate circuit for the machines," Lon said.
"No, we turned off the power," Carrie said. "They just don't need electricity. Everything about them is different, they don't work by principles that we understand."
Slowly she and Lon turned, scanning the mach
ines arranged in a horseshoe around them. The nine screens, all lit by the same frosty gray light, stared back like so many one-eyed alien beings.
Carrie and Lon rushed to the fire door. As long as nothing physically restrained them, they would accomplish what they had come to do. Before pushing on the bar that was supposed to release the door, Lon braced himself, expecting some extra locking mechanism might have been activated when the screens lit up.
The door sprang open at once.
From the back of the station wagon, they brought in the dolly, toolbox, and rope. Lon positioned the dolly beside the game nearest the door, the one standing alone at the point of the horseshoe, and instructed Carrie to push it under the machine as soon as he had raised one edge. Then, stiffening his arms against one side of the metal chassis, he prepared to heave it up.
Suddenly the machine—all nine machines—emitted a bizarre noise, half-croak, half-scream, with a shrill buzzing undertone.
Lon gave a yelp and jerked his hands into his body.
Carrie ran to his side, and reached to take his hands. Lon was clutching them together, one over the other, as though nursing a burn. "What happened?" she said.
"I . . . I don't know." He held out the hands now, examining them by the light from the screen. "It wasn't a shock or a burn. I'm not even sure it hurt. . . ."
"Not sure?" Carrie echoed. The experience of pain ought to be beyond doubt.
"I can't describe it," Lon said. "It was . . . as if, for a second, it became unbearable to think, as if an idea became a weapon that was turned back against my own mind. . . ."
"The idea of taking it," Carrie said, with a glance at the machine. "So that's its defense mechanism. You can't touch it while you're thinking anything that would stop the game."
"Then how the hell do we move it? What kind of insulation do you wear so your thoughts won't hurt?"
Carrie pondered a second, then went out to the station wagon and got the two heavy planks that had been brought in case it was necessary to make a ramp for the dolly. Returning to Lon, she suggested a way to move the machine without touching it. Lon agreed to try. Butting one end of each plank against the side of the machine, he fitted the two other ends to his shoulders, and braced them with his arms.