6

3:15 P.M.

 

DR. WALTER TROUTMAN entered the police chief’s office. He was carrying his black leather satchel in his right hand and a chocolate candy bar with almonds in his left. He appeared to be delighted with the world and with himself. “You wanted to see me, Bob?”

Before Thorp could answer, Salsbury stepped away from the windows and said, “I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

“Buddy Pellineri is waiting in the room across the hail,” Salsbury said. “You know him, don’t you?”

“Buddy?” Troutman asked, wrinkling his fleshy face. “Well, of course I know him.”

“I’ve told him that we’re afraid he’s picked up a very bad germ and that you’re going to give him a vaccination so he won’t get sick. As you know, he’s not especially bright. He believed me. He’s waiting for you.”

“Vaccination?” Troutman said, perplexed.

“That’s what I told him to keep him here. Instead, you’ll inject an air bubble into his bloodstream.”

Troutman was shocked. “That would cause an embolism.”

“I know.”

“It would kill him!”

Salsbury smiled and nodded. “It had better. That’s the whole idea, doctor.”

Looking at Bob Thorp, who was seated behind the desk, then back at Salsbury, Troutman said miserably, “But I can’t do a thing like that. I can’t possibly.”

am I, doctor?” “You’re—the key.”

“Very good. And who are your’

“I’m the lock.”

“All right. You will go across the hail to the room where Buddy is waiting.

You’ll chat with him, be very pleasant, give him no cause to be suspicious.

You’ll tell him that you’re going to give him a vaccination, and you’ll inject an air bubble into his bloodstream. You won’t mind killing him. You won’t hesitate. As soon as he is dead, you’ll leave the room—and you will remember only that you gave him a shot of penicillin. You won’t remember killing him when you leave that room. You will come back here, look in the door, and say to Bob, ‘He’ll be better in the morning.’ Then you’ll go back to your house, having forgotten entirely about these instructions. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Go do it.”

Troutman left the room.

Ten minutes ago Salsbury had decided to eliminate Buddy Pellineri. Although the man had experienced the night chills and nausea, and although he had been partially brainwashed by by the subceptive program, he was not a good subject.

He could not be fully and easily controlled. When told to erase from his memory the men he had seen coming down from the reservoir on the morning of August sixth, he might forget them forever— or only for a few hours. Or not at all. Had he been been a genius, the drug and the subliminals would have transformed him into the ideal slave. Ironically, however, his ignorance condemned him.

It was a pity that Buddy had to die. In his own way he was a likable brute.

But I’ve got the power, Salsbury thought. And I’m going to keep it. I’m going to eliminate as many people as have to be eliminated for me to keep the power. I’ll show them. All of them. Dawson, good old Miriam, the bitches, the holier-than-thou college professors with their snotty questions and self-righteous denunciations of my work, the whores, my mother, the bitches . .

. Tat-tat-tat-tat… No one is going to take this away from me. No one. Not ever. Never.

3:20 P.M.

Rya sat up in bed, yawning and smacking her lips. She looked from Jenny to Sam to Paul—but she didn’t seem to know for certain who they were.

“Do you remember what he said?” Paul asked again. “The man with the thick glasses. Do you remember?”

Squinting at him, scratching her head, she said, “Who … am this?”

“She’s still dopey,” Jenny said, “and will be for a while yet.” Studying the girl from the foot of the bed, Sam said, “Salsbury knows he’s got to deal with us. As soon as he’s decided how, he’ll come here. We don’t have time to wait for the sedative to wear off. We’ve got to help her come out of it.” He looked at Jenny. “You give her a cold shower. A long one. I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

“Don’t like coffee,” Rya said sullenly.

“You like tea, don’t you?”

“S’okay.” She yawned.

Sam hurried downstairs to make a pot of tea.

Jenny hustled Rya out of bed and into the bathroom at the end of the hallway.

Left alone, Paul went to the living room to sit with Mark’s body until Rya was ready to be questioned.

‘When you decide to meet that big, bright, shiny, chrome-edged American world on its own terms, he thought, things start to move. Faster and faster and faster.

3:26 P.M.

Dr. Troutman leaned in the open doorway and said, “He’ll be better in the morning.”

“That’s fine,” Bob Thorp said. “You go along home now.” Popping the last piece of his chocolate-almond bar into his mouth, the doctor said, “Take care.” He walked away.

To Thorp, Salsbury said, “Get some help. Move the body into one of the cells.

Stretch him out on the bunk so that he looks like he’s sleeping.”

4:16 P.M.

Rain gurgled noisily down the leader beside the kitchen window.

The room smelled of lemons.

Steam rose from the spout of the teapot and from the china cup.

Rya wiped away her tears, blinked in sudden recollection, and said, “Oh. Oh, yes … ‘I am the key.’”

4:45 P.M.

The downpour dwindled abruptly to a drizzle. Soon the rain stopped altogether.

Salsbury raised one of the Venetian blinds and looked out at North Union Road.

The gutters were overflowing. A miniature lake had formed down toward the square where a drainage grating was clogged with leaves and grass. The trees dripped like melting candles.

He was glad to see it end. He had begun to worry about the turbulent flying conditions that Dawson’s helicopter pilot would have to face.

One way or another, Dawson had to get to Black River tonight. Salsbury didn’t actually need help to deal with the situation; but he did need to be able to share the blame if the field test went even further awry.

Neither of his current options was without risk. He could send Bob Thorp and a couple of deputies to the general store to arrest the Edisons and the Annendales. Of course there might be trouble, violence, even a shoot-out. Every additional corpse or missing person that had to be explained to the authorities outside of Black River increased the chance of discovery. On the other hand, if he had to maintain the roadblock through tomorrow, keep control of the town, and perpetuate the state of siege, his chances of coming out on top of this would be less promising than they were now.

What in the devil was happening at Edison’s place? They had found the boy’s body. He knew that. He had assigned several guards to cover the store. Why hadn’t they come here to see Bob Thorp? Why hadn’t they tried to leave town? Why hadn’t they, in short, acted like anyone else would have done? Surely, even with Buddy’s story to build from, they couldn’t have reconstructed the truth behind the events of the past few weeks. They couldn’t know who he really was. They probably didn’t know about subliminal advertising in general—and certainly not about his research in specific. He suddenly wished that he had brought his briefcase with the infinity transmitter from Pauline Vicker’s rooming house.

“Everything looks so crisp and fresh after a summer rain, doesn’t it?” Bob Thorp asked.

“I’m glad it’s over,” Salsbury said.

“It isn’t. Not by a long shot.”

Salsbury turned from the windows. “What?”

Smiling, as amiable as Salsbury had ordered him to be, Bob Thorp said, “These summer storms start and stop half a dozen times before they’re finished. That’s because they bounce back and forth, back and forth between the mountains until they finally find a way out.”

Thinking of Dawson’s helicopter, Salsbury said, “Since when are you a meteorologist?”

“Well, I’ve lived here all my life, except for my hitch in the service. I’ve seen hundreds of storms like this one, and they—”

“I said it’s over! The storm is over, Finished. Done with. Do you understand?”

Frowning, Thorp said, “The storm is over.”

“I want it to be over,” Salsbury said. “So it is. It’s over if I say it is.

isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“All right.”

“It’s over.”

“Dumb cop.”

Thorp said nothing.

“Aren’t you a dumb cop?”

“I’m not dumb.”

“I say you are. You’re dumb. Stupid. Stupid as an ox. Aren’t you, Bob?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“What?”

“That you’re as stupid as an ox.”

“I’m as stupid as an ox.”

Returning to the window, Salsbury stared angrily at the lowering cobalt clouds.

Eventually he said, “Bob, I want you to go to Pauline Vicker’s house.”

Thorp stood up at once.

“I’ve got a room on the second floor, the first door on the right at the head of the stairs. You’ll find a leather briefcase beside the bed. Fetch it for me.”

4:55 P.M.

The four of them went through the crowded stockroom and onto the rear porch of the general store.

Immediately, twenty yards away on the wet emerald-green lawn, a man moved out of the niche formed by two angled rows of lilac bushes. He was a tall, hawk-faced man in horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a dark raincoat and holding a double-barreled shotgun.

“Do you know him?” Paul asked.

“Harry Thurston,” Jenny said. “He’s a foreman at the mill. Lives next door.”

With one hand Rya clutched Paul’s shirt. Her self-confidence and her faith in people had been seriously eroded by what she had seen Bob Thorp do to her brother. Watching the man with the shotgun, trembling, her voice pitched slightly higher than it normally was, she said, “Is he … going to shoot US?”

Paul placed one hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently, reassuringly. “Nobody’s going to be shot.”

As he spoke he ardently wished that he could believe what he was telling her.

Fortunately, Sam Edison sold a line of firearms in addition to groceries, dry goods, drugs, notions and sundries; therefore, they weren’t defenseless. Jenny had a .22 rifle. Sam and Paul were both carrying Smith & Wesson Combat Magnum revolvers loaded with .38 Special cartridges which would produce only half of the fierce kick of Magnum ammunition. However, they didn’t want to use the guns, for they were trying to leave the house secretly; they kept the guns at their sides, barrels aimed at the porch floor.

“I’ll handle this,” Sam said. He went across the porch to the wooden steps and started down.

“Hold it right there,” said the man with the shotgun. He came ten yards closer.

He pointed the weapon at Sam’s chest, kept his finger on the trigger, and watched all of them with unconcealed anxiety and distrust.

Paul glanced at Jenny.

She was biting her lower lip. She looked as if she wanted to swing up her rifle and level it at Harry Thurston’s head.

That might set off a meaningless but disastrous exchange of gunfire.

He had a mental image of the shotgun booming. Booming again… Flame blossoming from the muzzles . .

“Calm,” he said quietly.

Jenny nodded.

At the bottom of the steps, still twenty-five feet from the man with the shotgun, Sam held out a hand in greeting. When Thurston ignored it, Sam said, “Harry?”

Thurston’s shotgun didn’t waver. Neither did his expression. But he said, “Hello, Sam.”

“What are you doing here, Harry?”

“You know,” Thurston said.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Guarding you,” Thurston said.

“From what?”

“From escaping.”

“You’re here to keep us from escaping from our own house?” Sam grimaced. “Why would we want to escape from our own house? Harry, you aren’t talking sense.”

Thurston frowned. “I’m guarding you,” he said stubbornly.

“For whom?”

“The police. I’ve been deputized.” “Deputized? By whom?”

“Bob Thorp.”

“When?”

“An hour… hour and a half.”

“Why does Bob want you to keep us in the house?”

“You know why,” Thurston said again.

“I’ve already told you that I don’t know.”

“You’ve done something.” “What have we done?” “Something wrong. Illegal.” “You know us better than that.” Thurston said nothing. “Don’t you, Harry?” Silence.

“What have we done?” Sam insisted. “I don’t know.”

“Bob didn’t tell you?”

“I’m just an emergency deputy.”

The shotgun looks nonetheless deadly for that, Paul thought.

“You don’t know what we’re supposed to have done?” Sam asked. “But you’re willing to shoot us if we try to leave?”

“Those are my orders.”

“How long have you known me?”

“Twenty years anyway.”

“And Jenny?”

“A long time.”

“You’re willing to kill old friends just because someone tells you to?” Sam asked. He was probing, trying to discover the breadth and depth of Salsbury’s control.

Thurston couldn’t answer that question. His eyes flicked from one to the other of them, and he shuffled his feet in the wet grass. He was exceedingly nervous, confused, and exasperated— but he was determined to do what the chief of police had asked of him.

Unable to take his eyes off the finger that was curled tightly around the shotgun trigger, unable to look at Sam when he spoke to him, Paul said, “We better get on with this. I think maybe you’ve pushed him far enough.”

“I think so too,” Sam said tensely. And then to Thurston: “I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

“Lower the gun, Harry.” Thurston obeyed.

“Thank God,” Jenny said. “Come here, Harry.”

Thurston went to Sam.

“I’ll be damned,” Jenny said.

A perfect zombie, Paul thought. A regular little tin soldier.. A chill passed along his spine.

Sam said, “Harry, who really told you to come over here and keep a watch on us?”

“Bob Thorp.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“It was Bob Thorp,” Thurston said, perplexed.

“It wasn’t a man named Salsbury?”

“Salsbury? No.”

“Haven’t you met Salsbury?”

“No. Who are you talking about?” “Maybe he called himself Albert Deighton.” “Who did?” Thurston asked. “Salsbury.”

“I don’t know anyone named Deighton.”

Jenny, Rya, and Paul came down the rain-slick steps and joined the two men.

“Salsbury’s obviously working through Bob Thorp,” Jenny said, “one way or another.”

“What are you people talking about?” Thurston asked.

Sam said, “Harry, I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

Taking a moment to study Thurston and to decide upon his approach, Sam finally said, “Harry, we are going for a walk up toward Hattie Lange’s house. You won’t try to stop us. Is that clear?”

“I won’t stop you.”

“You won’t shoot us.”

“No. Of course not.”

“You won’t call out or make trouble of any kind.”

Thurston shook his head: no.

“When we leave here,” Sam said, “you’ll go back to the lilac bush. You’ll forget that we ever came out of the house. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to forget that we’ve had this little talk. When the four of us leave here, I want you to forget every word that’s been spoken between us. Can you do that, Harry?”

“Sure. I’ll forget that we talked, that I saw any of you just now, all of it, like a you said.”

For a human robot, for an honest-to-God zombie, Paul thought, he seemed damned relaxed.

“You’ll think we’re still inside,” Sam said.

Thurston stared at the back of the general store.

“You’ll guard the place exactly as you were doing a few minutes ago,” Sam said.

“Guard it… That’s what Bob told me to do.”

“Then do it,” Sam said. “And forget you’ve seen us.”

Obediently, Harry Thurston returned to the man-size niche in the wall of lilac bushes. He stood with his feet apart. He held the shotgun in both hands, parallel to the ground, prepared to raise it and fire within a second if faced with a sudden threat.

“Incredible,” Jenny said.

“Looks like a storm trooper,” Sam said wearily. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Jenny followed him.

Paul took hold of Rya’s icy hand.

Her face drawn, a haunted look in her eyes, she squeezed his hand and said, “Will it be all right again?”

“Sure. Everything will be fine before much longer,” he told her, not certain if that was the truth or another lie.

They went west, across the rear lawns of the neighboring houses, walking fast and hoping they wouldn’t be seen.

With every step Paul expected someone to shout at them. And in spite of the manner in which Harry Thurson had behaved, he also expected to hear a shotgun blast close behind him, much too close behind him, inches from his shoulder blades: one sudden apocalyptic roar and then an endless silence.

Halfway down the block they came to the back of St. Luke’s, the town’s all-denominational church. It was a freshly painted, neatly kept rectangular white frame structure on a brick-faced foundation. There was a five-story-high bell tower at the front of the building, out on the Main Street side.

Sam tried the rear door and found it unlocked. They slipped inside, one at a time.

For two or three minutes they stood in the narrow, musty, windowless foyer, and waited to see if Harry Thurston or anyone else would follow them.

No one did.

“Small blessings,” Jenny said.

Sam led them into the chamber behind the altar. That room was even darker than the foyer. They accidentally knocked over a rack full of choir gowns—and stood very still until the echo

of the crash had faded away, until they were certain that they hadn’t revealed themselves.

Holding hands, forming a human chain, they stumbled out of that room and onto the altar platform. Because the storm clouds filtered the day into twilight before it was filtered again by the leaded stained-glass windows, the church proper was only marginally brighter than the room behind it, Nevertheless, there was sufficient light to allow them to break the chain; and they followed Sam along the center aisle, between the two ranks of pews, without having to feel their way as if they were blind people in a strange house.

At the rear of the nave, on the left-hand side, Sam pulled open a door. Beyond lay an enclosed spiral staircase. Sam went first; Jenny went next, then Rya.

Paul stood on the bottom step, staring out at the shadowy church for a minute or two. His revolver was ready in his right hand. When the big room remained silent and deserted, he closed the stairwell door and went up to join the others.

The top of the bell tower was a nine-foot-square platform. The bell—one yard wide at the mouth—was at the center of the platform, of course, suspended from the highest point of the arched ceiling. A chain was welded to the rim of the bell and trailed through a small hole in the floor, down to the base of the tower where the toiler could tug on it. The walls were only four feet high, open from there to the ceiling. A white pillar rose at each corner, supporting the peaked, slate-shingled roof. Because the roof overhung the wails by four feet on all sides, the rain hadn’t come in through the open spaces; and the belfry platform was dry.

‘When he reached the head of the stairs, Paul got on his hands and knees. People seldom looked up as they hurried about their business, especially when they were in a familiar place; however, there was no reason to risk being seen. He crawled around the bell to the opposite side of the platform.

Jenny and Rya were sitting on the floor, their back to the half-wall. The .22

rifle lay at Jenny’s side. She was talking to the girl in a low voice, telling her a joke or a story, trying to help

her ease her tensions and overcome some of her grief. Jenny glanced at Paul, smiled, but kept her attention focused on Rya.

That should be my job, Paul thought. Helping Rya. Reassuring her and comforting her, being with her.

And then he thought, No. For the time being, your job is to prepare yourself to kill at least one man. Maybe two or three. Maybe as many as half a dozen.

Suddenly he wondered how the violence past and the violence yet to come would affect his relationship with his daughter. Knowing he had killed several men, would Rya fear him as she now feared Bob Thorp? Knowing he was capable of the ultimate brutal act, would she ever be at ease with him again? Death had taken his wife and his son. Would alienation take his daughter from him?

Sam was on his knees, peering over the belfry wall.

Deeply disturbed but aware that this wasn’t the time to worry about more than a few hours of the future, easing in beside Sam, Paul looked eastward, to his left. He could see Edison’s General Store half a block away. Karkov’s service station and garage. The houses in the last section of town. The baseball diamond on the meadow near the river. At the end of the valley, near the bend in the highway, a police car was angled across both lanes.

“Roadblock.”

Sam said, “I’ve seen it.”

“Salsbury does have us penned up.”

“And right now he’s probably wondering why the hell we haven’t tried to call the cops or leave Black River.”

To Paul’s right was the main part of town. The square. Ultman’s Cafe with its pair of enormous black oak trees. The municipal building. Beyond the square, more lovely houses:

brick houses and stone houses and white gingerbread Gothic houses and trim little bungalows. A couple of shops with striped awnings out in front. The telephone company office. St. Margaret Mary’s. The cemetery. The Union Theater with its old fashioned marquee. And then the road to the mill. The entire panorama, so recently scrubbed by the storm, looked crisp and bright and quaint—and too innocent to contain the evil that he knew it harbored.

“You still think Salsbury’s holed up in the municipal building?” Paul asked.

“Where else?”

“I guess so.”

“The chief’s office is the logical command center.”

Paul looked at his watch. “A quarter past five.”

“We’ll wait here until dark,” Sam said. “Nine o’clock or thereabouts. Then we’ll sneak across the street, get past his guards with the code phrase, and reach him before he’s seen us coming.”

“It sounds so easy.”

“It will be,” Sam said.

Lightning flashed like a fuse and thunder exploded and rain like shrapnel clattered on the tower roof and on the streets below.

5:20 P.M.

Smiling as he had been told to smile, his arms folded across his broad chest, Bob Thorp leaned casually against the window sill and watched Salsbury, who was working at Bob’s desk

The infinity transmitter was connected to the office telephone. The line was open to Sam Edison’s place—or at least the number had been dialed, and the line should have been open.

Salsbury hunched over the chief’s desk, the receiver gripped so tightly in his right hand that his knuckles appeared to be about to slice through the pale skin that sheathed them. He listened closely for some sound, some insignificant tiny little sound of human origin, from the general store or from the living quarters on the two floors above the store.

Nothing.

“Come on,” he said impatiently.

Silence.

Cursing the infinity transmitter, telling himself that the damned thing hadn’t worked, that it was a piece of crappy Belgian-made hardware and so what could you expect, he hung up. He checked to see if the wires were attached to the proper terminals, then dialed the Edisons’ number again.

The line opened: hissing, a soft roar not unlike the echo of your own circulation when you held a seashell to your ear.

In the background at the Edison’s place, a clock ticked rather noisily, hollowly.

He looked at his watch. 5:24

Nothing. Silence.

5:26

He hung up, dialed again.

He heard the ticking clock.

5:28

5:29

5:30

 

No one spoke over there. No one cried or laughed or sighed or coughed or yawned or moved.

5:32

5:33

Salsbury pressed the receiver to his ear as hard as he could, concentrated, strained with his whole body and attention to hear Edison or Annendale or one of the others.

5:34

5:35

They were over there. Dammit, they were!

5:36

He slammed the receiver into its cradle.

The bastards know I’m listening to them, he thought. They’re trying to be quiet, trying to worry me. That’s it. That has to be it.

He picked up the telephone and dialed the Edisons’ number.

A ticking clock. Nothing else.

5:39

5:40

 

“Bastards!”

He hung up the phone with a bang!

Suddenly he was drenched with perspiration.

Clammy and uncomfortable, he got to his feet. But he was frozen by rage; he couldn’t move.

He said to Thorp, “Even if they did get out of the store some way, somehow, they can’t have left town. That’s absolutely impossible. None of them’s a magician.

They can’t have done it. I’ve got it all sewed up. Haven’t I?”

Thorp smiled at him. He was still operating under the previous orders Salsbury had given him.

“Answer me, damn you!”

Thorp’s smile vanished.

Salsbury was livid and greasy with sweat. “Haven’t I got this fucking town sewed up tight?”

“Oh, yes,” Thorp said obediently.

“No one can get out of this crummy burg unless I let them out of it. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes. You’ve got it sewn up.”

Salsbury was shaking. Dizzy. “Even if they slipped out of the store, I can find them. I can find them any damned time I want to. Can’t I?”

“Yes.”

“I can tear this goddamned town apart, rip it wide open and find those sonsofbitches.”

“Any time you want.”

“They can’t escape.”

Abruptly sitting down, almost as if he had collapsed, Salsbury said, “But that doesn’t matter. They haven’t left the store. They can’t have left it. It’s guarded. Closely guarded. It’s a damned prison. So they’re still in the place.

Being quiet as mice. They know I’m listening. They’re dying to trick me. That’s what it is. A trick. That’s precisely what it is.”

He dialed the Edisons’ number.

He heard the familiar ticking of the clock in one of the rooms where there was a receiver.

5:44

5:45

He hung up.

Dialed again.

Ticking…

5:46

5:47

He hung up.

Grinning at the chief of police, he said, “Do you realize what they want me to do?”

Thorp shook his head: no.

“They want me to panic. They want me to order you to make a house-to-house search for them.” He giggled. “I could do that. I could make everyone in town cooperate in a house-to-house search. But that would take hours. And then I’d have to erase the memory of it from everyone’s mind, Four hundred minds. That would take a couple of hours more. They want me to waste my time. Precious time.

They want me to panic and waste hours and maybe give them a chance to slip by me in the confusion. Isn’t that what they want?”

Salsbury giggled. “Well, I’m not playing their game. I’m going to wait for Dawson and Klinger. I’m not going to panic. Not me. I am in control of the situation—and I’ll stay that way.”

Ti-under boomed over the valley and reverberated in the two office windows.

He dialed the general store.

5:50

5:51

He giggled and hung up.

Then he had a startling thought: if the Edisons and the Annendales knew he was listening to them, that meant they knew the entire story, the truth, knew who he was, really was, and what be was doing here in Black River… And that was impossible.

He dialed again.

5:52

Nothing. Silence.

He put down the receiver and turned to Thorp. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter if they do know. They can’t get away. I’ve got them where I want them. I have the power …“ He stared at the infinity transmitter for a while, then looked back at Thorp. “What do you think Miriam will do when she finds out about the power I’ve got?”

“Who’s Miriam?”

“You know Miriam.”

“I don’t know her.”

“She’s my ex-wife.”

“A rotten bitch.”

Thorp said nothing.

“Frigid as a Popsicle.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know what she’ll do,” Salsbury said. “She’ll come crawling to me. Old Miriam.

Crawling to me, Bob. On her hands and knees. She will. Won’t she?”

“Yes,” Thorp said.

The power…

“You know what I’ll do?”

Thorp said, “No.”

“You know what the hell I’ll do when that rotten bitch comes on her hands and knees, crawling on her hands and knees to me?”

“Kick her in the face.”

“That’s assault,” Thorp said.

“Same for Dawson. Kick him in the face.”

“That’s assault. You’ll wind up in jail.”

“I’ll get Dawson,” Salsbury said solemnly. Then he giggled. “I’ll get that sanctimonious old bastard.”

Thorp frowned.

“Think I could find a pair of jackboots, Bob?”

“A pair of what?”

“Maybe there are a few people, just a few people, not many mind you, that I’d want jackboots for.”

6:30 P.M.

 

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Wolinski?”

“Yes.”

“I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

“Is your husband there?” “He’s upstairs right now.”

“Is he alone upstairs?” “Alone? Yes.” “Are you alone downstairs?” “Yes.”

“Do you know Sam Edison?” “Oh, sure.”

“Is he at your house now?” “Sam? No.”

“Is Jenny Edison at your house?” “No. Why should she be?”

“Haven’t you seen either of the Edisons today?”

“No. Look here, I—”

“Mrs. Wolinski, when you hang up your telephone, you’ll forget every word of this conversation. You’ll only remember that someone called and tried to sell you life insurance. Someone from Bexford. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Hang up, Mrs. Wolinski.”

 

6:45 P.M.

“St. Margaret Mary’s.”

“Is this the rectory?” “Yes, it is.” “Father O’Hara?” “Speaking.”

“I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

“Are you alone, father?”

“Yes.”

“What about your housekeeper?”

“She’s gone home for the day.”

“Do you know Sam and Jenny Edison?”

“Certainly. Fine people.” “Is either of them with you now?”

“Here at the rectory? No.”

“In the church perhaps?” “No. Why do you ask?”

“Have you seen either of the Edisons today?”

“No. I—”

“Do you know Paul Annendale?”

“I don’t believe so. If there’s some sort of emergency—” “Shut up, O’Hara. When you hang up your telephone, you’ll forget every word of this conversation.

You’ll only remember that someone dialed a wrong number. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Hang up, O’Hara.”

 

7:00 P.M.

 

either of the Edisons today?” “I saw Sam. Down at the store.” “When was that, Mrs. Jamison?” “This morning. Around nine.” “You haven’t seen him since?”

“Mrs. Jamison, I don’t want you to go away from the phone. You stand right there. But give the receiver to your husband.”

“Hello?”

“Mr. Jamison?”

“Yes?”

“I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

 

7:30 P.M.

 

“…don’t want you to go away from the phone, Mrs. Potter. You stand right there. But give the receiver to Reverend Potter.”

“All right. Just a minute. .

“Hello?”

“Reverend Potter?”

“This is he.”

“I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

“Do you know Sam and Jenny Edison?” “Yes. Very well, in fact.”

“Have you seen either of them today?” “No.”

“Are you absolutely sure of that?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

“Have you talked to either of them today?”

“No. I—”

“Do you know Paul Annendale or his daughter?” “Yes. Every year they—”

“Have you seen or talked to them today?”

“No. I’ve spent the day—”

“What the fuck’s happening, Potter?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where in the hell are they?”

“I don’t like foul language or—”

“I’ve called fifty people in the past hour and a half. Nobody’s seen them.

Nobody’s heard from them. Nobody knows anything. Well, they’ve got to be in this town. I’m damn sure of that! They can’t get out … Christ. You know what I think, Potter? I think they’re still in the general store.”

“If-“

“Being quiet as mice. Trying to fool me. They want me to come looking for them.

They want me to send Bob Thorp after

them. They probably have guns in there. Well, they can’t fool me. They’re not going to start a shooting match and leave me with a dozen bodies to account for.

I’ll wait them out. I’ll get them, Potter. And you know what I’ll do when I get my hands on them? The Edisons will have to be studied, of course. I’ll have to End out why they didn’t respond to the drug and the subliminals. But I know why the Annendales didn’t respond. They weren’t here for the program. So when I get them, I can dispose of them right away. Right away. I’ll have Bob Thorp blow their fucking heads off. The sonsofbitches. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”