Oslett sat in silence for a moment, trying to hate Waxhill but finding that his dislike for the man was fading rapidly. “I must say . . . this is very nice.”
Waxhill smiled almost shyly and shrugged.
“This was your idea?” Oslett asked.
“Mine, yes. I proposed it to the home office, and they went for it right away.”
“It’s ingenious,” Oslett said with genuine admiration.
“Thank you.”
“Very neat. Martin Stillwater kills his family the same way the guy did in Maryland, and it looks as if the
“Exactly.”
“And it’s been preying on his mind ever since.”
“Haunts his dreams.”
“This psychotic urge to symbolically rape—”
“—and literally kill—”
“—his daughters—”
“—kill his wife, too, the woman who—”
“—nurtured them,” Oslett finished.
They were smiling at each other again, as they had smiled when discussing that lovely cafe off the Champs Elysees.
Waxhill said, “No one will ever be able to figure out what killing his family had to do with his crazy report of a look-alike intruder, but they’ll figure the look-alike was somehow part of his delusion, too.”
“I just realized, samples of Alfie’s blood taken from the house in Mission Viejo are going to appear to be Stillwater’s blood.”
“Yes. Was he periodically exsanguinating himself, saving his own blood for the hoax? And why? A great many theories are sure to be put forth, and in the end it’ll be a mystery of less interest than what he did to his family. No one will ever untangle the truth from all that.”
Oslett was beginning to hope they might recover Alfie, salvage the Network, and keep their reputations intact after all.
Turning to Clocker, Waxhill said, “What about you, Karl? Do you have a problem with any of this?”
Though he was sitting at the table, Clocker appeared distant in spirit. He pulled his attention back to them as if his thoughts had been with the
Waxhill stared at Clocker, waiting for elucidation. When he realized that Clocker had nothing more to say, he turned to Oslett.
“I believe what Karl means,” Oslett said, “is that . . . Well, in the vast scheme of things, what does it matter if a few people die a little sooner than they would have in the natural course of events?”
The sun is high over the distant mountains, where the loftiest peaks are capped with snow. It seems odd to have a view of winter from this springlike December morning full of palm trees and flowers.
He drives south and east into Mission Viejo. He is vengeance on wheels. Justice on wheels. Rolling, rolling.
He considers locating a gun shop and buying a shotgun or hunting rifle, some weapon for which there is no waiting period prior to the right of purchase. His adversary is armed, but he is not.
However, he doesn’t want to delay his pursuit of the kidnapper who has stolen his family. If the enemy is kept off balance and on the move, he is more likely to make mistakes. Unrelenting pressure is a better weapon than any gun.
Besides, he is vengeance, justice, and virtue. He is the hero of this movie, and heroes do not die. They can be shot, clubbed, run off the road in high-speed car chases, slashed with a knife, pushed from a cliff, locked in a dungeon filled with poisonous snakes, and endure an endlessly imaginative series of abuses without perishing. With Harrison Ford, Sylvester Stallone, Steven Seagal, Bruce Willis, Wesley Snipes, and so many other heroes, he shares the invincibility of virtue and high noble purpose.
He realizes why his initial assault on the false father, in his house yesterday, was doomed to fail in spite of his being a hero. He’d been drawn westward by the powerful attraction between him and his double; to the same degree that he had been aware of something pulling him, the double had been aware of something approaching all day Sunday and Monday. By the time they encountered each other in the upstairs study, the false father had been alerted and had prepared for battle.
Now he understands that he can initiate and terminate the connection between them at will. Like the electrical current in any household circuit, it can be controlled by an ON-OFF switch. Instead of leaving the switch in the ON position all the time, he can open the pathway for brief moments, just long enough to feel the pull of the false father and take a fix on him.
Logic suggests he also can modify the power flowing along the psychic wire. By imagining the psychic control is a dimmer switch—a rheostat—he should be able to adjust downward the amperage of the current in the circuit, making the contact more subtle than it has been to date. After all, by using a rheostatic switch, the light of a chandelier can be reduced smoothly by degrees until there is barely a visible glow. Likewise, imagining the psychic switch as another rheostat, he might be able to open the connection at such a low amperage that he can track the false father without that adversary being alerted to the fact he’s being sought.
Stopping at a red traffic light in the heart of Mission Viejo, he imagines a dial-type dimmer switch with a three-hundred-sixty-degree brightness range. He turns it only ninety degrees, and at once feels the pull of the false father, slightly farther east and now somewhat to the north.
Outside of the bank, halfway to the BMW, Marty suddenly felt another wave of pressure—and behind it, the crushing Juggernaut of his dreams. The sensation was not as strong as the experiences in the bank, but it caught him in mid-step and threw him off balance. He staggered, stumbled, and fell. The two manila envelopes full of cash flew out of his hands and slid across the blacktop.
Charlotte and Emily scampered after the envelopes, and Paige helped Marty to his feet.
As the wave passed and Marty stood shakily, he said, “Here, take my keys, you better drive. He’s hunting me. He’s coming.”
She looked around the bank lot in panic.
Marty said, “No, he’s not here yet. It’s like before. This sense of being in the path of something very powerful and fast.”
Two blocks. Maybe not that far.
Driving slowly. Scanning the street ahead, left and right. Looking for them.
A car horn toots behind him. The driver is impatient.
Slow, slow, squinting left and right, checking people on the sidewalks as well as in passing cars.
The horn behind him. He gestures obscenely, which seems to spook the guy into silence.
Slow, slow.
No sight of them.
Try the mental rheostat again. A sixty-degree turn this time. Still a strong contact, an urgent and irresistible
Ahead. On the left. Shopping center.
As Marty got into the front passenger seat and shut the door, holding the envelopes of cash that the kids had retrieved for him, he was shaken again by contact with The Other. Although the impact of the probe was less disturbing than ever before, he took no solace from the diminishment of its power.
“Get us the hell out of here,” he urged Paige, as he retrieved the loaded Beretta from under the seat.
Paige started the engine, and Marty turned to the kids. They were buckling their seatbelts.
As Paige slammed the BMW into reverse and backed out of the parking space, the girls met Marty’s eyes.
