the deadly creature that was stalking the motel grounds. Against that enemy, all men ought to be united in a common cause. Even federal agents, even DSA men, would be welcome allies in this battle. They would have to give up the idea of keeping the Wildcard Project a secret; they would see that there was no way this particular line of life-extension research could be safely carried on; and they would stop trying to silence Ben and Rachael, would help stop the thing that Leben had become, yes, that was certainly what they would do, so Whitney told them what was happening, urged them to help Ben and Rachael, alerted them to the nature of the danger that they faced…
“What's he saying?” the big one asked.
“I can't make it out exactly,” the small, well-dressed, Mexican-looking man said. He had stopped examining the cuts and had fished Whitney's wallet out of his trousers.
The big man carefully felt Whitney's left leg. “This isn't a recent injury. He lost the leg a long time ago. The same time he lost the arm, I guess.”
Whitney realized that his voice was no louder than a whisper and that it was mostly drowned out by the patter, splash, and gurgle of the rain. He tried again.
“I think he's delirious,” the big man said.
I'm not delirious, damn it, just weak, Whitney tried to say. But no words came from him at all this time, which scared him.
“It's Gavis,” the smaller man said, studying the driver's license in Whitney's wallet. “Shadway's friend. The man Teddy Bertlesman told us about.”
“He's in a bad way, Julio.”
“You've got to take him in the car and get him to a hospital.”
“Me?” the bigger man said. “What about you?”
“I'll be all right here.”
“You can't go in alone,” the big man said, his face carved by lines of worry and bejeweled with rain.
“Reese, there's not going to be trouble here,” the smaller man said. “It's only Shadway and Mrs. Leben. They're no danger to me.”
“Bullshit,” the bigger man said. “Julio, there's someone else. Neither Shadway nor Mrs. Leben did this to Gavis.”
“
The two men looked at him, puzzled.
“Leben,” he managed again.
“Eric Leben?” Julio asked.
“Yes,” Whitney breathed. “Genetic… chaos… chaos, mutation… guns… guns…”
“What about guns?” the bigger man — Reese — asked.
“… won't… stop… him,” Whitney finished, exhausted.
“Get him into the car, Reese,” Julio said. “If he isn't in a hospital in ten or fifteen minutes, he's not going to make it.”
“What's he mean that guns won't stop Leben?” Reese asked.
“He's delirious,” Julio said. “Now move!”
Frowning, Reese scooped Whitney up as easily as a father might lift a small child.
The one named Julio hurried ahead, splashing through puddles of dirty water, and opened the back door of their car.
Reese maneuvered Whitney gently onto the seat, then turned to Julio. “I don't like this.”
“Just go,” Julio said.
“I swore I'd never cut and run on you, that I'd always be there when you needed me, any way you needed me, no matter what.”
“Right now,” Julio said sharply, “I need you to take this man to a hospital.” He slammed the rear door.
A moment later, Reese opened the front door and got in behind the wheel. To Julio, he said, “I'll be back as soon as I can.”
Lying on the rear seat, Whitney said, “Chaos… chaos… chaos… chaos.” He was trying to say a lot of other things, convey a more specific warning, but only that one word would come out.
Then the car began to move.
Peake had pulled to the side of Tropicana Boulevard and had switched off the headlights when Hagerstrom and Verdad had coasted to a stop along the shoulder about a quarter of a mile ahead.
Leaning forward, squinting through the smeary windshield past the monotonously thumping wipers, Sharp twice rubbed a stubborn patch of condensation from the glass and at last said, “Looks like… they've found someone lying in front of that place. What is that place?”
“Seems like it's out of business, a deserted motel,” Peake said. “Can't quite read that old sign from here. Golden… something.”
“What're they doing here?” Sharp wondered.
What am I doing here? Peake wondered silently.
“Could this be where Shadway and the Leben bitch are hiding out?” Sharp wondered.
Dear God, I hope not, Peake thought. I hope we never find them. I hope they're on a beach in Tahiti.
“Whoever those bastards have found,” Sharp said, “they're putting him in their car.”
Peake had given up all hope of becoming a legend. He had also given up all hope of becoming one of Anson Sharp's favorite agents. All he wanted was to get through this night alive, to prevent whatever killing he could, and to avoid humiliating himself.
At the side of the garage, the battered door cracked again, from top to bottom this time, and the jamb splintered, too, and one hinge tore loose, and the lock finally exploded, and everything crashed inward, and there was Leben, the beast, coming through like something that had broken out of a bad dream into the real world.
Ben grabbed the bucket — which was more than half full — and headed toward the kitchen door, trying to move fast without spilling any of the precious gasoline.
The creature saw him and let loose a shriek of such intense hatred and rage that the sound seemed to penetrate deep into Ben's bones and vibrate there. It kicked aside an outdoor vacuum cleaner and clambered over the piles of trash — including a fallen set of metal shelves — with arachnoid grace, as if it were an immense spider.
Entering the kitchen, Ben heard the thing close behind him. He dared not look back.
Half the cupboard doors and drawers were open, and just as Ben entered, Rachael pulled out another drawer. She cried—'There!' — and snatched up a box of matches.
“Run!” Ben said. “Outside!”
They absolutely had to put more distance between themselves and the beast, gain time and room to pull the trick they had in mind.
He followed her out of the kitchen into the living room, and some of the gasoline slopped over the edge of the pail, spattering the carpet and his shoes.
Behind them, the mutant crashed through the kitchen, slamming shut cupboard doors, heaving aside the small kitchen table and chairs even though that furniture wasn't in its way, snarling and shrieking, apparently in the grip of a destructive frenzy.
Ben felt as if he were moving in slow motion, fighting his way through air as thick as syrup. The living room seemed as long as a football field. Then, finally nearing the end of the room, he was suddenly afraid that the door to the motel office was going to be locked, that they were going to be halted here, with no time or room to set fire to the beast, at least not without serious risk of immolating themselves in the process. Then Rachael threw open the door, and Ben almost shouted with relief. They rushed into the motel office, through the swinging gate in one end of the check-in counter, across the small public area, through the outer glass door, into the night beneath the breezeway — and nearly collided with Detective Verdad, whom they had last seen on Monday evening, at the morgue in Santa Ana.
“What in the name of God?” Verdad said as the beast shrieked in the motel office behind them.
