Germ

Atropos fumed. He stood in a thick copse outside Parker's

house and watched two cops pound on the door. The cruiser had been pulling into the drive as he came around the house after coming back up the hill, where he'd lost his quarry. He had ducked into the trees just as the headlamps swung past his position. After a long moment, they tried the knob. One cop, a woman, stepped off the tiled stoop and shined a beam around the grounds. It panned over Atropos's hiding place. He didn't budge. The other officer joined her. They surveyed the home's huge facade, whispering. Another flashlight snapped on. The two moved away from Atropos's position and rounded the far corner, sweeping their lights across windows, bushes, the yard.

Parker had reacted much more quickly than he'd expected. The man's survival instinct was calibrated high. Atropos liked that, the challenge of it.

He looked down at the pistol in his left hand and unscrewed the silencer from the gun's barrel. The sound- suppressing coils inside had absorbed too many shots already to remain effective. He dropped it on the ground, pulled another one from his jacket pocket, and attached it. Then he tucked the massive gun into a custom nylon holster under his left arm, where he hoped it would stay. Perhaps now that Parker had escaped, he still had a chance to use the gauntlet on him.

He flexed his gauntleted fist. Chick-chu, chick-chu.

He looked at his watch, then back up at the house. Parker was long gone, at least for now. But a guy like that, living in a place like this by himself—he loved his stuff. He'd be back, probably later tonight. Atropos would be waiting.

For now, he had another target to pursue. No current location, but he had some ideas, some places to check.

Moving out into the yard, he turned to make sure the police officers hadn't reconsidered their plan to circumnavigate Parker's residence. A faint glow of flashlights played against the trees on the far side of the house, growing fainter, moving away. He walked along the hedge, following the drive back to the street, where he'd stowed his rental between other cars a few blocks away.

twenty-five

'Hello?'

'This is the BellSouth automated operator. Will you accept a collect call from— '

'It's Allen! Pick up!'

'Press 1 to accept. Press 2 to deny.'

'Hello?'

'Press 1 to accept. Press 2—connecting now.'

'Stephen! It's Allen . . . Hello? Stephen?'

'I'm here. Just a little surprised.'

'It's that kind of night. I need you to—'

'Where are you? Why'd you call collect?'

'I'm in town, but I don't have any money.'

'That's a first.'

'Listen—'

'Allen. Is this about Mom and Dad? Dad? Is he okay, man?'

'Dad's fine. Mom's fine. Everybody in the whole world is fine except me. Just shut up a second and listen, will you?'

'That's the Allen I know. Go ahead.'

'I need you to come get me. Right away.'

'You need me? Never thought I'd hear that. Are you hurt? You sound—'

'Whoa! You're moving your mouth again . . . Sorry. Look, physically, I've suffered a few lacerations, bruises, but I'm not seriously injured . . . yet.'

'Yet?'

'I'll explain later. You need to come get me right now. This very minute. Pick me up at the Texaco at the corner of McCallie and Dodds. You have a running car, don't you?'

'Yes, Allen. I have managed to purchase a car and actually keep it running.'

'What kind?'

'What?'

'What kind of car!'

'A Vega. Seventy-four. Hope it's good enough for you.'

'What color?'

'Maroon . . . and orange and gray. The passenger-side door is blue. The hood's kinda reddish, pinkish—'

'Corner of McCallie and Dodds.'

'Gotcha.'

'And, Stephen?'

'Yeah?'

'Bring some extra clothes. You know, shirt, slacks, shoes. Some underpants.'

'This I gotta see.'

Stephen Parker cradled the phone slowly. Spontaneity was out of character for his brother. So what was this? Had he been robbed? Carjacked, more likely these days. But why not call the cops? Or one of his friends? Stephen hadn't been one of them for years.

He probably had been with someone he shouldn't have—the wife of a colleague maybe—and had to keep her involvement quiet. Or the husband had done the damage, and now all Allen wanted was for the situation to go away.

He sat on the edge of his rumpled bed and pulled on an equally rumpled flannel shirt.

He stood and walked into the two-room cabin's main living area, dropped his hulking weight into a nappy old chair, and grabbed his well-worn cowboy boots. Physically, Stephen was more bear than man: His bones were big and broad, arranged to a height of six foot five—all of it wrapped in thick bands of muscle. His body was nearly covered with a dark pelt of thick, curly hair; it exploded from his face and hung like an animal that had latched on and died. His face, as much as it showed, was bearish, too, with thick features and kind, heavily lidded eyes.

He moved into the area of his home that served as a kitchen, duly designated by the floor's pocked and stained linoleum; no covering at all protected the rest of the cabin's plywood floors from the feet that trod on it, or in turn protected the feet from it. From the cupboard under the sink he withdrew a paper grocery sack. In the bedroom again, he packed the bag with clothes and rolled the top closed.

He snatched a ring of keys from a nail by the front entrance and vent out, pulling the door shut but not locking it. He bounded over the crumbling wood step that he kept meaning to repair.

Heading to his car parked between the narrow space between the small church he led and his cabin, his thoughts returned to his brother. They hadn't even spoken in eight, nine months. They had nothing in common except their parents.

Allen thought Stephen had betrayed the family name by rejecting a career in medicine. Following the path forged by their father and grandfather was not only a privilege; it was expected.

Oh well, Stephen thought for the thousandth time. He'd tried being philosophical with his family, then pragmatic and pleading; in one end, it always came down to disappointed resignation: Oh well.

He reached the car door and stopped, throwing his big, hairy head rack to look toward the sky. 'Lord,' he said out loud, 'whatever's happening with Allen, let me do right by him. And more important, let me do right by You. I thank You, Lord, for giving me this chance.'

He folded his body into the small seat of the Vega. He used it mostly to pick up supplies in town and visit parishioners; otherwise, he didn't stray too far from the church. The starter chattered and whined before finally