Germ

'But we got away.'

Stephen said nothing.

'You seemed . . .' Julia paused, thinking about her words. 'Hesitant to engage him.'

When Stephen didn't respond, Allen said, 'He's a pacifist.'

Stephen shook his head. 'C. S. Lewis said that unless you can show him that a Nazified Europe would be better than the war that stopped it, he could not be a pacifist. That's how I feel.'

'I've never seen a pacifist fight like that,' Julia said.

Allen said, 'I'm surprised you fought at all, after what happened.''

'What happened?' Julia looked between brothers, getting nothing back.

Allen said, 'He—'

'I just swore off . . . being like that. That's all.'

Allen bit his tongue. He leaned back on his haunches, inspecting his work and the work yet to do.

Despite the brief tension, a peace settled over them then—the tranquility that comes from being at ease with the people around you. The shared experience of fighting for survival had connected them in a way Allen didn't understand. He felt it, nonetheless, and apparently the others did too.

Julia was slouched in a chair, seeming to assess both brothers. A smile quivered against her lips like an incomplete thought.

Memory has a tendency to seize upon moments that seem to an outsider mundane and unremarkable. The occasion is special only to participants, and even they often don't recognize it as memorable. This moment would prove to be like that. They would remember the stillness in the midst of chaos, their casual postures in the shadowy room, the sense of camaraderie.

The calm before the storm.

forty-eight

The gauntlet came down hard on the tabletop. It sat there, empty and cold and very frightening.

'It's the Warrior's arm,' Stephen said, quietly awed.

Julia nodded.

Allen hopped off the bed for a closer look. Sure enough, the black, spike-knuckled gauntlet he'd seen shatter through the bank window lay motionless on the dresser. Somehow it seemed more sinister now. Before, he had not seen it in its entirety, bulging with artificial muscles, curled into a taloned claw. He reached for it, hesitated, then gripped its forearm. It was warm, like flesh, but firm as bone. He lifted it, surprised by its lightness.

'It can't weigh more than a pound,' he said, stunned. He tilted it. The fingers closed into a fist—

Chick.

He jumped back a step, letting the gauntlet slip from his grasp. Both Julia and Stephen jumped as well, thinking the thing had snapped at Allen or done something equally startling.

'That's the sound I heard last night in the cemetery,' Allen said, staring at the gauntlet, now palm-up on the carpet. 'While the Warrior was searching for me: chick-chu, chick-chu, rhythmic like that.'

'Clenching and unclenching his fist,' Julia said.

Allen nodded, watching the gauntlet as if he expected it to scurry toward him.

Stephen picked it up. He pushed his hand into it, reaching straight out. The gauntlet instantly took on the appearance of black skin, buckling a bit the way skin would when Stephen turned his palm up, bulging in the forearm when he squeezed his fist. 'Incredible. Where'd this one come from, Wal-Mart?'

'It was left in my car by the Warrior, the one who got blown away last night,' Julia said, holding out her hand.

Stephen slipped it off—reluctantly, Allen thought—and presented it to her.

Julia returned it to the gym bag. 'Just another mystery, I guess. I don't know how much good it'll do us, but it is evidence . . . of some kind.' She tossed a folded newspaper at Allen. 'Find us something to drive. Private party. Not too expensive. Something we can sleep in, if necessary.'

'We can sleep in anything.'

'Comfortably, I mean. A van or station wagon.'

'I guess I can handle that.' He snapped the paper open.

Julia said, 'Whatever you find, make a big deal about looking it over, then tell the seller you prefer paying in cash. I doubt he'll object. Have him drive you to that FirstBank we passed on the way in. While Stephen keeps him occupied, go ask the teller to break a hundred, and make sure you get one of those little cash envelopes. Before you leave, put the whole purchase price in the envelope. Then hand it to the seller.'

'Why the big production?' Allen asked.

'The alternative is to whip out a few grand in hundred-dollar bills. Just a bit suspicious. The cabbie thought there was a bank robbery in Knoxville. The media coverage might mention us, might not. In any case, we need to deflect suspicion as much as possible.'

Allen smirked at her. 'You ever get tired of thinking?'

'Not when my life depends on it.'

Stephen picked up the drugstore bag and headed for the bath-room. At the door, he turned back toward Julia. 'Seems like you're gaining momentum. Feeling better?'

Her face was grim. 'I'm just tired of holding the dirty end of the stick.'

Atropos sat behind the wheel of his rented Buick and watched the Yellow Cab garage across the street. Sunlight poured into the canyon of buildings and blazed against the surface of the windshield, making it impenetrable to inquiring eyes. Good thing, too, for the stony scowl of the face inside was the seed of nightmares. If moods were animals, his would be an enraged tiger, hateful and destructive. The events of the night before had left him irreparably damaged. A black void swirled through his being, and only the blood of those responsible could possibly fill it. His soul's need for their deaths was more acute than his body's need for oxygen.

He thought of the targets. Julia Matheson. Stephen Parker. Allen Parker. They had been full of fear and terror. They knew they could not win but had fought and run out of instinct. In the end, instinct would fail; where strength and skill were lacking, only hope had a chance to prevail, and he had given them no reason to hope. The ones who lasted longest were the ones who held to their belief that they would live—until their stopped hearts told them they didn't.

But there was something about them . . .

He felt a pang of anxiety, just a fleeting flash of doubt. Trusting his own instincts, he pursued it. The big one, Stephen, had strength and a few good moves, he'd give him that. The woman was brave and feisty. That meant she couldn't be counted on to behave the way most of his targets did when they knew he was after them. She wouldn't cower. He had not seen the doctor in action, except to run. But he was a physician. Probably intelligent. If he wasn't merely a savant in the medical field, if he possessed the ability to focus his intellect on things outside his field of expertise—an ability few seemed to have, in Atropos's experience—then the three of them together might make a challenging opponent. He'd have to pick them off one at a time. He'd have to stay sharp.

This headache wasn't helping. He'd downed half a bottle of Tylenol in the past two hours; it hadn't taken the edge off at all. He pulled off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. He ran his fingers back through his hair, slipped the glasses back on.

A cab was pulling into the garage, his cab. The prey's accomplice had returned before the end of his shift, as Atropos knew he would. His wallet undoubtedly fattened, the man would have seen no reason to sweat through another three hours of drudgery. Predictable. Equally predictable was the lie he'd tell about the destination of his last fare and, ultimately, his telling of the truth as the bridge of his nose slowly collapsed.

Chick-chu. Chick-chu.

Atropos waited for the man to emerge and head for his personal car. When he did, Atropos hopped from the Buick and darted across the street, a disarming smile creasing his lips and a black-fisted hand concealed in his