The black-clad managers remained in place, unmoving.
'Kill him!' King screamed.
And the Night Managers turned on him.
Bill scrambled to his feet, backing up against the counter.
King was confused, taken completely by surprise, and he stumbled, falling.
Bill was equally surprised, and he did not know what to say, did not know what to do. His eyes darted toward the converging aisles in front of the espresso bar, and he saw that most of the remaining employees were not running away, not moving forward to watch, but remained in place, waiting to see what happened next.
King was trying to get up, trying to right himself, but the Night Managers had completely surrounded him now, and they were kicking, hitting, punching.
They _were_ The Store's, Bill realized.
They were his.
And they were protecting him.
One of them withdrew from his black garb a knife.
'No!' King cried.
More knives were drawn.
Bill should have been happy. He should have felt good. This was what he'd wanted. This was what he'd been hoping for. But somehow it didn't seem right.
The Night Managers, who were victims of The Store, were also part of The Store.
They had turned against Newman King, but they were using his tactics. They were his creations, his children.
In a sudden wave, the Night Managers moved in, dozens of knives flashing in the dim light. The knives disappeared, reappeared, and they were covered with red. There was the sickening sluicing sound of blood and rent flesh. Between the moving, shifting forms of the Night Managers, Bill saw the body of Newman King jerk once, the head rising, then collapse, unmoving.
A black inky shadow moved upward from the melee, fluttering wildly, dissipating in the air, and the Night Managers, as one, bent and stood, the contingent in the center picking up the limp dead body of Newman King. Holding it aloft, they moved out of the espresso bar and began walking silently down the center aisle of The Store toward the door that led to the basements.
Bill remained flattened against the side of the kitchen counter for several shocked seconds before finally straightening and facing the employees who were left. The looks of disgust and startled confusion that greeted him must have mirrored his own. Sucking in his breath, he strode between the overturned tables and out into the center aisle. He faced the departing Night Managers.
'Stop!' he ordered.
As one, the Night Managers halted.
He ran to catch up with them, other employees following. Near the back of the group, amidst a cadre of unrecognized faces, he saw Ben. Like his brethren, Ben's face was blank, impassive, and dotted with small splatters of blood. But the corners of his mouth appeared to be turned up a fraction, and it seemed as though he was smiling.
Bill looked up at the body of Newman King, then back at the Night Manager who had once been his friend.
'You're fired,' he said softly.
Ben collapsed.
There was no transformation, no change in expression or appearance, only an immediate slumping to the floor, as though the Night Manager had been an electric toy and his power cord had just been yanked out of the socket.
Bill thought for a moment. 'You're all fired!' he said loudly.
The Night Managers dropped.
He did not know if he was killing them or doing them a favor, if he was freeing trapped souls or merely pulling the plug on mindless robots, but he knew that, whatever it was, it was the right thing to do.
There was no place for Night Managers anymore.
In front of him, the aisle was now blocked by unmoving black-clad bodies that stretched half the length of The Store.
They would have to walk down another aisle just to be able to get out of the building.
He turned back toward the employees. 'Come on,' he said. 'Let's walk around.'
'I think Jim went to call the cops,' someone said.
Bill nodded tiredly. 'Good.' He walked around a display of breadmakers, down a short row to the next aisle, and trudged toward The Store entrance.
Outside, through the open doors, in the dark parking lot, he could see a crowd of people milling about, waiting. There were already the sounds of sirens in the distance.
He turned to look back at the Night Managers as he crossed the center aisle. In the center of the blackness was a lone light figure.
'The King _is_ dead,' Holly said behind him.
He turned to look at her, nodded. 'Yeah. He is.'
* * *
Back at home, Ginny and Shannon were watching the news on TV, and both of them screamed and threw their arms around him the second he walked through the door. 'Thank God,' Ginny cried. 'Thank God.'
Shannon hugged him. 'We thought you were dead, Dad!'
'No, we didn't!'
'I did!'
'I'm fine,' Bill said.
'You've got to see this.' Ginny led him over to the television, pointing at the screen.
The Black Tower was collapsing.
He turned back toward Ginny, heart pounding. 'What about -- ?'
'Sam?' Ginny smiled. 'She called. She's fine.'
'She's coming home!' Shannon said.
_She's coming home_.
Bill's stomach twisted. He forced himself to seem happy, excited, but it felt false, strained. He wanted her back, of course, wanted her home, but . . . .
But he didn't know what he was going to say to her.
He felt Ginny's hand on his arm. 'I guess it worked, huh?'
He nodded.
'Do you think Newman King --'
'He's dead.'
'What happened?' Shannon asked.
Bill shook his head.
'What?'
'I'll tell you guys later.' He turned his attention back to the television. CNN was cutting between the Black Tower and property on the south side of Dallas that was owned by Newman King and was supposed to be the site of the first Store in a major metropolitan area.
The Tower was collapsing into a sinkhole. Police had blocked off a square block area, and two cross streets were almost buried under falling debris. But it was the empty property, the vacant lot, that was the most fascinating, because dogs and cats, rats and rattlesnakes, birds and bats were all being drawn to the land and dropping dead. Police had the area cordoned off, but people were even walking onto the property and falling in their tracks. The news cameras captured several of them on tape.
'He _was_ The Store,' Bill said, staring at the screen.
'What?' Ginny asked him.
He turned away from the television, looked at her, smiled. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Is it over?' she asked.
