Firebreak

His interest now was mostly in DoomRanger II, but his eye was naturally caught by movements on the screens, so he did remain aware of the steady routine of transferring crates from truck to basement, and then all at once his eye was drawn to a different screen, and he saw a different kind of motion.

A bus. Black or dark blue, coming up the road from the state highway. No, that was second, behind a black car. A car and bus coming up the road.

Dave was about to reach for his microphone, to alert Greg up at the lodge that they had interlopers, when his eye was snagged again, this time by another kind of movement, on four different screens, showing the steep wooded slope above the lodge.

Men. Men all in black, carrying guns, rifles, walking down the road there, and down through the woods. Men in bulky dark vinyl coats.

The car and bus approached the house from the south. The men in black approached the lodge from the north. It was DoomRanger II! But it couldn't be. Then what was it?

There were white letters on the backs of the black vinyl coats of the invaders coming down from the north. One of them passed close enough to a camera, moving away, on down the hill, so the letters could be read on his back: ATF.

ATF? Dave knew what that was, that was Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, one of the government police forces, like the FBI. Somebody'd had a joke about them a few years ago, Dave remembered: 'Alcohol, tobacco, and firearms? Sounds like a party to me'

But this wasn't a party. What the heck was this? What was the ATF doing here? What could they possibly think was going on here?

Trembling, dropping DoomRanger II into his lap, Dave reached for the mike, thumbed the button, quavered, 'Greg! We got— We got—' He stumbled, bewildered between saying we got visitors and we got company. 'Greg! We got Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms!'

And that's when it turned into one of those days; big time.

8

Matt knew he was coming. The son of a bitch was going to get through Paul's stupid defenses, he'd go through Paul like a saber through a baby, and here was Matt, stuck, in this useless body, in this miserable wheelchair!.

Paul had shut off the stairclimber. He'd run it on down to the ground floor, by that door he'd nailed shut—as though that would do any good—and then he'd cut off the power, so that Matt couldn't use it, couldn't move, couldn't get out of here, couldn't defend himself!

He hated this body. He remembered who he used to be, when he was someone who wasn't afraid of anybody, when he was stronger than anybody and more reckless than anybody and tougher than anybody, so if anybody ever had reason to be afraid, it was the people who had to deal with Matt Rosenstein.

If only he had a gun. He was trapped in these rooms, the kitchen at the front, the living-dining room in the middle, his room at the back. He had windows to look out of, front and back. He had staircases up and down, which he couldn't use. He had knives, in the kitchen, but what good were knives if you couldn't reach the guy?

He had telephones, kitchen and bedroom, but they were merely little metal mockeries, jeering him. Who would he call? Who could he call? After the trail he'd cut through people, the first part of his life, who was there in the world for him to phone right now, and what would he say? 'Hi, this is Matt Rosenstein, you remember me, I broke your jaw one time, I'm stuck here paralyzed in this wheelchair with a guy coming to kill me, I was wondering if you'd like to come help me out.'

His arms were still strong, and his brain still worked, you could be sure of that. He had taken a cleaver from the kitchen drawer, not the longest one but the strongest, a solid slice of steel with a firm black handle, shaped for his fist. It was concealed now in the wheelchair against his left hip, blade down, handle toward the front, so he could reach over with the right hand, bring it up and out in one steady motion. If he could get Parker within range ...

That was the damn thing of it. If he could get his hands on Parker, he had a chance. He might even be able to do him with just the strength in his arms, not even using the knife. But why would Parker get that close?

What could Matt do to bring Parker close? He thought of lying doggo, pretending to be dead, maybe with the knife slack in his hand, blood smeared on the knife and blood smeared on his throat, as though he'd killed himself. Got in a funk because Parker was coming, and checked out.

Would Parker come over to study the situation up close, make sure Matt was really dead? Or would he stand across the room and pump bullets into him from there, just to be on the safe side? Matt put himself in Parker's position, gunning down a man in a wheelchair, finding him maybe dead with a knife in his hand, and what would Matt do? He knew what he'd do.

Money. Not the knife, the knife concealed at his right side, held in his right hand, a wad of bills clutched in his left in his lap, very obvious, as though he'd been scheming some escape route out of here, somebody to pay off. A wad of bills, make sure there was at least a century showing at the top, or better yet a Cleveland, if they had one here.

They did have stashes of money in the house. Paul and Matt both came from a life in which it was a good idea to keep ready cash on tap, just in case. Matt had money in the well behind a dresser drawer in his room, but he didn't think there was anything larger than a hundred there.

Would Paul have a thou? Would he give it or loan it to Matt? Would that son of a bitch Paul do anything to help Matt out, the bastard?

He could hear Paul walking around, upstairs. Usually, Paul was on the top floor, as far as he could get from Matt—as though Matt wouldn't have noticed that—with Pam Saugherty's room on the floor between. But now Pam was gone, and Paul was afraid of Parker coming down through the roof somehow, so he'd moved down to Pam's room. Changed the sheets, too, Matt had heard that laundering, the machines being up there on Pam's level, and had a good sardonic laugh over it. No, Paul wouldn't like to sleep on sheets smelling of