to destroy me in this town. Why don’t you just settle into my parlor, Frannie? Throw mud on the carpet, take ashes from the stove and throw them into my clock? Why not? Why not?”
She began to laugh and pushed past Peter, into the hall. She was listing like a drunken woman. Peter tried to put an arm around her shoulders. She bared her teeth and hissed at him like a cat.
Her laughter turned to sobs as she went slowly up the stairs, leaning on the mahogany banister for support; those sobs had a ripping, helpless quality that made Frannie want to scream and throw up at the same time. Her father’s face was the color of dirty linen. At the top, Carla turned and swayed so alarmingly that for a moment Frannie believed she would tumble all the way back down to the bottom. She looked at them, seemingly about to speak, then turned away again. A moment later, the closing of her bedroom door muted the stormy sound of her grief and hurt.
Frannie and Peter stared at each other, appalled, and the grandfather clock ticked calmly on.
“This will work itself out,” Peter said calmly. “She’ll come around.”
“Will she?” Frannie asked. She walked slowly to her father, leaned against him, and he put his arm around her. “I don’t think so.”
“Never mind. We won’t think about it for now.”
“I ought to go. She doesn’t want me here.”
“You ought to stay. You ought to be here when—if—she comes to and finds out she still
“Daddy,” she said, and put her head against his chest. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry, lust so goddam sorry—”
“Shhh,” he said, and stroked her hair. Over her head he could see the afternoon sunlight streaming duskily in through the bow windows, as it had always done, golden and still, the way sunlight falls into museums and the halls of the dead. “Shhh, Frannie; I love you. I love you.”
Chapter 13
The red light went on. The pump hissed. The door opened. The man who stepped through was not wearing one of the white all-over suits, but a small shiny nose-filter that looked a little bit like a two-pronged silver fork, the kind the hostess leaves on the canape table to get the olives out of the bottle.
“Hi, Mr. Redman,” he said, strolling across the room. He stuck out his hand, clad in a thin transparent rubber glove, and Stu, surprised into the defensive, shook it. “I’m Dick Deitz. Denninger said you wouldn’t play ball anymore unless somebody told you what the score was.”
Stu nodded.
“Good.” Deitz sat on the edge of the bed. He was a small brown man, and sitting there with his elbows cocked just above his knees, he looked like a gnome in a Disney picture. “So what do you want to know?”
“First, I guess I want to know why you’re not wearing one of those spacesuits.”
“Because Geraldo there says you’re not catching.” Deitz pointed to a guinea pig behind the double-paned window. The guinea pig was in a cage, and standing behind the cage was Denninger himself, his face expressionless.
“Geraldo, huh?”
“Geraldo’s been breathing your air for the last three days, via convector. This disease that your friends have passes easily from humans to guinea pigs and vice versa. If you were catching, we figure Geraldo would be dead by now.”
“But you’re not taking any chances,” Stu said dryly, and cocked a thumb at the nose-filter.
“That,” Deitz said with a cynical smile, “is not in my contract.”
“What have I got?”
Smoothly, as if rehearsed, Deitz said, “Black hair, blue eyes, one hell of a suntan…” He looked closely at Stu. “Not funny, huh?”
Stu said nothing.
“Want to hit me?”
“I don’t believe it would do any good.”
Deitz sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if the plugs going up the nostrils hurt. “Listen,” he said. “When things look serious, I do jokes. Some people smoke or chew gum. It’s the way I keep my shit together, that’s all. I don’t doubt there are lots of people who have better ways. As to what sort of disease you’ve got, well, so far as Denninger and his colleagues have been able to ascertain, you don’t have any at all.”
Stu nodded impassively. Yet somehow he had an idea this little gnome of a man had seen past his poker face to his sudden and deep relief.
“What have the others got?”
“I’m sorry, that’s classified.”
“How did that fellow Campion get it?”
“That’s classified, too.”
“My guess is that he was in the army. And there was an accident someplace. Like what happened to those sheep in Utah thirty years ago, only a lot worse.”
“Mr. Redman, I could go to jail just for telling you you were hot or cold.”
Stu rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his new scrub of beard.
“You should be glad we’re not telling you more than we are,” Deitz said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“So I can serve my country better,” Stu said dryly.
“No, that’s strictly Denninger’s thing,” Deitz said. “In the scheme of things both Denninger and I are little men, but Denninger is even littler than I am. He’s a servomotor, nothing more. There’s a more pragmatic reason for you to be glad. You’re classified, too, you know. You’ve disappeared from the face of the earth. If you knew enough, the big guys might decide that the safest thing would be for you to disappear forever.”
Stu said nothing. He was stunned.
“But I didn’t come here to threaten you. We want your cooperation very badly, Mr. Redman. We need it.”
“Where are the other people I came in here with?”
Deitz brought a paper out of an inside pocket. “Victor Palfrey, deceased. Norman Bruett, Robert Bruett, deceased. Thomas Wannamaker, deceased. Ralph Hodges, Bert Hodges, Cheryl Hodges, deceased. Christian Ortega, deceased. Anthony Leominster, deceased.”
The names reeled in Stu’s head. Chris the bartender. He’d always kept a sawed-off, lead-loaded Louisville Slugger under the bar, and the trucker who thought Chris was just kidding about using it was apt to get a big surprise. Tony Leominster, who drove that big International with the Cobra CB under the dash. Sometimes hung around Hap’s station, but hadn’t been there the night Campion took out the pumps. Vic Palfrey… Christ, he had known Vic his whole life. How could Vic be dead? But the thing that hit him the hardest was the Hodges family.
“
Deitz turned the paper over. “No, there’s a little girl. Eva. Four years old. She’s alive.”
“Well, how is she?”
“I’m sorry, that’s classified.”
Rage struck him with all the unexpectedness of a sweet surprise. He was up, and then he had hold of Deitz’s lapels, and he was shaking him back and forth. From the corner of his eye he saw startled movement behind the double-paned glass. Dimly, muffled by distance and soundproofed walls, he heard a hooter go off.
“What did you people do?” he shouted. “What did you do? What in Christ’s name did you
“Mr. Redman—”
“Huh? What the fuck did you people
The door hissed open. Three large men in olive-drab uniforms stepped in. They were all wearing nose- filters.
Deitz looked over at them and snapped, “Get the hell out of here!”
The three men looked uncertain.
“Our orders—”
“Get out of here and
They retreated. Deitz sat calmly on the bed. His lapels were rumpled and his hair had tumbled over his
