She rose to her feet readily enough, but her gaze remained locked with Mason’s and she was trembling.
In a conversational tone, Mason said, “Go on running if you have to. But it’s no use, Sarah, you know that. They’ll win. They always win.”
“You mean the mysterious enemy that doesn’t exist?” Her voice was still only a whisper.
His mouth twisted. “Yeah. Them.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Mason looked away suddenly. “So am I. Oh, put the gun away, Mackenzie. You have nothing to fear from me. Go on, get her out of here.”
Tucker got her out of there. But he didn’t take Mason’s word for it that he was no threat, keeping the gun in hand until he and Sarah safely reached the street. He was wary even then, half-expecting long black cars to be waiting for them out there. But the neighborhood looked as quiet as before.
He put Sarah in the passenger side of the Jeep, one glance at her face telling him that she was in bad shape. She was so pale that her skin had a bluish cast, and her too-dark eyes were enormous and unseeing, the pupils so dilated that only a rim of gold showed around them. He got a blanket from the backseat and covered her because she was shaking so violently, then quickly got in the driver’s seat and got the engine and heat going. He also didn’t waste any time in driving away from Mason’s house.
“Sarah, are you all right?”
She didn’t move, didn’t look at him.
“Sarah? Goddammit, say something or I’m taking you straight to the nearest hospital.”
As if the effort demanded was almost too much, she turned her head and looked at him then, and her voice was whispery when she said, “They couldn’t help me. The doctors. They wouldn’t know what was wrong. I just need…to rest. Sleep. I’ll be fine after I sleep.”
He wasn’t so sure about that, but in any case he had to ask, “What the hell went on back there?”
“It was…a skirmish.”
“A skirmish? Jesus, Sarah…”
“Just a skirmish,” she insisted wearily. “He wasn’t even one of them, really. He was a tool they tried to use against me. A…pale echo of what they are. And even so, as ineffective as he is compared to them…look what it did to me to fight him. Look what it cost me just to hold my own with one of their tools.”
“It was your first…skirmish,” he reminded her. “You’ll be better at it next time.”
A little sound escaped Sarah, not a laugh or a cry but something in between. “No, I won’t. I can’t do that again.”
“Sarah—”
“I can’t. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what it does to me.”
Tucker was beginning to understand but nevertheless said, “What was all that about kids?”
“I wanted to find out if he knew,” she murmured.
“Knew what?”
“That they’d taken another child. Early this morning.”
“How do you know?”
Starkly, her voice full of horror, Sarah said, “I heard him scream. In my mind.”
Tucker nearly pulled off the road, every instinct urging him to put his arms around Sarah and offer some kind of comfort. But he kept driving. For one thing, something in her posture warned him that right now she didn’t want to be touched by anyone. And since she had kept from him this knowledge of another abducted child, he was even more sure that she especially didn’t want to be touched by him.
But he could, and did, change the subject to what he thought was a lesser horror. “You said that Mason was trying to get into your head—why?”
“To…convert me. To try to make me think the way they want me to.”
“Which is?”
“That I can’t fight them and win. That they’ll always be stronger. That I already belong to them. That I’m…destined to lose.”
Tucker glanced at her quickly, then turned his attention back to the road ahead of them. “But he failed.”
“He didn’t get inside my head.”
“Did you get inside his?”
Sarah was quiet for a moment, then said, “Not enough to help us.”
Tucker sent her another glance, this one a bit hard. More secrets. “What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing that matters.”
“On a need-to-know basis, I think I need to know.”
Again, she was silent, minutes passing before she finally said, in a curiously hollow voice, “It only matters to me. I know something I didn’t know before. I know what it will cost me to survive if they get their hands on me. And it’s not a price I want to pay.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I looked inside Mason’s head, inside him, and there was nothing there.”
“I don’t—”
“He was telling the truth, Tucker. He did pay a high price for life. He paid with his soul.”
Neil Mason sat there on the couch for some time after Gallagher and Mackenzie left and gazed at nothing. He was a little tired. More than a little, if the truth be told. He lifted one hand, holding it out in front of him and, dispassionately, watched it shake.
I’m getting too old for this. Hell, I was always too old for this.
His hand fell to rest on his thigh, and he looked around the living room almost curiously. Had it been worth it? Funny that he hadn’t asked himself before. Hadn’t been able to, maybe. Afraid of the answer, probably.
The phone rang, and Mason rose to get the portable from its place out in the hall. “Hello?” Idly, he walked back into the living room.
“Report.”
That cool, incongruously pleasant voice had the usual effect of removing the solid bone and cartilage from his knees, and Mason sat down abruptly in the chair Sarah Gallagher had occupied. God, how did I let him do this to me?
“I have nothing to report,” he said formally.
“Then you have something to explain.”
“She’s stronger than I was told. Much stronger.” Maybe stronger than you knew, you son of a bitch. “And smarter. She managed to block me very effectively.”
“And the drug?”
“She never touched the coffee.”
“You should have put it in something else.”
Mason smiled, glad he was not visible to the other man. “When I offered coffee, she accepted. Took the cup—and set it down. She wouldn’t have tasted anything I gave her.”
“What made her suspicious of you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Unless it was the fact that her abilities are just about the best I’ve ever encountered. Lots of raw talent there.”
There was a short silence. Mason waited patiently.
“I see. Is she aware of her own potential?”
“I’d say not. Still scared of it. And that says something, you know. Even scared, she did pretty damn good. When she gets her feet under her, she won’t be a tool you can use. She’ll be a weapon. If, that is, she’s brought over by then.”
“And how long do you estimate we have before she…gets her feet under her?”
“Hard to say. If the status remains quo, maybe a week or two. If you keep her rattled and off balance, maybe longer. On the other hand, she’s awfully close to the edge now. Push her the wrong way and that weapon won’t be yours—it’ll be hers. And she’ll be out of your reach for good.”
There was a soft click, and then the dial tone.
Mason turned off his portable phone and set it on the coffee table. Half to himself, he muttered, “Don’t ask if you don’t want to know.”
Then he sat there looking absently around his pleasant living room and waited for them to come for him.
“A tool may fail even in the hand of a master,” Varden said.
Duran turned from the window and gave him a look that warned him not to bother sucking up, but all he said was, “Bring Mason in.”
“Yes, sir.” Not making a second mistake, Varden left.
She had gone to sleep with the suddenness of an exhausted child just moments aft
er telling him that Mason had sold his soul for life, and Tucker let her sleep. He needed to concentrate on getting them out of Syracuse, and he needed to think.
There was a lot to think about, not the least of which was Sarah’s clearly expanding abilities. She had begun by having visions of the future, but unlike any precognitive psychic Tucker had ever heard of, she was also, at the very least, telepathic to some extent. And that was becoming more obvious as time passed. Last night she had accused him of failing to keep his promises and had cited a broken promise to Lydia—which she could only have known by looking into his own mind telepathically. Or reaching across distance and possibly time to look into Lydia’s mind, as she had appeared to do once before.
Lydia. Jesus Christ.
He pushed that away, concentrating on what Sarah had done this morning. She had, she said, heard the mental scream of a child being abducted—and she had managed to hide her shock and distress from him. And as for Neil Mason, she had somehow managed to block his efforts to influence her telepathically. And she had looked inside him to find nothing.
He did pay a high price for life. He paid with his soul.
Tucker hoped she hadn’t meant that literally. He really hoped so. He wasn’t at all sure he believed that some evil entity could capture a soul—or even take one in payment for…anything.
No, surely she hadn’t meant it literally. She’d meant it the way anyone would, using the phrase as a yardstick to measure how badly someone could want something. Mason willing to sell his soul for life meant simply that he was willing to give up just about everything else that mattered to him in order to live.
That was what she’d meant.
Except that Tucker had a crawly feeling it wasn’t. Because the look on Sarah’s face when she’d said it wasn’t a price she was willing to pay had spoke of something truly terrible. More than the loss of possessions or even a way of life. The loss of a soul.
Literally the loss of a soul.
Which means—what? That we’re fighting the devil?
No. No, there was nothing supernatural about the other side. So far, nothing that had been done by them could not be explained logically and rationally. In fact, everything he’d found out about this conspiracy—with the exception of its bizarre focus on psychics—smacked of all-too-human violence, and felonious intentions rather than mystical behavior.
Sure, the other side was or appeared to be all around them—though that perception was probably more paranoid than real. And they did seem to have vast, even limitless resources. But Tucker was still convinced that what lay at the heart of this conspiracy was a very ordinary and even unimaginative (if presently inexplicable) plan to profit in some way. To gain something—power, perhaps.
Even as those thoughts took form in his mind, Tucker was reminded of crossing a graveyard at night as a young boy. Whistling, as boys would, to prove to himself there was nothing wrong. Not looking to the left or the right, and surely to God not looking back, but only straight ahead. Marching briskly. Because there was nothing hiding in the graveyard, nothing about to jump out at him from behind a headstone.
Nothing was going to get him.
Half-consciously, Tucker turned up the Jeep’s heater.
They had been on the road about an hour when Sarah stirred and opened her eyes drowsily. Tucker had been waiting for her to wake and spoke immediately, hoping to use the unexpectedness of the question to tap into that odd well of knowledge she couldn’t seem to reach into deliberately—or, at least didn’t admit she could.
“Sarah, where are we going?”
“Hmm?” she murmured.
“Where are we going?”
“Holcomb. It’s a little town northwest of Bangor.”
The answer surprised him, but he tried to keep his voice calm and without any particular inflection. “Why there?”
“Because that’s where it ended.”
“Ended? Past tense?”
Sarah’s eyes opened wider and she turned her head to look at him. For a moment she looked a little lost and more than a little puzzled, the pupils of her eyes wide like a cat’s in the dark as they always seemed to be now. Then she shrugged and half-closed her eyes. “I don’t know what I meant. A slip of the tongue, probably.”
Tucker didn’t think so. Her too-dark eyes were veiled against him, and her voice held an evasive note. He wanted to push, to insist that she tell him whatever it was she was holding back. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to, not now. She was still exhausted, strained, and even in the delicate bones of her face was the finely honed look of unspeakable stress and pressure; he was afraid that if he pushed her now, forced her now, she would simply break.
So he forced himself to be patient. For now.
“But it is Holcomb we’re headed for?”
“I— Yes. Yes, I think so.”
Tucker thought about it, then shook his head. “The only city of any size roughly between here and Bangor is Portland.”
“But that’s on the coast.”
“Yeah…but from there it’ll be less than a hundred and fifty miles to Bangor. We can be in Portland in a few hours, spend the night there. Then go on to Holcomb tomorrow.”
“On the last day of September,” Sarah said.
“We’re safer in large cities, and you’re in no shape to drive straight through to Bangor.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You need to sleep about twelve hours.”
“I don’t want to sleep that long. It wouldn’t help anyway.”
He glanced at her, then turned his gaze forward once again. “All right. But you do need to rest. And we need to decide if we want to look up another psychic. There are three on the list who presently live in Portland.”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was evasive again. “We’re running out of time.”
“Maybe we should risk spending a few extra hours in Portland, Sarah. Visit at least one more psychic. If we go on to Holcomb with no idea of what to expect there…”
“What if the next psychic is…another of their tools? What if they all are?”
That hadn’t occurred to Tucker, and he felt a chill. “They can’t all be on the other side. Surely…”
“No?” Sarah closed her eyes again, and added softly, “But what if they are, Tucker? What if they are?”
TWELVE
Duran glanced back over his shoulder when Varden came into the room, then turned and faced the other man. “I’ve decided to deal with Mason myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which means you’ll be continuing on to Portland without me.”
Varden nodded. “I understand.”
“Do you? Then don’t fail me, Varden. I want Sarah Gallagher.”
“I will get her for you, sir,” Varden said coolly.
“Will you? We’ll see, Varden. We will see. In the meantime, I’ll rejoin you at the next stage of the operation.”
“Yes, sir.” Alone at last, Varden went to the window for a moment and looked out. But there was nothing much to look at, and he turned back into the room with a faintly irritated shrug.
He was pleased, though. It had worked out better than he could have hoped for. He had time now, and a chance to run the operation the way he wanted, the way it needed to be run.
He picked up the phone and placed a call to a number he knew well. “Astrid. I want you in Portland, immediately.”
“You want me?” Her voice was, just faintly, mocking. “Does Duran know about this?”
Varden kept a rein on his temper. “Of course.”
“Well, in that case, I’m on my way.” Definite mockery now.
Varden allowed the disrespect to pass unchallenged. It hardly mattered, after all. When his plan worked, Astrid would have no doubt at all who was her superior.
And neither would Duran.
By four o’clock that afternoon, they were checked into yet another chain hotel in another small suite. Sarah, who had said nothing else after their b
rief conversation and had at least appeared to sleep all the way to Portland, agreed only reluctantly to eat something before retreating to the bedroom and going to sleep once again. Despite what she’d said about sleep not helping, it seemed her body or mind demanded it.
Tucker checked on her several times during the next few hours, only to find her so deeply asleep that she never even changed position on the bed. That the depth of her sleep bordered on unconsciousness disturbed him, but he was reluctant to force her awake before she was ready. Especially given what lay ahead of them.
He was left with far too many hours alone in which to brood. He tried to occupy himself in searching for and gathering more information about the conspiracy surrounding them, but everything he found was more nebulous confirmation of his beliefs and theories—but no proof whatsoever. He finally turned off the laptop and slouched back in the uncomfortable chair at the desk near the window, staring across the room at the muted MSNBC on television without noticing what had gone on in the world today.
It was maddening that he’d been unable to find a shred of solid proof to confirm what they suspected. Yes, psychics had seemingly died or disappeared, all over the country and for years, yet each instance appeared accidental or at least explicable. There had even been people convicted in abduction cases and put away—and in at least a couple of cases executed—for murders, despite the absence of bodies. As far as the legal system was concerned, each was an isolated incident. Despite all the various databases beginning to connect diverse law enforcement agencies across the country, none had, apparently, noticed any kind of pattern.
There was no evidence of a conspiracy. No evidence, that is, that anyone not involved in this would believe.
Tucker began to feel some sympathy for the conspiracy “nuts” he’d heard about for years, those who insisted that someone else had fired at JFK from the grassy knoll, or that the government was hiding the existence of extraterrestrials, or that Elvis was alive and well and living in Topeka.
The very idea of yet another vast, inexplicable, and secretive conspiracy sounded so absurd that the tendency was to laugh or shrug it off, or at the very least greet each new conspiracy theory with a roll of the eyes and patent disbelief. You could pile the facts one on top of the other, list a long string of events too similar to be coincidence, and come up with a neat (if bizarre) theory to explain it all—and there was absolutely no concrete evidence to back up your claims.