But her cries are silent, her pleas unheeded.
And now Fielding's legs give way and he drops to his knees. Kate goes with him, directly behind, maintaining her relentless tension on the wire. His frantic movements slow, his body sags to the side. But Kate stays with him all the way to the floor, never letting up, shoving him onto his face and jamming her knees into his back and hanging on through the terminal spasms as the cells in Fielding's oxygen-starved brain and myocardium fire randomly, agonally, and then finally, not at all.
A stink fills the air as Fielding's sphincters relax. That's the sign she's been waiting for. Kate unwinds the wire and pulls it free. She jumps as Fielding sighs—a flat, atonal sound. But it's only the trapped air in his lungs escaping past his vocal cords. Gripping the table she hauls herself to her feet.
She stares down at the corpse of what had once been a brilliant man. Her dread has changed to remorse, deep regret… such a waste.
Heading for the door, she stuffs the garrote in one pocket and pulls a glove from another. She pulls on the glove and uses that hand to open the front door and close it behind her.
Kate is weeping inside as she walks back down the street, pursued by regret and remorse, and perhaps even a trace of guilt that is not her own.
SUNDAY
1
"Did last night really happen?" Beth said, her lithe body snuggled against his under the sheet.
Sandy stroked her bare shoulder. "Last night? That was this morning, babe. And I can't believe it's only eight and we're awake already."
They'd stumbled in around five, too wired for sleep, so they'd stripped and made wild, wild love. Sandy didn't know about Beth, but last night had been the best of his life—not that he had a whole lot to compare it to.
"I don't think I slept at all—I mean, I know I closed my eyes, but I don't think I slept a wink. Did it really happen? Was it a dream or was that really Leo DiCaprio with his hand on my shoulder? Was that really us in that club?"
"That was us," he replied. "And that's going to be us from now on."
On the way to Tribeca in the cab, the mysterious fellow they'd hooked up with at Kenny's told them his name was Rolf—he pronounced it strangely, as if he'd stuck an umlaut over the o—and how he knew all sorts of interesting people, and how his hobby, his mission in life was putting interesting people together with other interesting people.
That turned out to be a major overstatement, but Rolf had not been exaggerating about the club. Its entrance was an unmarked red door on Franklin Street. He'd had Sandy and Beth wait in the cab while he talked to someone inside the door. Finally, after what had struck Sandy as more of a negotiation than a conversation, the three of them were passed through.
Through the course of the next few hours Sandy learned that Rolf's day job was managing an ultra-exclusive accessories department in Blume's where he met the rich and famous, and his real talent seemed to be an ability as a hanger-on to parlay his acquaintanceships into entrees to exclusive scenes; he'd used Sandy's celebrity as a wedge into the nameless space, a place he'd never be admitted to on his own.
Once inside Rolf led them up a narrow staircase to a low-lit room with a small bar and lots of comfortable chairs grouped around low tables. It had taken all of Sandy's will to keep from gawking and tripping over his own feet as they followed Rolf to the bar.
He left them there and Beth's nails had been digging into Sandy's upper arm as she whispered, barely moving her lips: "Did you see who was in the red chair? And over in the corner—don't be obvious—is that who I think it is?"
It was.
Rolf meanwhile circulated to a few tables, bending and whispering in ears. Minutes later he'd returned and said, "Bobby would like you to join him at his table for a drink."
"Bobby?" Sandy said. "Bobby who?"
"De Niro, of course."
Oh, shit, he'd thought. I can't do this. He's… he's fucking De Niro and he's going to see right through me! But then he thought, Wait. Has De Niro ever been trapped in a speeding subway car with a murderous psycho blowing away everyone in sight? Fuck, no.
But Sandy had. So what was so scary about Bobby De Niro?
"Okay," Sandy had said, cool as a cube. "Let's go."
And so they'd had a drink with De Niro while Sandy told the story, and during the telling other famous faces had gathered around, listening, nodding, murmuring approval and awe.
And then Harvey Weinstein had drawn Sandy aside, talking about working up a piece for Talk with an eye toward developing the article into a screen property. Sandy could barely speak, just kept nodding, agreeing to anything, everything, his gaze always drifting back to Beth, deep in filmspeak with De Niro and DiCaprio.
"I still can't believe I spent the night talking about my student film with Robert De Niro—who kept telling me to call him 'Bobby'! How could I call him 'Bobby'? The word wouldn't pass my lips."
"I heard you calling DiCaprio 'Leo'."
"That's different; he's my age. But Robert De Niro… he's a god. He's Mister De Niro. And he's going to help me with my film! Lend me equipment! Let me use his AVID! Pinch me, Sandy."
He did. Gently. "There. And we're still right here together. You're on your way, Beth."
"And I owe it to one person. The Savior."
Sandy was a little miffed. He'd thought she was going to name him.
"The Savior didn't get you into that club."
"Not directly, but if not for him, the only place I would have been last night was six feet under."
Sandy couldn't argue with that. A small part of him kept insisting that he would have found some way to survive, but when he took a hard look back on that scene on the Nine… no way.
"Do you really think you can get him amnesty?" Beth said, stroking his arm.
"I think so." He hoped so. "I'm going to try like all hell, but the decision won't be up to me."
It won't be up to anybody if he doesn't get back to me, he thought.
And what if he didn't get back—ever? A sick feeling wormed through Sandy's gut. What if he'd scared the Savior with the amnesty talk, what if he'd picked up and left town? If the Savior was off the map, so was Sandy. How interested in Sandy Palmer would Harvey Weinstein be a few weeks from now when he literally was yesterday's news? No Talk article, no film development…
"You've so got to get this amnesty for him, Sandy."
And once more he was struck by Beth's different perspective.
For him? No, I'm doing it for me.
2
"What day is it?"
Kate jumped at the sound of Jack's hoarse voice. She turned from the TV and found him leaning in the bedroom doorway with a blanket draped over his shoulders. Dull-eyed and unshaven, his hair sticking out in all directions, but he looked so much better than yesterday.
"Sunday."
He shuffled into the front room and dropped into the recliner. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath as if the short walk had exhausted him.
"I've been sick for a week?"
"No. Just a day."
"Feels like a month."
"You were pretty sick yesterday. Delirious at times."
"You should have seen it from my side. You wouldn't believe the nightmares."
Should she tell him about her own dream? If that was all it had been, then why bother. But if not…
Kate shuddered. She'd been up half the night trying to reach Dr. Fielding. She hadn't expected anyone to answer his office phone at four A.M. on a Sunday morning, but since his home number was unlisted she'd tried anyway. Finally she'd pulled out her cell phone—long since blocked to caller ID to keep patients from phoning her instead of whoever was on call for the group—and called 911; she flat out told the police to check on a Dr. James Fielding in Middle Village because he wasn't answering his phone and she feared, well, something awful.
She'd been flipping back and forth between the local TV channels ever since, looking for some mention of the murder of a respected medical researcher.
So far nothing. She prayed it would stay that way.
"You didn't happen to make any coffee, did you?" Jack muttered.
"Just some instant, but you should be drinking something like Gatorade to replenish your fluids and electro—"
"Coffeeeeeee," Jack intoned, sounding like a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. "Coffeeeeeeee."
"Jack—"
"I've got a splitting headache from caffeine withdrawal. This is not to feed a habit, this is a medical necessity. Coffeeeeeeee!"
"For crying out loud," she laughed, heading for the kitchen. "All right. I'll get you some. Just stop that moaning."
"You know what?" Jack said from the other room as she filled an eight-ounce measuring cup with water and stuck it in the microwave. "Fever must make you hypersusceptible to suggestion. I dreamed about your mysterious Russian lady."
"Russian lady?" What on earth—? "Oh, yes. The one who gave me your name."
"Right. Dreamed she paid me a visit with her big white malamute."
Kate smiled. That was the breed—a malamute. She hadn't been able to place it. And then with a start she realized…
"Jack, I never told you it was a malamute."
"Sure you did. How would I have known?"
"Jack, I didn't know. I couldn't recall the breed. So how could you know?"
"Had to be from you, because the Russian lady's visit was all in my head. See that four-way bolt on the front door? Nobody gets in here unless I let them. So you must have told me."
Kate was sure she hadn't but wasn't going to argue.
"What did she tell you? In the dream, I mean."
"All sorts of apocalyptic stuff about the virus. Like if I—me and me alone—didn't stop it, the world as we know it would end in bloodshed, death, hatred, terror, all that good stuff."
Kate dumped two spoonfuls of instant coffee into a large mug. Not quite the communal agrarian paradise the Unity had pictured for her. Although the part about the end of the world as we know seemed right on the mark.
"What would make her think you could stop a virus?"
"Damned if I know. That's for guys like Fielding and the government's alphabet soup agencies."
Kate closed her eyes and took a breath. Yes, Fielding… if he's alive.
"But she said something even crazier. She said you and I were already infected."
Kate gripped the edge of the sink as the room seemed to tilt. "She told you that?"
"Yeah. And you know what? The Russian-lady delusion must have tripped a switch in my brain because that fueled an even weirder dream. Weirdest I've ever had."
Kate was almost afraid to ask. "How so?"
The microwave chimed. Her hand trembled as she removed the measuring cup and poured the water into the mug.
"Well, the whole dream was based on the idea that Fielding's mysterious contamination virus doesn't just cause personality changes, it links all the minds of the people it infects into one group consciousness—a hive mind. Isn't that wild?"
Kate, stirring Jack's coffee, dropped the spoon.
"Wh-what? What did you say?"
Jack was describing the Unity, describing it perfectly. But how could he know? And how could he know he was infected?
"A hive mind."
Was that how he knew? During the battle between his immune system and the Unity virus, could his subconscious have realized what was at stake and tried to warn him? No, she couldn't buy that. Too New Age-y. But somehow… Jack knew.
Feeling a bit punch-drunk, Kate carried the coffee into the front room and handed it to him quickly to hide her trembling hands, then lowered herself onto a nearby hassock.
"Tell me about it."
"It took place just a few months from now when we're in the middle of an all-out war between the infected and the uninfected."
A war. Yes, Kate thought, that's what could happen if the virus were easily spread—say, airborne. Thank the lord it isn't.
She listened to his chilling, tragic scenario with a lump in her throat. She didn't know this Abe Jack mentioned, but she'd met Gia and Vicky and was deeply disturbed by hearing of Gia overdosing her daughter.
"I don't know her that well, but I can't see Gia doing something like that."
"Neither can I," Jack said. "Like most dreams it's got Swiss cheese logic. Like where Gia got the sleeping pills; I never questioned it in the dream, but I don't think she's ever taken one in her whole life. Lots of things got by me, and the weirdest one concerned you."
Kate felt her insides tighten. "I was in your dream?"
"Not in person. But my dreamself was thinking about you as being one of the infected. It wasn't a shocking revelation or anything like that; more like something I'd known for a while."
Kate felt as if she were slowly becoming a block of ice. "Is that all?"
"Not quite. I was thinking awful thoughts about you, imagining you returning to Trenton and using your practice to infect all your kid patients.
Kate closed her eyes and fought a wave of nausea.
"Sorry for being such a sicko, Kate," Jack was saying, and his voice seemed to be coming from the far end of a long corridor, "but that was the dream, not me. I know damn well you'd never do something like that."
But that was what she found most sickening: it was exactly what she'd do. Because that was what the Unity would command her to do. And even worse, she'd want to do it. Once fully integrated she'd be an enthusiastic participant in anything that brought more minds into the Unity.
"Kate?" Jack's voice, echoing from somewhere. "Kate are you all right?"
She had to tell him. He had to know.
"Jack…"
But he was staring at the TV screen, pointing. "Holy, Christ, Kate! Look at this!"
Kate turned and saw Fielding's face, obviously a personnel file photo, on the screen.
Jack had grabbed the remote and was bringing the sound up.
"… on a tip, police this morning found the body of medical re-
searcher Dr. James Fielding in his home in Middle Village, Queens. Cause of death appears to have been strangulation. Police have no motive or suspects yet. In other news…"
Jack hit the MUTE button and stared at her. "What the hell?"
But Kate couldn't speak. Her throat had locked. Last night's dream hadn't been a dream. The Unity had murdered Jim Fielding, and she'd been there, could still feel the handles of the garrote against her palms.
"Jack, I'm infected!" she blurted.
He stared at her, wide-eyed. "What? How?"
"Jeanette."
As ill as he was, something fearsome flashed in his eyes and contorted his features. "I'll kill her!"
"No, Jack. It's not her fault. She—"
"How do you know you're infected? Are you sure?"
"Because…"
And suddenly Kate felt a surge within her, an invisible hand reaching through her mind and clamping down on her tongue, trying to paralyze it. The Unity was back—or maybe it had never gone away, maybe it had sat quietly within her, eavesdropping, monitoring her conversation, ready to react if she intended to say or do anything that might threaten it. And now it was pouncing.
Kate fought back, managing to push the words past her lips.
"Because the part of your dream about the hive mind is true."
"Can't be. That was fever. I was delirious."
"No, Jack. The hive mind spoke to me yesterday. Jeanette, Holdstock, and half a dozen more of Fielding's other patients are part of a single mind. And they're pulling me in too. They're in my head right now, trying to keep me from telling you this, but I guess I've still got enough uninfected brain cells left to resist."
Jack stared at her from his recliner, the rage in his face shifting to disbelief.
"They killed Fielding, Jack. They were afraid he might come up with a vaccine or a way to kill the virus."
"How… how can you know that?"
"Because I was there! I witnessed it through Holdstock's eyes."
That odd
look on his face, worried for her, wondering no doubt how someone can seem sane one day and then suddenly lose her mind. She had to convince him, had to make him believe. Because if they killed Fielding, they just might kill Jack too.
"And Jack… that Russian lady… whether a dream or not, she was right. You're infected too."
3
Kate had lost it. That, or he was still running 104 and having another fever dream. Or…
Or it was true.
A year ago Jack would have snickered at the idea of a hive mind. But since last summer he'd come face to face with too many things he'd once thought impossible, so he couldn't just write this off. Especially when the source was someone as thoroughly anchored as Kate.
And even if this hive mind was a fantasy, he still did not want to be infected with Fielding's virus.
He felt lousy, too weak for a long, drawn-out discussion. Had to move this along.
"Okay," he said carefully. "First things first: if we're infected, how did we get that way?"
"With infected pins. Jeanette punctured my palm and Holdstock scratched your hand when he was here the other day."
The coffee went cold and bitter on Jack's tongue. He had never mentioned that scratch to Kate.
"How did you know about that?"
"The Unity told me."
She went on to describe yesterday's hand-holding session with Holdstock and Jeanette and the rest.
"You weren't imagining it?" he said finally, shaken because this was so much like his dream. "They were really talking to you… in your brain?"
Kate nodded. "Not just talking, showing me images of the future they envision for humanity."
"And you couldn't block them out?"
"No. In fact they're in my head right now."
Her words were a cold knife between Jack's shoulder blades.
"You mean they're here, listening to us?"
Kate's expression was bleak as she nodded. "Through me. And trying to keep me from telling you all this."
Revulsion stirred and crawled through Jack's gut as he tried to imagine the horror of what that would be like. He couldn't. His mind… invaded, violated, raped, and dominated… unimaginable.