gas. Put a few buckets of the stuff under the HVAC intake duct that feeds the tunnel, cover it with a tarp to get a good suck going on, and there you are.” She paused, thinking. “Of course, you might want to clear out the staff in Back Half before you did it. There might be only one intake for that part of the compound. Not sure. I could look at the heating plans, if you—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Stackhouse said. “But perhaps you and Fred Clark from janitorial could get the . . . uh . . . proper ingredients ready. Just as a contingency, you understand.”
“Yes, sir, absolutely.” Gladys looked raring to go. “Can I ask where Mrs. Sigsby is? Her office is empty, and Rosalind said to ask you, if I wanted to know.”
“Mrs. Sigsby’s business is none of yours, Gladys.” And since she seemed to be determined to remain in military mode, he added: “Dismissed.”
She left to find Fred the janitor and start gathering the ingredients that would put an end to both the children and the hum that had settled over Front Half.
Stackhouse sat back in his chair, wondering if such a radical action would become necessary. He thought it might. And was it really so radical, considering what they had been doing here for the last seven decades or so? Death was inevitable in their business, after all, and sometimes a bad situation required a fresh start.
That fresh start depended on Mrs. Sigsby. Her expedition to South Carolina had been rather harebrained, but such plans were often the ones that worked. He remembered something Mike Tyson had said: once the punching starts, strategy goes out the window. His own exit strategy was ready in any case. Had been for years. Money put aside, false passports (three of them) put aside, travel plans in place, destination waiting. Yet he would hold here as long as he could, partly out of loyalty to Julia, mostly because he believed in the work they were doing. Keeping the world safe for democracy was secondary. Keeping it safe full stop was primary.
No reason to go yet, he told himself. The apple cart is tipping, but it hasn’t turned over. Best to hang. See who’s still standing once the punching is over.
He waited for the box phone to give out its strident brrt-brrt. When Julia filled him in on the outcome down there, he would decide what to do next. If the phone didn’t ring at all, that would also be an answer.
40
There was a sad little abandoned beauty shop at the junction of US 17 and SR 92. Tim pulled in and walked around to the van’s passenger side, where Mrs. Sigsby was sitting. He opened her door, then pulled the slider back. Luke and Wendy were on either side of Dr. Evans, who was staring morosely down at his misshapen foot. Wendy was holding Tag Faraday’s Glock. Luke had Mrs. Sigsby’s box phone.
“Luke, with me. Wendy, sit where you are, please.”
Luke got out. Tim asked for the phone. Luke handed it over. Tim powered it up, then leaned in the passenger door. “How does this baby work?”
She said nothing, simply looked straight ahead at the boarded-up building with its faded sign reading Hairport 2000. Crickets chirruped, and from the direction of DuPray they could hear the sirens. Closer now, but still not in town, Tim judged. They would be soon.
He sighed. “Don’t make this hard, ma’am. Luke says there’s a chance we can make a deal, and he’s smart.”
“Too smart for his own good,” she said, then pressed her lips together. Still looking through the windshield, arms crossed over her scant bosom.
“Given the position you’re in, I’d have to say he’s too smart for yours, as well. When I say don’t make this hard, I mean don’t make me hurt you. For someone who’s been hurting children—”
“Hurting them and killing them,” Luke put in. “Killing other people, as well.”
“For someone who’s been doing that, you seem remarkably averse to pain yourself. So stop the silent treatment and tell me how this works.”
“It’s voice activated,” Luke said. “Isn’t it?”
She looked at him, surprised. “You’re TK, not TP. And not that strong in TK, at that.”
“Things have changed,” Luke said. “Thanks to the Stasi Lights. Activate the phone, Mrs. Sigsby.”
“Make a deal?” she said, and barked a laugh. “What deal could possibly do me any good? I’m dead no matter what. I failed.”