Because you had so many other things on your mind. The sickness . . . the rats jumping ship . . . losing Crow to the bitchgirl . . .
Yes to all of that—yes, yes, yes—but she still should have remembered. For a moment she wondered what else she might have forgotten, but pushed the idea away. She was still in charge of this, loaded with steam and at the top of her game. Everything was going exactly as planned. Soon the little girl would come up here, because she was full of foolish teenage confidence and pride in her own abilities.
But I have the high ground, dear, in all sorts of ways. If I can’t take care of you alone, I’ll draw from the rest of the True. They’re all together in the main room, because you thought that was such a good idea. But there’s something you didn’t take into consideration. When we’re together we’re linked, we’re a True Knot, and that makes us a giant battery. Power I can draw on if I need to.
If all else failed, there was Silent Sarey. She would now have the sickle in her hand. She might not be a genius, but she was merciless, murderous, and—once she understood the job—completely obedient. Also, she had her own reasons for wanting the bitchgirl laid out dead on the ground at the foot of the lookout platform.
(Charlie)
Token Charlie hit her back at once, and although he was ordinarily a feeble sender, now—boosted by the others in the main room of the Lodge—he came in loud and clear and nearly mad with excitement.
(I’m getting her steady and strong we all are she must be real close you must feel her)
Rose did, even though she was still working hard to keep her mind closed off so the bitchgirl couldn’t get in and mess with her.
(never mind that just tell the others to be ready if I need help)
Many voices came back, jumping all over each other. They were ready. Even those that were sick were ready to help all they could. She loved them for that.
Rose stared at the blond girl in the truck. She was looking down. Reading something? Nerving herself up? Praying to the God of Rubes, perhaps? It didn’t matter.
Come to me, bitchgirl. Come to Auntie Rose.
But it wasn’t the girl who got out, it was the uncle. Just as the bitch had said he would. Checking. He walked around the hood of the truck, moving slowly, looking everywhere. He leaned in the passenger window, said something to the girl, then moved away from the truck a little. He looked toward the Lodge, then turned to the platform rearing against the sky . . . and waved. The insolent bugger actually waved at her.
Rose didn’t wave back. She was frowning. An uncle. Why had her parents sent an uncle instead of bringing their bitch daughter themselves? For that matter, why had they allowed her to come at all?
She convinced them it was the only way. Told them that if she didn’t come to me, I’d come to her. That’s the reason, and it makes sense.
It did, but she felt a growing unease all the same. She had allowed the bitchgirl to set the ground rules. To that extent, at least, Rose had been manipulated. She had allowed it because this was her home ground and because she had taken precautions, but mostly because she had been angry. So angry.
She stared hard at the man in the parking lot. He was strolling around again, looking here and there, making sure she was alone. Perfectly reasonable, it was what she would have done, but she still had a gnawing intuition that what he was really doing was buying time, although why he would want to was beyond her.
Rose stared harder, now focusing on the man’s gait. She decided he wasn’t as young as she had first believed. He walked, in fact, like a man who was far from young. As if he had more than a touch of arthritis. And why was the little girl so still?
Rose felt the first pulse of real alarm.
Something was wrong here.
9
“She’s looking at Mr. Freeman,” Abra said. “We should go.”
He opened the French doors, but hesitated. Something in her voice. “What’s the trouble, Abra?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing, but I don’t like it. She’s looking at him really hard. We have to go right now.”
“I need to do something first. Try to be ready, and don’t be scared.”
Dan closed his eyes and went to the storage room at the back of his mind. Real lockboxes would have been covered with dust after all these years, but the two he’d put here as a child were as fresh as ever. Why not? They were made of pure imagination. The third—the new one—had a faint aura hanging around it, and he thought: No wonder I’m sick.
Never mind. That one had to stay for the time being. He opened the oldest of the other two, ready for anything, and found . . . nothing. Or almost. In the lockbox that had held Mrs. Massey for thirty-two years, there was a heap of dark gray ash. But in the other . . .
He realized how foolish telling her not to be scared had been.
Abra shrieked.
10