While Sherman Kingsborough was slithering into Jared Stone’s home office in Portland, Hazel Huck, two hours later in Central time, was just waking up to get ready for school. Like much of America, she had been watching Life and Death. And like much of America, she’d been transfixed.
Having spent so much energy trying to raise money to help Jared, Hazel found it jarring to actually see the man and his family. He wasn’t what she had expected, but then she wasn’t really sure what that was.
Hazel liked Jared, Deirdre, Jackie, Megan, and Trebuchet. They were a nice family. She especially liked Jackie’s act of defiance, painting the camera lenses. She knew she would have done exactly the same thing, because, if she was being honest, something about the show left a bad taste in her mouth. Jared Stone looked like he had comfort, and she presumed he would have wealth, but it seemed to her that he’d sold out, that there had to be a better way to die.
As she watched the Stone family, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d failed them. That she was supposed to save them. But it didn’t matter. It was all beyond her control.
Hazel stepped out of her pajama bottoms and trudged into the bathroom, trying to put the Stone family out of her mind, at least until eight p.m. that night.
***
While the door to Jared’s office was clicking shut, Sister Benedict was lying in bed, unable to sleep. In three short hours, her forces would mobilize. With the Cardinal’s blessing, the Sister had organized a small army of the righteous to surround the Stone household in protest of the grotesque television show being filmed there.
In addition to the Sisters of the Perpetual Adoration, Sister Benedict had pledges of support from three other area convents—the Sisters of Holy Mercy, the Order of His Holy Brides of Repentance, and the plainly named Sisters of the Crucifixion—as well as from dozens of parishioners. If she played her cards right, and if the good Lord blessed her with media coverage, Sister Benedict knew that her effort would take on a life of its own, attracting good and devout Catholics from throughout the region.
Sister Benedict didn’t need sleep. She was infused with the power of God.
***
A thousand miles south, Ethan Overbee sat on his Malibu terrace, staring at the white foam of the dark waves crashing on the beach. He was swirling a glass of translucent Hierbas in his hand. Ethan rarely slept more than three or four hours a night, and he knew that on this night, sleep would be elusive, if it came at all. He was happy to sit in the chill air and think.
In ten short hours, the ATN board was scheduled to meet. Ethan planned to use the political capital provided to him by the early success of Life and Death to begin his assassination of Thaddeus St. Claire. He would start slow, using this first meeting to call attention to Thad’s skepticism about airing the show. Over the coming months he would paint Thad as being out of touch, a relic of the days of sitcoms and dramedies, someone deserving of a gold watch, a severance package, and maybe a cruise.
Ethan dozed there on his chair, his dreams of power and avarice blending with the repetitive tones of the ocean, lulling him into a sleeplike trance. He could hear his name over and over again in the folding waves.
“Ethan … Ethan … Ethan …”
***
Unaware of an intruder in their house, Deirdre, Jackie, and Megan all slept.
***
Sherman Kingsborough lay on the floor of Jared’s office, the knife in his hand. The room was pitch-black, and Sherman was sorry he hadn’t brought a pair of night-vision goggles. He waited for his eyes to adjust, but the darkness was nearly absolute.
Then he heard breathing.
Jared Stone.
Sherman crawled slowly toward the sound, a siren song leading him to his destiny. The anticipation and excitement of the moment were everything he’d hoped they would be. This was Everest all over again.
He stopped just short of the body; close enough to feel the breath on his forehead. Jared must have been sleeping on his back with his head turned to the side. His breath, Sherman thought, is foul.
Careful not to touch Jared and wake him up—now that he was this close, he realized he didn’t want a struggle—Sherman raised the knife above his head, estimating where Jared’s chest would be, paused one more time to check his resolve, and brought the blade down with all the strength his muscles could manage.
The knife found its victim, the flesh and bone giving more resistance than Sherman expected. But Sherman’s well-toned, twenty-three-year-old arms, amped up on speed, had pushed with enough force that the knife went all the way to the floor.
In that instant, the moment the blade stopped its forward motion and caused Sherman’s arms to recoil, two haunting sounds stunned him into immobility. First was a tremendous, inhuman howl of agony, hurt, surprise, and death. Sherman wasn’t ready for that. Every fiber of his being now rebelled, wanting only to pull the knife out and turn back time. Surely, he thought, I can turn back time. I’m Sherman motherfucking Kingsborough, bi-otch. But the “motherfucking” and the “bi-otch” had lost all their edge. His brain even added an “Aren’t I?”