The PC chimed as icons populated the screen. Pauline clicked on Firefox and the screen opened up.
“She’s all yours,” she said, getting up.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want another beer?”
“No, thanks.” He smiled at her, mainly because she hung in the doorway a little longer than necessary and he didn’t know what else to do. After she left, her perfume lingered for a moment. Something sweet, like cinnamon.
She’s nice. Terrified and a hostage to that poor boy upstairs, but nice.
After having no luck identifying his stepbrother’s phone number online, he had recalled the receipt of an e-mail from him last Christmas, which he’d saved in his Yahoo! in-box. Knowing Tim, addresses and phone numbers changed frequently, but e-mail accounts typically remained the same. He’d shoot him an e-mail and hope to hear back from him. It was the best he could do.
He accessed his Yahoo! account and searched for Tim’s e-mail. As he waited for the screen to reload, he wondered if his account was currently being monitored. Would they go that far?
They’ve already been in your house, gone through your personal items, and posted your photos on the TV news—is there really any line you think they won’t cross?
No. But it was a chance he would just have to take.
He located the e-mail, opened it up, and clicked Reply. After taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he hammered out a quick message, telling Tim to either respond to this e-mail or, better yet, call him on his cell phone. He added that he was in trouble and needed Tim’s help. He thought it best to keep the e-mail brief and ambiguous; he could explain in more detail over the phone when he had more time.
He could access his e-mail periodically through his phone to see when—or if—Tim responded. The only problem was that he’d left his cell phone back at the surplus store with the rest of their stuff. He could go back and get it, but he’d have to take Ellie with him.
And what if they won’t let you leave? whispered the head-voice. What if their hospitality has been a ruse to keep you calm and docile until “the others” get here?
Thinking this now, he realized that the thought had never been too far from his mind.
Chewing his lower lip, he typed his own name into the Google search engine. In less than three seconds, it returned enough hits to make his stomach sink. The first dozen hits looked to be an Associated Press article published in the online editions of various newspapers around the country. He clicked on the Washington Post link and read the following:
Police have issued an AMBER Alert for Arnold, Maryland, resident David James Arlen, 42, and his 8-year-old daughter, Eleanor Elizabeth Arlen, who have purportedly fled a Centers for Disease Control facility in Prince George’s County on September 9. Police said Arlen’s wife, Kathleen DeMarco Arlen, was under observation at the facility when she was found dead of an apparent suicide on the evening of September 9. Arlen and his daughter were also under voluntary observation at the facility, but following Mrs. Arlen’s untimely death, CDC officials issued a quarantine order for Arlen and his daughter. Local police also want to question Arlen regarding the details of his wife’s death. Police said Arlen is most likely driving a 2010 black Ford Bronco, Maryland license plate number M15972.
A spokesperson for the CDC, Dr. Sanjay Kapoor, said, “We are very concerned for the well-being of the little girl and her father.”
As to whether the Arlens had contracted Wanderer’s Folly and if they posed a potential threat to anyone they might come in contact with, Kapoor would not say.
“It is important to remember,” said Dr. Kapoor, “that there is much about this illness that we still do not understand, including how it is contracted.”
Police, however, are warning the public not to approach Arlen or attempt to apprehend him. “The best thing to do,” said Anne Arundel County Chief of Police Martin J. Rasmussen, “is to notify the authorities if you happen to see David Arlen. Call 911. Let the police handle the situation.”
He read the article a second time, his skin growing hot. The bastards had lied, covering up Kathy’s murder at their hands as a suicide. It made David want to smash something.
He peered over at the agonized face of Jesus on the cross and grimaced. The Savior’s eyes blazed with delirious insanity. And as David watched, those eyes rolled in his direction, the pupils small as pinpricks, the whites networked with ruptured blood vessels . . . and for one terrible, impossible moment, the face of the maniac on the cross was David’s.
Out in the hallway, a floorboard creaked. David blinked. His skin felt prickly and hot, his breath coming in great, whooshing gasps. It was nothing more than the shifting of daylight coming in through the blinds that had caused the statue’s face to . . . well, to change. Nothing more.