“We gotta make a decision,” Seth said as soon as he was sure the other two were awake enough to listen. “Maryland Point is a mile ahead, on the port bow.”
“Didn’t we say we’d have them drop us off farther on, at Riverside?” Art drank from his mug of coffee, which now that it was cold tasted sickeningly sweet. “That’s a couple of miles farther downriver than Maryland Point.”
“It is. But I’ve been on deck with Janis, watchin’ the shore. It must be thawin’ like a son of a bitch, though you’d never know it lookin’ at the snow. It’s deep as ever, big drifts all over the place.”
“The roads?” Dana asked.
“That’s what I’m worried about. We might get off at Riverside and not make it to the Q-5 Syncope Facility.”
“But if we can’t get there, we can’t get away from there, either.”
“That’s different. We don’t hafta.”
“Seth’s right, Dana.” Art turned to her. “If we find Oliver Guest and wake him up and have to wait a day or two before we leave, that’s one thing. If we don’t get there in time and he dies, that’s another. We have to be dropped off at Maryland Point — as close to the Q-5 facility as we can get.”
“But then the people here will know,” Dana protested. “Even if they don’t know who we’re interested in, they’ll realize what we’re up to.”
“That’s all right. They won’t talk. Not if we give them a gentle hint that we know what they are up to. Right, Seth?”
“That’s my thinkin’.”
“What they are up to?” Dana looked from Art to Seth and back. “I thought this was a fishing boat.”
“It is,” Art said. “But that’s not all it is. They bring fish caught in the Chesapeake Bay up the Potomac to Washington. And they bring an unlicensed cargo of a controlled substance from the other side of the bay to the same market. Janis and her father are tobacco runners.”
“Are you sure?” Dana raised her head and sniffed. “I don’t smell it.”
“You wouldn’t,” Seth said. “They have to be careful. She gave the game away a bit when she said they’d never have taken us if they’d been headin’ upriver. That’s when they have their cargo aboard. Now they’re runnin’ back relaxed and empty.”
“With no smell,” Art added. “It would be fatal for the Cypress Queen’s owners if the ship reeked of tobacco. They must have an airtight hold somewhere — maybe under the space that carries the fish. That would be good smell insulation.”
“And I’ll bet one other thing,” Seth said. “Ol’ Dad isn’t just a runner — he’s a user. A chewer, I’d guess, when he’s belowdecks. He was all set for a quiet wad after breakfast when we rolled in. No wonder he left us an’ went topside. Up there he’s probably a smoker, too.”
He raised his eyebrows at the other two. “Well? Are we all agreed?”
“Maryland Point,” Dana said. “As close to the facility as they can get us.”
Art nodded.
“Good enough.” Seth headed for the cabin steps. “I’ll tell Janis. Though I’ll be surprised if she hasn’t guessed. We’re about as obvious as they are.”
At the top he turned. “If you gotta perform any last personal rites before we leave, do it now. Five minutes, we’ll be gone.”
The Q-5 Facility for Extended Syncope was visible from the river. Bare, ugly, and ominous, it formed a gray cube jutting up from the level ground. A tall wire fence, apparently continuous, ran around it forty yards from the windowless walls.
Art walked toward it for a closer look. He felt enormously better after the food and rest, but his stomach was quivering with tension. They were going to learn in the next few minutes if all their efforts had been a waste of time.
He bent to examine the snow-covered base. “This is normally electrified, but not at the moment. We might be able to get through with Seth’s pliers. That will be a tough job. I say we go around and look for a gate.”
“Right. Has to be.” Seth led the way, trudging through the deep virgin snow in sunlight hot enough to trickle sweat into their eyes. “Chances are, the official way in’s on the opposite side, ’cause that’s where the road runs.” He halted suddenly. “Or mebbe not. Take a look.”
He had come to a place where the fence turned through a right angle. Along the new side the snow had been flattened to make a path three feet wide. The snow base showed footprints, so many and overlapping that they could not be counted. They ran in both directions, and a heavy object had been dragged one way to smooth and partially erase them.
“That settles one thing,” Dana said softly. “We’re not the only ones with the idea. What sort of people were sentenced to this facility?”
“Murderers, mostly.” Seth was bending low, examining the footprints. “Rapists, sadists, torturers. Terrorists. Enemies of the state, whatever that means. Hey, I see different sizes here. Men and women both, by the look of it. Question isn’t, who’d they put here? It’s who’d try to bring somebody out at a time like this? Most people have trouble fending for themselves.”
“Anyone afraid that the Q-5 judicial sleep maintenance system has broken down, like everything else. Anyone with a relative or friend they’re desperate to save.” Art was moving on ahead of Seth. He didn’t have time for philosophical questions, only for whether Oliver Guest was alive or dead. Did that make him worse than Seth, more obsessive about his personal future?
“There’s a gate ahead,” Dana said. “A big one. And it looks open.” She was hurrying along behind Art. She caught his arm, slowing him down. “Art, be careful. We have no idea who has been here. They may be here still.”
“She’s right.” Seth was coming up behind. “Some-thin’ weird about this. There’s a regular driveway from the main road to the gate. You can follow its line from the shrubs on each side of it. The snow on the drive hasn’t been disturbed, all it shows is birds’ feet and animal tracks. Then there’s the cleared path we came in on, runnin’ along the fence and back toward the river. Why didn’t they use the real road?”
“Whoever came here, it wasn’t an official maintenance group.” Art had reached the gate, twelve feet across and nine feet high. The trampled path through the snow turned in, leading toward the double doors of the facility itself. “See, they hacked right through the locks. That takes a heavy bolt-cutter and plenty of strength. I don’t think I could do it.”
“You’d be surprised. You could if you had to.” Seth moved to Art’s side. “I agree with Dana, we gotta be careful an’ ready for anything. But there’s no way we stop. Let’s go.”
They were approaching the building from the north. As they moved from bright sunlight into its squat shadow, the drop in temperature hit Art hard. He saw Dana shiver. Physical, or psychological? Within that two-hundred-foot faceless cube, more than eleven thousand living humans had been placed in judicial sleep.
And what lay there now? Eleven thousand prisoners, or eleven thousand corpses?
“Main door locks are broken, too.” Art found himself speaking in a whisper. “More proof we’re not seeing official action.”
“But the doors are closed.” Seth’s voice was as soft as Art’s. “If the lights don’t work inside — I’ll take bets on that — it’s a good sign. They already left, whoever they were. What’s wrong?”
The last words were to Dana, who had stopped and placed her hand on her throat.
“The smell.” She stepped back a pace. “Don’t you smell it, too?”
Art didn’t. That was no surprise. He was a family joke for his inability to identify — or even to detect — odors. ("The milk is a bit spoiled, you think? Give it to Uncle Arthur; he’ll never know the difference.")
But Seth was nodding. “I do now, after you point it out.”