“It should be okay,” Tim said. “The cows have no IV feeding, so the fetuses are starving. From what we’ve seen, the cows are just going to die and the fetuses will die along with them.”
Sara shook her head. “No, that thing came out and attacked Cappy.”
“The cow’s belly was already torn open,” Tim said. “The baby wouldn’t have lived long, anyway.”
Clayton looked from Tim to Sara. “A monster came out of a cow, bit Cappy, and then what happened?”
“It almost bit Cappy’s arm off, so I shot it.”
“Well, fuck me,” Clayton said. “I think I’ll tell Sven to stay away from da cows.”
Tim tore off another bite of chicken, then talked with a full mouth. “At this point, best to err on the side of caution. Without the nutrition supplement the fetuses can’t live long. As long as no one goes near the cows, the cows die, fetuses die, done deal. It’ll be fine.”
Clayton scratched his stubble. It made a sandpapery sound. “I’ll tell Sven, but it doesn’t change da fact we have to get you off da island. I think I can keep da cows and da crash a secret for a day or two, maybe long enough to get my son out here with da boat and get you two back to da mainland. I’ll tell Colding; hopefully he can keep Magnus busy.”
At the sound of Colding’s name, Sara felt a pang of loneliness, but also one of suspicion. “No. We can’t tell Colding.”
Clayton’s eyes squinted a little and he put a hand on Sara’s shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell him? He’s awfully worried about you.”
Sara wanted to tell Colding, wanted him here this very second, but that just wasn’t the smart thing to do. “P. J. sent us up in a plane loaded with a bomb, yet he stayed on the ground.”
Tim opened his mouth to say something, paused, then took another bite of chicken leg. Deep down inside, Sara knew Colding would do anything for her, but the facts and her emotions didn’t mix… and three dead friends made for one hell of a fact.
A fresh gust of wind made the bedroom window rattle slightly. Outside, a few fluffy snowflakes moved from left to right.
Clayton stood up. “If that’s da way you want it, fine with me. Another storm is coming in tonight, supposed to hit us pretty hard. Don’t know if Gary can get out here in that weather. You two better stay here tonight, get some real rest. Tomorrow I’ll hide you in da old town, eh? Right now, I’ve got to fix da phone lines so Sven can call out if he needs me. Grab some dry clothes out of my closet, eat whatever you want out of da fridge. But keep quiet. Anyone knocks, just don’t answer.”
He patted Sara on the shoulder and walked out of the bedroom. She pushed back the covers and sat up. Tim pretended not to look as he rummaged through Clayton’s dresser. He tossed her a flannel shirt and jeans, which she quickly put on.
“Sara,” Tim said. “Is this who I think it is?” He was staring at a framed picture on top of Clayton’s dresser.
She stood up and looked. “I’ll be damned.”
In the picture, Marilyn Monroe and a much younger Clayton Detweiler were sharing a passionate kiss.
DECEMBER 1, 12:45 P.M.
CLAYTON WALKED INTO the security room to find Colding sitting at the desk, steadily flipping through the monitor channels the way someone would work a TV remote if there was nothing to watch.
“Hey there, Clayton,” Colding said. “Come to share a fart or two with me?”
“No gas today. And I ain’t here to see you. Da phone lines are down. Computer will tell me where da breaks are.”
Colding stood and moved away from the desk. “Be my guest.” He walked to the weapons rack and grabbed one of the Berettas, then sat at the edge of the desk and started breaking down the pistol.
Clayton sat and used the mouse to initiate the phone line integrity program. A progress bar started to fill. He was alone with Colding. There were no cameras in the security room, at least none that Clayton knew of. And if there were, where would they be watched? All the Big Brother monitoring was done from this room. Ironically, the security room was probably the only safe place to talk in the entire mansion.
Maybe he could feel it out, see if Colding was to be trusted. “No word from Sara yet?”
Colding’s lip curled up in a brief snarl, but the expression disappeared immediately. “Nothing yet.” His hands kept removing parts from the pistol, cleaning them with a rag, oiling, polishing, turning. “Magnus has put in new codes and locked me out of the transmitter. I can’t call Danté to find out what’s going on.”
Bad going to worse. “Why would Magnus change da codes?”
Colding shrugged. “He says security is compromised. He wants to be the only one receiving or sending messages.” Colding’s fingers worked the weapon. This was Clayton’s chance to tell him… but Sara’s and Tim’s lives hung in the balance.
“Colding, I…” His voice trailed off.
Colding’s hands stopped. He looked up. “You what?”
Before Clayton could speak, the computer beeped loudly—the integrity check had finished. In that instant, Clayton’s resolve broke. He’d stick to the plan.
“Nothing,” he said, and turned back to the computer.
The screen showed four breaks in the landlines—one near his house, one close to the Harveys’ place, and two on the line leading from Sven’s. Clayton printed the repair map, then left the security room.
SARA GNAWED ON a block of cheese in between gulps from a glass of milk. How could she be hungry at a time like this? She didn’t care. Eating gave her hands something to do, even if she couldn’t turn off her brain, couldn’t turn off the thoughts of her dead friends.
She and Tim walked around Clayton’s house, looking at framed black-and-white pictures and faded Polaroids that would have made any paparazzi green with envy.
“Amazing,” Tim said. “Here he is drinking with Frank Sinatra.”
Sure enough, a black-and-white of Old Blue Eyes holding a half-filled tumbler up to the camera, an incredibly young Clayton Detweiler doing the same with a bottle of Budweiser. To the right of that picture, another black-and-white with an even more famous face.
“Holy shit,” Tim said. “Here he is fishing with friggin’ President Reagan. And fuck me running, this is Brigitte Bardot back in the day. Hot as hell and playing piggyback with Clayton? What is he in this picture, twenty-five?”
Tim kept babbling, but Sara wasn’t paying attention anymore. Her thoughts had already drifted away to a darker place, a place where she would know what it felt like to put a bullet in Magnus Paglione’s brain.
CLAYTON PATIENTLY RODE the Nuge’s zebra-striped lift bucket up to the top of the wooden telephone pole. He was about a quarter mile northeast of the watchtower and the jammer tower. As he rose, he watched the new storm already taking shape. Dull gray-black clouds the color of sour chocolate milk filled the sky, steadily increasing in size and number, choking out the light. The wind had grown steadily all morning, and now was pushing around ten miles an hour.
A fallen tree had snapped the line. He had to repair it to connect Sven to the mansion. But as soon as he repaired that break, Sven might call the mansion, try to get Tim Feely out to check on the cows. And that was just because the cows were sick—if Sven found out there were baby monsters brewing in those big bellies, he’d go straight to Magnus. Keeping that info from Sven was a shitty thing to do, but the fact of the matter was that two lives hung on Clayton’s every decision.
The lift bucket reached the top. He had no choice—he had to keep Sven in the dark until Tim and Sara were off the island. Clayton connected his orange handset and punched in Sven’s number.