Harriet and Matthew Stanton sat on the couch in the suite at their hotel. Their son, Joshua, was beside them in a chair, fiddling. One of those bracelets the kids wore nowadays, even boys. Colored rubber. Not normal. Gay. Matthew tried to frown his son to stillness but Joshua kept his eyes on the TV. He sipped water from a bottle; the family had brought gallons with them. For obvious reasons. He asked questions that his parents didn’t have the answers to.
‘But how could they know? Why isn’t Billy calling? Where’s the, you know, poison?’
‘Shut up.’
The simple-minded commentators on the media (the liberal cabal and the conservative in this case) were offering nonsense: ‘There are several types of bombs and some are calculated to do more damage than others.’ ‘A terrorist could have access to a number of types of explosives.’ ‘The psychology of a bomber is complicated; basically, they have a need to destroy.’ ‘As we know from the recent hurricane, water in the subways can cause serious problems.’
But that was all they could say because apparently the city wasn’t releasing any real information.
More troubling, Matthew was thinking, was what Josh was stewing over. Why hadn’t they heard from Billy? The last word from him: After they’d reported that the city had shut down the valves, he was going to start drilling. The botulinum was ready to go. He’d have the toxin in the water supply within a half hour.
The talking heads kept droning on about bombs and floods … which would be like some teenager’s pimple, when the true attack would be a cancer. Poison to destroy the poisoned city.
The stations kept repeating the canned purée of info over and over again.
But no word of people getting sick. Nobody retching to death. No word yet about panic.
Stealing the thought from her husband, Harriet asked, ‘He couldn’t’ve gotten the poison on him, could he?’
Of course he could. In which case he’d die an unpleasant if brief death. But he’d be a martyr to the cause of the American Families First Council, strike a blow for the true values of this country and, not incidentally, solidify Matthew Stanton’s role in the underground militia movement.
‘I’m worried,’ Harriet whispered.
Joshua looked her way and played with his homosexual bracelet even more. At least he’d fathered children, Matthew reflected. A miracle, that was.
He ignored both wife and son. It seemed inconceivable that the authorities had figured out the plot. The elaborate scheme — crafted and refined over months — had been as detailed as a blueprint for a John Deere tractor. They’d executed it exactly as planned, each step at precisely the right moment. Down to the second.
And thinking of time: Now it passed like a glacier. Whenever a new anchor appeared, a new man in the street began talking into an obscene microphone, Matthew hoped for more information. But he heard the same old story, recycled. No news of thousands of people dying in horrific ways dribbling from the predatory journalists’ lips.
‘Joshua?’ he asked his son. ‘Call again.’
‘Yessir.’ The young man fumbled the phone, dropped it and looked up, apologizing with a fierce blush.
‘That’s your prepaid?’ Matthew asked sternly.
‘Yessir.’
No testy retorts from Josh, ever. Billy was respectful but he had a backbone. Joshua was a slug. Matthew waved a dismissing hand to the boy, who rose and stepped away from the noise of the TV.
‘Water Tunnel Number Three is the largest construction project in the history of the City. It was begun—’
‘Father?’ Joshua said, nodding at the phone. ‘Still no answer.’
Outside the windows, sirens made up the soundtrack of the bleak afternoon. All three in the room fell silent, as if plunged into icy water.
Then an anchor girl was speaking crisply: ‘… have an announcement from City Hall about the terrorist plot … Investigators are now reporting that it was not a bombing that the terrorists had planned. Their goal was to introduce poison into the New York City drinking water. This attempt failed, the police commissioner has said, and the water is completely safe. There’s a massive effort under way to find and arrest the individuals responsible. We’re going to our national security correspondent, Andrew Landers, to learn more about the domestic terrorism movement. Good afternoon, Andrew—’
Matthew shut the TV off. He slipped a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. ‘Okay, that’s it. We leave. Now.’
‘What happened, Father?’ Joshua asked.
As if I know.
Harriet was demanding, ‘What happened to Billy?’
Matthew Stanton waved her quiet. ‘Your phones. All of them. Batteries out.’ He popped the back off his while Harriet and Joshua did the same. They threw them into what the Modification Commandments called a burn bag, even though you didn’t really burn it. You pitched it into a Dumpster some distance from your hotel. ‘Now. Go pack. But only the essentials.’
Harriet was saying again, ‘But Billy—?’
‘I told you to pack, woman.’ He wanted to hit her. But there was no time for corrections at this point. Besides, corrections with Harriet didn’t always go as planned. ‘Billy can take care of himself. The story didn’t say he was captured. It just said they’ve uncovered a plot. Now. Move.’
Five minutes later Matthew had filled his suitcase and was zipping up his computer bag.
Harriet was wheeling her luggage behind her into the living room. Her face was a grim mask, nearly as unsettling as the latex one Billy had showed them, the one he’d been wearing when he attacked his victims.
‘How did it happen?’ she asked, fuming.
The answer was the police, the answer was Lincoln Rhyme.
Billy had described him as the man who anticipated everything.
‘I want to find out what happened,’ she raged.
‘Later. Let’s go,’ Matthew snapped. Why was it God’s will that he ended up with a woman who spoke her mind? Would she never learn? Why had he stopped with the belt? Bad mistake.
Well, they’d escape, they’d regroup, go underground once more. Deep underground. Matthew bellowed, ‘Joshua, are you packed?’
‘Yessir.’ Matthew’s son twitched into the room. His sandy hair was askew and his face was streaked with tears.
Matthew growled, ‘You. You act like a man. Understand me?’
‘Yessir.’
Matthew reached into his computer bag, shoved aside the Bible and extracted two pistols, 9mm Smith & Wessons (he wouldn’t think of buying a foreign weapon, of course). He handed one to Josh, who seemed to relax when he took hold of it. The boy was comfortable with weapons; they seemed to offer a familiarity that soothed. At least there was that about him. Guns, of course, weren’t a woman’s way and so Matthew didn’t offer one to Harriet.
He said to his son, ‘Keep it hidden. And don’t use it unless I use mine. Look for my cue.’
‘Yessir.’
The weapons were merely a precaution. Lincoln Rhyme had stopped the plan but there was nothing that would lead back to Matthew and Harriet. The Commandments had taken care to insulate them. It was like what Billy had explained: the two zones in a tattoo parlor, hot and cold. They should never meet.
Well, they’d be in their car and out of the city in thirty minutes.
He surveyed the hotel suite. They had not brought much with them — two suitcases each. Billy and Joshua had moved all the heavier equipment and supplies ahead of time.
‘Let’s go.’
‘A prayer?’ Joshua offered.
‘No fucking time,’ Matthew snapped.
Clutching and wheeling their satchels, the three of them stepped into the corridor.