He and Ginny were waiting for Shannon when she came home from work.
They let her go to the bathroom, get something to drink, eat a snack, then called her over to the living room.
She knew something was up, and she sat down across from them, sighing.
"What is it now?"
"The Night Managers," Bill said.
She paled. "Where did you hear about them?"
"I have my sources." He smiled, tried to keep his tone light, but was aware that he failed miserably. He gave it up, addressed her seriously. "Who are they?"
"More like _what_ are they," she said quietly.
His mouth suddenly felt dry. "All right, then. _What_ are they?"
"I . . . I don't really know," Shannon admitted. "I don't think anyone does. But. . . they're not good." She took a deep breath. "No one talks about them. Everyone's afraid to."
"But there are rumors."
She nodded. "There are rumors."
"Like what?"
She licked her lips. "That they kill people."
"Do you believe it?" Ginny asked.
She nodded.
Bill looked at her. "Someone said that they're the ones enforcing the curfew. She said she saw them."
"I don't think so," Shannon said.
"Why not?"
"Because no one's ever seen them. And I don't think anyone outside The Store has even heard of them. I think . . . I don't think they ever leave The Store."
"They never leave The Store?" Ginny said.
"I don't think so."
Bill nodded thoughtfully. "They never leave The Store. Maybe we can use that."
"How?" Ginny asked.
"I don't know," he said. "Not yet. But every little bit helps. Knowledge is power, and we have our own little spy within the organization."
"Me?" Shannon said.
"You."
"What . . . what am I supposed to do?"
"Just keep your eyes and ears open," he said. "And look for weaknesses."
TWENTY-EIGHT
1
They were on to him.
Ben didn't know how they'd found out, but The Store's officials knew that he was working on an expose.
And they were after him.
He'd called earlier to get a standard party-line quote from The Store's manager, and had talked instead to Lamb. He'd explained to the personnel manager that he was a freelance journalist, working on a feature article for a national magazine, but the man had cut him off. "_Feature_ article, Mr. Anderson?" The personnel manager's voice was snide. "You're writing a muckraking piece, a sensationalistic piece of shit, you cocksucking son of a bitch."
Ben had been shocked into silence.
"We know who our friends are. And we know our enemies."
There'd been a click after that, the hum of a dial tone, and though Ben had been a reporter for the past twenty-five years, had dealt with confrontation many times over, his hands were shaking, his heart pounding.
Something about those Store people spooked him.
But he'd been given a break. Someone within The Store's organization had reached out to him, provided him with a tip, given him a lead. And it had been confirmed by Bill and Shannon.
There were people within the organization who were unhappy and dissatisfied.
That was a good sign.
That was a very good sign.
_The Night Managers_.
He didn't know who they were, but it sounded promising. The concept itself was pretty damn creepy, but it also seemed unethical, immoral, illegal. And in a spectacular, media-friendly way. This was what editors liked to buy and readers liked to read. This was what brought down giants. This was the stuff of journalistic wet dreams.
Even without the Night Managers, it was going to be one hell of an article. He'd talked to Jack Pyle, an old buddy of his in Denver, who'd promised to send him a ton of info. Jack had been working on a similar story, inspired by his son's recent involvement with The Store, but he'd chickened out at the end, afraid that The Store would retaliate against his boy if the piece got published.
"It's a cult," he said. "And if one of their own breaks ranks, breaks that wall of silence . . . God help them."
"You have documentation?" Ben had asked.
He could almost hear Jack nodding over the phone. "Oh, yes," he said. "Oh, yes."
Another week of waiting and researching, a week of writing after that, and this puppy was ready to be sent out and shopped around.
But he needed another angle, some personal involvement between reporter and story. That was the trend these days. That's what people liked. Hard research and solid quotes were fine, but the news-hungry public now wanted more than that. They wanted an element of danger. They wanted a tale of intrigue and infiltration.
Which was why he was going to spend an entire night in The Store.
And see the Night Managers for himself.
He'd been planning the stunt for the past three days, and he was pretty sure he could pull it off. Just before closing, he would go into the rest room, hide in one of the stalls, crouching on top of the toilet so his feet could not be seen in the gap beneath the stall door, and wait until everyone had gone.
It was a risky plan, of course. For all he knew, The Store might make its employees conduct a thorough search of every nook and cranny within the building. The door of each toilet stall might be individually opened and checked. But he was betting that on Friday, at the end of an ordinary, uneventful week, such precautions, even if in effect, would not be followed to the letter.
Besides, he had a head start going in. Despite the appalling number of security cameras all over The Store, there were no cameras trained on the men's room door.
It was something he had checked, double-checked, and rechecked.
The Store did not keep track of who entered and exited the men's rest room. Of course, the perverts had a video camera inside, on the wall opposite the urinals. But he'd come up with a way to take that camera out without being noticed and without making it seem suspicious.
There was an element of danger to this. He knew that going in, and he didn't want to involve anyone else. But he needed help. He needed someone to drop him off at The Store and act as lookout while he secured his hiding place.
Bill was the logical choice. He'd hated The Store since the beginning since _before_ the beginning -- and he was both reliable and trustworthy. But he also had a family. And his daughters worked for The Store. Bill himself worked for a corporation that was supplying computer software for the chain, and Ben didn't want his friend to lose his job if they got caught.
Lose his job?
The Store would do worse than that to them if they were caught.
No, he thought. Bill had too much to lose. Street was the better choice in this instance.
He started to call Street, then put down the receiver and drove to his house instead.
Never could tell. The phone lines might be bugged.
Probably were.
Street wasn't too thrilled with the idea. He agreed to go along with it, had no problem playing his part, but he didn't think there was any need to spend the night in The Store. "It's stupid," he said. "It's a fucking Hardy Boys plan.
Something Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn would do. Not the way a respectable journalist would get his story."
Ben laughed. "Since when have I been a respectable journalist?"
"Good point."
But Street remained troubled, and Ben had to admit that his friend's reservations were valid. He began having second thoughts himself. But even as he inwardly debated whether or not he should go through with this, they were doing what they were supposed to do, taking the actions they'd planned and coordinated, and before they knew it, they were in the empty men's room, Street locking the door and pretending to take a piss while Ben used his cover to sneak under the video camera and, with the help of some handy-dandy tools, disconnect the video feed.