For the first time in several days, he allowed himself to think about Sam.
She'd never been far from his mind, but she'd had to share space in his thoughts with other concerns, and he'd only been able to contemplate her in short spurts.
The memories of her were tainted, though, his fatherly feelings for her overlaid with a guilty shame, and he was unable to think of her without seeing that image on the video, without remembering how she'd felt in his bed. It was uncomfortable to think of her now even as a child, and he wondered what was going to happen when she returned, how they were going to act toward each other.
Maybe she'd been hypnotized and would remember none of it. Maybe the two of them would just avoid the subject, never speak of it, pretend it didn't occur.
Maybe she wouldn't return at all.
Maybe King had had her "terminated."
No, he thought. Anything but that.
He tried to remember her the way she was before. Before The Store. She'd been a kind and gentle girl. Smart, pretty, thoughtful, nice. Even-tempered even as a baby. A girl with a great future ahead of her.
And King and Lamb and all of their cohorts had turned her into a conscienceless automaton, willing to do whatever they told her.
He was glad Lamb had died. And Walker. And Keyes. And if he could see Newman King die as well, he would be a happy man.
Maybe King would commit suicide, he thought hopefully. Maybe he would kill himself.
Bill stood before the assembled employees. He climbed atop one of the tables in the espresso bar and faced the men and women, boys and girls, who were packed into the junction of aisles and rows in front of him. He'd gathered them here rather than downstairs in the assembly corridor or one of the multipurpose rooms because he wanted to emphasize the difference between the old Store and the new Store, and he was gratified to see no fear or hatred on any of their faces, only expectant interest and curiosity.
The tenor of The Store really had changed.
He raised his hands for silence, announced what had happened, what the managers had done. He explained that nearly all of the stores in the chain had renounced the old ways and that from now on they would be managed and operated individually. "The corporation's power has been decentralized," he said, "and everyone is using us as an example."
A cheer went up.
"As most of you know, I have had my little disagreements with the corporate office in the past --"
Laughter.
"-- and I am gratified that Newman King will no longer be able to dictate how we operate. His tyranny over Juniper is ended."
"The King is dead!" someone yelled, and everyone cheered.
"Long live the King_."
The voice was like thunder, like that of a god, and it cut through the noise like a knife, instantly silencing the assembled employees. The clapping stopped, the cheering disappeared, and all heads turned toward the source of the voice.
Newman King.
He stood in the center aisle, looking toward the espresso bar.
Looking straight at Bill.
"You little shit," he said.
The lights in the building dimmed.
Bill held his ground as King strode down the aisle toward him. The Store was silent, the only sound King's boot heels clicking on the tiled floor.
The crowd parted nervously before him as he approached. The CEO drew closer, and Bill saw that his face had begun to corrode. The plastic teeth were gone, replaced by decayed stumps. The skin was now yellowish white and stretched thin in places, blackness visible beneath it.
Only the eyes remained the same, and Bill could sense the burning intensity radiating from them and he was afraid.
_What was he?_ Bill thought.
King raised his hand, snapped his fingers, and instantly, from the opposite end of The Store, came the Night Managers. They did not spread out and begin walking past racks and displays like they usually did. but marched forward en masse.
King was at the front of the espresso bar now, but he made no effort to move any closer. He stood at its edge, looking at Bill on top of the table. "I
_built_ The Store," he spit out. "I made it! I invented it!"
"You ruined it!" a brave soul in the crowd called out. A kid.
King swiveled, turned, cast a withering glance at the assembled employees.
"I made you!" King said. "I gave you jobs! I made you what you are today!"
He turned his attention back toward Bill, and Bill was frightened, but he heard the anger in the CEO's voice, felt the panic, the desperation. King was dying, he realized. Just like Lamb and Walker and Keyes. And he felt a small twinge of satisfaction at the thought.
King advanced slowly. "I should've killed you when I had the chance, pussy boy. But instead I took you under my wing, trained you, allowed you to be a manager."
"You shouldn't've used my daughter," Bill said, holding his ground.
"That whore!" King roared.
Hatred and anger drove away what was left of the fear. "You have no power here," Bill said coldly. "This is _my_ Store. Get the fuck out."
In front of the espresso bar, the Night Managers were moving forward, passing through the rapidly dispersing crowd. Employees were slinking away, hiding behind racks of clothing, backing up the aisles. Several headed for the doors, making a run for it.
"I will not allow you to do this," King said. "I will not allow you to take The Store away from me."
"You killed my friends. You killed my town."
"It's _my_ Store!"
Bill was thrown back, off the table, against the counter at the rear of the bar, and all of the breath was knocked out of him. King had not touched him, but _something_ had shoved him backward, a force that had not put pressure on any one part of his body but had slammed into all of him equally, an overwhelming wall of unseen energy.
King continued to advance, his decaying face a terrifying mask of rage and hate that Bill knew was only a milder version of the real face beneath it.
Bill sucked in his breath, stood to face King. He wanted to run, but he knew he couldn't, and he -- was thrown back again, the force this time slamming into his chest and midsection, feeling like a cannonball.
"I _am_ The Store!" King cried.
Once more, Bill staggered to his feet. He stood proudly, breathing painfully. "The Store is ours," he said. "And _this_ Store is _mine_!"
He was flattened against the counter this time, pinned in place by unseen energy. Through teary eyes he saw more employees fleeing, saw the Night Managers press forward.
King smiled at him, and the sight was truly terrifying to behold. "How come you didn't get rid of the Night Managers, huh? Why didn't you terminate them?" King looked at him, the smile turning into a snarl. "Because you couldn't! They're not yours, they're The Store's. They're mine."
Bill struggled, strained, broke free of the grip of whatever was holding him. King was standing directly in front of him at this point, and the CEO pushed him back, but there was no accompanying invisible force, no bolt of power. There was only the pressure of King's hands, strong and cold and unnaturally bony.
Bill grabbed one of King's arms, thrust it away.
The CEO looked at Bill, confused.
Bill shoved him.
King did not move back at all, was not thrown even the least bit off balance, and Bill felt only iron immobility against his hand muscles as he shoved, but for the first time, he saw what looked like fear on King's face. It lasted only a second, was preceded and then replaced by anger, but it had been there, however briefly, and even as King threw him to the floor, Bill smiled.
"You have no power here," he said.
In a rage, King whirled around toward the Night Managers gathered behind him. He snapped his fingers, clapped his hands, pointed. "Kill him!" the CEO ordered.