How terribly painful, being curled up in a trunk with a broken femur.
“Put down the gun, Martin, and I’ll give you the painting.”
“You’re out of your mind,” he said.
“You won’t shoot. I know you.”
“The hell I won’t.”
Then he fired.
The impact of the bullet slammed the painting into Sara’s pelvis, but she had anticipated it and was already moving forward, rushing at him.
Martin fired again, clearly surprised, and the painting vibrated in her hands. She felt pain, her leg giving out, but momentum took her the next few steps, and then she was angling the portrait upward, swinging the sharp corner against Martin’s hand, knocking the gun away.
“Run!” Sara yelled.
She thrust the painting at him again, aiming for his head, but now Martin was backpedaling, pulling something from his tool belt.
The survival knife. That awful, horrifying survival knife.
He slashed.
Sara blocked with the painting.
He thrust.
Sara blocked with the painting.
He roared, throwing himself at her, driving Sara onto her back with the painting sandwiched between them. He brought the terrible knife up to her face.
I can see my reflection in the blade.
“I’m going to cut your fucking tongue out and lock you in that fucking trunk for a week,” Martin screamed, spittle flecking out of his mouth.
But Sara wasn’t afraid anymore. She was done being afraid.
Sara grabbed the knife blade as it came up, feeling it slice into her fingers, all the way to the bone. But she wouldn’t let go. She wouldn’t back down. Never. Again.
As Martin’s face creased with astonishment, Sara used the momentum of her grab and the leverage of her grip to force the tip of the blade around, driving it right into the son of a bitch’s eye.
Martin flinched backward, dropping the knife, pressing both hands to his face, and then Sara saw Tyrone standing over them, once again holding the metal suitcase.
He swung like Sammy Sosa, cracking Martin square in the nose, knocking him off Sara and onto the ground.
“That tough enough for ya, asshole?” Tyrone said, staring down at him.
Martin was clearly disoriented, but he managed to get onto all fours. He shook his head like a wet dog, spraying blood everywhere.
Tyrone raised the suitcase again.
“No,” Sara ordered.
Tyrone looked at her. So did Martin.
That’s when Sara held up the gun Martin had dropped and blew the top of her husband’s head off.
Dr. Plincer watched the ferals tear Subject 33 apart, crying with relief that they would no doubt attack him next. Plincer wanted to die more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. The pain was too unbearable.
Kill me. Kill me quickly. My life’s work will remain. Someone will find my notes, my serum. I can die, because my work will live on.
In a brief flash of lucidity, Plincer reflected on his legacy, and came to a startling, ironic conclusion. He’d thought the only way to create pure evil was by enhancing that portion of the brain. But he’d been deceiving himself.
Anyone who wanted to create pure evil had to, by extension, be pure evil himself.
Imagine that. I’m the worst one of all, and have been all along.
Plincer lamented not being able to study his own brain before the ferals killed him.
But the ferals didn’t kill Plincer. They looked at him closely, gave each other brief nods, and then left him there in the box, helpless and agonized and alone and wondering how long car batteries lasted before they ran out of juice.
Seven hours, it turned out. But Plincer succumbed to a heart attack after enduring only six.
The cut on her hand was bad, and Sara wondered if she would lose her fingers. But even if she did, it was a small price to pay for surviving.
The five of them, including the Woman in Blue, walked along the beach until they found Captain Prendick’s dinghy, hidden behind some rocks. As Sara had guessed, the bullets and Martin’s knife had barely made a dent in the painting’s Plexiglas frame. When something was worth twenty-five mil, it was a good bet it was going to be well-protected. Of course the glass was bulletproof. A master like Van Gogh didn’t deserve any less.
Cindy was the only one with two good hands, so she had to start the dinghy’s outboard motor and steer it out to Prendick’s boat. She was awkward at first, but quickly got the hang of it.
Once they were all in the dinghy, Sara spent a minute checking Jack for any injuries. Then, above the din of the motor, Sara whistled in Jack’s left ear, then the right one, relieved that he turned his head toward the sounds. She’d done her best to keep the pistol away from his ears, and was grateful her shooting hadn’t damaged his hearing.
“He okay?” Tyrone yelled to her.
“Just a poopy diaper!” she yelled back. “He needs to be changed!”
“Me too!” Tyrone said, a big grin on his face.
That’s when Lester jumped out of the water, heaving his upper body onto the side of the boat and wrapping his arm around Tyrone’s neck.
Cindy screamed, turning the dinghy too hard, threatening to flip it. Sara pitched forward, dropping Jack onto the flat rubber bottom of the boat, and then a wave hit, knocking her back into Cindy.
The engine sputtered, and died.
Tyrone and Lester wrestled on the boat’s port side, raising up the starboard side with their weight until Cindy and Sara were several feet up in the air.
Jack began to slide toward the edge. He bumped into the inflatable side, only a foot from where Tyrone fought for his life. Sara reached for him, but her weight made the boat even more lopsided, threatening to flip it.
“Back!” Sara yelled at Cindy. They leaned starboard, and the dinghy leveled off. But Sara couldn’t get to Jack, and she couldn’t help Tyrone, who had both hands locked onto Lester’s wrist.
Lester’s hand was locked onto a hatchet.
Then, abruptly, both Tyrone and Lester fell overboard.
The sudden redistribution of weight caused the boat to tilt up toward Sara’s side, launching Jack into the air in a high arc over Sara’s head.
Her balance lost, Sara reached up, her fingers barely touching Jack’s foot as she went ass over head and into Lake Huron.
The water was a shock, like falling into an ice chest. Sara held her breath, her eyes wide open, searching for her lost baby.
The water was dark, murky, the overhead sun not penetrating more than a few feet. Sara let out some of her air so she was neutrally buoyant, then methodically began to scan the depths.
No Jack in front of her.
No Jack on the left.
No Jack behind her.
No Jack on the right.
Jesus, where was—
Below her—she glimpsed the white of Jack’s onesie, sinking fast.
Sara dove, getting to him in two strokes, grabbing his little leg, spinning around and kicking to the surface, thrusting Jack up out of the water…
“Cindy!”
Cindy reached for the baby, pulling him back in the boat. Sara hung onto the edge, waiting for Jack to move, desperately trying to remember the baby CPR class she took during the first trimester.
And then the little guy coughed and started to cry.
Sara spun around, looking for Tyrone and Lester. The waves were strong, but not so high she couldn’t see over them. There was no one on her side.
“Cindy! Do you see Tyrone?”
“I don’t see him!” Cindy said, her head swiveling all around. “I don’t see him, Sara!”