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concrete in one of the apartments over on the Upper West Side. Carmaggio rolled desperately, trying to get
a new bead on the running, jinking figure. It was as if they were all standing still, or wading through honey,
and she was the only normal person there.
"Shit. Shit, shit."
The vector bead slid right across their circular position. People on the other side were shooting
after her.
"Fuck, the captain's dead!"
Henry's head whipped around. Three or four of the National Guardsmen were standing
shoulder-deep in the fallen beech tree, looking down. He forced himself to his feet and lumbered over.
Saunders was lying on his back, and a stub of wood three inches around was through his chest.
"Oh, man, I'm outta here," one of the guardsmen said, backing away, his head shaking in an
unconscious rejection of the scene before him. "Oh, man, I'm gone."
"Shut up!"
The AI blared it into everyone's ear in a shout that stopped them in their tracks.
"You want to be out there alone with that thing?" he went on. "And if you make it home, you want
to wait there until it comes for you? Christ, if you're that anxious to die, eat your gun and do it easy and
quick!"
Silence fell. "Get your attention back on the job." Rollcall, he whispered. Shock made him grunt.
Chen, Finch, Jesus, ten more dead. Two run. And all in less than eight minutes.
The men and women faced outward. But the vector arrow had turned to a bead, and the AI drew
him a schematic.
"She's going home," Carmaggio whispered. "We did it. I hope." Aloud: "Come on. We've got to get
to the warehouse."
He walked toward the waiting vans parked along the edge of Columbus Circle. Past the bodies,
past Finch lying like a pretzel, past shattered burning trees. How many—Two of the FBI types were
kneeling by Dowding's body. He'd never really gotten to know Finch's boss, beyond the depressed-horse
expression on his bony face. Now he was lying face-down, with a four-inch-deep cut running diagonally
from left shoulderblade to right kidney. That must have happened as she left, running through their position.
The night smelled of death. Eighteen living humans followed him out of the park. None remained
but the dead, as they walked toward the killer.
Jenny, he thought.
***
"Who's there?" a voice demanded over her head, after she punched in the code.
She pressed the button again. "Jennifer Feinberg for Ms. Ingolfsson," she snapped, putting her palm
to the plate beside the door. "She told me to report here in an emergency. Now let me in."
A wait, while whoever was behind the video monitor let the computer confirm who she was and
bring up its instructions.
Now she lived, or died. If the door didn't open, Lafarge attacked it himself—and he said the
chances were better than five-to-one he couldn't defuse the biobomb in time. She closed her eyes and
rumbled for a prayer, the first in a very long time.
There was a click "Come through," the speaker said.
She did, into a lobby now dimly lit. Two tall black men stood by either side of the door, looking out
through slits. They had rifles, absurdly huge spindly-looking things. Lafarge had said . . . Barretts. Or
something. They ignored her. The one who'd let her in was a young Latina woman, with a wicked-looking
machine pistol slung across her body, incongruous against the chic outfit.
"Hi, Dolores," Jennifer said.
"Buenas noches, Jenny," Dolores Ospina said. "Welcome to the Household. Glad you decided to be
sensible." A flash of a smile. "Welcome to the harem, that is to say . . . . Come on."
Jennifer forced a sickly grin as the other woman led her down a corridor and into an elevator; the
sheer normalcy of the closed-down offices was jarring, with plastic covers over the PCs and Post-it notes
stuck to desks.
The elevator had glass panels on the other side, and they had a view of the main section of the
converted warehouse as they rose. Nothing dramatic, floodlights and a few workers fussing around
enigmatic machinery. She recognized Dr. Mueller—his name should be Mengele—and the Sikh in their
white coats, bent together over a console. The elevator clicked to a stop at the third floor. Armed men
patrolled the walkways, or stood around the outer wall in positions barricaded with curved shapes of heavy
metal.
"We're parking everyone here," Dolores said, indicating the door of a lounge down the top-floor
corridor. "Just until the Mistress gets back, you understand." Excitement sparkled in the dark eyes. "They're
actually going to take us through to the Prime Line, while this area gets pacified! I hope we get to see some
of it."
"That would be fascinating," Jennifer agreed. About as fascinating as a tour of Hell, guided by
Beelzebub. "How long?"
"Oh, not more than a couple of hours, she said." Dolores giggled. "And then it'll all be over. We can
relax and never worry about anything again, just swim and feast and make love."
"Yes," Jennifer nodded. Hours. I will not scream. I will not smack this repulsive little slut.
She was very glad when the lounge door closed; it probably wasn't a very good idea to try and
strangle someone with your bare hands when they had an automatic weapon. There were a dozen more in
the lounge, and they raised an ironic cheer when she walked in. Jennifer smiled and waved, angling over
toward the coffee urn and pastry tray, trying to look natural.
My God, that's Fred Lather! she thought. Is he in on this? And his wife. My God, I've got five
of her exercise tapes.
Janeen Amier walked over. "Nice to see you again," she said, chattering nervously.
Jennifer took her hand. It felt dry against hers, which was damp with nervous sweat. The
ex-actress didn't look nervous; more of an exalted expression.
"Did you know," she said, "did you know, the Mistress says Fred and I did so much, we can be
made young again?"
That shocked Jennifer; enough that she really saw the aging woman for a moment, instead of her
eyes skipping over the face in an unconscious search for danger.
"Young?" she said.
"Young, and beautiful. Gwen herself said," Janeen simpered and blushed, "that we'd be pretty when
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