None of the bank employees had been aware anything was wrong with him.
However, the need to obtain the cash and get out of there was urgent.
He looked at Paige and the kids in the open lounge at the far end of the
room. He shifted his gaze worriedly to the east entrance, the south
entrance, east again.
The Other knew where they were. In minutes, at most, their mysterious
and implacable enemy would be upon them.
The scrambled eggs on Oslett’s abandoned plate acquired a faint grayish
cast as they cooled and congealed. The salty aroma of bacon, previously
so appealing, induced in him a vague nausea.
Stunned by the consideration that Alfie might have developed into a
creature with sexual urges and with the ability to satisfy them, Oslett
was nonetheless determined not to appear concerned, at least not in
front of Peter Waxhill. “Well, all of this still amounts to nothing but
conjecture.”
“Yes,” said Waxhill, “but we’re checking the past to see if the theory
holds water.”
“What past?”
“Police records in every city where Alfie has been on assignment in the
past fourteen months. Rapes and rape-murders during the hours he wasn’t
actually working.”
Oslett’s mouth was dry. His heart was thudding.
He didn’t care what happened to the Stillwater family. Hell, they were
only Klingons.
He didn’t care, either, if the Network collapsed and all of its grand
ambitions went unfulfilled. Eventually an organization similar to it
would be formed, and the dream would be renewed.
But if their bad boy proved impossible to recapture or stop, the
potential was here for a stain to spread deep into the Oslett family,
jeopardizing its wealth and seriously diminishing its political power
for decades to come. Above all, Drew Oslett demanded respect. The
ultimate guarantor of respect had always been family, bloodline.
The prospect of the Oslett name becoming an object of ridicule and
scorn, target of public outrage, brunt of every TV comedian’s puerile
jokes, and the subject of embarrassing stories in papers as diverse as
the New York Times and the National Enquirer was soul-shaking.
“Didn’t you ever wonder,” Waxhill asked, “what your boy did with his
free time, between assignments?”
“We monitored him closely, of course, for the first six weeks.
He went to movies, restaurants, parks, watched television, did all the
things that people do to kill time–just as we wanted him to act outside
a controlled environment. Nothing strange. Nothing at all out of the
ordinary. Certainly nothing to do with women.”
“He would have been on his best behavior, naturally, if he was aware
that he was being watched.”
“He wasn’t aware. Couldn’t be. He nor normal men. No way.
They’re the best.” Oslett realized he was protesting too much.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t keep from adding, “No way.”
“Maybe he was aware of them the same way he became aware of this Martin
Stillwater. Some low-key psychic perception.”
Oslett was beginning to dislike Waxhill. The man was a hopeless
pessimist.
Picking up the thermos-pot and pouring more coffee for all of them,
Waxhill said, “Even if he was only going to movies, watching
television–didn’t that worry you?”
“Look, he’s supposed to be the perfect assassin. Programmed.
No remorse, no second thoughts. Hard to catch, harder to kill. And if
something does go wrong, he can never be traced to his handlers.
He doesn’t know who we are or why we want these people terminated, so he
can’t turn state’s evidence. He’s nothing, a shell, a totally hollow
man. But he’s got to function in society, be inconspicuous, act like an
ordinary Joe, do things real people do in their spare time.
If we had him sitting around hotel rooms staring at walls, maids would
comment to one another, think he’s weird, remember him.
Besides, what’s the harm in a movie, some television?”
“Cultural influences. They could change him somehow.”
“It’s nature that matters, how he was engineered, not what he did with
his Saturday afternoon. Oslett leaned back in his chair, feeling
guardedly better, having convinced himself to some degree, if not
Waxhill. “Check into the past. But you won’t find anything.”
“Maybe we already have. A prostitute in Kansas City. Strangled in a