windshield. A locus of microminiature electronics in the base of the
cup was the transmitter and receiver of a satellite up-link package.
Through coded bursts of microwaves, the SATU cculd quickly interface
with scores of geosynchronous communication and survey satellites owned
by private industry and various military services, override their
security systems, insert its program in their logic units, and enlist
them in its operations without either disturbing their primary functions
or alerting their ground monitors to the invasion.
By using two satellites to search for–and get a lock on–the unique
signal of a particular transponder, the SATU could triangulate a precise
position for the carrier of that transponder. Usually the target
transmitter was an inconspicuous package that had been planted in the
undercarriage of the surveillance subject’s can-sometimes in his plane
or boat–so he could be followed at a distance without ever being aware
that someone was tailing him.
In this case, it was a transponder hidden in the rubber heel and sole of
a shoe.
Oslett used the SATU controls to halve the area represented on the
screen, thereby dramatically enlarging the details on the map.
Studying the new but equally colorful display, he said, “He’s still not
moving. Looks like maybe he’s pulled off the side of the road in a rest
stop.”
The SATU microchips contained detailed maps of every square mile of the
continental United States, Canada, and Mexico. If Oslett had been
operating in Europe, the Mideast or elsewhere, he could have installed
the suitable cartographical library for that territory.
“Two and a half miles,” Oslett said.
Driving with one hand, Clocker reached under his sportcoat and withdrew
the revolver he carried in a shoulder holster. It was a Colt .357
Magnum, an eccentric choice of weaponry–and somewhat dated–for a man
in Karl Clocker’s line of work. He also favored tweed jackets on the
elbows, and on occasion–as now–leather lapels. He had an eccentric
collection of sweater vests with bold harlequin patterns, one of which
he was currently wearing. His brightly colored socks were usually
chosen to clash with everything else, and without fail he wore brown
suede Hush Puppies. Considering his size and demeanor, no one was
likely to comment negatively on his taste in clothes, let alone make
unasked-for observations about his choice of handguns.
“Won’t need heavy firepower,” Oslett said.
Without saying a word to Oslett, Clocker put the .357 Magnum on the seat
beside him, next to his hat, where he could get to it easily.
“I’ve got the trank gun,” Oslett said. “That should do it.”
Clocker didn’t even look at him.
Before Marty would agree to get out of the rainswept street and tell the
authorities what had happened, he insisted that a uniformed officer
watch over Charlotte and Emily at the Delorios’ house. He trusted Vic
and Kathy to do anything necessary to protect the girls.
But they would not be a match for the vicious relentlessness of The
Other.
He wasn’t sanguine that even a well-armed guard was enough protection.
On the Delorios’ front porch, rain streamed from the overhang.
It looked like holiday tinsel in the glow of the brass hurricane lamp.
Sheltering there, Marty tried to make Vic understand the girls were
still in danger. “Don’t let anyone in except the cops or Paige.”
“Sure, Marty.” Vic was a physical-education teacher, coach of the local
high-school swimming team, Boy Scout troop leader, primary motivator
behind their street’s Neighborhood Watch program, and organizer of
various annual charity fund drives, an earnest and energetic guy who
enjoyed helping people and who wore athletic shoes even on occasions
when he also wore a coat and tie, as if more formal footwear would not
allow him to move as fast and accomplish as much as he wished. “Nobody
but the cops or Paige. Leave it to me, the kids will be okay with me
and Kathy. Jesus, Marty what happened over there?”
“And for God’s sake, don’t give the girls to anyone, cops or anyone,
unless Paige is with them. Don’t even give them to me unless Paige is
with me.”
Vic Delorio looked away from the police activity and blinked in
surprise.
In memory, Marty could hear the look-alike’s angry voice, see the flecks