It was a pity that Buddy had to die. In his own way he was a likable brute.
But I’ve got the power, Salsbury thought. And I’m going to keep it. I’m going to eliminate as many people as have to be eliminated for me to keep the power. I’ll show them. All of them. Dawson, good old Miriam, the bitches, the holier-than-thou college professors with their snotty questions and self-righteous denunciations of my work, the whores, my mother, the bitches . . . Tat-tat-tat-tat. . . No one is going to take this away from me. No one. Not ever. Never.
3:20 P.M.
Rya sat up in bed, yawning and smacking her lips. She looked from Jenny to Sam to Paul-but she didn’t seem to know for certain who they were.
“Do you remember what he said?” Paul asked again. “The man with the thick glasses. Do you remember?”
Squinting at him, scratching her head, she said, “Who . . . am this?”
“She’s still dopey,” Jenny said, “and will be for a while yet.” Studying the girl from the foot of the bed, Sam said, “Salsbury knows he’s got to deal with us. As soon as he’s decided how, he’ll come here. We don’t have time to wait for the sedative to wear off. We’ve got to help her come out of it.” He looked at Jenny. “You give her a cold shower. A long one. I’ll make some fresh coffee.”
“Don’t like coffee,” Rya said sullenly.
“You like tea, don’t you?”
“S’okay.” She yawned.
Sam hurried downstairs to make a pot of tea.
Jenny hustled Rya out of bed and into the bathroom at the end of the hallway.
Left alone, Paul went to the living room to sit with Mark’s body until Rya was ready to be questioned.
‘When you decide to meet that big, bright, shiny, chrome-edged American world on its own terms, he thought, things start to move. Faster and faster and faster.
3:26 P.M.
Dr. Troutman leaned in the open doorway and said, “He’ll be better in the morning.”
“That’s fine,” Bob Thorp said. “You go along home now.” Popping the last piece of his chocolate-almond bar into his mouth, the doctor said, “Take care.” He walked away.
To Thorp, Salsbury said, “Get some help. Move the body into one of the cells. Stretch him out on the bunk so that he looks like he’s sleeping.”
4:16 P.M.
Rain gurgled noisily down the leader beside the kitchen window.
The room smelled of lemons.
Steam rose from the spout of the teapot and from the china cup.
Rya wiped away her tears, blinked in sudden recollection, and said, “Oh. Oh, yes . . . ‘I am the key.'”
4:45 P.M.
The downpour dwindled abruptly to a drizzle. Soon the rain stopped altogether.
Salsbury raised one of the Venetian blinds and looked out at North Union Road. The gutters were overflowing. A miniature lake had formed down toward the square where a drainage grating was clogged with leaves and grass. The trees dripped like melting candles.
He was glad to see it end. He had begun to worry about the turbulent flying conditions that Dawson’s helicopter pilot would have to face.
One way or another, Dawson had to get to Black River tonight. Salsbury didn’t actually need help to deal with the situation; but he did need to be able to share the blame if the field test went even further awry.
Neither of his current options was without risk. He could send Bob Thorp and a couple of deputies to the general store to arrest the Edisons and the Annendales. Of course there might be trouble, violence, even a shoot-out. Every additional corpse or missing person that had to be explained to the authorities outside of Black River increased the chance of discovery. On the other hand, if he had to maintain the roadblock through tomorrow, keep control of the town, and perpetuate the state of siege, his chances of coming out on top of this would be less promising than they were now.
What in the devil was happening at Edison’s place? They had found the boy’s body. He knew that. He had assigned several guards to cover the store. Why hadn’t they come here to see Bob Thorp? Why hadn’t they tried to leave town? Why hadn’t they, in short, acted like anyone else would have done? Surely, even with Buddy’s story to build from, they couldn’t have reconstructed the truth behind the events of the past few weeks. They couldn’t know who he really was. They probably didn’t know about subliminal advertising in general-and certainly not about his research in specific. He suddenly wished that he had brought his briefcase with the infinity transmitter from Pauline Vicker’s rooming house.