though not seriously.
Doogie had finished snipping the wires that bound the kids and had moved
on to Conrad, who was still out cold. Using a spool of the killers’
wire, he had shackled the man’s feet. Now he was using more wire to cuff
his wrists behind his back.
We couldn’t risk taking the two men with us, back through the maze.
Because crawling was required in some of the tunnels, we wouldn’t be
able to bind even their hands, and without restraints, they would be
completely uncontrollable. We would have to send the police back here
for them assuming the entire structure didn’t collapse from the stresses
of the time-shifting phenomena occurring overhead.
Although I might have changed my mind later, at that moment I wanted to
immobilize them, seal their mouths shut with tape, put a bottle of water
where they could see it, and leave them here to die painfully of thirst.
Orson had finished the Evian. He struggled to his feet, wobbly as a
baby, and stood panting, blinking the filminess out of his eyes, looking
around with interest.
“Poki akua, ” I told him, which is Hawaiian for dog of the gods.
He chuffed weakly, as though pleased by the compliment.
A sudden pong, followed by a nerve-jangling squeal, as of metal torquing
violently, passed through the copper room. Both Orson and I looked at
the ceiling, then around at the walls, but there was no evident
distortion of the smooth metal surfaces.
Tick tick tick.
I dragged the heavy cooler across the floor to Orson and opened the lid.
He looked in at the icy water sloshing among the bottles of Evian and
vegetable juice, and he happily began to lap it up.
On his side, curled in the fetal position, Randolph was groaning but not
yet conscious.
Doogie clipped off a few feet of wire, all he needed to finish binding
Conrad, and passed the spool to me.
I rolled Randolph facedown and hurriedly wired his wrists together
behind his back. I was tempted to cinch the bonds as tight as those on
the children and Orson, but I controlled myself and made them only tight
enough to ensure that he could not free himself.
After securing his ankles, I looped wire from the shackles at his feet
to those at his wrists, further limiting his ability to move.
Randolph must have awakened as I began to apply this final restraint,
because when I finished, he spoke with a clarity not characteristic of
someone just regaining consciousness, “I’ve won.” I moved out from
behind him and hunkered down to look at his face.
His head was turned to the side, left cheek against the copper floor.
Lips split and bleeding. His right eye was pale green and bright, but I
saw no evidence of animal eye shine.
Curiously, he appeared to be in no distress. He was at peace, as if he
weren’t trussed and helpless but were merely resting.
When he spoke, his voice was calm, even slightly euphoric, like that of
someone coming out of a light Demerol sleep. I would have felt better if
he’d ranted, snarled, and spat. His relaxed demeanor seemed to support
his unnerving contention that he had won in spite of his current
circumstances. “I’ll be on the other side before the night is gone.
They stripped out the engine. That wasn’t a mortal wound. This is a sort
of … organic machine. In time, it has healed. Now it powers itself.
You can feel it. Feel it in the floor.” Those rumblings, like passing
trains, were louder than before, and the spells of calm between were
shorter. Although the effect in this room had been less than elsewhere
in the structure, the noise and the vibrations in the floor were at last
gaining power here, too.
Randolph said, “Powers itself with the littlest help. A storm lamp in
the translation chamber two hours ago that’s all it took to get it
running again. This is no ordinary machine.”
“You worked on this project? ”
“Mine.”
“Dr. Randolph Josephson, ” I said, suddenly remembering the name of the
project leader I’d heard on Delacroix’s tape. John Joseph Randolph, boy