look a little nervous.”
Sonny rocked him with a slap. “You want to watch the way
you talk, snotface! You just want to watch it!”
“You look nervous, too, Sonny. And you, Warwick. And
Casey in there—”
“Shut him up!” Gardener suddenly screamed. “Can’t you do anything? Do I have to do everything around here myself ?”
Sonny slapped Jack again, much harder. Jack’s nose began
to bleed, but he smiled. Wolf was very close now . . . and Wolf was being careful. Jack had begun to have a crazy hope that they might get out of this alive.
Casey suddenly straightened up and then tore the cans off
his head and flicked the intercom switch.
“Reverend Gardener! I hear sirens on the outside mikes!”
Gardener’s eyes, now too wide, skidded back to Casey.
“What? How many? How far away?”
“Sounds like a lot,” Casey said. “Not close yet. But they’re coming here. No doubt about that.”
Gardener’s nerve broke then; Jack saw it happen. The man
sat, indecisive, for a moment, and then he wiped his mouth
delicately with the side of his hand.
It isn’t whatever happened upstairs, not just the sirens, either. He knows that Wolf is close, too. In his own way he smells him . . . and he doesn’t like it. Wolf, we might have a chance! We just might!
Gardener handed the pistol to Sonny Singer. “I haven’t
time to deal with the police, or whatever mess there might be upstairs, right now,” he said. “The important thing is Morgan Sloat. I’m going to Muncie. You and Andy are coming with
me, Sonny. You keep this gun on our friend Jack here while I get the car out of the garage. When you hear the horn, come on out.”
“What about Casey?” Andy Warwick rumbled.
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“Yes, yes, all right, Casey, too,” Gardener agreed at once, and Jack thought, He’s running out on you, you stupid assholes. He’s running out on you, it’s so obvious that he might as well take out a billboard on the Sunset Strip and advertise the fact, and your brains are too blown to even know it. You’d go on sitting down here for ten years waiting to hear that horn blow, if the food and toilet paper held out that long.
Gardener got up. Sonny Singer, his face flushed with new
importance, sat down behind his desk and pointed the gun at Jack. “If his retarded friend shows up,” Gardener said, “shoot him.”
“How could he show up?” Sonny asked. “He’s in the Box.”
“Never mind,” Gardener said. “He’s evil, they’re both evil, it’s indubitable, it’s axiomatic, if the retard shows up, shoot him, shoot them both.”
He fumbled through the keys on his ring and selected one.
“When you hear the horn,” he said. He opened the door and
went out. Jack strained his ears for the sound of sirens but heard nothing.
The door closed behind Sunlight Gardener.
17
Time, stretching out.
A minute that felt like two; two that felt like ten; four that felt like an hour. The three of Gardener’s “student aides” who had been left with Jack looked like boys who had been caught in a game of Statue Tag. Sonny sat bolt-upright behind Sunlight Gardener’s desk—a place he both relished and coveted.
The gun pointed steadily at Jack’s face. Warwick stood by the door to the hall. Casey sat in the brightly lighted booth with the cans on his ears again, staring blankly out through the other glass square, into the darkness of the chapel, seeing nothing, only listening.
“He’s not going to take you with him, you know,” Jack said
suddenly. The sound of his voice surprised him a little. It was even and unafraid.
“Shut up, snotface,” Sonny snapped.
“Don’t hold your breath until you hear him honk that
horn,” Jack said. “You’ll turn pretty blue.”
“Next thing he says, Andy, break his nose,” Sonny said.
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“That’s right,” Jack said. “Break my nose, Andy. Shoot me,
Sonny. The cops are coming, Gardener’s gone, and they’re going to find the three of you standing over a corpse in a strait-jacket.” He paused, and amended: “A corpse in a strait-jacket with a broken nose.”
“Hit him, Andy,” Sonny said.
Andy Warwick moved from the door to where Jack sat,
strait-jacketed, his pants and underpants puddled around his ankles.
Jack turned his face openly up to Warwick’s.
“That’s right, Andy,” he said. “Hit me. I’ll hold still. Hell of a target.”
Andy Warwick balled up his fist, drew it back . . . and then hesitated. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
There was a digital clock on Gardener’s desk. Jack’s eyes
shifted to it for a moment, and then back to Warwick’s face.
“It’s been four minutes, Andy. How long does it take a guy to back a car out of the garage? Especially when he’s in a hurry?”
Sonny Singer bolted out of Sunlight Gardener’s chair,
came around the desk, and charged at Jack. His narrow, secretive face was furious. His fists were balled up. He made as if to hit Jack. Warwick, who was bigger, restrained him. There was trouble on Warwick’s face now—deep trouble.
“Wait,” he said.
“I don’t have to listen to this! I don’t—”
“Why don’t you ask Casey how close those sirens are get-
ting?” Jack asked, and Warwick’s frown deepened. “You’ve
been left in the lurch, don’t you know that? Do I have to draw you a picture? It’s going bad here. He knew it—he smelled it!
He’s leaving you with a bag. From the sounds upstairs—”
Singer broke free of Warwick’s half-hearted hold and
clouted Jack on the side of the face. His head rocked to one side, then came slowly back.
“—it’s a big, messy bag,” Jack finished.
“You shut up or I’ll kill you,” Sonny hissed.
The digits on the clock had changed.
“Five minutes now,” Jack said.
“Sonny,” Warwick said with a catch in his voice. “Let’s get him out of that thing.”
“No!” Sonny’s cry was wounded, furious . . . ultimately
frightened.
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“You know what the Rev’rend said,” Warwick said rapidly.
“Before. When the TV people came. Nobody can see the
strait-jackets. They wouldn’t understand. They—”
Click! The intercom.
“Sonny! Andy!” Casey sounded panicky. “They’re closer!
The sirens! Christ! What are we supposed to do?”
“Let him out now! ” Warwick’s face was pallid, except for two red spots high on his cheekbones.
“Reverend Gardener also said—”
“I don’t give a fuck what he also said!” Warwick’s voice dropped, and now he voiced the child’s deepest fear: “We’re gonna get caught, Sonny! We’re gonna get caught!”
And Jack thought that now he could hear sirens, or perhaps
it was only his imagination.
Sonny’s eyes rolled toward Jack with horrible, trapped in-
decision. He half-raised the gun and for one moment Jack believed Sonny was really going to shoot him.
But it was six minutes now, and still no honk from the
Godhead, announcing that the deus ex machina was now boarding for Muncie.
“You let him loose,” Sonny said sulkily to Andy Warwick.
“I don’t even want to touch him. He’s a sinner. And he’s a
queer.”
Sonny retreated to the desk as Andy Warwick’s fingers
fumbled with the strait-jacket’s lacings.
“You better not say anything,” he panted. “You better not
say anything or I’ll kill you myself.”
Right arm free.
Left arm free.
They collapsed bonelessly into his lap. Pins and needles
coming back.
Warwick hauled the hateful restraint off him, a horror of
dun-colored canvas and rawhide lacings. Warwick looked at it in his hands and grimaced. He darted across the room and began to stuff it into Sunlight Gardener’s safe.
“Pull up your pants,” Sonny said. “You think I want to look at your works?”
Jack fumbled up his shorts, got the waistband of his pants, dropped them, and managed to pull them up.
Click! The intercom.
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“Sonny! Andy!” Casey’s voice, panicked. “I hear something!”
“Are they turning in?” Sonny almost screamed. Warwick
redoubled his efforts to stuff the strait-jacket into the safe.
“Are they turning in the front—”
“No! In the chapel! I can’t see nothing but I can hear
something in the—”
There was an explosion of shattering glass as Wolf leaped
from the darkness of the chapel and into the studio.
18
Casey’s screams as he pushed back from the control board in his wheel-footed chair were hideously amplified.
Inside the studio there was a brief storm of glass. Wolf
landed four-footed on the slanted control board and half-
climbed, half-slid down it, his eyes throwing a red glare. His long claws turned dials and flicked switches at random. The big reel-to-reel Sony tape recorder started to turn.
“— COMMUNISTS!” the voice of Sunlight Gardener bel-