Pandemonium

“Get up, Mr. Pierce.” That killed me: Mr. Pierce. “It’s time to take a shower, change your clothes, and leave your little spider hole.”

“Could you turn the laptop back on, please?”

She made a noise that was something between a growl and a stifled scream and shoved the laptop off the desk. It hit the floor with a terrible crack.

“That was Fred’s,” I said. It was only an old Compaq, but still.

“Get your arse out of bed, Del. Now.”

I closed my eyes. I didn’t have the energy to fight with her. Maybe later I could leave her a note: Dear Pastor, You’re fired. She yanked the covers off my bed. “You have forty-five minutes to get ready, Mr. Pierce.”

“What happens in forty-five minutes?”

“That’s when your mother is expecting your call.”

This got one eye open. “What? I can’t do that. Not right now. Listen, just tell her I’ll call in a couple days.”

“She said that unless she talks to you herself, today, she’ll assume you’ve been abducted and contact the police. Which is ludicrous, of course.” She pursed her lips. O’Connell may have thought she was a tough Irish girl, but she’d never gone toe-to-toe with the Cyclops. “She may be serious, however, and we can’t afford more legal trouble.”

“She’s serious all right,” I said. I put my arm over my eyes. “Listen, just bring me the phone. I don’t need to take a shower to—”

She gripped my shirt and hauled me to a sitting position. “Mr. Pierce . . .” She stepped back, pulling me off the bed. I would have crashed onto the floor but just barely got my legs under me. Which was how she tricked me into standing.

“. . . you’ve begun to turn.”

Her fists were still bunched in my shirt, ready to haul me into the shower like a drunk.

“All right,” I said. “Fine. You want to give me a little privacy?”

She cocked an eyebrow, clearly not trusting me.

“Suit yourself,” I said, and pulled up my T-shirt, which got her to release her grip. She watched me until the shirt was off and I reached for the waistband of my running shorts.

She turned and walked to the door. “I want to hear running water in thirty seconds,” she said, and closed the door behind her. I sighed, went to the bathroom. The tile was cold on my bare feet. I crossed the small space and twisted the lock on the door that led to her bedroom.

The bathtub was a decent old-fashioned kind, sliding glass doors and two sprocket knobs, none of this single-handle hardware that made it impossible to set the water temperature. When it was hot, I pulled up on the plunger, and the spray drummed the bottom of the tub.

I walked back into my bedroom and shut the bathroom door behind me. I carried the laptop back to the bed, set it on my knee. The lid crackled as I opened it. I rebooted, and while the rest of the screen seemed okay, the lower left section had turned black. Windows finished loading, though, and in a minute I had the video running again. The subject sits on the couch. His arms are at his sides, forgotten. The camera is to his right, but he’s gazing straight ahead of him. He’s wearing blue jeans, a gray John Hersey High School sweatshirt unraveling at the cuffs, a blue T-shirt visible at the neck. His smile is slightly self-conscious. He needs a shave and his hair’s a little too long; the back of his head is roostering where he’s slept on it.

Meg Waldheim’s voice, off camera: Let your shoulders relax. Good.

She continues to speak, and the subject does seem to relax. The smile fades. His expression grows distant, as if he’s listening to soothing music.

Meg Waldheim says, All right, Del. Let us talk to the Hellion. The subject doesn’t change expression. He gazes straight ahead, as if considering their request.