Devoted(107)
If it came to guns, they were dead, but neither he nor Megan felt comfortable without firearms within reach.
Coffee had been served. Platters of homemade cakes and cookies were offered on a sideboard, as if the Bookmans and their guests were in the habit of taking the equivalent of a British tea at this hour and wouldn’t be deterred by memories of a recent home invasion and violence.
In the wake of what had happened here, the scene was ludicrous, really. However, their plan depended on precise timing. An important part of it required that whoever came here with malicious intentions should not act precipitously once they were through the front door, that they should come into the living room and, for a minute or two, be uncertain about how to proceed. The best way to ensure the wanted reaction was to greet them without apparent suspicion and to present them with a circumstance that surprised them and left them a little disoriented.
“Looks good,” Ben told them, “but you’re as tense as if you’re waiting for root canals without novocaine. Fake a little relaxation. Check out Rosa. She’s got the right attitude.”
“I spiked my coffee,” Rosa admitted.
With a smile, Ben said, “Not a solution for all of us.”
“You’re sure we can’t call the police?” Rosa asked.
“Someone already called Eckman,” Megan said. “Someone he really serves instead of us. We’re on our own.”
Carson agreed. “So much for safe and peaceful Pinehaven.”
The boy had assumed an unusual posture, sitting back on the sofa, but leaning forward from the waist, his head cocked to the right, staring vacantly at the ceiling, breathing through his open mouth.
“Woody,” Ben said, “is something wrong?”
“I can’t talk. I’m being autistic.”
Megan put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t ham it up, sweetie.”
Woody looked to Ben for guidance. “You think I was overacting? I mean, I know this character.”
“There was a pretty thick slice of ham in that,” Ben confirmed. “Maybe you should just smile at everyone.”
“How’s this?” Woody shaped a sweet One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest smile, early Danny DeVito.
“Perfect,” Ben said.
“Don’t be afraid,” Rosa told the boy. “I thought I would be afraid, but I’m not. Well, a little. Maybe a little more than a little, but not a lot.”
Shaking his head, Woody said, “I’m not afraid. Not anymore. Not since Kipp.”
Ben Hawkins hoped that wasn’t true. Fearlessness got people killed.
He was afraid, a heaviness in his heart, a knot of dread in his gut. His eyes met Megan’s, and he saw she was racked with misgiving. Each of them in this room had so much to lose: not just one another, not just their lives, but a whole world on its way to wonder.
The sound of a vehicle turning into the driveway drew his attention toward the drapery-covered windows.
He went into the foyer, to the front door, and peered through the one intact sidelight.
Four men in dark suits were getting out of a black Suburban marked with the letters FBI.
He said, “They’re here.”
117
Kipp sitting in the upstairs hallway, alert.
He wanted to be with Woody, to be in a position to die for the boy if it came to that.
Kipp thought it would come to that.
Even on the brink of disaster, humans deceived themselves. They wanted to believe they would never die.
Dogs knew better.
Kipp loved people for their hopefulness. Like dogs, humans had been born to hope.
But if you understood the cold indifference of nature, as dogs did, then you did not hope to live forever in this violent world.
You tried instead to make the world better while you were here, and you put your hope in another, better world.
Oh, how fiercely, ardently, intensely, fervently he wanted to be at Woody’s side in this perilous moment!
But for now his place was here in the upstairs hallway.
He knew his duty.
Because Dorothy’s enemy was cancer, Kipp had not been able to do anything for her.
Woody’s enemy was not cancer.
A remarkable quiet had settled on the residence.
Kipp listened and heard naught, and that was good.
At last the wind had ceased to torment the structure.
The house did not groan with either all that it contained or the weight of history.
The air was rich with scents, and so many of them were of the greatest importance.
He took no pride in being the dog chosen by destiny to bond with the boy who might change the world.
Instead, he was honored, humbled. And determined not to fail.
He heard the vehicle turn in to the driveway.
The engine died.
Doors opened.
Kipp smelled one, two, three, four Haters.
His hackles bristled.
Four subtly different varieties of evil.
He got to his feet, holding his tail low and still.
The doorbell rang.
As the chimes echoed through the house, a peal of thunder followed, a rending crash as if the crust of the earth must have cracked to its molten core.
118