F. Paul Wilson - Hosts

"Will you?" Jack said. "I wonder."

But the threat did hold weight for Jack. Last thing he wanted was a couple of cops at the door.

"Let me go to her! Please!"

"Let him, Jack," Kate said. "Maybe he can explain what this is about."

Jack released Holdstock who lunged past him toward Jeanette.

"Listen to her," Kate said as Holdstock neared. "Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Of course," he said.

But instead of explaining he reached past Kate and unplugged the microwave.

"Hey!" Jack said as the chant stopped.

Jeanette sagged against Kate, then straightened and pushed away.

"What…? Where…?"

"It's all right, dear," Holdstock said, guiding her from the kitchen. "I'm here now."

"Get your hands off her," Jack said.

"Should I take my hands off you, Jeanette?" Holdstock said.

"No. No, of course not."

"You're coming with me," he told her, steering her toward the door. "It's not healthy for you here."

"Not so fast," Jack said, blocking their way.

Jeanette glared at Jack. "You! You're an enemy! You're evil! Get out of my house!"

"Jeanette!" Kate said. "Please!"

"I want you to stay, Kate," she said, keeping her eyes fixed on Jack, "but if your brother is here when I come back, I'm calling the police."

Jack didn't move. His gut told him he shouldn't let her go—for her sake—but if she said she wanted to leave, he couldn't see he had much choice but to let her.

Reluctantly he stepped aside. But only a little. Just enough to let them squeeze by.

As Holdstock brushed past, one arm around Jeanette's shoulders, Jack felt something sharp scrape against the back of his hand. He glanced down and saw a fine scratch. How had that happened? Hold-stock's near hand had been in his coat pocket as he'd passed.

He shrugged. Nothing serious. Probably just a pin from a cleaning tag. Barely bleeding.

He turned to Kate and found her still standing in the kitchen, a lost, confused look on her face.

"What just happened here?" she said.

"Damned if I know. You're the doctor. Have you ever seen anything like that?"

"Never."

"Has to be the microwaves. But I know as much about microwaves as I do about string theory."

"I know they're a form of radiation—non-ionizing radiation. Depending on the wavelength, they're used for everything from radar to cell phones to cooking. But I can't believe Jeanette has a personality change anytime she gets near a microwave oven."

Jack took Kate's hand and brushed her fingers over the crack in the glass on the oven door.

"This microwave oven happens to leak."

Kate shook her head. "I still don't understand…"

"I've got a whole list of things I don't understand about this. And Holdstock is high on it. You told me he showed up right after Jeanette's first personality change, right? And now he pops in again. You think he's got the place bugged?"

Kate rubbed her upper arms. "Don't say that. I've read articles about people becoming ill from exposure to microwave snooping devices."

"A couple of months ago I spent a whole weekend with a group of paranoids who had crazy stories about any subject you could name. Among them were tales about CIA and KGB experiments using microwaves for mind control. Maybe they're not so paranoid."

"You're giving me the creeps."

"And what was she saying about the virus changing her brain? You think that could be?"

Kate looked miserable. "Jack, I don't know. It doesn't seem possible. It's an adenovims. Even mutated I can't imagine an adenovirus changing someone's brain."

Microwaves, multiple personalities, mutated viruses—Jack felt as if he'd stepped off a ledge into an underwater canyon.

"Maybe not, but I think the guy to contact is Fielding. I don't know about you, but this is way out of my league. Maybe you'd better get back to him."

"I'll do that right now."

"And while you doctor-talk with him, I'm going to run an errand. Be back in no time."

Jack had an idea he wanted to try. But he'd need some hardware first.

5

Sandy sat at his desk in a daze. This had to be the greatest morning of his life. He still couldn't believe the reception when he'd walked into the press room two hours ago—cheers and a standing ovation. George Meschke had met him in the middle of the floor to shake his hand and tell him that his edition—yes, they'd called it his edition—had been selling out all over the city.

And now his voicemail. He'd just finished listening to the last of nine messages. People he hadn't heard from in years—a former roommate, old classmates, even one of his journalism professors—had called to congratulate him. What next?

"Hi, Sandy."

He looked up and blinked. Patrice Rawlinson, the perpetually tanned silicone blonde from the art department. Sure, she was faked and baked, but with those painted-on dresses she was everyone's dream babe.

He struggled for a reply. "Oh, uh, hi."

Brilliant.

In the past when he'd said hello to her in the halls she'd always looked through him. A real Ralph Ellison moment. But now she'd come to him. She'd walked that gorgeous body all the way to his cubicle and spoken words to him. She'd said his name.

"I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your interview with the Savior. I hung on every word. That must have been so exciting to talk to him."

"It was." Please don't say anything stupid, he told himself. "It's a moment every journalist dreams of."

"You've got to tell me all about it sometime."

"Gladly."

"Give me a buzz when you're free."

And with that she swayed off. Sandy resisted sticking his head outside his cubicle for an extended look at her, as he'd done so many times in the past. He was above that now.

"Tell me that wasn't Patrice's voice I just heard," said Pokorny from somewhere on the far side of the partition.

"It was, my man. It most certainly was."

Pokorny groaned. "I'm going to kill myself."

Does it get any better than this? Sandy thought, grinning.

No. It was positively intoxicating. Like a drug. And just as addicting. He didn't want to let this go. Couldn't. He needed more, a steady fix.

But what next? He couldn't let this be the pinnacle of his career—talk about peaking too soon! He had to come up with something equal or better. And the only thing he knew for sure that would fit that bill was another interview with the Savior.

But what was left to cover in a second interview? Rehashing the same old material wouldn't cut it.

But what if I challenge the initial material? he wondered.

He suspected that some of it wasn't true. In fact the more he thought about it, the surer he became that the Savior wasn't doing undercover work for the government. That was a little too glamorous, a little too Hollywood.

So what other reasons could he have to stop him from stepping forward to be acclaimed as a hero?

And then he remembered his earlier conversation with Beth. He'd been blue-skying with her but—

Sandy slammed his hand on his desktop. Christ, I bet that's it! The man has a criminal record. He's a fugitive! Some sort of felon with a warrant out for his arrest. And that's why he was armed!

He had his next hook: get the Savior to talk about his crime. Maybe he was an innocent victim, on the run because of a crime he didn't commit—

No, stop. You're getting Hollywood again.

Maybe he'd committed just one crime, or maybe he wasn't bad all the way through. He certainly did the right thing on the train. Maybe…

And then it all came together, driving Sandy to his feet, gasping like a fish out of water. He had it! A fabulous idea!

He fumbled a slip of paper from his pocket—the phone number the Savior had given him. He reached for his phone, then stopped.