F. Paul Wilson: Hosts

This changed everything. Taking Kate on a trip might turn out to be far too little way too late.

His search for the bag had brought him down to the West Thirties. Jeanette's apartment was only a few blocks away. Maybe he should swing by, just on the outside chance…

The downpour slowed traffic while the dark sky crackled with lightning. As he approached The Arsley he saw lights in Jeanette's windows. Maybe Holdstock was there with her. Maybe the whole gang.

Jack parked across the street and waited. If Jeanette or any other member of the Unity came out, he'd follow; if offered a chance to go in, he'd take it. Didn't have a plan yet; he'd play it by ear until one came along.

After about ten minutes a woman stepped up to the door and began fishing through her handbag. Jack jumped out of the car and was right behind her when she stepped into the lobby.

Smiled at her as he ducked into the stairwell. "Lousy weather, isn't it.

On the third floor, he pulled his Glock and quietly chambered a round as he stepped up to Jeanette's door. Inside he heard the phone begin to ring. It went on ringing. Whoever was there was ignoring it. Maybe he'd arrived in the middle of one of their seances or whatever they did. Wouldn't that be neat.

Pulled out his trusty defunct Visa card and slipped the latch. Eased the door open—if the chain was on he'd have to try another tack, but it wasn't. He slipped through, closed the door softly behind him, and looked around.

All the lights were on and he heard someone moving around in the bedroom. Sidled over to the doorway where he saw the tenant herself packing a suitcase—two, in fact. One with Kate's stuff.

Lifted the pistol and sighted on the back of Jeanette's head. He was cool> his anger confined. Here was the one who'd infected Kate, here was part of the group that had tried to kill him this morning. With her dead there'd be only six left. Maybe not enough to dominate Kate.

As his finger gently squeezed the trigger, the thought of Kate brought back her words…

… the individuals are innocent. They didn't ask to be infected …

And would Kate ever forgive him for killing Jeanette?

"Going somewhere?" he said without lowering the pistol.

Jeanette whirled with a gasp. "You! You're not with Kate?"

"You don't see her, do you."

Her frightened gaze settled on the Glock, then she took a deep breath.

"Scream," Jack said softly as she opened her mouth, "and I'll shoot you dead. Just give me an excuse."

Jeanette must have believed him. She paused, mouth still open, then said, "Where's Kate? What have you done with her?"

They don't know, he thought. They've really lost contact. So why not throw them a curve?

"She's waiting down in the car."

"You lie!"

"No. She found a way to kill off the virus."

"Impossible."

Jack shrugged. An idea was forming. "Believe what you want. I

don't care. We were just stopping by to pick up her clothes. Which I see you've been so kind to pack up for her. Why?"

"She's going on a trip."

"To the Bronx for another hand-holding party? Those days are over. And the Unity's days are numbered."

"No! That can't be true!"

"Come downstairs and see for yourself. Say hello to your ex-friend."

Jeanette's lips smiled. A pretty smile. Too bad she wasn't behind it. "You're bluffing. I'll call you on it."

Jack's thoughts raced ahead as he followed her out the door, along the hall, and down the stairs.

Raining outside… cuts down the number of pedestrians… almost dark as night… if he can get Jeanette to the car maybe he can clock her on the head.

Trouble was, the Glock was mostly polymer, and didn't double well as a sap. But it was the best he had.

And once he had her, then what? Take her to Holdstock's? Pick him up too? That sounded like a plan. Start collecting members of the Unity in his trunk.

Collect them all ! as the TV ads used to say.

But would that help?

Only one way to find out.

She paused at the apartment house entrance. Lightning still strobed the street but the downpour had died to a drizzle, prompting a few more pedestrians to brave the pavements.

Jack cursed silently. A lot of potential witnesses. Too many perhaps. Could he risk it? He'd have to play it by ear and decide when the moment came.

He pointed to his car across the street. "There. Kate's in the passenger seat. See her?"

Jeanette squinted though the gloom, then shook her head.

"Come on," Jack said, taking her arm and leading her onto the sidewalk. "Say hello."

He had her in the street, ready to cross, when headlights from a passing cab made it clear Jack's car was empty.

Jeanette pulled away and began screaming. "Rape! Rape!" She backed toward the curb, pointing a finger at Jack. "Stop him! Don't let him touch me!"

Up and down the block heads turned, looking their way. Feeling as if he were in a spotlight, Jack sidled across the street through a break in traffic.

"If you want us, you know where to find us," she said in a lower voice, then started running away, screaming again. "Rape! He tried to rape me!"

Keeping his head down, Jack turned and walked in the other direction. He went around the block. The rain picked up again and he was soaked by the time he returned to his car. He got in and pulled away.

Seemed to Jack like the Unity had issued a challenge. He'd accept it. But first he'd need a few supplies.

He headed uptown, toward Abe's.

8

Despite all the houses slipping by on either side, hundreds of them, Sandy felt like he was in the middle of nowhere. Maybe because most of the houses looked empty.

He knew he was somewhere at the Jersey shore, but that was all he knew. He'd heard of it—couldn't listen to much Springsteen without hearing of the Jersey shore—but had never been here.

He'd been following Terry—somewhere along the way he'd started calling Holdstock by his first name—for an hour and a half now: across the George Washington Bridge, down the Turnpike to the Parkway, and now along this spit of land with a bay—Barnegat?—to the right and ocean dunes far to the left across the wide, house-choked island that separated the north- and southbound lanes. They didn't waste a square inch of buildable space around here.

Right now he and Terry made up half of the cars on the road.

The whole area would probably be jumping come the weekend, and every day after July Fourth, but at the moment it had the pre-season lonelies.

What's this all about, Terry? Where are we going? Another murder, perhaps?

Part of him hoped yes, but another part prayed no. Because if he saw a killing about to go down he'd have to do something about it, wouldn't he? He couldn't just stand and watch it happen, then report it later. Like the Savior had said after he'd clobbered that purse snatcher: to do nothing would make him an accomplice.

But this Holdstock was a hefty guy, and Sandy a featherweight. He thought of the Savior's little Semmerling and wished he had something like it.

Maybe he's just going to plot his next murder, check out his intended victim. That I can handle.

Sandy called his apartment for the fourth time. On the last three his voicemail had picked up but he hadn't left a message. This time Beth answered.

"I'm glad you called," she told him. "I expected you back by now. Where are you?"

"Believe it or not, the Jersey Shore. A last-minute assignment."

"Not that murder cult thing, I hope."

He didn't want to worry her. "Something entirely different. But I won't make it home for dinner."

"Aw, and I just got in the fixings for my world famous bean burritos. How late are you going to be?"

"Not sure."

"Whatever. I'll wait up."