F. Paul Wilson: Hosts

But first she had to blank her mind about what she was planning. She couldn't allow even a faint residue to remain for the Unity to pick up on.

That done, she took one small step away from the oven. Okay. No change.

Another… did the air seem a little warmer? The kitchen a little brighter?

A little further, half a step this time…

Kate? The voice was faint, as if heard through a wall. Kate, are you there?

Quickly she stepped back to the oven. Four or five feet, that was it. Beyond that the Unity waited. And the secretary was a good fifteen feet away. Still, she had to reach it.

She considered running to it, grabbing what she needed, then dashing back, but immediately discarded the idea. As soon as the Unity took hold she'd forget why she was out there.

The only solution was to move the microwave closer to the secretary. But how?

She checked the power cord. It was barely four feet long, not nearly enough.

She went through the kitchen, searching cabinets, yanking out every drawer until she found what she was looking for in the very rear of a catch-all cabinet next to the refrigerator: a pair of dusty, worn extension cords.

She stretched them out on the floor. The brown one ran a measly three feet, but the white was twice that. Nine feet of cord. Another three would be perfect, but it looked like she'd have to make do with these.

She connected them end to end, then plugged the combined cord into an open receptacle in an outlet by the microwave.

Now the scary part. She'd be taking a big risk, but not taking it would be a threat to everyone she cared about.

With the female end of the extension cord in her left hand, she grasped the microwave cord with her right. Taking a deep breath Kate unplugged the oven. As the whine of the transmitter wound down she jammed the microwave plug into the extension receptacle, missing on the first try because her hands were trembling so. Once they were together she darted to the front of the microwave and punched in 9-9-9-9. She hit START and—

Nothing. The oven's display wTas dark.

No! The kitchen was starting to warm, to glow…

What was wrong? Bad receptacle? Bad cord?

She switched the extension plug to the receptacle the oven had been using before and checked the display.

The LED was lit now, blinking 12:00 , and the humming warmth was enveloping her in its golden glow.

She felt as if she were moving underwater as she punched the numbers again, hit the START button…

And was dumped from the warm Unity amnion back into cold reality.

Kate leaned against the counter, waiting for her heart to slow. No time to dwell on what had happened. As soon as she caught her breath she wrapped her arms around the microwave oven and lifted it off the counter. Slowly, carefully—didn't want to pull out that plug—she shuffled her way across the kitchen. When she neared the combined length of the cords she knelt and gently placed the oven on the floor.

The secretary still seemed a dishearteningly long way off. She looked around. No other extension cord anywhere. She'd have to risk it.

Blanking her mind again, she took a step toward the secretary, then another. Now she was near the limit of the safe zone. She reached out toward the secretary's top drawer. No good. Her fingers were still a good twelve to fifteen inches away.

Kate edged her feet another half step away from the oven, then leaned toward the secretary. The hum began as her fingertips brushed the brass pull. She tugged on it, sliding the drawer from its slot. Two thirds of the way out it stopped, stuck. She pulled harder but it wouldn't budge.

Darn.

She leaned closer to get a look inside the jammed drawer—

The hum grew. Kate? Kate?

She jerked back. She'd have to move into the no man's land between the microwave and the Unity. But what if the Unity realized what she was reaching for? Her plan would be ruined. She'd have to fill her mind with something else.

A song. For some reason the inane lyrics of an old nursery song, "The Muffin Man" popped into her head: Do you know the Muffin Man, the Muffin Man, the Muffin Man … She'd sung it to Kevin and Lizzie—Lord, she'd even sung it to Jack when he was a baby.

Kate closed her eyes a moment, gathered her courage, then leaned again into the hum, stretching her hand, arm, and fingers to the limit while mentally chanting the tune.

Kate? Are you there, Kate?

Just get-ting a plas-tic box, a plas-tic box, a plas-tic box, just getting a plas-tic box —

Her fingers found a plastic object with corners and she snatched the little portable alarm clock back into the free zone.

Got it! And she'd kept the Unity from knowing what she'd done. At least she prayed she had.

Kate placed the clock and its dangling wires atop the microwave oven, then approached the secretary again. She chanted the same tune, changing a few words.

Just get-ting some bat-ter-ies, some bat-ter-ies, some bat-ter-ies, just get-ting some bat-ter-ies —

Her hands scrabbled through the drawer, grabbing everything they touched, and retrieved into the free zone the two little cylinders Jack had called detonators. And something else: the tiny pistol she'd seen the other day. She placed that and the rest on the microwave.

Now… the last thing, the most important item: the block of explosive. What could she call it—or rather, think it? It would have to be good because the explosive sat at the far edge of the drawer. It had weight and was wrapped in paper. And then she knew.

She stepped toward the secretary again, inches closer this time, into the hum, into a blush of warmth, into the voice…

Kate? Why do you keep fading in and out, Kate? We need you…

Just get-ting an ad-dress book, an ad-dress book, an ad-dress book, just get-ting an ad-dress book —

Her fingers closed around the long edge of something, an inch or so thick, waxy paper against her fingertips.

Kate? What are you doing?

Doing? Yes, what was she doing? Getting something from this drawer, obviously. But what?

Kate?

She leaned back, not to escape the voice, certainly not to escape that nice pool of warmth, merely to straighten her spine because it was uncomfortable and so awkward leaning over like that—

And she was freed.

And in her hand, the block of clay-like explosive.

Kate knelt beside the microwave and sobbed. Not with joy, not with relief, but with an aching terror in her bones. She didn't want to do this.

Kate allowed herself some self-pity for a moment, then began sliding the microwave back across the floor toward the cabinets. She had work to do.

She used a steak knife from the utensil drawer to strip the ends of the wires leading from the clock and the detonators. She twisted them back together and wrapped the splices with scotch tape.

Almost there. One more thing to do, the hardest of all, and then she'd be ready.

13

Jack cruised right past Holdstock's house on the first pass. He'd only been here once before, and he missed it in the dark. The pelting rain didn't help. Doubled back and found it, and realized why he'd missed it: not a light, not a sign of life.

Alarm bells clamored in his brain as he left the car and ran up the walk. Quick look though the front windows—not even a glimmer; around back—same story. A tomb had more activity.

Returned to his car and sat dripping in the front seat, staring at the dark house.

Suckered.

If you want us, you know where to find us.

Jeanette—or rather the Unity speaking through her—had misdirected him. Why? Just to waste his time? Or—

Oh, hell. Kate.

Grabbed his cell phone and dialed. Kept it for emergencies only and was always careful about what he said. This was an emergency.