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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


“Dammit, it’s my money,” Bill Saunders said. “If I want to buy materials you want, that’s my business and none of yours.”

He glared at the Californian. Slicker than snot, he decided. Probably a faggot. Not that he had anything against queers as such, although presumably God didn’t approve. There had been one in his company back in Nam who’d been the best hand with an M-60 he’d ever met. He just didn’t like this San Franciscan snob. Who is a traitor. Not just to the United States, but to the human race.

Tom Cairstens leaned back in the chair across from the desk. “Mr. Saunders—you don’t mind if I call you Bill, do you?”

“Yep. I do.”

Cairstens’s smile didn’t falter for an instant. “IngolfTech has done a good deal of mutually profitable business with you. Why endanger it? You can’t use those components.”

“That’s proprietary information.”

Their smiles were equally fake as Cairstens rose to go.


# # #


“Name’s Laureano, and he runs with the Lords,” Jesus Rodriguez said. He showed the picture to the barkeeper. “Laureano Gomez. Seen him lately?”

The barkeeper muttered something. It was easy to lose a sound in here; there were probably louder places in East Harlem, but not many. He didn’t recognize the group playing, just that it was Puerto Rican, and cranked enough to warp the woofer. Lot of good talent out there, he thought. Nice that tight short dresses were back in. That brought a slight stab of guilt. I’m married, not blind, he told himself. Lot of very flashy-looking dudes, too. He was a little out of place himself, probably not enough to scream policía.

Certainly the boss would stick out if he’d come in himself; there weren’t any Anglos here. The smell of sweat and weed was pretty thick, curls of blue smoke drifting up under the ceiling lights. The bartender stared at him silently.

“I can’t hear you,” Jesus said patiently. “But the health inspectors might.”

The barkeeper wasn’t the owner, of course, but he wouldn’t want to piss him off, either. He jerked his head at a door.

“Stairway’s there.”

The interior one, at least; somebody might well be watching the outside doors to the aboveground part of the building. There were rooms on the upper floors, hourly and daily rents, real class. He should have backup for this. Instead all he had was the patrón and the . . . he didn’t even like to think about Lafarge. The bartender’s hand showed him a key: 613.

He went behind the bar and through the doors, touching one finger to his ear. It wasn’t necessary to activate the little button, but it made him feel better, somehow.

“I’m going up,” he said, in a whisper that didn’t move his lips. “He’s in 613.”

“Be careful,” Lafarge’s voice answered. It sounded like normal conversation, but he knew nobody else could hear a thing. Shit. “There are at least three other people in those rooms.”

“I’m always careful,” he answered shortly. “Patrón?”

“Ready out back,” Carmaggio’s voice answered.

The stairwell was dark and littered, smelling of urine and ancient dirt. He went up the stairs two at a time, the treads of his shoes making no sound; they looked like dancing leather, but he’d bought ones with composition soles. No sense in slipping at a critical moment. On the sixth floor he took a careful look both ways down the corridor. Nobody, and most of the lights were out. Perfect. He slipped his ID into one hand and the automatic into the other. The door was wood, with an ordinary Yale lock—low security, for New York. He kicked it flat-footed beside the knob, once, twice, and on the third time it flew open.

“Policía!” he shouted. “Everybody down, everybody down!”

The girl screamed—they always did. Just the two of them, on the couch, both in their underwear. The man wasn’t Laureano—too heavy, a big beefy guy with a wisp of pointed beard. He backed up against the sofa with his hands at shoulder level.

“Hey, chico, no problem. Be cool,” he said.

His eyes darted to a chest of drawers by the wall, covered in tossed-off clothes. Probably a piece there, or his stash. The girl was much younger, cowering back on the couch with her hands over her breasts.

“Down, hijo. Now.”

The man went down. Jesus stooped and cinched his hands behind his back with a set of plastic manacles; great little invention, since you could put them on and tighten them one-handed. The girl stared at him as he went over to the door to the bedroom, standing wide of it.

“Police,” he said through it. “Come on out, Laureano. We just want to talk to you a little, is all, homes. Just a talk. Talk about a lady you met.”

Four rounds blasted through the door—and through the outer wall of the suite and probably out through the side of the building, possibly through a couple of civilians on the way. The girl on the couch scuttled out the door on her hands and knees, grabbing bits of her clothing as she went and not wasting any more time on screaming.

“Shit!”

He curled back into the angle of the two walls beside the door, the hardest place to bear on from the inside of the bedroom. Two voices whimpered from within: women’s voices. And the sound of heavy breathing.

“Man, you in trouble now. Don’t make it worse. Come out without the piece and you can still walk away from this.”

Bambambambam. Whatever Laureano had in there, it had a high-capacity magazine. And he was trying to hit; this grouping was much closer to the hinge of the door, and him. The prisoner over by the couch gave a yelp and Jesus spared him a quick flickering glance. One of the bullets had drawn a line of blood across his buttocks. The detective grinned. Mierda. This could get serious, though. Too many civilians around.

The heavyset prisoner was yelling at Laureano too; mostly insults.

“Shut up!” Jesus called.

He lay down and rolled on his back, inching quietly toward the door feet-first. Knees up, shoulders braced . . . slam and his heels knocked it open. He used the same motion to flip himself back up on his feet, automatic in a two-handed grip and pointed at the bed. His mouth opened . . .

. . . and closed as he saw Laureano’s naked back vanishing out the window.

“He’s on his way down, patrón,” he said.


# # #


“Got him,” Carmaggio said in his throat.

A dark shape coming down the rusty iron of the fire escape, into the piles of garbage bags and cans at its base. There was just enough light to see that he was naked; the gun was a black blur in one hand. The sour taste of danger at the back of his mouth was familiar, almost comforting, after the last couple of months. He tucked himself into the doorway, shoulders against the bars that covered the painted-over glass, inhaling the scent of garbage and stale urine. Eau de Nouveau York, he thought with a cold smile.

“Freeze, Laureano,” he said. Not shouting, but loud and emphatic. “Put the piece down.”

Shit! he thought, as fragments of brick spalled into his face. The little fucker is fast! The ricochet went bwanngggg across the alleyway and struck sparks from something on the other side.

Fast, but not very smart. Feet slapped on pavement, going away. Carmaggio surged out of the doorway, automatic out. He used the old one-handed grip; nothing wrong with the modern two-handed ones, but he stuck with what he’d been trained on.

“Stop!” he shouted, for form’s sake.

Crack. The weapon bucked upward in his hand, and the spent shell pinged off iron somewhere to his right. Laureano went over forward as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. The detective broke into a lumbering run on the slimy pavement, gun held down. The fire escape rattled as Jesus plunged downward to join him. The gangbanger was down and squeezing his thigh with both hands as if he could force the ripped muscle and broken bone to unite. Both policemen stayed cautious until Carmaggio had toed the weapon aside. Glock 17, he noticed.

“Laureano Gomez, you are under arrest,” Carmaggio said, panting slightly. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

Actually, he was moaning pretty bad; the blood wasn’t pumping the way it would if an artery had been cut, but it was trickling pretty fast. The ambulance should be here soon, though—and he’d have the usual ten miles of paperwork to fill out for a weapons-discharge. Shouldn’t be too bad, though, what with the way young Laureano had been spraying 9mm from his Glock around. Only one round fired in response, and no fatalities. Speaking of which . . .

“You’d better get back upstairs,” he said to Jesus.

“Sí. Laureano’s friends, they don’t like him too much, though. Say he’s been acting crazy for the past few days, doesn’t do anything but fuck like a bunny and beat up on his women. Also there’s a quarter of a key of best-quality rock and some muy malo guns up there. Everyone’s going to be real cooperative, real public-spirited citizens.”

The younger man holstered his weapon and trotted back up the fire escape. A woman came to the exit, holding a bathrobe closed over her chest and peering downward into the darkened alley. When she saw the fallen gangbanger she began to scream Spanish obscenities at Laureano, a shrill counterpoint to the growing wail of sirens. Carmaggio knew enough of the language to follow those—highly imaginative, and mostly directed at the wounded man’s putative masculinity.

“Man,” the detective said, “I think you’re going to be real useful.”


# # #


“Push, Alice. Push.”

“I . . . am . . . pushing!” the human gasped.

Gwen stood between her legs. Expecting a brooder to deliver lying down flat on her back was one of the more curious local customs, which she had no intention of following. She’d had a proper birthing couch made. Alice lay with her torso up at a forty-degree angle and her legs out in the braces, body slick with sweat and panting like an engine. Her face knotted and the muscles of her swollen stomach rippled as she labored at her task. A shriek and the baby’s head slid free of the birth canal. Good, no complications. No real tissue damage, no bleeding worth noting.

Gwen’s strong fingers helped with the final heaves. Warm water stood by; she sponged the baby clean and wrapped it. The red infant face squalled, and she felt her heart melt with love. “There, my little one,” she whispered. “It’s all right. We know what you need.” Her nostrils flared to take its scent, a clean sharp odor cutting through the heavy smell of human fluids.

She handed the infant to Tom, who held it dubiously while Gwen and Dr. Mueller saw to Alice and helped her into the waiting bed. The baby was crying again, sharp and demanding, craning its neck from side to side—smaller than a human newborn, but a little more coordinated. Reddish fuzz covered its head, and there was a trace of knowledge in the green eyes; the transducer would already have begun to trickle knowledge in, slowly and carefully. Neurons would be forming and knitting into patterns in the newborn brain.

“You can leave us now,” she said.

The men left the small bedroom. Gwen put the baby to the brooders breast; Alice gasped once sharply at the strong tugging, then relaxed with a contented little whimper. There were dark circles under her eyes, but she looked down at the small wiggling form with awed wonder.

“My little cuckoo,” she said. She sighed and glanced up at Gwen. “That didn’t hurt as much as I expected. It was sort of . . . exciting.”

“Give us some credit for improving the process,” Gwen said.

The brooder would be full of endorphins, to start with. And being smaller, a drakensis infant did less damage coming out; the hominid pelvis hadn’t adapted to the size of head an intelligent being needed, so the genetic engineers had done it the other way round and given the child a longer growth spurt programmed for immediately after birth.

“God, she’s hungry.”

“Well, she needs more nutrients than a human baby. Remember to take the diet supplements.”

Gwen stroked a finger along the velvety cheek of her daughter, feeling the tiny muscles working against the brooder’s nipple. Take what you need, little one, she thought. It’s a good start on life.

“She’ll sleep more than a human baby too, at first. You’ll be up and around in a day or two, and we’ll have a couple of house servants to help you with the details.”

“I want to look after her,” Alice said softly, a dreamy smile of pleasure turning her lips up. “More than anything.”

Good old maternal instinct, Gwen thought, bending down to kiss the human’s forehead as her eyes fluttered into sleep. The baby gave a small belch and slept as well with limp infant finality, head cradled on the brooder’s chest. Newborns of her race triggered that inborn drive even more powerfully than human babies did, most strongly in the brooder but acting on anyone in close contact over time.

Gwen remembered her own brooder with nostalgia. She had never been quite as close to any other living thing.

“No more games,” she said quietly to herself, rising and looking down at the pair. There was too much to protect now. She strode out into the feral world, a cold ferocity running through her with a taste like iron and salt.


* * *


“Yeah, Bill, I realize he threatened your family. No, we can’t go after them right away—but Bill, there’s some stuff you ought to see at the Fortress of Solitude. We may have to move soon. Meet you there, okay? Okay.”

Carmaggio turned away from the phone and back down the corridor, dodging people and sipping at the lukewarm, oily-bitter coffee in the Styrofoam cup. It tasted about as bad as his mouth, badly in need of a morning toothbrush. For that matter, he could use a shave. Have to take care of that. He had the stuff in his locker, the precautions you learned after twenty years of irregular hours.

The interrogation room was plain and simple—one shaded overhead light, a deal table, some recording equipment carefully switched off, and chairs; it smelled of disinfectant, sweat and old cigarettes. Laureano was in orange overalls now, sitting sullen and resentful across the scarred deal surface, still in the hospital wheelchair. The bullet hadn’t done more than chip the bone, fortunately. It would be a good while before the gangbanger was doing any sprints, but he could talk.

Luckily he hadn’t asked for a lawyer, yet. Jesus was chatting, doing the good cop, offering coffee and cigarettes. Carmaggio came into the room with a carefully brutal expression on his face, and tossed his jacket over the back of a chair. That let Laureano have a good look at the piece that’d shot him.

“Laureano, you little motherfucker, you are in deep, deep shit,” he said, turning the chair around and sitting down with his arms braced on the back. “We’ve got you on trafficking, we’ve got you on possession of stolen goods—you really ought to’ve filed the serials on those guns—assault, attempted homicide, on two police officers yet and in front of multiple witnesses. Incidentally, your fat friend Cesar is singing like he was on MTV. He don’t like you so much anymore. According to him, he’s an angel and you’re the turd of turds.”

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Jesus said. “You don’t have to come down hard on Laureano that way. He’s not a bad guy.”

“Not a bad guy for a pimping, crack-selling little shit who tries to blow cops away,” Carmaggio said, enjoying himself. It wasn’t often you got the opportunity to be completely truthful, and in a good cause.

Laureano recoiled slightly in his wheelchair, then flinched as it sent a stab of pain through his wounded leg. He was good-looking in a raffish sort of way, but there was a haunted look in his eyes that Carmaggio suspected had little to do with his wound or being in a police station, neither of which were new experiences for him.

“I want my lawyer,” he said. “You gonna charge me, you got to give me a lawyer.”

Both the policemen smiled. Yup, Carmaggio thought. We would. Good thing this was the late nineties; a decade or so before, they’d have had to use the juvenile system on little Laureano. Occasionally, legal changes did make things easier on the cops. Not often, but occasionally.

“Hey,” Jesus said. “Did we say we were going to charge you?” He turned to Carmaggio. “Lieutenant, we don’t really want to charge this guy, do we?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Henry said. “Cute young chicken like this, he’ll be real popular in stir once they put him in with the general population. He’ll be the belle of the ball. Wouldn’t want to deprive him of the experience of being sought-after.”

That brought a reaction; more of one than Henry had expected. The young Puerto Rican was grimacing, clutching the arms of his wheelchair, sweating until Henry could smell the rank whiff of it. Not normal. Hardcases like this were in and out of juvie and then stir all their lives. Laureano had probably done his first killing around the time he lost his cherry. Prison wasn’t more than a minor threat.

Jesus brought a cup of water from the cooler. “Here, chico, take this. C’mon, you’ll feel better.”

“I’m no sissy,” Laureano said. “Don’t you call me no sissy.”

“Sure,” Henry said. “You’re a real man, muy macho. That’s why you and your friends let a woman kick your ass up by Riverside last month.”

Carmaggio tossed a glossy of Gwendolyn Ingolfsson across the table, a take from the prospectus Primary Belway Securities was putting out. The picture spun and settled before the gangbanger’s eyes. That’ll probably get a reaction.

Henry jerked back in surprise as Laureano screamed and tried to leap out of the wheelchair and across the table. The attempt failed as the wounded leg buckled beneath him; he caught at the edge of the table and screamed again as his weight fell against it, this time with pain.

“What the hell’s going on in here?”

Captain McLeish broke through the door, watching as Henry and his partner levered the gray-faced suspect back into his wheelchair. His eyes narrowed.

“Carmaggio, that rubber-hose crap doesn’t hold up in court, or hadn’t you noticed.”

Henry rose and dusted off his hands. “Laureano here just got a little excited,” he said soothingly. “Neither of us laid a finger on him.”

“He bleeding?”

“Nope, just jarred the wound a bit when he tried to get out of the wheelchair. No problem.”

Carmaggio let the false smile slide off his face as the door closed behind his superior.

“All right, enough dicking around,” he said. Laureano was hunched in the chair, eyes squeezed shut. “Talk, you little shit.”

As McLeish had pointed out, beating confessions out of suspects was an exercise in futility, besides being a bad thing in itself. Any halfway decent lawyer could rip your balls off in court if you did anything remotely resembling the old third degree. On the other hand, they weren’t trying to get Laureano to confess to a crime himself . . . and even the most modern practice didn’t say they had to make him feel good.

“That wasn’t a woman,” Laureano said in a controlled hiss. “You believe me, it wasn’t no woman. It just looked like a woman, maybe it was a bruja, I don’t know, some sort of robot thing. José, he . . . She grabbed his gun and killed him with it, man, she just turned it around in his hand and blew his brains out. And she killed all the others, and she . . .”

Laureano put his face in his hands and began to sob. “I couldn’t stop it, man, I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t stop it, she just kept doing it and every time afterwards I touch a woman I see her and—”

Carmaggio looked away, embarrassed. Nobody should be stripped like that, not even a noxious little vermin like Laureano. Jesus was patting him on the shoulder, lighting his cigarette; he tossed his head toward the door.

Time for the Bad Cop to take a powder, Carmaggio thought, tripping the record switch and quietly slipping out of the room. The last thing you wanted to do was distract a talker once the dam had broken. He strongly suspected that this was the first time Laureano had said a word about his little out-of-this-world encounter on the mean streets. And speaking of taking a powder . . . Certain things reminded you of your age, and one of them was the bladder. He grinned at his reflection as he dried his hands. A signed, witnessed statement from Little Laureano the Alien’s Pet, and they’d have a murder rap to pin on Ms. Ingolfsson. They might not be able to make it stick, of course; they might not even be able to hold her long. Riker’s wasn’t designed for superhuman time-travelers.

But long enough would do. He remembered the solid heft of the plasma rifle that Lafarge had made. In, out, job done. Time enough to worry about the consequences afterward. Henry Carmaggio had always paced himself by the task at hand, anyway.

He was just outside the door to the interrogation room when the first scream began. Not a long one, just a sharp agonized grunt. Henry flipped the door open and slammed it behind himself.

“What the fuck—”

Jesus had been sitting on the edge of the table, leaning forward sympathetically. He put a hand on Laureano’s shoulder when the prisoner doubled over with a squeal of pain.

The second scream was louder, and much longer. Laureano reared up out of his chair, clutching at his stomach. His eyes bulged, whites showing around the rims. Henry started forward, and met an arching spray of blood from the open mouth. Together the two policemen caught the slumping, thrashing figure and lowered it to the floor. The shriek coming out of the gaping mouth was continuous and as nerve-shredding as a nail across a blackboard. Blood spattered, in their faces, on the walls, drops arching as high as the ceiling in slaughterhouse profusion.

Henry grabbed for the young man’s chin, trying to stabilize the mouth so he could see where the hemorrhage was coming from. It jerked in his blood-slippery hand as the whole body arched and flailed. A hand caught him alongside the head, stunning him. The chin slid out of his hand, and Laureano bent until only his heels and head were touching the ground. The detective bored back in, shaking off the ringing in his head, but before he could touch the prisoner the whole body went limp with a boneless finality and fecal smell that were all too familiar.

“Dead,” he said. “Son of a bitch. What—”

The dead man’s head lolled. Something moved on the tongue, something that walked on six dainty legs and lifted a metallic head into the light. The dead mouth yawned wide, and a stream of them poured out over lips and teeth in a final gout of blood. One skittered forward, and Henry threw himself back with a shout of loathing, landing on his buttocks halfway across the room. His gun was in his hand, but there was nothing he could shoot at, nothing at all—and Jesus batted at one of the little monstrosities with an equally unthinking reflex.

“Cristo!” the younger man shouted.

Something glittering clung to his palm. He shouted again, pain in his tone, and slammed the hand down on the table. The shout turned into a scream when he lifted it again; the head of the thing that had killed Laureano was burrowing into his flesh. The legs waved, gripped, pushed.

Carmaggio felt his mind go cool and detached. He scrambled sideways towards the chair with his jacket, only taking time to come to his feet when another slick-black shape scuttled across the worn boards of the floor. His left hand dove into the inner pocket of the jacket, took out the button-sized black thimble and jammed it into his ear.

“Lafarge! Christ, we’re under attack, get moving. Little things like bugs, they killed Laureano—”

“Coming.”

Henry danced sideways like a bear on a hotplate as a metallic bug skittered toward his foot. He came down with all the weight of his two hundred pounds on his heel, and there was a crunch sound and a fat blue spark. He yelled himself as he tottered back; even through the thick leather he could feel the heat, and there was a circular scorchmark on the floor the size of a demitasse.

“Stop that, you’re just driving it in like a nail,” he shouted at Jesus.

He caught the younger man’s hand and shoved the edge of his pistol-barrel against the thing chewing its way into his partners flesh. Something snagged at the weapon. Tiny legs, clawing for a hold. He twisted hand and gun towards the wall and pulled the trigger.

Crack. The discharge was much louder in a closed room than outdoors. Chunks of plaster flew from the outside wall; there was brick behind that, thank God, and no ricochet either. Tiny bits of metal spattered the wall behind the bullet. Jesus snatched his injured hand away and hugged it to his stomach, cursing. He staggered and nearly fell. Carmaggio grabbed him under the armpit.

“Christ, watch it, there are more of them!”

“Coming fast. Hold on.”

“Hold on my ass,” Carmaggio barked.

The camcorder mounted on the table went up in a shower of sparks and smoke. Tiny shapes climbed out on the ruined casing, waving their feelers in triumph. More scuttled across the floor. The two detectives went back-to-back, kicking frantically.


# # #


Gwen opened her eyes. The transmission was a meaningless buzz to her transducer, but the origin . . .

samothracian patterns, the instrument said.

“Damn,” she said mildly, cutting her link with the creatures inside the building above.

It wouldn’t do at all to have her transducer open like that when Citizen Lafarge showed up. A pity; it would have been satisfying to finish them all off, but she’d made a good start.

The Draka pushed off from the wall of the police station and strode away down the street, whistling quietly and enjoying the mild spring air. For once New York didn’t stink quite so badly, which was a relief. I think I’ll take a turn in Central Park. Not too far away, and a place to rest her eyes.

At the corner she looked over her shoulder and smiled. They were probably quite unhappy, back in there.


# # #


They’ve stopped.

For one long second the crawling things hesitated. Then they turned and retreated; through the spreading film of blood from Laureano’s corpse, into the baseboards, down through cracks in the flooring. Carmaggio staggered as the vise released his chest; he felt an insane giggle forcing its way up his throat. He straightened up out of his crouch and tried to reholster his pistol. That took several tries. Jesus was still glaring and waving his, with his hand dripping onto the floor half-covered with the prisoner’s blood and fluids.

“I think they’ve stopped,” Henry said. He still jumped at a rustle, but it was only a fragment of tape going thack against the ruined recording machine as it spun. When the door burst open he jumped again, then stopped stock still with his hands in plain sight.

Captain McLeish was there, with half a dozen uniforms. They all had their automatics out, trained on him and Jesus.

“Freeze! Freeze right there!” McLeish bellowed. His gun jerked to follow Jesus’s movements, and the younger detective laid his own weapon down with elaborate care.

McLeish looked down at Laureano’s body. “Shit on fire, Carmaggio,” he said softly. “I didn’t think even you would pull something like this right in the precinct house.”


* * *


“That videotape saved your ass, Carmaggio,” Captain McLeish said.

“Yessir.”

Henry watched Laureano die again, watched Jesus and his own image dance around the interrogation room while the body flopped like a gaffed fish. His mouth felt papery dry at the sight, at the memory that came flooding back like a great wave crashing over a seawall and sweeping away men and the works of men. The grainy image was too coarse to show the thing crawling out on the dead man’s tongue. That was something to be thankful for.

“That and the autopsy. So you didn’t shoot the little spic. Not unless one of your bullets has teeth and burrowed from his asshole out his throat, chewing its way along. But you did it somehow. I’ve known for years there’s something weird about you and your faithful fucking Tonto too. If Internal Affairs doesn’t pin this on you, I will—one way or another.”

At any other time, that might have been a serious threat. Carmaggio stared sightlessly at the pictures on the Captain’s walls. The words bellowed at him were no more real, less real than the politicians and their smiles.

“You’re on suspension—your badge and gun stay here, motherfucker. And that goes for your partner, when they let him out of the hospital. Don’t think you can go whining to the union. You had a suspect die on your hands. Don’t try the press, either, or you’ll regret it even more.”

“No, sir,” Henry said tonelessly.

Badges belonged to the old world, where metallic insects didn’t burrow through men’s flesh, eating them out from the inside. Right now that was the least of his worries. A gun he could get anytime he needed one. Last night he’d half-seriously considered putting one in his mouth, just for an instant.

“Get out of here, and don’t come back until we call you. Get out of this building, get out of my life.”

“Yessir.”

He walked numbly out of the office, over to his own, went through the motions of getting the essentials out of his desk and responding to the bewildered sympathy of his friends. Then his hands stopped. Jenny. Christ, it’d been bad enough before. And she was working with the thing who’d sent the . . . things.

“I’ve got to get her away from there.”

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