Cell. Part 8

10.

'Once we left the city, I didn't see anyone anyone with a gun,' Clay said. 'At first I wasn't really looking, and then I was.' with a gun,' Clay said. 'At first I wasn't really looking, and then I was.'

'You know why, don't you? Except maybe for California, Ma.s.sachusetts has got the toughest gun law in the country.'

Clay remembered seeing billboards proclaiming that at the state line a few years ago. Then they'd been replaced by ones saying that if you got picked up for driving under the influence, you'd have to spend a night in jail.

Tom said, 'If the cops find a concealed handgun in your car-meaning like in the glove compartment with your registration and insurance card-they can put you away for I think seven years. Get stopped with a loaded rifle in your pickup, even in hunting season, and you could get slapped with a ten-thousand-dollar fine and two years of community service.' He picked up the remains of his sandwich, inspected it, put it back down again. 'You can own a handgun and keep it in your home if you're not a felon, but a license to carry? Maybe if you've got Father O'Malley of the Boys' Club to cosign, but maybe not even then.'

'No guns might have saved some lives, coming out of the city.'

'I agree with you completely,' Tom said. 'Those two guys fighting over the keg of beer? Thank G.o.d G.o.d neither of them had a.38.' neither of them had a.38.'

Clay nodded.

Tom rocked back in his chair, crossed his arms on his narrow chest, and looked around. His gla.s.ses glinted. The circle of light thrown by the Coleman lantern was brilliant but small. 'Right now, however, I wouldn't mind having a pistol. Even after seeing the mess they make. And I consider myself a pacifist.'

'How long have you lived here, Tom?'

'Almost twelve years. Long enough to see Malden go a long way down the road to s.h.i.+tsville. It's not there yet, but boy, it's going.'

'Okay, so think about it. Which of your neighbors is apt to have a gun or guns in their house?'

Tom answered promptly. 'Arnie Nickerson, across the street and three houses up. NRA b.u.mper sticker on his Camry-along with a couple of yellow ribbon decals and an old Bush-Cheney sticker-'

'Goes without saying-'

'And two two NRA stickers on his pickup, which he equips with a camper cap in November and takes hunting up in your part of the world.' NRA stickers on his pickup, which he equips with a camper cap in November and takes hunting up in your part of the world.'

'And we're happy to have the revenue his out-of-state hunting license provides,' Clay said. 'Let's break into his house tomorrow and take his guns.'

Tom McCourt looked at him as though he were mad. 'The man isn't as paranoid as some of those militia types out in Utah-I mean, he does does live in Taxachusetts-but he's got one of those burglar alarm signs on his lawn that basically says DO YOU FEEL LUCKY, PUNK, and I'm sure you must be familiar with the NRA's stated policy as to just when their guns will be taken away from them.' live in Taxachusetts-but he's got one of those burglar alarm signs on his lawn that basically says DO YOU FEEL LUCKY, PUNK, and I'm sure you must be familiar with the NRA's stated policy as to just when their guns will be taken away from them.'

'I think it has something to do with prying their cold dead fingers-'

'That's the one.'

Clay leaned forward and stated what to him had been obvious from the moment they'd come down the ramp from Route One: Malden was now just one more f.u.c.ked-up town in the Unicel States of America, and that country was now out of service, off the hook, so sorry, please try your call again later. Salem Street was deserted. He had felt that as they approached* hadn't he?

No. Bulls.h.i.+t. You felt watched.

Really? And even if he had, was that the sort of intuition that could be relied upon, acted upon, acted upon, after a day like this one? The idea was ridiculous. after a day like this one? The idea was ridiculous.

'Tom, listen. One of us'll walk up to this guy Nackleson's house tomorrow, after it's full daylight-'

'It's Nickerson, and I don't think that's a very smart idea, especially since Swami McCourt sees him kneeling inside his living room window with a fully automatic rifle he's been saving for the end of the world. Which seems to have rolled around.'

'I'll do it,' Clay said. 'And I won't won't do it if we hear any gunshots from the Nickerson place tonight or tomorrow morning. I do it if we hear any gunshots from the Nickerson place tonight or tomorrow morning. I certainly certainly won't do it if I see any bodies on the guy's lawn, with or without gunshot wounds. I watched all those old won't do it if I see any bodies on the guy's lawn, with or without gunshot wounds. I watched all those old Twilight Zone Twilight Zone episodes, too-the ones where civilization turns out to be nothing more than a thin layer of sh.e.l.lac.' episodes, too-the ones where civilization turns out to be nothing more than a thin layer of sh.e.l.lac.'

'If that,' Tom said gloomily. 'Idi Amin, Pol Pot, the prosecution rests.'

'I'll go with my hands raised. Ring the doorbell. If someone answers, I'll say I just want to talk. What's the worst that can happen? He tells me to get lost.'

'No, the worst that can happen is he can shoot you dead on his f.u.c.king welcome mat and leave me with a motherless teenage girl,' Tom said sharply. 'Smart off about old Twilight Zone Twilight Zone episodes all you want, just don't forget those people you saw today, fighting outside the T station in Boston.' episodes all you want, just don't forget those people you saw today, fighting outside the T station in Boston.'

'That was* I don't know what what it was, but those people were clinically insane. You can't doubt that, Tom.' it was, but those people were clinically insane. You can't doubt that, Tom.'

'What about Bible-Thumping Bertha? And the two men fighting over the keg? Were they insane?'

No, of course they hadn't been, but if there was a gun in that house across the street, he still wanted it. And if there was more than one, he wanted Tom and Alice each to have one, too.

'I'm thinking about going north over a hundred miles,' Clay said. 'We might be able to boost a car and drive some of it, but we might have to walk the whole way. Do you want to go with just knives for protection? I'm asking you as one serious man to another, because some of the people we run into are are going to have guns. I mean, you going to have guns. I mean, you know know that.' that.'

'Yes,' Tom said. He ran his hands through his neatly trimmed hair, giving it a comic ruffle. 'And I know that Arnie and Beth are probably not home. They were gadget-nuts as well as gun-nuts. He was always gabbing on his cell phone when he went by in that big Dodge Ram Detroit phallus of his.'

'See? There you go.'

Tom sighed. 'All right. Depending on how things look in the morning. Okay?'

'Okay.' Clay picked up his sandwich again. He felt a little more like eating now.

'Where did they go?' Tom asked. 'The ones you call the phone-crazies. Where did they go?'

'I don't know.'

'I'll tell you what I think,' Tom said. 'I think they crawled into the houses and the buildings around sundown and died.'

Clay looked at him doubtfully.

'Look at it reasonably and you'll see I'm right,' Tom said. 'This was almost certainly some sort of terrorist act, would you agree?'

'That seems the most likely explanation, although I'll be d.a.m.ned if I know how any signal, no matter how subversive, could have been programmed to do what this one did.'

'Are you a scientist?'

'You know I'm not. I'm an artist.'

'So when the government tells you they can guide computerized smart-bombs through bunker doors in the floor of the desert from aircraft carriers that are maybe two thousand miles away, all you can do is look at the photos and accept that the technology exists.'

'Would Tom Clancy lie to me?' Clay asked, unsmiling.

'And if that that technology exists, why not accept this one, at least on a provisional basis?' technology exists, why not accept this one, at least on a provisional basis?'

'Okay, spell it out. Small words, please.'

'At about three o'clock this afternoon, a terrorist organization, maybe even a tinpot government, generated some sort of signal or pulse. For now we have to a.s.sume that this signal was carried by every cell phone operating in the entire world. We'll hope that wasn't the case, but for now I think we have have to a.s.sume the worst.' to a.s.sume the worst.'

'Is it over?'

'I don't know,' Tom said. 'Do you want to pick up a cell phone and find out?'

'Touchy,' Clay said. 'That's how my little boy says touche.' And please, G.o.d, how he's still saying it. touche.' And please, G.o.d, how he's still saying it.

'But if this group could transmit a signal that would send everyone hearing it insane,' Tom said, 'isn't it possible that the signal could also contain a directive for those receiving it to kill themselves five hours later? Or perhaps to simply go to sleep and stop breathing?'

'I would say that's impossible.'

'I would have said a madman coming at me with a knife across from the Four Seasons Hotel was impossible,' Tom said. 'Or Boston burning flat while the city's entire population-that part of it lucky enough not to have cell phones, that is-left by the Mystic and the Zakim.'

He leaned forward, looking at Clay intently. He wants to believe this, He wants to believe this, Clay thought. Clay thought. Don't waste a lot of time trying to talk him out of it, because he really, really wants to. Don't waste a lot of time trying to talk him out of it, because he really, really wants to.

'In a way, this is no different from the bioterrorism the government was so afraid of after nine-eleven,' he said. 'By using cell phones, which have become the dominant form of communication in our daily lives, you simultaneously turn the populace into your own conscript army-an army that's literally afraid of nothing, because it's insane-and you break down the infrastructure. Where's the National Guard tonight?'

'Iraq?' Clay ventured. 'Louisiana?'

It wasn't much of a joke and Tom didn't smile. 'It's nowhere. How do you use a homeland force that now depends almost entirely on the cellular network to even mobilize? mobilize? As for airplanes, the last one I've seen flying was the little one that crashed on the corner of Charles and Beacon.' He paused, then went on, looking straight across the table into Clay's eyes. 'All this they did* whoever As for airplanes, the last one I've seen flying was the little one that crashed on the corner of Charles and Beacon.' He paused, then went on, looking straight across the table into Clay's eyes. 'All this they did* whoever they they is. They looked at us from wherever it is they live and wors.h.i.+p their G.o.ds, and what did they see?' is. They looked at us from wherever it is they live and wors.h.i.+p their G.o.ds, and what did they see?'

Clay shook his head, fascinated by Tom's eyes, s.h.i.+ning behind his spectacles. They were almost the eyes of a visionary.

'They saw we had built the Tower of Babel all over again* and on nothing but electronic cobwebs. And in a s.p.a.ce of seconds, they brushed those cobwebs aside and our Tower fell. All this they did, and we three are like bugs that happened, by dumb dim luck alone, to have avoided the fall of a giant's foot. All this they did, and you think they could not have encoded a signal telling the affected ones to simply fall asleep and stop breathing five hours later? What's that trick, compared to the first one? Not much, I'd say.'

Clay said, 'I'd say it's time we got some sleep.'

For a moment Tom remained as he was, hunched across the table a little, looking at Clay as if unable to understand what Clay had said. Then he laughed. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Yeah, you've got a point. I get wound up. Sorry.'

'Not at all,' Clay said. 'I hope you're right about the crazies being dead.' He paused, then said: 'I mean* unless my boy* Johnny-Gee*' He couldn't finish. Partly or maybe mostly because if Johnny had tried to use his phone this afternoon and had gotten the same call as Pixie Light and Power Suit Woman, Clay wasn't sure he wanted his son to still be alive.

Tom reached across the table to him and Clay took the other man's delicate, long-fingered hand in both of his. He saw this happening as if he were outside his body, and when he spoke, he didn't seem to be the one speaking, although he could feel his mouth moving and the tears that had begun to fall from his eyes.

'I'm so scared for him,' his mouth was saying. 'I'm scared for both of them, but mostly for my kid.'

'It'll be all right,' Tom said, and Clay knew he meant well, but the words struck terror into his heart just the same, because it was just one of those things you said when there was really nothing else. Like You'll get over it You'll get over it or or He's in a better place. He's in a better place.

11.

Alice's shrieks woke Clay from a confused but not unpleasant dream of being in the Bingo Tent at the Akron State Fair. In the dream he was six again-maybe even younger but surely no older-and crouched beneath the long table where his mother was seated, looking at a forest of lady-legs and smelling sweet sawdust while the caller intoned, 'B-12, players, B-12! It's the suns.h.i.+ne suns.h.i.+ne vitamin!' vitamin!'

There was one moment when his subconscious mind tried to integrate the girl's cries into the dream by insisting he was hearing the Sat.u.r.day noon whistle, but only a moment. Clay had let himself go to sleep on Tom's porch after an hour of watching because he was convinced that nothing was going to happen out there, at least not tonight. But he must have been equally convinced that Alice wouldn't sleep through, because there was no real confusion once his mind identified her shrieks for what they were, no groping for where he was or what was going on. At one moment he was a small boy crouching under a bingo table in Ohio; at the next he was rolling off the comfortably long couch on Tom McCourt's enclosed front porch with the comforter still wrapped around his lower legs. And somewhere in the house, Alice Maxwell, howling in a register almost high enough to burst crystal, articulated all the horror of the day just past, insisting with one scream after another that such things surely could not have happened and must be denied.

Clay tried to rid his lower legs of the comforter and at first it wouldn't let go. He found himself hopping toward the inside door and pulling at it in a kind of panic while he looked out at Salem Street, sure that lights would start going on up and down the block even though he knew the power was out, sure that someone-maybe the gun-owning, gadget-loving Mr. Nickerson from up the street-would come out on his lawn and yell for someone to for chrissake shut that kid up. Don't make me come down there! Don't make me come down there! Arnie Nickerson would yell. Arnie Nickerson would yell. Don't make me come down there and shoot her! Don't make me come down there and shoot her!

Or her screams would draw the phone-crazies like moths to a bug light. Tom might think they were dead, but Clay believed it no more than he believed in Santa's workshop at the North Pole.

But Salem Street-their block of it, anyway, just west of the town center and below the part of Maiden Tom had called Granada Highlands- remained dark and silent and without movement. Even the glow of the fire from Revere seemed to have diminished.

Clay finally rid himself of the comforter and went inside and stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up into the blackness. Now he could hear Tom's voice-not the words, but the tone, low and calm and soothing. The girl's chilling shrieks began to be broken up by gasps for breath, then by sobs and inarticulate cries that became words. Clay caught one of them, nightmare. nightmare. Tom's voice went on and on, telling lies in a rea.s.suring drone: everything was all right, she would see, things would look better in the morning. Clay could picture them sitting side by side on the guestroom bed, each dressed in a pair of pajamas with Tom's voice went on and on, telling lies in a rea.s.suring drone: everything was all right, she would see, things would look better in the morning. Clay could picture them sitting side by side on the guestroom bed, each dressed in a pair of pajamas with TM TM monograms on the breast pockets. He could have drawn them like that. The idea made him smile. monograms on the breast pockets. He could have drawn them like that. The idea made him smile.

When he was convinced she wasn't going to resume screaming, he went back to the porch, which was a bit chilly but not uncomfortable once he was wrapped up snugly in the comforter. He sat on the couch, surveying what he could see of the street. To the left, east of Tom's house, was a business district. He thought he could see the traffic light marking the entrance into the town square. The other way-which was the way they'd come-more houses. All of them still in this deep trench of night.

'Where are you?' he murmured. 'Some of you headed north or west, and still in your right minds. But where did the rest of you go?'

No answer from the street. h.e.l.l, maybe Tom was right-the cell phones had sent them a message to go crazy at three and drop dead at eight. It seemed too good to be true, but he remembered feeling the same way about recordable CDs.

Silence from the street in front of him; silence from the house behind him. After a while, Clay leaned back on the couch and let his eyes close. He thought he might doze, but doubted he would actually go to sleep again. Eventually, however, he did, and this time there were no dreams. Once, shortly before first light, a mongrel dog came up Tom McCourt's front walk, looked in at him as he lay snoring in his coc.o.o.n of comforter, and then moved on. It was in no hurry; pickings were rich in Malden that morning and would be for some time to come.

12.

'Clay. Wake up.'

A hand, shaking him. Clay opened his eyes and saw Tom, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a gray work-s.h.i.+rt, bending over him. The front porch was lit by strong pale light. Clay glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch as he swung his feet off the couch and saw it was twenty past six.

'You need to see this,' Tom said. He looked pale, anxious, and grizzled on both sides of his mustache. The tail of his s.h.i.+rt was untucked on one side and his hair was still standing up in back.

Clay looked at Salem Street, saw a dog with something in its mouth trotting past a couple of dead cars half a block west, saw nothing else moving. He could smell a faint smoky funk in the air and supposed it was either Boston or Revere. Maybe both, but at least the wind had died. He turned his gaze to Tom.

'Not out here,' Tom said. He kept his voice low. 'In the backyard. I saw when I went in the kitchen to make coffee before I remembered coffee's out, at least for the time being. Maybe it's nothing, but* man, I don't like this.'

'Is Alice still sleeping?' Clay was groping under the comforter for his socks.

'Yes, and that's good. Never mind your socks and shoes, this ain't dinner at the Ritz. Come on.'

He followed Tom, who was wearing a pair of comfortable-looking scuffs, down the hall to the kitchen. A half-finished gla.s.s of iced tea was standing on the counter.

Tom said, 'I can't get started without some caffeine in the morning, you know? So I poured myself a gla.s.s of that stuff-help yourself, by the way, it's still nice and cold-and I pushed back the curtain over the sink to take a look out at my garden. No reason, just wanted to touch base with the outside world. And I saw* but look for yourself.'