“So what do we do if there’s just water? Let you drown?”

“Something’s out there,” the woman said.

“I’m not doubting it. I just wish I didn’t feel so damned creepy. Everything’s gone to hell the last few months. Thank God it’s not the season. No tourists. The President’s going nuts. Whole world.”

“Are you part of the network?” Ian asked.

Mickey shook his head. “Not me, thank God. Donovan is. He’s told me about it, and he showed me the spider. Damned thing wouldn’t bite me. Shows you what the hell I’m worth. I’ve thought about calling up the newspapers, but who would believe me? Who would care? Me and Donovan, we’ve worked the lakes for thirty years, first fishing smelt, then running geehawks — that’s tourists — all around. I named this boat. It’s a joke.”

Nobody understood, so he cleared his throat. “I tell people, ‘Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.’ Remember that song? Ore tanker went down. Big wave or something broke its keel and it sank without a trace. But what the hell — geehawks don’t know nothing about the lakes. They think lakes are puddles. These lakes are goddamned oceans, landlocked oceans. You could hide anything at the bottom, whole cities…” He glared at them for emphasis, one pencil-thin eyebrow raised. “So I’ve been thinking. No need to talk about what I’ve been thinking. I’ll just let that sit with you, and with Donovan. If the goddamned spider doesn’t bite me, sure I’ll cooperate — he’s my partner — but I say the hell with it, and with everything else.”

He walked aft with the box and Thermos, shoulders twitching. The woman ate her single doughnut delicately, leaning her elbow against the back of the bench, watching him leave. “So what have you two been doing?” she asked, suddenly familiar and friendly.

Ian sat beside her, holding his coffee cup against the boat’s gentle sway in the crook of one folded leg. “I’ve been looting the libraries at Cleveland State,” he said. “And you?”

“Case Western,” she said. “I and about six others. Two of them are hackers, They brought a truck into the data storage center at the main library and ran cables into the building and took everything they could get their hands on.”

“I sent records from the Library of Congress to this fellow in Virginia,” Reuben said. “And other stuff. I recruited Trevor Hicks.” Neither Ian nor the woman knew who Hicks was. “Have you met any of the ones below the bosses — the humans I’ve heard on the network, giving orders?”

“I have,” the woman said. “One of them’s my husband. We were separated, filing for divorce, when we were both possessed. I’ve had to work with him, and take orders from him, the last two months. He works for the State Department.”

Cleveland was no longer visible to the south. There was nothing but blue ice-dotted lake and a fast-disappearing mist from horizon to horizon. They had been on the water for over an hour.

“Do you think there’s anybody who’s got the whole picture?” Ian asked. “Any human, I mean.”

“I haven’t met one if there is,” Reuben said.

“My husband gives orders, but he doesn’t know everything.”

Ian licked crumbs and sugar from his fingers. “I hope they have a bathroom on this tub,” he said, walking aft.

The boat’s motors cut back to a throaty gurgling rumble. The water had taken on a slight chop and as they circled, Reuben felt queasy. I’m going to regret that doughnut.

“All right,” Donovan called on the loudspeaker from the pilot house, “this is where we’re supposed to be. Anybody getting messages?”

“Not me,” the woman said, standing and brushing doughnut crumbs from her coat.

“Christ,” Donovan commented dryly.

They had circled for ten minutes when Ian sang out, “Thar she blows!” He had ascended to the upper deck and now leaned over the railing beside the pilot house, pointing east. Reuben and the woman returned to the bow and followed his point and saw a dead gray block rising from the water, about the size and shape of a moving van’s trailer. The pilot gunned the motors and moved them closer to the protuberance.

“What is it?” Ian shouted. “A submarine?”

“I don’t know,” Reuben said, half laughing. He was excited and more frightened than ever. The woman’s face was a stiff mask, but her wide-eyed, glassy stare gave her away.

The boat came to within a few yards of the gray block. The bow wash slapped against it.

A square hatch about as tall as Reuben opened in the smooth dull surface at the level of the boat’s bulwarks.

“It’s an elevator,” the woman said. “No, it’s a stairway. We’re supposed to go inside. You, me, and him.” She pointed at herself, Reuben, and Ian on the upper deck. “Nobody else.”

“I know,” Reuben said. At least it’s not rocking.

Donovan stood by the port gangway and pulled it aside as the pilot brought the boat as close to the block as he dared. Mickey wheeled a shorter gangplank to the gangway and pushed it out to the block’s entrance. It was safe enough and no more. The woman crossed first, impatient, buffeted by the wind, gripping the single raised handrail tightly; then Reuben, and finally Ian.

She was already descending a spiral staircase within the block when Reuben stopped at the rear of the alcove. He peered down after her. Ian came up behind him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Reuben affirmed.

“Better go, then.”

They descended. Above them, the hatch shut with a gentle hum.

59

There was a wildly canted floor, smoke coming up through the boards and tile, a gout of steam and rock, and the walls falling away. He felt himself lifted and screamed.

Sitting upright in the bed, Arthur blinked at the unfamiliar room. Marty was on his hands and knees crying hysterically in the next bed.

Francine put her arms around Arthur.

“There’s nothing,” she said. “There’s nothing.” She let him go and crawled out from under the covers to embrace Marty. “Dad was having a nightmare,” she said. “He’s all right.”

“It was here,” Arthur said. “I felt it. Ahh, God.”

Marty was quiet now. Francine came back to their bed and lay next to him. “You’d think they’d help you with your dreams or something,” she said, somewhat bitterly.

“I wish they’d blocked that one,” he said. “I could—”

“Shhh,” Francine said, wrapping her arms around him now. She was shivering. “Bad enough if we have to live through it. Why do we have to dream about it, too?”

“Have you dreamed about it?”

She shook her head. “I will, though. I know I will. Everybody will, the closer it gets.” Her shivers turned into something more. Her teeth clicked together as she held him. Arthur stroked her face with his fingers and tightened his grip on her, but she was not to be consoled. Without tears, she shook violently, silently, her neck muscles locked with the effort of not making a sound, not scaring Marty.

“We-we-we wou-would die,” she whispered harshly.

“Shh,” he said. “Shh. I’m the one who had the nightmare.”

“We would d-die,” she repeated. “I w-want to scream. I n-n-need to scream, Art.” She glanced at Marty, still awake, listening, watching from where he lay.

“Is Mommy all right?” Marty asked.

Arthur didn’t answer.

“Mommy!” Marty barked.

“I-I’m fine, honey.” Her shaking hadn’t diminished.

“Your mother’s scared,” Arthur said.

“Stop it,” Francine demanded, glaring at him.

“We’re all very scared,” Arthur said.

“Is it happening now?” Marty asked.

“No, but we’re worried about it, and that gives me nightmares, and makes your mommy shiver.”

Francine closed her eyes in an agony of maternal empathy.

“Everybody’s ascared,” Marty declared. “Not just me. Everybody.”

“That’s right,” Arthur said. He rocked Francine gently. She relaxed her wrinkled brows but kept her eyes closed. Her shaking had slowed to an occasional shudder. Marty came from his bed to theirs and wrapped his arms around Francine, placing his cheek against her shoulder.