Mr Gray had committed another murder and stolen another vehicle, this time a DPW plow. Jonesy didn’t see it happen. Mr Gray, having apparently decided he couldn’t get Jonesy out of his office (not, at least, until he could devote all his time and energy to the problem), had decided to do the next best thing, which was to wall him off from the outside world. Jonesy now thought he knew how Fortunato must have felt when Montresor bricked him up in the wine-cellar.

It happened not long after Mr Gray put the State Trooper’s car back in the turnpike’s southbound lane (there was just the one, at least for the time being, and that was treacherous). Jonesy was in a closet at the time, following up what seemed to him to be an absolutely brilliant idea.

Mr Gray had cut off his telephone service? Okay, he would simply create a new form of communication, as he had created a thermostat to cool the place down when Mr Gray tried to force him out by overloading him with heat. A fax machine would be just the thing, he decided. And why not? All the gadgets were symbolic, only visualizations to help him first focus and then exercise powers that had been in him for over twenty years. Mr Gray had sensed those powers, and after his initial dismay had moved very efficiently to keep Jonesy from using them. The trick was to keep finding ways around Mr Gray’s roadblocks, just as Mr Gray himself kept finding ways to move south.

Jonesy closed his eyes and visualized a fax like the one in the History Department office, only he put it in the closet of his new office. Then, feeling like Aladdin rubbing the magic lamp (only the number of wishes he was granted seemed infinite, as long as he didn’t get carried away), he also visualized a stack of paper and a Berol Black Beauty pencil lying beside it. Then he went into the closet to see how he’d done.

Pretty well, it appeared at first glance… although the pencil was a tad eerie, brand-new and sharpened to a virgin point, but still gnawed all along the barrel. Yet that was as it should be, wasn’t it? Beaver was the one who had used Black Beauty pencils, even way back in Witcham Street Grammar. The rest of them had carried the more standard yellow Eberhard Fabers.

The fax looked perfect, sitting there on the floor beneath a dangle of empty coathangers and one jacket (the bright orange parka his mother had bought him for his first hunting trip, then made him promise-with his hand over his heart-to wear every single moment he was out of doors), and it was humming in an encouraging way.

Disappointment set in when he knelt in front of it and read the message in the lighted window: GIVE UP JONESY COME OUT.

He picked up the phone on the side of the machine and heard Mr Gray’s recorded voice: “Give up, Jonesy, come out. Give up, Jonesy, come o-”

A series of violent bangs, almost as loud as thunderclaps, made him cry out and jump to his feet. His first thought was that Mr Gray was using one of those SWAT squad door-busters, battering his way in.

It wasn’t the door, though. It was the window, and in some ways that was even worse. Mr Gray had put industrial gray shutters steel, they looked like-across his window. Now he wasn’t just imprisoned; he was blind, as well.

Written across the inside, easily readable through the glass: GIVE UP COME OUT. Jonesy had a brief memory of The Wizard of Oz-SURRENDER DOROTHY Written across the sky

–and wanted to laugh. He couldn’t. Nothing was funny, nothing was ironic. This was horrible. “No!” he shouted. “Take them down! Take them down, damn you!”

No answer. Jonesy raised his hands, meaning to shatter the glass and beat on the steel shutters beyond, then thought, Are you crazy? That’s what he wants! The minute you break the glass, those shutters disappear and Mr Gray is in here. And you’re gone, buddy.

He was aware of movement-the heavy rumble of the plow.

Where were they by now? Waterville? Augusta? Even farther south? Into the zone where the precip had fallen as rain? No, probably not, Mr Gray would have switched the plow for something faster if they had gotten clear of the snow. But they would be clear of it, and soon. Because they were going south.

Going where?

I might as well be dead already, Jonesy thought, looking disconsolately at the closed shutter with its taunt of a message. I might as well be dead right now.

In the end it was Owen who took Roberta Cavell by the arms and-with one eye on the racing clock, all too aware that every minute and a half brought Kurtz a mile closer-told her why they had to take Duddits, no matter how ill he was. Even in these circumstances, Henry didn’t know if he could have uttered the phrase fate of the world may depend on it with a straight face. Underhill, who had spent his life carrying a gun for his country, could and did.

Duddits stood with his arm around Henry, staring raptly down at him with his brilliant green eyes. Those eyes, at least, had not changed. Nor had the feeling they’d always had when around Duddits-that things were either perfectly all right or soon would be.

Roberta looked at Owen, her face seeming to grow older with every sentence he spoke. It was as if some malign time-lapse photography were at work. “Yes,” she said, “yes, I understand you want to find Jonesy-to catch him-but what does he want to do? And if he came here, why didn’t he do it here?” “Ma’am, I can’t answer those questions-”

“War,” Duddits said suddenly. “Onesy ont war.”

War? Owen’s mind asked Henry, alarmed. What war?

Never mind, Henry responded, and all at once the voice in Owen’s head was faint, hard to hear.

We have to go.

“Ma’am. Mrs Cavell.” Owen took her arms again, very gently. Henry loved this woman a lot, although he had ignored her quite cruelly over the last dozen years or so, and Owen knew why he’d loved her. It came off her like a sweet smoke. “We have to go.”

“No. Oh please say no.” The tears coming again. Don’t do that, lady, Owen wanted to say. Things are bad enough already. Please don’t do that.

“There’s a man coming. A very bad man. We have to be gone when he gets here.”

Roberta’s distracted, sorrowing face filled with resolution. “All right, then. If you have to. But I’m coming with you.”

“Roberta, no,” Henry said.

“Yes! Yes, I can take care of him… give him his pills… his Prednisone… I’ll make sure to bring his lemon swabs and-”

“Umma, oo ay ere.”

“No, Duddie, no!”

“Umma, oo ay ere! Ayfe! Ayfe!” Safe, safe. Duddits growing agitated now.

“We really don’t have any more time,” Owen said.

“Roberta,” Henry said. “Please.”

“Let me come!” she cried. “He’s all I have!”

“Umma,” Duddits said. His voice was not a bit childish. “Ooo… ay… ERE.”

She looked at him fixedly, and her face sagged. “Allnight,” she said. “Just one more minute. I have to get something.” She went into Duddits’s room and came back with a paper bag, which she handed to Henry.

“It’s his pills,” she said. “He has his Prednisone at nine o'clock. Don’t forget or he gets wheezy and his chest hurts. He can have a Percocet if he asks, and he probably will ask, because being out in the cold hurts him.”

She looked at Henry with sorrow but no reproach. He almost wished for reproach. God knew he’d never done anything which had made him feel this ashamed. It wasn’t just that Duddits had leukemia; it was that he’d had it for so long and none of them had known.

“Also his lemon swabs, but only on his lips, because his gums bleed a lot now and the swabs sting him. There’s cotton for his nose if it bleeds. Oh, and the catheter. See it there on his shoulder?” Henry nodded. A plastic tube protruding from a packing of bandage. Looking at it gave him a weirdly strong feeling of deja vu.