Stanley swiveled, still holding the gun, and cut Joe off at the ankles with his good arm. The two of them tumbled down the ladder to the floor. Stanley pushed his legs against Joe and sent him flying into the bookshelves, their contents raining down upon him. Joe struggled toward his gun, which he’d lost during the fall. Stanley stepped on it. “Make one more move,” he taunted.

The room stilled.

Stanley kept his own gun trained on Joe’s head. “Where’s Grandma?”

Joe slowly advanced to one of the toy chests and lifted the lid. Grandma Rose lay inside, curled in a fetal position.

Stanley tossed the roll of duct tape to Joe. “Wrap her up. Then the boy.”

Joe didn’t question the order. Soon there were two silver cocoons lying in the middle of the room.

“Now tape yourself up,” Stanley said.

Joe’s face twisted, puzzled. “I can’t,” he said.

“Then I guess I’ll have to do it for you,” Stanley said. He pulled back his arm, stepped forward, and unleashed a potent blow to the side of Joe’s head.

Lights out.

Joe fell. Grandma Rose and Charlie cried out as his body hit the floor. Stanley winced at their shrieking. He peeled off two strips of tape and shut their traps. He spooled off a few more yards, making fast work of securing Joe. Then, one by one, he dragged all three of them downstairs.

He admired the bounty with pride, as he slipped on a fresh pair of thick plastic gloves and secured the splatter-shield over his face. He felt his heartbeat quicken as he envisioned the horribleness of what would happen next.

He smiled. It was time to earn his paycheck.

Thirteen

thirteen

One fact had eluded August concerning the cargo hold on airliners: they were cold. Really cold. Then again, he couldn’t remember ever meeting anyone dumb enough to sneak into one during a flight.

They were dark, too. And the only thing that saved him from searching blind was the penlight from the first-aid kit, which August had unconsciously slipped into his breast pocket after assisting Clayton’s grandfather.

Even so, August felt the flames of his hope begin to dwindle as he dug through the luggage. He willed himself to stay focused, to believe that he could somehow find the Gutenberg, decipher the illuminations, and escape from this cage before time ran out.

There were heaps of bags. Mountains of them. How would he find the Gutenberg? He tried to think of any distinguishing characteristics that might help him find the right bag. But he had put the Gutenberg in a decidedly indistinguishable bag, to meld in with the zillion other bags, to be completely lost in the general flow of bags, bags, bags. Attention, he had learned, was something to be avoided.