Chapters (57)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Foreword
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Praise for Linwood Barclay
- Also by Linwood Barclay
- About the Publisher
“The ferry?” Katie said. “That’s the opposite direction.”
The man said, “Yeah, I know. But if you were smart, you’d be heading there, too. I mean, you’ve got your own wheels! The ferry’s still got to be running. That’s the best way to get the hell out of here.”
Bruce caught a glimpse of the man in his rearview mirror. “The mall’s our priority at the moment, friend.”
The man in the back seat didn’t look very happy with that. He sat there sullenly for a moment before trying again.
“Maybe I can change your mind about that,” he said, reaching for something in the pocket of his sport jacket.
Twenty-Nine
Once Joe Bridgeman had carried his mother into the house they shared, he deposited her gently into a kitchen chair and asked repeatedly whether she was okay, as though he didn’t believe her the first time she’d said yes.
“I’ll hurt like hell tomorrow,” she told him, rubbing one shoulder and then the other. “But right now, I’m okay, and glad to be alive.” She frowned. “I could use a couple of Advils, and I’m going to need a new wheelchair.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ll get you sorted out.”
He was checking her for bruises or cuts or any other injuries she might have sustained while doing battle with the Arrival.
“Really, I’m okay,” Lillian said. She reached up, grasped his arm, and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Joe smiled awkwardly. “So, some Advils. Where do you keep those?”
Lillian said, “Forget the Advils. I could use a scotch.”
“Coming right up,” said Joe, gently prying his mother’s fingers from around his arm. He went to the cupboard below the countertop where his mother kept her liquor. Since she’d been spending more time in a wheelchair, many of the items that once found a home in the upper cabinets had moved south.
He brought out a bottle of Ballantine’s and a tumbler and poured his mother a finger’s worth. She inhaled the aroma first, moved the amber liquid around in the glass, then downed it in one shot.
She looked at her son and asked, her voice serious, “You know there was someone under that car that was coming after me,” she said.
“I know,” Joe said.
“I think it was Daniella.”
Joe’s eyes closed briefly. “Oh, Jesus.”
“That poor, poor girl,” Lillian said. “This is so horrible.”
Joe nodded with shared grief.
“How many others?” Lillian asked her son. “How many others are dead?”