“Maybe you’re right,” the deputy said, though still a bit skeptically. He went over and unzipped the pack and started sifting through the contents. “Look at this,” he said in amazement. “Saltpeter and sulfur and carbon . . . that’s black powder. And he’s got cannon fuses and solenoids and electronic triggers and detonation cord . . .” He held up what looked like a large block of clay. “Jesus, do you know what this is? It’s C-4. Plastic explosives. This shit is Army issue—not even blasting companies can get this. Just who is this guy?”

There came a rumbling in reply, the sound of an engine out front. Not an unusual phenomenon in itself, since the apartment overlooked Isherwood’s only thoroughfare, but it was the first new sound they’d heard all morning. Del jumped from his stool and raced to the window. “A-ha,” he called back to Bean, “now who’s butt’s the blackest? Chris is back.” He looked again. “And he’s got somebody with him.”

They all went to the door of the apartment and waited.

Stiles came up the staircase, a Moore’s Drugs sack clutched in one arm and the Uzi in the other. He looked worse than the night before; aside from the same blood-stained clothes, he had shaved his beard off earlier and the bruises beneath were now even more jarringly visible. He climbed the stairs with quick, easy steps but the thin line of his mouth and his knitted brow bespoke his discomfort. Billie stepped out to help him inside but he just brushed past her. Following close behind him was a worried-looking Ted Cooper, carrying his favorite Louisville Slugger cocked hobo-like over one shoulder. When the boy looked up and his eyes met Bean’s, his face flushed and he almost started to cry. “I can’t find Doreen,” he said plaintively.

They held out their arms to him and ushered the teen inside.

“I went over to her parents’ house this morning,” he explained, “but no one was there, nobody, and I didn’t know who to call ’cause Mom and Dad are outta town and the phones’re dead anyway. C’mon, Charlie, we gotta find her.”

Bean looked to Stiles for help.

“Sit down, son,” the soldier ordered.

“But we’re wasting time—”

“I said sit down. Charlie has something to tell you.” Stiles turned to the deputy and whispered, “Tell him. It’ll be good practice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I put up signs on every road, in and out. As of now we’re supposedly quarantined. That should buy us some time—at least one night. As for those I came across, they’ll be waiting for you at the church around nine.” He checked his watch. “You’ve got an hour to rehearse.”

“But what do I tell them, the truth? They’d never believe it.”