They all looked to Stiles for a response but there was nothing to read. He sat closest to the window, his back against the wall, but he did not look outside. He didn’t acknowledge the voice at all, not even with a flinch or a turn of the head or a shift of the eyes. Not even when they had toppled over his van on the front lawn a few hours back. His gaze was blank and his mind was elsewhere, another time or place perhaps, far away from the pain that his battered body must have been enduring. Charlie could sympathize; he himself felt like death warmed over, and, except for the broken arm, Stiles was much worse off than he.

Jessie moved over to the couch where Bean reclined. She was looking at Stiles as well. “Do you think he’s all right, Charlie?” He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. I haven’t known him very long, so I have nothing to judge his behavior against. He’s got a right to hurt, though, I’ll vouch for that. He’s been through the mill a time or two.”

“I sure hope he’s okay,” she said, looking at him with concern. “I figure that without him, we don’t have a chance in hell.” She looked at Charlie then, and gently touched the injured arm in a sling against his side. “How’re you doing? Hurting too bad?”

The pain reaffirmed itself when his attention was brought back to it. “It’s easing up,” he lied. “The aspirin helped a lot, thanks. But I doubt I’ll be playing the piano any time soon. What time is it, anyway?”

Hubert glanced at his watch again. “A quarter till five. Just a little bit longer. All we have to do is wait.”

“Not quite.” Bean placed one of the Remingtons across his lap. “Now we have to be more alert than ever. Time’s running out and Danner’s not about to let us out of here alive. I figure they’ll storm the place, sooner or later. Before dawn.”

“But how can they do that?” Jessie asked. “We’ve still got Ida’s things in the windows to keep them out.”

Charlie quietly motioned to the recliner near the television set. Ida was resting as best she could. Her eyes had rolled back behind nearly translucent lids and her face had drained of color. Indeed, she looked dead. Only the unsteady rise and fall of her chest told them otherwise. “Those pieces have power just as long as she believes,” Charlie said in a soft, somber voice. “If she doesn’t hold out, neither will they. We have to be ready, just in case.”

“Mr. Stiles,” Nathan called again.

Jessie snorted angrily. “Why doesn’t he just shut up!”

“Mr. Stiles? Listen to this, will you? You may find it amusing.” Then a woman screamed.

The soldier’s eyes suddenly unclouded. He snapped upright, his once-blank face suddenly alive with emotion. Denial. Fear. He turned on the window with the Heckler & Koch at the ready. “Billie . . .”