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Had the story gone that way, gone that far.
Now it looked like it would break in a different way. There were already posts claiming that the Stebbins thing was another Internet hoax, that Billy Trout was a liar, that he was some kind of grandstanding fruitcake, and even that he was a cyber-terrorist.
Goat wondered how much of that was genuine disbelief or White House spin doctoring. Maybe a fifty-fifty split? Either way, this was brewing into a mother of a story. He murmured the words “impeachment” and “Pulitzer,” and he liked how each of them tasted on his tongue.
But then he felt a flash of guilt. He hated that he thought about this thing. That he wanted it, on some level. He’d wanted it then and he wanted it now. And there was a flicker of remorse nibbling at his soul that he knew he would always secretly regret the way it had played out.
Goat opened Skype and punched in the number for Billy’s satellite phone. But a message window popped up: NO SIGNAL.
He tried it again, making sure he got the number right.
Same message.
“Oh, shit…” he murmured.
The last message from Billy said they were going to take the infected outside. Since then … nothing. What was going on? Had they gotten to him? Had the helicopters come back?
Goat’s fears said yes, but his gut told him no. There was something wrong, but he didn’t think Billy was dead.
Not yet.
He was, however, absolutely positive that the government was screwing around. That it was responsible for this silence.
Cursing under his breath, Goat turned toward the counter to ask the barista if the router was down. Headlights flashed in his eyes as a car pulled into the lot. Goat flicked a glance through the window. A metallic green Nissan Cube. Ugly. Same make and color as the one he’d seen parked in front of the house of Homer Gibbon’s old Aunt Selma. It made him think of that, and how it all started.
Then his mind ground to a halt as the driver’s door opened and a man got out.
A tall man. Bare-chested despite the cold.
A grinning man, with a tattoo of a black eye on each flat pectoral.
This.
Was.
Impossible.
Goat wanted to scream but he suddenly had no voice at all. He wanted to run, but he was frozen in place.
The man walked the few steps between car and door in an awkward fashion, as if his knees and hip joints were unusually stiff.
Goat’s fingers were on the keyboard. Almost without thinking, his fingers moved, tapping keys as the bare-chested man pulled open the door and stepped into the Starbucks. The few remaining customers turned to look at him. The barista glanced up from the caramel macchiato she was making. She saw the bare chest and the tattoos. She saw the caked blood and the wicked smile.
The man stood blocking the door. Grinning with bloody teeth.
Goat’s fingers typed eight words.
The barista screamed.
He loaded the address of the press and media listserv into the address bar.
The customers screamed.
Goat hit Send.
Then he, too, screamed.
In Bordentown. Homer Gibbon.
