Articles liés à The First Horseman
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Prologue
The Hudson Valley: November 11, 1997
Tommy was nervous. Susannah could tell, because she knew he liked to talk, and yet, he hadn't said a word for fifty miles. Not that she could blame him. She was nervous, too. And excited. And scared.
It was dusk when they got off the Taconic Parkway, switching on the
headlights as they traveled through rolling farmland, a Ralph Lauren
landscape where the houses were so perfect, you just knew they were owned by doctors and lawyers. They were "mini-estates," or enclaves with names like "Foxfield Meadows," and they didn't really grow anything except, maybe, sun-dried tomatoes and arugula.
As they passed the Omega Institute, Susannah wondered aloud--what's that? And the driver, Tommy, made a sound like a duck--kwak-kwak-kwak! So both of them laughed (a little too loud), and Susannah thought, Some kind of New Age thingie.
The thing was--what made her nervous was: the whole deal about the teeth, about pulling out the teeth. No matter how you looked at it, pulling out the teeth was creepy. It was like Nuremberg or something. So if they got caught, it wouldn't just be murder, it would be...what? Charles Manson, or something.
Not that she'd be the one to do it--she couldn't hurt a fly. That was
Vaughn's job, the teeth and the fingers. And giving the injections. He had
to do that, too, because he was the doctor. (And a good one, Tommy said.
"Vaughn's an 'Old Blue,' aren't ya, Vaughn?" Whatever that was.)
Still, you had to wonder why it was necessary to do the teeth. And the
fingers. Why not just...dump them? Or, better yet, leave 'em where they
lay.
Susannah thought about it for a while, then shrugged to herself. Solange
moves in strange ways, she thought, smiling at the in-joke. Sometimes he
did things just to be theatrical. Make a splash. Shake 'em up.
Not that it made any difference. They weren't going to get caught.
Everything had been rehearsed, from the knock on the door to the
handcuffs, and there wasn't anything they hadn't thought through.
Like the U-Haul. The U-Haul was Solange's idea, and it was brilliant
because, once they'd fixed it up, it gave Vaughn a sort of operating room
in the back. So he could do what he had to do even while they were driving
away.
And it was inconspicuous, too. Because U-Hauls were everywhere. There
wasn't anywhere in America they didn't belong. Not even here. Everybody
used them.
Her job was to get inside the house and, once there, make sure the
Bergmans couldn't get to their gun. So it was two jobs, really, and what
made everyone think she could bring it off was the fact--she wasn't
bragging, really, it was just a fact of life--the fact that she was
"cute." Cheerleader cute. And pregnant. Which made her kind of
vulnerable-looking.
And that made people trust her. Which was important. Because the Bergmans
were totally paranoid--like someone was out to kill them. Susannah smiled
at the thought. Talk about irony--hello?
But mostly it was scary and horrible, and she wished that she wasn't a
part of it, except: it had to be done. She knew it had to be done because
Solange said so, and Solange never lied. Ever.
And it wasn't going to be painful. Vaughn said they wouldn't feel a thing.
Just "a bee sting" from the needle. And that would be that.
Unless, of course, something went wrong. Like, if they had a Doberman or
something. But, no: they didn't have a dog, because if they did, Lenny
would have mentioned it. Lenny was their son, and if there was a Doberman
walking around, he'd have told them about it.
Like Marty did with the gun. Not that Marty was related to them, but he
was close. He'd said, I don't think the old fuck knows how to use it, but
he's got a .38 Special that he keeps in the vestibule--in a little table,
just under the telephone. I used to kid him about being "strapped," and
he'd say, "What are you talking about, what strap? I don't see any strap."
And the thing is, he wasn't kidding. I mean, like this guy is livin' in
another century.
Even so...what if the needle broke off, or the woman started screaming?
Everything would go real bad, fast. Like with Riff--when she was a kid,
and the car hit him. And her father tried to put him down with the .22,
but he was so nervous, he couldn't find the heart. So...he just kept
shooting.
If that happened, or something like that, there'd be blood all over the
place--and all over them. And the thing is, legally, what they were doing
was murder. Which, for someone who'd been brought up Catholic, even if she
didn't practice anymore, was about as bad as it gets.
Because killing was wrong. She knew that. No ifs, ands, or buts. Killing
someone was dead wrong--
Unless...
Unless you were a soldier. And that's exactly what they were--she and
Tommy and Vaughn, and the French guy in the back of the truck. They were
soldiers. Knights, even. Just like in the Crusades.
Susannah was thinking about the Secret War, Solange's war, her war, when
the turn signal began to click, and the truck turned down a two-lane
country road, scattering a clutch of deer that were feeding on the verge.
A battered U-Haul with Arizona tags, the truck trembled and shook as it
rattled over the washboarded lane, slowing down at every letter box, then
speeding up, then slowing down again as the driver hunted for the right
address. Finally, the truck came to a stop beside a rusting mailbox:
BERGMAN
For a long moment Tommy stared at the silvery, stick-on letters, muttering
to himself. Then he killed the headlights, backed up, shifted into Drive
and, holding his breath, entered the long driveway.
Susannah squirmed in her seat and took a deep breath. Exhaling, she made a
sort of stuttering sound, then wet her lips with her tongue.
The truck crunched slowly over the gravel toward the front porch of a
white farmhouse. There, beneath a bower of old walnut trees, Tommy killed
the engine, the passenger door opened, and Susannah climbed out.
She was, as anyone could see, pretty, young, and pregnant, with huge brown
eyes and ash-blond hair. She wore a yellow sun dress under a tattered,
gray cardigan that was much too big, and which might well have been her
father's. With a "Here goes" glance at the driver, she took a deep breath
and mounted the steps to the porch, glancing at the pots of mums on either
side.
Reaching the top of the steps, she hesitated, suddenly queasy and weak.
For a long moment she swayed in front of the door. Finally, she
knocked--ever so softly, secretly hoping that no one was home.
There was no answer at first, but she could hear the television inside,
and so she knocked again. Louder this time. And then again, almost banging
on the screen door.
Eventually, the inner door swung open, and a woman in her fifties peered
out from behind the latched screen door. "Hello?" She pronounced the word
as if it were a question.
"Hi!" Susannah said, looking sheepish and beautiful.
Martha Bergman's eyes took in the pregnancy, then drifted to the U-Haul,
where a wiry young man (the girl's husband, she supposed) gave a little
wave. The side of the truck was painted with the image of a senorita, a
Spanish lady peering coyly over the top of her fan. U-Haul liked to do
that, painting the trucks with scenes that suggested where they were from:
cowboys and lobsters and skyscrapers. Martha figured that this truck must
be from New Mexico, or someplace in the Southwest.
"Can I help you?" Martha asked.
"I hope so," Susannah replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the
other. "We're really lost."
Martha's face softened. "Where are you looking for?"
The girl shook her head and shrugged. "That's the problem. We lost the
number. But I know it's one of these houses--one of the houses on Boice
Road."
Martha winced. "It's a long road, dear."
"I was hoping--if I could use your phone...I could call my brother. He's
at the house now."
Martha's face settled into a frown. Then her eyes fell to Susannah's
stomach and, suddenly reassured, she smiled, unhooked the latch to the
screen door, and held it open. "Of course," she said. "Come on in. The
telephone's over there, on the little table."
"That's so nice of you," Susannah said as she stepped into the vestibule.
"And, wow--what a beautiful house!" In fact, it was a lot like her
parents' house, with fake Bokharas on the hardwood floors and overstuffed
furniture from the Pottery Barn.
From the next room a man's voice boomed out above the noise of the
television. "Martha! What are you doing? You're missing it!"
"I'll be right there."
"Who are you talking to?" the man asked.
"I'm letting a young woman use the phone," Martha answered, and, turning
to Susannah, sighed hugely. "The Jets are playing," she explained.
Susannah smiled knowingly and shook her head, as if to say, Men!--then
crossed the room to the table where the phone was. "I'll just be a
second," she said, and picked up the receiver. Turning away from the older
woman, she dialed the cell phone in the back of the truck and waited.
There was a ticking noise for several seconds, a warbling sound, and--
Cliiick! Yeah. It was Vaughn.
"Hiiii!" Susannah gushed, emoting for Mrs. Bergman's benefit.
You're inside?
"Yup!" And then, just as they rehearsed, she launched into a spiel about
how she was just around the corner, or thought she was, but they'd lost
the number to the new house--and what was it, anyway?
What about the gun?
Susannah threw a smile over her shoulder as she talked and, almost idly,
cracked open the drawer to the end table. Seeing the .38, she said, "Got
it! No problem."
You're sure?
"Absolutely."
Be right in.
She kept talking for a few seconds after Vaughn hung up, then replaced the
receiver in its cradle, turned and leaned against the end table.
"Well, that was easy," Mrs. Bergman remarked, though she felt a bit
awkward that the girl remained where she was, standing in front of the
telephone. "Which house is it?" she asked.
Susannah shrugged and, turning, opened the drawer and removed the .38.
Seeing the older woman's reaction, she put the gun behind her back and
smiled. "It's going to be okay," she said. "Really." She was thinking
about Solange, and what he'd told them the night before: Try not to scare
them too much. There's no point in starting a panic. Not yet, anyway.
It was then that Harry Bergman came in, scowling, a glass of wine in one
hand and a newspaper in the other. A pair of reading glasses hung from his
neck by a black cord. "There's a truck in the yard," he announced, as if
it were the most astonishing thing in the world. And then, double-taking
on Susannah, "Hello?"
"That's just us," Susannah mumbled.
Harry looked from the girl to his wife and back again. "What's going on?"
he asked, tensing at the look on his wife's face. No one said anything for
a moment, and then a screech tore through the yard--like nails on a
blackboard, followed by a crash of metal.
Martha jumped.
"What the hell--" Harry said.
"That's just the truck," Susannah replied, trying to be reassuring. "It's
just the back door going up. It needs grease or something."
"Right," Harry said and, pivoting, took a step toward the little table
next to Susannah.
"Uh-uh," she muttered, and waved the Browning at him. "Better not."
Harry didn't quite freeze--he more or less subsided into himself, and as
he did, his wife stepped in front of him. "Just leave him alone. He's
not--"
"Martha--" Harry protested.
"Take whatever you want."
"Well, thanks," Susannah said, "but...that's not the point."
The Bergmans gave her a blank look, and she could have kicked herself. But
then the screen door opened and Vaughn came in, carrying a sawed-off
shotgun as if it were a briefcase--never pointing it, never needing to.
The French dude was right behind him with a set of plastic restraints, the
kind the police use when they're making lots of arrests at the same time.
Tommy was on the porch outside, keeping watch.
"Okay, everybody listen up," Vaughn said. "You do what we tell you, we'll
be out of your hair in ten minutes. That's a promise, okay?"
Harry Bergman put his arm around his wife and nodded, not so much because
he agreed, but because he was too frightened to say anything.
Then the guy with the cuffs stepped behind them, and with an improbable
"S'il vous plaît," gently removed Harry's arm from his wife's shoulders.
Bringing the older man's arms behind his back, the Frenchman looped the
plastic cord around Harry's wrists and pulled it tight. This done, he
turned to the woman and did the same.
"Great," Vaughn said, and turned to Susannah. "You know what to do, right?"
Susannah nodded--quick little jerks of her head--and watched as the
Bergmans were led outside. As they went through the door she heard Vaughn
say, "By the way, I spoke to your son the other day. He sends his love."
You could hear them gasp.
Then the screen door slammed and Mr. Bergman's voice was in the air,
scared and growling, like a small dog protecting his patch from a
rottweiler: "What is this? Where are you taking us?" And Vaughn's voice,
laid-back and matter-of-fact: "We're just going to the truck...."
Well, yeah, Susannah thought and, with a shudder, took a handkerchief from
her pocket and wiped the .38 clean. Then she put the gun back in the
drawer and erased her fingerprints from the wood and the phone. What else?
She was supposed to turn off the TV, and the lights, too, and close the
front door behind her. It was supposed to look like they just--
Suddenly, the air was split by a frightened, almost feral bark, a
prehistoric gasp of unadulterated terror. Hearing it, the night fell
silent and Susannah, shaken, found herself running from the house, pulled
by the sheer, centripetal force of someone else's fear.
As she came off the porch, she saw Tommy. He was coming around from the
back of the truck, walking fast, head down, mouth open, blinking wildly.
"What happened?"
Tommy just shook his head and got behind the wheel. "Don't go back there,"
he said.
But how could she not?
Turning the corner, she saw the man--Mr. Bergman--on the ground, his body
trembling as if it were in the grip of an unseen and powerful amperage. A
few feet away the woman was on her stomach in the driveway, pinioned by
the Frenchman, who had his hand on the back of her neck and his knee in
the small of her back. For a second Susannah's eyes locked with the
woman's, and it seemed as if the night shivered in the space between them.
Then Vaughn stepped over the husband's still twitching body and, squatting
beside the wife, administered an injection to the back of her shoulder,
piercing the thin cotton dress that she wore.
Immediately, the woman's eyes widened, rolled, and went white. The
connection between her and Susannah, a duplex of hatred and pity, was
shattered as 10 cc of pharmaceutical morphine slammed into her heart. She
stiffen...
Présentation de l'éditeur :
The Hudson Valley: November 11, 1997
Tommy was nervous. Susannah could tell, because she knew he liked to talk, and yet, he hadn't said a word for fifty miles. Not that she could blame him. She was nervous, too. And excited. And scared.
It was dusk when they got off the Taconic Parkway, switching on the
headlights as they traveled through rolling farmland, a Ralph Lauren
landscape where the houses were so perfect, you just knew they were owned by doctors and lawyers. They were "mini-estates," or enclaves with names like "Foxfield Meadows," and they didn't really grow anything except, maybe, sun-dried tomatoes and arugula.
As they passed the Omega Institute, Susannah wondered aloud--what's that? And the driver, Tommy, made a sound like a duck--kwak-kwak-kwak! So both of them laughed (a little too loud), and Susannah thought, Some kind of New Age thingie.
The thing was--what made her nervous was: the whole deal about the teeth, about pulling out the teeth. No matter how you looked at it, pulling out the teeth was creepy. It was like Nuremberg or something. So if they got caught, it wouldn't just be murder, it would be...what? Charles Manson, or something.
Not that she'd be the one to do it--she couldn't hurt a fly. That was
Vaughn's job, the teeth and the fingers. And giving the injections. He had
to do that, too, because he was the doctor. (And a good one, Tommy said.
"Vaughn's an 'Old Blue,' aren't ya, Vaughn?" Whatever that was.)
Still, you had to wonder why it was necessary to do the teeth. And the
fingers. Why not just...dump them? Or, better yet, leave 'em where they
lay.
Susannah thought about it for a while, then shrugged to herself. Solange
moves in strange ways, she thought, smiling at the in-joke. Sometimes he
did things just to be theatrical. Make a splash. Shake 'em up.
Not that it made any difference. They weren't going to get caught.
Everything had been rehearsed, from the knock on the door to the
handcuffs, and there wasn't anything they hadn't thought through.
Like the U-Haul. The U-Haul was Solange's idea, and it was brilliant
because, once they'd fixed it up, it gave Vaughn a sort of operating room
in the back. So he could do what he had to do even while they were driving
away.
And it was inconspicuous, too. Because U-Hauls were everywhere. There
wasn't anywhere in America they didn't belong. Not even here. Everybody
used them.
Her job was to get inside the house and, once there, make sure the
Bergmans couldn't get to their gun. So it was two jobs, really, and what
made everyone think she could bring it off was the fact--she wasn't
bragging, really, it was just a fact of life--the fact that she was
"cute." Cheerleader cute. And pregnant. Which made her kind of
vulnerable-looking.
And that made people trust her. Which was important. Because the Bergmans
were totally paranoid--like someone was out to kill them. Susannah smiled
at the thought. Talk about irony--hello?
But mostly it was scary and horrible, and she wished that she wasn't a
part of it, except: it had to be done. She knew it had to be done because
Solange said so, and Solange never lied. Ever.
And it wasn't going to be painful. Vaughn said they wouldn't feel a thing.
Just "a bee sting" from the needle. And that would be that.
Unless, of course, something went wrong. Like, if they had a Doberman or
something. But, no: they didn't have a dog, because if they did, Lenny
would have mentioned it. Lenny was their son, and if there was a Doberman
walking around, he'd have told them about it.
Like Marty did with the gun. Not that Marty was related to them, but he
was close. He'd said, I don't think the old fuck knows how to use it, but
he's got a .38 Special that he keeps in the vestibule--in a little table,
just under the telephone. I used to kid him about being "strapped," and
he'd say, "What are you talking about, what strap? I don't see any strap."
And the thing is, he wasn't kidding. I mean, like this guy is livin' in
another century.
Even so...what if the needle broke off, or the woman started screaming?
Everything would go real bad, fast. Like with Riff--when she was a kid,
and the car hit him. And her father tried to put him down with the .22,
but he was so nervous, he couldn't find the heart. So...he just kept
shooting.
If that happened, or something like that, there'd be blood all over the
place--and all over them. And the thing is, legally, what they were doing
was murder. Which, for someone who'd been brought up Catholic, even if she
didn't practice anymore, was about as bad as it gets.
Because killing was wrong. She knew that. No ifs, ands, or buts. Killing
someone was dead wrong--
Unless...
Unless you were a soldier. And that's exactly what they were--she and
Tommy and Vaughn, and the French guy in the back of the truck. They were
soldiers. Knights, even. Just like in the Crusades.
Susannah was thinking about the Secret War, Solange's war, her war, when
the turn signal began to click, and the truck turned down a two-lane
country road, scattering a clutch of deer that were feeding on the verge.
A battered U-Haul with Arizona tags, the truck trembled and shook as it
rattled over the washboarded lane, slowing down at every letter box, then
speeding up, then slowing down again as the driver hunted for the right
address. Finally, the truck came to a stop beside a rusting mailbox:
BERGMAN
For a long moment Tommy stared at the silvery, stick-on letters, muttering
to himself. Then he killed the headlights, backed up, shifted into Drive
and, holding his breath, entered the long driveway.
Susannah squirmed in her seat and took a deep breath. Exhaling, she made a
sort of stuttering sound, then wet her lips with her tongue.
The truck crunched slowly over the gravel toward the front porch of a
white farmhouse. There, beneath a bower of old walnut trees, Tommy killed
the engine, the passenger door opened, and Susannah climbed out.
She was, as anyone could see, pretty, young, and pregnant, with huge brown
eyes and ash-blond hair. She wore a yellow sun dress under a tattered,
gray cardigan that was much too big, and which might well have been her
father's. With a "Here goes" glance at the driver, she took a deep breath
and mounted the steps to the porch, glancing at the pots of mums on either
side.
Reaching the top of the steps, she hesitated, suddenly queasy and weak.
For a long moment she swayed in front of the door. Finally, she
knocked--ever so softly, secretly hoping that no one was home.
There was no answer at first, but she could hear the television inside,
and so she knocked again. Louder this time. And then again, almost banging
on the screen door.
Eventually, the inner door swung open, and a woman in her fifties peered
out from behind the latched screen door. "Hello?" She pronounced the word
as if it were a question.
"Hi!" Susannah said, looking sheepish and beautiful.
Martha Bergman's eyes took in the pregnancy, then drifted to the U-Haul,
where a wiry young man (the girl's husband, she supposed) gave a little
wave. The side of the truck was painted with the image of a senorita, a
Spanish lady peering coyly over the top of her fan. U-Haul liked to do
that, painting the trucks with scenes that suggested where they were from:
cowboys and lobsters and skyscrapers. Martha figured that this truck must
be from New Mexico, or someplace in the Southwest.
"Can I help you?" Martha asked.
"I hope so," Susannah replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the
other. "We're really lost."
Martha's face softened. "Where are you looking for?"
The girl shook her head and shrugged. "That's the problem. We lost the
number. But I know it's one of these houses--one of the houses on Boice
Road."
Martha winced. "It's a long road, dear."
"I was hoping--if I could use your phone...I could call my brother. He's
at the house now."
Martha's face settled into a frown. Then her eyes fell to Susannah's
stomach and, suddenly reassured, she smiled, unhooked the latch to the
screen door, and held it open. "Of course," she said. "Come on in. The
telephone's over there, on the little table."
"That's so nice of you," Susannah said as she stepped into the vestibule.
"And, wow--what a beautiful house!" In fact, it was a lot like her
parents' house, with fake Bokharas on the hardwood floors and overstuffed
furniture from the Pottery Barn.
From the next room a man's voice boomed out above the noise of the
television. "Martha! What are you doing? You're missing it!"
"I'll be right there."
"Who are you talking to?" the man asked.
"I'm letting a young woman use the phone," Martha answered, and, turning
to Susannah, sighed hugely. "The Jets are playing," she explained.
Susannah smiled knowingly and shook her head, as if to say, Men!--then
crossed the room to the table where the phone was. "I'll just be a
second," she said, and picked up the receiver. Turning away from the older
woman, she dialed the cell phone in the back of the truck and waited.
There was a ticking noise for several seconds, a warbling sound, and--
Cliiick! Yeah. It was Vaughn.
"Hiiii!" Susannah gushed, emoting for Mrs. Bergman's benefit.
You're inside?
"Yup!" And then, just as they rehearsed, she launched into a spiel about
how she was just around the corner, or thought she was, but they'd lost
the number to the new house--and what was it, anyway?
What about the gun?
Susannah threw a smile over her shoulder as she talked and, almost idly,
cracked open the drawer to the end table. Seeing the .38, she said, "Got
it! No problem."
You're sure?
"Absolutely."
Be right in.
She kept talking for a few seconds after Vaughn hung up, then replaced the
receiver in its cradle, turned and leaned against the end table.
"Well, that was easy," Mrs. Bergman remarked, though she felt a bit
awkward that the girl remained where she was, standing in front of the
telephone. "Which house is it?" she asked.
Susannah shrugged and, turning, opened the drawer and removed the .38.
Seeing the older woman's reaction, she put the gun behind her back and
smiled. "It's going to be okay," she said. "Really." She was thinking
about Solange, and what he'd told them the night before: Try not to scare
them too much. There's no point in starting a panic. Not yet, anyway.
It was then that Harry Bergman came in, scowling, a glass of wine in one
hand and a newspaper in the other. A pair of reading glasses hung from his
neck by a black cord. "There's a truck in the yard," he announced, as if
it were the most astonishing thing in the world. And then, double-taking
on Susannah, "Hello?"
"That's just us," Susannah mumbled.
Harry looked from the girl to his wife and back again. "What's going on?"
he asked, tensing at the look on his wife's face. No one said anything for
a moment, and then a screech tore through the yard--like nails on a
blackboard, followed by a crash of metal.
Martha jumped.
"What the hell--" Harry said.
"That's just the truck," Susannah replied, trying to be reassuring. "It's
just the back door going up. It needs grease or something."
"Right," Harry said and, pivoting, took a step toward the little table
next to Susannah.
"Uh-uh," she muttered, and waved the Browning at him. "Better not."
Harry didn't quite freeze--he more or less subsided into himself, and as
he did, his wife stepped in front of him. "Just leave him alone. He's
not--"
"Martha--" Harry protested.
"Take whatever you want."
"Well, thanks," Susannah said, "but...that's not the point."
The Bergmans gave her a blank look, and she could have kicked herself. But
then the screen door opened and Vaughn came in, carrying a sawed-off
shotgun as if it were a briefcase--never pointing it, never needing to.
The French dude was right behind him with a set of plastic restraints, the
kind the police use when they're making lots of arrests at the same time.
Tommy was on the porch outside, keeping watch.
"Okay, everybody listen up," Vaughn said. "You do what we tell you, we'll
be out of your hair in ten minutes. That's a promise, okay?"
Harry Bergman put his arm around his wife and nodded, not so much because
he agreed, but because he was too frightened to say anything.
Then the guy with the cuffs stepped behind them, and with an improbable
"S'il vous plaît," gently removed Harry's arm from his wife's shoulders.
Bringing the older man's arms behind his back, the Frenchman looped the
plastic cord around Harry's wrists and pulled it tight. This done, he
turned to the woman and did the same.
"Great," Vaughn said, and turned to Susannah. "You know what to do, right?"
Susannah nodded--quick little jerks of her head--and watched as the
Bergmans were led outside. As they went through the door she heard Vaughn
say, "By the way, I spoke to your son the other day. He sends his love."
You could hear them gasp.
Then the screen door slammed and Mr. Bergman's voice was in the air,
scared and growling, like a small dog protecting his patch from a
rottweiler: "What is this? Where are you taking us?" And Vaughn's voice,
laid-back and matter-of-fact: "We're just going to the truck...."
Well, yeah, Susannah thought and, with a shudder, took a handkerchief from
her pocket and wiped the .38 clean. Then she put the gun back in the
drawer and erased her fingerprints from the wood and the phone. What else?
She was supposed to turn off the TV, and the lights, too, and close the
front door behind her. It was supposed to look like they just--
Suddenly, the air was split by a frightened, almost feral bark, a
prehistoric gasp of unadulterated terror. Hearing it, the night fell
silent and Susannah, shaken, found herself running from the house, pulled
by the sheer, centripetal force of someone else's fear.
As she came off the porch, she saw Tommy. He was coming around from the
back of the truck, walking fast, head down, mouth open, blinking wildly.
"What happened?"
Tommy just shook his head and got behind the wheel. "Don't go back there,"
he said.
But how could she not?
Turning the corner, she saw the man--Mr. Bergman--on the ground, his body
trembling as if it were in the grip of an unseen and powerful amperage. A
few feet away the woman was on her stomach in the driveway, pinioned by
the Frenchman, who had his hand on the back of her neck and his knee in
the small of her back. For a second Susannah's eyes locked with the
woman's, and it seemed as if the night shivered in the space between them.
Then Vaughn stepped over the husband's still twitching body and, squatting
beside the wife, administered an injection to the back of her shoulder,
piercing the thin cotton dress that she wore.
Immediately, the woman's eyes widened, rolled, and went white. The
connection between her and Susannah, a duplex of hatred and pity, was
shattered as 10 cc of pharmaceutical morphine slammed into her heart. She
stiffen...
In the Book of Revelations, the Four Horsemen herald the arrival of the Apocalypse. When the First Horseman thunders forth, pestilence will spread throughout the land. For the First Horseman is Plague... The Spanish Flu killed thirty million people worldwide in 1918. Now, with history threatening to repeat itself, a scientific expedition speeds toward a remote island in the Arctic Sea to recover strains of the lethal virus preserved under layers of ice. For Washington Post reporter Frank Daly, it is the story of a lifetime. But his plan to join the expedition is ruined by a ferocious storm that delays him. And when he meets up with the ship upon its return to port in Norway, it is clear that something has gone terribly wrong. Fear haunts the faces of the crew. No one will talk. And someone wants Daly to stop asking questions. But if there's a wall around the facts, Daly will batter it down. Persistent and resourceful, he knows how to get answers when none are given. Yet the more he uncovers, the more dangerous the stakes become. Until at last he comes face-to-face with a shocking secret, pitching him into a harrowing race to prevent nothing less than... apocalypse.
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurThorndike Pr
- Date d'édition1998
- ISBN 10 0786216190
- ISBN 13 9780786216192
- ReliureRelié
- Nombre de pages584
- Evaluation vendeur
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