Part 27 (1/2)

Temperature-sensitive. I thought about the hats. Were they to hide the parasites or to protect them from the cold? No, that couldn't be it. The temperature in the building had been turned down to freezing for two weeks, and if they needed heat, why hadn't they landed in Florida?

I thought about Jackie Peterson's newsletter. She hadn't been affected. And neither had Uncle Marty whosenewsletter had come this morning. Or, rather, Uncle Marty's dog, who ostensibly dictated them. ”Woof, woof!”

the newsletter had said. ”I'm lying here under a Christmas saguaro out on the desert, chewing on a bone and hoping Santa brings me a nice new flea collar.” So they hadn't landed in Arizona or Miami, and none of the newspaper articles Gary had circled had been from Mexico or California. They had all been datelined Minnesota and Michigan and Illinois. Places where it was cold. Cold and cloudy, I thought, thinking of Cousin Celia's Christmas newsletter. Cold and cloudy.

I flipped back through the pages, looking for the reference to light-sensitive parasites.

”It's right back here,” a voice said.

I shut the book, jammed it in among Shakespeare's plays, and s.n.a.t.c.hed up a copy of Hamlet.

”It's for my daughter,” the customer, who was, thankfully, hat-less, said, appearing at the end of the aisle.

”That's what she said she wanted for Christmas when I called her. I was so surprised. She hardly ever reads.”

The clerk was right behind her, wearing a mobcap with red and green ribbons. ”Everybody's reading Shakespeare right now,” she said, smiling. ”We can hardly keep it on the shelves.”

I ducked my head and pretended to read the Hamlet. ”O villain, villain, smiling, d.a.m.ned villain!” Hamlet said. ”I set it down, that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”

The clerk started along the shelves, looking for the book. ”King Lear, King Lear. . . let's see.”

”Here it is,” I said, handing it to her before she reached Common Garden Parasites.

”Thankyou,” she said, smiling. She handed it to the customer. ”Have you been to our book signing yet? Darla Sheridan, the fas.h.i.+on designer, is in the store today, signing her new book, In Your Easter Bonnet. Hats are coming back, you know.”

”Really?” the customer said.

”She's giving away a free hat with every copy of the book,” the clerk said.

”Really?” the customer said. ”Where, did you say?”

”I'll show you,” the clerk said, still smiling, and led the customer away like a lamb to the slaughter.

As soon as they were gone, I pulled out Organic Gardening and looked up ”light-sensitive” in the index.

Page 264. ”Pruning branches above the infection and cutting away surrounding leaves to expose the source to sunlight or artificial light will usually kill light-sensitive parasites.”

I closed the book and hid it behind the Shakespeare plays, laying it on its side so it wouldn't show, and pulled out Common Garden Pests.

”Hi,” Gary said, and I nearly dropped the book. ”What are you doing here?”

”What are you doing here?” I said, cautiously closing the book. He was looking at the t.i.tle. I stuck it on the shelf between Oth.e.l.lo and The Riddle of Shakespeare's Ident.i.ty.

”I realized you were right.” He looked cautiously around. ”We've got to destroy them.”

”I thought you said they were symbiotes, that they were beneficial,” I said, watching him warily.

”You think I've been taken over by the aliens, don't you?” he said. He ran his hand through his hair. ”See? No hat, no toupee.” But in The Puppet Masters the parasites had been able to attach themselves anywhere along the spine.

”I thought you said the benefits outweighed a few aches and pains,” I said.

”I wanted to believe that,” he said ruefully. ”I guess what I really wanted to believe was that my ex-wife and I would get back together.”

”What changed your mind?” I said, trying not to look at the bookshelf.

”You did,” he said. ”I realized somewhere along the way what a dope I'd been, mooning over her when you were right there in front of me. I was standing there, listening to her talk about how great it was going to be to get back together, and all of a sudden I realized that I didn't want to, that I'd found somebody nicer, prettier, someone I could trust. And that someone was you, Nan.” He smiled at me. ”So what have you found out?

Something we can use to destroy them?”

I took a long, deep breath, and looked at him, deciding.

”Yes,” I said, and pulled out the book. I handed it to him. ”The section on bees. It says in here that introducing allergens into the bloodstream of the host can kill the parasite.”

”Like in Infiltrators from s.p.a.ce.””Yes.” I told him about the red mites and the honeybees. ”Oil of wintergreen, citrus oil, garlic, and powdered aloe vera are all used on various pests. So if we can introduce peppermint into the food of the affected people, it-”

” Peppermint?” he said blankly.

”Yes. Remember how Penny said n.o.body ate any of the candy canes she put out? I think it's because they're allergic to peppermint,” I said, watching him.

”Peppermint,” he said thoughtfully. ”They didn't eat any of the ribbon candy Jan Gundell had on her desk either. I think you've hit it. So how are you going to get them to ingest it? Put it in the water cooler?”

”No,” I said. ”In cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. Everybody loves chocolate.” I pushed the books into place on the shelf and started for the front. ”It's my turn to bring Holiday Goodies tomorrow. I'll go to the grocery store and get the cookie ingredients-”

”I'll go with you,” he said.

”No,” I said. ”I need you to buy the oil of peppermint. They should have it at a drugstore or a health food store. Buy the most concentrated form you can get, and make sure you buy it from somebody who hasn't been taken over. I'll meet you back at my apartment, and we'll make the cookies there.”

”Great,” he said.

”We'd better leave separately,” I said. I handed him the Oth.e.l.lo. ”Here. Go buy this. It'll give you a bag to carry the oil of peppermint in.”

He nodded and started for the checkout line. I walked out of Barnes & n.o.ble, went down Eighth to the grocery store, ducked out the side door, and went back to the office. I stopped at my desk for a metal ruler, and ran up to fifth. Jim Bridgeman, in his backward baseball cap, glanced up at me and then back down at his keyboard.

I went over to the thermostat.

And this was the moment when everyone surrounded you, pointing and squawking an unearthly screech at you. Or turned and stared at you with their glowing green eyes. I twisted the thermostat dial as far up as it would go, to ninety-five. Nothing happened.

n.o.body even looked up from their computers. Jim Bridgeman was typing intently.

I pried the dial and casing off with the metal ruler and stuck them into my coat pocket, bent the metal nub back so it couldn't be moved, and walked back out to the stairwell.

And now, please let it warm up fast enough to work before everybody goes home, I thought, clattering down the stairs to fourth. Let everybody start sweating and take off their hats. Let the aliens be light-sensitive. Let them not be telepathic.

I jammed the thermostats on fourth and third, and clattered down to second. Our thermostat was on the far side, next to Hunziger's office. I grabbed up a stack of memos from my desk, walked purposefully across the floor, dismantled the thermostat, and started back toward the stairs.

”Where do you think you're going?” Solveig said, planting herself firmly in front of me.

”To a meeting,” I said, trying not to look as lame and frightened as the hero's girlfriend in the movies always did. She looked down at my sneakers. ”Across town.”

”You're not going anywhere,” she said.