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Chauncey had told her to leave the boogeyman alone. Chauncey had blocked her, but Chauncey wasn’t around anymore.

And besides, no one could tell Chelsea what to do. She wasn’t afraid of the boogeyman. G.o.d shouldn’t be afraid of anyone.

Could she block the boogeyman, like Chauncey had done? Maybe, but it would take time to learn how, to experiment. If she couldn’t block him fast enough, the boogeyman would come for her.

Unless she got to him first.

She summoned General Ogden. It was time to put the pieces in place for his contingency plan, just in case the boogeyman escaped.

PERRY HEARS AGAIN

I’m going to kill you.

It started as a mental tickle, or maybe a ringing. Something faint. At first he wished it away. He just wanted to sleep.

You will scream . . . and scream . . .

The ringing grew louder. He heard a voice but couldn’t register it. What he could register was a serious hangover. Holy G.o.d, did his head hurt.

. . . and scream.

Perry sat up and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. The movement produced a metallic sound. The bed felt wobbly. Both hands held his head as he looked around. He wasn’t in a bed. He was on an autopsy trolley in the examination room. Someone’s idea of humor? Well, yeah, that was kind of funny.

The mental tickle grew. With a sinking sensation, he recognized the feeling.

Chelsea.

Are you afraid?

She’d grown stronger. His breath came in short gasps. He was afraid.

I’m gonna get you, boogeyman. Maybe I’ll make you shoot yourself . . .

f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k.

Perry’s hand shot to his waist, to the holster. The .45 was there. His hand gripped the cool handle. He didn’t draw it, just held it.

Soon, boogeyman . . .

He hadn’t experienced her this clearly before. The intensity shocked him. It felt as if her every little emotion was the most important thing that could possibly happen. And yet behind the intensity lay a curious blankness, the feeling that she wasn’t good, or evil.

Chelsea didn’t know what good and evil were.

She would do whatever she wanted, without remorse, without conscience.

Soooooon . . .

Perry had to find her. Find her and help her.

He jumped off the trolley and ran to find Dew.

CRAVING MCDONALD’S

Private Alan Roark parked the Hummer on the shoulder of North Chrysler Drive. He hopped out. So did Private Peter Braat, who carried the map. They both walked to the back b.u.mper and looked at the ma.s.sive overpa.s.s.

“f.u.c.k,” Peter said. “That’s a lot of road.”

Alan nodded. It was a lot of road.

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