Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Sixteen

I wished I hadn't seen the pictures.

Rushing from the shattered conservatory—Josiah and Hatch had busted in with tools from the Olympic-sized swimming pool—and through the hall to the Blackstone's study, I was physically incapable of missing a series of framed photographs. Twin girls. Seven or eight, maybe nine. That tricky age when kids start shooting up. Barely older than Karen. Heart-twisting portraits of girls in blazers and ponytails before the gates of The Pennington School. On a porch glider. Trick-or-treating. Chasing a soccer ball, concentration gleaming in perfect, blameless eyes.

My strides slowed. The few Mice behind me clambered past, jostling me and upending hallway tables.

Karen had not liked soccer. "The ball's too hard, Mommy!" Maybe if I could have afforded high-end cleats like the Blackstone girls'. Maybe if I gave it another year, hauling her to practice, setting up cones in the backyard.

Would I get the chance?

Now I was bringing up the rear. Glass had gotten stuck in my sandal strap, and I moved in a kind of limping gallop to minimize the rubbing, purse jouncing off my hips. But I kept up. I never lost sight of the others.

They reached the study and began pooling at open French doors. I'd almost caught up when heavy footfalls sounded behind me. Police? Should I split off and try escaping? If all the Mice were about to be captured, wasn't my mission moot? The guys' deal with American Dynamics void?

But it wasn't the police. It was Hatch. Tromping ahead, stashing a buoy knife in his messenger bag.

"No more land line," he said at my puzzled expression.

I joined the rear of the group as Josiah, flashing back a fanatic's grin, dashed through the French doors into the study.

It was several seconds before I could process the full scene, up on tiptoes to see over shoulders and around ears. Somebody gasped. Somebody else muttered, "Pig."

Piece by piece, the decor of the health-care executive's study came into view. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases with sliding mahogany ladders. An antique globe—sepia, calligraphic labels—perched on a claw-foot stand. On the walls, an array of plaques and awards, portraits of Hollywood starlets like Grace Kelly and Jayne Mansfield, and a collection of arcane weapons hanging on pegs: spiky morningstars, glinting daggers, a crossbow with stock carved in the luxurious form of a serpent.

And in the middle, a man in silk pajamas holding a lance. His sleeves' velvet-red fabric billowed about the domed grip.

"It is real, and I do know how to use it," he said. "I have fifty hours of period-correct training under my belt."

Josiah approached without regard for the sharp tip quavering at him. "Ah, the corporate warrior. Pillage the customer, then blow ungodly amounts on Renaissance Fair trinkets and pretend you're Sun Szu." His Albino eyes narrowed. "Weren't you an EE major at Rutgers, Ted?"

Blackstone shuddered at his own name. "Who are you? What're you doing here?"

Josiah approached until mere inches separated his chest from the lance. "Who we are is the Blind Mice. Why we're here?" He smiled with a deviant quality that turned my stomach. "I think you know, Ted. Deep in your bones."

Blackstone tried to scan our ranks while at the same time covering Josiah, stuttering, jerking the lance. I shrank from his gaze.

"How—wh—why are you here?" the executive said. "Blackstone Health isn't on that list. What, the Despicable Dozen?"

The corners of Josiah's lips stretched grotesquely toward his ears. "You're in a special category, Ted. You get special justice."

He punctuated these words with a primal attack, kicking/shoving/screaming in one motion. The lance clattered from Blackstone's hands to the floor, sweeping the antique globe off its stand. As though energized by the disorder, Josiah hopped up onto a massive partner's desk and began hurling documents, staplers, some golden-golf-ball trophy.