Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Forty-One

The Vanagon was parked in section green-19 of the Shop-All parking lot. From the middle row of the van's cabin, Quaid just could make out the mammoth Shop-All logo atop the superstore, the S overlapping A inside a spinning red circle. The building underneath housed ten stories of high-count, low-unit-cost products, arranged optimally for ease of loading onto shopping carts.

"I never could get into box stores," Quaid said. "I go food shopping, I want to be traipsing through the aisles and find something new. Something in season."

Durwood, back near the tailgate, worked a steel needle through a suit of fine mesh. His hat sat cockeyed on his head.

Quaid continued, "I don't want to worry some crate of Hamburger Helpers is gonna fall on me. I don't need fifteen spreadable butter options. I want to be delighted."

Durwood firmed his brow at a knot in the mesh suit, which he worked on while stretched taut across the knees of his bluejeans. In a nearby cup holder sat pliers and micro-components.

"Tell me," Quaid said. "When were you last delighted?"

The question was met with a low growl, which Quaid might've mistaken for Sue-Ann's had she not been forward, keeping watch from the driver seat.

"Need to get those headaches checked out, Wood. How long have you had them? Months, right?"

From the corner of Durwood's mouth: "I'm healthy as a horse."

He probably was. Most days, his diet consisted of eggs, either raw or hard-boiled, and unadorned green peppers. He drank water exclusively, and must have been walking ten miles a night on those crime patrols of his.

"Headache can be a symptom of tumors," Quaid said. "They obstruct your cerebral fluid, creating pressure on—"

"How 'bout we get square on this mission?" Durwood eyeballed his partner over the mesh. "You do your diagnosis later."

Quaid ignored the rebuke. "Fine by me. What can I do to be useful?"

Durwood checked his watch. "It's three-fifteen." Molly had told them the attack was to begin at three o'clock. "You get visual on the Mice yet?"

Quaid glanced outside. Seeing nothing by naked eye, he assumed the joystick control and cycled through feeds on the van's bank of monitors. He zoomed in too quickly, then changed to IR mode by accident—Durwood's gadgets always befuddled him.

When he finally did tame the streams from the hidden cameras they'd planted two nights earlier, Quaid scanned for the Mice, homing in on large groups of shoppers. He had no success, and found himself instead surveillance-stalking a woman in her early twenties wearing a spaghetti strap top and cutoffs, buying ten-for-a-dollar organizing bins.

Durwood prompted, "Visual?"

"Oh, uh...no. None yet."

Durwood saw what was on the monitor and huffed.

To cover himself, Quaid said, "What if they're flaking? Or somebody talked sense into Josiah and he canceled?"

"Moll would've called us."

"Unless they sniffed her out and she can't. What if the Jackson girl gave her up?"

Molly had assured the guys Piper Jackson was "on board," but Quaid hadn't liked the way she'd said it. Her eyes had been over-bright, and she'd been quick to change the subject.

Durwood shrugged. "Only fifteen minutes late. Not out of character, this nut."

Quaid wondered how things would go once they had the nut himself, Josiah, in hand. The hope was that after snatching him today, they could debrief him and Piper Jackson and gain a clearer picture of the Anarchy—the exact role of Rivard, how or whether one could reverse damage caused by the mysterious kernel.