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He grunted in amusement and exasperation。 'You're jamming me。'
'You can think of it that way。 Or you can think of it as teaching you a technique you better learn if you'd like to keep our conversation a secret。'
'Uh…huh。' Owen wasn't entirely displeased with what had just happened。 For one thing； a jamming technique would be a very good thing to have。 For another； Henry did know where his infected friend … call him Typhoid Jonesy … was going。 Owen had seen a brief picture of it in Henry's head。
'Henry； I want you to listen to me now。'
'All right。'
'Here's the simplest； safest thing we can do； you and I。 First； if time isn't an utterly crucial factor； we both need to get some sleep。'
'I can buy that。 I'm next door to dead。'
'Then； around three o'clock； I can start to move and shake。 This installation is going to be on high alert till the time when there isn't an installation here any longer； but if Big Brother's eyeball ever glazes over a little； it's apt to be between four and six A。M。 I'll make a diversion； and I can short out the fence … that's the easiest part； actually。 I can be here with a Sno…Cat five minutes after the shit hits the fan…'
Telepathy had certain shorthand advantages to verbal munication； Owen was discovering。 He sent Henry the image of a burning MH…6 Little Bird helicopter and soldiers running toward it even as he continued to speak。
'…and off we go。'
'Leaving Kurtz with a barnful of innocent civilians he plans to turn into crispy critters。 Not to mention Blue Group。 What's that； a couple…three hundred more？'
Owen； who had been full…time military since the age of nineteen and one of Kurtz's eraserheads for the last eight years； sent two hard words along the mental conduit the two of them had established： Acceptable losses。
Behind the dirty glass； the vague shape that was Henry Devlin stirred； then stood。
No； he sent back。
8
No？ What do you mean； no？
No。 That's what I mean。
Do you have a better idea？
And Owen realized； to his extreme horror； that Henry thought he did。 Fragments of that idea … it would be far too generous to call it a plan … shot through Owen's mind like the brightly fragmented tail of a et。 It took his breath away。 The cigarette dropped unnoticed from between his fingers and zipped away on the wind。
You're nuts。
No； I'm not。 We need a diversion in order to get away； you already know that。 This is a diversion。
They'll be killed anyway！
Some will。 Maybe even most of them。 But it's a chance。 What chance will they have in a burning barn？
Out loud； Henry said： 'And there's Kurtz。 If he's got a couple of hundred escapees to worry about … most of whom who'd be happy to tell the first reporters they came across that the panic…stricken U。S。 government had sanctioned a My Lai massacre right here on American soil … he's going to be a lot less concerned about us。'
You don't know Abe Kurtz； Owen thought。 You don't know about the Kurtz Line。 Of course； neither had he。 Not really。 Not until today。
Yet Henry's proposal made a lunatic kind of sense。 And it contained at least a measure of atonement。 As this endless November fourteenth marched toward midnight and as odds of living until the end of the week grew longer； Owen was not surprised to find that the idea of atonement had its attractions。
'Henry。'
'Yes； Owen。 I'm here。'
'I've always felt badly about what I did in the Rapeloews' house that day。'
'I know。'
'And yet I've done it again and again。 How tucked up is that？' Henry； an excellent psychiatrist even after his thoughts had turned to suicide； said nothing。 Fucked up was normal human behavior。 Sad but true。
'All right；' Owen said at last。 'You can buy the house； but I'm going to furnish it。 Deal？'
'Deal；' Henry replied at once。
'Can you really teach me that jamming technique？ Because I think I may need it。'
'I'm pretty sure I can。'
'All right。 Listen。' Owen talked for the next three minutes； sometimes out loud； sometimes mind to mind。 The two men had reached a point where they no longer differentiated between the modes of munication； thoughts and words had bee one。
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DERRY
1
It's hot in Gosselin's … it's so hot！ The sweat pops out on Jonesy's face almost immediately； and by the time the four of them get to the pay phone （which is near the woodstove； wouldn't you know it）； it's rolling down his cheeks； and his armpits feel like jungle growth after a heavy rain 。 。 。 not that he has all that much growth there yet； not at fourteen。 Don't you wish； as Pete likes to say。
So it's hot； and he's still partly in the grip of the dream； which hasn't faded the way bad dreams usually do （he can still smell gasoline and burning rubber； can still see Henry holding that moccasin 。 。 。 and the head； he can still see Richie Grenadeau's awful severed head）； and then the operator makes things worse by being a bitch。 When Jonesy gives her the Cavells' number； which they call frequently to ask if they can e over （Roberta and Alfie always say yes； but it is only polite to ask permission； they have all been taught that at home）； the operator asks： 'Do your parents know you're calling long…distance？' The words e out not in a Yankee drawl but in the slightly Frenchified tones of someone who grew up in this part of the world； where Letourneau and Bissonette are more mon than Smith or Jones。 The tightwad French； Pete's Dad calls them。 And now he's got one on the telephone； God help him。
'They let me make toll calls if I pay the charges；' Jonesy says。 And boy； he should have known that he would end up being the one to actually make it。 He rakes down the zipper of his jacket。 God； but it's boiling in here！ How those old geezers can sit around the stove like they're doing is more than Jonesy can understand。 His own friends are pressing in close around him； which is probably understandable … they want to know how things go … but still； Jonesy wishes they would step back a little。 Having them so close makes him feel even hotter。
'And if I were to call them； mon fils； your mère et père； d'ey say the same？'
'Sure；' Jonesy says。 Sweat runs into one of his eyes； stinging； and he wipes it away like a tear。 'My father's at work； but my Mom should be home。 Nine…four…nine； six…six…five…eight。 Only I wish you'd make it quick； because…'
'I'll jus' ring on your party；' she says； sounding disappointed。 Jonesy slips out of his coat； switching the phone from one ear to the other in order to acplish this； and lets it puddle around his feet。 The others are still wearing theirs； Beav； in fact； hasn't even unzipped his Fonzie Jacket。 How they can stand it is beyond Jonesy。 Even the smells are getting to him： Musterole and beans and floor…oil and coffee and brine from the pickle…barrel。 Usually he likes the smells in Gosselin's； but today they make Jonesy feel like blowing chunks。
Connections click in his ear。 So slow。 His friends pushing in too close to the pay phone on the back wall； crowding him。 Two or three aisles over； Lamar is looking fixedly at the cereal shelf and rubbing his forehead like a man with a sev