London Bridges

head captor shrugged. “You’re a tough bastard, but always remember,
I found you.
And I’ll find you again if I need to. Do you understand?”
    Geoffrey Shafer could barely focus his eyes, but he looked up to where he thought the captor’s voice had come from. He whispered, “What . . . do you . . . want? Please?”
    The bearded man’s face bent close to his. He seemed almost to smile. “I have a job, a most incredible job for you. Believe me, you were born for this.”
    “Who are you?” the Weasel whispered again through badly chapped and bleeding lips. It was a question he’d asked a hundred times during the torture.
    “I am the Wolf,” said the bearded man. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

Chapter 3
    ON THE SUNNY, blue-skied afternoon when one of them would die unexpectedly, needlessly, Frances and Dougie Puslowski were hanging sheets and pillowcases and the kids’ play clothes out to dry in the noonday sun.
    Suddenly U.S. Army soldiers began to arrive at their mobile-home park, Azure Views, in Sunrise Valley, Nevada.
Lots
of soldiers. A full convoy of U.S. jeeps and trucks came bouncing up the dirt road they lived on, and stopped abruptly. Troops poured out of the vehicles. The soldiers were heavily armed. They definitely meant business.
    “What in the name of sweet Jesus is going on?” asked Dougie, who was currently on disability from the Cortey Mine outside Wells and was still trying to get used to the domestic scene. But Dougie knew that he was failing pretty badly. He was almost always depressed, always grumpy and mean-spirited, and always short with poor Frances and the kids.
    Dougie noticed that the soldier boys and girls climbing out of their trucks were outfitted in battle dress uniform: leather boots, camouflage pants, olive T-shirts—the whole kit and caboodle, as if this were Iraq and not the ass end of Nevada. They carried M-16 rifles and ran toward the closest trailers with muzzles raised. Some of the soldiers even looked scared themselves.
    The desert wind was blowing pretty good, and their voices carried all the way to the Puslowskis’ clothesline. Frances and Dougie clearly heard “We’re evacuating the town! This is an emergency situation. Everyone has to leave their houses now!
Now,
people!”
    Frances Puslowski had the presence of mind to notice that all the soldiers were pretty much saying the same thing, as if they had rehearsed it, and that their tight, solemn faces sure showed that they wouldn’t take no for an answer. The Puslowskis’ three-hundred-odd neighbors—some of them
very
odd—were already leaving their mobile homes, complaining about it but definitely doing as they were told.
    The next-door neighbor, Delta Shore, ran over to Frances. “What’s happening, hon? Why are all these soldiers
here?
My good God Almighty! Can you believe it? They must be from Nellis or Fallon or someplace. I’m a little scared, Frances. You scared, hon?”
    The clothespin in Frances’s mouth finally dropped to the ground as she spoke to Delta. “They say that they’re evacuating us. I’ve got to get the girls.”
    Then Frances ran inside the mobile home, and at 240-some pounds, she had believed her sprinting, or even jogging, days were far behind her.
    “Madison, Brett, c’mere, you two. Nothin’ to be scared of. We just have to leave for a while! It’ll be fun. Like a movie. Get a move on, you two!”
    The girls, ages two and four, appeared from the small bedroom where they’d been watching
Rolie Polie Olie
on the Disney Channel. Madison, the oldest, offered her usual “Why? Why do we have to? I don’t want to. I won’t. We’re too busy, Momma.”
    Frances grabbed her cell phone off the kitchen counter—and then the next really strange thing happened. She tried to get a line to the police, but there was nothing except loud static. Now that had
never
happened before, not that kind of annoying, buzzy noise she was hearing. Was some kind of invasion going down? Something nuclear, maybe?
    “Damn it!” she snapped at the buzzing cell phone, and almost started to cry.
“What is going on here?”
    “You said a bad word!” Brett squeaked, but she also laughed at her mother. She kind of liked bad words. It was as if her mother had made a mistake, and she loved it when adults made mistakes.
    “Get Mrs. Summerkin and Oink,” Frances told the girls, who would
not
leave the house without their two favorite lovies, not even if the infernal plague of Egypt had come