Society Rules (18 page)

“So,”
Baker
began,
as
if
he’d
simply
grown
bored
with
the
news
articles. “I
understand
you
had
kind
of
an
exciting
night
last
night,
huh?
Up
there
camping
on,
what
was
it,
Mystery
Hill?
Saw
something
pretty
cool,
did
you?”

McKinney
opened
his
mouth,
but
nothing
came
out.
He
glanced
nervously
at
the
guy
standing
in
front
of
his
door.

“How
 . . .
how
do
you
know
about
that?
Did
you
hear
my
call
this
morning
on
Project
Earth?”

He
frowned. “But
I
didn’t
say
where
I
saw
them.”

“That’s
right,
Dick.
You
didn’t.” Baker
rose
from
the
couch
and
approached
the
man.

“We’d
like
to
borrow
your
camcorder,
if
you
don’t
mind,
Dick.
And
your
home
computer.
And
your
cell
phone
and
digital
camera.”

He
smiled
pleasantly
at
the
man’s
open-mouthed
anger.

“If
you
would
go
ahead
and
get
those
for
us
now,
that
would
be
great.”

“Who
 . . .
what
 . . .
I
am
NOT
giving
you
anything!”
McKinney
sputtered,
his
face
now
flushed
to
a
dull
red. “What
the
hell
gives
you
the
right
 . . . ?”

“Why
don’t
you
like
soft
drinks,
Mr.
McKinney?”

Will
spoke
for
the
first
time,
cutting
the
man
off
with
his
softly
spoken
query.

“Uh
 . . .
what?”
McKinney
looked
baffled
by
the
question.

“It’s
just
that
most
people,
when
they
eat
a
Big
Mac,
tend
to
go
for
a
soda
 . . .
but
you
always
get
coffee.
I
would
save
that
for
the
pie.”

Fear
hit
the
man’s
eyes
as
he
made
the
connection.

“I—I
 . . .”

“You
let
your
daughter
have
soda,
so
it
must
not
be
a
statement
of
health.
Happy
meals
come
with
a
choice.
You
could
have
gotten
Skyler
a
milk
 . . .
even
a
chocolate
milk.
But
she
got
Sprite.”

Will
shook
his
head,
as
if
he
and
the
subject
were
fathers
at
the
playground,
discussing
child
rearing
philosophies. “Oh
well.
At
least
it
doesn’t
have
caffeine.
That’s
really
not
good
for
toddlers.”

The
man
froze;
his
face
a
mask
of
horror.

“How
are
those
new
shoes
of
hers,
Mr.
McKinney?”
Will’s
voice
was
now
barely
a
whisper. “Do
they
fit
properly?
Sometimes
it
takes
a
day
or
two
to
break
them
in.
We
could
call
her
mother
 . . .
your
former
girlfriend,
Theresa,
and
ask
how
they
are
working
out
for
her.”

Who
are
you?”
Richard
McKinney
was
now
chalk
white,
and
backing
up
toward
the
kitchen. He
was
shaking
his
head
in
an
attempt
to
comprehend
what
was
happening.

“You
won’t
make
it
to
the
backdoor,
Dick.”
Baker
didn’t
step
forward,
but
shoved
his
hands
in
his
pockets
and
rocked
back
on
his
heels,
fixing
the
subject
with
his
still
aviator-clad
stare.
The
movement
allowed
his
jacket
to
part
slightly,
exposing
a
fine
leather
shoulder
holster;
the
heel
of
the
weapon
clearly
visible.

“Who
are
you
people?”
repeated
the
man,
his
eyes
darting
rapidly
from
Will
to
Baker.