Final Hour (Novella) by Dean Koontz Page B

traveled up and overhead on rusted tracks.
    Outside again, she glanced toward the Honda. She could make out Bob in the back of the car. She couldn’t see Pogo; he was slumped in his seat.
    He’s okay. He’s all right. It’s not a mortal wound.
    The electronic key that she had taken from Ursula Liddon’s body was in her pocket, and the push-button ignition brought the Mercedes engine racing to life. She hung a U-turn, drove to the open roll-up, into the building, and parked.
    With another moist towelette, she wiped down the parts of the car that she had touched. She kept the electronic key.
    She opened the hood and, as Pogo had instructed during their exit from the factory, she disconnected the leads from the battery. When the vehicle was disabled in this manner, maybe its transponder would cease to emit a signal, so it couldn’t be located by GPS. Pogo wasn’t sure about that. Simon could follow up here later today.
    In a day or two, or five, the police would be notified that Ursula Liddon was missing. When they realized that, of her eight cars, only the Mercedes was not in her garage, they would hope to find it—and her—by GPS. It was essential that they be delayed.
    Pogo’s car had been parked inside the chain-link gate. Anyone passing could have seen it. Although it was far less memorable than Makani’s highly customized Chevy, the Honda was not as nondescript as a car fresh off the dealer’s lot.
    If the twins were found in mere days, the Honda would be fresh in the memory of anyone who had seen it. But if the bodies were not discovered for months or years…
    She put down the roll-up, went to the side door, switched off the lights, and locked the place with another key that they had taken from Ursula’s body.
    Although the day was not blistering-hot, only pleasantly warm, Makani perspired heavily as she hurried back to the Honda. The sweat felt as cold as ice water.
    When she went to the passenger door to check on Pogo, his eyes were closed. He was still and pale, and blood saturated the entire front of his T-shirt.
    He opened his eyes. She could see herself reflected in them. “The gate,” he reminded her.
    “Yeah. I know. I just needed to…see.”
    The portion of the gate-motor housing that he’d removed lay on the blacktop with four screws. He had described the cut wires to her. Holding them by the insulation, she crossed the bare-copper ends, and they sparked, and the gate rolled open.
    Using the flip-out screwdriver in Pogo’s Swiss Army Knife, Makani replaced the section of motor housing, so that a police patrol—if one ever looked close—wouldn’t notice it and be curious. Although this once-humming neighborhood was desolate, traffic passed in the street, and she expected every vehicle to be a black-and-white. Her hands shook, she kept dropping the screws, and the task took longer than it should have.
    Pogo was okay. He looked tired, but he was okay.
    She drove off the property and parked in the street, leaving the engine running and the driver’s door open when she got out.
    From this side, the gate could be closed only manually. She got the job done.
    In the driver’s seat, when they were rolling again, she said, “You need a doctor.”
    “There’ll be one soon.” His voice was hoarse and weak. She thought maybe he was delirious or something.
    “Where? Where will there be one soon?”
    “Where I’m house-sitting, where you left your Chevy.”
    “The owner isn’t a doctor. And anyway, he’s in Europe.”
    Pogo indicated the phone in his lap. “I called someone.”
    “Who?”
    “Your only reliable resource in times of crisis.”
    “Simon? Simon’s not a doctor.”
    “He’ll have one at the house soon after we get there.”
    She didn’t like the look of the viscid mass of blood, dark and clotted, bibbing him from neck to waistline, but she couldn’t stop glancing at it.
    “You need a doctor
now,
” she worried.
    “Any doc you take me to will have to file a police