From the back of the ambulance issued a stream of mumbles and the grainy rustle of what constituted laughter. A thought wormed through a borehole into Pinroth’s submissive mind. He knew it was not his own. He welcomed the alien presence, recognized it as his Master’s telepathic communique. They must begin the final preparations. The delivery of the stone was on its way; their journey had, after decades, culminated. Pinroth understood. He did not show it—his visage remained blank as a slab—but he was experiencing joy.
The son of his Master appeared feverish with anticipation. A stethoscope pinched at the younger Whiteside’s neck. His fingers clutched emptied blood bags as though he were attempting to squeeze out their very last drops. His pale sweaty face filled the rearview mirror.
“Our time has arrived, Pinroth. Though Pm worried he isn’t strong enough to carry it out. Heartbeat’s erratic. Blood pressure dropping.”
“He’s always been the strongest among us,” Pinroth said.
“Agreed, agreed.”
Distracted, the son refitted the eartips of his stethoscope and pumped the black rubber bulb of the blood pressure cuff attached to his father’s branchlike upper arm. Shaking his head as the needle bounced feebly inside its gauge.
“I’ll take us back to the lodge now?” Pinroth knew the answer. He’d been told what to do. Nothing could stop him once the Master had commanded. But the Master’s son needed to feel in control of the smallest matters. The Master had warned Pinroth of this weakness and how, if mishandled, the servant son could turn poisonous against them. The antidote was acquiescence— the illusion of servitude. If the antidote failed . . . without removing his eyes from the road, Pinroth reached into his jacket and closed his cool grip around the Luger.
“Yes. I want him in a bed. Stationary. He needs to be hooked to the monitors. To lose him at this stage is not an option.” The black goggles slipped crookedly on the junior Whiteside’s nose. He pressed his face downward and whispered to the unseen elder on the stretcher. “Your lust for Death won’t fuck me over. I’ll make certain you give me my due.”
Pinroth gritted his teeth. Outside the ambulance, filling the road, the Pitch were bowing and pushing past each other to see into the windows, to graze their fingers along the slow-gliding chassis.
A latex-gloved finger pointed at Pinroth in the mirror. “Get us back there in one piece, or I’ll have you gutted like a carp. They’ll drag your entrails out on a rope if I tell them. Speedy now, run over bodies if you have to. Do it.”
“As you say,” Pinroth answered.
He released the pistol and switched on the siren.
Its call was a shout of elation. The Pitch would hear and know their Master’s chariot thundered to the finish line. The crowd parted.
Pinroth glanced into the rearview mirror. The servant son bent over the bundled figure on the stretcher. Pinroth did not make it a habit to anticipate commands. This was not his nature. He did not make wishes, either. Though a single wish tempted him, and in his fantasy of its fulfillment, the Luger jumped and the back of Young Whiteside’s head sprayed a fine dark mist.
Pinroth obeyed but one Master.