Lightning

minerals in these potato chips as in a green salad. You can eat nothing but desserts and remain as healthy as a man who eats balanced meals. Incredible! How was this advance achieved?"
    Laura turned in time to see Chris slinking out of the kitchen. "Whoa, you little con artist."
    Looking sheepish, he said, "Doesn't Mr. Krieger get some funny ideas about our culture?"
    "I know where he got this one," she said. "What a sneaky thing to have done."
    Chris sighed and tried to sound mournful. "Yeah. But I figure… if we're being hunted down by Gestapo agents, we ought to be able to eat as many Ding Dongs as we want, at least, 'cause every meal could be our last." He looked at her sideways to see if she was buying his condemned-man routine.
    In fact what the boy said contained enough truth to make his trickery understandable if not excusable, and she could not find the will to punish him.
    That night after dinner, Laura changed the dressing on Stefan's wound. The impact of the slug had left an enormous bruise on his chest with the bullet hole at its approximate center, a smaller bruise around the exit point. The suture threads and the inside of the old bandage were crusted with fluid that had seeped from him and dried. After she carefully bathed the wounds, cleaning that material away as much as possible without disturbing the scab, she gently palpated the flesh, producing a trace of clear seepage, but there was no sign of pus formation that would indicate a serious infection. Of course, he might have an abscess within the wound, draining internally, but that was not likely because he had no fever.
    "Keep taking the penicillin," she said, "and I think you'll be fine. Doc Brenkshaw did a good job."
    While Laura and Stefan spent long hours at the computer Monday and Tuesday, Chris watched television, looked through the bookshelves for something to read, puzzled over a hardcover collection of old Barbarella cartoons—
    "Mom, what does orgasm mean?"
    "What're you reading? Give me that."
    —and generally entertained himself without a fuss. He came to the den once in a while and stood for a minute or two at a time, watching them use the computer. After about a dozen visits he said, "In
Back to the Future
they just had this time-traveling car, and they pushed a few buttons on the dashboard, and they were
off—Pow
!— like that. How come nothing in real life's ever as easy as it is in the movies?"
    On Tuesday, January 19, they kept a low profile while the gardener mowed the lawn and trimmed some shrubbery. In four days he was the only person they had seen; no door-to-door salesmen had called, not even a Jehovah's Witness pushing
Watchtower
magazine.
    "We're safe here," Stefan said. "Obviously, our presence in the house never becomes public knowledge. If it did, the Gestapo would have visited us already."
    Nevertheless Laura kept the perimeter alarm system switched on nearly twenty-four hours a day. And at night she dreamed of destiny reasserting itself, of Chris erased from existence, of waking up to find herself in a wheelchair.
9
    They were supposed to arrive at eight o'clock to give them plenty of time to reach the location at which the researchers had pinpointed the woman and the boy, if not Krieger. But when Lieutenant Klietmann blinked and found himself forty-five years beyond his own era, he knew at once that they were a couple of hours late. The sun was too high above the horizon. The temperature was about seventy-five, too warm for an early, winter morning in the desert.
    Like a white crack in a blue-glazed bowl, lightning splintered down the sky. Other cracks opened, and sparks flashed above as if struck from the hooves of a bull loose in some celestial china shop.
    As the thunder faded, Klietmann turned to see if von Manstein, Hubatsch, and Bracher had made the journey safely. They were with him, all carrying attache cases, with sunglasses stuck in the breast pockets of their expensive suits.
    The problem was that thirty feet beyond the sergeant and the two corporals, a pair of elderly, white-haired women in pastel stretch pants and pastel blouses were standing at a white car near the rear door to a church, staring in astonishment at Klietmann and his squad. They were holding what appeared to be casseroles.
    Klietmann glanced around and saw that he and his men had arrived in the parking lot behind the church. There were two other cars in addition to the one that seemed to belong to the women, but there were no other