Lila and Little Maria tugged on their parkas, then hoisted their packs which were stuffed with extra socks and long johns. The Kid dawdled in front of the Beatrix Potter mural. The two mice in their little burrow stared back at him with flat black eyes, now just pictures on a wall. Grimly, Kid wrapped his cloak of anger around himself and the two girls. No souls for sale—not for Dalekto, lobster, or Nesselrode pie. Mr. P. wasn’t God. At the far end of the apartment Kid could feel the tall man’s mind occupied with great plans, busy-busy-busy, thinking great thoughts in the wood-lined study; first gloating over how to use the girls, then crippling the troopers downstairs with hysterical blindness. Mr. P. was too busy to notice their escape. Only moments to get away. Make them count. Do it now. The three youngsters sneaked into the hall by the emergency stairs, quietly shutting the back door of the apartment. One of the stricken soldiers looked up at the sound of the shutting door, staring blindly through lifeless eyes.
