Without the slightest inkling it was going to happen, he burst into tears.
"Jack!" Abe cried, swerving as he drove. "What's wrong?"
"I'm all right," he said, reining in his penduluming emotions. "It's this damn drug… It's still screwing with me. Did you call Gia?"
"Of course. A happy woman she's not."
"Where's your phone?"
Abe fished a StarTac out of his shirt pocket and handed it over. Before dialing, Jack funneled his thoughts ahead, forced his mind toward where to go from here.
First thing to do when he got back to the city was call Nadia and tell her to be careful what she ate or drank. Someone—Monnet most likely—was trying to drug her. Next he'd return here to take care of Scar-lip. After that, he'd have to make up for his behavior this morning with Gia and Vicky.
With that in mind, Jack punched Gia's number into Abe's phone. "Hi, it's me," he said when she picked up.
He heard a long, tremulous sigh. "Jack… what's happening to you?"
"That wasn't me," he said quickly. "Someone drugged me."
He went on to explain about Nadia's coffee and what the drug did to people, finishing with, "Even you'd be dangerous with a snootful of that stuff."
"I don't know about that, Jack," she said dubiously.
"I do know that I never dreamed I'd ever be afraid of you."
That cut. Deep. "You've got to understand, Gia, that wasn't me; that was the drug."
"But what about the next time you show up unexpectedly? How can I be sure someone hasn't slipped you another dose?"
"Never happen."
"You can't guarantee that."
"Yes, I can. Oh, yes, I can. Berzerk is going to be yesterday's news."
Add one more task to his to-do list: Take down GEM, and Monnet and Dragovic with it. Tonight.
Fresh rage percolated through him—not Berzerk-fueled, his own vintage, the dark stuff he kept bottled in his mental cellars. This morning he'd told Nadia that he didn't care about drugs, that they weren't his business. But this was no longer business. This was personal now.
10
Nadia was running late. She'd missed a turn and found herself heading toward Lattingtown instead of Monroe. But now she was in downtown Monroe—a whole five blocks, from what she could see—and it was almost two and she couldn't find a trace of this seafood restaurant anywhere.
Wait… there… an old pub-type hinged wooden sign hanging over the sidewalk with a fish on a plate… and the name: MEMISON'S. And there was the public phone, right in front as Doug had said. But not a parking place in sight.
Then she saw a man in baggy clothes and a soggy-looking cap leave the restaurant and jump into an old panel truck. The truck pulled away, leaving her the open spot right in front of the phone. Talk about great timing.
Nadia pulled her rented Taurus into the space and hopped out. No sooner had she reached the phone when it began to ring. She snatched up the receiver.
"Doug?"
"Nadia! You made it! I knew I could count on you."
Thank God it was him. She looked around. Was he nearby? She felt eyes on her. "Where are you?"
"About a mile and a half away. I'm hiding in a tent show out on the marshes."
"A what?"
"Don't worry. I'm not running off with the circus. You can be here in a few minutes."
She memorized his directions, then hurried back to her car and made a U-turn. She followed the waterfront—sailboats and sport fishers in the water, blue-plastic weatherproofed craft still in dry dock, waiting to be launched for the season. After a quarter-mile she turned left. The houses and shops vanished first, then the pavement: she found herself on a dirt road running through a marsh. To her left a small harbor lay still and gray like pocked steel under the overcast sky. A small ramshackle cabin sat dead ahead at the end of the marching line of roadside utility poles; and to her right, a small cluster of tents, just as Doug had described.
He'd told her to look for a small red trailer beyond the rear of what he'd called the backyard. She saw a few cars parked in a makeshift lot that she guessed could be called a front yard, but no people about.
Where was everybody? The whole area seemed so still and empty, as if holding its breath. Creepy. The idea of wandering about alone on foot did not at all appeal to her, so she drove around to the rear of the tent complex. There she found a battered old trailer whose once proud chrome skin was scarred, dented, and painted a dull red, sitting far behind the tents and the rest of the show vehicles.
Was this where Doug was hiding? She couldn't see anyplace else that matched the description. Her heart bled for him. What had driven him to these extremes?
She parked her car nose-on to the side of the trailer and noticed that all the windows were boarded over. The door hung open. She called out as she stepped out and approached the dark opening.
"Doug?"
"Nadia!" His voice echoed faintly from the dark interior. "I'm so glad you made it."
"Doug, where are you?"
"Right inside. Come on in."
She felt hackles rising. Something wasn't right here. On the phone his voice had sounded perfectly fine. But here, without the filtering effects of wires and microwave transmissions, it sounded different. It sounded wrong. And then she realized that he had called her Nadia instead of his usual Nadj.
"Why can't I see you, Doug?"
A pause, then, "I'm on the couch. I'd really love to meet you at the door but I'm… I've been injured."
Doug… hurt…
Without thinking Nadia found herself dashing up the two rickety steps and fairly leaping through the door. She stopped inside, looking around, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. The air was mildewy and close despite the open door. She heard a rattling, rustling movement to her left.
"Doug?"
"Right here, sweetie," said his voice to her right—and from below.
She jumped at the sound and turned to see what she thought at first was a child, but then she noticed the mustache and the slicked-down hair. He looked like a midget from a barbershop quartet.
He grinned. "See ya later!"
Nadia watched in mind-numbed shock as the little man darted out the door.
His voice… he'd spoken in Doug's voice.
She was just beginning to move, just going into a turn, when the trailer door slammed shut, plunging her into darkness.
"No!"
The cry was a strangled sound as fear took an instant icy grip on her throat, choking off her air. She threw herself against the door, hitting it with her shoulders, pounding on it, shouting.
"No! Please! Let me out! Help!"
But the door wouldn't budge. She battered it and screamed for help even though she knew the trailer was too far from anything and anyone to hear her cries, but she kept it up until her voice was raw. Then she stopped shouting but kept pounding against the door, fighting the sobs that pushed up from her chest.
She would not cry.
And then she heard that rattle and rustle again from the corner and her frenzied panic turned to cold, cringing dread.
Someone, something was in here with her.
The sounds became more frenzied, and through the thrashing she caught muffled growls and whines, and whistling breaths. Whatever it was it sounded furious, but at least it wasn't coming any closer. Maybe it was leashed in the corner. Maybe—
Cell phone! Yes! She could call for help! She reached for her bag and then realized with a groan it was in the car. Now she truly wanted to cry.
More thrashing from the corner.
God, if she could only see! Slivers of daylight seeping through the boarded-up windows provided the only illumination, and what little there was only made matters worse as her eyes adjusted. Whatever was thrashing in the corner looked big.