Jack did not identify the voice. And René’s voice sounded strange, accented. And she looked smaller, darker than he recalled. And her hair was in a bun.
Jack knew he wanted to stay awake—he knew how important it was that he take watch …
The big replay, pal. What you’ve been waiting for, stole all the blue beauties for …
But for the life of him, he could not keep his eyes open.
A sharp voice woke him again. “I’m not going to do that. Simple as that.”
“I’m a part of this, too.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“You never give a damn.”
“I do, but I’m not going to give it all up for him. It’s as simple as that.”
“Stop shouting, you’re going to wake him. Stop it.”
Jack climbed out of the crib and onto the floor. He walked to the opening and looked into the living room.
The next moment exploded in a flurry of movements. The man’s back was to him but he could see the woman slap her hand at him. “You son of a bitch,” she cried.
The man’s own hands rose to block her attack, but she continued to swear and swing at him, and he slapped her back, connecting with sounds of smacking flesh, her screaming.
Her screaming …
“Call the friggin’ cops. Go ahead.”
And with a fist he backhanded her in the face. The blow sent her stumbling backward, and her head cracked against the stone edge of the fireplace—the contact passing into Jack’s brain like a hot needle.
Jack heard himself cry out—a sharp, bright cry that sliced the air.
“Shut up, goddamn it.”
But Jack could not shut up. The man turned toward him, his face still out of view, and a terrified Jack scurried back into the bedroom. A moment later the man slammed the door shut.
Jack crawled under his crib, his stuffed mouse pressed against him, the hard wood floor cold against his legs. He could see movement in the light strip. And he could hear movement and the man’s voice. “Oh, shit, Rose! Rose!”
Then a long silence. Jack crawled out from under the crib and padded to the door, his mouse still held against him. There was no lock on the door, and he knew how to open it—just push the metal handle down.
He did, and through the crack he saw the man with the slicker on his head dragging her out the front door, a thin dark trail smearing the floor.
Jack could feel the cold breeze rush into the room. A moment later, the man closed the front door. Thunder cracked overhead and the window flickered blue light.
Jack went to the front door.
“Goddamn you, die.”
Jack opened the big door to see the man hanging over the woman on the ground. In the man’s hand was the meat mallet. In the dark wet the woman was whimpering and her feet were twitching horribly, as if she were trying to walk on air. And the mallet came down and down.
Jack let out a cry. And the man looked up, his hood casting a sharp shadow over his face. Jack ran back to his room and closed the door and climbed back into his crib.
But the door flew open and the man filled the light, his head a large black bullet, the mallet still gripped in his hand.
Jack heard himself crying so loudly that it felt as if pieces of his throat were breaking loose.
And the man just stood there taking in the screams, watching Jack squirming, cowering in the corner of his crib, clutching Mookie to him, the blanket over his head but with just enough of a hole in the folds to see the man who continued to stand there in the doorway staring at him, his terrible head and slanting shoulders—thinking about what he should do about the baby in the crib eyeing him through his blanket.
Jack could hear himself whimper, wishing he could stop, wishing he could just disappear, blink out of existence.
“Won’t remember a thing.”
And then the room lit up in an electric blue light as a crack of thunder shattered the air.
The man closed the door.
He must have cleaned up the mess in the other room, because Jack could smell something—bleach—as he lay there in the dark waiting for the door to burst open again. But it didn’t.
And some time later he heard the outside door bang shut.
JACK HEARD A WARBLING CRY AND snapped his eyes open.
He had slipped to the floor. His throat felt thick and his chest hollow as if he had been sobbing deeply. His mind was raw. He looked around the room.
All was still, and outside a gentle rain pattered against the roof. The fireplace was a bed of glowing coals and burnt log ends. A soft yellow night-light burned in a lamp on the table. The clock on the wall said 3:35.
René was curled up on her couch under an afghan.
Jack must have made sounds as he awoke, because René rolled onto her back and sat up. “You okay?”
He nodded. “I saw his face.”
5
83
“DAD, WE HAVE TO BE THERE at six. Might be time to get dressed.”
Louis had just stepped out of the shower. Through the door he could hear her voice calling up the stairs. “Okay,” he said. He could hear the excitement in his daughter’s voice. She had been that way since the invitation came. In fact, since he’d been home on furlough.
Then she added, “Remember, you’re going to be one of the star guests tonight. You excited?”
“Yup.”
Then another voice yelled up the stairs. His wife’s. “And don’t forget to take your pills. The white ones. They’re on your bureau with the water.”
“Okay.” He found the pills. The white ones. The ones that dulled his brain. He dropped them into the toilet.
Then he toweled himself off and looked in the mirror. He raised his arms and flexed his muscles, which bulged up thick and tan from going shirtless under the hot Asian sun. He inspected his teeth—white and straight. Then he smiled at the smooth young face staring out at him. With a comb he slicked back the thick black hair so that it looked like an ebony plate across his head. He had his father’s hair. Unfortunately, Dom had gone bald by the time he was fifty. Louis still had thirty years to worry about that.
On the bed lay the black tuxedo his wife and daughter had gotten him. That would be his cover.
Before he got dressed, he checked the map again and the recon photos, trying to fix in his head the layout of the village center and the entrances to the pavilion. When he had them burned into his brain, he slipped them back into the plain envelope.
He put on his watch: 18:22 hours. All was going according to schedule.
He slipped on his fatigues, then the monkey suit. In the mirror he fixed his bow tie and sent the comb through his hair for the last time. He wished they had some kind of hat to complete the look.
Under his jacket he fixed his weapon, certain that the layers would hide the bulge. He took one last look in the mirror and gave the soldier a stiff salute.
Then he headed out. At last. This time it was the real thing: Operation Buster.
84
FOLLOWING THE ANNOUNCEMENT of the FDA’S approval of Memorine, Alzheimer’s organizations, support groups, caregivers, and allied health-care people everywhere celebrated the good news. And so did the White House.
And on this balmy Saturday evening, a huge victory gala was held at the seaside estate of Gavin E. Moy. In the setting sun, the place glowed like a huge and magnificent jewelry box on the Manchester cliffs overlooking Moon Harbor, where Gavin Moy’s boat the Pillman Express lay moored in a black-glass sea. Inside, a small regiment of tuxedoed waiters moved throughout the crowd with trays of canapes and champagne.