The plan had been for Miller to call once they were on their way back to Hyannis.
Cal hit his speed-dial button for Miller—only the tenth or twelfth time in the last hour. He listened to a long series of rings before the leave-a-message voice came on.
Realizing sleep was impossible, Cal slipped out of bed and padded into the hall. To his left he saw a figure silhouetted in a glowing window. He walked toward it.
"How's it going, Grell?"
In the wash of light from the security floodlamps outside, he could make out the binocs hanging from Greli's neck and the twelve-gauge shotgun, the Bushmaster, and the sniper rifle leaning beside the window. The super-bright lights automatically turned on at dusk and stayed on until dawn.
The silhouette nodded. "All quiet on the southern front. What're you do-ing up?'
"Waiting to hear from Miller."
"No call yet?"
"Nope."
"Shit."
Yeah. Shit.
Cal headed upstairs to the computer that occupied a small study off the great room.
"Just me," he said as he spotted Novak in the sunroom where he had a view of both the harbor and the ocean, as well as north.
He lit up the computer and started searching the news services for stories of gunfire in a New York hospital.
Nothing.
Acid seeped into his stomach, burning, gnawing. This looked bad. Worse than bad. This had the makings of a catastrophe. If Miller, Jolliff, Hursey, and Gold had wound up like Zeklos…
He shook his head. What would he do? What could he do? Diana—had to get used to calling her the Oculus now—and the others would be looking to him for answers, and he had none. This isolated house on this spit of land bordering the Atlantic offered more safety that anyplace else they might have chosen, but it hamstrung them as well. Even if they had the manpower to answer Alarms, they were too far from just about anywhere of importance to act on them.
Militia Vigilum… the words mocked him: They could be vigilant, but not militant.
He almost felt as if the Ally might be mocking them as welclass="underline" No matter what I tell you to do, no matter how heinous, you run to it. I say, "Jump," and you say, "How high?"
He'd never felt the slightest confusion about his relationship to the Ally. It had always been the vast, wise commander, and he had always been the small, fleshy appendage that did its bidding. But on his last outing he hadn't been able to—had outright refused.
Was he losing faith?
He hoped not. Because that would make his whole life a waste, an empty exercise. A lie.
Feeling lower than he could ever remember, Cal turned off the monitor but remained seated. If only Miller would—
A sound.
He straightened in the chair and listened more carefully. It came from the far end of the great room… from the master bedroom suite.
A girl's voice… sobbing.
They'd ensconced Diana in the suite because it was where she would have stayed if her father were still alive, and because she'd be safer on the second floor.
Safer, yes, but more isolated.
Cal rose and slowly, carefully crossed the great room. The door to the suite was ajar but the room beyond lay dark. The sobs grew in volume as he approached.
When he reached the door he hesitated. She was thirteen, her father had been murdered just days ago, and she was vulnerable. Very vulnerable.
Damn me.
With everything else going on—arriving in a rush, learning about Zeklos's death and the note, then Miller and his crew taking off, he'd completely forgotten about the kid and how she must be feeling.
They needed a grown woman here, someone Diana could talk to, confide in, cry on her shoulder. Being an Oculus was a hellish responsibility for an adult. It had to be crushing for a teenage girl.
Teenage girl… oh, hell, had she had her first period yet? Who'd talk to her about it? Who'd go to the store for tampons or whatever they were using these days?
We need a woman!
But female yeniceri didn't exist. The MV was strictly Old School in that regard. Women had never been members and therefore women would never be members.
Maybe not a bad idea. Imagine the turmoil and distractions they'd cause in the training camps.
Poor Diana. She couldn't go to school or have even one friend. Not with those eyes. They'd give rise to too many unanswerable questions.
So it was up to Cal.
Had to tread carefully here. Couldn't let her think he was interested in anything but her well-being, that he was knocking on her door at this hour with any agenda other than to see if he could help. Her world had fallen apart. She had to be crushed, terrified. He didn't want to add to that.
He knocked on the doorframe.
"Diana?"
A startled gasp, then a teary, hesitant, "Yes? Who's there?"
"It's me—Davis. Are you all right?"
Louder sobbing answered his question.
He leaned next to the door, unsure of what to do. He knew a hundred ways to kill, but hadn't the slightest clue as to how to comfort a newly orphaned teenage girl. Maybe if he'd been a father at some time, but…
"Want to talk?"
A sniff. "That's okay." Another sniff. "No, wait. Yes."
"Okay if I come in?"
"O-okay. But just to talk, just for a minute."
Yep. Had to tread very carefully here.
He stepped into the room but didn't turn on the lights. He figured she'd rather not be seen with tears on her cheeks. And to be honest, he'd rather not see those black eyes of hers. Her father's hadn't fazed him, but Diana's… he'd watched her grow up with normal blue eyes. Seeing them now as glossy black orbs disturbed him. The little girl had mutated into something else.
He was glad she wore shades day and night—but he doubted very much she wore them to bed.
Enough glow from the floodlights seeped through the blinds to allow him to make out the huddled shape sitting in bed with the covers pulled up to her neck, held there by little hands protruding from the sleeves of one of her long flannel nightgowns. He knew about those because he'd packed them for her.
He found a chair and pulled it up next to the bed, then seated himself facing her.
"I can't imagine what you're going through," he told her. "None of us can. You must be frightened half out of your mind."
A whimper. "I am."
"I hope you know that we're here for you, ready to die for you. But I've realized that's not enough. You need a family. We'll be that family. You've got a dozen uncles." Only eight, he thought, if Miller and company didn't come back. "We'll make time for you whenever you need it. We'll school you, play games when you want us to, leave you be when you want time to yourself. The important thing you've got to realize is that you're not alone in this, Diana."
She began crying again—deep, wracking sobs this time. The sound tore him up.
Without realizing he was doing it, Cal reached out and took her hand. He was ready for her to pull away, and that would be okay, but instead she clutched it with both tear-slick hands.
"I'm so-so-so scared!"
"It's all right to be. You didn't choose this life, I know, and it won't be easy, but we'll all try to make the best of it."
"You don't uh-understand. I'm scared of an Alarm. I don't want to get an Alarm."
Cal could understand that. He'd seen her father when they hit him. They didn't look pleasant. Diana undoubtedly had seen it too. He didn't blame her for being frightened.
But what to say?
"All I can tell you is we'll help you in any way possible."
Lame-lame-lame.
"But what if one comes at night?"
Cal didn't have an answer for that beyond an even lamer, "We'll come as soon as you call." Then he thought of something. "Maybe you won't have any Alarms."