The clock behind the counter says half past one.
The vision fades to gray, then lights up with the woman standing on the exact same corner as the last time, only now she is holding the child by the hand while the child munches happily on the candy bar.
As the light changes, they step off the curb… and then, without warning, a white panel truck runs the red light and slams into the two of them, sending them flying. If he were seeing this with his eyes, the Oculus would have squeezed them shut. But since the scene is playing inside his head, he is compelled to watch. And in the driver seat of the truck he sees one of his yeniceri: Cal Davis.
The vision fades to gray, and then the gray fades, and with it, the pain.
The bed stops its vertiginous whirl but the Oculus doesn't move.
A yenigeri in an Alarm means the Ally needs this done.
Why? he wonders. Why does the Ally want this woman dead? The little girl wasn't in the previous Alarm. Does it want her life too, or is she merely collateral damage?
How will their deaths affect the fight against the Otherness?
And why must it fall to him to order their deaths?
He wonders if the Otherness is behind an Alarm like this, if it somehow taps in from time to time. But that can't be. He's tuned in to the Ally, and that's where the Alarm came from.
But although the Ally has never in his experience been cruel, he knows it can be merciless.
5
"Hi, Abe."
"Jack? From the boat you're calling?"
"I'm not on the boat."
"There's been a problem?"
"No. I changed my mind."
"A joke, right?"
"Afraid not."
"Gevalt!"
In the ensuing silence, Jack reevaluated his decision. It hadn't been an easy one. During the drive back, every time he'd lean toward boarding that boat, he'd think about those sunglasses and those bullets. In the end it all had come down to those damn cyanide-tipped bullets. They kept reminding him of the LaGuardia Massacre. It made no sense, he knew. Different caliber, and car-ried by someone who was anything but an Arab. If he'd found a Koran in Smith's bag instead of a novel, the decision would have been made right then and there. But John D. MacDonald didn't incite the slaughter of innocent people.
Then he'd remembered Joey Castles's dying words after they'd hit the Islamic center.
"It's bigger than them. Something else going on."
That had done it. The "something else" left him no choice but to head back to New York.
He'd waited till he'd reached the airport and bought his ticket before calling Abe. He didn't want to disappoint his oldest and best friend, but…
"I'm sorry, Abe. I know you spent a lot of time—"
"Months I spent."
"I know. And I know you called in some favors, but I just can't leave the country right now."
"People have been put in place, schedules have been rearranged, space has been made…"
"I know, I know, and I'm awfully sorry, but something important has come up."
"What could be more important than this trip?"
"I'll explain when I see you."
He heard Abe sigh. "This I've got to tell you, my friend, a replay may not be easy. May not be possible even. Someone's going to be very upset that he went to all this trouble for nothing."
"I'll pay him for his time and trouble—cover all expenses and then some. He'll have his profit."
"Profit isn't everything. There's the matter of respect, which is very important to this man. I'll call him. Maybe he'll be less upset if he should have advance notice, although much in advance this is not."
"Thanks, Abe. I'll make it up to you some way."
He broke the connection and glanced at the departure board. Still had half an hour before takeoff. Should he call Gia?
Probably best not to. Better to explain in person instead of a cryptic phone conversation. He didn't think he was unreasonably paranoid. With his pay-as-you-go TracFone, calls were traceable to his number but not to him, since all subscribers were anonymous. But his calls weren't encrypted and were traceable to whomever he called. With Homeland Security and the Patriot Act in swing, no telling who might be listening in.
He'd wait till he was ready to stop by, then call Gia to give her a heads-up that he was back in town, and tell her he'd explain everything in a few minutes when he got there.
He wondered how she'd take the news. She'd been ambivalent about his new identity, but would she see the sudden change in plans as a lack of commitment to the baby?
No. She knew better. And she'd understand once he explained his reasons.
The call came over the speakers that his plane was boarding.
6
Ybarra, one of the yenigeri on duty, placed a folded copy of the morning Times on the Oculus's desk.
"As requested, sir."
"Thank you."
As Ybarra left, the Oculus picked up the paper but did not unfold it. He feared the headline. If it said nothing about the Bay Ridge apartment, the woman and the child would have another day, perhaps more, to live. But if the story was there…
He took a breath, held it, then unfolded the paper. The air blew out of him in a choked whoosh when he saw a headline identical to the one in the Alarm.
He closed his eyes and lowered his head. He'd have to gather the yeniceri. He'd have to tell them about the Alarm. He'd have to send them out to kill that woman and child.
The Oculus rested his elbows on the desktop and pressed his eyes against the upturned palms. At times like this he wished he hadn't been born with the gift. Because, in its own way, the gift was a curse. The Alarms could not be ignored—the Ally saw what was to be and demanded action. The enormity of the responsibility was appalling. If he kept the Alarm to himself, what would be the consequences? The Ally was not capricious. If it told him that a situation had to be addressed, then that was what must happen. To ignore it would be tantamount to aiding and abetting the Otherness.
He wished he were like any other man, wished he could wake up in the morning and go about his business without the crushing burden of the gift, without worrying about when the next Alarm would sound.
But the only escape from the Alarms was death. At times he'd considered that option, but then he'd think of poor Diana, and of how his mantle would fall on her shoulders when he was gone. He wished to spare her for as long as possible. For that reason alone he vowed to live to a ripe old age.
But now he had to deal with the matter of the Alarm.
He buzzed downstairs. Ybarra answered.
"Gather the yeniceri. We've had an Alarm."
7
Gia hung up her coat and rubbed her hands together. Cold out here.
She'd put Vicky on the school bus and had scurried back to the warmth of the house. She filled the kettle and turned on the TV. A little tea, a little news, and she'd get to work on the studies for that dust jacket.
Over the years Gia had developed good working relationships with the art directors of a number of publishing houses. Sometimes she received detailed instructions on what they wanted; other times, like this one, she received no directive beyond, "Something bucolic, with a house in the woods."
She'd dipped into the manuscript they'd sent her—a dreary tale about a middle-aged college professor's extramarital affair with a student—until she found an obsessively detailed description of the woodsy retreat that served as their trysting place.
Now all she had to do was come up with a couple of rough ideas, dab a little paint on them to show the color scheme, and bring them in. The art director would choose one, make his comments on composition and color, and then Gia would begin the actual painting. Sometimes it was a chore, sometimes it was fun, but either way, commercial art paid the bills, leaving her time for her personal paintings.