And he understands: Abe saw no hope for himself. That means Jack will have none to offer Gia and Vicky.
He sits a long while, feeling lost and paralyzed as he stares at the test card. Finally he pushes himself into motion. Can't leave Abe here like this. What's he do? Call the cops? Will they even come? And if they do, there'll be an investigation and someone will find the armory in the basement. And all the while Abe's body will molder in a drawer in the morgue's cooler.
No. Can't have that. Jack knows what he has to do: come back tonight with the car and take Abe's body to Central Park. No cops, no inquests, just a quiet private burial for his oldest and dearest friend.
But what about Abe's family? The only family Jack knows of is a daughter in Queens. Sarah. Jack's never met her; he hid Gia and Vicky at her place during the rakoshi mess last summer, but she was out of town then.
Jack reaches for the blood-spattered Rolodex and flips through it. Abe used a computer down in the basement but stuck to old-fashioned methods up here on the main floor. An ache grows in his throat at the sight of Abe's crabbed handwriting and for a moment the letters blur. He blinks and tugs on the "S" tab, and there it is: simply "Sarah" and a number.
He calls the number and when a woman answers he asks for Sarah.
"This is she."
"I… I'm a friend of your father's. I'm afraid—"
"Yes, we know," she says. "He's dead."
Jack's alarms go off at the we. "How can you—?"
"We were hoping to get him to the point where we could stop him from such tragic foolishness, but those damn tests are so—"
Jack slams down the receiver. He can imagine how it went down. Sarah stops by with a peace offering. They've never gotten along, but these are extraordinary times and maybe they should bury the hatchet. She's brought something sweet, something her father can't resist, something heavily spiked with the virus.
And later, when Abe's blood turns positive, he knows he's a goner and knows who made him that way and it's all too much for him. Never would have believed it of Abe, but no telling what a person will do when the whole future goes dead black without a single glint of hope—
Jack's breath freezes in his chest as he remembers Gia's ten-mile stare when he left her and now he's heading for the door with his heart tearing loose. The phone rings and he knows he should ignore it but doubles back on the slim chance it might be Gia. She knows he's here, maybe she's trying to reach him.
"Jack," Gia says in response to his barked hello. "Thank God I caught you."
"What's wrong?" The preternatural calm of her tone sends screams of warning through him. "How's Vicky?"
"Sleeping."
"Sleeping?" Vicky is not a napper. "Is she sick?"
"Not anymore. She's at peace."
"Christ, Gia, what are you saying? Don't tell me you—"
"I didn't have enough sleeping pills for both of us, so I gave them all to her. Soon she'll be safe."
"No!"
"And I've got one of your guns for me, but I didn't want to use it until I called you to say good-bye—"
The phone slips from Jack's fingers and he's dashing for the door, bursting onto the sidewalk, and sprinting east when he glances up and skids to a halt at the sight of a giant face staring down at him. It's the Russian lady but she's grown to Godzilla proportions.
"NOW DO YOU SEE?" she cries, her booming voice echoing off the buildings. "NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND? THIS WILL BE IF YOU DO NOT STOP VIRUS NOW!"
What does it mean? That this is all a dream? No. Much as Jack wishes it were true, he knows it's not. This is too real.
Averting his face from her giant, blazing eyes, he starts running again, down the center of a treadmill street with cardboard buildings sliding by on each side to give the illusion of forward progress, but he's getting nowhere, and no matter how much speed he pumps into his legs, no matter how he cries and screams at the top of his lungs, he's no closer to home than when he started…
13
"Kevin's being a real dickhead about it, Mom."
"Elizabeth Iverson, that is no way to talk about your brother. And where did you pick up that kind of language?"
"I can't help it, that's what he is. And I don't care if he comes. Who wants him around anyway."
Kate clung to her cell phone as she peeked into Jack's bedroom—he was still tossing this way and that under the covers—then returned her attention to Lizzie. With everything that had happened, she'd missed her morning call to the kids. Just as well; they both slept in on Saturdays. She'd waited till after dinner to check in.
All she'd wanted to do was touch base with them before they went out with their friends, but had wound up in the middle of a sibling contretemps. She should have seen it coming, but this was the last thing she needed now: Kevin was refusing to go to Lizzie's recital on Monday. Lizzie was acting tough but Kate could tell she was hurt. Ron had never been good dealing with arguments between the kids so, exhausted though she was, Kate had been designated referee.
She sighed. "Put him on."
"I said, I don't care!"
"Lizzie, please put your brother on."
A few seconds of muffled sounds, then a sullen, "S'up, Ma?" from Kevin.
"What's up yourself, Kevin? Have you got something better to do Monday night?"
"Aw, Mom, I hate that music, you know that."
"No, it's not Polio, I'll grant you that," she said, referring to her son's favorite band, perpetrators of cacophonies he referred to as "slash metal" or "thrash metal" or some such unlistenable noise. She realized that every generation needed music that rawed their parents' nerves, but please. "The music's not the issue, however. Your sister's feelings are."
"You heard her. She doesn't want me to go."
"That's just a defense because you hurt her feelings. We've always done things as a family, Kevin. Even after the divorce, how many of your soccer games did your father and Lizzie and I miss? Very, very few. And just like your soccer tournament, Kevin, we're planning to attend this concert as a family. Family includes you."
"But Ma, the flute! Of all things, the flute! It's so whipped!"
"It's Lizzie's big moment. She's performing a solo she's been practicing for months and we should be there to share it with her. Are you telling me you can't spare two hours out of your busy schedule to attend her concert? Think about it, Kevin. In the grand scale of things, is two hours on a Monday night such a big deal?"
"No, but—"
"Sleep through the concert if you must, but be there for her."
"Sleep? That music's deadly. When it's over and you find me dead in my seat, how will you feel?"
"Don't worry. I know CPR. I should be home by mid-afternoon Monday. I'll come over to Dad's and we'll all go together. As a family. I'd like to count on that, Kevin. Can I?"
A long pause, then, "I guess so."
"Great. See you then. Love you."
"Me too."
She broke the connection and took a deep breath. Another domestic crisis averted. She empathized with Kevin; her own musical tastes were mired in sixties and seventies pop and she found classical music as trying as he did—except when Lizzie was playing—but the concert was a family thing, not a music thing, and she had to keep the family together. That was her mission, a responsibility that possessed her. Because the divorce had been her doing.
She rose and checked Jack again. He'd finally stopped moaning and lay deeply sunken in sleep; his skin had been cool and dry for almost two hours now.
"Looks like you made it, Jack," she whispered, stroking his matted hair. He might spike another fever around four A.M. or so, but she sensed that his immune system had the upper hand now. "Looks like you beat it."