The driver returned the grin—and gave him the finger.
Jack looked hurt and pressed his hands together as if praying.
The driver's grin broadened as he brought up his other hand to add a second bird to the window display.
"Keep smiling," Jack said softly.
And then the guy in the passenger seat slumped against the driver's back. The driver jerked around, pushed him off, and shook him, but the guy was limp as overcooked linguine. Then the driver turned back to the window and Jack could all but see the light go on in his head.
"That's right, guy," Jack said. "You got trouble."
The driver fumbled for the inner handle and started to open the door, but Jack slammed against it and held it closed. The driver struggled and might have got out—he was bigger than Jack—if the T-72 hadn't been working on him. He made a couple of weak shoulder butts against the door, then slumped against the steering wheel and joined his friend in slumber land.
Jack waited to make sure he was out, then he opened the door and quickly ran through the driver's pockets. He found two sets of keys and took both. He closed the door and left the motor running.
He glanced around—no one in sight. Good.
After pocketing the T-72 vial, he placed his bucket and squeegee by the curb and settled back to wait for Alicia.
4.
Alicia forced her feet to keep moving, placing one shoe in front of the other as she turned the corner and trod the sidewalk toward that house.
She tried to think about anything but the house, pushing her thoughts toward Hector in PICU. The little guy was fading away. No question about it now—a resistant strain of C. albicans. His white blood cells, one of the body's main defenses against infection, were disappearing from his bloodstream. The WBC count had been down to 3,200 this morning and had dropped to 2,600 this afternoon. The infection was running rampant, overwhelming his bone marrow's ability to crank out the white cells.
And there was nothing more she could do for him.
Which allowed her thoughts to escape Hector and return to the house.
The house…
Why am I making such an ordeal of this? she wondered. It's only a building, a collection of bricks and lumber. What's the big deal?
But cold reason wasn't working. The closer she got to the house, the faster her heart raced. She wouldn't look at it. She kept her eyes straight ahead on the figure in the baggy coat leaning against the security car.
She tried to think of something else, to focus on the events of the day, but all that came to mind was the series of phone calls from Will, asking if she was all right, calls she'd been too embarrassed to return.
The hurt and confusion in his recorded voice still echoed in her brain, making her want to hide. How could she explain last night to him? It was all her fault. She shouldn't have let him get that close. When would she learn? She had to resign herself to the reality that she couldn't have a completely honest relationship with any man. Really… once the truth was out, what man wouldn't head for the door? And frankly, Alicia wasn't sure she'd want to have much to do with any man who didn't.
Alone was better. Alone was easier. Alone was less painful—for everyone concerned.
She was closer now, still keeping her eyes on Jack. She heard him whistling and recognized the tune as the theme from "The Bridge Over the River Kwai."
"Ready?" he said as she reached him.
She bent and peered into the car, then stepped back when she saw the two bulky forms slumped in the front seat. Her already racing heart kicked its tempo up another notch.
"They're not… you didn't… are they…?"
"Dead?" He smiled. "Nah. Just napping." He looked around. "Okay. Let's get moving. I don't know how much longer they'll be out."
Here it was—the moment she'd been dreading. Alicia didn't move. Couldn't move.
"Alicia?" Jack said. "You okay?"
But she had to move. She wasn't going to let this get the best of her.
Just a house… just bricks and lumber…
And she was going to conquer it.
She took a breath and turned to face it.
The wrought-iron gate, the tiny front yard, the trellised alley to the back… just as they'd always been. But the rest of the front had been altered enough to make it look like a different house… somebody else's house.
And with its windows boarded up like patched eyes, it looked like a blind house. It couldn't see her.
Not so bad, she thought. I can handle this.
"I'm fine," she said. "Let's go."
"Let's try the back door," Jack said, leading her toward the trellis. "I've got a bunch of keys here and don't want to spend too much time out front looking for the right one. Someone might remember us."
She followed him into the dark and held his penlight for him as he tried a succession of keys. The fifth one fit. The solid clack of the retracting dead bolt hit her like a punch.
Alicia began to shake. She felt the tremor begin in the pit of her stomach and spread outward to her limbs. She wanted to turn and bolt for the street.
No! she told herself. You will not run.
Bricks and lumber… bricks and lumber…
Jack pulled out a larger flashlight and stepped through the door. Bathed in a cold sweat, Alicia clenched her jaw and followed him. She had a bad moment—a trapped, clawing, let-me-out moment—when the door clicked closed behind her, but she fought it off.
Then Jack's flashlight beam found a wall switch, and he flicked it. Light flooded the room.
"Well, isn't that considerate," he said. "They left the power on."
Alicia stood blinking in the unexpected light. The carnage came into focus as her eyes adjusted.
"Oh, my God. Look what they've done."
When she'd lived here, the rear door had led into a narrow utility room that housed the washer and dryer, and a pantry. The washer and dryer were still here, but in pieces—they'd been thoroughly dismantled, and their components lay in piles on the floor. The pantry shelves had been emptied, and their contents scattered among the appliance parts.
"Now this," Jack said, "is what I call tossing a room. And they didn't have to hurry. With the power on, they had plenty of light. And with the windows boarded up, no one would know they were here."
He stepped through the debris and headed for the adjoining room.
"Let's see what's in here."
"Should be the kitchen," Alicia said as Jack turned on the light.
It was… in a way.
The kitchen had been as thoroughly "tossed"—to use Jack's term—as the utility room. Not only had the cabinets been emptied, they'd been ripped off the walls and broken apart. The dishwasher had suffered the same fate as the washer and dryer. The sink had been removed, leaving its pipes jutting from the wall like copper carotids. All the pieces had been piled in the center of the floor.
In shock, Alicia stumbled after Jack, who was still on the move, skirting the debris and moving into the dining room. Same story there, except that the rug had been torn up and the strips of its remains were in the pile with the remnants of the furniture and china.
In a way she was glad. All this destruction made it easier for her to be here. It turned the house into a different place, nothing like she remembered. But still, the degree of devastation was astonishing.
"I knew Thomas didn't want me to have the place," Alicia said softly, "but I never realized he was this angry."
"This isn't anger," Jack said, nudging the pile with the toe of his sneaker. "This is methodical as hell. They started in the center of the room, then worked outward, dumping everything in the center after they'd checked it. These guys know what they're doing."