She thought of her own parents, as she always did in instances such as this, thought of all the things she wished she had said to them while they were alive, not the least of which was good-bye. It seemed she would live out her life with a feeling of something left forever undone. She had added sparing others that burden as an unwritten, unspoken addition to her job description.
"I mean," she went on, "one day they're here, the next day they're gone."
Maureen took out a tissue and blotted her eyes, then looked up at Catherine.
"Maybe we could—"
"Maureen!"
"I'm serious, Cathy. Let me talk to Donald. Let's think about it. There must be something we can do besides dumping him in a nursing home."
"You think about it, Mo. And you talk to Donald. I already know what Tom will say."
Carol figured this was as good a time as any to end the meeting. One of the sisters, at least, was having second thoughts.
They're weakening, Mr. Dodd! I'll have you back with your family yet!
After they were gone, she slumped into a chair. She'd have enjoyed this moment more if she felt better physically. It was those dreams. Night after night—the blood and violence, the pain and suffering. None as vivid as Monday's, but she kept waking up in cold sweats of fear, trembling and clutching Jim, unable to remember specific details, only their overall effect. Memories of the incident in Greenwich Village added to her malaise.
Her stomach was adding the coup de grace. Always sour. She'd be ravenously hungry one moment, but when she'd go to have something to eat, the sight and smell of it would nauseate her. If she didn't know better she'd almost think—
Good Lord! Am I pregnant?
She ran to the elevators. Both cars were down in the basement so she took the stairs up. At the second floor she hurried along the corridor to the lab.
"Maggie!" she said to the young woman at the lab desk, glad that someone she knew had pulled duty this weekend. Maggie had frizzy red hair and a face like a goose, but her smile was winning.
"Carol! Hi! What are you doing in on a Sunday?"
"I need a test!"
"What for?"
"Uh… pregnancy."
"You late?"
"I'm never on time, so how can I tell if I'm late?"
Maggie looked at her sideways. "Is this 'Oh-God-I-hope-I'm-not' or 'Please-God-say-I-am'?"
"Am! Am!"
"Well, it's only supposed to be done on doctor's order, but since it's Sunday, who's to know, right?" She handed Carol a plastic-wrapped cup. "Give us some pee-pee and we'll see-see."
Carol hesitated, fighting to keep her hopes from rising too far. She couldn't allow herself real hope. The test was a double-edged sword—too much hope and a negative would be crushing.
With her heart thumping in her throat she headed for the door marked women.
4
Frustrated almost to the wall-kicking stage because he hadn't been able to open the safe, Jim turned his attention to other matters. It was after five by the time he had lugged all of Hanley's personal journals down from the upstairs library and lined them up on a separate shelf in the downstairs one. They were gray, leather-bound affairs with dates on their spines. One for each year, beginning with 1920 and ending with 1967. He left a gap in the middle for the volumes they could not find.
"He must have had this year's with him when the plane went down," Jim said. "But where are the other four?"
"Beats me, man," Gerry Becker said, standing beside him. "We've combed every bookshelf in the place."
Jim nodded. He had pored through many of the journals. They contained summaries of Hanley's projects, his plans for the future, and day-by-day comments and observations on his personal life. They were a priceless peephole into his father's life.
But where were 1939, 1940, 1941, and 1942? The four most important years—the three years before and the year of his birth, the ones that might contain his mother's name—were missing.
Frustrating as all hell.
"Maybe they're in that safe," Jim said. He looked at Carol, sitting in the wing chair. "What do you think, hon?"
She was staring into space. Carol had been glum and withdrawn all night. Jim wondered what was bothering her.
"Carol?"
She shook herself. "What?"
"You all right?"
"Oh, yes. Fine, fine."
Jim didn't believe a word of it, but he couldn't get into it with Becker still hanging around. He was getting to be a fixture around here, and that was a real drag.
"Dig this," Becker said. He had been flipping through the 1943 volume. He shoved the book in front of" Jim. "Read the second para on the right."
Jim squinted as he deciphered Hanley's crabbed hand:
Ed and I had a bit of a laugh over Jazzy's pitiful attempt at blackmail. I told her she had seen the last penny she would ever see from me last year and to be on her way.
"Jazzy!" Jim said. "I saw a name like that in—where was it?—1949!" He pulled the volume out and flipped through it. Where had he seen it? "Here!"
He read aloud:
"Read in the paper today that Jazzy Cordeau is dead. Such a shame. What disparity between the woman she became and the woman she could have been. The world will never know."
Jim's mind raced. Jazzy Cordeau! French… New Orleans? Could she possibly be his mother? Jazzy Cordeau was the only female name he had found that was linked to the missing years.
He had to get into that safe!
"I think I'll be cuttin' out," Becker said. "I'm bushed."
"Yeah," Jim said, trying to hide his relief. "Same here. Look, why don't we give this a rest for a while? We've been beating this place to death."
Becker shrugged. "Fine with me. Maybe I'll check the morgues at a couple of papers for you, see if I can turn up anything. Buzz you in a couple of days."
"Great. I appreciate that. You know the way out."
When Jim heard the door slam, he turned to Carol and grinned. "Finally! He's gone!"
She nodded absently.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
Carol's face twisted as tears filled her eyes. She began to cry. Jim rushed over and pulled her into his arms. She felt so small and frail against him.
"I thought I was pregnant but I'm not!" she said, sobbing.
He held her tight and rocked her back and forth.
"Oh, Carol, Carol, don't take it so hard. We've got all the time in the world. We've got nothing better to do from now on than work on producing little feet to patter around this big old house."
"But what if it never happens?"
"It will."
He led her toward the front door. It killed him to see her so sad. All this newfound wealth didn't mean squat if Carol was unhappy.
He kissed her.
"Come on. Let's get back to our own bed in our own little place and do some homework."
She smiled through her tears.
That was better!
Nine
Monday, March 4
1
Brother Robert knelt on the cold, rice-littered floor by the window and silently chanted the Prime. When he was through, he remained kneeling. His window faced east and he looked out at the brightening sky.
The evil was growing stronger. Every day it cast a greater pall over his spirit. And it was from there, to the east, from somewhere on Long Island, that it seemed to emanate. Martin had driven him the length of the island but he had been unable to pinpoint its source. The closer he got, the more diffuse it became—until he had been engulfed in a cacophony of evil sensations.