Weezy was staring at him with a worried expression. “What’s happening to you?”
“What’s happening to me? How about what’s happening to us -as in the whole world? How about she’s blown this primo chance-a near-perfect setup-to stop this guy.”
“How can you say it’s blown?”
“Well, Georges isn’t going to be waiting at JFK to pick him up tonight. And neither Georges nor Gilda will be answering the phone-death tends to create something of an impediment to that. He’s no idiot. When Georges doesn’t show and he can’t contact either of them, don’t you think he’ll suspect that maybe, just maybe something’s amiss? And when he does, he’ll head elsewhere. Maybe turn around and catch the next flight to Timbuktu or anywhere far from here. We’re losing our last chance to stop the Change. And when the Change happens, how many deaths will be laid on Dawn’s doorstep?”
“There’ll be other chances.”
“Not like this one.”
She gestured toward the backseat. “We have him.”
“Yeah, there’s that-assuming the kid is crucial to his plans. If not… then, as Abe would say, we’ve got bupkes.”
She reached out and patted his arm. “You can salvage this.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. I have faith in you.”
“Swell.”
He didn’t tell her that he hadn’t a clue as to how to accomplish that.
He’d turned into Nuckateague and sensed Weezy pulling into herself as they neared the house. Dune Drive was quiet as, well, a tomb-and would be sort of functioning as one for a while. As he approached the mansion and the O’Donnell house he couldn’t find a clue that all hell had broken loose here less than an hour ago.
She’d insisted on seeing Dawn’s body. He’d warned her it was bloody and she’d suffered an ugly death, but she’d insisted. And when he’d pulled the sheet down, she lost it.
She’d recovered somewhat now, but was keeping up the how-can-we-leave-her-there-like-that? litany. The most rational woman he’d ever known had surrendered all her critical faculties.
“You’re not thinking, Weez. Where can you take her?”
“I don’t know, but we can’t just-”
He raised his hands. “Please. Stop. You’re talking about driving around with a dead body in your car. Not just dead- murdered. So you can’t take her to a funeral home or even an ER without winding up being asked a lot of questions you do not want to answer.”
“But-”
“Think of it as cold storage.”
“But rats… mice…”
He realized he had to give her something.
“Okay, here’s what I can do: Before I clear out, I’m going to wipe this place down-everything we might have touched. After I’m gone I’ll call the East Hampton police and report bodies in the O’Donnell garage on Dune Drive. I’ll even give them Dawn’s name so she can be buried with her mother.”
Weezy thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I guess that’s the best we can do. It means she won’t be out there for long. I’ll help you wipe down and-”
“No. You take the baby and head for the city.”
“The baby?”
“Well, yeah. You’ve just become his unofficial guardian.”
“But I don’t know the first thing about babies.” Her hand shot up as Jack opened his mouth. “And please, no Butterfly McQueen references.”
How had she guessed? Was he that predictable?
“You mean there’s something you don’t know?”
“I never found babies very interesting.”
“Better start reading up on them because you just became Aunt Weezy.”
Her expression reflected mild panic. “This is serious, Jack. I’ve never had contact with children, especially babies, and this is no ordinary baby.”
“That’s for sure.”
“I mean, what does he eat? Formula? Cereal? Were they feeding him Jell-O or jelly or something?”
“What?”
“He’s got red smears on his face.”
“Oh, um…” He decided not to burden her with that detail. “I have no idea what Gilda was feeding him.”
“Jack, what’ll I do?”
“You’re the smartest person I know. You’ll figure it out.”
Weezy looked ready to cry again. Jack couldn’t help it. To do what he needed to do, he needed her and the baby gone.
They packed up Dawn’s things and Weezy’s things, and within half an hour she and the baby were on their way, leaving Jack at the door staring across the empty yard at the equally empty mansion on the far side of the street.
Dawn had deep-sixed his original plan. Had to be another way to salvage this opportunity. He’d have to improvise.
Jack hated to improvise.
11
After wiping down the O’Donnell place as best he could, he went to the garage and opened his trunk. He stared at all the ordnance he’d acquired and might never get a chance to use.
The octol and the copper cones-what good were shaped charges now? The double-whammy roadside IEDs were out. Even if Rasalom decided to return to the mansion on his own, Jack would have no idea how he was arriving. If he rented a car, Jack wouldn’t know what it looked like. He couldn’t simply incinerate the first car that passed between the charges. And if he took a taxi, he’d have somebody driving-Jack had had no qualms about Georges, but he wasn’t about to kill an innocent cabbie.
He grabbed the golf bag and checked inside: the M-79 nestled among the clubs. Easy enough to use. He leaned that against the wall and pulled out one of the two carpet-clad Stingers. He unwrapped and inspected it. The missile and its launcher ran about five feet long and weighed north of thirty pounds. Not exactly a concealable weapon. He’d never fired one, but Abe had included instructions. He’d have to read up on the procedure if he was going to use it.
A big if.
He leaned the Stinger next to the golf bag and stared at the makings for his shaped charges. He’d had big plans for those-taking out Rasalom before he made it to the house. Now, if he showed up at all, Jack would have to try to take him down on his own turf.
He stepped out the side door and stared at the mansion. Launch a grenade and missile attack on the place once he was inside and reduce it to rubble? A possibility.
But first Jack had to get him out here. How to do that? How to explain Georges’s no-show at the airport without arousing suspicion? Couldn’t send a stand-in driver-he’d never go for that. Had to be a way.
Jack made a mental list of the elements he had to work with-all the people and things that involved Rasalom’s life in Nuckateague: Gilda, Georges, the baby, the car, the house. Some combination of those might provide the key.
First thing he needed was a plausible reason for Georges not to show up at JFK… and for both him and Gilda to be incommunicado. And he needed a way to get that information to Rasalom.
Did Rasalom carry a cell phone? Well, why not? Glaeken carried one, no good reason Rasalom wouldn’t.
He ducked back into the garage and made a beeline for Georges. He’d left the guy’s phone with his corpse. Yep, there it was. Jack flipped it open, found the address book, and began going through it. He tried “Osala,” “Boss,” even “Rasalom,” but no luck. He did find “One.” A New York City code. Pretty good chance that was it. But just to be sure…
He had to roll Gilda over to check her pockets. He’d placed her facedown to hide her gory front from Weezy. He’d found only one knife, and he doubted that Dawn had stabbed herself, so the most logical scenario was that Gilda had found the baby gone, grabbed a knife, and run over here to stop Dawn. Dawn had somehow disarmed her and given her a dose of her own medicine. Many doses.
He shook his head at the butchery. Dawn had continued stabbing long after Gilda was gone. Weezy wouldn’t want to believe that her Dawn was capable of that.
He found Gilda’s cell in a pocket of her coat. He searched for “One” first this time but came up blank. No luck either with “Osala,” “Boss,” or “Rasalom.” While searching he noticed a number of texts from “Kris” and a reply to each. So, the murderous old broad liked to exchange texts with her equally murderous son. How sweet. The family that kills together, what?-chills together?-heads for the hills together?-stomps anthills together? He wondered if they discussed their favorite blades for cutting off eyelids.