He now was glad he had listened.
He glanced at the message again. No mention of which hospital. Perhaps in the second message. He noted it was sent almost three hours after the first.
He opened it:
He is very sick. They are admitting him. My phone does not work in hospital. Georges will fill you in when he picks you up.
… very sick… not good at all. This could ruin everything.
Still no mention of which hospital. Had they taken him someplace in the Hamptons or to the city? Probably the latter. Dr. Heinze would most likely want to be involved in his care.
He tried calling Gilda but her voice mail came on immediately. Had she turned off her phone or was the hospital jamming it? He’d heard that some hospitals did that. Well, he would have to depend on Georges.
Speaking of whom, where was he?
He speed-dialed Georges’s number but was shifted to his voice mail immediately too. Was he still at the hospital with Gilda? That was no excuse.
He turned and saw his bag riding the carousel. He refused to walk over and pick it up. That was Georges’s job.
And Georges had better have a very good reason for not being here.
13
Dark had fallen extra early due to the storm. Jack debated turning on the mansion’s lights. Would Rasalom be more comfortable entering a lighted house? Most definitely. Jack had done his best to leave everything looking as close as possible to the way he had found itexactly was not an option. Would the lights increase the chances of Rasalom picking up telltale signs of his handiwork? Certainly, but only incrementally.
He decided in favor of lights, but only a few, judiciously chosen.
He made his final walk-through. Everything looked good. Had this been the original plan, and had he had time, he would have photographed every area before starting work, to make sure he’d returned it to its original condition. This was why he hated to improvise.
His phone rang. He checked the display: Weezy.
“Everything okay?”
“Well, no. The roads are bad and getting worse, but I made it.”
“Then what-?”
“This baby. I don’t know what to do with him. How much-?” A screech in the background. “Oh, God. He’s awake. I gotta go.”
The call ended. He closed his phone and checked the display: 6:35. He pulled out Georges’s and Gilda’s phones. He’d turned both off after sending the text messages. Now he turned on Gilda’s for a quick look at the call history. Two missed calls in the past half hour, both from “Master.” He powered hers down again and turned on Georges’s. Four calls from “One.” He resisted the impulse to listen to Rasalom’s voice mails, which he assumed would ascend in irritation and anger as they progressed. Didn’t want to risk Rasalom getting through. So he turned off that phone as well.
Yes, sir… ol’ Rasalom oughta be royally pissed by now.
14
Where was that man?
Rasalom could understand Gilda being incommunicado with the baby. But Georges… no. Possibilities, none of them good, cascaded through his mind: accident, arrest, death, something catastrophic with the child. While devastating to contemplate in relation to his plans, the last should not be a factor in Georges’s absence.
He made up his mind. The snow continued and road conditions were no doubt deteriorating. If he was to entertain any hope of returning to Nuckateague tonight-and he did not wish to stay in one of these dreary airport hotels-he would have to act now.
He signaled to one of the loitering skycaps to remove his bag from the carousel. The man found him one of the limousines that cruised the arrival areas like sharks, and stowed the bag in the trunk while Rasalom seated himself on the leather upholstery.
“Good evening, sir,” the driver said, putting the car in gear and beginning to roll. “Where to?”
“Nuckateague.”
The driver braked. “Out past the Hamptons?”
“Correct. Is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid that’s too far, sir. Especially in this weather. It’s a long ride out and probably even longer back with no fare.”
Rasalom had kept his wallet out after tipping the skycap. He’d anticipated this. The driver had probably expected to hear a Midtown or Westchester address. He pulled out five hundred-dollar bills and tossed them over the backrest onto the front seat.
“Sufficient?”
The man’s eyes lit. “Yes, sir!”
He was certain he could have bought him off with less, but didn’t care to bargain with his sort. Over what? These pieces of paper that people chased after with such unseemly fervor? He had access to a virtually limitless supply, but so what? They lacked even the slightest intrinsic value and were leaking what little fiat value they still retained. After the Change they might be useful as toilet paper, but little else.
“Proceed,” he said. “But with caution.”
15
The intercom buzzed and Weezy fairly ran to it. She jammed the talk button.
“Gia?”
“That would be me.”
Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God! she thought as she hit the button to buzz her through the front door.
“Seven-C. Come on up.”
And please hurry.
Once again she complimented herself on the simple brilliance of her solution to the problem of the baby: call Gia. Gia had firsthand baby experience-Vicky was proof of that. But she’d offered more than just advice, she’d volunteered to come over and give hands-on help.
Weezy restrained herself from doing a Snoopy happy dance, but even if she’d given in to the urge, the piercing shriek that shot through the apartment at that moment would have brought it to a screeching halt.
It originated in the spare bedroom she had turned into an office, but now served as a bedroom again-the baby’s. She’d put him there because she didn’t know what else to do with him. And she sure as hell didn’t know how to stop those shrieks.
She admitted she was frazzled. No, frazzled didn’t quite cut it. How about at her wits’ end?
Nothing she did would stop his shrieking. She might have been able to stand the sound if it hadn’t been so loud. Already her next-door neighbor had knocked on the door and asked if everything was all right. She’d have management calling if this went on all night.
She paced her front room, waiting for Gia’s knock. When it came she didn’t even bother checking the peephole-something she never skipped. The door swung open to reveal Gia and Vicky, red-cheeked from the cold, in snow-sprinkled knit hats and puffy coats.
“Come in! Come in!”
“Hi, Weezy,” Gia said, giving her a quick hug. “Good to see you again.”
Weezy had roomed with Jack most of last summer into the fall. Another woman might have made it impossible, or at the very least, terribly awkward. But Gia and Jack had such trust and confidence and regard for each other, simultaneously deep and casual, that it never became an issue between them. Not surprising, considering what they’d weathered together.
Weezy, on the other hand, couldn’t deny that it had been tough on her at times, especially on certain lonely nights when she felt the need to snuggle up to a warm body, and the best friend from her past and now the best friend of her present was in the next room…
“Hi, Weezy!” Vicky said with a grin. “Remember me?”
Vicky… if Weezy ever had a daughter-and she didn’t see that ever happening-she’d wish for one like Vicky.
“Of course I do.” They hugged. “How could I ever forget-?”
Another shriek.
Gia winced and stiffened. “What…?”
“That’s the baby,” Weezy said, taking her coat.
“Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s… different.”