“We need to get him teething rings,” Gia said. “The kind you can freeze.”
“But what about bottle nipples? I’ve just about run out.”
“Plastic sippy cups-with the hardest plastic we can find.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You never babysat as a kid?”
Weezy shook her head. “No. Never.”
As she’d told Jack, babies had never interested her.
Gia smiled. “I did a lot of it. Loved babies then, and still do.” She turned and headed for the door. “Show me what you’ve got and I’ll run out and stock you up with what you’re missing.”
Weezy followed, with Vicky bringing up the rear. But as soon as the little girl left the room, the baby renewed his screeching.
Weezy gave Gia a pleading look.
“Honey,” she said, leaning close to Vicky, “would you mind staying in there with the baby?”
She shook her head. “He’s scary.”
“But he likes you-he likes you best of all.”
“But it’s boring.”
“Well, you brought a book. Why don’t you sit in there at Weezy’s desk and read?”
“Even better,” Weezy said. “Maybe you can read to the baby. I think he’d like that.”
She brightened. “Okay.”
You wonderful child, she thought as the baby screeched and screeched again. But please hurry.
“What are you reading?” Weezy said as Vicky beelined for her backpack.
“ Nocturnia. I’m on book three.”
“She just discovered the series,” Gia said. “Loves it.”
“She’s ten, right?”
“Ten and a half next month,” Vicky said.
“I remember reading lots of Judy Blume as a kid.”
Gia smiled. “Me too. And Beverly Cleary. Loved those books.”
Vicky stopped by the table in the front room where Weezy had left the Compendium. “Hey, that’s Jack’s book.”
“Hay is for horses,” Gia said and rolled her eyes. “I hated when my mother would say that, and yet here I am…”
Weezy smiled at Vicky. “Well, hay is for horses and yes, that’s Jack’s book. He lent it to me.”
Vicky opened it, scanned a page, and shrugged. “Weird as ever.”
A particularly loud screech prompted her to return to the baby’s room and the result was…
… silence… blessed silence.
She glanced and noticed Vicky had opened the Compendium to the naming ceremony page Weezy had come across not too long ago. A lot had happened since then.
Faintly from within the baby’s room she heard Vicky begin to read aloud.
“She’s a gem,” Weezy said. “Do you rent her out?”
Gia laughed. “She loves to read. Getting paid for it would be her dream job.” She spread her arms. “Peace.”
Peace here, Weezy thought. But she imagined it soon might be a different story tonight in a mostly deserted hamlet near the east end of Long Island.
16
Jack blinked and rubbed his eyes.
Sleepy.
Concerns, contingencies, and uncertainties about today had made for fitful slumber last night. The confinement of sitting at the watch window and waiting for the Otherness’s Godot were dulling his consciousness. He couldn’t afford that.
He stood and began walking around in as wide a circle as the tiny room would allow.
Considering what lay immediately ahead, how could his brain and body even consider sleep? He’d run a dozen or more mental checks on all his setups in the mansion. He’d studied the Stinger manual and had the pair set up and ready to rock. He wished he could have test fired one, but no way… no way.
Nothing left to do but wait… and watch the snow pile up… and know that each inch of accumulation further increased the odds of a no-show by Rasalom.
He might have decided to stay in town and wait out the storm. Or he might have become spooked and lit out for parts unknown.
And then what? Jack had three bodies in the garage and his car could be snowed in by the time it became certain Rasalom wasn’t coming tonight. How long did he wait before aborting? A day? Two?
Damn. He felt like kicking a hole or two in these walls. Maybe three or four. But it wasn’t the O’Donnells’ fault. He A glow outside.
He leaped to the window and saw headlights working their way down Dune Drive. He watched as they passed the spot where he’d planned to set up the shaped charges. A click of his remote and kaboom! -game over for the R-man.
Same for the hapless bastard driving him.
Jack suddenly wished he’d set the charges as planned-and let the chips fall where they may. That was Rasalom out there. Nothing was more important than stopping him, and as for anyone who happened to wander into the line of fire… sorry, Charlie. A little collateral damage was a small price to pay for Whoa! Where’d all this come from?
He pushed back against the alien homicidal regrets and concentrated on the here and now.
He found the field glasses and focused them on the car as it pulled into the mansion’s front yard. Looked like a late model Lincoln Town Car. Typical rental limo. The driver got out and opened the rear door, then hurried to the trunk where he removed a suitcase. As he lugged it through the snow to the front door, another man slid from the rear of the car. Jack trained the glasses on the second’s head as he passed in front of the headlights on his way to the house.
He felt his lips pull back from his teeth when he recognized the face.
Rasalom.
The One.
Godot.
He hurried downstairs to where a number of remotes sat on the coffee table next to the M-79 thumper. He picked out the one labeled FRONT DOOR and held it ready.
He’d rigged the front door with a tripwire. He’d wanted to position one of the shaped charges six feet inside the door, set to go off when the door was opened. The blast would pretty much vaporize whoever had his hand on the knob. Trouble was, Jack didn’t know who would step through, so he’d scrapped that plan.
Good thing too as he watched the driver push open the door and set the bag inside. He waved to his passenger and scooted back to the warmth of his car. No money exchanged hands. Probably a prepaid fare.
As Rasalom entered and closed the door behind him, Jack pressed the remote. The door’s tripwire was now armed for a different kind of surprise. Same with the back door.
A welcome-home gift for the One.
Soon to be the None.
17
He stood in the front hall and stamped the snow off his feet.
The house was warm, lights were on, but…
He didn’t have to call out. He knew the house was empty. He sensed no other presence. Like everyone else, Gilda and Georges had their own unique, emotional signatures. Neither was evident. Nor was anyone else’s.
But…
Something was different. A residue of high emotion. He couldn’t identify it, but it had been intense at the time. Gilda discovering the child was sick?
Perhaps.
He knew she loathed the child and it provided a constant source of amusement to him to sup on that loathing while she cooed over it and pretended to love it. He was certain she would not harm it. But something had happened here-sickness or injury-and she probably feared she would be blamed for negligence and face punishment.
A not unreasonable concern.
Yes, that would explain the residue.
He strode to his office to see if Gilda or Georges had left a message for him before departing. No… nothing. He’d called each of them a number of times during the long trip from the airport, and had watched his cell phone display for return calls, but nothing.
What happened? What is wrong with my baby?
My baby… what an odd, singular thought.
In all his years, he had never fathered a child. But he had taken possession of this one, so in the most practical sense it was indeed his baby. And central to his plans. If it died, he would have to scrap his carefully constructed timetable and chart a whole new course.
He considered calling the hospitals, one by one, but discarded that. He had no idea under what name Gilda would have presented the child.