The Dark at the End

  She regained control and eased herself away from Gia.

  "I'm sorry. That's not like me. I just. . . "

  "It's okay. Really. "

  Weezy studied her. From the day they'd met last year, she'd sensed a steely core in Gia. And when the Lady had told her what she and Vicky and Jack had been through - coma, brain injury, miscarriage - she realized Gia had needed that core to survive. But she hadn't appreciated until now how her steel was cushioned within an envelope of serenity.

  "Thanks for understanding. How did you know?"

  "I've been there. "

  She took a deep breath. "I feel so much better. Thank you. "

  Gia smiled and nodded as she ran her hand over the top railing of the crib.

  "You must have been expecting him. "

  "What do you mean?"

  "How else would you get a nursery set up so quickly?"

  "Actually, they're Dawn's things. " Dawn had given her a key, so Weezy had used it to enter her apartment. "I brought them over from across the hall. "

  That was when Weezy had come closest to losing it. Dawn had been all set for motherhood: the crib, baby clothes, bottles, formula. She hadn't been sure her baby was even alive, but she'd been ready to take on the role of mother if she found him.

  Gia nodded. "That's right. She lived across the hall. I remember Jack being very concerned about that. "

  "He still is, I'm sure. "

  "And you're not?"

  "Well, we'd feared there might be a plan to use Dawn and the baby against us, but we could never figure out what. It all seems moot now. They put a lot of effort into separating Dawn and her child, and hiding the child from her, but now Dawn's gone" - that tightening in her throat again - "and the baby's here. "

  "Could that have been the plan all along?"

  A shocking possibility, but . . .

  "Somehow I doubt it. "

  Gilda and Georges dead, and Jack at this very moment lying in wait, ready to blow the One to hell . . . no way that could have been Rasalom's plan.

  Gia bent for a closer look at the rail. "This is all gnawed. Almost like he's teething. But that can't be. He's too young. "

  "That's what I'd have thought, but he's doing more than teething. " She glanced around and spotted one of the plastic bottles she'd used to try to get formula into him. She grabbed it and handed it to Gia. "Here. "

  Gia stared at the torn end of the nipple and shook her head. "I don't. . . "

  "He has teeth. "

  She stared at Weezy. "What? Teeth . . . at two weeks?"

  "See for yourself. "

  Weezy carefully lifted his upper lip - at any other time he might have fought her, but whatever level of concentration he possessed was fully focused on Vicky. Light glinted off four white points poking through the upper gum and four through the bottom.

  "My God," Gia whispered. She glanced at the ruined rubber nipple on the bottle in her hand. "I can't imagine nursing him. "

  "That's why he's dressed in just a diaper. His teeth are pointed and sharp. He starts sucking, then chewing, and it spills all over him. "

  "Maybe that's why he's screeching like that. They must hurt. "

  "They don't seem to be hurting him now. " Weezy watched Vicky crossing the room to look out the window. The baby followed her every move. "But I think they were bleeding earlier today. "

  She'd assumed the red on his face and his clawlike fingers was Jell-O or the like, but it had turned out to be blood. She'd learned that when she'd cleaned him up. The only source she could think of were his gums.

  "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.

  SATURDAY Chapter 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.

  SATURDAY Chapter 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.

  He would wait. He was good at waiting.

  He realized he was thirsty. After the Change he would have no bodily needs, but until then . . .

  He realized he didn't know where Gilda kept the glasses. Attending to himself was a new experience. As he moved to the kitchen he considered how pampered he'd become. He simply asked for something and someone served it up.

  Glasses . . . one of these cabinets over the counter, he assumed.

  The refrigerator-freezer was a side-by-side model. As he opened a cabinet door in search of a tumbler, he reached over and tugged on the handle of what he assumed to be the refrigerator side -

  - and found himself on the floor . . . across the room . . . a room full of roaring smoke and flaming debris. The refrigerator was gone. A remnant of one of its doors lay across his legs. The kitchen table and chairs that had sat before it were gone as well, reduced to flaming splinters.

  And then he noticed his coat was on fire. He went to slap at the flames and searing agony shot up his left arm. He looked at it and cried out when he saw no hand. No bleeding - the stump was charred - but nothing beyond his left wrist.

  And then the rest of his body announced its survival with screams of agony. Ignoring the pain, he rolled over to douse the flames, trying to orient himself, trying to remember what had happened. He'd been opening the refrigerator . . .

  Flashes returned . . . the door swinging open . . . a white-hot blast of light and sound . . . the door disintegrating as a jet of flame spewed from within, catching his hand, vaporizing it . . . and then being hurled backward across the kitchen to slam against a wall.

  Had he not happened to be looking for a glass he would have been standing before the refrigerator when he opened that door, and his entire body would have suffered the fate of his hand.

  A trap.

  Too obvious to need stating, but the buzzing hornets in his brain were drowning out his already jumbled thoughts, and he needed orientation. He clung to the word.

  A trap . . . the child was not sick . . . Georges and Gilda had taken him nowhere . . . Georges and Gilda were dead, floating in the bay, perhaps . . . and someone was bent on destroying him.

  Mind working frantically, he struggled to his knees.

  He had been beyond lucky. And yet, even if by some chance the refrigerator contained the only bomb, he had to escape this burning house.

  To where?

  Outside could be just as dangerous. Odds were the assassin was waiting to confirm his kill, or to finish the job.

  Thoughts congealed. Trade places: Where would he wait?

  Out front, on the street. With the frigid, storm-tossed bay blocking retreat to the rear, that was the place to cut off escape.

  Go out the rear, then. Sneak into the unlandscaped brush that flanked the property. Hide there until safe to move on.

  Staying low, he threaded his way around the flaming furniture in the great room toward the back door. Snow gusted through the blown-out windows. He peered through the shattered glass of the back door. No sign of anyone about. He turned the knob and pulled -

  - and the world lit up around him.

  * * *

  Jack saw the flash of light from the rear of the mansion. A faint boom echoed through the night, muffled by the wind and snow.

  Shit.

  He'd made only one shaped charge - for the refrigerator. He figured sooner or later everyone winds up at the refrigerator, right? Even Rasalom.

  He had used the rest of the octol for other booby traps, mainly the front and rear doors.

  The rear door had just blown. Could have been secondary to the pressure wave from refrigerator explosion, but somehow he doubted it. Not the way his luck was running.

  How could anyone, even Rasalom, survive the refrigerator? No question it had been tripped - the inside of the house had lit up like a mini nuke had gone off and then most of the windows had blown out. The plasma jet from the shaped charge sitting on the shelf inside should have apocalypsed his ass. Whatever part of him escaped being sublimated to red vapor
should have been reduced to charbroiled meat confetti. Glaeken had said he was tough, but no one was that tough.

  Something had gone wrong.

  Well, he'd prepared for that. If the shaped charge misfired, Rasalom would know he was in a trap and flee the house. Jack would have gone out a window, but he was pretty sure in all the millennia Rasalom had lived, he'd never set a bomb, so he'd probably choose a door. He had come in the front, so he'd assume it was safe to exit that way. But it was no longer safe - not after Jack had used the remote. For some reason Rasalom had chosen the back. No matter. Jack had lined its frame with octol as well.

  Trouble was, that sort of bomb tended to be chaotic, with no direction, no reliable kill radius. In a word: unreliable. Especially where an immortal was concerned.

  Looked like he was going to have to get closer - but not too close - to make sure he'd done what he'd come to do.

  He checked his watch. He'd marked the time of the first detonation: just over thirty seconds ago. He had only so much time before the explosions were recognized for what they were and called in.

  He reached for the modified M-79. He'd loaded it with M406 40mm high-explosive grenades - one chambered, three in the tube - each with a fifteen-foot kill radius. He stuffed a variety of rounds into his jacket pockets - just in case - and headed out to the garage where he had the Stingers ready.

  He swung the right door open and stepped inside. The Vic's trunk lay open with the two Stingers waiting in their launchers. He leaned the M-79 against the wall and grabbed one of the rockets. He shoved the coolant unit into the handle and let the argon gas do its work. The IFF antenna was unfolded but wouldn't be needed. He rested the launcher on his shoulder, centered the front door in the sight, and pulled the trigger.

  The missile flew from the launcher. The ejection charge took it across the street before its solid fuel rocket flared to life and shot it toward the house. It wouldn't have time to reach its top speed of Mach 2, but its acceleration was awe inspiring.

  * * *

  He groaned and rolled over. He looked down at himself. The surrounding flames revealed a dozen wounds on his limbs and torso - all bleeding. Pain told him he had more in his back.

  Another bomb. Was the whole house booby-trapped? He had to get out of here before he tripped another.

  He blinked to focus on the back door - or rather where it had been. A charred, smoking, ragged opening had replaced it. Rasalom forced himself to his elbows and knees and crawled toward it. He had just reached the threshold when another explosion ripped through the house. The blast flung him through the opening and onto the snow outside.