What was that? The biggest explosion of all. Whatever glass had survived the first two blasts cascaded into the yard with that one. He had to put some distance between himself and this doomed house. If he could reach the brush he'd -
Rasalom froze as he saw the piling a few feet ahead of him, blocking his way. He'd exited on the east side of the house - his dazed, pain-fogged brain had forgotten that the mini lagoon and dock lay this way.
But not too far to his right . . . the garage. If he could reach that, he'd have a place to hide, out of sight and out of the elements.
Another explosion from within. The house would be a smoking ruin before long. He had to move now.
As yet another blast shook the house, he forced himself to his feet and stumbled toward the garage, praying to the Otherness that its side door wasn't locked.
* * *
The Stinger had blown a gaping hole in the front of the house, but Jack wasn't through. He dropped the launcher and picked up the M-79. He wished he could move across the street and pump the grenades into the house at closer range, but the high-explosive rounds were equipped with a safety feature that prevented detonation within a hundred feet of the launcher. He'd have to fire from here.
He settled the thumper's stock into his shoulder and sighted to the left of the former door, on the front bedroom where he'd peeked in and seen the baby last night.
Last night . . . seemed like days ago that he'd watched Georges and Gilda in their domestic bliss. They lay stretched out a few feet away. As did Dawn . . .
He pulled the trigger and heard the thump! that had earned the M-79 its nickname. Surprisingly little recoil for such a big round, but nothing little about the explosion that ripped out the bedroom wall. If Rasalom had thought that might be a safe place to hide - wrong.
He pumped another HE grenade into the chamber and took aim at the room to the right of the door. Another thump! Another ruined wall.
He fired two more for insurance, emptying the weapon. As he bent to pick up the empty casings, he caught motion on the east side of the mansion. A dark figure, limned by the flames from the house, moving toward the garage.
Jack watched, stunned, as the man leaned against the side door and fairly fell inside.
How could it be? How could anyone, even Rasalom, survive all Jack had thrown at him? He looked hurt - he'd definitely taken some damage - but the fact he was moving at all was a miracle.
Jack pulled the extra 40mm ammo from his pockets and inspected them. Two more HE grenades, and a couple of buckshot rounds. He loaded them up - the HEs first, followed by the shot. He might not need either type, but he was ready to finish this in any number of ways.
In fact, if things went right, Rasalom might end it himself.
* * *
He closed the door behind him and slumped against the black hood of the Mercedes. The metal was cold. No surprise there. He wondered how long Georges had been dead. No matter.
He needed a place to rest, time to heal. His recuperative powers were vast. The bleeding would stop soon, the pain in his wrist stump would ease, and then the healing would begin. He could not grow a new hand, but all his other wounds would mend. He would need nourishment, though. And warmth.
He would contact Szeto, or better yet, that fool Drexler. Let him think he was still of value, let him provide shelter in the hope that it would return him to the One's good graces.
No chance of that.
But the first thing to do was remove himself as far from here as possible. He'd need the car for that. But he did not know how to drive. He'd never had a need. He'd left home as a child - a very wealthy child who could afford a chauffeur - so he had never learned.
But how hard could it be? The roads were filled with idiots.
He opened the driver door and slipped painfully behind the wheel.
* * *
Jack watched the garage blow open its doors and belch flame.
The car had been an afterthought. Insurance of a sort. What if Rasalom had checked the garage and found the car there? He'd have known that Gilda and Georges were not at the hospital with the baby. He might have skipped going in the house, jumped in the car, and hauled ass out of there.
Might have . . .
An unlikely scenario, to be sure. Considering his hubris and his special abilities, he'd think himself capable of handling any situation mere mortals could toss at him. But Jack was taking no chances.
Georges, good chauffeur that he was, had kept the gas tank full to the brim. Jack hadn't had enough octol left over to do a proper car bomb, but enough to make sure the tank went up and fried anyone inside. He'd thoughtfully left the keys in the ignition.
He checked his watch. Only a minute and ten secs since the first blow. Seemed a lot longer. Had to get a move on. But first and foremost, he had to end this.
He raised the thumper to his shoulder again and sighted on the garage. Time for the coup de -
A figure, engulfed in flame, broke from the side door in a staggering run, weaving back and forth, and then careening toward the lagoon. It tumbled over the edge and into the water.
Jack pulled the trigger, a too-quick shot that demolished the rear corner of the garage. He worked the pump and chambered the second grenade. He fought the impulse to run over to the lagoon and fire it into the water - the target would be too close and the safety mechanism would prevent detonation.
Rasalom was out of sight, so he aimed at the bulkhead along the far side of the lagoon where he'd seen him go in. If he was on the surface, he'd be caught in the kill radius. If underwater . . . Jack had no idea.
He fired and was running toward the lagoon even as the bulkhead shattered. When he reached it, light from the burning garage lit the surface of the water. No sign of Rasalom. Dead on the bottom? Hiding below the surface?
He chambered a buckshot round and fired into the water. Twenty pellets of number four shot ripped into the surface. The last round sent twenty more.
Still no sign of anything moving.
He pulled his Glock. Spacing the slugs two feet apart in a grid pattern, he emptied the magazine into the water. He replaced that with a fresh magazine and continued the pattern until he was clean out.
Still no sign of life or a body.
He checked his watch. Two and a half minutes of carnage. He still had a little time, but no more ordnance except for the Stinger - and he couldn't fire that into the water.
He knew he should leave but he couldn't. He had to be sure. He needed a final touch. But what?
Then he remembered a gas can he'd seen in the O'Donnell garage. As he ran back across the street he prayed it was full or near full. He'd dump it on the surface of the water, toss in a piece of burning wood from the garage, and woomp! Fire on the water.
He headed for the garage.
* * *
He broke the surface and gulped air. He'd known it was certain death - his head would be blown apart as soon as it appeared - but he could stay under no longer.
He braced for the attack but none came. Shuddering in the near-freezing water, he looked around. To his left the garage burned at the end of the lagoon. Directly ahead, above and beyond the bulkhead, the blazing house lit the night. Movement to his right drew his attention. A dozen feet away, the boat swung back and forth on a mooring rope, banging against the dock.
No one in sight on the dock or standing on the bulkhead. He appeared to be alone.
His whole body began to shake - from the cold, from the blood loss, and from the burns that covered most of his exposed skin. He almost gave in, almost allowed himself to succumb to his wounds and his hopeless position.
Or did he have a chance? Could his attackers have left him for dead?
He couldn't afford to allow himself to believe that. He had to assume they'd be back.
The flickering light from the garage flames revealed a ladder built into the bulkhead ne
ar the stern of the boat. He forced his shuddering muscles to move and kicked toward it. Focusing his remaining strength, he used his good hand to grip the side rail. His feet found a rung and he pulled himself half out of the water. Even at full strength, climbing the ladder with one hand would present a challenge. In his current condition it seemed insurmountable.
And then the boat recoiled on its rope and the stern bumped him, almost knocking him off the ladder. He managed to hang on.
The boat.
He released the ladder and swung his right arm over the transom. He found a handhold on the far side and clung for all his life. He swung his damaged arm over the edge and hooked the crook of his elbow there. The stump screamed with pain but he ignored it and kicked off the ladder. Slowly, painfully, he wriggled himself onto the transom, then tumbled over onto the deck.
He allowed himself a few seconds to lie there gasping, then struggled to his knees. The boat seemed to be secured by only a single line. He untied it and felt it begin to drift away from the dock . . . toward the bay.
This was it. This was his answer, his escape route. All he needed were a few moments and he'd drift out of the lagoon into the open water of the bay. Once there, he'd be beyond their reach. No one else out here had a boat. The dark and the snow would swallow him and he'd be free. He'd -
The boat banged against something and lurched to a stop. He looked up and saw it scraping against the far bulkhead. The wind angled out of the lagoon but also across it, and was holding the boat against the bulkhead.
He was stuck.
No!
His attackers could return any minute. They'd find him and take their time using their guns to reduce him to ground meat.
He thought of climbing out and crawling into the brush, but they'd see the boat and guess what had happened. His best bet still was out on the water.
He crawled to the bridge and hauled himself onto the seat before the steering wheel. The keys were in the ignition.
Did he dare? He'd been fooled once.
But he had to think that his attackers wouldn't booby-trap both the car and the boat.
He realized he had no choice. He might die if he turned the key, but he would certainly die if he didn't.
* * *
Jack found the can in the garage and hefted it - damn. Just a tiny bit sloshing in the bottom. He -
- froze as he heard the faint sound of a diesel engine sputtering to life.
What the - ?
The boat! Rasalom had reached the boat. Jack couldn't imagine how, but he knew how to stop it.
He grabbed the second Stinger and a BCU and raced back toward the dock, shoving the cooling unit into the grip as he ran. The boat's engine was roaring now, full throttle no doubt.
Jack arrived in time to catch a glimpse of its stern as it raced from the mouth of the lagoon into the open water of the bay. The snowy darkness swallowed it, leaving him no target.
Then he remembered he didn't need one. The Stinger was a heat seeker. All he had to do was fire it and it would find the boat and ram itself up its exhaust pipe.
He rested the launcher on his shoulder, aimed where he'd last seen the boat, and pulled the trigger. For maybe two seconds he followed the blazing yellow streak of the missile's rocket engine as it flashed across the water, just a few feet above the surface. Then impact. The explosion lit the night - high explosive plus whatever diesel fuel was in the tank. The swirling snow and mist enhanced the glow as Jack watched bits of flaming debris pinwheel and tumble in all directions - bits of Rasalom among them, he assumed. He hoped. He prayed.
The One is the None.
But was he?
He'd survived everything else Jack had thrown at him. Could he have survived that?
Jack had hit him with everything he had, but still he wasn't satisfied.
What would satisfy him?
Pumping Rasalom's lifeless body full of kerosene and watching it burn, adding more as needed, poking the burning flesh to make sure it was fully consumed, then taking the ashes up in a plane and scattering them over the ocean.
Yeah. Then he'd be satisfied.
But unless Rasalom's body washed up somewhere, he was going to have to make do with this.
He checked his watch. Four minutes gone. The neighborhood was due for lots of company - the flashing-light kind - real soon.
Time to clean up and move on.
His Glock brass had ejected into the water. The last 40mm buckshot empty remained in the thumper's chamber. He picked up the other casing and trotted back to the O'Donnell garage where he policed the HE empties. They all went into the Vic's trunk along with the Stinger launchers and the M-79.
A quick trip through the house to retrieve his Leica and the remotes. He'd worn gloves since the wipe-down, so no worry about prints.
At the five-minute mark he was backing out of the garage. He left the doors open to guarantee that Dawn's body would be found. He'd call later to identify her.
He made it to Route 27 without passing anyone and was halfway to Amagansett when the first police car screamed past going the other way. The road was slick and the Vic had rear-wheel drive, so he took it easy.
He called Gia.
"How's everything?"
"Fine. We're at Weezy's. "
He felt like he'd been punched. "What? You and Vicky?"
"You sound surprised. "
Surprised? Try shocked. The last people he wanted involved with that baby were Gia and Vicky. Dawn, Gilda, and Georges were dead because of that child. It was dangerous, it was bad luck, it was -
"How - ?"
"Weezy called and said she needed help, so we came over. "
Weezy called . . . Jack clenched his teeth. She should know better.
Or should she? She hadn't seen him sucking his mother's blood off his fingers. To her it was Dawn's baby - one weird little baby, but just a baby.
Was he overreacting? Could be.
He forced calm.
"How's the baby? Making that noise?"
"Not anymore. Vicky read to him and in ten minutes he was asleep. Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Safe and sound and on my way back. You're heading home?"
"Soon. You going to stop by?"
"Your place? Hope to. Gonna stop off and see Glaeken first. "
"Be careful out there. I hear the roads are awful. What? Weezy wants to speak to you. "
And he wanted to speak to her. Did he ever want to speak to her.
"Okay. Bye. Love ya. "
"It's over?" Weezy said when she came on.
Jack stayed cool. The baby was asleep, Rasalom was dead, Gia and Vicky were okay and were headed home.
"Think so. Hope so. "
"You're not sure?"
"Couldn't be. Circumstances wouldn't allow. I hit him with everything I had. I do believe he sleeps with the fishes. "
"Let's hope. By the way, you know who I love?"
"Who?"
"Vicky. The little lady hath charms to soothe the q'qr breast. "
Jack loved her too. More than life. That was why he wanted her far from that little monster.
"Yeah, Vicky's the best. "
Jack ended the call then leaned back and sighed. What was done was done. He just wished he could be sure Rasalom was done.
Uncertainty gnawed his gut all the way back to the city.
SATURDAY Chapter 18
Ernst had been switching back and forth between the city and the Long Island stations, waiting for news of an incident from somewhere between the Hamptons and Montauk. Exactly what that incident might be, he had no idea, but he'd know it when he heard it.
He fairly leaped toward the screen when he heard an announcer mention a "live report from Nuckateague. " A pretty woman reporter wearing a hooded parka stood in the swirling snow and spoke into a microphone while firefighters, lit by flashing lights from their trucks, milled back and for
th before a large pile of smoking rubble.
"I tell you, Evan, it's like a war zone out here. A waterfront mansion in this quiet, well-to-do hamlet has been razed to the ground after reports of multiple explosions. The detached garage has also been reduced to ashes and the car within appears to have been ripped apart by a bomb. Take a look. . . "
Ernst stared in wonder as the camera panned across the scene. The Order had owned the property for decades. Ernst remembered spending a weekend there a few summers ago. How shocking to see what had become of it.
Jack, Jack, Jack . . . I do believe I underestimated you.
The reporter went on to mention the three bodies that had been found in a garage across the street - two women and a man, all murdered.
Georges and Gilda, no doubt. But who was the second woman?
Jack had taken no prisoners, apparently.
But where was the most important body? What had happened to the One? Had Jack destroyed him so completely that no trace remained? Were his ashes mixed with those of the house?
Ernst hoped so. For that would mean that the Change would be postponed indefinitely. Perhaps forever. Certainly for his own lifetime.
And his own lifetime was all that mattered.
SATURDAY Chapter 19
Glaeken had given him a key to the elevator. Jack entered the darkened apartment, knowing he'd find him up. He was right. He spotted him by the big picture window, silhouetted against the glow of the snowy city.
Three and a half hours on the road to get here, dreading and anticipating this moment.
"Well?"
Glaeken didn't turn from the window.
"You're asking me if he lives?"
"Yes. "
"You don't know?"
"I blew him up, set him on fire, and blew him up again. But I couldn't confirm the kill. What's left of him is somewhere on or under Gardiner's Bay. "
Glaeken sighed. "He lives. "
Jack dropped onto the couch and let his head drop back. "Shit. "
"But barely. Just barely. "
"What's that mean?"
Now Glaeken turned but Jack could not see his features. He imagined a pretty grim expression.