"I'm so very sorry. It's not for sale."
"You're kidding."
"I assure you that I do not… kid."
"Then why put them on display?"
The anemic smile returned. "Because it pleases me."
"Oh, I get it. Kind of like a joke. Lock up the junk and leave the valuables lying around. You didn't strike me a postmodern dude."
"I should hope not. Let's just say that these tiny treasures carry a certain sentimental value for me and I like to leave them out where people can see them."
"Does the sentimental value of that Roger Rabbit Key ring exceed ten bucks?"
"I'm afraid it does."
"How about fifteen?"
He shook his head. "No."
"Twenty-five, then?"
"No."
"Fifty?"
"Sorry."
"A hundred?"
A head shake. Bellitto's smile had broadened. He was enjoying himself.
This was crazy. The guy couldn't mean it. Turn down a hundred bucks for that little piece of junk?
Jack took a quick look at Bellitto's ears. Nope, no hearing aids.
Okay, time to call his bluff.
"How about five hundred?"
Another head shake.
Smug son of a bitch, Jack thought. How can he say no? All right, one more try. This one has to get him.
"Mister, I will give you one thousand dollars—are you listening?—one thousand US dollars for that key ring. And that's my final offer. Take it or leave it."
"I prefer to leave it, thank you."
Jack's shock was tinged with relief. He'd allowed himself to get carried away here. A thousand bucks for a worthless little, tchotchke like that? Who was crazier here?
He looked back at Roger Rabbit, whose eyes still held that imploring look.
"Sorry, guy. Maybe next time."
"No next time," Bellitto said. "When I said, 'Not for sale,' it was not a sales ploy. I meant it."
"I guess you did. Still, can't blame a guy for trying."
He glanced at his watch. "Past closing time, I'm afraid."
Jack said, "Yeah," and started for the door.
"Tell me, Mr…?"
"Butler," Jack said.
"Tell me, Mr. Butler. Would you really have paid me a thousand dollars for that key ring?"
"That's what I offered."
"Talk is cheap, Mr. Butler."
"So it is. And this is just more talk. So I guess we'll never really know, will we."
Jack gave him a wave and stepped through the door into the twilight.
Eli Bellitto… the man seemed a model of cool control. Jack sensed no seething cauldron of violence readying to erupt. Sensed no passion at all, in fact. Admittedly it had been a brief meeting, and in his experience he'd found that people were rarely what they seemed, but Eli Bellitto seemed a long way from a new-moon lunatic.
He hoped he was right. He'd play watchdog for three nights and that would be that.
He made a show of casual window shopping, doing a slow sidestep to the end of the building, then crossing the street to a furniture store, already closed. At six sharp Jack saw the redheaded trainee clerk step out and head up toward Houston, followed by the older woman. With a clattering chorus, metal shutters began unrolling from their cylindrical bins over the windows. Bellitto came out a moment later and locked them down. Then he rolled down a similar shutter over the door by hand. After that was locked, he strolled right, turning the corner and moving a dozen paces down the side street to where he entered a doorway.
Home sweet home, Jack thought. Now be a good boy, Eli Bellitto, and stay in for the night. Catch up on all those Sopranos episodes you missed during the season.
He crossed back over to Bellitto's side, to check the street number, and he heard something crunch beneath his feet. He looked down and found a scatter of broken glass, some pieces frosted, some clear. As he moved on he glanced up and found the source: the lens of the street light had come loose and fallen. No… the bulb was missing, or broken off. He thought he could make out a couple of deep dings in the metal casing. Yeah. No question. Someone had shot out the street light. With a pellet gun, most likely.
Jack looked around. Didn't like this. The dead light would leave Bellitto's end of the street in darkness. Who'd done it? Bellitto himself? Or someone out to get him?
Jack continued to move down the block until he came to a small bistro across the street. A few couples sat around the white resin tables on the sidewalk. Jack positioned himself at one that gave him a view of Bellitto's door, and ordered a Corona, no lime. He'd nurse a few, eventually have dinner, killing the hours till darkness. Then he'd find a shadowed spot with a view of the doorway—not too hard with the street light out—and camp there till midnight.
Jack kicked himself for taking this nothing job. Instead of sitting alone at this rickety table, he could be hanging at Gia's, having a drink with her and playing sous chef as she fixed dinner.
But Edward had been so frightened that his brother might hurt somebody, and Jack had responded to that. Still, he could have let this one go by. He'd promised Gia he'd stay away from the rough jobs. At worst, this one might involve a little roll and tumble, but he didn't think he'd have too much trouble controlling Eli Bellitto.
He wished all his fix-its were like the Kentons'. He was looking forward to Tuesday's encounter with Madame Pomerol. That had all the makings of a fun fix.
IN THE IN-BETWEEN
She realizes she is female, but nothing beyond that. She knows she once had a name but she can't remember it.
She also knows that she did not live in this place, this old cold house. She had a warm home somewhere but cannot remember where it lies. And even if she did, she could not—go there.
She cannot leave. She has tried, but she is tied to this awful house. She wishes she knew why. It might explain this terrible sourceless rage that envelops her.
If only she could remember her name!
She is lonely, but not alone. There are others in this place. She has reached out but cannot make contact. Yet she keeps trying…
IN THE WEE HOURS
Lyle awoke to the sound of running water. His room was dark, the windows open to the night, and somewhere…
The shower.
"Now what?" he muttered as he pulled the sheet aside and hung his legs over the edge of the bed.
He blinked and brought the display of his clock radio into focus: 1:21. He stared dully at the red LED digits. He felt drugged. He'd been way down in deep, deep sleep and his brain and body were still fumbling back to alertness. As he watched the display, the last digit changed to a zero.
7:20?
But just a few seconds ago it had been… or at least he'd thought it had been…
Never mind. The shower was running. He jumped off the bed and hurried to the adjoining bathroom.
Lyle felt the steam before he saw it. He fumbled along the wall, found the light switch, and flipped it on. Billows of moisture filled the bathroom, so thick he could barely find his way. He made it to the shower and reached out toward the curtain…
And hesitated. Something told him not to pull it open. Maybe one of those premonitions he didn't believe in, maybe the result of seeing too many horror movies, but he sensed something besides running water behind the curtain.
Feeling suddenly cold despite the enveloping hot mist, Lyle backed away, one step… two…
No. He wasn't giving in to this. With a strangled cry that anticipated the terror of what he might see, Lyle leaped forward and slashed the curtain aside.
He stood there in the steam, gasping, heart pounding, staring at a shower running full blast at max heat. But the spray wasn't running straight into the tub. It was bouncing against something… something that wasn't there and yet was. And after the spray struck whatever it was, the water turned red and ran down into the tub to swirled away into the drain.
Lyle closed his eyes, shook his head, then looked again.
&
nbsp; The shower continued to run and billow up steam, but the spray now flowed uninterrupted into the tub, and remained clear all the way down to the drain.
What's happening to me? he thought as he reached in and turned the knob.
And then he sensed someone behind him in the steam.
"Wha—?"
He spun and found no one. But movement to his left caught Lyle's eye. Something on the big mirror over the sink… dripping lines forming on the moisture-laden glass… connecting into letters… then…
Words.
Who are you?
Lyle could only stare, could only think that this wasn't happening, he was dreaming again, and pretty soon—
Three more question marks, each bigger than the last, added themselves to the end of the question.
Who are you????
"I… I'm Lyle," he croaked, thinking, It's a dream, so play along. "Who are you?"
I dont know.
"Why are you here?"
The same words were rewritten below.
I dont know. Im scared. I want to go home
"Where's home?"
I DONT KNOW;
Then something slammed against the mirror with wall-rattling force to create a spiderweb shatter the size of a basketball. The lights went out and a blast of cold tore through the bathroom, plunging the climate from rain forest to arctic circle. Lyle leaped for the light switch but his bare foot hit a puddle; he slipped and went down just as he heard another booming impact break more of the mirror. Glass confetti peppered him with the third impact. He crouched on his knees with his forehead against the floor, hands clasped over the back of his head as whatever was in the room with him pounded the mirror again and again in a fit of mindless rage.
And then as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Slowly, cautiously, Lyle raised his head in the echoing darkness. Somewhere in the house—down the hall—he heard running footsteps, and then his brother's voice.
"Lyle! Lyle, you all right?" The bedroom light came on. "Dear God, Lyle, where are you?"
"In here."
He rose to his knees but could find neither the strength nor the will to regain his feet. Not yet.
He heard Charlie's approach and called out, "Don't come in. There's glass on the floor. Just reach in and hit the light."
Lyle was facing away from the doorway. When the light came on he looked over his shoulder and saw a wide-eyed and slack-jawed Charlie staring at him.
"What the fuck—" Charlie began, then caught himself. "Dear Lord, Lyle, what you done?"
Charlie's use of a word he had expunged from his vocabulary since he'd been born again told Lyle the true depth of his brother's shock. Looking around, he couldn't blame him. Glittering slivers and pebbles of glass littered the floor; the big mirror looked as if Shaq had been bouncing a granite basketball against it.
"Wasn't me."
"Then who?"
"Don't know. See if you can find a blanket and throw it on the floor so I can get out of here without making hamburger of my feet."
While Charlie went looking, Lyle pushed himself to his feet and turned, careful to stay in the glass-free circle of floor under him.
Charlie reappeared with a blanket. "This one pretty thin but—"
He stopped and stared, a look of abject horror stretching his features.
"What?"
Charlie pointed a wavering finger at Lyle's chest. "Oh, God, Lyle, you—you cut yourself!"
Lyle looked down and felt his knees soften when he saw his T-shirt front soaked in crimson. He pulled up the shirt and this time his knees wouldn't hold him. They buckled and he crumbled to the floor when he saw the deep gash in his chest, so deep he could see his convulsively beating heart through the opening.
He looked up at Charlie, met his terrified eyes, tried to mouth a word or two but failed. He looked down again at his chest…
And it was whole. Intact. Clean. No hole, no blood, not a drop on his skin or his shirt.
Just like what had happened to Charlie last night.
He looked up at his brother again. "You saw that, right? Tell me you saw it this time."
Charlie was nodding like a bobble-head doll. "I saw it, I saw it! I thought you was buggin' last night, but now… I mean, what—?"
"Throw that blanket down. I want to get out of here."
Charlie held onto one end and tossed the rest toward Lyle. They spread it out atop the glass-littered tile and Lyle crawled—he didn't trust his legs to support him so he crawled—to the door.
When he reached the carpet Lyle stayed down, huddling, shaking. He wanted to sob, wanted to vomit. Things he'd always disbelieved were proving true. The pillars of his world were crumbling.
"What just happened in there, Lyle?" Charlie said, kneeling beside him and laying an arm across his shaking shoulders. "What this all about?"
Lyle gathered himself, swallowed the bile at the back of his throat, and straightened his spine.
"You know what you said about this house being haunted? I'm beginning to think you're right." He looked up at the clock radio, which now read 1:11. Who knew how long it had been running backwards. It could be three in the morning for all he knew. "Fuckit, I know you're right."
"What we do about it, man?"
Something strange and angry had invaded their house. Was that anger directed at him? At Charlie? He hoped not, because he sensed it ran wide and frighteningly deep. Charlie wanted to know what they were going to do. How could he answer that without even knowing what they were facing?
He grabbed Charlie's arm and got to his feet.
"I don't know, Charlie. But I know one thing we're not doing, and that's leaving. This is our place now and nobody, living or dead, is chasing us out."
MONDAY
1
Gia was staring at the clock when the phone rang.
She sat at the kitchen table, a mug of green tea cooling next to her elbow. An hour, almost to the minute, since she'd called Dr. Eagleton's office about her pregnancy test. The receptionist had said her results weren't in yet, but she'd call the Beth Israel lab and have them fax it over.
Jack was gone. After making a few cryptic calls earlier this morning, he'd gone out to run a few errands, and since then Gia had barely moved.
But she moved now, rising, stepping to the phone, checking the caller ID, seeing the name A. Eagleton MD on the display. Her breath caught a moment, she hesitated, then snatched up the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Ms. DiLauro?" A girl's voice. She sounded like a teenager.
"Speaking." Her hand felt slick on the plastic.
"This is Dr. Eagleton's office returning your call. Doctor says to tell you that your pregnancy test is positive."
Gia felt her body go rigid. She brought up her second hand to help grip the receiver, to keep it from falling.
"You're… you're sure?"
"Positive." She giggled. "I mean, yes. Doctor wants you to arrange an appointment for some routine preliminary blood work. When do you think you can—?"
Gia hung up on her and sat down.
I'm pregnant. With Jack's baby… Jack's and mine.
She should be bursting with joy, she knew, but she wasn't. Instead she felt uncertain, and maybe a little afraid.
Gia closed her eyes. I'm not ready for this… the timing's all wrong.
She picked up the mug of tea, looking to warm her chilled hands, but the cup was nearly room temperature. She took a sip of the pale yellow liquid but it tasted sour on her tongue.
Of course this wasn't just about her. There was Jack. Telling him wasn't a matter of if—because he had every right to know—but a matter of when. It was so very early in the pregnancy, a time when too many things could go wrong and end in miscarriage. She'd had two of those before Vicky was born.
Then the question of how he'd react. She knew Jack, probably better than anyone else in the world. Even better than Abe. But she still wasn't sure how he'd deal with it in the long run.
Sh
e knew his first reaction would be joy. He'd be happy for her, for himself. A baby. She wanted to see him grin, see his eyes glow. And she knew it might be enough to drag him out of his funk over losing Kate. One life ends, then a new one begins.
But telling this early carried risks. What if, say, next week, she miscarried?
Jack, you're a father-to-be! You're first child is on the way!
No, wait. Never mind. Your child is gone. Sorry.
Considering how down he'd been, was it right to risk putting him on that sort of emotional roller coaster? Wouldn't it be better, kinder after what he'd just gone through to wait until she was sure her pregnancy was firmly established?
Or was she just buying herself more time before she had to face up to the task of telling him?
So those were the short-term issues. But what about long term? When it sank into Jack what raising a child, what true fatherhood would mean to his independence, his treasured autonomy… what then? Would he think the cost too high?
2
The yellow plastic sandwich board sign stood in the middle of the sidewalk, its red letters reflecting the morning sun.
ERNIE'S PHOTO I-D
ALL KINDS
PASSPORT
DRIVERS LICENSE
TAXI
Jack cut around it and stepped through the open doorway into a tiny store packed to the ceiling with miniature Statues of Liberty, New York City postcards, customizable Tshirts, sports caps, and anything else Ernie could cram into a rack or onto a shelf. Ernie's shop made Abe's seem like the wide open range.
"Hey, Ern."
The skinny, droopy-faced man behind the counter wore an ugly orange Hawaiian shirt and had a Pall Mall dangling from the corner of his mouth, J-P Belmondo style. He looked up and winked.
"Witcha in a minute, sir," he said and went right back into his spiel to an old Korean tourist about a pair of Ray Ban Predators.
"We're talkin' big savings here. Real money." He pronounced it monnay—like "Monday" without the d. "I'm tellin' you, these list for ninety bucks. I can let you have 'em for fifty."