"No. I was drugged. But I know what was done. So don't tell me what's me and what's not. You may think you know me but you don't. I was a happy girl. I had my whole life ahead of me, endless opportunities. Now I have none."
"I'm sorry, Tara. But still…"
"The Tara you saw in those pictures is dead. Long dead. She died under that knife." She pulled open her blouse to reveal the empty bloody cavity of her chest. "The new Tara is heartless!"
Gia stumbled back a step. "But I never hurt you. Why do you want to hurt me?"
"I don't. I don't care about you. It wants you dead."
"It? What it?" All Gia could think of was Jack's Otherness.
"I don't know. I only know it brought me back to kill you."
Kill her… dear God, someone, something wanted her dead.
"Why?" What had she ever done?
"I don't know and I don't care. I'd be happy to leave you alive just for spite. All I want is your baby."
"But you tried to kill me, bury me like… like Charlie."
Gia bit back a sob. Oh, God, poor Charlie.
"I did. But then I realized that if you die here with your baby, you'll keep it. I'll never have it then."
"But the baby's just a clump of cells now. What would you do with—?"
"It would be mine! I would have something of my own then! I have nothing now!" Tara inched closer. Her voice edged toward a whine. "Come on, pretty lady. You can have another. Just let me reach inside you and squeeze, just once. You won't feel a thing. Then you can go."
Her hand darted forward but Gia slashed at it with the cross and Tara snatched it back.
"It's not fair!" Tara screamed. "You can have all the children you want and you won't give me one! I hate you!" She stepped back and cooled her mood like turning a switch. "All right. You won't put down that cross? Fine. I know a way to take it from you."
Tara disappeared, then popped into view a dozen feet away. Gia stood tense and ready, holding the cross before her, watching for a trick. Then she noticed movement to her left… Charlie's hands jutting up from the dirt… limp and cold and splayed when she'd left them… the fingers twitching now… stretching, clenching… rising from the earth…
16
Lyle jumped at what sounded like the cry of an enraged animal from the adjoining room. He heard the dining room table go over and then saw Jack fighting off a huge man swinging a poker. He glanced at the sap in his hand. He could help. In fact he damned well better help.
As Lyle started toward the fight, Bellitto shot out a leg and caught his ankle. Lyle stumbled but before he could regain his balance, Bellitto kicked him in the leg. Lyle went down and felt a blaze of pain in his back. Another kick. But how—?
He looked around and saw that Bellitto was up, standing over him, his face suffused with rage. Muffled screeches pushed against the tape across his mouth, air whistled through the flared nostrils above it.
He aimed another kick, at Lyle's stomach this time, bat Lyle rolled and took it on his flank, groaning with the pain. He swore he heard a rib crack.
The next kick was aimed at Lyle's head and connected. The room went into a spin…
"You!" Minkin screeched though his bared and clenched teeth. "You don't know how I've prayed for this moment!"
Jack's back pressed hard against the floor. The edge of a broken plate cut into his shoulder blade as Minkin straddled him, his huge hands wrapped around Jack's throat, thick thumbs trying to crush his larynx.
Jerk. Allowed himself to be distracted by the fax. The surprise attack plus his lack of conditioning over the past month had left him at a disadvantage. Managed to kick the poker out of Minkin's grasp, but during the close-in fighting that followed, the big man had put his greater size to full advantage.
Hoped his neck muscles held out. So far they'd resisted the pressure from Minkin's thumbs, but weren't going to outlast him. Kicked and twisted but the bigger man had him trapped under his weight. His Glock was out of sight, couldn't get to the Spyderco in his pocket or reach the backup .38 strapped to his ankle.
Vaguely aware of thuds, shouts, scuffling from the other room. Lyle?
Head felt swollen, as if about to explode. Running out of air. Minkin wasn't. Bastard had air to spare.
"So… this is the thief who strikes in the dark from behind… who cut up Eli and robbed me of a piece of my memory… this is the tough guy who thought he'd kill Eli and take over the Circle." He grinned. "You're not so tough. In fact, you're a puny piece of shit!"
Tried to peel the fingers away but couldn't get any leverage on them. Jabbed his own thumbs toward Minkin's eyes—kept the nails extra long for just this sort of situation—but his reach fell short.
Minkin laughed. "That won't work, little man."
Needed help. Where the hell was Lyle?
Shaking off the pain and dizziness, Lyle did the only thing he could: roll away.
But Bellitto followed. Though his hands were still taped behind his back he didn't need them. His feet were more than making up for them, landing one vicious kick after another. Lyle tried to use his sap against the flying feet but couldn't put any meaningful force behind his swings.
In desperation he pivoted on his hip and lashed out with a kick of his own. It caught Bellitto on the calf and that slowed him. Buoyed by this tiny victory, Lyle kicked again, harder this time. His heel connected with Bellitto's shin.
As the man stumbled back Lyle struggled to his hands and knees—Christ, he hurt all over—and lunged. He got a grip on one of Bellitto's ankles and yanked it up.
With no hands to use for balance Bellitto went down hard. Lyle was up and over him then. He still had the sap and didn't hesitate. Bellitto raised his head, Lyle knocked it down. It stayed down.
Lyle stood over the semi-conscious man and looked at the sap in his hand. He'd wondered if he'd be able to use it on a fellow human being. No problem. Of course, Bellitto didn't necessarily qualify as a fellow human being.
Then he heard a taunting voice from the next room. It wasn't Jack's. Hefting the sap, he left Bellitto and moved toward the dining room.
"You should see your face," Minkin said. "A lovely shade of purple."
Jack had given up trying to reach Minkin's face or shake him off. Neck muscles were giving out, dark spots clustering on the periphery of his vision, multiplying…
Flailed his hands about on the surrounding floor looking for something, anything to use as a weapon.
"Oh, and by the way… here's something to take with you into the Great Beyond. I was listening… I heard you… it appears you know the DiLauro woman and her little girl… you even know the lamb's first name. What a coincidence… what a lovely coincidence. Eli never lets me play with the lambs before they're sacrificed, but I'm going to make an exception with this one. Oh, yes, I'm going to have great fun with your little friend 'Vicky' before she's sacrificed."
Strength just about shot. Groping fingers of right hand touch something. A handle. Knife? Please, a knife, even a butter knife. No. A fork. Still… grab tip of handle with fingertips.
Light fading. Raise left hand to claw weakly at Minkin's face. Not even close.
"That the best you can do?" Minkin laughed and brought his face closer so that Jack's fingertips brushed his cheek. "Here, pussy-man. I've got an itch. Scratch right there."
Right hand up and jabbing the tines into Minkin's left eye.
"Aah! Aah! Aah!"
Abruptly the pressure let up and Jack could breathe again. Vision cleared as he choked down lungfuls of air. Minkin loomed above, still straddling him, making sounds of pain and shock as his big hands fluttered like Mothra-class butterflies around the fork protruding from his eyeball, afraid to touch it, afraid to leave it there.
Jack levered up and slammed the flat of his palm against the handle and felt the tines scrape against the bone at the back of the socket.
Minkin screamed and fell backward off Jack to land on the floor on his back, writhing, retching, kicking. To the side
Lyle stood with a sick look on his face, the sap slack in his hand.
"Oh man," he said. "Oh man, oh man, oh man!"
Jack forced himself to his feet and staggered toward the living room. He could still feel Minkin's thumbs on his throat. His skull throbbed between the bolts of pain lancing though it.
"Go—" His voice came out a harsh whisper, barely audible even to him. He motioned Lyle closer. "Go upstairs. Find a rug. You can't find a rug get a sheet or a blanket. Move. We've wasted too much time."
Lyle ran up the steps. Jack found his pistol and dragged himself into the living room. His flank felt damp. He looked and saw blood starting to ooze through his shirt from the knife wound. No pain though. It was all concentrated from the neck up.
Bellitto lay on his side, groaning. Jack spotted the fax, grabbed it, read it again.
Burn this! Not yet.
He shoved it into his pocket.
"A." wouldn't be picking up anyone tonight. And Bellitto?
Jack found he still had a length of duct tape stuck to the front of his shirt. He used it to bind Bellitto's feet.
Glanced at his watch. Had to get moving. This trip had taken far too long.
Gia…
Hang on, babe. I'm coming.
Lyle hurried in carrying a summer blanket. They stretched it out next to Bellitto and rolled him up in it like a burrito.
The plan was to carry him downstairs; Lyle would bring the car up to the front door where they'd dump him in the trunk and steam back to Astoria.
As they carried Bellitto through the dining room, Jack saw Minkin on his hands and knees, the fork still protruding from his left eye, blood coating his cheek as he made "Unh-unh-unh!" noises like a hog in heat. His good eye found Jack and he bared his teeth.
Minkin's taunts about Vicky when he had him down flashed through Jack's brain. The darkness flowed out of its cage and suffused him, taking over. Nobody threatened his Vicky like that. Nobody.
Even with the clock riding him like a heavy-handed jockey, he was compelled to waste a few seconds here. He dropped Bellitto's legs and stalked toward Minkin.
"Gonna 'play with the lamb,' huh?" His voice still wasn't back yet. Sounded grating, ugly, like a board dragging on concrete. "Gonna have 'great fun' with my 'little friend Vicky before she's sacrificed,' right? Not a chance, pal. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever."
With that he lashed out with his foot. The heel connected with the protruding end of the fork, crunching the tines through the back of the eye socket and deep into Minkin's brain.
He heard Lyle cry out in shock behind him but Adrian Minkin, would-be player with lambs, made no sound. He looked like he was screaming as he straightened up on his knees, then shot to standing, mouth open impossibly wide, displaying his perfect teeth. His arms spasmed out from his sides and he flopped backward, landing on the back of his head. For a few heartbeats his body bent into an impossible arch with only his heels and head touching the floor.
Jack watched impassively, feeling nothing beyond satisfaction that here was one less threat in the world to Vicky and others like her.
Finally Adrian Minkin went limp and still. Completely still. No breath stirred his chest.
Jack turned to find Lyle gaping at him wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
"Oh, shit, Jack! Oh man! What—?"
"I know. Just when you were starting to think I was kind of a nice guy. Almost cuddly, right?"
"No, I—"
"Stop gawking." He picked up Bellitto's legs. "We've got to lug this garbage out and get rolling. And hope to hell we're not too late."
17
"Charlie?"
Gia backed against the cold granite blocks and watched with horrid fascination as Charlie began to pull himself from the loose earth that had smothered him moments before. It might have been a cause for rejoicing if Charlie were alive, but as soon as his head emerged Gia knew it wasn't Charlie, only his shell. His face was slack, expressionless; and his eyes—dirt clung to the lids, to the eyes themselves, and he never blinked.
He crawled from the earth and rose shakily to his feet. As he took an unsteady step toward Gia she pressed herself back against the stones, wishing she could seep between them.
"Charlie, no. Please!"
He stopped, his dead eyes fixed somewhere above and beyond her.
Tara, standing to the rear and to the side during his resurrection, glided forward now, silent, but her expression furious as she glared at Charlie's corpse.
Charlie shook his head.
Gia watched, holding her breath as she sensed a silent battle of wills.
Tara bared her teeth and loosed a frustrated screech.
Again Charlie shook his head. Then his corpse turned and walked unsteadily to the far side of the cellar where it lowered itself against the wall and slumped into a sitting position, immobile, staring at its lap.
"He won't do it," Gia breathed, more to herself than to Tara.
There was too much of a good man left inside to allow his body do Tara's bidding.
Tara turned to her, eyes blazing. "This is so unfair!"
"You talk about fair? What's fair about you taking my baby?"
Her face screwed up. She looked as if she were about to cry. "Because you've got everything and I've got nothing!"
Gia's felt an instant of pity. Yes, she did have everything, or pretty close to everything she wanted or needed from life, things Tara never had a chance at and never would. But that didn't mean Tara had a call on the new life within her.
"I'm sorry, Tara. I really mean that. And if I could undo what was done to you, I would. But that's not in my power."
"The baby," Tara said. "Just give me the baby and you can go."
"No." Gia pressed her back against the wall again and raised the cross, holding it between them. "Let you kill my baby? You ask the impossible. I won't. I can't. Never."
Tara stared at her a moment, then stepped back. She disappeared, then flashed into view at the center of the cellar. She said nothing, simply stared at Gia from afar.
Gia lowered the cross and glanced toward the steps. Were they still blocked by that invisible wall? Should she try—?
Then she felt something cold loop around her right forearm—the arm holding the cross. She looked and saw one of the ghost hands clutching her in its iron grip. She started to reach around with her left hand to take the cross but that arm was trapped before it moved.
And now Tara was directly before her, smirking. "I don't know why I didn't think of this before. It's so much easier."
Gia cried out and struggled to break free, trying to angle the cross up so it would touch the ghost hand trapping her right arm, but her wrist wouldn't bend far enough.
"Easy now," Tara said in a soft tone as she leaned closer.
"Hold still. This won't hurt. You won't feel a thing, I promise you."
Two more ghost arms whipped around Gia's thighs, imprisoning them.
"Tara, no! Please! Don't do this!"
Tara said nothing. Her eyes were bright, her expression rapt as she reached her right hand toward Gia's belly.
Trapped, immobilized, Gia writhed with horror and loathing as the fingertips slipped through the waistband of her jeans. She screamed with the piercing cold as they entered her skin.
"Just a little further," Tara whispered. "Just a little squeeze, a tiny pinch, and it will all be—"
She stopped and cocked her head as if listening to something. She stepped back, removing her hand from Gia's belly, still listening.
"Yes," Tara whispered, nodding as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Gia couldn't hear who Tara was listening to, but she knew it could be only one person.
Jack.
She sobbed and dropped to her knees as the ghost hands released her.
"Oh, yes!" Tara shouted.
Gia glanced up and shuddered at the pure malevolence in the hideous grin that split Tara's child face.
18
"Do you hear me,
Tara?" Lyle shouted at the closed door. "A trade! Your killer for Gia and Charlie!"
Can't be too late, Jack thought, refusing to think the unthinkable as he watched and waited for a sign that Tara had accepted the deal. Can't.
He'd have been doing the shouting if his voice had been up to it.
He and Lyle stood in the garage with Bellitto propped between them. They'd backed in the Crown Vic, closed the garage doors, and hauled him from the trunk. Jack had freed his feet but left his hands and mouth taped. The creep was fully awake now, looking scared, but not yet a hundred percent alert.
Jack felt a good long way from a hundred percent himself. Weak. Sick. Head still throbbed. Throat swollen. Stomach roiled with acid from the adrenaline come-down. On the way over from Manhattan Lyle had told him to look in the mirror. He wished he hadn't. His throat was ringed with purpling bruises, the white of his left eye was mostly bright red from a ruptured vessel, and his face was speckled with countless tiny red hemorrhages. He looked like he'd botched a try at hanging himself.
"Test the door," Jack said. His voice had cleared a little but not much. "Maybe the wall is down."
Jack kept a tight grip on Bellitto's arm as Lyle stepped to the door, reached toward the knob, but stopped well short.
He turned back to Jack. "Still there. I'll try calling her again."
Lyle had laid out the deal twice already. Jack couldn't see what good a third try would do. If Tara was around to listen, she'd have heard it the first time.
A winter chill of despair began to seep through his chest.
Gia… he couldn't lose her… but what else could he do?
The door swung open.
"Yes!" Lyle said and returned to the threshold. But when he tried to step across he stopped. He turned to Jack with a baffled expression. "It's still blocked."
"Maybe for us," Jack said, hoping he was right. "But maybe someone else will slip right through and be welcomed with open arms."
Lyle nodded. "Worth a try."
Bellitto began to struggle, kicking, twisting, making terrified pleading noises behind the tape.