The Dark at the End (Repairman Jack) Read online

  He leaned in and went to grab her shoulders to pull her farther into the car when the baby’s deafening screech stopped him. He looked at the child—the Marty Allen hair and the scrunched-in features gave him a troll-doll look without any of the cuteness. Fury lit his beady little black eyes and Jack thought he was angry for taking his mother from him.

  “Don’t worry, little guy. I’m not gonna—”

  But then he saw the red smears on his face.

  As he watched, the kid dipped his fingers into the blood welled in Dawn’s shoulder wound and then stuck them in his mouth, sucking greedily.

  10

  They had a litany going …

  “We can’t just leave her there,” Weezy said for what seemed like the thousandth time.

  And each time Jack gave the same reply: “We don’t have a choice.”

  They stood inside the door to the O’Donnell house, looking out on Dawn’s Volvo, collecting snow as it sat in the yard.

  After Weezy’s call from the garage, Jack had moved Dawn and Georges into the O’Donnell garage, where they joined Gilda on the floor. He’d arranged them along its west wall, Dawn supine, covered by a sheet from the house, the other two facedown. Then he’d eased the Crown Vic in beside them—a tight fit even if the garage had been empty—and closed the damaged doors. Their hinges had been loosened and twisted a bit, and the latch was broken, but he’d managed to jury-rig them so they stayed closed.

  Then he’d taken the Volvo and its little passenger into Amagansett to pick up Weezy. Snow had begun to accumulate on the asphalt, but the Volvo handled nicely.

  He’d tensed himself during the ride, waiting for one of those screeches, but it never came. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the kid asleep. Good thing, too. He’d pitched a fit when Jack had taken his mother away, screeching like the proverbial banshee. Jack hadn’t known whether it was maternal attachment or removal of his snack. He’d been chowing down on Dawn’s blood with lip-smacking gusto. Jack had wiped the blood off the dashboard before heading for Weezy, and now realized he should have cleaned up the baby’s face as well. But he’d had more important things on his mind.

  Like how to salvage this clusterfuck.

  He’d found a snow-dappled Weezy rubbing her hands and stamping her feet in front of the empty produce stand.

  “Sorry to take so long,” he said, turning up the heat as she got in. “Cleanup took longer than I expected.”

  Shivering, she slid into the passenger seat and held her hands over the dashboard vents.

  “’S-s-s’all right.”

  She glanced at the baby in the backseat and grimaced.

  “Was I right?” he said.

  “Not so bad.”

  She had to be kidding. Then again, this baby belonged to Dawn, her surrogate daughter, and so maybe Weezy was seeing the child with different eyes.

  She looked at him again. “Does he really have…?”

  “Tentacles? I didn’t check.”

  Time had been tight and he was in no great hurry to find out. Plenty of time for an anatomy check later.

  She gave him a quick rundown of seeing the tow truck flashers and running out to stop it.

  “How did anyone find it?”

  “The guy at the garage told me it was reported to the police and the police called them to pick up an abandoned vehicle. That’s all he knows.”

  Jack shook his head. “Murphy’s law rules the goddamn universe.”

  “The multiverse,” Weezy said.

  Unasked questions about Dawn layered the air within the car. Finally Weezy took a deep breath and looked at Jack.

  “Dawn … she’s really…?”

  He nodded.

  Her features twisted as tears began to roll down her cheeks. “How?”

  Jack described the scene as he’d found it, then, “The best I can come up with is somehow she got hold of the baby, Gilda came after her with a knife, wounded her, but Dawn fought back and killed Gilda. Then Georges killed Dawn.”

  Weezy buried her face in her hands. “Oh, God. It’s all my fault!”

  He sighed. “Somehow I knew you’d say that.”

  “Well, it is. I never should have left her.”

  “You saw the flashers. I’d have hauled ass down there too.”

  “But if I’d stayed—”

  “This never would have happened? Okay, probably not. But just because you could have stopped her if you were there doesn’t make you responsible for her bad decisions. And she made a whole series of them, one right after another: leaving the house, going to the mansion, entering the mansion, taking the baby. At any point along the way she could have made the opposite choice, but she didn’t.”

  She raised her head and looked at him. “That’s awfully cold.”

  Yeah, it was, wasn’t it. But anger was leaving him feeling pretty damn cold at the moment.

  “Sorry, but that’s the way I see it.”

  “She was a young mother, her baby had been taken from her, she wasn’t thinking.”

  “Exactly. This wasn’t all about her. There’s a bigger picture. We explained that. But in the end none of that mattered to her. Dawn-Dawn-Dawn—that was it.”

  Weezy was staring at him with a worried expression. “What’s happening to you?”

  “What’s happening to me? How about what’s happening to us—as in the whole world? How about she’s blown this primo chance—a near-perfect setup—to stop this guy.”

  “How can you say it’s blown?”

  “Well, Georges isn’t going to be waiting at JFK to pick him up tonight. And neither Georges nor Gilda will be answering the phone—death tends to create something of an impediment to that. He’s no idiot. When Georges doesn’t show and he can’t contact either of them, don’t you think he’ll suspect that maybe, just maybe something’s amiss? And when he does, he’ll head elsewhere. Maybe turn around and catch the next flight to Timbuktu or anywhere far from here. We’re losing our last chance to stop the Change. And when the Change happens, how many deaths will be laid on Dawn’s doorstep?”

  “There’ll be other chances.”

  “Not like this one.”

  She gestured toward the backseat. “We have him.”

  “Yeah, there’s that—assuming the kid is crucial to his plans. If not … then, as Abe would say, we’ve got bupkes.”

  She reached out and patted his arm. “You can salvage this.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really. I have faith in you.”

  “Swell.”

  He didn’t tell her that he hadn’t a clue as to how to accomplish that.

  He’d turned into Nuckateague and sensed Weezy pulling into herself as they neared the house. Dune Drive was quiet as, well, a tomb—and would be sort of functioning as one for a while. As he approached the mansion and the O’Donnell house he couldn’t find a clue that all hell had broken loose here less than an hour ago.

  She’d insisted on seeing Dawn’s body. He’d warned her it was bloody and she’d suffered an ugly death, but she’d insisted. And when he’d pulled the sheet down, she lost it.

  She’d recovered somewhat now, but was keeping up the how-can-we-leave-her-there-like-that? litany. The most rational woman he’d ever known had surrendered all her critical faculties.

  “You’re not thinking, Weez. Where can you take her?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t just—”

  He raised his hands. “Please. Stop. You’re talking about driving around with a dead body in your car. Not just dead—murdered. So you can’t take her to a funeral home or even an ER without winding up being asked a lot of questions you do not want to answer.”

  “But—”

  “Think of it as cold storage.”

  “But rats … mice…”

  He realized he had to give her something.

  “Okay, here’s what I can do: Before I clear out, I’m going to wipe this place down—everything we might have touched. After I’m gone I’ll call the
East Hampton police and report bodies in the O’Donnell garage on Dune Drive. I’ll even give them Dawn’s name so she can be buried with her mother.”

  Weezy thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I guess that’s the best we can do. It means she won’t be out there for long. I’ll help you wipe down and—”

  “No. You take the baby and head for the city.”

  “The baby?”

  “Well, yeah. You’ve just become his unofficial guardian.”

  “But I don’t know the first thing about babies.” Her hand shot up as Jack opened his mouth. “And please, no Butterfly McQueen references.”

  How had she guessed? Was he that predictable?

  “You mean there’s something you don’t know?”

  “I never found babies very interesting.”

  “Better start reading up on them because you just became Aunt Weezy.”

  Her expression reflected mild panic. “This is serious, Jack. I’ve never had contact with children, especially babies, and this is no ordinary baby.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “I mean, what does he eat? Formula? Cereal? Were they feeding him Jell-O or jelly or something?”

  “What?”

  “He’s got red smears on his face.”

  “Oh, um…” He decided not to burden her with that detail. “I have no idea what Gilda was feeding him.”

  “Jack, what’ll I do?”

  “You’re the smartest person I know. You’ll figure it out.”

  Weezy looked ready to cry again. Jack couldn’t help it. To do what he needed to do, he needed her and the baby gone.

  They packed up Dawn’s things and Weezy’s things, and within half an hour she and the baby were on their way, leaving Jack at the door staring across the empty yard at the equally empty mansion on the far side of the street.

  Dawn had deep-sixed his original plan. Had to be another way to salvage this opportunity. He’d have to improvise.

  Jack hated to improvise.

  11

  After wiping down the O’Donnell place as best he could, he went to the garage and opened his trunk. He stared at all the ordnance he’d acquired and might never get a chance to use.

  The octol and the copper cones—what good were shaped charges now? The double-whammy roadside IEDs were out. Even if Rasalom decided to return to the mansion on his own, Jack would have no idea how he was arriving. If he rented a car, Jack wouldn’t know what it looked like. He couldn’t simply incinerate the first car that passed between the charges. And if he took a taxi, he’d have somebody driving—Jack had had no qualms about Georges, but he wasn’t about to kill an innocent cabbie.

  He grabbed the golf bag and checked inside: the M-79 nestled among the clubs. Easy enough to use. He leaned that against the wall and pulled out one of the two carpet-clad Stingers. He unwrapped and inspected it. The missile and its launcher ran about five feet long and weighed north of thirty pounds. Not exactly a concealable weapon. He’d never fired one, but Abe had included instructions. He’d have to read up on the procedure if he was going to use it.

  A big if.

  He leaned the Stinger next to the golf bag and stared at the makings for his shaped charges. He’d had big plans for those—taking out Rasalom before he made it to the house. Now, if he showed up at all, Jack would have to try to take him down on his own turf.

  He stepped out the side door and stared at the mansion. Launch a grenade and missile attack on the place once he was inside and reduce it to rubble? A possibility.

  But first Jack had to get him out here. How to do that? How to explain Georges’s no-show at the airport without arousing suspicion? Couldn’t send a stand-in driver—he’d never go for that. Had to be a way.

  Jack made a mental list of the elements he had to work with—all the people and things that involved Rasalom’s life in Nuckateague: Gilda, Georges, the baby, the car, the house. Some combination of those might provide the key.

  First thing he needed was a plausible reason for Georges not to show up at JFK … and for both him and Gilda to be incommunicado. And he needed a way to get that information to Rasalom.

  Did Rasalom carry a cell phone? Well, why not? Glaeken carried one, no good reason Rasalom wouldn’t.

  He ducked back into the garage and made a beeline for Georges. He’d left the guy’s phone with his corpse. Yep, there it was. Jack flipped it open, found the address book, and began going through it. He tried “Osala,” “Boss,” even “Rasalom,” but no luck. He did find “One.” A New York City code. Pretty good chance that was it. But just to be sure …

  He had to roll Gilda over to check her pockets. He’d placed her facedown to hide her gory front from Weezy. He’d found only one knife, and he doubted that Dawn had stabbed herself, so the most logical scenario was that Gilda had found the baby gone, grabbed a knife, and run over here to stop Dawn. Dawn had somehow disarmed her and given her a dose of her own medicine. Many doses.

  He shook his head at the butchery. Dawn had continued stabbing long after Gilda was gone. Weezy wouldn’t want to believe that her Dawn was capable of that.

  He found Gilda’s cell in a pocket of her coat. He searched for “One” first this time but came up blank. No luck either with “Osala,” “Boss,” or “Rasalom.” While searching he noticed a number of texts from “Kris” and a reply to each. So, the murderous old broad liked to exchange texts with her equally murderous son. How sweet. The family that kills together, what?—chills together?—heads for the hills together?—stomps anthills together? He wondered if they discussed their favorite blades for cutting off eyelids.

  Gilda didn’t seem to have many names in her address book so he went through them one by one. He stopped when he reached “Master.” That number matched the one in Georges’s.

  Got it.

  A phone number for Rasalom … how weird that seemed.

  But then he remembered Glaeken’s warning of a few weeks ago: Rasalom was human. He had a few enhancements that weren’t standard equipment in the off-the-rack members of the species, but he wasn’t a god—not even a demigod. Another thing he wasn’t was telepathic, so he had to resort to prosaic methods to stay in contact with his minions.

  The number glowed on the displays of the two phones. Great.

  Now what?

  An idea, barely formed, began to tickle his brain. He didn’t jump on it. That might scare it away. Better to leave it alone and let it develop on its own.

  He’d need some luck—the good kind. Plenty of bad luck today … he was due for some good. Yeah, with a little luck and a lot of fancy footwork, there might, just might be a way.

  12

  A man who was something more than a man, who was known as the One to many and as Rasalom to a few, who had numerous names, the most important known only to him, strode through the airport toward the baggage area.

  The solid floor of the terminal felt good beneath his feet. Such a relief to tread solid ground again—ground that would soon be his. He was not one for anxiety, yet he’d experienced a few moments of concern during the flight, especially when the plane had dipped and yawed in the rough weather toward the end. The pilot had mentioned something about an East Coast storm. He could survive far more trauma than any of his fellow passengers, but he had limits.

  How ironic, after all the dangers he’d survived across the millennia of his life, to die in a plane crash when he stood on the brink of his ultimate victory.

  He had been to China where he stood atop Minya Konka. The planet’s largest nexus point is located there. He had stood naked within it, his feet resting upon a buried pillar, communing with the Otherness, preparing for the Change.

  For the time was near … close, so close he could taste it. So could the Otherness. It hovered, poised to reenter this world, slavering to engulf this reality.

  It knew of his plan and approved. No more surrogates, no more underlings doing his bidding. He would handle this entirely on his own, because he could act freel
y now, without fear of retribution from Glaeken.

  Glaeken … He shook his head with chagrin. He had spent the entire time since his last rebirth looking over his shoulder, wondering when Glaeken would strike. The man had fooled Rasalom before, lulled him into believing he had wearied of his role in the Conflict and retired from the field of battle. Rasalom had let down his guard and, as a result, had spent half a millennium languishing in a stone prison in a remote pass in the Transylvanian Alps.

  And when he’d thought he’d found a way free, Glaeken had shown up and slain him with that cursed sword.

  But now the sword was gone, as was its hilt, and Glaeken had been stripped of his immortality—aging since he’d slain Rasalom at the keep. He was now an impotent, doddering old man who could do nothing to stop the Change. He had his Heir working for him, but the Heir was no Glaeken. He carried not an iota of his predecessor’s experience or cunning. He was no threat. After the Change, Rasalom would tear him into tiny screaming pieces, and make Glaeken watch. And then he would move onto his wife, and take even longer with her.

  How different things would be now had Rasalom known all this upon his rebirth. All that wasted time …

  But now he was poised to end this battle. All the pieces were in play. He merely had to wait for the proper alignment, and that wouldn’t be long.

  He drank in the emotions oozing from the cattle around him. Normally an airport did little to ease his hunger. Too many of the cattle were headed for vacations, filled with pleasant anticipation about their destination—rest, relaxation, fun activities, good food, good drink, good sex. Occasionally he’d come across one in a near panic about flying, and that was a pleasing hors d’oeuvre, but he rarely found enough of them to qualify as even a snack.

  This evening was different. The air was redolent of anxiety over the weather and the safety of flying and whether or not their precious flight would be canceled. And even better: the crushing disappointment of those whose flights had already been canceled—especially the children. The young ones’ emotions were so intense. Their joy was like a knife in his heart, but their anger, sadness, fear blended into a splendidly potent cocktail.