Weezy looked at him, her expression intense. “I have an idea where we might- might be able to find it.”
“I’m all ears. Where?”
“Under the Johnson Lodge.”
The previous silence around the table had been baffled. This one felt more like stunned.
Finally Eddie said, “Johnson? Our Johnson?”
Jack said, “You mean those tunnels, that buried town?”
She nodded. “Remember we came across a big model of the Order’s sigil down there, the one made out of the same black stuff as the little pyramid we found?”
Jack had a vague memory of it. He’d archived most of his childhood and pretty much everything else that had happened before his break with his past and arrival in New York. Most of what he could dredge up from their teenage venture into the dark region beneath the Lodge involved running from some bearlike creature they never saw clearly-what might have been the last q’qr-and trying to keep from drowning.
“What about it?”
“It was damaged, remember?”
He shook his head. “Sort of.”
More like hardly. He remembered finding it and calling Weezy to take a look, but the details…
Looking frustrated, she pulled a pad and a pen from her backpack and began drawing. When finished she held it up for all to see.
“Here’s the sigil as we know it. Check the outer border-the rows of boxes running between the points. Each row has seven boxes.” She looked at Glaeken. “Didn’t you tell me that each of the Seven’s Other Names had seven characters?”
Glaeken nodded. “As do their taken, worldly names-like Rasalom. The original sigil belonged to the Seven. Seven points for the seven agents of the Otherness, interwoven to show a unity of purpose. Each of their public names was carved into the boxes of the great sigil that overlooked the hall where they would meet to draw up their plans for rule by the Otherness. After the Cataclysm, when the Seven and their schemes and their armies were no more, the Order adopted the sigil, but without the names.”
“The great sigil is mentioned here,” Weezy said, tapping the Compendium. “But so is another sigil-seven of them, in fact-all engraved with the Other Name of each of the Seven.”
“I’d heard rumors of that back in the First Age,” Glaeken said. “But I thought it was just wishful thinking on our part.”
“Why?” Jack said.
“Knowing their Other Names would give us power over them.”
Jack didn’t get it. “What are we talking about here? It’s just a name.”
Glaeken shook his head. “The Conflict was out in the open back then. The laws of nature were different and could be bent in ways no longer possible. The things we could do in the First Age would be called magic now.”
“Okay. I’ll take your word for that. But that makes it all the less likely that they’d share this Other Name with anyone.”
Glaeken gave a wry smile. “The Otherness did not cull the Seven from the cream of humanity. They were vicious and ruthless and without honor. Those of us fighting for the Ally were flawed in many ways-some fatally-but compared to the Seven, we were the First Age equivalent of choirboys.”
“All the more reason not to let the Hank Thompsons and Ernst Drexlers of their day in on your closest secret.”
“Ever hear of mutually assured destruction?” Weezy said.
Of course he had. “With nuclear weapons, yeah, but names?”
Glaeken was nodding. “It does make a sort of sense. If one of them or even a pair of them went rogue, the others had the means to bring them into line or wipe them off the face of the Earth.”
Weezy started erasing parts of her drawing.
“Okay, what if I told you we came upon a sigil, six feet high or so, and certain parts of it were missing?” She held up the edited drawing. “What if it looked like this.”
“See?” she said. “Six of the seven borders have been removed. Only one remains-and that’s got a name on it.”
Glaeken leaned forward, keen interest sparking in his blue eyes. “What name?”
She leaned back. “I don’t know. That’s why I put little X’s in the boxes.”
Jack couldn’t hide his shock. “You mean you forgot? You never forget anything.”
“I doubt I ever knew, Jack.” She closed her eyes. “I can see it there, leaning against the wall of the tunnel. It’s covered with dust. You even rubbed off some of the dust to show me how it was made of the same black material as the pyramid. I can see that six of the borders are missing, and I have an impression of seven symbols on the remaining border, but for the life of me I can’t remember what they are.”
“That photographic memory of yours never failed before. Why now? Try.”
Her eyes opened and flashed at him. “What do you think I’m doing right now? It’s simply not there. You remember what it was like that night. We thought that door opened into some kind of floor safe but it was much bigger than that. It was dark down there, we had crummy little flashlights, I was nervous, and we were looking for a lost kid. So excuse me if I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to a dusty old sigil. I can’t remember something if it never registered.”
He realized he’d ticked her off. He hadn’t meant to. He couldn’t remember ever being so impatient. He also realized she was ticked at herself for not being able to remember it.
“Okay. Sorry. If that’s the way it is, we’ll just have to resign ourselves to not knowing.”
“But we can find out,” she said. “I mean, assuming the sigil is still there.”
“If it is, it’s got to be buried under a ton of mud from when the lake flooded in.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I think we should go see.”
“Where? Back to Johnson? What for?” He nodded to the Lady. “If no one’s going to perform the ceremony, why bother?”
“We can worry about ceremonies later. Just knowing Rasalom’s Other Name could be important. Don’t you want to know it? Aren’t you curious, even a little?”
“Not a bit.”
“You won’t go back?”
“No.”
No way he was leaving for the wilds of New Jersey while Rasalom’s heart was still ticking up here. If an opportunity arose to finish the job, Jack wanted to be ready to jump on it.
Where was that son of a bitch?
6
With the cow’s help, Rasalom had struggled his way to the couch. She’d draped it with a sheet-the first step toward making him a bed, she promised-and he now sat upon it, wrapped in a blanket.
The effort had exhausted him. He hadn’t felt this weak since Glaeken had trapped him in that wretched little castle in Romania. His lids felt heavy, and kept drifting closed, but he forced them open to concentrate on the television on the far side of the small room.
The woman had a satellite feed; she’d turned it on first thing this morning and left it running. He had a feeling she kept it on all day. Her only company besides her dog. Rasalom would have ignored it except the channel was updating what it called “the nightmare in Nuckateague.” The mention of a triple murder associated with the “blitzkrieg assault” on the mansion had galvanized his attention.
Triple murder?
He assumed two of the dead to be Georges and Gilda, but who was the third? And then it struck him-the baby.
Oh, no… not the baby.
Despairing, he listened carefully, but the identities of the dead were being withheld pending notification of their families.
He had to get off this island…
Then again, what was the hurry? With the baby gone, he’d have to come up with a new plan.
Another concern arose: Did Glaeken know he had survived? The Glaeken of old could sense his presence in the world, just as Rasalom could always sense his. Had he lost that ability along with his immortality? If not, he knew that his scheme had failed. He might try another strike to finish the job. Rasalom’s weakness and injuries left him painfully vulnerable out here.
He
lifted the blanket and examined his naked body. The burns were still oozing, and that concerned him. Certainly his skin was further along in the healing process than an everyday human’s, but he felt he should be doing better. The injuries had seriously weakened him.
He raised his left arm and stared at the stump of his wrist. More than weakened: maimed and mutilated. He could recover from the weakness, he could heal his wounds, but his left hand was gone forever.
Who did this to him?
Glaeken? Not personally, that was certain. Too old and feeble. How he had reveled in seeing him like that. He had not expected so bold a move-had not expected any move.
Killing Georges and Gilda and the baby… that was not like the old Glaeken. Rasalom had used his concern for “innocent” lives against him countless times. Perhaps the mortal Glaeken, with his clock winding down, had realized, like Rasalom, that no one was innocent.
And no one was supposed to know about the Nuckateague house. How had Glaeken found out? Did he have a source in the Order? That was the only answer. But who?
His Heir must have led the attack. An impressive assault, Rasalom had to admit. Only by the sheerest good fortune had he survived. If not for the presence of this island, if not for the wind and current that carried him here, he would have drowned. And even then, had it not been inhabited, he would have frozen solid on the beach out there.
The island’s sole inhabitant, the cow, Sadie, bustled in carrying a plate and a glass of milk.
“Brunch! More like a real breakfast-bacon and fried eggs-but since it’s after twelve we’re going to call it brunch.”
The communal “we” again.
“And since you’ve only got one hand, I put it between bread. So you’ve got a breakfast sandwich and some milk. Now, you may be saying to yourself, I want coffee, and maybe we’ll get you some later, but right now you need nourishment to get your strength back and milk’s got a lot more nourishment than coffee.”
The chatter, the incessant chatter. Did she never tire of prattle?
She placed the plate and the glass on the table next to the couch and moved on to the window.
“Looks like the storm’s finally giving up the ghost. About time, I say. About time.” She turned and looked at him. “The phone should be working now. Time to get you some medical help.”
“No!” he said. His voice was stronger now, but still raspy.
“You keep saying that, but you’re not thinking straight. Those burns are going to get infected for sure and then you’re going to be one sick puppy.”
Infection was the least of his worries-his immune system would not allow it. But discovery… how was he going to stop her?
Perhaps the truth…
“You have been watching the television?”
“On and off. You’ve occupied a lot of my attention.”
“You saw the fire in Nuckateague?”
Her eyes widened. “I surely did! Did you see what someone did to that house? I declare I’ve never seen anything like that in all my born…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at him. “You’re not going to tell me…?”
He nodded.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear God!”
He faked a sob. “They killed my family and were going to kill me but I managed to escape-though, as you can see… just barely.”
“Oh, you poor man! Who were they?”
“I don’t know.” He had to improvise now… something lurid yet plausible. “Home invaders. I am a wealthy man. They thought I had a house full of valuables. They cut off my hand trying to get me to tell them where I had hidden all these supposed valuables. They did not want to hear the truth-that it was all in the city in a bank vault. When they finally were convinced, they became enraged and went on a murder rampage-my brother, my wife, and my baby boy.”
“Oh, dear God!”
That would cover him should they identify the bodies.
“Then they left me for dead and blew up the house to destroy all evidence.”
“Oh, you poor man!”
“That is why you cannot call for medical help. They believe I am dead and must go on believing that. I’ll reward you well-”
“I don’t need money. Got plenty of that. But it sounds like I should be calling the police instead of emergency services.”
“No, I don’t want to endanger you. If they learn I’m alive they might try to finish what they began. They will kill you too. They are merciless. You must keep my presence secret until I’m well enough to go to the police and ask for protective custody. Do you understand?”
She was nodding vigorously. “Yes. Yes, of course. When you’re well enough, we’ll put you aboard the boat and-”
“Boat?”
“The weekly boat out of Sag Harbor. How do you suppose I get mail and food and such? The boat stops every Tuesday. I’ll just tell them you’re a relative who’s been staying here, recovering from some terrible accident. You can ride back to Sag Harbor and get in touch with the police there.”
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
“It’s the least I can do after the terrible ordeal you’ve been through. I’ll help you any way I can to get through this.”
How easily gulled were these cattle. Especially the cows. Ruled by their emotions. Tell them a sad story and they were at your service.
“Now eat up.” She took the sandwich plate and placed it in his lap. “Whether you’re hungry or not, you need your strength.”
Yes, that was true. But he was in no hurry to leave. Glaeken might or might not be aware of his survival. Even if so, he would not be able to pinpoint his location. Better to stay here until he was stronger-strong enough to transport himself from this lump of rock.
That would certainly not be by Tuesday.
MONDAY
1
“… more mysteries surrounding the deadly events in Nuckateague Saturday night. Police seem to be having as much trouble locating the owners of the house as they are tracking down the killers who demolished it with fire and explosives. The house appears to be owned by a corporation, which is in turn owned by an offshore holding company. The holding company is owned by yet another foreign corporation. Very confusing, very mysterious. As for the perpetrators, at this point in time the police still have no leads. A large black sedan was seen driving away from the scene, but whether or not it was connected to the devastation is anyone’s guess.”
Rasalom suppressed a growl of annoyance. Those incompetents would never find the “perpetrators.” He’d been watching this banal Long Island TV station all morning, hoping for word that progress had been made on tracking them down. A waste of time.
But then again, he had nothing but time while he healed.
He reached for the remote. He would have liked to turn off the TV while the cow was in the kitchen and be alone with his thoughts, but she’d only turn it on again when she returned. At least he could turn down the sound-especially when the talk was of Nuckateague. He reduced it to a barely audible level, and was glad he had when he heard the announcer go on with the story.
“Progress has been made, however, in other aspects of the case, and a surprise was unearthed in identifying the three bodies found in a garage across the street from the fire. The owners of that garage are not involved, as they were out of state at the time of the incident. The youngest of the three victims turns out to be Dawn Pickering, whose name might sound familiar. She was in the news last year when she and her boyfriend disappeared after the death of her mother in Rego Park. Foul play was suspected. Still no sign of her boyfriend, but her connection to the house in Nuckateague is yet another mystery in the evolving story of this grisly, violent tragedy.
“In other news…”
Rasalom quickly changed the channel and leaned back, thinking.
Dawn… what was she doing there? How had she known about the house? She must have tracked the baby there. He doubted she could have done that on her own. She must have had help.
He was b
eginning to piece together a chain of events that could have led to the ambush when the announcer’s words came back to him with a shock.
The youngest of the three victims turns out to be Dawn Pickering…
Youngest? What of the child? No mention of a dead infant, who certainly would have been the youngest of the three victims.
That meant the baby was alive. And that meant his plan was still viable.
But for how long?
A sudden urgency possessed him. This changed everything. He was certain his window of opportunity had not closed, but it could be shrinking by the moment. What had the cow said about a boat? Tomorrow? He could not wait until tomorrow. He needed to be back today.
He tried to rise from the couch.
“Here now!” she said, bustling into the room with a plate in her hand. “You need to visit the john again?”
The john… was there a more inane name for a bathroom facility?
He had suffered the indignities of having to allow the cow to assist him to the bathroom, his knees collapsing beneath him while she chattered to him in the tone she used to speak to her dog.
“Need… to leave.”
He flopped back onto the couch, gasping from the effort.
“Leave? You’re weak as a kitten. And even if you were strong enough to dance a jig, you still wouldn’t be going anywhere today. The boat doesn’t come till tomorrow, remember?”
“Can’t wait.”
“I know you want to get to the police as soon as you can and help them find those killers. If you can walk a few steps tomorrow, maybe we can help you out to the dock.” As she looked over at her dog her voice took on that noxious tone. “Me and Wocky-wocks will come along and see you safely into town, won’t we, doggy?”
The dog panted in the corner, beating its tail against the wall.
“Do you take him everywhere?”
“Of course I do.” She continued the tone as she grinned idiotically at her pet. “Don’t I, Wocky? Don’t I? Cause you’re a good dog, aren’t you. You’re Mommy’s best boy, aren’t you.”
Rasalom rescinded his rash decision during the storm to reward her for saving him.
The Dark at the End rj-15 Page 25