She poked her head past the edge of the door for a full view of the crib and -
Empty!
Mouth dry, heart pounding, she rushed into the room and gripped the top rail as she stared at the rumpled sheets.
No! This could not be!
Wait. The child could stand long, long before it should have been able. Could it have climbed out?
She dropped to her hands and knees and was crawling about the floor when she remembered something. She popped her head back up to the level of the crib mattress.
The blanket. Where was the blue blanket she kept in the crib? Even if by some miracle the baby could have climbed out, it would not have taken the blanket.
And the front door - Georges had left it open when he'd gone fishing. And now it was closed.
Someone had taken the baby!
Who? The mother? Dawn? No. She was too self-centered to even worry about her baby, and too stupid to track him here and take him.
Dr. Heinze? He'd visited only yesterday. He was interested in the baby, yes, but more as a specimen than a child. She couldn't see him involved in a kidnapping.
She ran to the front door and pulled it open. She stood there, panting with terror as she scanned the empty yard. The Master . . . no telling what he would do if he returned tonight and learned that Gilda had allowed the baby to be taken. Not even her Kristof could save her.
A random passerby? Saw the open door and investigated? Took the child for ransom or perversion?
But where was he? No sign of a car, or another living soul. She'd have heard car tires on the stones.
She ran back to the great room, slipped back into her shoes, then raced out to the bayside yard. She searched churning waters but saw no sign of Georges. The misty, snowy air hampered visibility.
Back to the house, this time to the kitchen where she yanked open a drawer and grabbed a carving knife. She would search, go from house to house if she had to, until she found that child. And if anyone interfered . . .
Out again into the cold, the street side, this time. She went to the garage and kicked open the side door. The Master's car sat within. She checked inside, around, and under. No sign of that miserable little child.
She stepped back into the yard and slammed the door behind her. Where next? Maybe -
She heard something . . . a high-pitched shriek. Like she'd heard before and written off as a seagull. But this was no seagull. She knew that awful cry like the sound of her own name. No sign of anyone about, but it seemed to originate from somewhere to her left.
She headed in that direction and had reached the middle of the roadway when she heard it again.
She could swear it came from that garage across the street . . .
SATURDAY Chapter 6
Oh, that sound. It pierced her like a knife.
"Come on, little guy," Dawn said as she fitted him into the infant seat in her Volvo. "Cool it, okay? Somebody'll totally hear you. "
Carrying the baby wrapped against the weather, she'd run straight back inside the O'Donnell house, just long enough to grab her keys and her phone. The display informed her that she'd missed a call from a number she didn't know. Weezy? Where was she, anyway? And how could she call without her phone? Not important right now. Dawn would get back to her once she was on the road.
She'd hurried out to the garage, entering by the side panel door and leaving the two big doors closed. And they would stay closed until the last minute. Jack had left the padlock in the latch but unlocked. As soon as the baby was strapped into his seat, she'd open those doors and get out of here.
She knew she was probably messing up Jack's plans, and probably even screwing herself. And if she had to do it over again, maybe she could have resisted grabbing her baby. But when he'd turned his face to the wall like that, she'd lost it.
And now this little genie was out of the bottle and she saw no way of putting him back.
But maybe if she got out of the neighborhood without leaving a trace, Jack could still make his plan work.
As she fitted the child's arms beneath the seat straps, she couldn't resist a quick, closer look at his armpits. No . . . no tentacles. But she could have sworn -
Wait. Were those little scars in his armpits? Had they removed his tentacles?
Dr. Heinze . . . a pediatric surgeon. She'd always been curious as to why a surgeon had been present rather than a plain pediatrician. Now she knew. They'd cut them off. She noticed a bump beneath the surface of each of the scars. Were the tentacles trying to grow back?
And what happened to all the hair she'd seen? She felt his arm . . . bristly. Had they - ? Yes! They'd shaved his arms and legs. What the - ?
And then she heard the squeal of the side-door hinges behind her and the garage filled with daylight. She turned and saw a squat silhouette rushing toward her, screaming.
"You! You-you-you-you-you!"
She knew that voice - Gilda!
Something glinted in the older woman's raised hand, then slashed toward her. Dawn tried to duck and turn away but was trapped against the car door. The blade cut through her sweater, and a blaze of pain, like nothing she'd ever felt in her life, lanced into her chest near her left shoulder. She spun away with the knife still in her and stumbled, landing on her hands and knees, worsening the pain. She'd heard of seeing stars and now she really did.
Meanwhile Gilda had moved to her side and was kicking her, screaming in fury.
"You! Will I never be free of you?"
Dawn gasped as she felt a rib crack. The old bitch was going to kill her . . . kick her to death.
She grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled. The blade came loose from her chest with a slick wet sound and another burst of agony. Nearly overwhelmed by the pain, Dawn slashed out blindly, connecting with her first swing. She felt the knife sink into something - had to be flesh because she heard Gilda's screams change tone from rage to shock and pain.
She yanked the knife free and turned on her knees in time to see Gilda falling backward, clutching her bleeding lower leg. Dawn heaved to her feet and stumbled over to her. Gilda kicked at her but missed. Dawn felt her legs turn to taffy as she moved in. They gave way and she landed knees first on Gilda's abdomen, knocking the wind out of her with a whoosh. Nearly blind with pain and panic, Dawn raised the knife and drove it into Gilda. She didn't know where she struck but Gilda screamed louder, so Dawn struck again, and again, and again . . .
"Take my baby?" said a barely audible voice she recognized as her own. "My baby? You? No! Never! Especially you. Especially you!"
Soon the screaming stopped, but Dawn kept stabbing. Her arm seemed to have a life of its own, and it seemed to be thinking that Gilda was somehow connected to Jerry, the foul scum who'd seduced her and fathered the baby, and who'd later killed her mother. Everyone who'd ruined her life seemed to be connected. Not that she hadn't played a part in the ruin, but she was the one who'd suffer for it until her last breath. She couldn't reach those others, but she had Gilda and Gilda was going to pay for all of them.
And then the strength ran out of her and Dawn dropped the knife and looked at the bloody piece of butchered meat splayed before her. Gilda's eyes stared roofward from a blood-spattered face. Red still oozed from the ruin of her throat into the sandy floor of the garage.
Oh, God! Did I do that?
Dawn felt her stomach heave but the morning's coffee stayed down. Clinging to the rear fender of the car, she pulled herself to her feet with her right arm - the left seemed useless - and checked the baby. He hadn't made a sound. And now he stared at her with wide black eyes. His arms thrust out to her, his hands opening and closing as if squeezing some invisible toy.
"We'll play later," she gasped as the garage tilted around her. She grabbed the edge of the door to steady herself. "First we get you out of here before Georges gets back. "
She looked at the closed garage doors. Somehow she was going to have t
o find the strength to go outside, walk around to the front, remove the lock, and swing them open.
Every breath hurt like a new wound. She didn't know if she could make it.
She had a thought: Maybe she wouldn't have to.
The doors were wood - old wood - held closed by a little lock in a simple gate latch. And she had a car.
It took nearly all her strength to slam the rear door and open the driver's. She dropped behind the steering wheel and found the keys. Somehow she got her door closed - not easy without her left arm, and not completely, but at least latched. She started the car, put it in reverse, and stomped on the gas. The car lurched into motion and hit the doors. With a crash and a clatter they blew wide. The passenger-side mirror caught the edge of one and ripped off with a crunch.
Worry about that later. No, she wouldn't worry at all. Didn't matter. Getting out was all that mattered.
She backed to the middle of the street, shifted into drive, and began the laborious process of turning the wheel with one hand. It seemed to take forever. Finally she got it turned and gently hit the gas. As the car began to move forward, the road swam before her. She clenched her teeth and kept a death grip on the wheel with her good hand.
She coughed, spurring a fresh jab of agony and spraying blood all over the dashboard. She watched in horror as it dripped onto her legs and the floor.
Oh, God, what did that mean? Had Gilda punctured her lung?
Everything went blurry. She blinked, trying to focus. Gravel crunched under the tires. The ringing of her cell phone brought her back, her vision cleared - and she saw she was rolling across the mansion's front yard toward the boat dock and the lagoon.
Taking her foot off the gas she hauled the wheel to the right. The car came to a rest, still in gear, engine running, nosed against the mansion's garage. She had to back up.
The world went blurry again, but instead of clearing, it faded to black, taking the sound of her phone with it.
SATURDAY Chapter 7
"What the hell?"
Anxiety nibbled at Jack as he jabbed the END button and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
Where was everybody? No answer from either Weezy or Dawn. Not good. Not good at all. All they had to do was sit tight in that house and watch from the window. What was so hard about that? Had the goddamn O'Donnells come back from Florida and found their home invaded? What? What?
His phone rang. He grabbed it. The display showed a number he didn't recognize. He thumbed SEND. He'd take a call from anyone right now.
"Yeah. "
"Jack, it's me. " Weezy's voice. "Where are you?"
"Just about to the Nuckateague turnoff. Where are you?"
"In a garage in Amagansett. "
"What? How the hell - ?"
"Long story. The Jeep got towed. I can't get it back because it's rented under your name. A complete mess. "
Well, rented under his Tyleski name. He'd been ready to deep-six that identity anyway. No arguing about the mess, though. He looked ahead for a place to make a U-turn.
"I'll come get you and - "
"No. Check the house first. I can't get hold of Dawn. "
"Neither can I. "
"I'm worried. "
"Makes two of us. I hope she didn't do anything stupid. You were supposed to keep an eye on her. "
"I know, I know. But I saw the lights of the tow truck. I figured I'd be right back - "
"I'm turning into Nuckateague. Stay by that phone. "
"I'll keep trying Dawn. "
He hit the END button and made the turn.
Okay, how to play this? His initial plan had been to find another empty garage farther down the street to hide the Crown Vic and its armamentarium. To reach that house, whichever one it was, required him to drive by the O'Donnell place.
So that was what he'd do . . . and hope everything was as he'd left it. He shook his head as foreboding thickened around him like a fog.
Fat chance.
This was why he worked alone.
SATURDAY Chapter 8
As was his custom, Georges reversed the boat toward the dock. The lagoon wasn't wide enough to turn it around without a whole series of forwards and reverses, so he always backed in and docked it nose-out toward the open water. Today he'd have to secure the boat to the dock with an extra mooring line against the storm.
A waste of time going out. Too rough. He'd spent more time fighting the wind and waves than fishing. And then the snow had come. But he'd known this would be his last chance for a while, so he'd given it a try.
Well . . . almost fishing was better than no fishing at all.
He'd tied the first stern line and was about to add a second when he noticed the car.
Immediately he was on alert, senses humming, muscles tensed. He reached for his pistol but his hand came away empty. Of course. He never took it fishing. The salt air was poison for a fine weapon like his SIG Sauer. He grabbed a rusty knife from his tackle box and hid it, palmed against his wrist, and assessed the situation as he approached through the thickening snowfall.
A Volvo . . . the engine running . . . someone slumped forward in the driver's seat . . . a young woman . . . blond . . . something familiar -
He froze when he recognized the Pickering girl. What was she - ?
No need to ask. It could only be the baby. But how had she found them? No matter. What was she doing now?
He started forward again, but more cautiously. She made no move. Had she passed out? When he reached the driver's door he peered through the glass and saw blood on her and on the dashboard. Knife held at ready, he opened the door.
Her left arm moved toward him and he went into a defensive stance, ready to make a backhand slash. But her blood-soaked arm had been resting against the door and had merely fallen when he'd opened it. She made no further movement. He felt her throat. Still a pulse.
What had happened here? She'd been wounded - shot or stabbed, he couldn't tell.
He edged around the rear of the car and opened the passenger door. Still in gear. He put it in park and turned off the engine, taking the keys. A cell phone started to ring -
A sudden nerve-shattering shriek so startled him that, had he been holding his pistol, he was sure he would have fired it.
There, in the backseat, the monster baby, staring at him.
Blood on Dawn . . . the baby here . . . Gilda would not have given up without a fight.
He was starting toward the house when he caught movement to his left. One of the doors to a garage across the street was swinging in the wind and . . . was that someone on the floor inside?
He couldn't make sense of this whole situation, couldn't come up with a scenario to explain it. The street and the neighborhood looked as deserted as they had every other day - the very reason the Order had offered this location for the One. Georges had a terrible premonition about the figure on the floor of the garage.
He hurried over and gaped at Gilda's corpse. He'd seen damaged human flesh before - had inflicted a good deal of damage himself - so he felt no physical repulsion. But this wasn't anything like what he'd expected. He'd seen damage inflicted by design, and damage inflicted by emotion. And this . . . someone had relieved an enormous burden of rage upon Gilda.
Georges felt nothing for the woman, but he feared for himself. He had been appointed guardian of the household in the One's absence, and he had failed - miserably. When the One returned -
He heard the baby shriek. He turned.
* * *
Her baby's screech brought Dawn to. She opened her eyes. Her phone was ringing.
Where - ?
It all came back to her in a rush. The baby . . . Gilda . . .
Her door was open. So was the passenger door. She reached to start the car but the keys were gone. Someone was here. Georges? She had to keep the baby from him. Couldn't let him take the baby.
She
slithered out of the door. Her legs barely supported her but somehow she managed to pull the rear door open. The baby looked at her and screeched. The sound was almost sweet over the roaring in her ears. As she reached out to undo his straps, she realized that she'd never be able to get him out with just one arm. How - ?
Someone grabbed her roughly from behind. Her left shoulder and chest screamed as she was whirled around but she hadn't enough breath for a single sound as she saw Georges's livid face. His teeth were bared and clenched.
"You killed her!"
His big hands went around her neck and his thumbs jabbed into her throat.
"You whore! You killed her and I will pay the price! But so will you!"
The pressure on her throat was unbearable, unrelenting. She couldn't breathe and didn't have the strength to fight him, not even with her good arm. She felt like a rag doll in his hands. She heard a crunch as something in her throat gave way. The roaring increased as the light faded, leaving only blackness.
And then even the roaring stopped.
* * *
Georges knew she'd never breathe again through her crushed larynx, but he kept squeezing her throat because it felt so good. So damn good. The little trollop had most likely ruined his life. Well, he'd just ended hers, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly.
He heard tires screech in the street. He looked up and saw a big black sedan skidding to a halt. He tossed Dawn back into the rear compartment atop her ugly baby as a man leaped from the sedan.
What now? He hadn't seen a single car on this street in over a week, and one had to pass by now?
Wait - he had a pistol in his hand. A Glock. And his expression was fierce as he raised the pistol and fired twice.
Georges's thighs - first the left, then the right - exploded in pain. The second hit spun him half around as he felt his femur shatter. The pain brought tears to his eyes, but he bit back the scream that rose to his lips. He would not scream.
What was happening? Who was this? Georges had never seen this man before. He hadn't asked what was going on, like any normal passerby. He'd simply looked at Georges and started firing.
The man stared into the car, then reached inside. Georges couldn't see his hand but imagined he was checking for a pulse. Clenching his jaw against the pain, Georges reached into his pocket and pulled out the rusty knife. Not a throwing knife, but the only weapon he had. He had to try something.
The Dark at the End Page 17