The Dark at the End 7

He stood in the front hall and stamped the snow off his feet.

The house was warm, lights were on, but ...

He didn't have to call out. He knew the house was empty. He sensed no other presence. Like everyone else, Gilda and Georges had their own unique, emotional signatures. Neither was evident. Nor was anyone else's.

But ...

Something was different. A residue of high emotion. He couldn't identify it, but it had been intense at the time. Gilda discovering the child was sick?

Perhaps.

He knew she loathed the child and it provided a constant source of amusement to him to sup on that loathing while she cooed over it and pretended to love it. He was certain she would not harm it. But something had happened here - sickness or injury - and she probably feared she would be blamed for negligence and face punishment.

A not unreasonable concern.

Yes, that would explain the residue.

He strode to his office to see if Gilda or Georges had left a message for him before departing. No ... nothing. He'd called each of them a number of times during the long trip from the airport, and had watched his cell phone display for return calls, but nothing.

What happened? What is wrong with my baby?

My baby ... what an odd, singular thought.

In all his years, he had never fathered a child. But he had taken possession of this one, so in the most practical sense it was indeed his baby. And central to his plans. If it died, he would have to scrap his carefully constructed timetable and chart a whole new course.

He considered calling the hospitals, one by one, but discarded that. He had no idea under what name Gilda would have presented the child.

He would wait. He was good at waiting.

He realized he was thirsty. After the Change he would have no bodily needs, but until then ...

He realized he didn't know where Gilda kept the glasses. Attending to himself was a new experience. As he moved to the kitchen he considered how pampered he'd become. He simply asked for something and someone served it up.

Glasses ... one of these cabinets over the counter, he assumed.

The refrigerator-freezer was a side-by-side model. As he opened a cabinet door in search of a tumbler, he reached over and tugged on the handle of what he assumed to be the refrigerator side -

- and found himself on the floor ... across the room ... a room full of roaring smoke and flaming debris. The refrigerator was gone. A remnant of one of its doors lay across his legs. The kitchen table and chairs that had sat before it were gone as well, reduced to flaming splinters.

And then he noticed his coat was on fire. He went to slap at the flames and searing agony shot up his left arm. He looked at it and cried out when he saw no hand. No bleeding - the stump was charred - but nothing beyond his left wrist.

And then the rest of his body announced its survival with screams of agony. Ignoring the pain, he rolled over to douse the flames, trying to orient himself, trying to remember what had happened. He'd been opening the refrigerator ...

Flashes returned ... the door swinging open ... a white-hot blast of light and sound ... the door disintegrating as a jet of flame spewed from within, catching his hand, vaporizing it ... and then being hurled backward across the kitchen to slam against a wall.

Had he not happened to be looking for a glass he would have been standing before the refrigerator when he opened that door, and his entire body would have suffered the fate of his hand.

A trap.

Too obvious to need stating, but the buzzing hornets in his brain were drowning out his already jumbled thoughts, and he needed orientation. He clung to the word.

A trap ... the child was not sick ... Georges and Gilda had taken him nowhere ... Georges and Gilda were dead, floating in the bay, perhaps ... and someone was bent on destroying him.

Mind working frantically, he struggled to his knees.

He had been beyond lucky. And yet, even if by some chance the refrigerator contained the only bomb, he had to escape this burning house.

To where?

Outside could be just as dangerous. Odds were the assassin was waiting to confirm his kill, or to finish the job.

Thoughts congealed. Trade places: Where would he wait?

Out front, on the street. With the frigid, storm-tossed bay blocking retreat to the rear, that was the place to cut off escape.

Go out the rear, then. Sneak into the unlandscaped brush that flanked the property. Hide there until safe to move on.

Staying low, he threaded his way around the flaming furniture in the great room toward the back door. Snow gusted through the blown-out windows. He peered through the shattered glass of the back door. No sign of anyone about. He turned the knob and pulled -

- and the world lit up around him.

*   *   *

Jack saw the flash of light from the rear of the mansion. A faint boom echoed through the night, muffled by the wind and snow.

Shit.

He'd made only one shaped charge - for the refrigerator. He figured sooner or later everyone winds up at the refrigerator, right? Even Rasalom.

He had used the rest of the octol for other booby traps, mainly the front and rear doors.

The rear door had just blown. Could have been secondary to the pressure wave from refrigerator explosion, but somehow he doubted it. Not the way his luck was running.

How could anyone, even Rasalom, survive the refrigerator? No question it had been tripped - the inside of the house had lit up like a mini nuke had gone off and then most of the windows had blown out. The plasma jet from the shaped charge sitting on the shelf inside should have apocalypsed his ass. Whatever part of him escaped being sublimated to red vapor should have been reduced to charbroiled meat confetti. Glaeken had said he was tough, but no one was that tough.

Something had gone wrong.

Well, he'd prepared for that. If the shaped charge misfired, Rasalom would know he was in a trap and flee the house. Jack would have gone out a window, but he was pretty sure in all the millennia Rasalom had lived, he'd never set a bomb, so he'd probably choose a door. He had come in the front, so he'd assume it was safe to exit that way. But it was no longer safe - not after Jack had used the remote. For some reason Rasalom had chosen the back. No matter. Jack had lined its frame with octol as well.

Trouble was, that sort of bomb tended to be chaotic, with no direction, no reliable kill radius. In a word: unreliable. Especially where an immortal was concerned.

Looked like he was going to have to get closer - but not too close - to make sure he'd done what he'd come to do.

He checked his watch. He'd marked the time of the first detonation: just over thirty seconds ago. He had only so much time before the explosions were recognized for what they were and called in.

He reached for the modified M-79. He'd loaded it with M406 40mm high-explosive grenades - one chambered, three in the tube - each with a fifteen-foot kill radius. He stuffed a variety of rounds into his jacket pockets - just in case - and headed out to the garage where he had the Stingers ready.

He swung the right door open and stepped inside. The Vic's trunk lay open with the two Stingers waiting in their launchers. He leaned the M-79 against the wall and grabbed one of the rockets. He shoved the coolant unit into the handle and let the argon gas do its work. The IFF antenna was unfolded but wouldn't be needed. He rested the launcher on his shoulder, centered the front door in the sight, and pulled the trigger.

The missile flew from the launcher. The ejection charge took it across the street before its solid fuel rocket flared to life and shot it toward the house. It wouldn't have time to reach its top speed of Mach 2, but its acceleration was awe inspiring.

*   *   *

He groaned and rolled over. He looked down at himself. The surrounding flames revealed a dozen wounds on his limbs and torso - all bleeding. Pain told him he had more in his back.

Another bomb. Was the whole house booby-trapped? He had to get out of here before he tripped another.

He blinked to focus on the back door - or rather where it had been. A charred, smoking, ragged opening had replaced it. Rasalom forced himself to his elbows and knees and crawled toward it. He had just reached the threshold when another explosion ripped through the house. The blast flung him through the opening and onto the snow outside.

What was that? The biggest explosion of all. Whatever glass had survived the first two blasts cascaded into the yard with that one. He had to put some distance between himself and this doomed house. If he could reach the brush he'd -

Rasalom froze as he saw the piling a few feet ahead of him, blocking his way. He'd exited on the east side of the house - his dazed, pain-fogged brain had forgotten that the mini lagoon and dock lay this way.

But not too far to his right ... the garage. If he could reach that, he'd have a place to hide, out of sight and out of the elements.

Another explosion from within. The house would be a smoking ruin before long. He had to move now.

As yet another blast shook the house, he forced himself to his feet and stumbled toward the garage, praying to the Otherness that its side door wasn't locked.

*   *   *

The Stinger had blown a gaping hole in the front of the house, but Jack wasn't through. He dropped the launcher and picked up the M-79. He wished he could move across the street and pump the grenades into the house at closer range, but the high-explosive rounds were equipped with a safety feature that prevented detonation within a hundred feet of the launcher. He'd have to fire from here.

He settled the thumper's stock into his shoulder and sighted to the left of the former door, on the front bedroom where he'd peeked in and seen the baby last night.

Last night ... seemed like days ago that he'd watched Georges and Gilda in their domestic bliss. They lay stretched out a few feet away. As did Dawn ...

He pulled the trigger and heard the thump! that had earned the M-79 its nickname. Surprisingly little recoil for such a big round, but nothing little about the explosion that ripped out the bedroom wall. If Rasalom had thought that might be a safe place to hide - wrong.

He pumped another HE grenade into the chamber and took aim at the room to the right of the door. Another thump! Another ruined wall.

He fired two more for insurance, emptying the weapon. As he bent to pick up the empty casings, he caught motion on the east side of the mansion. A dark figure, limned by the flames from the house, moving toward the garage.

Jack watched, stunned, as the man leaned against the side door and fairly fell inside.

How could it be? How could anyone, even Rasalom, survive all Jack had thrown at him? He looked hurt - he'd definitely taken some damage - but the fact he was moving at all was a miracle.

Jack pulled the extra 40mm ammo from his pockets and inspected them. Two more HE grenades, and a couple of buckshot rounds. He loaded them up - the HEs first, followed by the shot. He might not need either type, but he was ready to finish this in any number of ways.

In fact, if things went right, Rasalom might end it himself.

*   *   *

He closed the door behind him and slumped against the black hood of the Mercedes. The metal was cold. No surprise there. He wondered how long Georges had been dead. No matter.

He needed a place to rest, time to heal. His recuperative powers were vast. The bleeding would stop soon, the pain in his wrist stump would ease, and then the healing would begin. He could not grow a new hand, but all his other wounds would mend. He would need nourishment, though. And warmth.

He would contact Szeto, or better yet, that fool Drexler. Let him think he was still of value, let him provide shelter in the hope that it would return him to the One's good graces.

No chance of that.

But the first thing to do was remove himself as far from here as possible. He'd need the car for that. But he did not know how to drive. He'd never had a need. He'd left home as a child - a very wealthy child who could afford a chauffeur - so he had never learned.

But how hard could it be? The roads were filled with idiots.

He opened the driver door and slipped painfully behind the wheel.

*   *   *

Jack watched the garage blow open its doors and belch flame.

The car had been an afterthought. Insurance of a sort. What if Rasalom had checked the garage and found the car there? He'd have known that Gilda and Georges were not at the hospital with the baby. He might have skipped going in the house, jumped in the car, and hauled ass out of there.

Might have ...

An unlikely scenario, to be sure. Considering his hubris and his special abilities, he'd think himself capable of handling any situation mere mortals could toss at him. But Jack was taking no chances.

Georges, good chauffeur that he was, had kept the gas tank full to the brim. Jack hadn't had enough octol left over to do a proper car bomb, but enough to make sure the tank went up and fried anyone inside. He'd thoughtfully left the keys in the ignition.

He checked his watch. Only a minute and ten secs since the first blow. Seemed a lot longer. Had to get a move on. But first and foremost, he had to end this.

He raised the thumper to his shoulder again and sighted on the garage. Time for the coup de -

A figure, engulfed in flame, broke from the side door in a staggering run, weaving back and forth, and then careening toward the lagoon. It tumbled over the edge and into the water.

Jack pulled the trigger, a too-quick shot that demolished the rear corner of the garage. He worked the pump and chambered the second grenade. He fought the impulse to run over to the lagoon and fire it into the water - the target would be too close and the safety mechanism would prevent detonation.

Rasalom was out of sight, so he aimed at the bulkhead along the far side of the lagoon where he'd seen him go in. If he was on the surface, he'd be caught in the kill radius. If underwater ... Jack had no idea.

He fired and was running toward the lagoon even as the bulkhead shattered. When he reached it, light from the burning garage lit the surface of the water. No sign of Rasalom. Dead on the bottom? Hiding below the surface?

He chambered a buckshot round and fired into the water. Twenty pellets of number four shot ripped into the surface. The last round sent twenty more.

Still no sign of anything moving.

He pulled his Glock. Spacing the slugs two feet apart in a grid pattern, he emptied the magazine into the water. He replaced that with a fresh magazine and continued the pattern until he was clean out.

Still no sign of life or a body.

He checked his watch. Two and a half minutes of carnage. He still had a little time, but no more ordnance except for the Stinger - and he couldn't fire that into the water.

He knew he should leave but he couldn't. He had to be sure. He needed a final touch. But what?

Then he remembered a gas can he'd seen in the O'Donnell garage. As he ran back across the street he prayed it was full or near full. He'd dump it on the surface of the water, toss in a piece of burning wood from the garage, and woomp! Fire on the water.

He headed for the garage.

*   *   *

He broke the surface and gulped air. He'd known it was certain death - his head would be blown apart as soon as it appeared - but he could stay under no longer.

He braced for the attack but none came. Shuddering in the near-freezing water, he looked around. To his left the garage burned at the end of the lagoon. Directly ahead, above and beyond the bulkhead, the blazing house lit the night. Movement to his right drew his attention. A dozen feet away, the boat swung back and forth on a mooring rope, banging against the dock.

No one in sight on the dock or standing on the bulkhead. He appeared to be alone.

His whole body began to shake - from the cold, from the blood loss, and from the burns that covered most of his exposed skin. He almost gave in, almost allowed himself to succumb to his wounds and his hopeless position.

Or did he have a chance? Could his attackers have left him for dead?

He couldn't afford to allow himself to believe that. He had to assume they'd be back.

The flickering light from the garage flames revealed a ladder built into the bulkhead near the stern of the boat. He forced his shuddering muscles to move and kicked toward it. Focusing his remaining strength, he used his good hand to grip the side rail. His feet found a rung and he pulled himself half out of the water. Even at full strength, climbing the ladder with one hand would present a challenge. In his current condition it seemed insurmountable.

And then the boat recoiled on its rope and the stern bumped him, almost knocking him off the ladder. He managed to hang on.

The boat.

He released the ladder and swung his right arm over the transom. He found a handhold on the far side and clung for all his life. He swung his damaged arm over the edge and hooked the crook of his elbow there. The stump screamed with pain but he ignored it and kicked off the ladder. Slowly, painfully, he wriggled himself onto the transom, then tumbled over onto the deck.

He allowed himself a few seconds to lie there gasping, then struggled to his knees. The boat seemed to be secured by only a single line. He untied it and felt it begin to drift away from the dock ... toward the bay.

This was it. This was his answer, his escape route. All he needed were a few moments and he'd drift out of the lagoon into the open water of the bay. Once there, he'd be beyond their reach. No one else out here had a boat. The dark and the snow would swallow him and he'd be free. He'd -

The boat banged against something and lurched to a stop. He looked up and saw it scraping against the far bulkhead. The wind angled out of the lagoon but also across it, and was holding the boat against the bulkhead.

He was stuck.

No!

His attackers could return any minute. They'd find him and take their time using their guns to reduce him to ground meat.

He thought of climbing out and crawling into the brush, but they'd see the boat and guess what had happened. His best bet still was out on the water.

He crawled to the bridge and hauled himself onto the seat before the steering wheel. The keys were in the ignition.

Did he dare? He'd been fooled once.

But he had to think that his attackers wouldn't booby-trap both the car and the boat.

He realized he had no choice. He might die if he turned the key, but he would certainly die if he didn't.

*   *   *

Jack found the can in the garage and hefted it - damn. Just a tiny bit sloshing in the bottom. He -

- froze as he heard the faint sound of a diesel engine sputtering to life.

What the - ?

The boat! Rasalom had reached the boat. Jack couldn't imagine how, but he knew how to stop it.

He grabbed the second Stinger and a BCU and raced back toward the dock, shoving the cooling unit into the grip as he ran. The boat's engine was roaring now, full throttle no doubt.

Jack arrived in time to catch a glimpse of its stern as it raced from the mouth of the lagoon into the open water of the bay. The snowy darkness swallowed it, leaving him no target.

Then he remembered he didn't need one. The Stinger was a heat seeker. All he had to do was fire it and it would find the boat and ram itself up its exhaust pipe.

He rested the launcher on his shoulder, aimed where he'd last seen the boat, and pulled the trigger. For maybe two seconds he followed the blazing yellow streak of the missile's rocket engine as it flashed across the water, just a few feet above the surface. Then impact. The explosion lit the night - high explosive plus whatever diesel fuel was in the tank. The swirling snow and mist enhanced the glow as Jack watched bits of flaming debris pinwheel and tumble in all directions - bits of Rasalom among them, he assumed. He hoped. He prayed.

The One is the None.

But was he?

He'd survived everything else Jack had thrown at him. Could he have survived that?

Jack had hit him with everything he had, but still he wasn't satisfied.

What would satisfy him?

Pumping Rasalom's lifeless body full of kerosene and watching it burn, adding more as needed, poking the burning flesh to make sure it was fully consumed, then taking the ashes up in a plane and scattering them over the ocean.

Yeah. Then he'd be satisfied.

But unless Rasalom's body washed up somewhere, he was going to have to make do with this.

He checked his watch. Four minutes gone. The neighborhood was due for lots of company - the flashing-light kind - real soon.

Time to clean up and move on.

His Glock brass had ejected into the water. The last 40mm buckshot empty remained in the thumper's chamber. He picked up the other casing and trotted back to the O'Donnell garage where he policed the HE empties. They all went into the Vic's trunk along with the Stinger launchers and the M-79.

A quick trip through the house to retrieve his Leica and the remotes. He'd worn gloves since the wipe-down, so no worry about prints.

At the five-minute mark he was backing out of the garage. He left the doors open to guarantee that Dawn's body would be found. He'd call later to identify her.

He made it to Route 27 without passing anyone and was halfway to Amagansett when the first police car screamed past going the other way. The road was slick and the Vic had rear-wheel drive, so he took it easy.

He called Gia.

"How's everything?"

"Fine. We're at Weezy's."

He felt like he'd been punched. "What? You and Vicky?"

"You sound surprised."

Surprised? Try shocked. The last people he wanted involved with that baby were Gia and Vicky. Dawn, Gilda, and Georges were dead because of that child. It was dangerous, it was bad luck, it was -

"How - ?"

"Weezy called and said she needed help, so we came over."

Weezy called ... Jack clenched his teeth. She should know better.

Or should she? She hadn't seen him sucking his mother's blood off his fingers. To her it was Dawn's baby - one weird little baby, but just a baby.

Was he overreacting? Could be.

He forced calm.

"How's the baby? Making that noise?"

"Not anymore. Vicky read to him and in ten minutes he was asleep. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Safe and sound and on my way back. You're heading home?"

"Soon. You going to stop by?"

"Your place? Hope to. Gonna stop off and see Glaeken first."

"Be careful out there. I hear the roads are awful. What? Weezy wants to speak to you."

And he wanted to speak to her. Did he ever want to speak to her.

"Okay. Bye. Love ya."

"It's over?" Weezy said when she came on.

Jack stayed cool. The baby was asleep, Rasalom was dead, Gia and Vicky were okay and were headed home.

"Think so. Hope so."

"You're not sure?"

"Couldn't be. Circumstances wouldn't allow. I hit him with everything I had. I do believe he sleeps with the fishes."

"Let's hope. By the way, you know who I love?"

"Who?"

"Vicky. The little lady hath charms to soothe the q'qr breast."

Jack loved her too. More than life. That was why he wanted her far from that little monster.

"Yeah, Vicky's the best."

Jack ended the call then leaned back and sighed. What was done was done. He just wished he could be sure Rasalom was done.

Uncertainty gnawed his gut all the way back to the city.