Jack sighed, struggled out of his heavy coat, and gave it to the Houngon.
Minutes later, Jack was ensconced in one of the armchairs, holding a glass of Remy Martin in his cupped hands. He had taken off his shoes and socks and had put them by the radiator, too, for they had gotten thoroughly soaked by the snow that had gotten in over the tops of his boots as he'd waded through the drifts. For the first time all night, his feet began to feel warm.
Hampton opened the gas jets in the fireplace, poked a long-stemmed match in among the ceramic logs, and flames
“First, I've got some questions,” Jack said.
“All right.”
“Why wouldn't you help me earlier today?”
“I told you. I was scared.”
“Aren't you scared now?”
“More than ever.”
“Then why're you willing to help me now?”
“Guilt. I was ashamed of myself.”
“It's more than that.”
“Well, yes. As a
“If you had refused again to help me… would these benevolent gods of
“It's highly unlikely they would abandon me.”
“But possible?”
“Remotely, yes.”
“So, at least in some small degree, you're also motivated by self-interest. Good. I like that. I'm comfortable with that.”
Hampton lowered his eyes, stared into his brandy for a moment, then looked at Jack again and said, “There's another reason I must help. The stakes are higher than I first thought when I threw you out of the shop this afternoon. You see, in order to crush the Carramazzas, Lavelle has opened the Gates of Hell and has let out a host of demonic entities to do his killing for him. It was an insane, foolish, terribly prideful, stupid thing for him to have done, even if he is perhaps the most masterful
III
Rebecca drove up the Avenue of the Americas, almost to Central Park, then made an illegal U-turn in the middle of the deserted intersection and headed downtown once more, with no cause to worry about other drivers. There actually was some traffic — snow removal vehicles, an ambulance, even two or three radio cabs — but for the most part the streets were bare of everything but snow. Twelve or fourteen inches had fallen, and it was still coming down fast. No one could see the lane markings through the snow; even where the plows scraped, they didn't make it all the way down to bare pavement. And no one was paying any attention to oneway signs or to traffic signals, most of which were on the blink because of the storm.
Davey's exhaustion had eventually proved greater than his fear. He was sound asleep on the back seat.
Penny was still awake, although her eyes were bloodshot and watery looking. She was clinging resolutely to consciousness because she seemed to have a compulsive need to talk, as if continual conversation would somehow keep the goblins away. She was also staying awake because, in a round-about fashion, she seemed to be leading up to some important question.
Rebecca wasn't sure what was on the girl's mind, and when, at last, Penny got to it, Rebecca was surprised by the kid's perspicacity.
“Do you like my father?”
“Of course,” Rebecca said. “We're partners.”
“I mean, do you like him more than just as a partner?”
“We're friends. I like him very much.”
“More than just friends?”
Rebecca glanced away from the snowy street' and the girl met her eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered,” Penny said.
Not quite sure what to say, Rebecca returned her attention to the street ahead.
Penny said, “Well? Are you? More than just friends?”
“Would it upset you if we were?”
“Gosh, no!”
“Really?”
“You mean, maybe I might be upset because I'd think you were trying to take my mother's place?”
“Well, that's sometimes a problem.”
“Not with me, it isn't. I loved my Mom, and I'll never forget her, but I know she'd want me and Davey to be happy, and one thing that'll make us real happy is if we could have another mom before we're too old to enjoy her.”
Rebecca almost laughed in delight at the sweet, innocent, and yet curiously sophisticated manner in which the girl expressed herself. But she bit her tongue and remained straight-faced because she was afraid that Penny might misinterpret her laughter. The girl was so
Penny said, “I think it would be terrific — you and Daddy. He needs someone. You know… someone… to love.”
“He loves you and Davey very much. I've never known a father who loved his children — who
“Oh, I know that. But he needs more than us.” The girl was silent for a moment, obviously deep in thought. Then: “See, there're basically three types of people. First, you've got your givers, people who just give and give and give and never expect to take anything in return. There aren't many of those. I guess that's the kind of person who sometimes ends up being made a saint a hundred years after he dies. Then there're your givers-and-takers, which is what most people are; that's what I am, I guess. And way down at the bottom, you've got your takers, the scuzzy types who just take and take and never-ever give anything to anyone. Now, I'm not saying Daddy's a complete giver. I know he isn't a saint. But he's not exactly a giver-and-taker, either. He's somewhere in between.