The question caught her off guard. “To make sure you don’t hurt yourself.”
Jack could not help it, but as he took in those clear blue eyes and full and faintly disapproving lips, he felt a warm longing flood him. Here was a beautiful, desirable, and intelligent woman—the kind who dated famous brain surgeons, business execs, or movie stars—a woman who was so far above his league yet who had come all the way out here in the middle of a storm because she cared. Yes, maybe it was academic or out of some professional sense of obligation—but he didn’t want to believe that. And now he was sharing a very small space with her and enjoying it in spite of the bizarre circumstances. “That’s very nice of you.” And for a second he thought he was going to slip and lower his face to kiss her.
But a sudden sizzle cut the air.
“The pasta water’s overflowing.”
Gratefully, Jack snapped off the gas jet as foam poured over the sides of the pot. With a fork he snagged a strand of spaghetti and handed it to her. She blew on it, then tasted it. She nodded. “Perfect.”
As he poured the pasta into a colander in the sink, he said, “By the way, do you like Armenian food?”
“You mean like shish kebab?”
“Yeah, and pilaf, stuffed grape leaves, and lamejun, which is Armenian pizza.”
Rene was setting out the dinnerware and dishes. “I’ve never really tried it. Why?”
“I’m just thinking that once this is over, what do you say we give it a shot? I know a nice place in Watertown. They also have takeout.”
He could see that she clearly was not in the mood to talk about some future date. “We’ll see.”
Jack nodded and stored that away, glad that he had not yielded to his foolish impulse and spoiled the moment. Besides, he reminded himself, another reason she was out here was to vindicate her old friend and mentor, Nick Mavros, from the nuttiness of Jack’s experiment. But her “we’ll see” gave him hope.
With dinner, Jack took another half tablet. Still nothing happened, and the storm was getting closer.
After they ate, Rene settled on a couch with a book. She did not want to talk any more, sending the message that she was not a participant in Jack’s nutty experiment.
At eleven Jack took another tab—swallowing a whole pill to Rene’s protest. By one o’clock he still felt nothing but drowsiness. He put more logs on the fire.
Meanwhile, Rene sat with her book and sipped wine. Vials and syringes of antiseizure agents were lined up on the coffee table. Every so often she’d mutter how she couldn’t believe she was doing this. And on the other side of the coffee table Jack sat in another sofa, where the crib had been, and stared at the door.
After a while he felt a fluidy warmth spread throughout his brain. The lull of the rain against the roof and the fire conspired against him, and he closed his eyes as a delicious drowsiness settled over him.
He could hear the rain pelt the roof like BBs. And in the distance, a deep-bellied rumble of thunder.
On the coffee table sat a shiny metal meat mallet he had brought. Also, the photograph of him on a pony beside a statue of an Indian; his mother was holding him in the saddle. According to the faded ink on the back, it was taken on the Mohawk Trail when Jack was fourteen months old.
It was the last image in his mind as the warmth of the fire pulled him under.
He knew he must have fallen asleep, because sometime later he vaguely felt himself being lifted and carried to another room, which was dark and where he was laid onto a bed and covered.
“And here’s Mookie.”
And he felt something nuzzle up against his side.
He could hear her through the door, on the far side of the living room. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t work.
Thunder rumbled.
He was in a deep sleep when he heard a knock at the door. His eyes cracked open, and through the space of the open door he saw Rene let in the visitor. “I thought you’d never make it,” she said in a low voice.
Jack saw the figure pass the opening of his door. Because of the storm, he was wearing a dark, hooded slicker that blocked his face. Rene closed the door and asked how he managed to make it in this weather, and he said something about the sea not being bad yet.
Jack did not identify the voice. And Rene’s voice sounded strange, accented. And she looked smaller, darker than he recalled. And her hair was in a bun.
Jack knew he wanted to stay awake—he knew how important it was that he take watch …
But for the life of him, he could not keep his eyes open.
A sharp voice woke him again. “I’m not going to do that. Simple as that.”
“I’m a part of this, too.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“You never give a damn.”
“I do, but I’m not going to give it all up for him. It’s as simple as that.”
“Stop shouting, you’re going to wake him. Stop it.”
Jack climbed out of the crib and onto the floor. He walked to the opening and looked into the living room.
The next moment exploded in a flurry of movements. The man’s back was to him but he could see the woman slap her hand at him. “You son of a bitch,” she cried.
The man’s own hands rose to block her attack, but she continued to swear and swing at him, and he slapped her back, connecting with sounds of smacking flesh, her screaming.
Her screaming …
And with a fist he backhanded her in the face. The blow sent her stumbling backward, and her head cracked against the stone edge of the fireplace—the contact passing into Jack’s brain like a hot needle.
Jack heard himself cry out—a sharp, bright cry that sliced the air.
But Jack could not shut up. The man turned toward him, his face still out of view, and a terrified Jack scurried back into the bedroom. A moment later the man slammed the door shut.
Jack crawled under his crib, his stuffed mouse pressed against him, the hard wood floor cold against his legs. He could see movement in the light strip. And he could hear movement and the man’s voice. “Oh, shit, Rose! Rose!”
Then a long silence. Jack crawled out from under the crib and padded to the door, his mouse still held against him. There was no lock on the door, and he knew how to open it—just push the metal handle down.
He did, and through the crack he saw the man with the slicker on his head dragging her out the front door, a thin dark trail smearing the floor.
Jack could feel the cold breeze rush into the room. A moment later, the man closed the front door. Thunder cracked overhead and the window flickered blue light.
Jack went to the front door.
Jack opened the big door to see the man hanging over the woman on the ground. In the man’s hand was the meat mallet. In the dark wet the woman was whimpering and her feet were twitching horribly, as if she were trying
