Nellie's?
No. They passed the end of the island, but the monster didn't turn toward Manhattan. It kept swimming in the same direction down river. Vicky shivered and began to cry.
26
Gia's chin dropped forward onto her chest and she awoke with a start. Only half an hour into the movie and already she was nodding off. She wasn't nearly as wide awake as she’d thought. She flicked it off and went back to the bedroom.
Fear stabbed her like a knife in the ribs as she opened the door. A rotten odor filled the room. Now she recognized it—the same stench as in Nellie's room the night she disappeared.
Her gaze shot to the bed and her heart stopped when she saw no familiar little lump of curled-up child under the covers.
'Vicky?' Her voice cracked as she said the name and turned on the light. She has to be here!
Without waiting for an answer, Gia rushed to the bed and pulled down the covers.
'Vicky?' Her voice was almost a whimper. She's here—she has to be!
She ran to the closet and fell to her knees, checking the floor with her hands. She found only Vicky's Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case. Next she crawled over to the bed and looked under it. No Vicky there either.
But she spotted something else—a small dark lump. Gia reached in and grabbed it. She thought she’d be sick when she recognized the feel of a recently peeled and partially eaten orange.
Jack's words flooded back to her:
Unless there’d been more than one orange in the play house!
This is a nightmare! This isn't really happening!
Gia ran through the rest of the apartment, opening every door, every closet, every cabinet. Vicky was gone!
She hurried back to the bedroom and went to the window. The screen was missing. She hadn't noticed that before. Fighting back a scream as visions of a child's body smashed against the pavement flashed before her eyes, she held her breath and looked down. The parking lot, directly below, well lit by mercury vapor lamps. And no sign of Vicky.
Gia didn't know whether to be relieved or not. All she knew right now was that her child was missing and she needed help. She ran for the phone, ready to dial 911, then stopped. The police would certainly be more concerned about a missing child than about two old ladies who’d disappeared, but would they accomplish anything more? Gia doubted it.
She knew only one number to call that would do her any good.
Jack will know what to do. Jack will help.
She forced her shaking index finger to punch in the numbers and got a busy signal. She hung up and dialed again. Still busy. She didn't have time to wait! She dialed the operator and told her it was an emergency and she had to break in on the line. She was put on hold for half a minute that seemed like an hour, then the operator came back on, telling her that the line wasn't busy—the phone had been left off the hook.
Frantic, Gia slammed down the receiver. What was she going to do? What was wrong at Jack's? Had he left the phone off the hook or had it been knocked off?
She ran back to the bedroom and jammed her legs into a pair of jeans and pulled on a blouse without removing her pajamas. She had to find Jack. If he wasn't at his apartment, maybe he was at Abe's store—she was pretty sure she remembered where that was. She prayed she could remember. Her thoughts were so jumbled. All she could think of was Vicky.
Vicky, Vicky, where are you?
But how to get to Jack's...that was the problem. Finding a cab would be virtually impossible at this hour.
The Honda keys she’d seen earlier! Where had they been? She’d been cleaning in the kitchen...
She ran over to the flatware drawer and pulled it open. Yes! She snatched them up and ran out into the hall. She checked the apartment number on the door: 1203. Now if only the car was here.
The elevator took her straight down to the first floor and she hurried out into the parking lot. On the way in this afternoon she’d seen numbers on the asphalt by each parking space.
Please let it be here! she said to God, to fate, to whatever was in charge of human events.
Is anybody in charge? asked a small voice in the back of her mind.
She followed the numbers from the 800s up to the 1100s, and there up ahead, crouched like a laboratory mouse waiting timidly for the next injection, sat a white Honda Civic.
Please be 1203! Please!
It had to be.
It was.
Almost giddy with relief, she unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. The standard shift on the floor gave her a moment's pause, but she’d driven her father's old Ford pickup enough miles during her teens back Iowa. She hoped it was something you never forgot, like riding a bike.
She didn't know Queens but knew the general direction she wanted to go. She worked her way toward the East River until she saw a to manhattan sign and followed the arrow. When the Queensboro Bridge loomed into view, she slammed the gas pedal to the floor. She’d been driving tentatively until now, reining her emotions, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled intensity, wary of missing a crucial turn. But with her destination in sight, she began to cry.
27
