United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 7:20 A.M.
In the nightmare, Megan was once more atop the residential building. She felt the hard edges of the rooftop cutting into her chest and stomach. Gerry Fletcher again hung at the end of her arm, and his weight was tearing her shoulder apart while slowly dragging her over the side of the building.
Gerry jerked and fought. He slipped from her grip, no longer held by her fist but only by her fingers now. The blood from the long scratches down her arm flowed across their clasped hands. The skin started to slide, to glide, and she knew she was going to lose him. He screamed at her, pleaded with her to hold on, to not let go, to not let him fall.
Somehow, in the nightmare, Megan found the strength to stop Gerry from sliding. She wouldn’t lose him this time. Bracing herself, she stopped the inexorable pull that inched her over the side of the building. Then, incredibly, she started to pull Gerry back up.
Without warning, the boy’s body split open, the way it might have had Gerry hit the pavement four stories below, and a great snarling beast covered in scales and fur emerged from the lifeless husk. Its triangular head had a low forehead over slitted cat’s eyes above a pointed, edged beak filled with monstrous fangs. The thing was almost as big as she was, a cross between a bobcat, a baboon, and a Gila monster.
The creature snapped at Megan’s head.
Startled, Megan released her hold.
No longer suspended above the ground, the impossible nightmare thing fell. As it plummeted, the creature started laughing. In the next instant, the creature became Chris. The wind ruffled his blond curls as he fell and screamed in fear. She saw his face, his mouth and eyes wide with fear, and she knew there was nothing she could do to prevent—
“No!” Megan’s own hoarse shout woke her. She sat bolt upright in her bed, swaddled in sheets damp with sweat and wearing clothing from last night because she’d laid down certain sleep would never find her. Her heart trip-hammered inside her chest and created a sharp, painful ache. For a moment, she worried that she might be having a heart attack.
Chris!
Pain and anger filled her, bringing stinging tears to her eyes. Her baby was gone, taken by unknown forces. She traced the fresh scabbing that covered the scratches down her arm. It had happened; it was all true.
Resisting the urge to scream, Megan pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She bowed her head and cried as silently as she could.
After the events of last night, after Lieutenant Benbow had finally gotten her released from the provost marshal’s office, she’d returned home. She’d had no place else to go. At least, that was how it had felt last night.
Now the house seemed to echo with her son’s absence. The family pictures on the bedroom wall—a patchwork of memories picturing Goose, Joey, and Megan from all periods in their lives—had served as a touchstone the three of them had used as jumping-off places for “I Remember” stories they had taken turns telling Chris.
Of course, being only five years old and living with a five-yearold’s egocentric view of the world, Chris hadn’t believed any of the stories. Joey’s baby pictures and soccer seasons, Goose’s high school basketball pictures and boot camp photos, Megan’s high school swimming competitions and college graduation—none of those events had really existed for Chris’s. But her youngest son had listened raptly to the tales all of them had woven sometimes separately and sometimes together.
And mixed in with all those photos of other lives were pictures of Chris. She’d had his picture taken every year on his birthday. He stood or sat or sprawled beside the numbers one through five, all of them as big as or bigger than he was.
There would be no number six.
Megan cried as silently as she could for long, hard minutes. Finally, she felt drained and empty, physically unable to cry anymore. Later, she knew, she would cry and grieve again.
She made herself get up from the bed. If she succumbed to the warm embrace of the bedding, she knew she would have nightmares again—wild visions running rampant through her head. She thought only briefly about peeling out of last night’s clothes and taking a shower, but the idea was repugnant. Taking a shower and dressing for the day seemed almost obscene because that would be too normal.
Life wasn’t normal. It wouldn’t be normal again. Leaving her bedroom, she made her way to Joey’s room and peered inside. His bed was made and unoccupied. The last she’d remembered, Joey had been sitting up with the young woman he’d brought home and watching the news channels. He had promised to wake her if there was any news of Goose.
Panic, tapped from some unknown and bottomless reservoir inside Megan, surged again. She stepped into the room. “Joey.”
“He’s not there.”
Megan whirled at the sound of the young woman’s voice and saw her standing in the hallway leading to the living room.
“He’s in Chris’s room,” the young woman said. “I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up just a little while ago and went looking for him.” She hesitated. “I didn’t intend to spend the night, Mrs. Gander. Especially not without asking. It just happened. I called for a cab, but none were running. And I couldn’t ask Joey to take me home. You fell asleep and things last night were just so—so—”
“I know.” The young woman’s obvious discomfort resonated within Megan, drawing out the nurturer that always lurked beneath the surface. “It’s okay.”
Jenny crossed her arms, mirroring Megan’s stance.
Knowing that the crossed arms were a natural defensive posture, Megan opened her own arms. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Jenny. Jenny McGrath.”
“Well, Jenny McGrath, it’s good to meet you.” Megan extended her hand.
Jenny took her hand
