Part 65 (1/2)

Light fading. Raise left hand to claw weakly at Minkin's face. Not even close.

”That the best you can do?” Minkin laughed and brought his face closer so that Jack's fingertips brushed his cheek. ”Here, p.u.s.s.y-man. I've got an itch. Scratch right there.”

Right hand up and jabbing the tines into Minkin's left eye.

”Aah! Aah! Aah!”

Abruptly the pressure let up and Jack could breathe again. Vision cleared as he choked down lungfuls of air. Minkin loomed above, still straddling him, making sounds of pain and shock as his big hands fluttered like Mothra-cla.s.s b.u.t.terflies around the fork protruding from his eyeball, afraid to touch it, afraid to leave it there.

Jack levered up and slammed the flat of his palm against the handle and felt the tines sc.r.a.pe against the bone at the back of the socket.

Minkin screamed and fell backward off Jack to land on the floor on his back, writhing, retching, kicking. To the side Lyle stood with a sick look on his face, the sap slack in his hand.

”Oh man,” he said. ”Oh man, oh man, oh man!”

Jack forced himself to his feet and staggered toward the living room. He could still feel Minkin's thumbs on his throat. His skull throbbed between the bolts of pain lancing though it.

”Go-” His voice came out a harsh whisper, barely audible even to him. He motioned Lyle closer. ”Go upstairs. Find a rug. You can't find a rug get a sheet or a blanket. Move. We've wasted too much time.”

Lyle ran up the steps. Jack found his pistol and dragged himself into the living room. His flank felt damp. He looked and saw blood starting to ooze through his s.h.i.+rt from the knife wound. No pain though. It was all concentrated from the neck up.

Bellitto lay on his side, groaning. Jack spotted the fax, grabbed it, read it again.

Burn this! Not yet.

He shoved it into his pocket.

”A.” wouldn't be picking up anyone tonight. And Bellitto?

Jack found he still had a length of duct tape stuck to the front of his s.h.i.+rt. He used it to bind Bellitto's feet.

Glanced at his watch. Had to get moving. This trip had taken far too long.

Gia...

Hang on, babe. I'm coming.

Lyle hurried in carrying a summer blanket. They stretched it out next to Bellitto and rolled him up in it like a burrito.

The plan was to carry him downstairs; Lyle would bring the car up to the front door where they'd dump him in the trunk and steam back to Astoria.

As they carried Bellitto through the dining room, Jack saw Minkin on his hands and knees, the fork still protruding from his left eye, blood coating his cheek as he made ”Unh-unh-unh!” noises like a hog in heat. His good eye found Jack and he bared his teeth.

Minkin's taunts about Vicky when he had him down flashed through Jack's brain. The darkness flowed out of its cage and suffused him, taking over. n.o.body threatened his Vicky like that. n.o.body.

Even with the clock riding him like a heavy-handed jockey, he was compelled to waste a few seconds here. He dropped Bellitto's legs and stalked toward Minkin.

”Gonna 'play with the lamb,' huh?” His voice still wasn't back yet. Sounded grating, ugly, like a board dragging on concrete. ”Gonna have 'great fun' with my 'little friend Vicky before she's sacrificed,' right? Not a chance, pal. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.”

With that he lashed out with his foot. The heel connected with the protruding end of the fork, crunching the tines through the back of the eye socket and deep into Minkin's brain.

He heard Lyle cry out in shock behind him but Adrian Minkin, would-be player with lambs, made no sound. He looked like he was screaming as he straightened up on his knees, then shot to standing, mouth open impossibly wide, displaying his perfect teeth. His arms spasmed out from his sides and he flopped backward, landing on the back of his head. For a few heartbeats his body bent into an impossible arch with only his heels and head touching the floor.

Jack watched impa.s.sively, feeling nothing beyond satisfaction that here was one less threat in the world to Vicky and others like her.

Finally Adrian Minkin went limp and still. Completely still. No breath stirred his chest.

Jack turned to find Lyle gaping at him wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

”Oh, s.h.i.+t, Jack! Oh man! What-?”

”I know. Just when you were starting to think I was kind of a nice guy. Almost cuddly, right?”

”No, I-”

”Stop gawking.” He picked up Bellitto's legs. ”We've got to lug this garbage out and get rolling. And hope to h.e.l.l we're not too late.”

17.

”Charlie?”

Gia backed against the cold granite blocks and watched with horrid fascination as Charlie began to pull himself from the loose earth that had smothered him moments before. It might have been a cause for rejoicing if Charlie were alive, but as soon as his head emerged Gia knew it wasn't Charlie, only his sh.e.l.l. His face was slack, expressionless; and his eyes-dirt clung to the lids, to the eyes themselves, and he never blinked.

He crawled from the earth and rose shakily to his feet. As he took an unsteady step toward Gia she pressed herself back against the stones, wis.h.i.+ng she could seep between them.

”Charlie, no. Please!”

He stopped, his dead eyes fixed somewhere above and beyond her.

Tara, standing to the rear and to the side during his resurrection, glided forward now, silent, but her expression furious as she glared at Charlie's corpse.

Charlie shook his head.

Gia watched, holding her breath as she sensed a silent battle of wills.

Tara bared her teeth and loosed a frustrated screech.

Again Charlie shook his head. Then his corpse turned and walked unsteadily to the far side of the cellar where it lowered itself against the wall and slumped into a sitting position, immobile, staring at its lap.

”He won't do it,” Gia breathed, more to herself than to Tara.

There was too much of a good man left inside to allow his body do Tara's bidding.