by Lis Wiehl
Two miles west of Hythe End, in the town of Old Windsor in a pub called The Bells of Ouzeley, an assassin named Alfredo Guzman finished a meal of “farm-assured chicken” and brussels sprouts grilled in balsamic vinegar. He paid his bill, left a gratuity in addition to the VAT, and took a cab back to the Beaumont House on Burfield Road, where he told the cab driver to wait. He went to his room and retrieved a case from the closet.
Guzman set the case on the bed and opened it. Of the several weapons inside, he chose a Beretta BU9 9×19-millimeter Nano, an absurdly small but powerful pocket pistol that would be good at close range, if he needed it, and wouldn’t alter the hang of his new Burberry, a bonded leather Nappa field coat in olive green that made him feel a bit like a Gestapo officer. He made a mental note to take the coat off before he did the job. For the killing, he selected a seven-inch Swedish hunting knife with a serrated edge. Dr. Ghieri had told him to enjoy himself, but he’d also asked Guzman to bring back proof that the job had been completed, and the serrated edge would help if he needed to cut through ligaments or cartilage or bone.
“The boy has dishonored his selection,” Ghieri had said. “I’d like something to show the next boy who thinks he can betray us.” The head would make the best impression on Ghieri, but settling for a hand was the more practical solution.
Guzman wanted to make a good impression on Ghieri. After Wharton was disposed of, Guzman had every reason to think he was next in line to become headmaster at St. Adrian’s, but now it appeared that someone else was vying for Ghieri’s favor. Marko. A mere boy. Ghieri’s little pet! Guzman had been given an opportunity to show Ghieri what he could do. He intended to make the most of it.
When he got back in the cab, the driver pointed out that it had started to snow. It looked like they might just get a white Christmas after all.
“Going home to family, then?” the driver asked cheerfully. The man had a Yorkshire accent but an Indian name.
“No,” Guzman said. “Just meeting a friend.”
“Good for you,” the driver said. “It’s not a night anybody should be alone.”
“No,” Guzman agreed with a smile. “It certainly isn’t.”
36.
December 24
2:56 p.m. EST
Lucius Mills pushed the wheelchair bearing Tommy’s father, Arnie. The lobby at High Ridge Manor was filled with Christmas decorations, including a twelve-foot-tall, perfectly symmetrical spruce trimmed with lights, tinsel, and ornaments made by local elementary school children. There were boxes under the tree filled with goodies sent by the local high school students—things to eat and things to play with, Rubik’s cubes and jigsaw puzzles to keep the recipients mentally sharp. Three elderly residents, two of them also in wheelchairs, and all three dressed in their Christmas sweaters and pins, waited by the window for their families to come to pick them up.
Tommy needed to see his dad. Lucius had explained on the phone that Arnie had had only a few moments of partial lucidity since arriving at the nursing home. He had been sleeping a lot and was quite likely unaware of the approaching holiday. But Tommy needed to see him anyway.
When he did, the sight made Tommy’s heart ache.
Arnie was wearing pajamas beneath his robe. He held his head lower now, and both hands trembled from the Parkinsonism that accompanied Lewy body dementia. Ten years ago doctors would have mistaken the disease for Alzheimer’s. Tommy had mistaken it for forgetfulness, at the onset.
First it was a meal at a local restaurant where his dad left a tip equal to the size of the bill, apparently unable to calculate what 20 percent would be. Then Arnie, who’d run a nursery and landscaping business all his life, inadvertently placed the same order twice with their Halloween pumpkin supplier, and when Tommy said it looked like they were going to have to eat five hundred pumpkins, Arnie said, “That’s a lot of pumpkin pie,” but he wasn’t joking. His mental functioning just wasn’t what it should have been.
They were watching a basketball game between the Celtics and the Lakers when Arnie complained that they were playing too fast. Tommy realized his father’s vision wasn’t impaired, but his ability to process visual information was.
When Tommy saw his father’s gait changing, his steps getting shorter and more hesitant, he brought him in for tests. The doctors performed tests for a specific protein, finding clumps of them in Arnie’s brain stem. As the disease advanced, the protein clumps would eventually be found in the temporal region, making it hard for Arnie to form new memories. The doctor said the older man could expect light-headedness, a woozy feeling when he tried to move, difficulty concentrating, and then palsy, urinary incontinence, and eventually, nightmares and hallucinations.
And now things had gone from expectation to reality.
Tommy took a knee and leaned in so his father could see him. “Hey, Pops—how ya doin’?”
His father did not seem to recognize him.
“It’s me. Your son, Tommy.”
“Santa Claus was here,” his father said.
“Was he?” Tommy looked at Lucius, who nodded.
“He came yesterday to visit,” Lucius said. “They have the Christmas party early for people who won’t be here on Christmas Eve.”
“Santa was here,” Arnie repeated.
“He’s going to be pretty busy tonight,” Tommy said. “That’s why I was stopping by, Papa. Because I’m not going to be able to have you home for Christmas Eve. There’s just a lot going on that I can’t explain right now, but it’s safer if you stay here.”
Tommy had worried that his father would feel let down, but the news did not appear to register.
“Evelyn was here too,” Arnie said. “I spoke to her.”
Evelyn was Tommy’s mother, who’d died in a car accident when Tommy was in the eighth grade.
“What did she say?” Tommy asked.
“She said she was sorry,” Arnie said.
“What did you tell her?”
Arnie blew a loud raspberry with his lips. Tommy couldn’t help but smile.
“I’m a lucky man,” Arnie said. “Lucky, lucky, lucky.”
“So am I,” Tommy said. He took the jewelry box from his pocket and opened it to show his father the diamond ring. “This is the ring I’m going to give Dani Harris. I’ve been having a little trouble finding the right moment. Do you remember Dani Harris? The girl who was homecoming queen when I was homecoming king?”
Lucius leaned over to get a better view and whistled his approval.
“Did Santa Claus bring that?” Arnie asked.
Tommy’s heart sank again. He was too late; this news—the most exciting news he’d had since he’d been a number one NFL draft pick—was something he was not going to be able to share with his father.
“I’m good to stay the night, Tommy, if you need me,” Lucius said.
“No way, Lucius,” Tommy said, straightening up. “You’ve done too much already. Go home to your family.”
“My sister’s kids are going to jump all over me,” Lucius said. “Either I’m getting too old or they’re getting too big. Thanks, Tommy. I appreciate it.”
“This is for you,” Tommy said, handing his father’s caregiver a new GPhone, which Lucius received with thanks. Tommy then gave his father a GTab, essentially a larger tablet version of the phone, preloaded with all of Arnie’s favorite books, movies, and songs, and plenty of games designed for kids four through ten, simple enough for Arnie to figure out intuitively. Lucius agreed to stay long enough to help Arnie get started on it.
“Just show him the Paint program,” Tommy told his friend. “Maybe he can paint pictures.”
Tommy kissed his father on the forehead and wished him a Merry Christmas.
“Merry Christmas to you,” Arnie said, the way he might address a stranger.
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” Tommy said.
“I’m a lucky man,” Arnie said. “Lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky. Lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky.”
Tommy wanted
to stay longer, but he needed to get home before darkness fell and things started crawling out from under the rocks.
It was still raining—even harder than before—as he sprinted to the Jeep. He’d been hoping for a white Christmas, he always did, but it was lucky that the temperature was unseasonably warm—if it were below freezing, they’d have been buried in snow. No white Christmas this year, he thought. But it was certainly going to be a very, very wet one.
He smiled, picturing Santa Claus carrying an umbrella.
He started the Jeep, turned on the headlights, and turned the windshield wipers to high. Suddenly he was struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu. As the raindrops splattered against the hood of his car, he remembered how many of Dani’s dreams had involved water. The night they’d had the same identical nightmare, that dream had been about a flood. Now it was December 24th, Christmas Eve, and it was pouring.
He’d been telling himself all day not to read ominous portent into every little thing that happened, but those two things were incontrovertibly true.
He and Dani had both dreamed of water.
And it never rained on Christmas Eve.
37.
December 24
4:12 p.m. EST
“Reese? It’s Dani. Can you hear me?”
“Maybe he’s sleeping,” Helen Trumble said. “Should we wake him?”
Dani was Skyping with the new Curator from Great Britain, her laptop open on the coffee table.
“No,” Dani said. She and Ruth were kneeling beside the sensory deprivation tank, the lid propped open, the lights low in Tommy’s expansive man cave. Reese’s twinstincts had grown stronger each time. Time, however, was running short.
Something new was happening. When Dani turned the microphone on, she’d heard noises coming from inside, words she’d been unable to make out. If Reese was sleeping, he was talking in his sleep, but she didn’t think he was sleeping; rather, he was more likely in a transitional state between sleep and wakefulness, not quite lucid but not quite dreaming either, a time when sleepers had what psychologists called “hypnagogic dreams,” dreams that incorporated external stimuli into the dream experience. A dreamer, hearing someone mowing the lawn outside, might dream he was riding a motorcycle. If that was happening now, Dani had an idea.
“Let me try something,” she said to the girl on her computer screen before turning to Tommy’s aunt. “Ruth, would you mind turning the lights all the way off? Thank you.”
Ruth moved to the wall switch and lowered the dimmer, then returned to the tank.
“Reese,” Dani whispered. “This is Dani. I don’t want you to wake up, but I just want you to tell me if you can hear me and understand what I’m saying.”
“I can hear you, Dr. Harris,” the boy said.
“That’s good,” she said. Hearing him say her last name meant he was at least partially conscious. “Keep your eyes closed, but tell me what you see.”
“It’s snowing.”
“Where is it snowing?”
“England. It’s snowing in England. It’s beautiful.”
“Can you see your brother?”
“No,” Reese said.
“Is he there?”
“Yes, but I can’t see him. I can see what he sees.”
“As if you’re looking through his eyes?”
“Yes.”
“What do you see?”
“Water. Airplanes.”
The files they’d stolen from Ghieri’s computer had given them not only the names of the boys tasked to poison the world’s water supply, but the latitudes and longitudes marking the spots where they were to commit the deed. Edmond was supposed to go to the King George VI reservoir, near Heathrow. The fact that Reese was “seeing” airplanes meant his brother must be close.
“That’s good,” Dani said. “Stay with it. It’s snowing. What else?”
“I’m walking.”
“Where are you walking?”
“On a street. Along a canal.”
“In Hythe End?”
“Yes.”
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Someone is up ahead.”
“Who’s up ahead?”
“A man.”
“Are there two men?”
“No,” Reese said. “Just one.”
“Are you sure?” Dani asked.
“Yes.”
Dani switched off the microphone, then spoke into her laptop’s webcam. “How many men did you send?”
“Two,” Helen Trumble said.
“Are they in position?”
“They say they are.”
“Why does Edmond see only one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could one of your men be behind him, in case he tries to run?”
“Possibly,” the English girl said.
“Can you call your men?”
“Are you saying I should risk spooking the boy?”
“Negative,” Dani said. “Stand by.”
She turned the tank microphone back on. “How many men do you see?”
“I only see one.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s young,” Reese said. “He has black hair and dark skin.”
Dani looked at her computer screen. Helen shook her head to say the description did not fit either of the two men she’d sent.
“Reese, tell your brother he needs to turn around. Tell him to turn around, right now, and run.”
“He won’t.”
Dani tried to keep her voice calm. “He needs to turn and run. You need to tell him—”
“I’m telling him. Wait.”
“Wait?”
“They know each other.”
“How?”
“From school. They know each other from school.”
“Can you hear what they’re saying?”
“‘Greetings from Dr. Ghieri.’ ‘What are you doing here?’”
“Tell your brother he’s in great danger,” Dani said.
“He won’t listen.”
“Reese—”
“No!” Reese suddenly called out. “No, no, no—run!”
“Reese—wake up! Wake up right now!”
“No—run! Please!”
“Reese—wake up!” Dani opened the lid and shook the boy until he opened his eyes and looked at her.
“He shot him, Dani,” Reese said, his face a mask of horror. “He shot him!”
38.
December 24
6:07 p.m. EST
They were in the kitchen, checking their weapons and ammunition supplies and finalizing their defenses, when the intercom sounded. Reese was trying to act a lot braver than he really was, Tommy thought, but then the boy sat up straight in his chair, startled by the sound.
“Relax,” Tommy said, putting a hand on Reese’s shoulder. “I don’t think those cave weasels are going to ring the doorbell when they come caroling.”
“Ordinarily, I would have little use for the great American love affair with the gun,” Reese said, “but tonight I think I’ll make an exception.”
Tommy smiled at his Aunt Ruth, at Reese, and then finally at Dani. He walked to the intercom panel and pressed a button.
“Fort Gunderson,” he said. “Whom shall I say is attacking?”
“Hey! Anybody home?”
It was Detective Casey, and apparently he was on foot. Tommy drove to the end of the driveway, wipers slapping the rain from his windshield. A large puddle had formed in his driveway. Tommy was glad he’d installed a snorkel-style air intake on the Jeep for driving through high water, though he doubted he’d need it.
“It’s ridiculous out here,” Detective Casey said, climbing into the Jeep. “They’re saying this is more rain than anything on record.”
“And the ground is still frozen,” Tommy added. “The water has nowhere to go.”
Casey was dressed in a full-length VisGuard lime-green reversible duty police raincoat,
his hood up against the downpour, the brim of his Red Sox cap dripping, old-fashioned black rubber galoshes on his feet.
“Where’s your car?” Tommy asked.
“I had to hoof it,” Casey said. “The road’s washed out downhill from here.”
“I came from the other direction earlier,” Tommy said, recalling the drive home from seeing his dad. He reversed direction and shifted into first. “I crossed a place where the water was almost to the top of my wheels.”
“Most of the roads heading out of the city are closed. The Merritt, the Saw Mill, the Sprain, the Taconic, the Hutch … there’s more on the way too. A big front moving in off the North Atlantic. Nor’easter. I was coming out to warn you.”
“You could have just called,” Tommy said.
“Tonight’s the night, right?” Casey said. “I thought maybe you could use some help.”
“According to everything we’ve learned, yeah,” Tommy said. “We can use an extra hand.”
“I got two and you can have ’em both. I wanted to tell you, we got another call from the school about Wharton,” Casey said. “Guy said last they knew, Wharton was headed to your place. They’re doing everything they can to tie you up with this.”
“Who called?”
“Ghieri.”
“Figures,” Tommy said.
“Habeas corpus, far as I’m concerned,” Casey said. “No body, no charges. And there ain’t gonna be a body. My guy in Rhode Island made sure of that. I told Ghieri his headmaster probably just went on a vacation and didn’t tell anybody. Thought the guy was gonna blow a gasket. Assuming those guys even have gaskets. You hear from Quinn?”
“He’s not answering his phone,” Tommy said. “Cass either.”
