The Dark at the End

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Not for long, Dawn. Not for long. "

  Weezy kept the glasses trained on him as he opened the engine hatch - to release fumes, maybe? - then started the engine. He fussed with the rods while the engine warmed.

  She said, "He must really love fishing if he's going out in this weather. "

  The bay teemed with whitecaps, but the water here was relatively sheltered. She wondered what the surf looked like on the ocean side of the South Fork. The Atlantic had to be pretty wild right now.

  Dawn said, "Maybe Gilda's planning a welcome-home fish fry for Mr. Osala. "

  Weezy glanced at her, sensing fuming sulfuric acid when she said "Gilda. "

  They watched Georges cast off the lines and head out into the bay until the boat disappeared behind the house.

  "Take a break," Dawn said. "My turn. "

  Weezy rose from the chair and handed her the Leica.

  "I'll make some fresh coffee. "

  "No more for me, thanks. I've had more than enough. "

  More than enough coffee? Weezy found that an alien concept.

  "This from the girl who likes 'black-hole' coffee?"

  "I'm wound up enough as it is. "

  Yeah, she probably was.

  "Hang in there. This should all be over by tonight. "

  Down in the kitchen, as Weezy filled the carafe with water for the O'Donnells' Mr. Coffee, she glanced out the back door and saw flashing lights. Not good. When you'd invaded someone's home, flashing lights were not good. At least they weren't blue-and-red police lights. These were orange. Still . . .

  She put the carafe down and stepped to the door for a better look. Yes, flashing orange lights visible between the houses on the next street, down by the highway . . .

  . . . where she'd parked the Jeep.

  "Oh, Christ!"

  She dashed back into the front room, grabbed the keys and her coat, then called upstairs.

  "Gotta go down to the Jeep! Be right back!"

  She didn't wait for a reply as she dashed out the back door. Only a hundred yards or so. She'd make it in no time.

  She ran across the O'Donnells' backyard into the scrub that buffered their property from the houses behind. She cut through a neighbor's yard - again, nobody home - and onto Bayberry Drive, the street parallel to Dune.

  No doubt about it. Those lights belonged to a tow truck. Aw, no. She'd parked the SUV on a sandy path within the trees. It wasn't bothering anybody there, and it hadn't been visible from the road. How - ?

  She angled onto Nuckateague Road and raced down toward the highway. She reached it just in time to see a flatbed truck pull out with a Jeep Cherokee on its bed - her Cherokee. Or rather Jack's.

  She increased her speed, shouting and waving her arms as she chased it. Whoever was driving either didn't look back or ignored her.

  What on Earth?

  She'd caught a glimpse of the writing on the driver's door. She stuttered to a stop and called up the image: Neumeister's Towing and Auto Body . . . with an Amagansett address and phone number below.

  She reached into her coat pocket. She'd call those sons of -

  Where was her phone? She searched through all her pockets. Damn! Back at the O'Donnell place, charging.

  Puffing from the unaccustomed exertion, she turned in a small circle, stamping her feet in frustration.

  So now what? Walk back to the O'Donnell place just to tell Dawn she'd be delayed, and then walk back here and beyond to get to Amagansett?

  Didn't make sense. And she couldn't have Dawn drive her to town in the Volvo. That would mean leaving the mansion unwatched. Besides, Dawn's car had to stay hidden. Best to just head into Amagansett and call her from there.

  Wouldn't take long to hitch into town, pay whatever fine was due for whatever ordinance they'd broken, then return.

  She began heading west along Route 27 - labeled the Montauk Highway out here. She walked backward, ready to stick out her thumb when a car approached.

  Something wet hit her face. Then another. White flakes began to swirl from above.

  Snow.

  She shook her head with chagrin. Could it get any worse?

  SATURDAY Chapter 4

 

  Dawn noticed the flurries and leaned back from the window to check the Weather Channel. Yep, the Doppler map showed the first green bands of the storm hitting Long Island's South Fork.

  She wondered about getting snowed in. Wouldn't that mess up Jack's plans? She'd worry about that when the time came. Nobody seemed totally sure of how much was going to fall anyway.

  As she turned back to the window, she thought she saw movement near the house. She grabbed the binoculars and scanned the property through the scattered flakes.

  There - in the yard, on the bay side, a gray-haired woman in a coat was crouched by the bulkhead. Dawn adjusted the focus to sharpen her features and confirm what she'd already guessed. She knew that hatchet face, totally recognized that toadlike body.

  Gilda.

  Her hands tightened on the binoculars. Gilda . . . how happy she must be. She hated Dawn, and taking charge of Dawn's stolen child must have given her incalculable pleasure.

  But what was she doing?

  Dawn focused on her hands as they pulled bits of greenery from the stones in the yard.

  Weeding?

  But why would she be out weeding? And in the blustery snow? Had she totally lost her mind? She had a two-week-old baby inside.

  An awful thought struck like a blow: What if she didn't? What if they didn't have the baby over there? What if there was no baby? What if he'd died, just as Dr. Landsman had said?

  The what-ifs filled her head, reverberating across her brain until -

  Wait-wait-wait. Dr. Heinze . . . only one reason a pediatrician would visit that house: a child.

  But then why, if she had a baby inside under her care, was Gilda out in the yard, pulling weeds in the snow?

  Something totally wrong here.

  And if Dawn and Weezy and Jack were all wrong, and there was no baby in that house, they were all wasting their time.

  She focused again on Gilda, still crouched, still weeding. She tracked over to the dock. Empty. Back to Gilda: weeding. Then to the front door: The glass-paned storm door was closed but the paneled inner door stood open. Georges hadn't closed it on his way out.

  She fought a terrible urge to go over there and check it out.

  Call Weezy.

  She grabbed her phone and called Weezy from her contact list. She heard a strange ring tone coming from downstairs. She hurried down and found a phone charging on the kitchen counter. Its display read Dawn.

  That did it.

  Dawn ended her call and hurried for the front door. She didn't stop to find her coat, simply pushed out and trotted across the street through the wind and cold and swirling flakes toward the mansion.

  She wasn't going to do anything stupid like take the baby. That would upset all of Jack's plans. He'd made it clear that if Dawn was ever going to be able to keep her baby in peace, Mr. Osala had to be stopped - she hadn't asked for clarification on exactly what he'd meant by "stopped. " She hadn't really wanted to know.

  Jack had totally wanted her out of sight for fear she'd be recognized. But Georges was out fishing on the bay and Gilda was out in the yard on the far side of the house. Nobody around to recognize her.

  No . . . nothing so stupid as taking the baby, but she wanted - needed - to make sure the baby was there. Once she established that, she'd totally run back to the O'Donnell place and let Jack work his plan.

  She was almost to the front door when the possibility of a third adult in the house slowed her. But even if it were true, what were the odds of him or her recognizing Dawn? Only Gilda and Georges knew her.

  She picked up speed again and bounded up the two steps to the front door. She cupped her hands around her face as she leaned close and peered th
rough the storm glass. The central hall ran directly into the great room Jack had mentioned. Looking straight ahead she could see all the way to the window wall and the churning bay beyond.

  She was about to rap gently on the glass to see if anyone responded when she heard a piercing shriek from within. It jolted her. She'd never heard anything like it - high-pitched and thin, like it came from a little throat.

  The baby?

  Another shriek.

  It had to be the baby. Was it in pain? Had that bitch been mistreating him because he was Dawn's? She had to know.

  Steeling herself, she tested the latch. It moved.

  Okay, she had to do this. Just a look - just one look. She pulled open the door, slipped inside, and eased it closed behind her. She stood there listening. Somewhere a television was playing. She tiptoed forward toward the great room and peeked in.

  Empty.

  She looked through the window wall and saw Gilda, still outside, still pulling weeds.

  Yes!

  Now where - ?

  The screech startled her, almost buckled her knees. So loud!

  It came from behind her and to the left. She backed up and found a door ajar. She pushed it open . . .

  . . . and froze, staring, not sure of what she was seeing.

  A crib with a child . . . a small child wearing a dark blue, sleeveless onesy . . . very small . . . only two feet tall, if that . . . but standing in the crib. Standing. Should a child that small be able to stand?

  And yet there he stood, gripping the bars, staring at her with his black eyes. He had wild black hair shooting straight out from his scalp, a flat nose and nearly lipless mouth.

  Those eyes . . . she recognized those eyes.

  And then he opened his mouth and loosed an ear-splitting shriek that rocked Dawn back on her heels.

  But only for a second. She moved closer, slowly, so as not to startle him. His eyes never moved from her face. She looked at his sturdy little legs. They seemed covered with black stubble. And his hands where he gripped the rails of the crib - his fingernails looked more like black claws, and might have been sharp but they'd been trimmed back. He opened his mouth and shrieked again - a nerve-wracking sound - and Dawn thought she saw glimmers of white along his gums.

  Teeth? Already? Whoever heard of a baby teething at two weeks? And yet . . . was that why he was shrieking?

  My baby.

  This was her child. Dawn knew it as surely as she knew her own name.

  He's alive. My baby is alive!

  But where were the tentacles she'd seen? She leaned left and right for a look at what little she could see of his armpits, but no sign of a tentacle in either.

  Okay. Maybe she'd been wrong about the tentacles. She'd been sure she'd seen two little tendrils like wriggling garter snakes right after she delivered, but she'd been pretty stressed out then, and frankly, being wrong about the tentacles was totally okay.

  He continued to stare at her, as if she were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. She had to smile. With no one else to look at but Gilda and Georges, maybe she was.

  Yes, this was her baby, but . . .

  She'd expected this totally overwhelming surge of maternal love when she saw him, but it hadn't come. She felt more curiosity than anything. And she had to ask herself: Did she really want him back? She knew she should, and she wanted to want him, but she couldn't help it: The maternal urge wasn't there. He was like some creature . . . the result of combining all the bad DNA that had been bred into her and into the baby's father. Her baby was alive, he was well - already standing, for God's sake - and looked like he was being well treated. Could she do better? Should she try?

  She backed away. She'd assumed the decision would be easy, automatic, but it wasn't. She'd have to give this some thought. No, more than some - a lot of thought.

  As she turned away toward the door, she heard a whimper. She looked back and saw him still standing there with his little arms stretched out toward her. Did he recognize her as his mother? Could that be possible? She felt a sudden impulse to rush to him but fought it off.

  "Sorry," she whispered. "Can't. See you later maybe. "

  She heard another whimper as she stepped out the door into the hallway but kept moving. A third whimper, louder, more drawn out, turned her around and forced her to take one last peek at him.

  As she watched, he turned away, head hanging, and curled up on his mattress facing the wall.

  The forlorn dejection tightened her throat and damn near broke her heart. He had recognized her as his mother and she'd turned away from him, rejected him. And with those looks, he was probably facing a lifetime of people turning away.

  Something crumbled inside her.

  God help her, she couldn't leave him like this. She hurried over to the crib. He turned over at her approach, crawled to the railing, and pulled himself to his feet. His arms went out to her.

  "Come on, baby," she whispered. "I'm taking you home. "

  She pulled him into her arms - heavier than he looked - and grabbed the blanket from the crib, then she retraced her steps to the door. She peeked out. No sound other than the TV. She stepped to the edge of the great room and peered through to the bayfront yard.

  She didn't see Gilda.

  Her heart twisted in her chest. Oh, God, where was Gilda?

  And then Dawn spotted her at the other end. She'd switched sides to pull weeds over there.

  The baby saw the older woman and shrieked, a truly ear-splitting sound this close.

  Weak with relief, her heart still thumping, Dawn turned and hurried for the front door. She paused long enough to wrap the baby in the blanket, then she pushed open the storm door and pulled the inner door closed behind her.

  She ran for the O'Donnell house.

  The baby loosed another shriek as the chill wind and snowflakes swirled around him.

  SATURDAY Chapter 5

  Gilda straightened and cocked her head.

  What?

  That cry . . . it almost sounded like the little one. But that baby, that awful, ugly little baby couldn't be heard in the yard. Which was why she was out here. She couldn't stand that cry. It set her teeth on edge. It scraped her nerves raw. And the little monster kept doing it, over and over.

  Not a hunger cry. Nor was it a distressed cry because it needed changing. She'd feed it its formula - such an enormous appetite - but even when finally sated and changed into a fresh diaper, still it shrieked. All through its waking hours. Gilda had come to the conclusion that it liked to make that noise. Almost as if it knew it disturbed her and it cried out just to torture her.

  Sometimes she needed all her strength and loyalty to the Master to keep from holding a pillow over its wretched little head to stop it forever.

  But the Master had plans for the baby. He had not shared them with Gilda or Georges, but he had made it clear he wanted the baby kept well until the time when he had use for him.

  Gilda had had only one child of her own, and Kristof had been nothing like this one. Her Kristof had been headstrong, but a good boy. She hadn't heard from him lately, but that wasn't unusual. Sometimes his work for the Order did not allow easy communication. But he would call when he was able. Kristof was a good son.

  But that child inside - a devil child from a devil girl. That Dawn Pickering was no good, and she'd given birth to a child just as bad. Gilda almost wished the mother had been allowed to keep the child. Let her deal with that awful sound.

  There. She heard it again. It seemed to come from the other side of the house. But it couldn't be the child. Probably some seagull.

  Time to go inside anyway. Her hands were stiff from the cold, almost frozen. But the discomfort was nothing compared to the sound of that child.

  The Master could silence him. The Master would step into the child's room and stare at him. And thereafter the child would remain silent - for as long as the Maste
r stayed in the house. As soon as he left, as he had last week, the screeching resumed. For six days straight now. Gilda was so glad the Master was returning.

  The Master . . . he frightened and fascinated her. Her Kristof feared him and said she must obey him at all times or suffer grave consequences. She had taken that with a grain of salt until Georges's predecessor, Henry, had deviated from the Master's instructions regarding that little trollop, Dawn. He disappeared. Gilda never saw or heard from Henry again.

  She opened the door at the side of the great room and stepped in. She pulled it closed behind her and tensed as she stood listening, waiting. But the sound didn't come.

  She waited longer. Still silence.

  Could it be . . . could the little monster have fallen asleep? She found that almost too much to hope for. After screeching all day, the child would fall asleep at night, but rarely for more that two consecutive hours. Then he'd be up, waking the house with his cries. But never since the day he was born had he taken a nap.

  She tiptoed across the great room and approached the center hall. She stopped at its entrance. Still silence, glorious silence. She had no idea how soundly he slept - deep, like her Kristof in his baby days, so that almost nothing awakened him, or very lightly, so that the slightest sound would rouse him? If the latter, she needed to sneak that bedroom door closed, or run the risk of waking him with the simple rattle of a pan in the kitchen.

  She glanced farther down the hall at the front door to the street side and noticed it closed over. Hadn't that been open? She couldn't be sure. The child's racket was so distracting it was a wonder she remembered her own name.

  She slipped out of her shoes and edged up to the nursery door. Anyone watching her exaggerated caution might think she was sneaking up on an unsuspecting victim, but this opportunity for peace and quiet was too rare and precious to ruin with carelessness.

  When she reached the doorway she peeked through the narrow opening between the frame molding and the hinged side of the door. She had a view of the foot of the crib but no sign of the child. He must have fallen asleep at the other end.

  Gilda took a breath before peeking around the door. The last thing she wanted to see was that ugly little face staring back at her through the bars. Because sure as the sun rose in the east, a screech would be quick to follow.