Faye cast a murderous look at him.
He didn't care. He wasn't going to spin an elaborate story about a gas leak. They could be caught too easily in a lie like that, and then they'd look like fools. So he told Anson and Francine about a plague of vermin, but he didn't mention voodoo or say anything about the weird creatures that had come out of the guest room vent. He conceded that much to Faye because she was absolutely right on that score: A stockbroker had to maintain a conservative, stable, level-headed image at all times — or risk ruin.
But he wondered how long it would be before he could forget what he had seen.
A long time.
A long, long time.
Maybe never.
XI
Sliding a little, then stomping through a drift that put snow inside his boots, Jack turned the corner, onto the avenue. He didn't look back because he was afraid he'd discover the goblins — as Penny called them — close at his heels.
Rebecca and the kids were only a hundred feet ahead. He hurried after them.
Much to his dismay, he saw that they were the only people on the broad avenue. There were only a few cars, all deserted and abandoned after becoming stuck in the snow. Nobody out walking. And who, in his right mind, would be out walking in gale-force winds, in the middle of a blinding snowstorm? Nearly two blocks away, red taillights and revolving red emergency beacons gleamed and winked, barely visible in the sheeting snow. It was a train of plows, but they were headed the other way.
He caught up with Rebecca and the kids. It wasn't difficult to close the gap. They were no longer moving very fast. Already, Davey and Penny were flagging. Running in deep snow was like running with lead weights on the feet; the constant resistance was quickly wearing them down.
Jack glanced back the way they had come. No sign of the goblins. But those lantern-eyed creatures would show up, and soon. He couldn't believe they had given up this easily.
When they did come, they would find easy prey. The kids would have slowed to a weary, shambling walk in another minute.
Jack didn't feel particularly spry himself. His heart was pounding so hard and fast that it seemed as if it would tear loose of its moorings. His face hurt from the cold, biting wind, which also stung his eyes and brought tears to them. His hands hurt and were somewhat numb, too, because he hadn't had time to put on his gloves again. He was breathing hard, and the arctic air cracked his throat, made his chest ache. His feet were freezing because of all the snow that had gotten into his boots. He wasn't in any condition to provide much protection to the kids, and that realization made him angry and fearful, for he and Rebecca were the only people standing between the kids and death.
As if excited by the prospect of their slaughter, the wind howled louder, almost gleefully.
The winter-bare trees, rising from cut-out planting beds in the wide sidewalk, rattled their stripped limbs in the wind. It was the sound of animated skeletons.
Jack looked around for a place to hide. Just ahead, five brownstone apartment houses, each four stories tall, were sandwiched between somewhat higher and more modern (though less attractive) structures. To Rebecca, he said, “We've got to get out of sight,” and he hurried all of them off the sidewalk, up the snowcovered steps, through the glass-paneled front doors, into the security foyer of the first brownstone.
The foyer wasn't well-heated; however, by comparison with the night outside, it seemed wonderfully tropical. It was also clean and rather elegant, with brass mailboxes and a vaulted wooden ceiling, although there was no doorman. The complex mosaic-tile floor — which depicted a twining vine, green leaves, and faded yellow flowers against an ivory background — was highly polished, and not one piece of tile was missing.
But, even as pleasant as it was, they couldn't stay here. The foyer was also brightly lighted. They would be spotted easily from the street.
The inner door was also glass paneled. Beyond it lay the first-floor hall, the elevator and stairs. But the door was locked and could be opened only with a key or with a lock-release button in one of the apartments.
There were sixteen apartments in all, four on each floor. Jack stepped to the brass mailboxes and pushed the call button for a Mr. and Mrs. Evans on the fourth floor.
A woman's voice issued tinnily from the speaker at the top of the mailbox. “Who is it?”
“Is this the Grofeld apartment?” Jack asked, knowing full well that it wasn't.
“No,” the unseen woman said. “You've pressed the wrong button. The Grofelds' mailbox is next to ours.”
“Sorry,” he said as Mrs. Evans broke the connection.
He glanced toward the front door, at the street beyond.
Snow. Naked, blackened trees shaking in the wind. The ghostly glow of storm-shrouded streetlamps.
But nothing worse than that. Nothing with silvery eyes. Nothing with lots of pointed little teeth.
Not yet.
He pressed the Grofelds' button, asked if this were the Santini apartment, and was curtly told that the Santinis' mailbox was the next one.
He rang the Santinis and was prepared to ask if theirs was the Porterfield apartment. But the Santinis apparently expected someone and were considerably less cautious than their neighbors, for they buzzed him through the inner door without asking who he was.
Rebecca ushered the kids inside, and Jack quickly followed, closing the foyer door behind them.
He could have used his police ID to get past the foyer, but it would have taken too long. With the crime rate spiraling upward, most people were more suspicious these days than they'd once been. If he had been straightforward with Mrs. Evans, right there at the start, she wouldn't have accepted his word that he was a cop. She would have wanted to come down — and rightly so — to examine his badge through the glass panel in the inner door. By that time, one of Lavelle's demonic assassins might have passed by the building and spotted them.
Besides, Jack was reluctant to involve other people, for to do so would be to put their lives at risk if the goblins should suddenly arrive and attack.
Apparently, Rebecca shared his concern about dragging strangers into it, for she warned the kids to be especially quiet as she escorted them into a shadowy recess under the stairs, to the right of the main entrance.
Jack crowded into the nook with them, away from the door. They couldn't be seen from the street or from the stairs above, not even if someone leaned out over the railing and looked down.
After less than a minute had passed, a door opened a few floors overhead. Footsteps. Then someone, apparently Mr. Santini, said, “Alex? Is that you?”
Under the stairs, they remained silent, unmoving.
Mr. Santini waited.
Outside, the wind roared.
Mr. Santini descended a few steps. “Is anyone there?”
Go away, Jack thought. You haven't any idea what you might be walking into. Go away.
As if he were telepathic and had received Jack's warning, the man returned to his apartment and closed the door.
Jack sighed.
Eventually, speaking in a tremulous whisper, Penny said, “How will we know when it's safe to go outside again?”
“We'll just give it a little time, and then when it seems right… I'll slip out there and take a peek,” Jack said softly.
Davey was shaking as if it were colder in here than it was outside. He wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his coat and said, “How much time will we wait?”
“Five minutes,” Rebecca told him, also whispering. “Ten at most. They'll be gone by then.”