She hadn't said anything to Doug about the ticket stubs, though she'd left them out in full view. He hadn't said anything, either. The next night, Doug had taken her to the Grotto, an Italian restaurant that she particularly enjoyed, but he'd seen a client at a nearby table there and ended up talking to the man for fifteen minutes while Laura ate cold minestrone. He'd made an effort at being attentive, but his eyes wandered and he was obviously uncomfortable. He knows I know, Laura thought. She had hoped beyond hope that none of it was true, that he would explain away the tickets and tell her that Eric had somehow jetted back from Charleston for the day. She might have accepted the least little attempt at explanation. But Doug fumbled with his silverware and avoided eye contact, and she knew he was having an affair.
Anger and sadness warred within her as she sat in the den with the sunlight streaming through the Levolors. Maybe she would feel better if she got up and broke something, but she doubted it. Her mother and father were coming to Atlanta as soon as the baby was born, and that would start out fine at first but eventually she and her mother would wear on each other and the sparks would start to fly. Her mother would be of no help in this situation, and her father would want to baby her. She tried to stand up from the chair, but she felt very tired and David's weight hobbled her; she stayed where she was, one hand gripping the apartment number and the other clenched hard on the armrest. Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes, burning them, and Laura gritted her teeth and said, "No, damn it. No. No. No." She couldn't will herself not to cry, though, and the tears streaked down her cheeks one after the other.
The inevitable questions came like hammerblows: Where did I fail? What did I do wrong? What is he getting from a stranger than I can't give him?
No answers, only more questions. "The bastard," Laura said quietly when her crying was done. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. "Oh, the bastard." She lifted her hand and watched the sunlight glint off the two-carat diamond in her engagement ring, and her gold wedding band. They were worthless, she thought, because they meant nothing. They were empty symbols, like this house and the lives she and Doug had constructed. She could imagine the joke Carol would make about this: "So ol' Dougie went out and found a chick who doesn't have a cake baking in the oven, huh? See, like I told you: you can't trust men! They're from a different planet!" That might be so, but Doug was still part of her world, and he would be part of David's world, too. The real question was: where to go from here?
She knew the first step.
Laura stood up. She switched off the television and got her car keys. She found a map of the city, then judged the fastest way to get to the Hillandale Apartments.
The apartment complex, about twenty minutes from Laura's house, had a tennis court and a pool draped with a black cover. Laura drove around, searching for the E building. She found it after a circuitous route, and she parked the BMW and got out to check the names on the mailboxes.
The box for 5-E had C. Jannsen written on the little name tag in Flair pen. It was a feminine signature full of curves and squiggles, and it ended with a flourish.
It was a young signature, Laura thought. Her heart felt squeezed in a brutal grip. She stood in front of the door that had 5-E on it in brown plastic, and she thought of Doug crossing the threshold. In the center of the door was a little peephole, where the canary could peer out at the cat. She glanced at the door buzzer, put her finger on it and…
… did nothing.
On the drive back, Laura reasoned that C. Jannsen probably wouldn't have been home, anyway. Not at three o'clock on a Monday afternoon. C. Jannsen must work somewhere, unless – a horrible thought – Doug was keeping her. Laura racked her brain, trying to think of a C. Jannsen she might know from Doug's office, but she knew no one with that name. Someone did know about the girl, though; someone who had taken pity on Laura and called with the information. The more Laura thought about it, the more she decided the voice could have belonged to Marcy Parker. She had to figure out what to do now: to hit Doug with what she knew, or wait until after the baby was born. Unpleasant scenes were not to her liking, and her level of stress was already up in the stratosphere; a confrontation would shoot her blood pressure up and possibly hurt David in some way, and Laura couldn't chance it.
After David was born, she would ask Doug who C. Jannsen was. Then they would go on from there to whatever destination lay ahead. It would be a rocky and dangerous path, she knew. There would be tears and angry words, a clash of egos that might destroy the fictioned fabric of their lives, but one thought was paramount in Laura's mind: Doug has someone to hold, and soon I'll have mine.
Her knuckles were white around the steering wheel. Halfway home, she had to pull into a gas station, and in the bathroom the tears burst from her eyes and she threw up until there was nothing in her mouth but bitter.
3: The Darker Heart
Mary Terror awakened in the dark, after the dream had passed. In it, she had walked toward a two-storied wooden house painted sky-blue, with gables and chimneys and a widow's walk. She knew that house, and where it stood: at the beginning. She had walked up the steps and across the porch into the house as the rays of white sunlight burned through the windows upon the pinewood floor. She had found him, in the room with bay windows that looked toward the sea. Lord Jack was wrapped in snowy robes, his blond hair down around his shoulders and his eyes keen and thoughtful as he watched her approach. She stopped just short of him, and in his presence she trembled.
"I called you," he told her. "I wanted you to come, because I need you."
"I heard you call," she said, her voice soft and whispery. It echoed in the large room, and she could smell the salt air in the walls. "I need you, too."
"We're going to do it again, Mary. All of it, again. We're going to raise the dead ones and bring the lost into the fold, and we're going to make sure that this time we win."
"This time we win," she repeated, and she reached out for his hand.
"Where's my child?" Lord Jack asked.
Mary's hand stopped in midair.
"My son," he said. "Where's my son?"
"I… I don't… know…"
"You were carrying my son," he said. "Where is he?"
For a moment Mary couldn't speak. She heard the crash of surf against rocks, and she pressed her hands against her stomach. "I… got hurt," she told him. "You know I got hurt. The baby… I lost the baby."
Lord Jack closed his eyes. "I want a son." His head rocked back, and she could see the tears creeping down his cheeks. "You know I want a son, to carry my seed. Where's my son, Mary? Where's my son?"
The two words were the hardest she'd ever spoken: "He's dead."
Lord Jack's eyes opened, and looking into them was like peering into the center of the universe. Stars and constellations roamed in Jack's head, all the signs and symbols of the Age of Aquarius. "My son has to be alive," he said, his voice silken and pained. "Has to be. My seed has to go on. Don't you understand that? I gave you a great gift, Mary. And you lost that gift. You killed it, didn't you?"
"No! I didn't! The baby died! I got hurt, and the baby died!"
He lifted a thin finger and placed it against his lips. "When I called you, I wanted you to bring my son to me. That's part of all this. A very important part, if we're going to raise the dead and bring the lost ones back. Oh, Mary; you've hurt me so much."
"No!" Her voice cracked, and she heard dark laughter in the walls. "We can make another baby! Right now! Right now, okay? We can make another baby, just as good as the last one!"