"Nothing to fear in the daylight? And what makes this Mr. Veilleur so sure about that when one renowned scientist after another claims to be completely baffled by that hole and these creatures?"
"He knows," Carol said. "Believe me, he knows."
"I don't like this, Carol," Hank said, wandering the tiny bedroom with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. "With all the awful things going on out on the streets, it seems to me the prudent thing to do would be to stay inside until everything's under control."
Carol shook her head and smiled softly as she pulled a skirt from its hanger in her closet. That was Hank, always weighing the pros and cons, measuring the liabilities, gaging the hazards to find the course of action with the lowest risk-benefit ratio. Always safe and sane, always planning ahead, that was Hank. And there was nothing wrong with that.
No…nothing wrong with that at all. Carol needed safe and sane in her life. She needed someone nearby who planned for the future. It helped Carol believe that there was going to be a future, and that it mattered.
Hank was so different from Jim. Her first husband had been a writer, living day to day, doing things on impulse, earning hangovers. Spontaneity and intemperance were not part of Hank's repertoire.
And yet there was much to be said for staid and stable. Her marriage to Hank might lack the heat and passion of her relationship with Jim, but it did have warmth and trust and companionship, and she needed those right now.
"I can't put it off," Carol said. "It's got to be this morning. There are people there he wants me to meet, and I want you to meet him and the others."
He looked at her. "You're determined to go, aren't you."
"Hank, I've got to."
"Well, I'm certainly not letting you travel across town alone today. So I guess we'll be paying a visit on Mr…"
"Veilleur. But he likes to be called Glaeken. And Bill Ryan will be there, so it won't be as if you won't know anybody."
"He's involved in this too? How long have you been meeting this Veilleur or Glaeken fellow? And why does it all have to be so mysterious? Why can't you tell me more about it?"
"I'm going to tell you all about it. I—I haven't told you everything about my past and I think it's high time you knew."
Hank stepped in front of her and gently slipped his arms around her.
"You don't have to worry about me. Nothing you can say will change how I feel about you."
"I hope so." I hope you can handle what's coming.
"But why can't you tell me first?"
"Because I want you to have the big picture first before I tell you my part in it. Glaeken knows more about it and can explain it better than I can." He was there when it all started. "He knows who's behind those things that came out of the Central Park hole last night."
Hank took a half step back from her.
"He does? Who?"
Carol bit her lip, wondering how much to say. Well, why not just blow the door off its hinges? Give him his first look into her locked room. Nothing would stay hidden long after that.
"My son."
Jack wasn't sure how long he'd been standing at the window, mesmerized by all the furious activity round the hole in the sheep Meadow, when the doorbell rang. He glanced down the hall where Glaeken had gone but there was no sign of him.
Well, he'd said to answer the door, so that was what he'd do. Obviously Glaeken was expecting company.
Jack opened the door and found the Odd Couple standing in the hall. A graying priest and a funny-looking younger guy with unfocused eyes, a stitched lip, and a dazed look on his puss. And was that drool in the corner of his mouth?
"Who are you?" the priest said. Obviously he'd expected someone else to answer the door.
"That's not what people usually say when they're on that side of the door," Jack told him.
"I live here," the priest said with a touch of irritation.
Jack wasn't going to argue with the man. He stepped out of the way.
"If you say so."
Jack checked out the priest as he passed. He was taller than Jack, maybe a dozen or so years older, but he looked fit. His face was battered and haggard and his blue eyes had a haunted look, the look of a guy who'd seen too much of a bad thing.
The priest led his shell-shocked companion into the living room and sat him on the sofa. He almost had to bend the guy's knees to get him to sit. Then he turned to Jack.
"Where's Glae—I mean, Mr. Veilleur?"
"He asked me to call him Glaeken, and he's back with his wife. My name's Jack, by the way."
"Oh, yes. I was supposed to meet you yesterday." He thrust out his hand. "Bill Ryan."
Jack shook his hand. "You the priest?"
"Used to be. I didn't catch your last name."
"Jack'll do." To steer the talk away from names, he pointed to the guy on the sofa, and yeah, that was drool on his chin. "What happened to him?"
"That's Dr. Nick Quinn. He's one of the scientists who went down into the hole yesterday. He's the one who survived."
Jack stared at Nick Quinn with new respect. "I saw what came out of there last night…"
Ryan put his hand on Quinn's shoulder. "I'm afraid Nick saw something much worse than those things."
"Yeah," Jack said, watching the poor bastard stare blindly into space. Went down a rocket scientist, came back a geranium. "I guess he did. Where'd you come from this morning?"
"Washington Heights."
"How do things look up there?"
"Not too bad. Mostly you'd never know anything happened until you get to Harlem. And even there, you could convince yourself they had nothing more than a bad storm last night. But from the Nineties down it looks like there was a riot or something. And around here…" He shook his head in dismay. "There's still blood on the pavement."
Jack nodded. "It was worse earlier when I walked through from the East Side."
His gut squirmed at the memory of that walk. He hadn't slept much last night. He'd spent most of the time standing anxious guard over Gia and Vicky and watching the tube for word from Central Park. There were news specials all night, but no visuals. Camera teams sent to the area were never heard from again. Shortly after sunrise he'd ventured out into the streets. Sutton Square was quiet, and early morning traffic was rolling uptown and down on Sutton Place as usual. No flying monsters anywhere about, so he'd jogged up the incline toward midtown.
Between Madison and Park he came upon police barricades. He slipped past and continued west. Fifty-ninth Street became a nightmare. Deflated, sunken-cheeked, desiccated corpses littered the pavements, body parts were everywhere—a limbless, headless torso on the sidewalk, a leg in a gutter, a gnawed finger atop a mailbox. The closer he got to the Park, the thicker the carnage.
Central Park South was the worst yet—dead people, dead horses still harnessed to their hansom cabs, overturned cars, a taxi half way through the front windows of Mickey Mantle's. Every emergency vehicle and meat wagon in the city seemed to have converged on the area to remove the bodies.
Live people were about, too. All on their way out. The cops weren't allowing cabs or civilian vehicles into the area, so the surviving members of the mink coat and tennis bracelet set were lugging their own suitcases out of the Plaza, the Park Lane, the St. Moritz, the Barbizon-Plaza and lugging them down the avenues to where they could get a ride to the nearest airport.
Jack had picked his way through the area and hurried home to find the old guy's phone number. Then he'd come here.