Vicky didn't know where they were or in what direction they were traveling. Her mind could barely function through the haze of terror that enveloped it. But soon she heard the lapping sound of water, smelled the river. The monster leaped, they seemed to fly for an instant, and then water closed over them. She couldn't swim!
Vicky screamed as they plunged beneath the waves. She gulped a mouthful of foul, brackish water, then broke the surface choking and retching. Her throat was locked—there was air all around her but she couldn't breathe! Finally, when she thought she was going to die, her windpipe opened and air rushed into her lungs.
She opened her eyes. The monster had slung her onto its back and was now cutting through the water. She clung to the slick, slimy skin of its shoulders. Her pink nighty was plastered to her goosefleshed skin; her hair hung in her eyes. She was cold, wet, and miserable with terror. She wanted to jump off and get away from the monster, but she knew she'd go down under that water and never come back up.
Why was this happening to her? She'd been good. Why did this monster want her?
Maybe it was a good monster, like in that book she had, Where the Wild Things Are. It hadn't hurt her. Maybe it was taking her someplace to show her something.
She looked around and recognized the Manhattan skyline off to her right, but there was something between them and Manhattan. Dimly she remembered the island—Roosevelt Island—that sat in the river at the end of Aunt Nellie and Grace's street.
Were they going to swim around it and go back to Manhattan? Was the monster going to take her back to Aunt Nellie's?
No. They passed the end of the island but the monster didn't turn toward Manhattan. It kept swimming in the same direction downriver. Vicky shivered and began to cry.
23
Gia's chin dropped forward onto her chest and she awoke with a start. She was only half an hour into the movie and already she was nodding off. She wasn't nearly as wide awake as she had thought. She flicked it off and went back to the bedroom.
Fear hit her like a knife between the ribs as soon as she opened the door. The room was filled with a rotten odor. Now she recognized it—the same odor that had been in Nellie's room the night she had disappeared. Her gaze shot to the bed and her heart stopped when she saw it was flat—no familiar little lump of curled-up child under the covers.
"Vicky?" Her voice cracked as she said the name and turned on the light. She has to be here!
Without waiting for an answer, Gia rushed to the bed and pulled the covers down.
"Vicky?" Her voice was almost a whimper. She's here—she has to be!
She ran to the closet and fell to her knees, checking the floor with her hands. Only Vicky's Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case was there. Next she crawled over to the bed and looked under it. Vicky wasn't there either.
But something else was—a small dark lump. Gia reached in and grabbed it. She thought she would be sick when she recognized the feel of a recently peeled and partially eaten orange.
An orange! Jack's words flooded back on her: "Do you want Vicky to end up like Grace and Nellie? Gone without a trace?" He had said there was something in the orange— but he had thrown it away! So how had Vicky got hold of this one… ?
Unless there had been more than one orange in the playhouse!
This is a nightmare! This isn't really happening!
Gia ran through the rest of the apartment, opening every door, every closet, every cabinet. Vicky was gone! She hurried back to the bedroom and went to the window. The screen was missing. She hadn't noticed that before. Fighting back a scream as visions of a child's body smashed against the pavement flashed before her eyes, she held her breath and looked down. The parking lot was directly below, well lit by mercury vapor lamps. There was no sign of Vicky.
Gia didn't know whether to be relieved or not. All she knew right now was that her child was missing and she needed help. She ran for the phone, ready to dial the 911 emergency police number, then stopped. The police would certainly be more concerned about a missing child than about two old ladies who had disappeared, but would they accomplish anything more? Gia doubted it. There was only one number to call that would do her any good: Jack's.
Jack will know what to do. Jack will help.
She forced her shaking index finger to punch in the numbers and got a busy signal. She hung up and dialed again. Still busy. She didn't have time to wait! She dialed the operator and told her it was an emergency and she had to break in on the line. She was put on hold for half a minute that seemed like an hour, then the operator was back on, telling her that the line wasn't busy—the phone had been left off the hook.
Gia slammed the receiver down. What was she going to do? She was frantic. What was wrong at Jack's? Had he left the phone off the hook or had it been knocked off?
She ran back to the bedroom and jammed her legs into a pair of jeans and pulled on a blouse without removing her pajamas. She had to find Jack. If he wasn't at his apartment, maybe he was at Abe's store—she was pretty sure she remembered where that was. She hoped she could remember. Her thoughts were so jumbled. All she could think of was Vicky.
Vicky, Vicky, where are you?
But how to get to Jack's… that was the problem. Finding a cab would be virtually impossible at this hour, and the subway, even if she could find a stop nearby, could be deadly to a woman alone.
The Honda keys she had seen earlier! Where had they been? She had been cleaning in the kitchen…
She ran over to the flatware drawer and pulled it open. There they were. She snatched them up and ran out into the hall. She checked the apartment number on the door: 1203. Now if only the car was here. The elevator took her straight down to the first floor and she hurried out into the parking lot. On the way in this afternoon she had seen numbers on the asphalt by each parking space.
Please let it be here! she said to God, to fate, to whatever was in charge of human events. Is anybody in charge? asked a small voice in the back of her mind.
She followed the numbers from the 800's up to the 1100's, and there up ahead, crouched like a laboratory mouse waiting timidly for the next injection, sat a white Honda Civic.
Please be 1203! Please!
It had to be.
It was.
Almost giddy with relief, she unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. The standard shift on the floor gave her a moment's pause, but she had driven her father's old Ford pickup enough miles in Iowa as a teenager. She hoped it was something you never forgot, like riding a bike.
The engine refused to start until she found the manual choke, then it sputtered to life. She stalled twice backing out of the parking space, but once she got it rolling forward, she had little trouble.
She didn't know Queens but knew the general direction she wanted to go. She worked her way toward the East River until she saw a "To Manhattan" sign and followed the arrow. When the Queensboro Bridge loomed into view, she slammed the gas pedal to the floor. She had been driving tentatively until now, reining her emotions, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled intensity, wary of missing a crucial turn. But with her destination in sight, she began to cry.
24
Abe's dark blue panel truck was parked outside the Isher Sports Shop. The iron gate had been rolled back. At Jack's knock, the door opened immediately. Abe's white shirt was wrinkled and his jowls were stubbly. For the first time in Jack's memory, he wasn't wearing his black tie.
"What?" he said, scrutinizing Jack. "You run into trouble since you left me at the apartment?"
"What makes you ask?"
"Bandage on your hand and you're walking funny."
"Had a lengthy and strenuous argument with a very disagreeable lady." He rotated his left shoulder gingerly; it was nowhere near as stiff and painful as it had been back at the apartment.