Legacies

21.

"Good night," Jack said, watching Alicia curl into a lump under the covers.

A weird one, all right. But then, everything named Clayton seemed to be weird in some way.

Now what? he wondered. He should take a cue from Alicia and sack out, but he was too wired to sleep. The key… where did it fit? And that damn little Land Rover… something about its persistence in trying to get to the front yard of the Clayton house nagged at him.

Jack got up and headed for the door. He unlocked the Chevy, plucked the little truck from the backseat, and carried it to the middle of the parking lot.

"All right, Mr. Rover," he said, pushing the on switch, "let's see where you want to go now."

He placed it on the pavement, facing in the direction he assumed to be east, and let her go. The little truck raced away and almost immediately veered to the left. Jack expected it to wheel into a U-turn and head back toward him, but it came only three quarters of the way around, then angled away across the lot.

Jack raced after it and grabbed it before it ran under a parked Accord.

The truck should have headed due west, back toward the Clayton house—or rather, toward its front yard. Did he have his directions screwed up?

He scanned the stars. Good thing it was a cold, clear winter night. He traced the Big Dipper, ran a line up from the leading edge of its cup, and found Polaris. Okay. That was north.

He backed up to his original spot, pointed the truck east… and damn if it didn't make a beeline for that same Accord.

He found Polaris again. Back in Murray Hill, the truck had insisted on heading uptown—due north… toward the front yard, he'd assumed. But now it wanted to travel northwest… away from the front yard.

What had changed?

The Rover's position, for one.

Or had someone adjusted its controller, wherever that was?

This was going to take more investigation, and under better conditions than these.

Tomorrow… he'd spend all tomorrow figuring this out. And looking for the box that belonged to that key.

Jack returned to the room, taking the truck with him. He didn't want to leave it in the car overnight. Who knew?

Someone wandering through the lot might spot it and rip it off.

He slipped back into the room as quietly as he could. He could make out Alicia's form under the covers, curled into the fetal position.

What are you hiding from? he wondered.

He felt a mixture of admiration and pity for her—and he knew she'd resent the pity like all hell, but still, that was what he felt. Somewhere, somehow, she'd been terribly damaged, and he pitied anyone who'd been scarred so deeply. But she'd waged—was still waging, apparently—a valiant battle against the effects of whatever had been done to her.

Maybe tonight had been too much for her. Maybe he shouldn't have insisted she come along.

But what other options had he had? She'd lived in that house, and he'd needed her help.

Still, he got a cold knot in his stomach when he looked at that fetal lump, curled and cocooned so defensively against the world.

How would she be when she awoke tomorrow morning?

Jack flopped back on the other bed and stared at the stained ceiling, wondering about that until sleep claimed him.