The Dark at the End

4

Dawn noticed the flurries and leaned back from the window to check the Weather Channel. Yep, the Doppler map showed the first green bands of the storm hitting Long Island’s South Fork.

She wondered about getting snowed in. Wouldn’t that mess up Jack’s plans? She’d worry about that when the time came. Nobody seemed totally sure of how much was going to fall anyway.

As she turned back to the window, she thought she saw movement near the house. She grabbed the binoculars and scanned the property through the scattered flakes.

There-in the yard, on the bay side, a gray-haired woman in a coat was crouched by the bulkhead. Dawn adjusted the focus to sharpen her features and confirm what she’d already guessed. She knew that hatchet face, totally recognized that toadlike body.

Gilda.

Her hands tightened on the binoculars. Gilda… how happy she must be. She hated Dawn, and taking charge of Dawn’s stolen child must have given her incalculable pleasure.

But what was she doing?

Dawn focused on her hands as they pulled bits of greenery from the stones in the yard.

Weeding?

But why would she be out weeding? And in the blustery snow? Had she totally lost her mind? She had a two-week-old baby inside.

An awful thought struck like a blow: What if she didn’t? What if they didn’t have the baby over there? What if there was no baby? What if he’d died, just as Dr. Landsman had said?

The what-ifs filled her head, reverberating across her brain until Wait-wait-wait. Dr. Heinze… only one reason a pediatrician would visit that house: a child.

But then why, if she had a baby inside under her care, was Gilda out in the yard, pulling weeds in the snow?

Something totally wrong here.

And if Dawn and Weezy and Jack were all wrong, and there was no baby in that house, they were all wasting their time.

She focused again on Gilda, still crouched, still weeding. She tracked over to the dock. Empty. Back to Gilda: weeding. Then to the front door: The glass-paned storm door was closed but the paneled inner door stood open. Georges hadn’t closed it on his way out.

She fought a terrible urge to go over there and check it out.

Call Weezy.

She grabbed her phone and called Weezy from her contact list. She heard a strange ring tone coming from downstairs. She hurried down and found a phone charging on the kitchen counter. Its display read Dawn.

That did it.

Dawn ended her call and hurried for the front door. She didn’t stop to find her coat, simply pushed out and trotted across the street through the wind and cold and swirling flakes toward the mansion.

She wasn’t going to do anything stupid like take the baby. That would upset all of Jack’s plans. He’d made it clear that if Dawn was ever going to be able to keep her baby in peace, Mr. Osala had to be stopped-she hadn’t asked for clarification on exactly what he’d meant by “stopped.” She hadn’t really wanted to know.

Jack had totally wanted her out of sight for fear she’d be recognized. But Georges was out fishing on the bay and Gilda was out in the yard on the far side of the house. Nobody around to recognize her.

No… nothing so stupid as taking the baby, but she wanted-needed-to make sure the baby was there. Once she established that, she’d totally run back to the O’Donnell place and let Jack work his plan.

She was almost to the front door when the possibility of a third adult in the house slowed her. But even if it were true, what were the odds of him or her recognizing Dawn? Only Gilda and Georges knew her.

She picked up speed again and bounded up the two steps to the front door. She cupped her hands around her face as she leaned close and peered through the storm glass. The central hall ran directly into the great room Jack had mentioned. Looking straight ahead she could see all the way to the window wall and the churning bay beyond.

She was about to rap gently on the glass to see if anyone responded when she heard a piercing shriek from within. It jolted her. She’d never heard anything like it-high-pitched and thin, like it came from a little throat.

The baby?

Another shriek.

It had to be the baby. Was it in pain? Had that bitch been mistreating him because he was Dawn’s? She had to know.

Steeling herself, she tested the latch. It moved.

Okay, she had to do this. Just a look-just one look. She pulled open the door, slipped inside, and eased it closed behind her. She stood there listening. Somewhere a television was playing. She tiptoed forward toward the great room and peeked in.

Empty.

She looked through the window wall and saw Gilda, still outside, still pulling weeds.

Yes!

Now where-?

The screech startled her, almost buckled her knees. So loud!

It came from behind her and to the left. She backed up and found a door ajar. She pushed it open…

… and froze, staring, not sure of what she was seeing.

A crib with a child… a small child wearing a dark blue, sleeveless onesy… very small… only two feet tall, if that… but standing in the crib. Standing. Should a child that small be able to stand?

And yet there he stood, gripping the bars, staring at her with his black eyes. He had wild black hair shooting straight out from his scalp, a flat nose and nearly lipless mouth.

Those eyes… she recognized those eyes.

And then he opened his mouth and loosed an ear-splitting shriek that rocked Dawn back on her heels.

But only for a second. She moved closer, slowly, so as not to startle him. His eyes never moved from her face. She looked at his sturdy little legs. They seemed covered with black stubble. And his hands where he gripped the rails of the crib-his fingernails looked more like black claws, and might have been sharp but they’d been trimmed back. He opened his mouth and shrieked again-a nerve-wracking sound-and Dawn thought she saw glimmers of white along his gums.

Teeth? Already? Whoever heard of a baby teething at two weeks? And yet… was that why he was shrieking?

My baby.

This was her child. Dawn knew it as surely as she knew her own name.

He’s alive. My baby is alive!

But where were the tentacles she’d seen? She leaned left and right for a look at what little she could see of his armpits, but no sign of a tentacle in either.

Okay. Maybe she’d been wrong about the tentacles. She’d been sure she’d seen two little tendrils like wriggling garter snakes right after she delivered, but she’d been pretty stressed out then, and frankly, being wrong about the tentacles was totally okay.

He continued to stare at her, as if she were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. She had to smile. With no one else to look at but Gilda and Georges, maybe she was.

Yes, this was her baby, but…

She’d expected this totally overwhelming surge of maternal love when she saw him, but it hadn’t come. She felt more curiosity than anything. And she had to ask herself: Did she really want him back? She knew she should, and she wanted to want him, but she couldn’t help it: The maternal urge wasn’t there. He was like some creature… the result of combining all the bad DNA that had been bred into her and into the baby’s father. Her baby was alive, he was well-already standing, for God’s sake-and looked like he was being well treated. Could she do better? Should she try?

She backed away. She’d assumed the decision would be easy, automatic, but it wasn’t. She’d have to give this some thought. No, more than some-a lot of thought.

As she turned away toward the door, she heard a whimper. She looked back and saw him still standing there with his little arms stretched out toward her. Did he recognize her as his mother? Could that be possible? She felt a sudden impulse to rush to him but fought it off.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Can’t. See you later maybe.”

She heard another whimper as she stepped out the door into the hallway but kept moving. A third whimper, louder, more drawn out, turned her around and forced her to take one last peek at him.

As she watched, he turned away, head hanging, and curled up on his mattress facing the wall.

The forlorn dejection tightened her throat and damn near broke her heart. He had recognized her as his mother and she’d turned away from him, rejected him. And with those looks, he was probably facing a lifetime of people turning away.

Something crumbled inside her.

God help her, she couldn’t leave him like this. She hurried over to the crib. He turned over at her approach, crawled to the railing, and pulled himself to his feet. His arms went out to her.

“Come on, baby,” she whispered. “I’m taking you home.”

She pulled him into her arms-heavier than he looked-and grabbed the blanket from the crib, then she retraced her steps to the door. She peeked out. No sound other than the TV. She stepped to the edge of the great room and peered through to the bayfront yard.

She didn’t see Gilda.

Her heart twisted in her chest. Oh, God, where was Gilda?

And then Dawn spotted her at the other end. She’d switched sides to pull weeds over there.

The baby saw the older woman and shrieked, a truly ear-splitting sound this close.

Weak with relief, her heart still thumping, Dawn turned and hurried for the front door. She paused long enough to wrap the baby in the blanket, then she pushed open the storm door and pulled the inner door closed behind her.

She ran for the O’Donnell house.

The baby loosed another shriek as the chill wind and snowflakes swirled around him.