boy’s sweater or his shirt; they hadn’t left even one shallow scratch on
his skin.
Jack thought about how close he had come to losing both Davey and Penny,
and he was acutely aware that he might still lose them before this case
was closed. He put one hand to his son’s fragile face. An icy
premonition of dreadful loss began to blossom within him, spreading
frozen petals of terror and despair. His throat clenched. He struggled
to hold back tears. He must not cry. The kids would come apart if he
cried. Besides, if he gave in to despair now, he would be
surrendering-in some small but significant way-to Lavelle. Lavelle was
evil, not just another criminal, not merely corrupted, but evil, the
very essence and embodiment of it, and evil thrived on despair. The
best weapons against evil were hope, optimism, determination, and faith.
Their chances of survival depended on-their ability to keep hoping, to
believe that life (not death) was their destiny, to believe that good
could triumph over evil, simply to believe. He would not lose his kids.
He would not allow Lavelle to have them.
“Well,” he said to Davey, “it’s too well-ventilated for a winter coat,
but I think we can fix that.” He took off his long neckscarf, wound it
overtop the boy’s damaged coat, twice around his small chest, and
knotted it securely at his waist. “There. That ought to keep the gaps
closed. You okay, skipper?”
Davey nodded and tried very hard to look brave. He said, “Dad, do you
think maybe what you need here is a magic sword?”
“A magic sword?” Jack said.
“Well, isn’t that what you’ve got to have if you’re going to kill a
bunch of goblins?” the boy asked earnestly.
“In all the stories, they usually have a magic sword or a magic staff,
see, or maybe just some magic powder, and that’s what always does in the
goblins or the witches or ogres or whatever it is that has to be done
in. Oh, and sometimes, what it is they have . . . it’s a magic
jewel, you know, or a sorcerer’s ring..So, since you and Rebecca are
detectives maybe this time it’s a goblin gun.
Do you know if the police department has anything like that? A goblin
gun?”
“I don’t really know,” Jack said solemnly, wanting to hug the boy very
close and very tight. “But it’s a darned good suggestion, son. I’ll
look into it.”
“And if they don’t have one,” Davey said, “then maybe you could just ask
a priest to sort of bless your own gun, the one you already have, and
then you could load it up with lots and lots of silver bullets. That’s
what they do with werewolves, you know.”
“I know. And that’s a good suggestion, too. I’m real glad to see
you’re thinking about ways to beat these things. I’m glad you aren’t
giving up. That’s what’s important-not giving up.”
“Sure,” Davey said, sticking his chin out. “I know that.”
Penny was watching her father over Davey’s shoulder. She smiled and
winked.
Jack winked back at her.
Ten-twenty.
With every minute that passed uneventfully, Jack felt safer.
Not safe. Just safer.
Penny gave him a very abbreviated account of her encounters with the
goblins.
When the girl finished, Rebecca looked at Jack and said, “He’s been
keeping a watch on them. So he’d always know exactly where to find them
when the time came.”
To Penny, Jack said, “My God, baby, why didn’t you wake me last night
when the thing was in your room?”
“I didn’t really see it-”
“But you heard it.”
“That’s all.”
“And the baseball bat-”
“Anyway,” Penny said with a sudden odd shyness, unable to meet his eyes,
“I was afraid you’d think I’d gone . . . crazy . . . again.”
“Huh? Again?” Jack blinked at her. “What on earth do you mean-again?”
“Well . . . you know . . . like after Mama died, the way I was
then . . . when I had my . . . trouble.”
“But you weren’t crazy,” Jack said. “You just needed a little
counseling; that’s all, honey.”