this evening, he’d expect to find them at the apartment; when he
discovered they weren’t at home, he wouldn’t know where to look for
them.
In spite of what Carver Hampton had said, Lavelle couldn’t know all and
see all. Could he? Of course not.
He wasn’t God. He might be a Bocor, a priest with real power, a genuine
sorcerer. But he wasn’t God. So the kids would be safe with Faye and
Keith. In fact, maybe it would be a good idea for them to stay at the
Jamison apartment overnight. Or even for the next few days, until
Lavelle was apprehended. Faye and Keith wouldn’t mind; they’d welcome
the visit, the opportunity to spoil their only niece and nephew. Might
even be wise to keep Penny and Davey out of school until this was all
over. And he’d talk to Captain Gresham about getting some protection
for them, a uniformed officer to stay in the Jamison apartment when Jack
wasn’t able to be there. Not much chance Lavelle would track the kids
down. Highly unlikely. But just in case…. And if Gresham didn’t
take the threat seriously, if he thought an around-the-clock guard was
an unjustified use of manpower, then something could be arranged with
the guys, the other detectives; they’d help him, just as he’d help them
if anything like this ever fell in their direction; each of them would
give up a few hours of off-duty time, take a shift at the Jamisons’;
anything for a buddy whose family was marked; it was part of the code.
Okay. Fine. Everything would be all right.
The world, which had strangely receded when the telephone had begun to
ring, now rushed back. Jack was aware of sound, first: a bleating
automobile horn, laughter farther along the street, the clatter-clank of
tire chains on the snowy pavement, the howling wind. The buildings
crowded in around him. A pedestrian scurried past, bent into the wind;
and here came three black teenagers, laughing, throwing snowballs at one
another as they ran. The mist was gone, and he didn’t feel dizzy or
disoriented any longer. He wondered if there actually had been any mist
in the first place, and he decided the eerie fog had existed only in his
mind, a figment of his imagination. What must have happened was . . .
he must have had an attack of some kind; yeah, sure, nothing more than
that.
But exactly what kind of attack? And why had he been stricken by it?
What had brought it on? He wasn’t an epileptic. He didn’t have low
blood pressure. No other physical maladies, as far as he was aware. He
had never experienced a fainting spell in his life; nothing remotely
like that. He was in perfect health. So why?
And how had he known the phone call was for him?
He stood there for a while, thinking about it, as thousands of
snowflakes fluttered like moths around him.
Eventually he realized he ought to call Faye and explain the situation
to her, warn her to be certain that she wasn’t followed when she picked
up the kids at Wellton School. He turned to the pay phone, paused. No.
He wouldn’t make the call here. Not on the very phone Lavelle had used.
It seemed ridiculous to suppose that the man could have a tap on a
public phone-but it also seemed foolish to test the possibility.
Calmer-still furious but less frightened than he had been-he headed back
toward the patrol car that was waiting for him.
Three-quarters of an inch of snow lay on the ground.
The storm was turning into a full-fledged blizzard.
The wind had icy teeth. It bit.
Lavelle returned to the corrugated metal shed at the rear of his
property. Outside, winter raged; inside, fierce dry heat made sweat pop
out of Lavelle’s ebony skin and stream down his face, and shimmering
orange light cast odd leaping shadows on the ribbed walls. From the pit
in the center of the floor, a sound arose, a chilling susurration, as of
thousands of distant voices, angry whisperings.
He had brought two photographs with him: one of Davey Dawson, the other
of Penny Dawson. He had taken both photographs himself, yesterday