these supernatural means. But he knew that if he only trusted in his
dark god, everything would eventually be made clear to him.
He was beginning to wonder if Hell had let him go willingly, returning
him to the land of the living in order to use him to deal with certain
people whom the god of darkness wanted dead. Perhaps he’d not been
stolen from Hell, after all, but had been sent back to life on a mission
of destruction that was only slowly becoming comprehensible.
If that were the case, he was pleased to make himself the instrument of
the dark and powerful divinity whose company he longed to rejoin, and he
anxiously awaited whatever task he might he assigned next.
Toward dawn, after several hours in a deep slumber of almost deathlike
perfection, Hatch woke and did not know where he was. For a moment he
drifted in confusion, then washed up on the shore of memory: the
bedroom, Lindsey breathing softly in her sleep beside him, the ash-gray
first light of morning like a fine silver dust on the windowpane When he
Bed the inexplicable and inhuman fit of rage that had slammed through
him with paralytic force, Hatch stiffened with fear. He tried to
remember where that spiraling anger had led, in what act of violence it
had culminated, but his mind was blank. It seemed to him that he had
simply blacked out, as if that usually intense fury had overloaded the
circuits in his brain and blown a fuse or two.
Passed out-or blacked out? There was a fateful difference between the
two. Passed out, he might have been in bed all night, exhausted, as
still as a stone on the floor of the sea. But if he blacked out,
remaining conscious but unaware of what he was doing, in a psychotic
fugue, God alone knew what he might have done.
Suddenly he sensed that Lindsey was in grave danger.
Heart hammering against the cage of his ribs, he sat up in bed and
looked at her. The dawn light at the window was too soft to reveal her
clearly. She was only a shadowy shape against the sheets.
He reached for the switch on the bedside lamp, but then hesitated. He
was afraid of what he might see.
I would never hurt Lindsey, never, he thought desperately.
But he remembered all too well that, for a moment last night, he had not
been entirely himself. His anger at Cooper had seemed to open a door
within him, letting in a monster from some vast darkness beyond.
Trembling, he finally clicked the switch. In the lamplight he saw that
Lindsey was untouched, as fair as ever, sleeping with a peaceful smile.
Greatly relieved, he switched off the lamp and thought of Regina. The
engine of anxiety revved up again.
Ridiculous. He would no sooner harm Regina than Lindsey. She was a
defenseless child.
He could not stop shaking, wondering.
He slipped out of bed without disturbing his wife. He picked up his
bathrobe from the back of the armchair, pulled it on, and quietly left
the room.
Barefoot, he entered the hall, where a pair of skylights admitted large
pieces of the morning, and followed it to Regina’s room. He moved
swiftly at first, then more slowly, weighed down by dread as heavy as a
pair of iron boots.
He had a mental image of the flower-painted mahogany bed splashed with
blood, the sheets sodden and red. For some reason, he had the crazy
notion that he would find the child with fragments of glass in her
ravaged face. The weird specificity of that image convinced him that he
had, indeed, done something unthinkable after he had blacked out.
When he eased open the door and looked into the girls room, she was
sleeping as peacefully as Lindsey, in the same posture he had seen her
in last night, when he and Lindsey had checked on her before going to
bed.
No blood. No broken glass.
Swallowing hard, he pulled the door shut and returned along the hall as
far as the first skylight. He stood in the fall of dim morning light,
looking up through the tinted glass at a sky of indeterminate hue, as if