Like the Kicker Man, for instance.
… it's a lure of sorts. Taints respond to it…
He remembered the first time he'd seen the figure—in Dr. Buhmann's while standing next to the stroked-out professor. Remembered the odd twinge of familiarity it triggered, and the feeling that something long dormant within had stirred.
But he hadn't noticed any desire for a Kicker Man tattoo, or a compulsion to grab a can of spray paint and start tagging walls.
Maybe because his Taint was, as Veilleur had said, compartmentalized.
The Taint… where had it come from? The Otherness, sure, but how had it seeped into humanity's bloodstream?
But the biggest surprise of the night had been meeting Glaeken, the man whose shoes he might have to step into—would definitely have to step into if Rasalom made his move.
Glaeken and Rasalom… two ancient enemies, each thousands of years old… Jack had met both now, and felt like a punk… far, far out of their league.
Rasalom… looked as human as the next guy until he lowered his guard and allowed a peek into his eyes—twin black holes of hunger with no hint of mercy or regard. Total self-absorption.
Glaeken—better get used to calling him Veilleur—was still a man, a regular guy. Or at least he seemed to be. Thousands of years old, yet hurrying home to his sick wife—the first wife he'd grown old with. Was that why she was so precious to him?
Jack had never felt further out of his depth.
At least he'd been able to tell Veilleur something he didn't already know—he'd seemed genuinely surprised to hear the name Jonah Stevens. Seemed to have recognized it.
But Jack was more interested in Jonah Stevens's granddaughter and great-grandchild—Dawn Pickering and the unborn, super-tainted baby she carried.
Almost a month now since Dawn had disappeared. Where the hell could she be? Her mother was dead, she had no family. Hank Thompson and his Kickers were looking for her too, and the fresh posters with Dawn's picture going up almost daily, asking HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? were proof of sorts that they'd yet to find her.
Which meant she had to be hiding. But where?
Jack had met her once, and then only for a minute or so when he'd handed her an envelope while pretending to be a delivery man. A slightly overweight, seemingly natural blonde with a round face and puggish nose, not a wowzer but not a bowzer either. Good grades, accepted to Colgate, but it seemed unlikely she'd be going if she didn't finish her senior year of high school.
Eighteen years old and alone and pregnant in the city. Or maybe not in the city. Her Jeep was gone too, so she could be anywhere.
Jack assumed officialdom was looking for her as well. After all, her mother's death was a suspected murder, and with both her and her boyfriend—more like manfriend—Jerry Bethlehem pulling a disappearing act, the hunt would be on.
Except she wasn't with Jerry, she was hiding from him. Someone needed to get word to her that the father of her baby, the man she'd known as Jerry Bethlehem, was dead, thanks to Jack. But the irony of it all was he'd done it in a way that had left the man with little or none of his skin, thus virtually ensuring that he'd never be identified.
But being the object of a manhunt—womanhunt?—meant Dawn couldn't use her credit or ATM cards without leaving a financial trail.
So where was she? Jack hated the thought of her sleeping in her Jeep, or staying in some flop motel until her cash ran out.
Poor kid.
Dawn closed her eyes and totally luxuriated in the caress of the bubbles as they rose through the hot tub's steaming water.
Extending her legs, she let herself float to the surface and peeked at her body. Not bad for almost two months pregnant. You'd never know. Those weeks of morning sickness had had a silver lining: She'd dropped some of her blubber. Much of her blubber, in fact. Check out that flat ab—well, almost flat—and those sleek thighs. They didn't do total justice to the flowered Shan bikini, but didn't totally insult it.
She raised her head and gazed through the green-tinted glass walls at the towers of the El Dorado building over on Central Park West. She wished she were farther downtown where she could be looking at the Ghostbusters building, or maybe at the Dakota, but she'd be like a total dumbass to complain about this view. Below, out of sight at this angle, lay Central Park.
The bubbler cycled off as it hit the twenty-minute mark. As Dawn reached over to reset it, she heard the gym door open behind her. She sighed. She knew who it was.
Gilda.
Right on time, carrying a white terrycloth robe.
Did she have her own timer? Or was she like a dog and the bubbler signal was like the sound of a can opener? No matter where she was, did she hear it and hurry over?
"Did miss enjoy her soak?" she said in her accented English.
She came from somewhere in Eastern Europe but Dawn had totally forgotten where. Thick-bodied, graying, bunned-up hair, dark eyes, and a gaptoothy smile.
"I was just beginning to. I could stay here for hours."
"Tut-tut-tut. You know the rules, you can read the signs: Twenty minutes is all you are allowed."
"But another five minutes—"
"Any longer might hurt your baby."
"It's not a baby—it's a thing inside me and I want it out. Can't anybody here get that through their heads?"
"The Master said—"
"It's not his body, it's mine, and I want it back. Totally."
Gilda held up the robe by the collar and jiggled it. "Come-come. I bring your nice soft robe. I will help you." Another jiggle. "Come."
Pissed, Dawn rose and stepped over the edge of the tub. She noticed Gilda giving her wet body a careful up-and-down. Looking for signs of pregnancy? Or just… looking. As a housekeeper, Gilda seemed totally efficient and not a bad cook either. Totally no-nonsense but always cheerful. Seemed devoted to her job, but every so often Dawn would catch her looking at her in a way that she found just plain creepy.
She slipped her arms into the robe—God, it had to be an inch thick—and folded it around her. As she knotted the belt she stepped to the glass wall and stared down at Jackie-O Lake.
"Why do you call him Master?"
"Because he is the Master of the house."
Yes, but—"
"And because he wishes us to."
That didn't surprise Dawn. Mr. Osala had a commanding air, like he was totally used to being in charge. But hearing him called "the Master" all the time made her feel like she was in Dracula's castle or something. All he needed was a red-lined cape.
The Master this, the Master that…
Screw the Master.
Who was he, anyway? He said he'd been hired by her mom before she died—hired to protect her from Jerry—or Jerome, as Mr. Osala had called him on the night he'd interrupted her planned dive off the Queensboro Bridge.