The Dark at the End

With the cow's help, Rasalom had struggled his way to the couch. She'd draped it with a sheet - the first step toward making him a bed, she promised - and he now sat upon it, wrapped in a blanket.

The effort had exhausted him. He hadn't felt this weak since Glaeken had trapped him in that wretched little castle in Romania. His lids felt heavy, and kept drifting closed, but he forced them open to concentrate on the television on the far side of the small room.

The woman had a satellite feed; she'd turned it on first thing this morning and left it running. He had a feeling she kept it on all day. Her only company besides her dog. Rasalom would have ignored it except the channel was updating what it called "the nightmare in Nuckateague." The mention of a triple murder associated with the "blitzkrieg assault" on the mansion had galvanized his attention.

Triple murder?

He assumed two of the dead to be Georges and Gilda, but who was the third? And then it struck him - the baby.

Oh, no ... not the baby.

Despairing, he listened carefully, but the identities of the dead were being withheld pending notification of their families.

He had to get off this island ...

Then again, what was the hurry? With the baby gone, he'd have to come up with a new plan.

Another concern arose: Did Glaeken know he had survived? The Glaeken of old could sense his presence in the world, just as Rasalom could always sense his. Had he lost that ability along with his immortality? If not, he knew that his scheme had failed. He might try another strike to finish the job. Rasalom's weakness and injuries left him painfully vulnerable out here.

He lifted the blanket and examined his naked body. The burns were still oozing, and that concerned him. Certainly his skin was further along in the healing process than an everyday human's, but he felt he should be doing better. The injuries had seriously weakened him.

He raised his left arm and stared at the stump of his wrist. More than weakened: maimed and mutilated. He could recover from the weakness, he could heal his wounds, but his left hand was gone forever.

Who did this to him?

Glaeken? Not personally, that was certain. Too old and feeble. How he had reveled in seeing him like that. He had not expected so bold a move - had not expected any move.

Killing Georges and Gilda and the baby ... that was not like the old Glaeken. Rasalom had used his concern for "innocent" lives against him countless times. Perhaps the mortal Glaeken, with his clock winding down, had realized, like Rasalom, that no one was innocent.

And no one was supposed to know about the Nuckateague house. How had Glaeken found out? Did he have a source in the Order? That was the only answer. But who?

His Heir must have led the attack. An impressive assault, Rasalom had to admit. Only by the sheerest good fortune had he survived. If not for the presence of this island, if not for the wind and current that carried him here, he would have drowned. And even then, had it not been inhabited, he would have frozen solid on the beach out there.

The island's sole inhabitant, the cow, Sadie, bustled in carrying a plate and a glass of milk.

"Brunch! More like a real breakfast - bacon and fried eggs - but since it's after twelve we're going to call it brunch."

The communal "we" again.

"And since you've only got one hand, I put it between bread. So you've got a breakfast sandwich and some milk. Now, you may be saying to yourself, I want coffee, and maybe we'll get you some later, but right now you need nourishment to get your strength back and milk's got a lot more nourishment than coffee."

The chatter, the incessant chatter. Did she never tire of prattle?

She placed the plate and the glass on the table next to the couch and moved on to the window.

"Looks like the storm's finally giving up the ghost. About time, I say. About time." She turned and looked at him. "The phone should be working now. Time to get you some medical help."

"No!" he said. His voice was stronger now, but still raspy.

"You keep saying that, but you're not thinking straight. Those burns are going to get infected for sure and then you're going to be one sick puppy."

Infection was the least of his worries - his immune system would not allow it. But discovery ... how was he going to stop her?

Perhaps the truth ...

"You have been watching the television?"

"On and off. You've occupied a lot of my attention."

"You saw the fire in Nuckateague?"

Her eyes widened. "I surely did! Did you see what someone did to that house? I declare I've never seen anything like that in all my born..." Her voice trailed off as she stared at him. "You're not going to tell me...?"

He nodded.

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, dear God!"

He faked a sob. "They killed my family and were going to kill me but I managed to escape - though, as you can see ... just barely."

"Oh, you poor man! Who were they?"

"I don't know." He had to improvise now ... something lurid yet plausible. "Home invaders. I am a wealthy man. They thought I had a house full of valuables. They cut off my hand trying to get me to tell them where I had hidden all these supposed valuables. They did not want to hear the truth - that it was all in the city in a bank vault. When they finally were convinced, they became enraged and went on a murder rampage - my brother, my wife, and my baby boy."

"Oh, dear God!"

That would cover him should they identify the bodies.

"Then they left me for dead and blew up the house to destroy all evidence."

"Oh, you poor man!"

"That is why you cannot call for medical help. They believe I am dead and must go on believing that. I'll reward you well - "

"I don't need money. Got plenty of that. But it sounds like I should be calling the police instead of emergency services."

"No, I don't want to endanger you. If they learn I'm alive they might try to finish what they began. They will kill you too. They are merciless. You must keep my presence secret until I'm well enough to go to the police and ask for protective custody. Do you understand?"

She was nodding vigorously. "Yes. Yes, of course. When you're well enough, we'll put you aboard the boat and - "

"Boat?"

"The weekly boat out of Sag Harbor. How do you suppose I get mail and food and such? The boat stops every Tuesday. I'll just tell them you're a relative who's been staying here, recovering from some terrible accident. You can ride back to Sag Harbor and get in touch with the police there."

"Thank you. You are very kind."

"It's the least I can do after the terrible ordeal you've been through. I'll help you any way I can to get through this."

How easily gulled were these cattle. Especially the cows. Ruled by their emotions. Tell them a sad story and they were at your service.

"Now eat up." She took the sandwich plate and placed it in his lap. "Whether you're hungry or not, you need your strength."

Yes, that was true. But he was in no hurry to leave. Glaeken might or might not be aware of his survival. Even if so, he would not be able to pinpoint his location. Better to stay here until he was stronger - strong enough to transport himself from this lump of rock.

That would certainly not be by Tuesday.