Nightworld

End Play

MANHATTAN

"Where can they be?

Carol knew she was being a pest, that no one in the room—neither Sylvia, nor Jeffy, nor Ba, not Nick, not even Glaeken himself—could answer the question she'd repeated at least two dozen times in the past hour, but she couldn't help herself.

"I know I'm not supposed to be afraid, I know that's what Rasalom wants, but I can't help it. I'm scared to death something's happened to Bill. And Jack."

"That's not fear," Glaeken said. "That's concern. There's an enormous difference. The fear that Rasalom thrives on is the dread, the panic, the terror, the fear for one's self that paralyzes you, makes you hate and distrust everyone around you, that forces you either to lash out at anyone within reach or to crawl into a hole and huddle alone and miserable in the dark. The fear that cuts you off from hope and from each other, that's what he savors. This isn't fear you're feeling, Carol. It's anxiety, and it springs from love."

Carol nodded. That was all fine and good…

"But where are they?"

"They're gone," Nick said.

Carol's stomach plummeted as she turned toward him. Glaeken, too, was staring at him intently.

Nick hadn't answered her all the other times she'd asked the same question. Why now?

"Wh-What do you mean?" she said.

"They're gone," he repeated, his voice quavering. "They're not out there. Father Bill and the other one—they've disappeared."

Carol watched in horror as a tear slid down Nick's cheek. She turned to Glaeken.

"What does he mean?"

"He's wrong," Glaeken said, but his eyes did not hold quite the conviction of his words. "He has to be."

"But he sees things we don't," Carol said. "And he hasn't been wrong yet. Oh, God!"

She began to sob. She couldn't help it. Lying in Bill's arms last night had been the first time since Jim's death that she had felt like a complete, fully functioning human being. She couldn't bear to lose him now.

Or was this part of a plan?

She swallowed her sobs and wiped away her tears.

"Is this another of Rasalom's games?" she asked Glaeken. "Feed us a little hope, let us taste a little happiness, make us ache for a future and then crush us by snatching it all away?"

Glaeken nodded. "That is certainly his style."

"Well then, fuck him!" she said.

The words shocked her. She never used four-letter words. They simply were not part of her vocabulary. But this had leapt from her—and it seemed right. It capsulized the anger she felt. She glanced over to where Jeffy sat reading a picture book with Sylvia. He wasn't paying attention. She turned back to Glaeken.

"Fuck. Him." There, she'd said it again, but in a lower voice this time. "He's not getting anything from me. I won't be afraid, I won't lose hope, I won't give up."

She went to the huge curved sofa, picked up a magazine, and sat down to read it. But she couldn't see the trembling page through her freshly welling tears.