20.

"Really, Jack," Alicia said. "I want to go home."

Or at least get out of the car. She felt queasy.

Instead of heading back to the city, Jack had continued east, racing toward the tip of Long Island. He'd taken them into the Hamptons, and then turned north until they'd come to the quaint houses and deserted marinas of Sag Harbor. Now they were pulling into the parking lot of something called the Surfside Inn. Alicia knew there was no surf in Sag Harbor; in fact, this crummy-looking motel wasn't even near the water.

"We can't risk heading back to the city," Jack said. "They're hurting, but I don't know what kind of reserves that Arab's got. He could have spotters waiting out on the highways, looking to follow us back home. So I say, let's take the long way home."

"All right, let's." She just wanted tonight to be over. "So why are we stopping here?"

"To spend the night." He held up his hand before she could speak. "Trust me. We head back in the morning, no one will find us. We try it tonight, there could be more rough stuff."

Damn him, she thought. He knows exactly what to say. The last thing she wanted was more violence.

"All right," she said, surrendering. "But can't we find a better place than this?"

"We're not exactly in season," Jack said. "This place is open, it's got its 'Vacancy' sign lit, and we'll only be here half a dozen hours or so. And best of all, its parking lot isn't visible from the road. Wait here."

Before she could object, he was out of the car and heading toward the office.

Alicia closed her eyes, trying to blank her mind. This was all a nightmare. None of this had happened. Soon she'd wake up and find it all had been an ugly dream.

She jumped at the sound of a tap on the window: Jack—holding up a key and motioning her toward a row of doors to the left of the car. With a groan, she got out and followed him. Her limbs dragged… her marrow had turned to lead.

Jack opened a door marked "17" and held it open for her. As she stepped inside, he followed and closed the door behind him.

Slightly better decorated than Jack's "country place," but just as mildewy. Flowered drapes matched the spreads on the two double beds, but not the rug.

"Which do you want?" Jack said.

"Which what?"

"Which bed."

"You've got to be kidding," she said. "We're sharing a room? Look, things maybe be tight, but I can spring for—"

"Money's got nothing to do with it. It's the safest way." He pointed to the beds again. "So, which one?"

Alicia pointed to the one nearer the bathroom. God, she wanted a shower—she craved a shower—but she had no clean clothes to change into, so what was the use?

"That one."

"All right," he said, sitting and bouncing on the other. "Then this one's mine." He lowered his voice to a Charlton Heston baritone. "But let's get something straight, young lady: I know you're mad crazy about me, but I don't want you getting any ideas."

He's trying to reassure me, she thought, and had to smile. "Somehow I'll manage to restrain myself."

"Good," he said. "Because I'm taken."

Alicia sensed he wasn't kidding about that last part. She watched Jack a moment, trying to sort out her feelings for this man. So much about him terrified her… he was a deadly, murderous creature—how many men had he killed tonight? Yet here she was sharing a motel room with him and not only believing him when he said he was taken, but almost envying the woman who had won his heart.

I can't deal with this right now, she thought as she headed for her bed. I need sleep, a break, time out.

Too much had happened tonight. Returning to that house, seeing her old room, that man's room, then the murders in the backyard… that had been more than enough. But then that small army chasing them, the shots, the screams, that truck exploding, lighting up the night…

Alicia felt as if she were enveloped in a gelatinous fog, moving in slow motion toward that bed, that glorious bed.

Too much… too much … circuit overload… need downtime…

Finally she reached the bed. She pulled back the spread and crawled between the sheets.

"Good night," she said, and pulled the covers over her head.

Silence… and darkness… blessed darkness…

21.

"Good night," Jack said, watching Alicia curl into a lump under the covers.

A weird one, all right. But then, everything named Clayton seemed to be weird in some way.

Now what? he wondered. He should take a cue from Alicia and sack out, but he was too wired to sleep. The key… where did it fit? And that damn little Land Rover… something about its persistence in trying to get to the front yard of the Clayton house nagged at him.

Jack got up and headed for the door. He unlocked the Chevy, plucked the little truck from the backseat, and carried it to the middle of the parking lot.

"All right, Mr. Rover," he said, pushing the on switch, "let's see where you want to go now."

He placed it on the pavement, facing in the direction he assumed to be east, and let her go. The little truck raced away and almost immediately veered to the left. Jack expected it to wheel into a U-turn and head back toward him, but it came only three quarters of the way around, then angled away across the lot.

Jack raced after it and grabbed it before it ran under a parked Accord.

The truck should have headed due west, back toward the Clayton house—or rather, toward its front yard. Did he have his directions screwed up?

He scanned the stars. Good thing it was a cold, clear winter night. He traced the Big Dipper, ran a line up from the leading edge of its cup, and found Polaris. Okay. That was north.

He backed up to his original spot, pointed the truck east… and damn if it didn't make a beeline for that same Accord.

He found Polaris again. Back in Murray Hill, the truck had insisted on heading uptown—due north… toward the front yard, he'd assumed. But now it wanted to travel northwest… away from the front yard.

What had changed?

The Rover's position, for one.

Or had someone adjusted its controller, wherever that was?

This was going to take more investigation, and under better conditions than these.

Tomorrow… he'd spend all tomorrow figuring this out. And looking for the box that belonged to that key.

Jack returned to the room, taking the truck with him. He didn't want to leave it in the car overnight. Who knew?

Someone wandering through the lot might spot it and rip it off.

He slipped back into the room as quietly as he could. He could make out Alicia's form under the covers, curled into the fetal position.

What are you hiding from? he wondered.

He felt a mixture of admiration and pity for her—and he knew she'd resent the pity like all hell, but still, that was what he felt. Somewhere, somehow, she'd been terribly damaged, and he pitied anyone who'd been scarred so deeply. But she'd waged—was still waging, apparently—a valiant battle against the effects of whatever had been done to her.

Maybe tonight had been too much for her. Maybe he shouldn't have insisted she come along.

But what other options had he had? She'd lived in that house, and he'd needed her help.

Still, he got a cold knot in his stomach when he looked at that fetal lump, curled and cocooned so defensively against the world.

How would she be when she awoke tomorrow morning?

Jack flopped back on the other bed and stared at the stained ceiling, wondering about that until sleep claimed him.