Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

on him.
     
    Regina gulped and eased her hand around a mop. The handle was smooth and reassuring in her grip. “So, uh, can I get you something? A sandwich?” If she could reach the counter, if she could get to the phone . .
    .
     
    Jericho lunged.
     
    She jerked back. Swung. But she was too close, he was too close, the mop crashed into the wall and slid uselessly off his shoulder. She did try to scream then, but his hands closed hard and bruising around her neck, and it was too late.
     
    Nick, she thought. Nick.
     
    Too late.
     
    Jericho’s fingers pressed. Her vision grayed. She slammed her foot into his instep, tried to bring up her knee, clawed at his hands, his wrists.
    He grunted, his fingers slackening. She lashed out with hands and feet.
    He snarled and grabbed at her chest.
     
    Burning. She smelled burning. Spots spangled the darkness behind her eyes. Something stung the back of her neck. Jericho roared and threw her into the wall. Her head thumped once, and then his forearm pressed, an iron bar against her throat. Smoke filled her head, cut off her air.
     
    Air. She raked his arm. She needed . . .
     
    More sparks swam in the roaring dark, and then blackness swallowed everything.
     
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    *
     
    Nick woke in front of the TV. His legs were cold. His cheek pressed against the carpet. Chuck Norris was gone, replaced on the flickering screen by some guy with a bunch of cars behind him, promising the best deal in town.
     
    Nick sat up slowly, rubbing his face. It felt late. His mom never let him stay up this late. Where was his mom?
     
    His mouth tasted funny. He stumbled to his feet and into the bathroom, took a pee, drank some water from the plastic cup.
     
    In the living room, he flopped down on the couch and thumbed the remote. Nothing was on. Just grown-ups, sitting and smiling, selling things. It must be really late. He squinted at the little blue numbers above the TV. 3:37.
     
    Nick got a funny feeling in his stomach. Had his mom just gone to bed and left him lying on the floor? Without a blanket?
     
    He got to his feet, more slowly this time, and shuffled to her bedroom door. She slept with it cracked. So she could hear him, she said, if he woke in the night.
     
    “Mom?” he whispered.
     
    No answer.
     
    So he said it louder. “Mom.”
     
    And again, “Mom.”
     
    He pushed the door open. The covers on her bed were flat and smooth. She wasn’t in it. Wasn’t there.
     
    “Mom?” Real loud, this time, which was stupid, she must be in the restaurant, she couldn’t hear him.
     
    Nick didn’t like to go downstairs at night, didn’t want to go out on the landing in the dark and the cold, down the iron stairs to the alley. The kitchen was really big and dark, all corners and shadows, and the
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    windows out front didn’t have any curtains, so anybody walking by could see in.
     
    But his mom should be upstairs by now.
     
    He was mad at her because she wasn’t, and now he had to go downstairs, past the Dumpster, in the dark.
     
    What if something bad happened? What if she fell and couldn’t get up, like the old lady in the commercial, and he had to call for help, call Nonna or 9-1-1. Nick didn’t like to think about that, didn’t want to think anything could happen to his mother. But she should be here.
     
    He was shaking a little as he unlocked the door, as he crept out on the landing. He wasn’t afraid. He was cold. He stood on the landing a minute, getting up his nerve to go down the stairs, when a shadow slunk from the deeper shadows around the Dumpster.
     
    Nick’s toes curled on the rough, cold metal. Oh, jeez. Oh, shit. A rat.
    Nick hated rats.
     
    But then the shadow crossed into the moonlight of the graveled parking strip, and he recognized the bushy tail, the golden eyes. Hercules.
     
    So . . . okay. Nick drew a deep breath and ran down the steps to the cracked concrete, hopping from one foot to the other as he fumbled with the handle, as he yanked on the door. All the lights were on. Good. That was good.
     
    “Hey, Mom!”
     
    The kitchen was empty.
     
    His heart pounded in his chest, making it hard to breathe. “Mom?
    Mom?”
     
    But she wasn’t there.
     
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Seven
     
    CALEB STILL HAD NIGHTMARES.
     
    From Iraq, and from seven weeks ago, when he’d tangled with a demon. The Army shrink said the dreams would get better over time. In the meantime, he wrote Caleb a prescription.
     
    Caleb never filled it. He swallowed enough pills to handle