Biting his lower lip, he considered the article another moment and then forced his attention to roam
and come to rest on a penholder made from a tin can wrapped in red construction paper and decorated with little green Christmas trees, a present from one of Cross’s children, no doubt.
The penholder stood on the desk next to the phone. It had been right there in the picture the Post ran of Cross’s office three years before. It had probably never moved. Sunday picked it up and put it at the far end of the credenza.
The move was small. It was subtle. But if Sunday was right, it would serve to rattle Cross at some level. At least, that was what he hoped.
“I’m leaving,” Sunday muttered to Acadia.
He got up from the chair, careful to position it exactly where he’d found it, retrieved the monocle, and flipped off the desk light. In green night vision he crossed to the door and eased it open without a sound. Creeping down the staircase, he reached the second-floor landing and slipped toward the lower stairs and Cross’s bedroom.
Sunday was right there, about to take that first step down the next flight, when he heard a latch lift. A door opened behind and to his left.
The writer froze and slowly looked over his shoulder, seeing little Ali Cross rubbing one eye.
Chapter
58
It was only a second, maybe two, but time seemed to stand still while the obvious option seized Sunday’s mind: Kill him! Now!
In two steps he could have the boy, break his neck, and—
Ali dropped his hand and staggered toward the bathroom door as if he’d never seen Sunday. He pushed the door open and went inside. A motion-detector night-light went on.
Sunday danced down three stairs and froze, hearing the sound of the boy peeing. Eight more stairs, and he reached the front hall and froze again. The toilet flushed.
Small feet moved. A door opened.
There was a pause and then the boy cried out, “Zombie! There’s a zombie in the house!”
Sunday fled on tiptoes down the hall, into the dining room, and through the Visqueen into the construction area. He paused to close the Velcro strips, then got out the pistol and headed toward the slit he’d cut in the plastic sheeting that surrounded the new addition.
He felt the duct tape come free and the wind rushed in, swirling sawdust all around him again.
Sunday got outside, and despite the fact that the boy was still yelling and now other voices were adding to the mix, he calmly and deliberately pressed the tape neatly over the cut against the wall, sealing the new addition off once more.
“Lights in Cross’s room and the grandmother’s,” Acadia said through the earpiece.
Sunday was already running. When he reached the front of Cross’s house, he muttered, “Good?”
“Stick to the shadows and go!” she said.
Out of the corner of the writer’s right eye he saw lights go on, figured they were over the staircase and lower hall. Cross or his wife was coming.
Sunday bolted down the short slope of the lawn and vaulted over the low fence, landing on the sidewalk. He ducked down and sprinted away from the house and was well down the street before crossing. Keeping in a crouch behind parked cars, he snuck back toward the van, seeing more lights come on in the first-floor windows of Cross’s house.
But the porch lights didn’t come on until Sunday had opened the van’s rear door, climbed inside, and scrambled forward next to Acadia to peer over the front seats and through the windshield. Cross came out on the porch, wearing a robe and carrying a flashlight, which he played about the front yard and over the Dumpster for a few moments before going back inside.
“Dining room bug!” Sunday said.
Acadia spun around, picked up the laptop, and turned up the volume.
At first they heard nothing but static, and then Cross’s voice became audible: “Anything?”
“I don’t know,” Bree said. “There are a few marks in the dust out in the addition that could be footprints. But nothing new.”
“I’ll go up and sleep with him,” Cross replied. “But I think we should be changing the rules about him watching so many zombie shows.”