14
-11:08
Tom couldn’t sit still.
Twenty seconds after he’d settled himself on
the couch he’d be up and pacing until he perched on the edge of a
chair, only to be up and moving about half a minute later. He tried
watching television—no good.
Wherever he went, Gia’s voice followed
him.
Do you have any idea what
you’ve done to our lives? Not just Jack’s but to Vicky’s and
mine?
He remembered the light in her eyes, the look
on her face on the way home from the opera when she’d talked about
Jack being a rock in her life. And Tom wondered… had anyone ever
looked like that when they’d spoken of him? Had he ever been a rock
in anyone’s life?
Who was he kidding? No need to wonder. The
answer was no.
He needed something to settle his
nerves.
Jack didn’t seem to drink anything but beer,
and that wouldn’t do it. So he hunted through the kitchen cabinets
until he came upon a bottle of amber liquid.
Hey. Old Pulteney eighteen-year-old single
malt. He’d have preferred vodka—ideally Grey Goose or Level—but
this was all right. More than all right. When it came to scotch,
Jack stocked the good stuff.
Tom poured a couple of fingers’ worth into a
tumbler and tossed it down. After savoring the burn, he poured
himself a second dose. This he drank slowly, sipping and thinking
about his life and the mess he’d made of it. He ranged over
possible ways to turn things around and extricate himself, but came
up empty.
By the time he’d finished his second glass he
knew scotch wasn’t going to do the trick. Not even close.
He needed something more potent. A lot more
potent.
He dug out his wallet and found Kamal’s phone
number. Time for another run uptown.
Before leaving he took a peek into Jack’s
room.
“Oh, shit.”
The Lilitongue was gone.