"... more mysteries surrounding the deadly events in Nuckateague Saturday night. Police seem to be having as much trouble locating the owners of the house as they are tracking down the killers who demolished it with fire and explosives. The house appears to be owned by a corporation, which is in turn owned by an offshore holding company. The holding company is owned by yet another foreign corporation. Very confusing, very mysterious. As for the perpetrators, at this point in time the police still have no leads. A large black sedan was seen driving away from the scene, but whether or not it was connected to the devastation is anyone's guess."

Rasalom suppressed a growl of annoyance. Those incompetents would never find the "perpetrators." He'd been watching this banal Long Island TV station all morning, hoping for word that progress had been made on tracking them down. A waste of time.

But then again, he had nothing but time while he healed.

He reached for the remote. He would have liked to turn off the TV while the cow was in the kitchen and be alone with his thoughts, but she'd only turn it on again when she returned. At least he could turn down the sound - especially when the talk was of Nuckateague. He reduced it to a barely audible level, and was glad he had when he heard the announcer go on with the story.

"Progress has been made, however, in other aspects of the case, and a surprise was unearthed in identifying the three bodies found in a garage across the street from the fire. The owners of that garage are not involved, as they were out of state at the time of the incident. The youngest of the three victims turns out to be Dawn Pickering, whose name might sound familiar. She was in the news last year when she and her boyfriend disappeared after the death of her mother in Rego Park. Foul play was suspected. Still no sign of her boyfriend, but her connection to the house in Nuckateague is yet another mystery in the evolving story of this grisly, violent tragedy.

"In other news..."

Rasalom quickly changed the channel and leaned back, thinking.

Dawn ... what was she doing there? How had she known about the house? She must have tracked the baby there. He doubted she could have done that on her own. She must have had help.

He was beginning to piece together a chain of events that could have led to the ambush when the announcer's words came back to him with a shock.

The youngest of the three victims turns out to be Dawn Pickering ...

Youngest? What of the child? No mention of a dead infant, who certainly would have been the youngest of the three victims.

That meant the baby was alive. And that meant his plan was still viable.

But for how long?

A sudden urgency possessed him. This changed everything. He was certain his window of opportunity had not closed, but it could be shrinking by the moment. What had the cow said about a boat? Tomorrow? He could not wait until tomorrow. He needed to be back today.

He tried to rise from the couch.

"Here now!" she said, bustling into the room with a plate in her hand. "You need to visit the john again?"

The john ... was there a more inane name for a bathroom facility?

He had suffered the indignities of having to allow the cow to assist him to the bathroom, his knees collapsing beneath him while she chattered to him in the tone she used to speak to her dog.

"Need ... to leave."

He flopped back onto the couch, gasping from the effort.

"Leave? You're weak as a kitten. And even if you were strong enough to dance a jig, you still wouldn't be going anywhere today. The boat doesn't come till tomorrow, remember?"

"Can't wait."

"I know you want to get to the police as soon as you can and help them find those killers. If you can walk a few steps tomorrow, maybe we can help you out to the dock." As she looked over at her dog her voice took on that noxious tone. "Me and Wocky-wocks will come along and see you safely into town, won't we, doggy?"

The dog panted in the corner, beating its tail against the wall.

"Do you take him everywhere?"

"Of course I do." She continued the tone as she grinned idiotically at her pet. "Don't I, Wocky? Don't I? Cause you're a good dog, aren't you. You're Mommy's best boy, aren't you."

Rasalom rescinded his rash decision during the storm to reward her for saving him.

"So now," she said, resuming a normal tone, "you just sit back and eat this nice turkey sandwich I made you. That's the sort of thing that'll build you up and get your strength back."

She set the plate on his lap and looked around.

"Where's that remote?"

He pointed to it with his wrist stump. "There."

"Where?"

He remembered she could barely see. "Right next to me."

"Well, use it to turn up the sound, will you. I like to listen. Now go on and eat up. If you're getting on that boat tomorrow you're going to need all your strength."

She bustled back to the kitchen.

Yes, strength. He needed strength - but now, not later. He couldn't afford the time it would take for turkey sandwiches to do the job. He needed another form of nourishment, and here on this tiny island he was cut off from the emotions that could speed the process. The world out there writhed with a farrago of pain and fear and anger and grief, but he could access none of it from here. The population at this end of Long Island was thin this time of year, and the meager sustenance available was dampened by distance. Water further muted the effect.

He had only the cow close at hand, and he needed her.

He looked across the room at the dog, who stared back. But he didn't need her pet ... her beloved pet.

Before he could do anything, he needed it closer. But the dog feared him. How to bring him within reach? And then he remembered the sandwich in his lap. Would the dumb animal's stomach overcome its distrust of the stranger in its home?

Let's see, shall we?

He pulled a piece of turkey from the sandwich and held it out, dangling it from his hand.

The dog's head shot up and rocked as it sniffed. But its body remained prone.

He waved the meat back and forth. Should he whisper its name? He didn't want the cow to hear, but decided to risk it. He was quite sure, however, that he could not bring himself to utter, "Wocky-wocks."

"Here, Rocky."

That was enough. The old dog pushed itself to its feet and ambled over, head down, tail giving a few tentative wags.

Rasalom slowly drew the meat back, enticing the animal closer and closer until he could lay his wrist stump on its back. Deep within the furry chest, he felt the heart beating.

He focused in on the beat.

And stopped it.

The animal stiffened, coughed once, and then its legs collapsed. It landed on the floor with a thump, shuddered, and did not move again.

Rasalom popped the piece of turkey into his mouth - after all, he needed it more than the dog.

Now ... what was the cow's name?

"Sadie! I think something is wrong with your dog."

The cow rushed in. Her eyes darted to the corner where she'd left the dog, then to the still brown lump on the carpet before the couch.

"Rocky?" she said, her voice rich with anxiety.

When the lump did not respond, she bent and touched its flank.

"Rocky?" A delicious burst of fear accompanied the word.

When her fingers sent the message that no life lingered in the inert flesh beneath them, she dropped to her knees beside her companion and screamed.

"Rockyyyyyyyyyyy!"

Rasalom leaned back, closed his eyes, and bathed in the cataract of grief and loss, absorbing it like a dry sponge, feeding his needy cells, abating a hunger that could never be fully assuaged.

Yessssss.

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