would prove to be dangerous; he must protect himself against it.
Wel, that was easy. And more determined now, he placed the 'phone in its cradle and dialed the operator. But even so, and while he waited for her to answer, still he sweated and glanced al about the room. Until finaly:
'This is the operator. How can I help you?'
'I want to change my number, to ex-directory,' he said.
And after she'd checked: 'But your number's already listed, sir. It is ex-directory.'
'I want to change it anyway.'
'Fine. I'll put you through to the service you require ... "
It was as simple as that. As for Bonnie Jean ... he could always give her his new number, if the need should arise.
And then, generally feeling a lot better, the Necroscope shaved, tidied up his study, finished the unpacking that he'd started a month ago, and made himself an evening meal . . . And thought about Brenda and his baby son, of course.
The way he worried about them, he could have set off right there and then, heading off aimlessly into the Mobius Continuum on some wild-goose chase that might easily last him the rest of his life. A wild-goose chase? Now why had he thought that? But of course he knew why: because his son had powers the equal of his own, and if he didn't want to be found, then Harry didn't stand much chance of finding him. His one trump card was that he knew more about the world and its ways; he was experienced as only an adult who has lived (and died?) can be experienced. While the baby ... was a baby.
But in any case he wouldn't be going anywhere for, oh, at least three weeks? ... He would need that long to work out his plan of campaign, surely? ... And meanwhile he would stay here, warm and comfortable despite all the bad weather, safe in this big old house.
Harry shook his head and frowned. God, he was starting to think like his mother! Starting to worry about himself - promising to see a doctor and such! But, three whole weeks to plan some kind of search campaign? He shrugged, blinked watery eyes, rubbed at his sore throat. And the mental fluff was back, right there where his brain should be. So much for a rapid recovery!
As for geting a plan together: if three weeks was what it took, then that's what it would get. Al he had to work out now was what to put in it!
But his throat was so sore! And his eyes: hot, and itchy as hel ... probably through sleeplessness, or a night spent in a drunken stupor, tossing and turning on Bonnie Jean's lounger. At which he remembered her wine. It had been on the table -
- And was now on the floor, having skitered against the skirting board under a bookshelf when he'd knocked everything flying. He went scrambling for it without realizing how desperately he needed it, trying to convince himself that it might be just the ticket, just what the doctor ordered. Its warm, resin-laden, sleep-inducing glow, al ruby-red and swirly-deep in his glass. It would ease his throat, for sure.
A sip, that's al. Just this one smal glass. After al, it wasn't his addiction he was pandering to, but Alec Kyle's. Except this time it realy was for curative or medicinal purposes. He was just so tired! Damned if he didn't intend to get a good night's sleep tonight, at least! And doubly damned if he did, too ...
Two and a half weeks later, when B.J. could no longer resist it, and when she had decided that she couldn't afford to wait any longer, she did try to call the Necroscope - only to discover that he had given her the wrong number! But she knew he couldn't possibly have done it deliberately. Checking with the switchboard, she then found that he'd changed his ex-directory number. But since she'd given him no instructions to the contrary, why shouldn't he? She had simply failed to consider the possibility that he might do such a thing, that was all.
But all was not lost. He had been ordered to stay in touch with her, and B.J. knew he would and even when he would: just a few days before the full moon, Harry would contact her. He had damn well better! And meanwhile she had decided to do a little searching of her own, for him. For in