Repairman Jack [03]-Conspiracies (29 page)

As soon as the Toyota was gone, Jack heard the door open on the other side of the sedan. He looked up and saw the passenger emerge. A carbon copy of the driver. He stared at Jack across the black roof of the car.

"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" the second one said in a hoarse, whispery voice.

"You're asking
me
?" Jack said. "Don't you know?"

The passenger held up a small cylinder in his black-gloved hand. His thumb pressed some sort of button, Jack heard a
snikt
! and an ice-pick-like needle suddenly jutted from the upper end. The green glow from the traffic light gleamed evilly along its narrow polished surface.

"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" he repeated, and slammed the door.

As the passenger started to move toward the front of the car, Jack grabbed the little finger on the driver's hand; with no little difficulty he worked it free and pried it up until he got a firm grip on it. Then he bent it sharply back.

He heard the bone snap. But that was all he heard—no cry from the driver, and not the slightest lessening of the lock grip on his wrist. The driver was still looking up at him—no change of expression. Hadn't even flinched.

A quick cold thrust of shock stabbed Jack's gut. He
knew
he'd broken that bone—he'd felt it give way. Didn't this guy have any nerves?

Jack punched the driver's face as the passenger passed the right headlight. The sunglasses flew off as his hat slid down over his face; Jack punched the fedora, but the iron grip never slackened. A quick glance showed the passenger rounding the left headlight and coming Jack's way, his big needle held high.

Time to bring out the artillery, Jack thought as he flexed his right knee to bring his ankle holster with the Semmerling within reach. But before he touched it, someone began firing.

Jack looked around. The shots had come from the pickup. The driver door was open and a man was standing behind it, aiming a pistol in a two-handed grip through the window opening. Jack couldn't see his face, but that wasn't important right now. What mattered was he wasn't firing at Jack—he was aiming for the passenger.

With an almost snakelike hiss, the passenger ducked into a crouch and jumped back into the car. The next bullet from the pickup went through the sedan's rear window.

"Whoa!" Jack shouted. "Easy back there!"

The driver still hadn't released Jack's arm, but that didn't stop him from throwing the car into gear and spinning the steering wheel.

"Hey!" Jack shouted, pounding on the roof as the car started to roll. "Hey, what the hell are you doing?"

"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" said that same voice from inside the car.

"I don't know!" Jack said as he began to be pulled along by the car.

The sedan picked up speed, moving past the rear bumper of Jack's car, clearing it by a couple of inches—maybe. If Jack didn't free himself right now, his legs would be pinned between the cars. He tried to take another poke at the driver but, because of his position, couldn't reach him with his right fist.

To save his legs, Jack stepped on his own car's bumper, jumped up onto the trunk, and then the driver gunned the sedan, pulling Jack along.

Frantic now, Jack saw he had a choice between being dragged along the street or riding on the sedan's roof. Hell of a choice. He did a belly flop onto the roof as the car picked up speed.

Jack knew he wasn't going to last long up here. He stretched, reached down, pulled the Semmerling. The chamber was empty so he clamped his teeth on the slide, drew it back, then let it spring forward. Turning his head away, he fired a .45 caliber slug through the roof into the general area of the front seat below him. The angle of his wrist made for a wild recoil. The Semmerling was not an autoloader so he had to work the slide with his teeth for every shot. Only rarely did he load full-jacket slugs, and unfortunately this was not one of those times. But the frangibles must have done some damage down below because the sedan suddenly swerved and the grip on his wrist loosened a bit—just enough for Jack to twist free.

The car careened into a turn, its tires screeching as they slipped sideways on the pavement. It lost speed and Jack knew this might be his only chance. He pushed back, avoiding the shattered glass of the rear window as he slid off the roof onto the trunk, then slipped off onto the street. He hit the pavement running just before the car picked up speed again.

His forward momentum was still too fast for his sneakered feet. He went down, landed on his shoulder and rolled halfway back to his feet, then slammed against the side of a car, denting its rear fender. He felt a quick wave of nausea but shook it off.

At least he'd stopped moving. He stood and rubbed his sore shoulder as the black sedan continued down the street. Other cars passed. He saw curious faces looking his way, but no one stopped.

At least not until the red pickup pulled up. Jack recognized the Jiffy-something guy with the gray crewcut behind the wheel: Miles Kenway.

"You all right?" Kenway called through the open passenger window.

What the hell was he doing here? "I've been better."

"Get in. I'll take you back to your car." Jack looked back. He'd barely traveled a block. "I can walk."

"Get in. We need to talk."

Jack hesitated, then figured, what the hell, the guy had probably saved his life—or at least his lips and eyes. Jack got in. The first things he noticed were Kenway's camouflage pants and jacket. Camo? In the city?

"Damn good thing I followed you tonight," Kenway said as he shoved the truck into gear.

"And why were you doing that?"

"Thought you might be working for them."

"Who? The men in black?"

"Don't call them that. That's what the UFO nuts call them. They're NWO operatives."

"NW—?"

"I'll explain later. Obviously you're not with them."

"Obviously."

"But then again, maybe that little scene was all a charade for my benefit, to suck me in, get me thinking of you as an ally."

"Could be," Jack said, nodding, and thinking, Hey, I can be paranoid too. "Or ... your rescuing me from that little scene could have been a charade for
my
benefit, to suck
me
in, get me thinking of
you
as an ally."

Kenway glanced at him and gave him a slow smile. "Yeah, I guess you could look at it like that. But trust me, Shelby—you're riding with the New World Order's worst nightmare."

"Call me Jack."

"Okay, Jack," he said, pulling to a stop behind Jack's car. "Meet me back at the hotel. I need to debrief you. And don't try confronting these guys again without backup. They're
tough"

Tell me about it, Jack thought, rubbing his wrist. He jumped out of the pickup.

"Thanks."

Kenway gave him a thumbs-up and roared away.

Well, Jack had been looking for a way to get to Kenway. Maybe he could turn this "debriefing" into a two-way exchange.

As he turned toward his car, something crunched under his foot. Looked like sunglasses. The ones he'd knocked off the driver? He picked them up—no, not quite sunglasses, just the frames. Thick black frames. But where were the lenses?

He searched the pavement. The light wasn't great but he should have been able to spot black pieces among the glittery shards of shattered car window glass. He found nothing.

Odd ...

24

Jack ditched the idea of dropping in on Gia. If he was being tailed, he didn't want the followers knowing anything about Gia and Vicky. Instead, he headed back to the hotel.

He found Kenway waiting for him in the lobby. He wasn't exactly standing at attention, but his spine was so straight, his bearing so erect, he might have been waiting for military inspection. His camo stood out among the more civilian types coming and going around him, but no one paid him much notice.

"All right," Jack said as he reached him. "What—?"

"My room," Kenway said, and marched off toward the elevators.

Amused, Jack followed the shorter man. For the first few paces he resisted the temptation to fall into lockstep directly behind him, then gave in. He even saluted a couple of passersby.

As they entered Kenway's room on the seventh floor, the older man stopped Jack just inside the door.

"Wait here."

All the lights were on. Jack gave the place a quick once-over. No shadows, no place for a big dog-monkey to hide. Good. He watched Kenway cross the room and take a little black box from atop the TV. He pressed a few buttons, then nodded with satisfaction.

"All right. Come in."

"What's that?" Jack said, pointing to the box.

"A little something of my own invention," he said proudly. "A motion detector-recorder. It records the time of any motion in the room. Right now it shows clear readings since the time I left until half a minute ago when we entered. That means no one's been in while I've been out."

"Pretty neat," Jack said, and meant it. He wouldn't mind having a few of those himself. "Anytime you decide to put them on the market, I'll be your first customer."

This seemed to please Kenway, which was one of the reasons Jack had said it. No harm in softening up the guy.

Kenway offered Jack a scotch from the minibar. Jack refused but that didn't deter Kenway from pouring himself a Dewar's, neat.

"Good thing you were traveling armed," Kenway said. "I saw you shoot through the roof. Good move. What are you carrying?"

Jack handed over the empty Semmerling and Kenway laughed.

"I've heard of these but never held one. Cute little baby." He reached under his camo top to the small of his back and came up with a 1911A1 Colt .45. "Here's it's daddy. Best damn handgun ever made."

Jack smiled. "I'll be glad to play 'mine is bigger than yours' some other time, but right now I'd like to know why you were following me."

Kenway pointed his .45 at Jack's chest. "I'll be asking the questions here."

"Ooh, scary," Jack said, broadening his grin. "We both know you're not going to fire that. Lose it now or I'm out of here."

Jack met and held Kenway's gaze. He didn't exactly
know
that Kenway wasn't going to shoot him, but he was pretty damn sure. A .45 makes one hell of a racket, especially indoors. Kenway had to know that the whole floor would hear it and someone would call the desk to see what was going on.

Finally Kenway sighed and stuffed his pistol back inside his shirt.

"You're a cool one," he said, handing back the Semmerling. "Whoever you are. And don't give me that Jack Shelby shit because I ran a background on you and you're not Jack Shelby."

Background ... the very word sent snakes of dread crawling through his veins. He'd known from the start that a paranoid guy out of Army Intelligence would be trouble, but he hadn't counted on a full background check.

"Strange," Jack said, trying to keep cool, "that's what my First Annual SESOUP Conference badge says."

"Don't play cute."

"Well, if I'm not Shelby, who am I?"

"Damned if I know!" He took a sip of his scotch. "Can't tell you your real name at this point, only that it isn't Jack Shelby. That's probably just something you pulled out of the air. But I'm willing to bet those NWO operatives know who you are."

New, bigger dread-snakes wriggling in Jack's veins.

"Maybe they came up empty too," Kenway said. "And maybe they were following you for the same reason as I was—to find out who the hell you are. What I found is you're some kind of creep—a lousy Peeping Tom."

"A Peeping Tom?"

"Don't play innocent with me. I saw you watching that woman out in Queens. Christ, fella, get a life!"

Jack ran a hand over his mouth to hide an incipient grin. This guy follows me around and watches me watch the Castlemans—and he thinks
I
need a life. He wondered if Kenway had seen the fight.

"You watched me all night?"

"Only for a few minutes," Kenway said, "Then I waited in my truck." He narrowed his eyes. "And I bet that story of your experience out in the Jersey pines is as bogus as your name."

"How do you know I didn't change my name because I don't want to be connected with that story? Maybe I have a job and a family and I just don't want everybody thinking I'm nuts. That ever occur to you?"

"Of course it did. Nobody knows better than me how people fear the truth. But some of us have the guts to stand up and be counted. If what you said is true, you probably stumbled on a New World Order outpost. They tend to set up in remote areas, especially in national parks. Did you see any black helicopters?"

"You asked me that the other night. I told you, it was dark—night, remember?"

"Oh, right. I do remember. But did you
hear
a helicopter?"

"Not that I recall." Jack wasn't interested in black helicopters. He wanted to turn the discussion toward Melanie Ehler. "Maybe you should ask Melanie. She seemed to know all about what happened to me."

"I wish I could. If there's an NWO outpost in the pinelands, I want to know about it."

"What about her Grand Unification Theory? You think—?"

"Frankly I don't give a damn about her theory. If it doesn't center on the New World Order, then it's flat-out-wrong."

A little heat there, Jack thought. If he could get Kenway rolling, maybe he'd make a slip.

"What's this New World Order you keep mentioning? Wasn't George Bush talking about that after the Gulf War?"

Kenway nodded vigorously. "Damn right he was." He leaned forward, and Jack got the impression he'd been waiting for Jack to ask about the NWO. "Remember how he was the hero of the country then, of the whole damn so-called free world? His reelection looked to be a sure thing, didn't it. But he slipped up, got carried away and spilled the beans about the New World Order. That was a no-no. Not bad enough to be punishable by death, but they had to take him out of the limelight. And that's why 'the guy who couldn't lose' was not reelected. When people talk about the 1992 Presidential race, they always mention Bush's lame, lackluster campaign. That's because he'd been told he was going to lose."