Repairman Jack [04]-All the Rage (33 page)

He glanced at her and saw the rueful twist of her smile. "To da moon, Alice!"

She laughed and turned to watch the receding Eisenhower jacket. She sighed. "Old soldiers…"

But Jack was back to looking out for some young soldiers, Serb vets. He knew that if and when they met again, they wouldn't fade away, and there sure as hell would be no handshakes.

5

The third key Luc tried worked. He opened the door, stepped inside, and quickly closed it behind him. The shades were down but enough sunlight filtered through to illuminate the waiting area of the diabetes clinic.

Now he could relax—a little. No one would be in for the rest of the day, especially Nadia, who was still with the police, giving statements and filling out forms. Luc had given a brief statement, then begged off, claiming a prior engagement. His involvement had been peripheral, after all.

At least to all appearances. But his brain burned with the need to silence Nadia and to learn why Prather had deviated from his instructions regarding Gleason.

Prather, however, had been infuriatingly vague when Luc finally had reached him by phone.

"Some unforeseen circumstances came up," was all he'd say.

When Luc had inquired—discreetly, of course—about "the remains," Prather had laughed and said, "Don't give that a second thought, Doctor! I've found an absolutely foolproof means of disposal!"

He'd sounded oddly excited.

The brief exchange had left Luc feeling frustrated and helpless. Taking a deep breath, he thrust Prather from his thoughts and looked around the front area of the clinic. He'd been here once during Nadia's brief recruitment phase, stopping by more out of nostalgia than the need to see her in action. He'd worked a clinic like this down in the Village during his residency. Lord, how long ago was that? Seemed like another epoch.

Maybe he could go back to something like this in France. Put some of his training to use again with people instead of molecules.

He shook off the distracting trains of thought. He was getting ahead of himself, and off track. If he didn't take care of Nadia, he could forget planning anything in France.

As he pulled on a pair of latex examination gloves, Luc noticed that his palms were sweaty. Tension coiled at the back of his neck. He kept imagining someone coming in and catching him here.

Let's get this over with, he thought as he moved toward the rear of the clinic.

No windows in the rear office, so he had to fumble for a light switch. As the overhead fluorescents flickered to life, he immediately spotted what he was looking for. Next to the empty Mr. Coffee sat a big black mug with NADJ printed in thick white block capitals across the front. He'd remembered it from his brief visit. He'd even remarked laughingly that no one could ever say they'd used her cup by mistake.

And there will be no mistake today, he thought grimly as he pulled a vial from his pocket.

He held it up to the light: Loki in its liquid form was odorless and tasteless, with only a hint of blue. He un-stoppered the vial and poured about a tablespoon's worth into Nadia's mug. He rolled the thick liquid around, coating the inner surface halfway up the sides.

The concentrate was drying already. In minutes it would be unnoticeable.

He'd estimated Nadia's weight at about one-twenty or so. A tablespoon of the concentrate was a hefty dose, and the effect would last a good four to six hours. He added a few extra drops for good measure.

He watched the sequence play out before his mind's eye…

Nadia had few aggressive or violent tendencies, but within half an hour or so of finishing her coffee, whatever ones she possessed would be magnified ten-, twen-tyfold, turning her into a raging wild woman. She'd become uncontrollable, a jungle cat, raging about, smashing things, perhaps trying to smash people as well. Inevitably she'd be arrested for disorderly conduct and suspicion of drag use, but
only
suspicion, because the police labs had yet to figure out how to test for Loki.

But suspicion wouldn't be enough.

He stoppered the vial, returned it to his pocket, and came up with a small glassine envelope. He then stepped to Nadia's desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and stuffed the envelope in a rear corner.

In act two, a police search turns up the envelope and the four Berzerk tablets within. Suspicion then becomes fact: Nadia is tagged with a record of drag abuse. Her credibility is destroyed and whatever suspicions she might raise about Gleason's disappearance or about GEM's connection to street drags will be tainted… the ramblings of a brain-fried druggie.

The strength began to seep from Luc's legs and he dropped into Nadia's chair.

How can I do this to her?

Not only will her credibility go down the tubes, but her medical career as well. She might be able to retain her medical license after going through rehab, but her reputation as a reliable physician will be ruined.

Have I really sunk so low?

Luc gathered his strength and rose. He returned to the Mr. Coffee and picked up Nadia's mug. There was a sink in the washroom. He'd rinse it out, remove the pills from her drawer, and leave everything just as he'd found it. And then he'd look for another way to deal with this.

He started toward the door, then stopped.

What other way?

How else to keep her from accusing GEM other than placing another call to Prather? That would be what Kent and Brad would want. As Kent had said, once you've ordered one death, ordering a second is easier. Ordering a third—Nadia's—would be a Cakewalk for those two. But he had enough blood on his hands.

He stared into Nadia's mug. The concentrate was almost completely dry now. In a way, the Loki was by far the lesser evil. It might damage her future, but at least she'd be alive. And she'd have at least
some
sort of career.

In a way, he was saving Nadia's life.

Clutching that thought like a drowning man, Luc replaced the mug on the coffee shelf, turned out the light, and hurried for the door.

He had packing to do.

6

Milos strolled around the pool, acting like a host, but listening… straining his ears for the rhythmic pulse of a helicopter approaching through the night sky.

"Smile," he said to a trio of dapper Hispanics in bright-colored guayaberas. He'd brought them in from one of his Harlem brothels. "Look like you're having a good time. Make believe it's Friday night, before anything happened."

They smiled and nodded and dutifully lifted their glasses of ginger ale to him in salute. There would be plenty of time for the real thing after this was finished.

Everyone from Friday night's fiasco was here. Milos had invited them all back and promised them a chance to get even with the shit who had dropped garbage on them. To a man they had accepted—enthusiastically.

Milos noted with approval the bulges under their shirts. He patted their shoulders and moved on.

Milos's men had spent the bulk of the day doing what they could to clean up the grounds. The air still reeked of oil. He raged inwardly at how the filthy stuff had stained the decking and walkways. The entire area would have to be power-washed. But repairs would come later. He did not need the place to look perfect for what he had planned tonight.

In addition to Friday's guests he had brought in extra men and had them stationed in the oversize shrubbery with shotguns and rifles, all ready and eager for payback.

He rubbed his hands anxiously, wondering what those crazies would try to throw at him tonight. No matter. He was ready for them—ready to strike first and stop them dead in their tracks.

To that end, Milos had the lights low and the music off so he could hear the helicopter as early as possible. His instructions were simple: do not fire until you see the helicopter, but when you do, let loose with everything you have.

The voice on the phone had asked him if he'd been thinking of "calling in the authorities." Me, Milos Dragovic, call in police like some ordinary citizen who cannot handle his own problems? Never. No. You attack Dragovic, Dragovic attacks back, but ten times worse.

Of course, after tonight the authorities would be very much involved—no avoiding that after a barrage of gunfire and a downed helicopter—but he had top lawyers. A citizen was allowed to use deadly force in defense of his life, and that was what he'd be doing tonight: standing on his own property defending himself.

"I hear something!" one of the men on the beach shouted.

Everyone stopped talking at once. Silence abrupt and complete, like a power failure in a sound system. Only the sound of the surf… and then something else. No mistaking the
thrum
of helicopter blades beating the night air.

"All right!" Milos shouted. "It's coming! Get ready!"

All around him semiautomatic pistols and fully automatic assault weapons were slipping from holsters and pockets and held under jackets or behind backs as safeties were clicked off, rounds were chambered, and bolts were ratcheted back. He saw rifles and shotgun barrels rising into view among the bushes.

The choppy rhythm grew louder, clearer.

"Easy," Milos said, pulling his own .357 Magnum from its shoulder holster. "Easy…"

And then, just as it became visible, something strange happened. A bright beam of white light lanced downward from the copter. As it began to play back and forth across the sand, Milos was struck with a terrifying sense that things were about to go horribly wrong.

His shout of
"No!"
was lost in the deafening fusillade that erupted around him.

Milos saw the sparks of the bullets striking the helicopter's fuselage, watched it lurch, veer to the left and drop, then regain altitude and wobble away, trailing black smoke as it fled.

The guns had ceased fire almost as quickly as they had begun. No triumphant cheers rose from the stunned men.

They all could read English.

And then he heard the wail of sirens—many of them. He turned and saw chaotic red flashes lighting the night from the direction of the front gate.

Cops. Sounded like an army of them.

But how? How could they be here so soon? And in such numbers?

Milos Dragovic stood numb and frozen by his pool and asked himself over and over, Who is doing this to me?

TUESDAY

1

When Jack checked his voice mail in the morning he found three messages from Sal Vituolo, the gist of which could be summed up as, "Hey, Jack, call me. I gotta talk to ya, just gotta talk to ya."

So Jack called him from a pay phone.

"Jack! How'd you do it, man?" Jack couldn't see Sal but he sounded like he was dancing. "How'd you freakin'
do
it?"

"I gather it went off well?"

Jack had heard a few sketchy details on one of the all-news stations last night before turning in.

"Are you kiddin' me? He absolutely screwed himself, shootin' at a Coast Guard copter like that. But how'd you get it there?"

"Like I told you," Jack said. "I made a call."

"Yeah, but what'd you say?"

Jack had told the Coast Guard that a big shipment of this new drug that was making people go crazy was coming ashore at Dragovic's place in the Hamptons. He told them that was why Dragovic bought the place—so he could smuggle stuff ashore. The shipment was due shortly after dark—like between nine-thirty and ten.

But Jack didn't feel like going into all of that with Sal.

"I've got connections."

"You must, baby. I can't believe the heat that came down on that place."

According to reports on the news, state and Suffolk County heat had been duking it out with the feds over who had jurisdiction. Since they couldn't decide in time, they'd all shown up.

"I woulda got more tape but a lot of his muscle was haulin' ass outta there and some of them was comin' my way. So I did a little ass haulin' myself."

"But you got enough?"

"I got
plenty.
I hear the pilots are OK, but Dragovic's in deep shit for shootin' up their copter. Accordin' to the news they didn't find no heavy drugs in his place. Too bad, but at least some of his guys got tagged for possession. And of course he's up on all sortsa state, county, and federal weapons charges and even"—Sal snickered here—"disorderly conduct from the town of East Hampton!" His tone sobered. "But I bet the fucker's out on bail already."

"You can count on it. That's where the tapes come in. Did you send them off?"

"Made a shitload of copies last night, then went to the messenger service first thing this morning—did the locals, all the networks, CNN, Fox, even public access. If they got an antenna or a satellite, they got a tape."

"And you paid cash, right?"

"Course. Ay, I don't wanna be connected to this. No way."

"Good. Now just keep your eyes on the TV this morning."

"You kiddin'? I got the remote glued to my freakin' hand. I—wait a sec. Here's something! A special report. Turn on channel four, quick!"

I'm not exactly near a TV," Jack said.

"This is it! They're showing it! Yes!
Yyy-essss!"
Jack was sure now that Sal was indeed dancing around. It was a sight he preferred to imagine rather than witness. "He's fucked! He is
so
fucked! He may be out on bail but he won't be able to show his puss in this town—hell, in the whole freakin'
world
again without somebody laughin' at him!"

"Now do you believe in a fate worse than death?"

"Yes!" Sal shouted. "Oh, yes!"

"And is it enough?"

"Yeah, Jack." Sal's voice softened as it dropped about a hundred decibels. "I think it is. And I think it's gonna be easier for me with my sister now."

"Jeez, don't tell her anything," Jack said quickly.

"Ay, I ain't stupid. I know how stuff gets around and I don't wanna wake up dead some morning. But at least I think I can finally look Roseanne in the eye now and not feel like a useless wuss. She won't know, but
I'll
know, and that's what counts, if you know what I'm sayin'."