Repairman Jack [04]-All the Rage (38 page)

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Please give it a little more time, Nadia—at least until tonight, I beg you. Milos Dragovic is a vile, vile man, but I swear to you by all I hold holy he has no connection to Douglas. And if you've been watching the television at all, you must know he's had other matters on his mind."

Another pause, longer this time, then Nadia closed her eyes and breathed a deep, tremulous sigh. "Maybe you're right. I don't know. I'm so worried, so
frustrated,
I feel I've got to do
something!"

"Wait. Just give it until tonight. I'm sure you'll hear something by tonight. If not, then do what you must. But give the police just a little more time."

"All right," she said, her voice barely audible. "Till tonight."

She turned and, without another word, continued walking downtown on Lexington.

Luc stepped to the side and leaned against the front of an appliance store. Somehow Nadia hadn't been dosed with the Loki. Or if she had she was resistant to its effects. Whatever, she was out and about and more dangerous than ever.

His eyes drifted to the TVs in the front window of the store where the Dragovic footage was playing again. A moment ago he'd tried to imagine how small and utterly humiliated Dragovic must feel. If Nadia went to the police… he had visions of stepping off the plane and finding officers of the Surete waiting for him, of returning to New York in manacles, walking a gauntlet of photographers… He would no longer need to imagine how Dragovic felt… He would know firsthand.

He turned, found a public phone, and called a number he knew by heart. After three rings, Ozymandias Prather's deep voice echoed through the receiver.

"Prather, it's me." He needed to be discreet here. "I need your services again."

"Who is it this time?"

"A researcher. The fiancee of the last one. She suspects."

An odd laugh. "Do you warn people when you hire them that they might not have a future with your firm—or any future at all?"

"Please. This is an emergency. She could ruin everything."

"Really. That's a shame."

"Can you do it? Now?"

"In daylight? Out of the question. Too risky."

"Please!" He loathed begging this man but had nowhere else to turn. "I'll double the usual fee."

"Double, ay? And you say it's the fiancee of the last one. That presents possibilities. I'll need some information…"

Flooded with relief, Luc gave Prather what he wanted: name, address, phone numbers, whether or not she lived alone. When he was finished…

"I will send someone by within the hour to pick up the payment."

"I'll have it ready." He'd pay for this himself, draw out the money immediately.

"Excellent. And since you're such a good customer, I believe I can work this one to cover for the last as well."

"Really? How?"

"You will see. Remember: money in an hour."

Luc hung up and headed for the nearby Citibank. Most of his money had been transferred to his Swiss account, but he still had more than enough left to pay Prather.

He stopped and took a few deep breaths. This is what he got for trying to find a humane solution. If he'd put Prather on it in the first place, he wouldn't be in this state.

He glanced his watch. Noon. Ten more hours. Maybe he could find an earlier flight. As soon as he settled with Prather he'd call his travel agent. New York was becoming too dangerous for him.

7

Took Jack a moment or two to realize he was in a hospital room. The IV running into his left arm pretty much clinched it.

A small narrow room, semiprivate, but the other bed empty. A dark dead television screen stared at him from the opposite wall a few feet beyond the edge of the bed. Cracks in the ceiling, in the walls, chipped paint on the doors. This place had seen better days.

So had his head—it was killing him. The rest of him didn't feel so hot either. Sat up and maybe that wasn't such a good idea—the room swam around the bed; his stomach heaved; pain shot through his left ribs—but he grabbed the side rails and hung on for the ride.

While he waited for the walls to stop moving he tried to figure out what the hell had put him here. Slowly, in brief bright flashes and glittery pieces, it came back… a succession of cars, shots, collisions, cops, all suffused with an overriding giddy exhilaration mixed with murderous rage. Psycho time, a berserko bender—

Berzerk. That's right. Remembered now, remembered that he must have been dosed with the crazy-maker stuff, and the only way it could have happened was in the coffee Nadia had given him. Didn't make sense that she'd do it. Which could only mean that the dose had been meant for her.

Jack had a pretty damn good idea of who had meant it. He'd figure out the why later. Right now he had to get out of. here.

What time was it? No clock in the room. How long had he been here? Last thing he remembered was the cops chasing him and—

Cops… was he under arrest?

The near certainty of that sent a bolt of sick pain through his already throbbing head. Checked his fingertips—not the cleanest they'd ever been, but no sign of fingerprint ink. Yet. So far in his life he'd managed to keep his photo and fingerprints out of the criminal databases, and he desperately wanted to keep it that way.

He noticed a plastic wristband. "John Doe" had been typed in the patient name space. His admitting physician was a doctor named A. Bulmer.

John Doe… but you can call me Jack.

Next question: was he under guard?

Probably, but only one way to find out. Door to the hall stood open about a foot. A peek outside would give the answer.

Twisted the release on the side rail and slid it down. But as he swung his legs over the side, the room began to do the Harlem shuffle again. He let it finish, then eased his feet to the floor. Clinging to the IV stand for support, he stood. As the room swayed again—a slow dance this time—he felt cool air on his butt and realized that his shirt and jeans had been replaced by a light blue hospital gown with—check it out—full rear ventilation, monroe community hospital ran in black along the hem.

Monroe again. Somehow he kept winding up in Monroe. Maybe he should move here.

Not a chance.

Didn't feature having his bare back end exposed to the world and hoped his own clothes were somewhere near, but first he had to check the hall.

With the IV stand as a rolling crutch, he shuffled to the door and peeked through the narrow gap on the hinged side. His heart sank at the sight of one of the local men in blue standing across the hall, talking to a nurse.

One cop. But what a cop. Size of a double-wide Kelvinator freezer. Badge on his chest looked like a refrigerator magnet. On a good day Jack might have been able to work something on him—maybe. But at the moment Barney Fife would have been a handful.

Only one other way out. Jack eased back and crossed the room toward the window. Legs were feeling a little steadier now but weakened again as he passed the mirror between the closets. The face reflected was a mess: fire-reddened skin, two black eyes under singed-off eyebrows, a swollen nose, and a wide bandage around his head. Lifted the gauze and winced at the sight of a four-inch row of sutures running up his right-front scalp. Worse, someone had clipped away the hair around the cut to give a clear field for the needlework.

The Frankenstein monster had looked better after his trip through the burning windmill.

Shook his head. A bad, bad day, and not getting any better.

Got worse when Jack reached the windows: he was in a third-story room overlooking the rear parking lot. And even worse news waiting when he checked the closets: empty, both of them. Maybe the cops had kept his clothes as evidence; more likely whoever had treated him had tossed them in the garbage. Either way…

Amid a sudden surge of anger Jack's fist cocked back to smash the closet door but he managed to hold it back. Barely.

What was this? Was he stupid? A noise like that would bring Officer Kelvinator running.

He realized he must still have a little Berzerk perking through his nervous system. The fluid from the IV probably had diluted it some, but he'd better be careful.

And as for the IV, that had to go. He undid the tape, pulled the needle from the vein, then slapped the tape back over the hole.

Back to the windows: a pair of old-fashioned double-hung storm types with the glass up and the screen down to let in the spring air. The weather had changed while he was out cold. The once bright skies were lidded now with gray, heavy-bellied clouds. Pulled up the screen and stuck his head through. A few feet down, a small ledge, half a brick wide, ran along the wall at floor level. The corner of the building was to his left; another set of windows sat six feet to the right.

Jack knew with sad sick certainty that those windows were his only option. What if he fell trying to reach them? What if the screen was locked when he got there? What if the room was occupied?

None of the what-ifs mattered, given the alternative. Could not allow himself to be arrested, booked, arraigned, whatever. Once that happened, life as he knew it would end. They'd do a background check and learn that he didn't have a background, did not even exist according to their records. And then the feds would get involved, wanting to know if he was a spy, and if not, then the IRS would want to know why he'd never filed a 1040, and on and on, smothering him. He'd never extricate himself.

Reaching that window was his only option, and if he didn't start moving now, he'd have zip options. Because as soon as Big Blue's nurse friend got called away, he'd be peeking in to see if his charge was conscious yet.

Jack suppressed a groan—part hip pain, part reluctance—as he swung his left leg through the opening. Slowly, gingerly, he straddled the sill until his foot found the brick ledge. The outer edge of his sole overlapped the ledge's three-inch width. He could have done with another inch but was glad for any ledge at all. Ducked his head through, biting back a cry as pain lanced along his ribs, then eased the rest of himself through.

Soon as he was outside, he pulled down the screen, which left him only the window frame to cling to. The next pair of windows was a mere half-dozen feet away, but it looked like the distance to the moon.

Arms spread, palms, chest, belly, and the right side of his face flush against the bricks, he began to move. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something white moving in the parking lot—an elderly woman with a cane limping toward the hospital from her car. Just then a gust flapped his hospital gown up around his shoulders.

Please don't look up, lady. Might make your day, but it'll ruin mine.

He edged along, left foot first, right foot following, inches at a time, and doing pretty well until he felt the building tip to his left. Knew it wasn't, couldn't be tipping, and hammered back the reflex to shift his weight to correct for it, a shift that would surely send him into free fall. Instead he pressed himself against the wall, creating a brick-and-mortar relief map on his right cheek; breath whistled between his clenched teeth as he dug his fingertips into the mortared grooves and hung on like a spider on the roof of a runaway train.

Finally the building steadied itself. He waited a few seconds to be sure, then moved on. Despite the breeze, he was bathed in sweat. When his leading hand finally touched the neighboring window frame, he resisted a sigh of relief; knew it was premature. Too many what-ifs still remained.

A few more inches and his fingers found the screen. No lip to grasp so he jabbed his finger through the mesh and pulled up. It moved. Great. And better still, no cries of alarm from inside. He'd lucked out—nobody home.

He slid the screen up and eased himself inside. Leaning on the sill, waiting for his racing heart to slow, he heard the snoring. He turned, slowly. The room was a mirror image of his, the near bed empty. The sound came from beyond the pulled privacy curtain. Jack padded to its edge and peeked around.

A heavy, balding, middle-aged man lay in the bed, IVs running into each arm, oxygen flowing into the right nostril, a clear tube snaking out the left into a collection bottle, wires running from his chest to a heart monitor, stained bandages across his abdomen. Looked like he'd just come from surgery.

Not good. Didn't know much about hospitals but figured they kept a close eye on postop patients, which meant a nurse could pop in any second.

Turned and opened the closets. Yes! Clothes. So to speak. Faded yellow-and-green checked pants, canvas slip-on boat shoes, islanders ran across the back of the satin jacket and nascar across the front of the cap, but Jack felt like he'd struck gold.

Everything but the hat was too big on him but he didn't care. Soon as he had the cap snugged over his bandage, he peeked into the hall. Big Blue was still yakking with the nurse, so Jack stepped out of the room and strolled the opposite way.

Kept the brim low and his head down, looking up only to check for exit signs. His heart was pounding again, his nervous system taut as he waited for bells to start ringing and security men to come running through the halls. But all remained quiet. Took the stairs instead of the elevator, hurried through the lobby to the front entrance and into the air.

Free. For the moment at least.

The wind was picking up and the clouds looked lower and heavier than before. Rain coming. Wanted to get as far as possible from the hospital so he started walking. Couldn't move too fast, though. Every step sent a stab of pain down his left leg; something was using his brain for an anvil and his scorched face tingled in the breeze.

Other than that, I feel just great.

But where was he? He'd been through Monroe a couple of times last month but didn't recognize this stretch of road. All these post-World War Two residential neighborhoods with their ranches and Cape Cods and neat little lawns tended to look pretty much the same. Then he spotted an arrow-shaped sign for business district and followed that. He'd stand out less in a crowd.

Along the way he searched the pockets of the Islanders jacket and found the hospital admission papers with the owner's name—Peter Harris—along with a few coins and two twenties.