Repairman Jack [05]-Hosts (40 page)

"We were hoping to get him to the point where we could stop him from such tragic foolishness, but those damn tests are so—"

Jack slams down the receiver. He can imagine how it went down. Sarah stops by with a peace offering. They've never gotten along, but these are extraordinary times and maybe they should bury the hatchet. She's brought something sweet, something her father can't resist, something heavily spiked with the virus.

And later, when Abe's blood turns positive, he knows he's a goner and knows who made him that way and it's all too much for him. Never would have believed it of Abe, but no telling what a person will do when the whole future goes dead black without a single glint of hope—

Jack's breath freezes in his chest as he remembers Gia's ten-mile stare when he left her and now he's heading for the door with his heart tearing loose. The phone rings and he knows he should ignore it but doubles back on the slim chance it might be Gia. She knows he's here, maybe she's trying to reach him.

"Jack," Gia says in response to his barked hello. "Thank God I caught you."

"What's wrong?" The preternatural calm of her tone sends screams of warning through him. "How's Vicky?"

"Sleeping."

"Sleeping?" Vicky is
not
a napper. "Is she sick?"

"Not anymore. She's at peace."

"Christ, Gia, what are you saying? Don't tell me you—"

"I didn't have enough sleeping pills for both of us, so I gave them all to her. Soon she'll be safe."

"No!"

"And I've got one of your guns for me, but I didn't want to use it until I called you to say good-bye—"

The phone slips from Jack's fingers and he's dashing for the door, bursting onto the sidewalk, and sprinting east when he glances up and skids to a halt at the sight of a giant face staring down at him. It's the Russian lady but she's grown to Godzilla proportions.

"NOW DO YOU SEE?" she cries, her booming voice echoing off the buildings. "NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND? THIS WILL BE IF YOU DO NOT STOP VIRUS NOW!"

What does it mean? That this is all a dream? No. Much as Jack wishes it were true, he knows it's not. This is too real.

Averting his face from her giant, blazing eyes, he starts running again, down the center of a treadmill street with cardboard buildings sliding by on each side to give the illusion of forward progress, but he's getting nowhere, and no matter how much speed he pumps into his legs, no matter how he cries and screams at the top of his lungs, he's no closer to home than when he started…

13

"Kevin's being a real dickhead about it, Mom."

"Elizabeth Iverson, that is no way to talk about your brother. And where did you pick up that kind of language?"

"I can't help it, that's what he is. And I don't care if he comes. Who wants him around anyway."

Kate clung to her cell phone as she peeked into Jack's bedroom—he was still tossing this way and that under the covers—then returned her attention to Lizzie. With everything that had happened, she'd missed her morning call to the kids. Just as well; they both slept in on Saturdays. She'd waited till after dinner to check in.

All she'd wanted to do was touch base with them before they went out with their friends, but had wound up in the middle of a sibling contretemps. She should have seen it coming, but this was the last thing she needed now: Kevin was refusing to go to Lizzie's recital on Monday. Lizzie was acting tough but Kate could tell she was hurt. Ron had never been good dealing with arguments between the kids so, exhausted though she was, Kate had been designated referee.

She sighed. "Put him on."

"I said, I don't care!"

"Lizzie, please put your brother on."

A few seconds of muffled sounds, then a sullen, "S'up, Ma?" from Kevin.

"What's up yourself, Kevin? Have you got something better to do Monday night?"

"Aw, Mom, I hate that music, you know that."

"No, it's not Polio, I'll grant you that," she said, referring to her son's favorite band, perpetrators of cacophonies he referred to as "slash metal" or "thrash metal" or some such unlistenable noise. She realized that every generation needed music that rawed their parents' nerves, but
please
. "The music's not the issue, however. Your sister's feelings are."

"You heard her. She doesn't want me to go."

"That's just a defense because you hurt her feelings. We've always done things as a family, Kevin. Even after the divorce, how many of your soccer games did your father and Lizzie and I miss? Very, very few. And just like your soccer tournament, Kevin, we're planning to attend this concert as a family. Family includes you."

"But Ma, the flute! Of all things, the
flute
! It's so whipped!"

"It's Lizzie's big moment. She's performing a solo she's been practicing for months and we should be there to share it with her. Are you telling me you can't spare two hours out of your busy schedule to attend her concert? Think about it, Kevin. In the grand scale of things, is two hours on a Monday night such a big deal?"

"No, but—"

"Sleep through the concert if you must, but be there for her."

"Sleep? That music's deadly. When it's over and you find me dead in my seat, how will you feel?"

"Don't worry. I know CPR. I should be home by mid-afternoon Monday. I'll come over to Dad's and we'll all go together. As a family. I'd like to count on that, Kevin. Can I?"

A long pause, then, "I guess so."

"Great. See you then. Love you."

"Me too."

She broke the connection and took a deep breath. Another domestic crisis averted. She empathized with Kevin; her own musical tastes were mired in sixties and seventies pop and she found classical music as trying as he did—except when Lizzie was playing—but the concert was a family thing, not a music thing, and she had to keep the family together. That was her mission, a responsibility that possessed her. Because the divorce had been her doing.

She rose and checked Jack again. He'd finally stopped moaning and lay deeply sunken in sleep; his skin had been cool and dry for almost two hours now.

"Looks like you made it, Jack," she whispered, stroking his matted hair. He might spike another fever around four A.M. or so, but she sensed that his immune system had the upper hand now. "Looks like you beat it."

But beat what? she thought as she wandered back to the front room. Exactly what infection had he been fighting all day? She hoped it was the contaminant. That would mean it was not as invincible or as "inevitable" as it seemed to think.

But the possibility existed that Jack had caught some other virus and his symptoms had been due to his body's war against that.

Only time would tell.

Kate yawned and stretched. Not much sleep last night. She was tired but doubted she could sleep. Not after what she'd been through today, not after learning that something calling itself the Unity was hell bent on erasing her personality, her individuality, her very self.

She felt a sob build in her throat. I don't want to die!

And that was what integration with the Unity would be: death. Sure, her body would live on but the person inside would be obliterated. All her values, the little things that made her who she was, gone. She would no longer care about the music, the paintings, the movies she now loved because they'd serve no practical purpose in expanding the species. And Kevin and Liz would be downgraded from the two most cherished beings in her life to a pair of potential hosts who shared some genes with her, valued only for their capacity to breed more hosts.

She had to see Fielding again—first thing Monday morning, before she headed home. Maybe he was right. He'd said he was Jeanette's best chance; maybe he was hers as well. The Unity clearly was concerned about Fielding. And whatever made it uneasy could orly be good for her.

Come to think of it, she hadn't felt the Unity tugging at her thoughts for the past few hours. Too occupied with something else? She wondered what it was up to. No matter. As long as it wasn't bothering her.

But if sleep was out of the question, at least she could lie down and rest her eyes now that Jack was over the worst.

She stretched out as best she could on the couch and laced her fingers atop her chest. Usually she looked forward to the next day, but not tonight. Would the Unity try to take over again, try to use her to wrest the secret of Jack's resistance from him?

Kate closed her eyes. She had to prevent the Unity from stealing what was hers—what was
her
. But how?

The question trailed her into sleep…

14

"You don't look like you're having much fun," Jay Pokorny said.

The four of them—Sandy and Beth and Pokorny and his longtime girlfriend Alissa—were standing at the long bar near the front of Kenny's Castaways on Bleecker in the Village, having a few drinks. The bar ran along the left side of the front section; tables cluttered the rear floor where a small stage huddled against the rear wall. Kenny's had been Pokorny's idea—something about a new band they had to hear. But here it was eleven already and still no music.

"So far it's just a bar," Sandy said.

He felt a nudge in his ribs and turned to see Beth smiling up at him. God, she looked great tonight.

"Be nice," she whispered.

He winked at her. "Okay."

"Yeah," Pokorny said, "but wait till you hear this chick in the band. Name's Debbie something. She's this little thing that looks like Betty Boop, but when she opens her mouth to sing—wow."

"Well, I hope she opens her mouth soon."

As much as Sandy liked live music, he wasn't crazy about bars. Especially a bar this packed and smoky and hot. Wasn't the AC working? None of which helped his lousy mood. He was hoping loud music and Beth's company would help him forget a strike-out day.

He hadn't been able to track down the police commissioner, but had cornered the mayor at a fundraising luncheon. He'd ducked Sandy's questions, rambling on about how it was a complex issue and how he'd have to know the details of the crime and run it past the Corporation Counsel and maybe a few judges. Yadda-yadda-yadda. Not much to write about there.

He checked his cell phone to make sure it was on. Yeah, it was, and no new calls. This sucked. Totally.

"Hey, Palmer," Pokorny said. "That's like the fifth time you've checked that phone since we got here. What's up? Expecting another call from the Savior?"

Sandy yielded to an instant of shock, then forced a laugh. "Yeah, right."

Truth was he'd placed two calls to the Savior today, and neither had been answered. Was the guy going to stiff him now?

A girl with lime Kool-Aid hair must have overheard Pokorny's Savior remark. She was leaning back from the bar, craning for a look at Sandy.

"It's you!" she said, her eyes widening with recognition. "You're the guy from the paper, aren't you. The one who was talking to the Savior."

Sandy shrugged, embarrassment and heart-singing joy tugging him in different directions.

"Damn right he is," Pokorny said. "That's Sandy Palmer himself, ace reporter and subway survivor."

Pokorny's sarcasm was lost on the green-haired girl who turned excitedly to her friend. "Kim! Kim! Look who's here! It's that reporter from the subway, the one who talked to the Savior!"

In less than a minute—less than half a minute—Sandy found himself with his back to the bar, enclosed in a tight, steadily thickening semicircle of men and women, all about his age. Pokorny and Alissa were been quickly elbowed out of the way but Sandy kept his arm around Beth's shoulder. This was a little scary.

They started asking him questions, general ones at first—what was it like, how did he feel, tell us how it really went down—then moving on to specifics like how much blood there was and what the Savior's voice was like and what kind of gun had he used. He pretended he hadn't heard that one.

He'd covered all this in his articles and lots of these people seemed to have read them, but that didn't matter. They wanted to hear him tell it, listen to him speak the words. Straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

And Sandy gladly obliged.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned, the bartender shoved a Bass Ale into his hand.

"On the house, mac."

And that started a flood of freebies as other people started buying him beers. But he didn't need alcohol. The recognition, the instant acceptance, the sea of rapt faces hanging onto his every word already had him higher than a kite.

This is what it can be like, he thought. Everywhere I go—
Right this way, Mr. Palmer. Never mind the line there, we'll have a table ready for you in a moment. Meanwhile, we're chilling a bottle of champagne for you now, compliments of the house
.

It's like a drug, he thought. No, it
is
a drug; a truly bodacious high. And I can see why people get hooked on it. Because there's nothing better than this. Nothing.