Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal (28 page)

“So that’s the day you start to make changes.”

“Wish it were that easy. You owe people favors—it’s all quid pro quo—and these people know things about you. They hold your strings, strings you can’t cut. You’re not quite a puppet, but pretty damn close. So you go with it. You stay on the downward spiral.” He looked at Jack. “Same thing probably happened to you, right?”

That took Jack by surprise. “Me?”

“Come on, Jack. Admit it. You didn’t go to New York to become a criminal. But maybe you stole a little here, sold a little weed there, did a little grifting, then bought a Saturday night special and graduated to strong-arm stuff. Now you’re Repairman Jack.”

Jack shook his head. “Not even close. No increments for me. When I dropped out of Rutgers and stepped onto the bus in New Brunswick, I’d made a decision to break with whoever I was and whatever future I’d been on track for. I said good-bye to a way of life I no longer felt part of. When I stepped off that bus in the Port Authority I was someone else. Didn’t know who that guy was—not yet, at least—but I was sure of who I
didn’t
want to be. I made a clean break, Tom. No increments. And no excuses.”

Tom sighed. “Looks like I’ll be doing the same thing soon: Throwing out the old me and buying a new one. You’re still going to help me, right?”

Jack nodded.

Help Tom disappear? Oh, yes.

SATURDAY

1

Back again on terra firma, the first thing Tom did was plunk some change into the phone by the Wanchese dock and call home. They’d made good time coming back.

He watched the sun rise over the North Carolina pines as he listened to the rings.

Finally a voice thick with sleep answered. “Hello?”

“Terry? It’s me.”

Suddenly she came alive. “Tom! Oh, God! Where are you?”

Something in her tone warned him against answering that.

“In transit.”

“But where?”

Although he already knew the answer, Tom said, “Something wrong?” Then held his breath.

“Wrong? Yes, damn it, something is very wrong! I’ve been visited every day by a pair of federal marshals. They know you’re gone and they’re watching the house. They follow me wherever I go—probably think I’m sneaking off to meet you or something. But how can I when I don’t know where you are? I wasn’t even sure you were still alive until just now!”

Oh, shit. Oh, hell.

Sweat oozed onto Tom’s palms. He was fucked.

“Wh-why did they come by?”

“To bring you down to the federal building to ask you some questions about Bieber. I made excuses the first two times, but then they got suspicious. They know you’ve left town, Tom, but they don’t know for how long. If you come back now, maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe you can tie it in to your dad’s death. You know, you just had to go see his grave or something like that.”

… or something like that…

Oh, sure. That’ll fly. Like a penguin.

“Come home, Tom. With your father’s death—I mean, how it happened, and the national day of mourning and all—maybe you can get them to give you another chance.”

Tom didn’t see that happening without putting on a huge display of grief and throwing himself on the mercy of the court. And even then it was iffy.

No, he wasn’t about to play the penitent bad boy for those gonifs.

Then he realized the feds probably had his line tapped. Shit! He should have thought of that. They’d probably pinpointed this pay phone already.

But he had to say something. No sense in lying about where he was… but he had to play dumb… ease into it.

He licked his lips.

“Great idea, Terry. Next time they come knocking, tell them you spoke to me. Tell them I’m like you said… really upset about Dad’s death and hanging out at the graveyard.”

“No way, Tom. I’m not lying for you. You’ve dug one big lousy hole for yourself, but I’m not getting in there with you.”

“Come on, Terry.”

“No! Look what you’ve done to my life! I can’t go anywhere without people talking and pointing and whispering behind my back! I’ve tried to get together with Lisa and Susan for lunch but they both always seem to have something else to do, and they can’t get off the phone fast enough. You’re the one who’s under indictment but
I’m
the prisoner. I’m stuck in this house because I’ve got nowhere I can go!”

Tom gritted his teeth at the sound of her sob.

So typical. I’m the one whose career is down the toilet, I’m the one facing opprobrium and jail time, and she’s all bent out of shape because her social life is on the rocks.

Fuck. Her.

Okay. Time to send the feds in the wrong direction.

“Terry, I’m sorry for the way things are going but I’ll make them right. Just between you and me, I’m about to leave for Bermuda and—”

She gasped. “Bermuda? But that means you’re… you’re leaving the country?”

Give the virago a prize!

“Yes, but only temporarily.”

“They’ll hang you if they find out!”

“Don’t worry. I’ve just got an errand to run, and when I come hack, we’ll be fixed up.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

“But how are you getting there?”

“By boat.”

“You don’t have a boat!”

“I’m borrowing one.”

“You can’t do this! You’ll only make things worse. It’ll be in the papers and—”

Unable to weather another second of objurgation, he hung up. Then he leaned against the side of the booth and squeezed his eyes shut.

They’d loosed the hounds. What the
hell
was he going to do?

The feds would be sending someone to Wanchese. When they didn’t find him here they’d assume he was headed across to Bermuda. Would they go so far as an air-sea search? He doubted it. But he’d bet they’d send marshals to Bermuda to nab him when he showed up at the bank.

He had to get out of here
mach schnell
. But where to?

Philly was out of the question now. Show his face and they’d toss him into their deepest dungeon.

New York…

Yes… bring the Lilitongue to New York. Probably an even better place than Philly to learn about it, what with Columbia University, NYU, the Museum of Natural History and all.

But where to stay? He couldn’t use a credit card…

He glanced over to where Jack was stowing the last of their gear into the coffin-sized trunk of his Crown Vic.

Jack’s place… a safe haven. Wherever it was, a sure bet he had it listed under a phony name. Just like his credit card.

Tom had almost burst out laughing when he’d seen the name on the gas receipt. John Tyleski… the name from the hotel. Tom hadn’t dreamed that was Jack.

Despite all the shit coming down, Tom had to smile. Little Brother was soon going to be getting one mammoth MasterCard bill.

The smile faded. The last thing Little Brother wanted was him crashing for a week or two. If asked, Jack would turn him down—no question. So he’d have to get in through the back door. There had to be a way. After all, he had an eight-hour drive to figure it out.

Yeah, like it or not, Jack was going to have a houseguest. And once he got himself inside, there he’d stay until he’d unlocked the mysteries of the Lilitongue.

Tom smiled. Call me Sheridan Whiteside.

2

Jack breathed a sigh of relief as he and Tom pulled away from Ernie’s Photo ID. Ernie had taken a few photos of Tom and promised to get to work on a new identity right away.

He’d brought Tom directly to Ernie’s from the Lincoln Tunnel. Ernie could work miracles, but he needed time, and the sooner Tom got started, the better.

Because as soon as Tom became someone else, he and his Lilitongue would be on their way.

It was almost four thirty and the sun was hitting the horizon somewhere beyond the high-rises.

Jack was looking forward to getting home and crashing.

Long day. Up before dawn, cooped in a car with Tom for eight hours… he was fragged.

Had to admit, though, that Tom had been better company on the way back than the way down. Not because Jack was getting used to him or that they’d bonded. Hardly. The simple reason was that Tom hadn’t talked as much. Of course, when he had it had been about Gia, but a generally non-toxic trip.

Tom had insisted on driving the first leg. They’d switched after lunch at a no-name diner somewhere on the DelMarVa Peninsula. Tom had insisted that diners were far superior to fast-food chains. Jack’s burger was okay but he really could have gone for a Whopper with cheese. Tom’s beef stew had looked and smelled like hot Alpo.

Jack had had the wheel from there on.

As Jack wound through the traffic on Tenth Avenue, Tom grabbed his arm.

“Stop the car!”

Jack tensed, his eyes doing a quick 360 scan via the mirrors and windshield: nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

Tom was doubled over. “Pull over! Now!”

Jack swerved right and pulled in by a fireplug. Before the car had stopped, Tom was leaning out the door. Jack heard him retching.

When he finished, he levered himself upright and sat there panting.

“Oh, God. Must be that stew. Never should have—”

Then he was hanging out the door and retching again.

“You okay?” Jack said.

Tom nodded.

“Done?”

Another nod.

As Jack put the Vic back into gear he realized with a shock that Tom had no place to stay.

“We’ve got to find you a hotel.”

Shit. A Saturday night in Manhattan the last weekend before Christmas… where the hell were they going to find a room?

Tom slumped against the door.

“Jesus, Jack, I don’t think I can make it.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack knew what Tom meant but his mind shied from acknowledging it.

“Searching for a room.” Tom groaned. “I don’t think I can make today. I’ll find a place tomorrow. I just need a little time to get over this.”

“How much time?”

“Food poisoning doesn’t last long. One night will probably do it. By tomorrow it’ll be like it never happened.” He winced and doubled over, then looked at Jack. “How about your place?”

Jack felt like the driver of a jackknifed semitrailer in mid-skid on an icy road, painfully, hopelessly aware that no matter what pedal he tromped or which way he yanked the wheel, the ending was a foregone conclusion.

“Tom…”

His voice took on a whiny tone. “Come on, Jack. Would it kill you to let me crash one night? One lousy night?”

Bastard.

3

“He’ll be bunking in the TV room,” Jack said.

He’d called Gia as soon as he’d unloaded the car and parked it in its garage.

Tom had carried his backpack and the Lilitongue chest up to the apartment, then slumped on the couch, leaving Jack to unload and haul the rest up to the third floor by himself.

Gia said, “You… with a houseguest…” A suppressed laugh trickled through the phone. “The hermit of the Upper West Side with overnight company. I can’t believe it.”

“It’s not funny and I’m not a hermit.”

“Is he feeling better?”

“Seems to be. At least he’s not throwing up anymore. Hasn’t been sick since Tenth Avenue. Perked up right after he got here.”

Which only deepened Jack’s suspicions. Thinking back, he remembered only hearing Tom retch. Never saw any vomit. Of course, he hadn’t been exactly itching for a look at regurgitated beef stew.

Still… with a guy a little less honest than a wharf rat, you never knew.

Gia
tsked
. “Poor man.”

“That’s what you get for eating Alpo.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Look, when am I going to see you?”

A whole week away. Jack had missed her.

“Well, why don’t the three of us go somewhere after you drop off your brother? There’s a German Expressionist exhibit at MOMA that might be fun.”

The Museum of Modern Art… just the place he wanted to spend his first day home from the sea.

Gia must have sensed his lack of enthusiasm.

“Give it a chance, Jack. There’s no way a man who likes
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
—which you insisted I see—won’t find something to like there.”

Oh, right. The crazy
Caligari
set design had been created by a couple of German expressionists.

“Okay. You’re on.”

He hung up feeling good about tomorrow, anticipating a much-needed Gia-Vicky fix.