Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (20 page)

"Hey-hey-hey!" Davis said, jumping between them. "Maybe there's a time and a place for this, but it's not here! We're done. Let's get back Home."

Jack eyed Miller and Miller glared back. Davis was right. Not the time or the place. Jack wondered if there was any right time or place to face this behemoth. His bulk made him slow, but it also made him hard to hurt.

But not impossible.

Jack noticed with some satisfaction that he showed a trace of a limp as they took the stairs down from the roof.

13

Davis smacked his lips as he slammed down his empty beer mug.

"Man, did I need that."

The ride back to Red Hook had been tense and silent. Along the way Jack had called the FBI. He gave them the address of Shabbir's apartment and fingered him as being behind the explosion.

After dropping Miller off at Home, Davis wanted to go out for a beer. Jack's first impulse had been to refuse. The night had left a bad taste in his mouth and he wanted to get back to his apartment and be alone. He'd had enough of yeniçeri and visions and weirdness for one night. But Davis had practically begged him, saying he wanted to talk. Jack liked Davis, sensed a core of dedication and decency in him, so he finally gave in.

They drove separate cars back to Bay Ridge and found a pub down the street from Shabbir's place. The widescreen TV over the far corner of the bar was running a continuous stream of aerial video of the blast area. No football tonight.

They chose a window booth where they could watch the local frenzy of activity.

The whole block had been taped off. Dozens of FBI-labeled flak vests milled through a delirium of flashing lights.

Jack finished his own beer. He'd needed one too.

"Let's do that again."

As Jack signaled the waitress for another round, Davis leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

"The Fibbies will be all over that place. Make
CSI
look like a food fight. You and Zek didn't leave any trace they can latch onto, right?"

Jack shook his head and took no offense.

"Kept the cigarette butts outside, wore gloves inside. Taught me that in Heir school too."

Davis didn't smile. "Good. If the Oculus's vision was accurate—about loading the vests there—they should find traces of Semtex in the apartment. They can analyze its composition and maybe trace it to the source."

"So? Five'll get you fifty it's Iran." Abe had told him the Iranians were turning out Semtex like pita dough. "What help is that?"

Davis leaned back and sighed. "Not a lot, I guess." He shook his head. "The borders are sieves."

"You think that's the way the Otherness is going? Terrorism?"

A shrug. "Anything that causes terror strengthens the Adversary." He leaned forward again. "And don't forget, this isn't just about America. Terrorism anywhere—Ireland, Iraq, Malaysia—is all food for the Adversary."

"Well then, don't you think that explosion tonight is causing its share of terror?" He nodded toward the TV. "That feed is going nationwide."

Davis nodded. "Yeah, well, I'm sorry about that. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. Miller is—"

"A menace. Something wrong with that guy—sick bad wrong. He's got a piece missing."

"Yeah, but he's loyal and fearless."

"So's Zeklos, but he's being sent to Idaho."

Davis's gaze shifted. "Zek isn't exactly fearless."

"Yeah? How so?"

"Let's leave it at that."

Jack could respect that. He leaned back as the waitress brought them fresh beers. He didn't feel like talking about tonight anymore.

"Okay," he said when she was gone, "honest now: Do you think Miller will ever accept me—not as the Heir, just my presence?"

"Well, he feels only yeniçeri should be in the MV."

"That doesn't answer my question. Will he ever accept me?"

After a long pause, Davis shook his head. "Maybe when they stop rerunning
I Love Lucy."'

That pretty much said it all. Jack turned to a couple of questions that had popped up during the day.

"Do you guys, you yeniçeri, have any lives?"

Davis nodded. "Yeah. It's called Militia Vigilum."

"I mean outside of that."

"You mean a home away from Home. Wife? Kids?" He shook his head. "Forbidden. No
Ozzie and Harriet
scene. Not even a girlfriend. The MV is all the family we need or get."

Jack couldn't see how that was possible.

"You mean you're some sort of monastic order?"

"In a way. But not celibate."

"You said no girlfriends."

Davis smiled. "We're an ancient order, and we take our comfort from a profession even more ancient."

"But how do you spend your free time? I get the feeling it's not fasting and meditation."

"We play cards and checkers and chess while we're on duty. I've become a pretty decent chess player. Want to play sometime?"

Davis's wistful tone prompted a little epiphany: This man was lonely. He'd sacrificed just about everything so he could devote himself to saving the world. Something to be said for that kind of dedication, that sacrifice, that singleness of purpose. Jack had met some rabid environmentalists who thought they were saving the world, but at least they had real lives on the side.

Jack felt for Davis, but not enough to take up chess again.

"Sorry. Gave it up."

His eyebrows lifted. "You're kidding. It's a wonderful game."

"Don't have the patience for it."

Jack had learned that he was too reckless, too impulsive to be a good chess player. Could last only so long before his patience ran out and he started making crazy moves—anything to get a little action going and break the game open. All the care and detail he put into his fix-its deserted him on the chessboard. Maybe it was a matter of real life versus a game. If he gave into impulses on a fix-it, his skin was at stake; in chess, only some little chunks of wood.

"What else do you do?" he said. "Besides put out fires?"

"We track the Adversary. Sometimes that involves putting out fires, sometimes starting them."

"How so?"

"Well, for instance, in sixty-four A.D. we fought the great Rome fire alongside the official Militia Vigilum. That was when we started thinking of ourselves as a different sort of MV. We'd tracked the Adversary to Rome. To this day we're sure he started the fire, simply to feed on the chaos. But he wound up with a bonus when Nero blamed the Christians and started throwing them to the lions."

"But what about starting fires?"

"The library at Alexandria—we burned that because the Adversary's followers were secretly gathering a collection of dangerous texts there."

Jack wondered if the Compendium of Srem had been among them.

"But those were the old days," Davis said. "Now we watch a lot of TV. Too much, I think."

Jack remembered his references to
Lucy, Father Knows Best, Ozzie and Harriet
, and
Leave It to Beaver
, so he took a stab.

"Let me guess:
TV Land
."

Davis's eyes widened. "You psychic? Or is that something else you learn in Heir school?"

Jack smiled and shrugged. "Tell me this: Can you quit the MV?"

Davis smirked. "Obviously they don't teach you everything in Heir school."

"Can you?"

Davis shook his head. "Nope."

Jack didn't buy that.

"You expect me to believe that after all this time, all these centuries—"

"Millennia."

"—not one person has quit? Come on.
Somebody
must have."

"Have you ever read an expose of the MV or the yeniçeri, or even a news story hinting at our existence?"

Jack hadn't.

"Nobody has
ever
quit? Not even one disgruntled ex-member wandering around?"

Davis's face was a mask. "You are either loyal to the yeniçeri code, or you are not."

"And what if you're not?"

"Then you are… not." He blinked and shrugged. "But let's talk about something else. As I said, I'm sorry about tonight. But I like the way you handle yourself. Next time we go out—"

"Not going to be a next time."

Davis stared at him. "What? You can't be serious."

"Dead serious. This isn't going to work. Call me anal, but I like doing things, my way. I do
not
like other people making decisions for me, even if they mean well, even if our goals are in tune. How I score is as important as the scoring."

"Look. I'll see to it that you never get teamed with Miller again. I can—"

Jack held up a hand. "Won't matter. It simply isn't going to work."

Davis leaned so far over the table he looked as if he were going to climb on it.

"This isn't about you, Jack. It's about everybody. I'm sorry your sensibilities took a beating tonight, but this is too important to let your ego get in the way."

"Nothing to do with ego."

"Then what? We're in the fight of our lives and we're losing. Every day the Otherness encroaches just a little bit more. Each little increment doesn't seem like much at the time, but if you look back you can see how far it's come. Stalin used the tactic in Eastern Europe. He called it 'salami slicing.' In other words, if you grab the whole salami, there'll be hell to pay. But filch a slice at a time and it's barely noticed; and even if it is, no one gets too upset. But keep on filching those slices and eventually you'll have—"

"The whole salami. I know."

"That's what the Otherness is up to. And it's winning. You know why? Because it's more motivated. The Ally doesn't eat salami, it wants it simply because owning it is part of winning. But the Otherness loves salami—it doesn't just want us, it
needs
us. It'll feed on the negative emotions it can create once it takes over."

"Well, your pal Miller served up some snacks tonight."

"But it would have been so much worse if we hadn't stopped them. And say what you want about Miller, he's out there sweating in the firebreaks, doing whatever's necessary to keep the Otherness from spreading."

"That doesn't excuse—"

"We
need
you, Jack. We've been falling apart since we lost the Twins. Tonight was a perfect example. Miller wouldn't have dreamed of pulling that stunt if the Twins were still around. We need a new center. You—the Heir—you can provide that. You can get us back on track."

Jack felt the walls closing in. Davis was right about the Otherness winning—he felt it in his bones—and the importance of keeping it at bay, but he'd hated tonight. And yet, he wanted access to the Oculus to keep tabs on the big picture.

Things had been so much easier before he'd heard of these people.

He fished out a twenty and threw it on the table as he rose.

"I'll think about it. I'll be away on some business for a while. I'll contact you when I get back. Maybe."

He didn't give Davis a chance to reply.

MONDAY

1

Jack awoke to the blather of 880 AM, one of the city's all-news radio stations.

Last night, after checking his street to see if the mysterious stranger was hanging around—he wasn't—he'd turned on the radio and fallen asleep listening. He'd awakened a few times during the night but heard no mention of new explosions.

Same thing this morning.

So far so good. But the morning was still young.

No one was commenting yet on exactly what had exploded and who might have been killed. And no word about an apartment in Bay Ridge. The feds were playing it silent and savvy.

He checked his clock. Not quite six yet. Manhattan's rush hour wouldn't be in full swing for another hour or so. Still time for terror to start.

Yeah, they'd blown one group of cockroaches and their stash to hell, but he couldn't help worrying: What if more than one cell was involved? And what if that other cell had its own stash? Were they saving it for another day or were they planning to use it this morning in a two-pronged, coordinated attack? Compound the terror with a second strike?

That was why he'd wanted to feed the slimy bastards to the feds. But goddamn Miller…

He should have called the feds the instant he saw the drums of Semtex.

Screw the team approach.

Then again, if not for the Oculus and the MV, he never would have known about the plot.

He hated this.

He showered, got dressed, then went out. Not too cold. He decided to walk over to Gia's instead of grabbing a cab. Wanted to get a feel for the mood of the city. The Staten Island explosion, located as it had been in a storage facility, had terrorist written all over it.