Hardbingers rj-10 Read online

  Hardbingers

  ( Repairman Jack - 10 )

  F. Paul Wilson

  for my sibs,

  Peter and Lu

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the usual crew for their efforts: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; and my agent, Albert Zuckerman. Special thanks to Steven Spruill for his perceptive insights and going the extra mile.

  More thanks to:

  Lisa Krause for the title. The folks in the www.repairmanjack.com Forum came up with many excellent suggestions, but Harbingers hit the bull's-eye.

  Ken Valentine and New York Joe for weaponry assistance.

  Sandra Escandon, M.D., and Paul Gilson, M.D., for neurological guidance.

  Stu Schiff for the world's most amazing single malts.

  And super extra-special thanks to Ethan Bateman for lending me his sui generis metaphors.

  Finally, a wink and a nod to the few readers out there who'll know the Wauwinet Inn's seasonal schedule.

  FRIDAY

  1

  "Hey, Jack, can I bother you a minute?"

  Jack sat at his table in the rear of Julio's. He looked up from his coffee and saw Timmy O'Brien, one of Julio's regulars. A fiftyish guy, thin, hangdog face, watery eyes, and wearing a Hawaiian shirt in January.

  Julio's, an Upper West Side bar that had fought the good fight and succeeded in holding on to its working-class roots through the neighborhood's decades of legitimization, rehabilitation, restoration, and gentrification, had been Jack's hang for years. Julio always saved him a table where he could sit with his back to the wall.

  "Bother?"

  "Well, yeah. I mean, I know about what happened last month, and I'm really sorry for your loss. I know you've still got to be bummed, but I could really use some help, Jack."

  "What kind?"

  "Your kind."

  Jack sighed. He'd been on sabbatical, ignoring e-mails and voice mails from prospective customers. Didn't feel he could focus enough—or care enough—to earn his fee. That was part of it. Truth was he was having trouble caring about much of anything outside his small, immediate circle. No interest, no energy, and probably drinking too much these past three weeks.

  He didn't need a shrink to tell him he was depressed. But a shrink would want to give him pills, and Jack didn't want pills. He preferred beer—but not before lunch.

  He couldn't find the energy to get up and get out and get moving again. What was the point? Who cared? And when he got right down to it, did any-thing he did, anything he'd ever done, matter in the long run? Had he ever made a difference?

  He wondered.

  But Timmy looked so needy. Jack wasn't ready to venture outside his self-circumscribed world of Julio's, Abe's, Gia's, and his own place, but maybe he could make a few suggestions.

  He pointed to the seat across from him.

  "Shoot."

  As Timmy settled his butt in the chair and his draft on the table, Jack reviewed what he knew about the man.

  A dozen years ago Timmy had been an advertising hotshot, near the peak of the copywriter heap. Lots of money, but too much of it going up his nose. His agency had been on the short list for a big Citibank account and he had this idea that he was sure would clinch it for them. He'd once shown the Julio's gang a mockup of the ad.

  A big, neon-bright lettered cross with tiny letters below it:

  Everyone here at Julio's had thought it was way cool, but the new Timmy said he had no idea where his old self had come up with such a stupid idea. The agency brass had told him to forget it, but coke-fueled grandiosity mixed with his own hubris had convinced him that this was the only way to go. So against all advice and all orders, he'd pitched it to the bank officers, telling them that though he knew it would be controversial, that very controversy would make Citibank a household name.

  The officers agreed, but figured the bank's name would be associated with other words in those households—like "hell-bound" and "damned" and "sacrilegious."

  The multimillion-dollar account went elsewhere. And soon after, so did Timmy.

  After bottoming out a few years later, he put himself in rehab, joined NA, and cleaned up his act.

  But the clean and sober Timmy was not the same man. The guy who'd had his finger on the pulse of America's wants—who'd even created some of those wants—could never quite localize that throb again. He was still in advertising, but working far below the apogee of his heyday. Always a little out of step—like the Hawaiian shirt—ever functioning just outside the norm. No longer big-time, resigned to be forever small-time.

  In other words, a prototypical Julio's regular.

  But Jack didn't remember ever seeing him here before five o'clock. And a morning beer—even if it was late morning—wasn't like the new Timmy. Something had to be bothering him.

  "It's about my niece."

  "How old?"

  "Fourteen."

  "Oh, man."

  A problem with a fourteen-year-old girl. That could mean anything from promiscuity to drugs to being an all-around wild child. None of which Jack could help with.

  Timmy held up a hand. "Now, now, I know what you're thinking, but it's nothing like that. Cailin's a good kid. She goes to Mount Saint Ursula, scholarship and all—straight-A student, field hockey, the whole thing."

  "Then what is it?"

  "She's gone."

  "Ran off?"

  "I told you, Cailin's not like that. But this morning, somewhere between her house and school, she disappeared."

  "This morning?" Jack shook his head. "Hell, Timmy, she's been gone, what, four hours? She's probably off with her boyfriend."

  "Except her boyfriend's in school."

  "What do the police say?"

  "Same as you: Hasn't been gone long enough. If someone had seen foul play, that'd be a different story. But with kids running away all the time, they're pretty blase about the whole thing. Like, 'Yeah-yeah, come back when it's been a coupla days.' So I'm coming to you, Jack."

  Jack sighed. He could see Timmy was worried, but he had to lay out a few facts of life.

  "I don't do missing persons, Timmy, especially a hot case. And there's a very good reason for that: I can't. I don't have the resources. I'm just one guy, and the cops are many. And they've got all those computers and databases and people from CSI: New York."

  "But they're not using them!"

  "The other thing is, I'm not a detective. I'm a fix-it guy."

  "Well, then, fix this."

  "Timmy—"

  "Damn it, Jack!"

  Timmy slammed his palms on the table. His beer mug and Jack's coffee cup jumped. The midday regulars looked over, then went back to their drinks and talk. He lowered his voice.

  "My sister's going nuts, Jack, and so am I. I never had kids—two wives but no kids. Cailin's been like a daughter. I couldn't love her more if she were really mine."

  That struck a nerve. Jack knew the feeling. He had the same relationship with Vicky.

  "What do you think I can do, Timmy?"

  "You know people, and you know people who know people—people the cops don't know."

  "As in, 'I've Got Friends in Low Places'?"

  "You know what I mean. Put the word out—a sort of street-level Amber Alert. I'll pay a reward—five hundred, a thousand, my apartment, anything." His throat worked as his voice choked. "I just want her safe and sound. Is that too much to ask?"

  It might be, but Jack supposed he could make a few calls. Timmy was a regular here, and Julio's regulars tended to watch each others' backs. How could he say no?

  "Okay, I'll call some people." He kept his phone list at home. A quick walk from here. "But five hundred won't be enough."

  Timmy spread his hands. "I know
you don't come cheap, but like I said: anything."

  "What I'm trying to tell you is we're venturing into What's-in-it-for-me Land. Some of the guys I call, and most of the guys they call, aren't going to pass the word around out of the goodness of their hearts. They're going to need incentive."

  "Name the figure."

  Jack had done this before and knew it had to be set up so, in case of success, everyone along the chain walked away with something. What he'd tell his first-line contacts was that if someone in their contact string found the girl, they'd get the same reward as the finder. This would go down the line: If A tells B who tells C who tells D who finds the girl, all four get the same reward. Five hundred bucks apiece seemed like a good incentive—one that looked better and better as it moved down the chain, ballooning to a bonanza by the time it reached the street people.

  "Probably cost you twenty-five hundred, although it might go as high as five."

  Timmy slumped with relief.

  "Done. I can't think of anything better to spend it on."

  "Got a pen?" When Timmy handed him one, Jack grabbed a napkin and readied to write. "What's she look like? What was she wearing?"

  "She left the house in a blue coat over a typical Catholic girls' school outfit. You know: white blouse, blue sweater, blue-and-white plaid skirt, blue knee socks."

  Jack shook his head. "Got to be a gazillion kids dressed like that in the city."

  "Yeah, but they don't have Cailin's hair. It's bright red—all natural—and wild. She's always complaining about how nothing she tries will control it."

  "Got a picture?"

  "Sure." Timmy fumbled in a back pocket for his wallet. "You thinking of posting it around?"

  Jack shook his head. He had neither the time nor the manpower for that sort of canvassing.

  "Just want to see her face."

  Timmy wiggled a wrinkled photo out of his wallet and passed it across.

  "Taken maybe a month ago."

  Jack stared at the girl in the picture. Cute kid. Round face, freckles, red and green bands on her braces, and a Santa cap squished on her wild red mop.

  "You weren't kidding about the hair."

  "She goes on and on about it. She'll wear you out with her constant carping about it, but…" He wiped an eye. "I'd give anything to be listening to her right now."

  Jack rose and clapped him on the shoulder.

  "I'll get on it. Can I keep the photo?"

  "Sure. Long as you need it."

  "No promises, Timmy, beyond making the calls. It's a long shot."

  Timmy grabbed his hand and squeezed.

  "I know, but you're all I've got right now."

  Jack waved good-bye to Julio and stepped out into the cutting January wind.

  Long shot? Who was he kidding? More like hitting a dime at a thousand yards with a Saturday night special.

  2

  "Look," Vicky said from where she'd planted herself before the monitor. "I think she's smiling." She was endlessly excited by her impending state of sisterhood.

  Jack found the scene vaguely shamanistic. Gia lay on a recliner in Dr. Ea-gleton's office while a technician angled the magic wand of a fetal ultrasound this way and that over the skin of her swollen, lubricated belly.

  She'd popped just before the first of the year. Through careful clothing selection she'd managed to hide it during the first two trimesters, but now she looked undeniably pregnant. Her face had filled out some, but her hair was as short and as blond as ever.

  Jack's eyes strayed back to the grainy image on the monitor, melting in and out of the darkness as the ultrasonic flashlight swept over the baby. A big head, a little body, a chain of vertebral beads and, in the center, an opening and closing black hole—the heart.

  Jack stared, fascinated. His child—his and Gia's.

  "How's the pregnancy going?" the tech said.

  Her name tag read LIKISHA. A twenty-something black girl with a Halle Berry smile and hair shorter than Gia's.

  Gia opened her mouth to reply but Vicky spoke first.

  "She has to sprinkle a lot."

  Likisha frowned. "Sprinkle?"

  Vicky looked up from the monitor and smiled. "You know—number one."

  He loved her big grin. She had dark brown hair—her father's color, he'd been told—woven into a long single braid, and her mother's blue eyes.

  The two women in his life.

  "Ah." The Halle Berry smile appeared. "Number one. Got it."

  "But don't worry," Vicky added. "She doesn't have diabetes. Doctor Ea-gleton checked her for that."

  "That's good." Likisha turned back to Gia with a bemused expression. "How about—?"

  "She gets lots of backaches too," Vicky said, eyes back on the monitor. "But that's normal for the third trimester."

  Likisha's voice rose an octave as she stared at her. "How old are you, girl?"

  "Nine."

  "Going on forty." Gia's smile betrayed her pride in her little girl.

  "But how—?"

  "She reads a lot. Constantly. Sometimes I have to tell her to stop reading and go out and play. She's become a junior obstetrician since she learned I was pregnant."

  Jack said, "And she'll be going for her junior pediatrician badge after the baby's born."

  "Hey!" Vicky cried. "She's sucking her thumb."

  "tfe, Vicks," Jack said.

  '''She,'" Gia said.

  Jack shook his head. "We haven't established the sex yet, and that looks like a he to me." He glanced at the technician. "What do you think?"

  "Can't say for sure—not with the way she keeps that umbilical cord between her legs."

  "His legs. Okay, then. What's your best guess?"

  "I'm not supposed to guess. But if I was guessing, I would guess it's a girl."

  Jack feigned offense. "Sure. You women already outnumber us, but does that satisfy you? Noooo. You want me to be the only male in a house full of women."

  Likisha smiled. "Only way to go."

  "Do you know for sure the baby's not a boy?"

  She shook her head. "No. But you do enough of these you develop a sixth sense. And my sense is saying 'girl-girl-girl.'"

  Jack turned to Gia. "You two worked this out beforehand, didn't you."

  Gia smiled that smile and winked. "Of course we did. We're sisters in the international feminine conspiracy to take back the world."

  Likisha raised a fist. "Sister power!"

  Vicky mimicked her. "Sister power!" Then she turned to her mother. "What's sister power?"

  "Any names picked out?" Likisha said.

  Jack said, "Jack."

  Likisha shook her head. "Not very feminine."

  "Emma," Gia said, smiling at Jack. "At least we agree on that. And Emma she will be."

  Jack groaned, then turned serious.

  "But whatever—he or she—the baby looks okay, right?"

  Likisha nodded. "Typical thirty-two-week-old fetus with all the standard equipment in working order."

  Jack let out a breath. So far—except for a near miscarriage—an uneventful pregnancy. And he prayed it would remain that way. His life otherwise had been anything but—a marching band of bad news. He didn't know if he could handle any more.

  His cell phone vibrated against his thigh.

  "Excuse me."

  He'd made his calls for Timmy, made his reward promises, and left Julio's number. Then he'd picked up Gia and Vicks and brought them here.

  He stepped out into the hall and checked the caller ID: Julio.

  "What's up?"

  "Hey, Meng. Louie G. call. He say he got son'thin." Julio read off a number.

  "Thanks."

  Jack punched it in and listened to the ring. Louie Grandinetti ran a produce supply in the west twenties. He also ran numbers. He'd give odds on anything and everything. If the meek ever inherited the earth, Louie would be making book on how long they'd keep it.

  "Yeah?"

  "Louie? Jack. Got something?"

  "
Got a runner who told some grate sleepers to keep an eye out. One of them thinks he saw something. Might be useful, might be nothing. The guy's an old bearded dude they call Rico. Told him to hang around Worth and Hudson. You were interested you'd stop by."

  Down near the financial district. Didn't seem likely, but you never knew.

  "Thanks. I'll check it out."

  "And should this pan out…"

  "Don't worry. I'll be stopping by with a token of my esteem."

  "Luck."

  "Yeah."

  Jack felt a little tingle of anticipation. Maybe, just maybe…

  He ducked back into the ultrasonography room, where he found Gia sitting up and adjusting her clothes.

  "Gotta run."

  "Where?"

  "A little business."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Really? Nothing rough and tumble, I trust."

  "Nope. Missing kid. Strictly arm's length."

  "I've heard that before." She reached out her hand and he clasped it. "Only two months to go, Jack. Please be careful."

  "1 will. I promise. If I locate the kid I call nine-one-one and walk away."

  "Promise?"

  Jack held up his three middle fingers, palm out.

  "Scout's honor."

  She smiled. "You were never a Scout. When did you ever join anything?"

  "I'm joining you as soon as Abe comes through for me."

  Gia looked at him, locking her eyes with his. They held the stare, then she nodded.

  "A little business could be good for you, Jack. You look a lot livelier right now than you have since…"

  She didn't have to finish.

  Jack kissed her. "You can get home okay?"

  She laughed. "I'm pregnant, not crippled."

  Jack glanced over at the monitor where Vicky still stared at the image of the baby frozen on the screen.

  "Pretty soon, Vicks."

  She turned to him, grinning. "Likisha's getting me a picture so I can take it to school!"

  "Can I get one too?"

  "Really?" Gia said. "What for? To show around Julio's?"

  "Someday I'll bore people with photos of my kids, but this one's just for me. I want to be able to take it out and look at him whenever I want."

  "Her."

  3