The Dark at the End (Repairman Jack) Read online

  13

  Every jounce and bounce rammed a spike of pain through Jack’s head. Vaguely familiar voices, one accented, echoed through cottony air …

  “… about the Hummer?… Stolen. This is he?… Yeah, that’s him. Think he’s your guy?… We will find out…”

  Lying on his back. Where? What happened? He remembered leaving Drexler’s, grabbing a cab, and then … what?

  Seemed to be moving. Still in the cab?

  No. Hard floor against his back.

  God, his head. And his stomach felt ready to hurl.

  Tried to open his eyes but the reluctant lids allowed him only a brief glimpse of blurred figures before losing strength and collapsing.

  Tried to move but couldn’t. Seemed to be—alarm shot through him as he struggled to move his arms. They’d been tied or taped.

  The lump of his Glock was missing against the small of his back.

  And then the cab or whatever he was in hit a pothole or a curb and took a big bounce and the world faded away …

  14

  Kristof stared at the man blinking up at him from the chair. He was securely taped into it. His Glock and backup pistol had been removed.

  He turned to Thompson. “You are absolutely sure this is man who rob you?”

  “Sure as shit.” He flung the man’s wallet across the room. “All his ID backs that up. John Fucking Tyleski.” He leaned closer to the man, almost nose to nose. “Ain’t that right?”

  Tyleski looked up at him. Kristof was quite sure that was not his real name, but it would do for now. They would know his real name before this night was over. He had seemed confused before but his eyes had cleared and he appeared more alert now.

  He blinked at Thompson. “Who are you?”

  “You know goddamn well who I am.”

  “Never saw you before in my life.”

  Thompson bared his teeth as he cocked his right fist. Kristof grabbed his arm before he could strike.

  “I do not want him knocked out again.”

  “I owe this guy, Szeto. So do you.”

  “I want him to talk. He cannot talk if he is unconscious.”

  “Talk, huh? You want talk? I saw a hardware store down the block. How about I pick us up a few tools to loosen him up?”

  Kristof nodded. The Order had owned this top-floor loft and the one below it since the days before the meatpacking district became trendy. Thompson had kept his distance while Dieter and Erich were dragging Tyleski up the stairs from the street. But he’d gained swagger and confidence once the man was secured to the chair.

  Just then Dieter and Erich returned from hiding the van.

  Dieter stared at Tyleski. His English carried a thick German accent. “Kristof! I thought he looked familiar before, but now in the light, I am sure: This is the man from the park yesterday, the one who killed Claudiu and wounded Filip.”

  “Is he now?” Erich said with an equally heavy accent as he pulled out his pistol.

  The revelation triggered an explosion of rage within Kristof but he managed to contain it. He raised a hand and stopped Erich.

  “No. We have time for that later.”

  He pulled his own pistol from its holster and a three-inch suppressor from a side pocket. He made a show of screwing it onto the threaded end of the barrel.

  “How much later?” Dieter asked, looking equally itchy to inflict damage on this man.

  “After I have learned what I want to know, we shall play Last Shot Loser, the three of us—and Mister Thompson too, if he wishes.”

  “What’s that?” Thompson said.

  “We take turns shooting Mister Tyleski with one bullet each.”

  Thompson smiled. “Count me in. How do I win?”

  “By not losing. You lose by killing him. The one who fires the kill shot must pay each of the other players one thousand dollars.”

  Thompson’s grin broadened. “Oh, I’m definitely in. The way I see it, even if I lose, I win.”

  “But first, your suggestion about hardware store is excellent. Get whatever tools appeal to you, but for me … you are familiar with something called X-Acto knife?”

  “Course I am.”

  “Get me one, or something quite like it.”

  “Planning a little cosmetic surgery?”

  “In a way. First thing I do is cut off eyelids so he must watch whatever we do to him.”

  Dieter and Erich slapped palms as Thompson turned to Tyleski. “You are soooo fucked!”

  Tyleski didn’t react. Szeto hadn’t expected much from him. A man like this would know better than to show fear, even if he were quaking inside. And the prospect of losing his eyelids should cause deep quaking. Kristof had seen men broken by that alone. Not so much because of the pain, but because of the finality of the mutilation, the realization that even if he survived, his life was changed, horribly and forever.

  Thompson turned at the door. “Hey, we forgot about Drexler. Think he might be in on—oh, shit. You think he might have hit Drexler?”

  That had occurred to Kristof, but he hadn’t had time to check on it. Not that it would be such a terrible loss. Ernst Drexler had been bypassed by the One. That meant that the High Council might decide to elevate someone else to Actuator status. And since the One was dealing directly with Kristof Szeto, who better to choose?

  But until that happened, Kristof would have to play the game.

  He pulled out his phone. “You go,” he told Thompson. He pointed to Dieter and Erich. “You two wait outside.”

  He didn’t want them overhearing his conversation with Drexler. And he wanted a little time alone with the prisoner.

  When the door closed behind them, he speed-dialed Drexler’s number. Kristof couldn’t help a stab of disappointment when he picked up on the third ring.

  “Yes, Szeto?”

  “You are aware that man we have been looking for was seen leaving your apartment building?”

  A long pause, during which Kristof was certain that Drexler was wondering if he was being watched and whether to ask about it.

  Instead he said, “Jack from Johnson, New Jersey. Yes.”

  “He visits you often?”

  “Never before. He was looking for the One.”

  That took Kristof by surprise. He glanced at the man before him. Looking for the One? Was he mad?

  “Why would he—?”

  “Never mind that. Did you follow him?”

  “Yes, of course. He is now guest at meatpacking place. He will soon be telling us many things we wish to know.”

  Another long pause, then, “Don’t do anything until I get there. I have a score to settle with that man.”

  “Many have scores.”

  He ended the call and turned to the man.

  “So … you are called John Tyleski. Another name for John is ‘Jack,’ yes? Are you called Jack?”

  The man said nothing, merely stared at Kristof.

  Kristof said, “I am making conversation. I know answers. I know you are Jack from Johnson, New Jersey. I have come to know your hometown very well lately. I know you grew up with Louise and Edward Connell. I know you have killed many of my men.” He lifted the man’s Glock from the floor. “Probably with this very gun.”

  He wanted to smash the barrel across his face but held back. Men who had just recovered consciousness were too easily knocked out again. He needed him awake. Instead he leaned closer and pointed to the healing scars on his own face.

  “And even though I did not see you, Jack, I know you were one who did this to me.”

  Still no response.

  “You are looking for the One, yes? It is sure now that you will never find him, so you can tell me: Why do you look for him?”

  Instead of continuing his impassive stare, Jack seemed to consider this. Finally he shrugged.

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  Kristof couldn’t help but laugh. “You are quite mad, you know.”

  “You won’t think so when he’s dead.”
r />   “Why do you want him dead?”

  “I think you know.”

  Kristof realized he had finally met someone directly related to the Enemy. Almost everything he had done for the Order was intended to weaken the Enemy, but the men and women he had run up against along the way had not been directly connected to the Enemy, merely impeding the One’s ascent. Here, at last, was someone with a direct connection.

  “It is too bad you work for Enemy. You would have been strong fighter for Order.”

  “Not much of a joiner, Mister Szeto.”

  He knows my name, Kristof thought. How—?

  Well, of course he would.

  Jack said, “My turn for a question: Why work for a guy who’s going to wreck the world if he wins?”

  Kristof laughed again. “This is Enemy propaganda. ‘The end of world as we know it.’ Is like Church telling children they go to hell if they do not follow rules. When the One wins, we make rules.”

  Jack shook his head. “You’re dealing with a guy who has one agenda—himself. You, Drexler, Thompson, the high-ups in your Order, you’re all going to be left out in the cold with the rest of us when he changes the world to his own brand of hell.”

  Kristof kept his expression impassive, not wanting this man to know that he’d struck his most secret fear. Not that the world would be changed into a place of pain and terror—those were the laughable fantasies sold by the Enemy—but that he would not be elevated to a position of power. That fear had receded since the One had turned directly to him for assistance, but it had not vanished.

  “I would love to prove you wrong, but unfortunately, you will not be around to see it.”

  “When does your master arrive?”

  “Master?”

  Kristof bristled at the comment but feigned confusion. He would so much enjoy making this man scream.

  “The man in the wonderful ice cream suit.”

  “Oh, you must mean Drexler. No, I answer only to the One. In fact, soon I may be Drexler’s master. The One comes to me now. In fact, he has engaged me for special project in your hometown. Isn’t that interesting?”

  Finally a reaction from the man—surprise … concern. “What project?”

  Just then Kristof heard the door open. He turned and saw Drexler, wearing a long, dark herringbone overcoat over his white suit. He stepped in and closed the door behind him.

  “Well, well,” Drexler said, smiling at Jack. “We meet again. But this time I have the advantage.”

  15

  This Washington Street hardware store was tiny but it had everything. He found an X-Acto number two knife with a long slim aluminum handle and a sharp-pointed number eleven blade.

  Perfect for cutting off eyelids.

  At least Hank thought it would be perfect. He shuddered at the thought of it happening to him. Something like that would never even have occurred to him. But Szeto seemed pretty comfortable with it. Like maybe this wouldn’t be his first eyelidectomy.

  Be the first for Hank. He was kind of looking forward to it. He’d never tortured anyone. Before becoming King of the Kickers, he’d earned his daily bread alternating between a knocker and a sticker in a slaughterhouse. The former involved shooting a steel bolt into cows’ heads to knock them out; the latter meant slitting the cow’s throat as it hung by a back leg from an overhead rail. So blood and guts were no problem.

  Especially this guy’s blood and guts. The son of a bitch had stolen his Compendium of Srem. But worse than that, he’d made a fool of Hank while doing it, right out in public on the streets of New York. Nothing too bad could happen to this guy.

  But the thing was, Hank didn’t want the guy to die before he told him where he’d stashed the Compendium. Or if he’d sold it, who to.

  He found a pair of needle-nose pliers. Might be good for yanking off fingernails. He added that to his shopping basket and moved on till he came across some Drano Kitchen Crystals. Sprinkle some of that onto lidless eyes … oh, yeah.

  He kept shopping …

  16

  Szeto, Thompson, the Katzenjammer Killers who’d ambushed the Lady, and now Drexler.

  Party time.

  Jack wasn’t sure if his nausea was from the concussion or the certainty of impending torture. Probably a little of both. He wondered how he’d hold up.

  And he wondered how he’d landed here. He’d watched Drexler’s apartment for a number of nights—no guards, no surveillance. Drexler hadn’t had time to contact anyone to tail him, so how had he been set up?

  Not that it mattered now. Barring a miracle, he was done. He wouldn’t mind dying so much if it didn’t mean leaving Gia and Vicky to fend for themselves in the coming Change. He did mind dying in agony. And worse, whoever found his body wouldn’t be able to identify him—he had no identity. He’d wind up in Bellevue with a “John Doe” tag on his big toe.

  Still smiling at him, Drexler reached into the pocket of the overcoat and pulled out his Taser.

  “I replaced the battery.”

  “We have more interesting plans,” Szeto said.

  “Yes, but this is direct payback. He Tasered me in Central Park last summer and I am going to return the favor … many times.”

  Jack steeled himself. This wasn’t going to be fun.

  “Well, this is all right, I suppose,” Szeto said. “It will soften him up for main event.”

  “By the way, how did you manage this?”

  “Thompson was on his way to visit you when he spotted him leaving your building.”

  So that was it—one of those random events that screws up the most careful plans.

  Drexler’s eyebrows lifted as he looked around. “Thompson? Really? Where is he?”

  “He returns soon with tools.”

  “Then we have no time to waste.”

  He turned and jammed the Taser against Szeto’s neck.

  Jack figured the shock on Szeto’s face had to mirror his own as the man’s muscles turned to overcooked spaghetti and he dropped to the floor. Jack watched him twitch, then looked at Drexler standing over him.

  He knew he had a bad concussion. Did hallucinations go with it? If so, this was a doozy.

  “All right. I give up. What was that all about? Not that I’m protesting or anything.”

  Drexler—Jack had to assume he was real—said nothing as he pulled a jackknife from his pocket, opened it, and cut the duct tape fastening Jack’s right wrist to the chair. As Jack pulled it free, he handed him the knife.

  “Finish yourself.”

  Jack went to work on his other wrist and realized his right shoulder hurt like hell. What had happened to it? But more important …

  “What’s going down here?”

  Drexler didn’t answer. Instead, he zapped Szeto again, then reached inside the man’s leather coat. He removed the Tokarev and held it up, staring at the suppressor.

  “Perfect.”

  He stepped back and pointed it at Szeto. The pistol went phut-phut as Drexler, with about as much ceremony as a carpenter tacking up wallboard, double-tapped the supine man in the forehead.

  “Jeez,” Jack whispered.

  He finished freeing his left wrist and hurried on to his ankles. He didn’t know what was playing out here but wanted all his limbs available for the next act.

  Drexler turned and raised the Tokarev toward him. Jack was already making a move to deflect the barrel when Drexler flipped it so the grip was turned his way.

  “Take this and hide it and be ready to use it.”

  “What?”

  He opened the door and called out in what sounded like German. “Sie zwei! Schnell kommen!”

  Some hurried footsteps and then the Katzenjammers arrived. They gasped, “Kristof!” in unison when they saw their boss.

  A lot of things began happening at once. Drexler was behind the Germans. He slipped out the door and closed it behind him as they went for their weapons. They were facing Jack, half a dozen feet away. Raising and extending his arm reduced the range to
four feet. He shot each once in the chest. He didn’t know what sort of ammo Szeto had loaded, but it proved damn effective. The lights instantly went out in the Katzenjammers’ eyes and they hit the floor in unison.

  Drexler came back through the door and held out his hand for the pistol. But Jack wasn’t about to give it up. He pointed it at Drexler.

  “For like the third or fourth time: What’s this all about?”

  “I’ll explain later.” He snapped his fingers. “Come-come. I want to be out of here before Thompson returns.”

  “Maybe I don’t.”

  Thompson had been so into the prospect of torturing him. Be kind of fun to see his face when he walked in with his tools and learned the tables had been turned.

  “It’s important. Please.”

  Drexler saying please … Jack would have thought the word long expunged from his vocabulary.

  Fact: He’d already had plenty of opportunities to shoot Jack but hadn’t. Still …

  “Back up.”

  When Drexler complied, Jack quickly finished cutting the tape on his ankles, then rose. The room did a spin and he thought he’d either hurl, collapse, or both, but he locked his throat against a surge of bile and widened his stance. Room and stomach settled.

  Moving carefully, he stepped over to where his Glock and backup lay on the floor. Only after he’d reclaimed them did he hand back the Tokarev.

  Drexler turned and, keeping his distance, administered a coup de grâce to Hans and Fritz, or whatever their names were. Then he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped down the pistol. He dropped it on Szeto’s belly and turned to Jack.

  “We have no time to waste.” He pointed to the chair Jack had just vacated. “Help me remove this tape, then we’ll go. I’ll explain outside.”

  As much as Jack wanted to wait for Thompson, he wanted that explanation more.