The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel Page 2

  “Missing persons aren’t exactly my forte. You know that.”

  “Aye, I do. Indeed, I do. But you have found people, haven’t you?”

  Yeah, he had.

  “Unless you’ve got something better to do,” Burkes added.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “What?”

  “Stuff.”

  “Give me a for instance.”

  “Just…stuff.”

  “A funk, I tell ya. Yer in a blue funk. You need to get back in the ring and throw some punches.”

  Did he?

  He’d lost his sister, his brother, and his father within a six-month period last year. And then earlier this year…Emma. All gone, all senseless. Somehow, he’d fallen into a holding pattern that had lasted all through the fall, wandering in some gray, featureless limbo. He’d been turning down pretty much every fix that came his way.

  Hanging with Gia and Vicky, helping Weezy set up her new apartment, visiting Glaeken and the Lady. Directionless, purposeless…

  Okay, a funk.

  Maybe finding this missing person would serve as a baby step out of his narrowing gyre.

  And maybe not. He didn’t answer to anyone, and wasn’t about to start.

  “Well?” Burkes said. “Whatta y’say? Are y’game?”

  “Nah. I’ll pass.”

  “Just give them a listen. They told me they’re free tonight.”

  “Even if I was interested, tonight’s no good. Got a memorial service to go to this afternoon.”

  “Sorry. Anyone close?”

  “My father and brother.”

  Burkes nearly choked on his Guinness. “Jesus! When did this happen?”

  “Last December.”

  “Together?”

  “A few weeks apart. You remember the LaGuardia massacre?”

  “Bugger! Remember? How can I forget? We were all on high alert for weeks.”

  “Well, my father was one of those caught in the gunfire.”

  “I’m gutted. I had no idea!”

  “No way you could know.”

  “Your brother too?”

  “No, he just sort of…disappeared last Christmas Eve.”

  “What’s that mean—’disappeared’?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “I mean it. Explaining what I know about it—and I know only part of it—would take a good hour. And when I finished, you’d say ‘bollocks’ or ‘balderdash’ or the like.”

  “I’ve never said ‘balderdash’ in me life. But I get your drift. Whatever the story, I’m sorry as all hell, Jack.”

  “Yeah, me too. But I’ve had a year to adjust.”

  Burkes’s hard stare had softened. “And done a brilliant job of it, too, I see. But you’ve got reason to be in a funk, I’ll grant you that.”

  Burkes didn’t know the half of it. All the deaths, and how Jack had failed people like Dawn Pickering and the Lady, and then the hit and run that had left Gia and Vicky in comas.

  And then his own situation. He’d spent most of his adult life trying to get to this place—a ghost within the machine. Dodging the system had been an end as well as a means. The cat-and-mouse game of staying one step ahead of officialdom had been a rush when he’d started, but the system had grown taller and wider and thicker, making the country a grim place. One by one it had plucked the good cards from Jack’s hand, leaving him with junk. Staying under the radar had progressed beyond high maintenance into an unending daily grind. With the city’s ubiquitous camera networks, Big Brother was indeed watching. He was beginning to weary of the upkeep. Was it worth it? Especially with Armageddon around the corner?

  Yeah, even if Jack had wanted to, how could he explain to Burkes how human civilization was rolling toward the precipice of a new kind of hell and Jack was mired in the thick of it? Despite all he’d seen, he still had trouble grasping it himself.

  “Get back in the field,” Burkes said. “That’s the cure.”

  He could tell Burkes wouldn’t stop until Jack made some sort of concession.

  “You could be right. Let me think on it, okay?”

  “You’re not just putting me off, are you?”

  “Who me? Never.”

  They small-talked while Burkes finished his Guinness and parted with let’s-get-together promises they both knew were bogus. Jack stayed at the table, nursing the dregs of his beer. He’d developed a premonitory sense over the past few years, and it was stirring now, as if the old witch were whispering in his ear.

  By the pricking of my thumb, something wicked this way comes…

  2

  Tier Hill had just crossed Central Park West when he heard the tone. He’d been noticing it off and on for years, but faintly. Never this loud.

  The sound began shortly after he’d moved to the city, usually a low-pitched hum. He had a history of ringing in his ears related to acoustic trauma from an incident in Afghanistan—high-pitched noises singing in his head after being too close to an IED when it went off. He’d been shielded from the shrapnel but not the boom. The doctors had called it tinnitus. But that had been high pitched, like crickets on a summer night. And temporary. It had cleared up and never bothered him again until he’d moved into his father’s apartment uptown.

  He did private investigations and was late for a meeting with his latest client, but he felt compelled to slow and listen.

  So, what was this—another form of tinnitus? Maybe. But if memory served, his tinnitus had always been non-directional. The new sound seemed to be coming from somewhere. He lived in the West Seventies and the low-pitched hum, when it occurred, always seemed to emanate from southeast of the apartment.

  The occurrences were random and more of a curiosity than an annoyance or distraction. They didn’t last long so he hadn’t worried about it. He’d never been able to figure out what triggered it. Like now. Just strolling down Broadway, hanging a left on Sixty-sixth. This was supposedly the last relatively mild day before the arrival of a cold front—an Arctic Express, as the weatherfolk were calling it—so he’d decided to hoof it instead of take a cab or Lyft. Tier had been raised in the Mohawk tribal homelands along the New York-Canadian border, so his idea of cold differed substantially from his neighbors’.

  He’d been strolling east on Sixty-sixth, thinking about finding a use for his word of the day: immure—to enclose within walls, imprison. He’d been thinking about Han Solo immured in carbonite, but his rule demanded the use be related to something he encountered that day. So, he was still on the hunt when the sound struck him.

  He stopped at the entrance to the park’s Sixty-fifth Street Transverse and looked around, listening, trying to locate the direction of the sound. So damn loud now—a low-pitched hum that rumbled through his head and vibrated within his chest. He remembered as a kid going to this Montreal club where the band was playing so loud he had to cover his ears. That had worked for the higher tones, but the bass notes had vibrated through his whole body. Just like now.

  He couldn’t escape this sound. Covering his ears had no effect, just like with the bass player that night. He checked out his fellow pedestrians but none of them seemed bothered in the least. Was this some sort of regular occurrence here?

  The sound came from somewhere ahead and to the left. A path led in that direction and so he took it, following it past the Tavern on the Green and across West Drive, the sound growing louder with every step. He stopped on the edge of the grassy field known as the Sheep Meadow.

  Here…the sound originated here. Deafening, nauseatingly loud. He felt his gorge rise but swallowed it back. He had to find the source, had to stop it. So, he pressed on, forcing himself forward toward the center of the field. He began to stagger as the sound grew even louder. And yet all around him people were strolling by as if nothing was wrong.

  He approached a young couple ambling hand in hand.

  “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  The sound drowned out her re
ply, but he could read her lips and puzzled expression: “What?”

  “You’re joking, right? Don’t you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  Her boyfriend looked pissed and mouthed, “Stop shouting and get lost!”

  Tier backed off. They didn’t hear it. Nobody around seemed to hear it. Was he going crazy?

  Whatever, he had to get away from here. The sound seemed to emanate from the center of the Sheep Meadow so he broke into a staggering run toward the volleyball courts beyond it. And gradually the sound lessened. By the time he reached the Balto statue it became bearable. He slowed to get his bearings. He’d been headed for Fifth Avenue and—

  The sound stopped. Like pulling the plug on a giant speaker system, it cut off. The sounds of the city rushed back in. He wandered back to the Sheep Meadow—the silent Sheep Meadow.

  What had just happened? What was wrong with the Sheep Meadow? Or rather, what was wrong with him?

  3

  “I’m sorry this turned out to be so pathetic,” Gia said.

  Jack slipped an arm around her waist and hugged her close, hip to hip.

  She’d put on a black-and-white print dress for the occasion that made her short, naturally blond hair and sharp blue eyes look blonder and bluer. She’d added a black cardigan against the chill. Eight Sutton Square might occupy a choice spot in one of Manhattan’s toniest neighborhoods, but the place was old and drafty, and its heating system no match for a windy December afternoon like today’s.

  Gia lived here but neither owned nor rented it. Eventually it would belong to her daughter Vicky, but that day remained many years off. Three years ago, it had belonged to Vicky’s aunts, Nellie and Grace Westphalen, both of whom had abruptly and mysteriously disappeared. Not a mystery to Jack and Gia and Vicky, but they weren’t talking because no one would believe the truth. Nellie and Grace’s wills left Vicky a nice piece of change, but everything else had gone to Vicky’s father and Gia’s ex-husband, Richard Westphalen, who had disappeared in England a year before the aunts, under equally abrupt and mysterious circumstances.

  But Vicky’s nice piece of change remained untouchable. She was the sole survivor of the Westphalen line and heir to the family fortune, but not officially. Not yet. Not until her aunts and her father were declared legally dead.

  The executor, however, had thought it wise to let the future owner live in the house and maintain the property.

  “‘Pathetic’?” Jack said. “Not even close. You’re doing a good thing.”

  “I thought so at the time, but…four people?”

  “Well, seven counting you, me, and Vicks.”

  Gia had wanted to hold a memorial service for Jack’s older brother Tom who had disappeared—quite literally—last Christmas Eve. Was he alive, dead, in suspended animation? No one could say. Only the Lilitongue of Gefreda knew, and it had disappeared with him. All Jack could say for certain was that Tom was gone and his return doubtful in the extreme.

  Gia hadn’t dressed up the living room for the occasion much beyond framing a photo of Tom she’d found online in a Philadelphia newspaper. Jack had seen the clipping before she’d cropped it—the lede had mentioned Tom being charged in a string of briberies and kickbacks. He’d confessed to Jack that the charges were mostly true and that he’d been “the finest Judge money could buy.”

  My brother the crook.

  “You couldn’t really expect his two exes to show,” Jack said.

  He didn’t know their names because Tom had referred to them only as “the Skanks from Hell.” And as for wife number three, he hadn’t been on speaking terms with her nor any of his kids before his disappearance. Most likely they all assumed he was on the lam.

  Here and there along the lurching course of his life, Tom had managed to burn just about every bridge he’d ever crossed.

  Gia sighed. “I suppose not. Especially considering the awkwardness of the invitation.”

  Yeah, that had been a challenge because, like Nellie, Grace, and Vickie’s dad, Tom wasn’t legally dead—wouldn’t be for years to come.

  “At least Weezy and Eddie showed up,” he said.

  The Connell sibs had been Jack’s childhood friends; they’d grown up knowing his brother and dad and had only recently re-entered Jack’s life.

  “Showed up separately,” she said. “And they’ve stayed that way. They don’t seem to be speaking to each other—not even looking at each other. What’s up between them?”

  Jack bit back the it’s-complicated reply. He was saying that too often. But it was complicated, damn it.

  “A temporary falling out.”

  At least he hoped it was temporary.

  “And then our huge turnout is rounded out by Abe and Julio, neither of whom ever even met your brother.”

  “They’re here for me. And the food.”

  That earned a smile from Gia. He loved her smile and was glad he could brighten her down mood, however briefly.

  Jack had added a photo of his father next to Tom’s on the piano. Dad had been laid to rest next to Jack’s mother last December, but no service had been held. The old soldier had fallen out of touch with his Jersey friends when he moved to Florida, and Jack had no idea who he’d hung with down south. It felt right somehow to include him in the mix today.

  Gia squeezed his arm. “We should get this rolling. Do you want to speak first?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve changed my mind. You go ahead.”

  “But you promised.”

  “I didn’t exactly promise…”

  “You said you’d speak at the memorial.”

  “Well, I meant it then, but I…I’m empty. Sorry.”

  He hadn’t been able to come up with anything to say about Tom. They’d never gotten along. His deep love for his sister Kate had been matched by his antipathy for his brother.

  And damn, he should have Kate’s photo up there too. And Mom’s as well. Mother, father, sister, brother—all taken from the world before their time. No natural causes, all by violence… all part of a plan.

  A squeeze from Gia. “Come on. You can do it.”

  “You know I’m not one for speeches.” He pointed to the two bottles of Balvenie Doublewood on the piano—one fresh and one missing a few drams—and the stack of six shot glasses beside them. “I’ll start pouring after you speak.”

  His plan was to go around and pour each of the adults a shot so they could all drink a silent toast to Tom. That was the best he could do where his brother was concerned.

  “Sure?”

  “Very. I’m still processing what he did.”

  Jack had been slated to disappear via the Lilitongue—to die, most likely. For some unfathomable reason, totally out of character, Tom had stepped in and taken his place. Was it a way out of the legal troubles closing in from every side? Or maybe a mad, heroic impulse to undo the danger he’d brought into their lives, first threatening Vicky, and then Gia, and finally Jack. Tom’s reckless desperation to evade prosecution had put all their lives in jeopardy and Jack had yet to forgive him for that.

  “Okay,” Gia said. “Here goes.”

  As she stepped toward the piano, Jack spotted Vicky standing next to Abe. Over the years those two had bonded into an unlikely duo. Whenever Abe was around, Vicky gravitated to his side and never left. Gia called them the Odd Couple.

  He waved and she grinned and waved back. The newly ten-year old’s dark hair was woven into its customary French braid.

  “I’ll be brief,” Gia said and conversation died. “Jack’s brother Tom is gone. We don’t know where. He disappeared from this very house a year ago Christmas Eve. I spent his last minutes here with him and, while I can’t remember his parting words verbatim, I remember the gist of them. I will always remember what he told me.

  “He said going in Jack’s place was the best thing he’d ever done in his life. He said he was so tired of living the way he had and needed a clean break. He was hoping he wouldn’t die but go on to a different life, a
nd that maybe because he’d done this one right thing here, he’d have a better life there—be a better man there.

  “He said he hoped that at least one person in this world would remember him and speak well of him after he was gone. So, that’s why I asked you here today. Because I guess I am that one person, and that is what I’m doing now. Tom led a troubled life and told me at the end how he regretted his many bad choices. And from what I hear, he made a slew of them. But for me none of that matters. Because at the end he stepped up and—”

  Her voice caught and her lower lip trembled. Jack felt his own throat tighten.

  “Because,” she went on, “in the end he saved one of the two people in this world who make my life worth living. And for that his name will always have a prominent place in my book of heroes.”

  A tear ran down her cheek as she said, “Thanks for listening.”

  Jack stepped up and wrapped his arms around her. She sobbed once against his shoulder, then said, “I’m okay.”

  “You were great.”

  “I wanted so bad to get through that without blubbering.” She tightened her arms around him. “I know you two never got along, and I know he was as crooked as they come, but never forget: You’re here today because of him.”

  Gia had never known the Tom Jack had known, and so she had a soft spot in her heart for him. Jack could have said that if not for Tom’s reckless treasure hunt, the Lilitongue of Gefreda would have remained on the ocean floor where it couldn’t threaten anyone’s life, and no heroics would have been necessary.

  But he kept that to himself.

  Gia lifted her head and raised her voice. “And now, everyone, Jack has a few words to say.”

  “You rat,” he whispered.

  “Just holding you to your earlier promise.”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, you love me.”

  “True, true,” he said. “With all my heart for all my life.”

  She smiled. “There you go.” She pointed to the piano. “And there you go.”