Ground Zero rj-13 Read online

  She wasn’t forty yet, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a heart attack. Or a ruptured aneurysm. She could be lying on the floor in a coma. Or worse.

  Taking a breath, he turned the knob and pushed against the door.

  It opened.

  He didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. She had a steel bar she kept across it when she was home. No bar meant she might not be in.

  He entered, calling her name.

  No answer.

  He wove among the piles of junk—what she called “research”—and walked through every room, searching. He hadn’t been here in a long time. The place hadn’t changed much except that the junk piles had grown.

  Nothing. An empty house.

  Where could she be? She’d been off her meds for years. Was she finally off the deep end and wandering the city in some sort of fugue state? The possibility terrified him. Anything could happen to her.

  He headed back to the door but stopped short when he saw the paper taped to the inner surface. He’d missed it on his way in.

  If I’m missing

  Don’t call the police

  They can’t help

  Get in touch with Jack

  Please honor me on this

  Our Jack can find me

  Then she’d written a phone number and the URL of a Web site called repairmanjack.com.

  Jack? Our Jack?

  Who the hell was she talking about?

  6

  If the damn book weren’t so valuable, Jack would have tossed it out the window months ago. But the Compendium of Srem was one of a kind and priceless.

  And frustrating. Because all its pages were out of order. He’d been searching for references to the Lilitongue of Gefreda and had come across another of the so-called “Infernals”—an odd-shaped contraption called “the Cleaner.” He reached for a bookmark but by the time he turned back, the page had changed.

  He slammed the cover shut and shoved it across the round top of the oak table, then rose and stalked around his apartment. Not much stalking room with all the old furniture, so he sat back down and opened the book again.

  “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

  He turned to take in the slim blonde standing in the doorway to the bedroom. She wore beige panties and was fastening her bra behind her. He loved her sleek thighs and the swell of her hips.

  He added a swagger to his tone. “Well, Miss Gia, I guess I must’ve worn you out.”

  “I guess you did. But still . . .”

  Sex had been especially hot tonight, and Gia had dozed off afterward, something she rarely did. She was almost back to normal after the hit and run. Her fine motor skills had returned and she was doing commercial art—mostly book covers—full-time and eking out some time for her own paintings. She’d even let Jack see some of her new stuff.

  After she finished with the bra she padded over to the wingback chair where she’d left her sundress, a crazy turquoise pattern that did amazing things to her blue eyes. She slipped it over her head and was fully dressed again.

  “Well, after being lifted to countless peaks of almost unendurable pleasure that shattered worlds and turned whole universes inside out—”

  She laughed. “And turned your prose purple.”

  “—and clove the earth beneath you—”

  “Clove?”

  “Past tense of cleave, right? But anyway, after countless peaks of—”

  “I don’t know about countless.”

  She stepped closer and slipped into the pair of sandals she’d left by the table.

  “You were counting?”

  She smiled. “I always count.”

  “You do?”

  She stood next to him and ran her fingers through his hair. It felt delicious.

  “Well, sometimes I lose track.”

  He glanced back at the Compendium. “Not like I lose track of these pages.”

  “Still shuffling?”

  He nodded. “I found something on the Infernals, but before I could dig in . . .” He shrugged.

  “I’m glad it wasn’t doing that when we were looking up the Stain.” She caressed his nape, sending tingles down his back. “Still wondering about Tom?”

  “Yeah.”

  His missing older brother . . . where in the world was he? Jack had a feeling he was gone from this world. Gone for good.

  “Me too.” Her fingertips moved to his beard. “I think I’m getting used to this.”

  That was good news. She’d hated it at first.

  He slipped his hand under her dress and ran his fingers up her silky inner thigh.

  “You know . . .”

  She stepped away. “It’s late.”

  “I could be quick.”

  She laughed. “Now there’s an offer.”

  “Come on. Or we could just sit and talk. We didn’t get much chance earlier with you in Siestaville.”

  Jack still hadn’t told her the truth about the hit and run—that it had been no accident. Maybe tonight . . .

  “Wish I could, but I’m trying out Courtney Love as a babysitter and I’m not sure how she’ll work out.”

  “Yeah, well, she can’t turn out worse than that Iggy Pop guy.”

  “Seriously, I’ve left Vicky with this girl after school a few times and they get along beautifully. This is her first night gig and I don’t want to get on her mother’s bad side by getting her home late.”

  He slapped his thighs and rose. “I know when I’m beaten.”

  Some other time for the truth.

  Yeah, right.

  Coward.

  7

  After finding her a cab on Columbus Avenue, Jack returned and seated himself before his computer instead of the Compendium. He accessed the Web mail from his site. After sifting through the Cialis and penis-enlarger offers, he found an e-mail that had come through the site’s Contact function.

  The subject line read: my sister is missing.

  A missing person. Swell. The last missing person he’d looked for had been Timmy O’Brien’s teenage niece and that had led him into the worst days of his life.

  No thanks.

  But he opened it anyway. Just for a look.

  Dear Jack—

  I left you voice mail, now I’m trying this. My sister disappeared today. She left a note saying not to call the police but to get in touch with you instead. She said “Our Jack can find me.” I have no idea what she means by that but I’m honoring her wish. Please contact me ASAP.

  EPC

  He’d left a phone number at the bottom of the message.

  Jack reread it with a growing sense of déjà vu. The words sounded chillingly familiar. And then he remembered . . .

  About a year and a half ago a guy named Lewis Ehler had contacted him about his missing wife. Melanie had told her hubby not to call the cops but to call Jack and only Jack because he was the only one who would “understand.”

  That hadn’t ended too well either. In fact, that had started the souring of almost everything in his life.

  He checked the date on the message: less than an hour ago. That meant this guy’s sister had been gone less than twenty-four hours. Too soon to call the cops anyway.

  Our Jack can find me . . .

  He had no idea what that meant either, and didn’t particularly want to find out. Question was: Should he contact the guy and blow him off, or simply ignore him?

  His instincts urged the latter course, but the “our Jack” thing would follow him around until he found out a little more.

  He logged off and checked his voice mail. He had three accounts and found the guy’s message on the second, saying basically the same thing.

  Oh, hell. Nothing better to do . . .

  He dialed the number. Voice mail picked up on the fourth.

  Swell. Voice-mail tag.

  “This is Jack. You left me a message. Now I’m leaving you one: Be on the southwest corner of Columbus Avenue and Eightieth Street at noon tomorrow and we’ll maybe talk
about your sister.”

  Julio’s wasn’t right for this meet, especially since he wasn’t guaranteeing he’d talk to the guy. If he didn’t like his looks—assuming he could pick him out of the other pedestrians—he’d leave him waiting there.

  The guy could go to the cops or find his sister on his own.

  TUESDAY

  1

  “Enough, already,” Abe said. “My ears. Oy.”

  “One more.”

  Jack loaded another steel ball into the pocket of his slingshot, stretched it back to his chin, aimed, and let fly. The shot smashed into the piece of half-inch plywood twenty feet away with a shower of splinters and a bang that echoed through the cellar like gunfire.

  Jack walked up to the board and inspected his marksmanship. He’d placed ten of a dozen balls within the six-inch target circle. The first few had lodged in the wood until struck and punched through by subsequent shots. Much of the wood originally within the crudely drawn circle lay in pieces on the floor.

  Jack nodded. His aim was improving all the time. “SBD.”

  Abe, dressed in his uniform of half-sleeve white shirt and black pants, came up behind him.

  “And that means?”

  “Silent But Deadly.”

  “I prefer a suppresser on a twenty-two.”

  Jack shrugged. “That’s because a slingshot requires physical effort.”

  The slingshot appealed to Jack—not simply because it was so retro, it was practical too. He saw it as a long-range sap. He could put someone down from a couple of dozen feet away. Plus it had great potential as a harassment tool.

  He collected the shot from the floor and replaced them in their leather pouch. He’d found a ball-bearing company that made big bearings and talked them into selling him some one-inch steel balls.

  He said, “After I sweep this up, I’ve got a gift for you upstairs.”

  Abe rubbed his pudgy hands together. “Edible?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sweep shmeep. I’ll take care of it later.”

  Jack hid a smile as he folded the sling’s wrist brace. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure already. Let’s go.”

  He followed Abe’s rotund, bustling form past neatly stacked rows of every weapon imaginable and up the narrow staircase to the ground floor of the Isher Sports Shop. Once in the store proper Abe ensconced himself in his usual spot, perching atop the high, four-legged stool behind the scarred rear counter.

  Jack produced a Krispy Kreme bag he’d hidden on the way in and placed it before Abe.

  “Voilà.”

  Abe pulled a chocolate donut from the bag and inspected it like a paleontologist with a newfound raptor tooth. Parabellum, his baby-blue parakeet, fluttered down from the ceiling to perch on his shoulder. He cocked his head back and forth, eyeing the donut with naked hunger.

  Jack had brought four—a pair each of the chocolate cake and sour cream models, both glazed—for a mid-morning snack.

  “Nu . . . what’s the catch?”

  Jack leaned against the far side of the counter and shrugged as he scratched his beard.

  “They’re my white flag. I’ve surrendered. How long now have I been bringing you stuff you don’t want to eat? Does it do any good? No. I’ve decided it’s futile for me to care more about your health than you do.”

  Abe put a hand over his heart. “I’m hurt. To the quick you’ve cut. So easily you give up?”

  “It’s been years, Abe.”

  “And you think I’m unmoved by these caring gestures?”

  “Doesn’t matter. They haven’t changed a thing. And I confess my motives have been purely selfish: I don’t want to have to look for a new armorer.”

  In truth, Abe was his best friend—not counting Gia—and he wanted him around as long as possible. Simple as that. No need saying it. Abe knew.

  “And you should lord your diet over mine? You who thinks Cheetos is a dairy product and who considers a box of Pringles a serving of vegetables.”

  “Yeah, but I move. I work all that off. You, on the other hand . . .”

  “I had no idea of your deep feelings for me.” He sighed. “I’m touched. And because I’m so touched, a supreme effort I’ll make. Just for you.”

  Jack watched in amazement as Abe replaced the donut in the sack, rolled the top, and slid it to Jack’s side of the counter. Even Parabellum’s beak gaped in wonder.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s true. A new leaf I’m turning. As of right now.”

  They stared at each other for maybe half a minute, then Abe grabbed the sack and tore into it.

  “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll start.”

  Jack had to laugh as he was reminded of the sign over Julio’s bar: FREE BEER TOMORROW . . . Abe’s diet was always starting mañana.

  Which was why he was built like the Liberty Bell.

  Then he sobered. “Think heart attack, Abe.”

  Abe chewed his first bite thoughtfully as Parabellum hopped onto the counter and policed the crumbs.

  “I have, Jack. And I’ve decided I don’t care. If I drop dead tomorrow, it’s okay already.”

  Jack knew he wasn’t overstating. Abe’s wife was dead, his daughter hadn’t spoken to him in years, and he had very few friends—Jack perhaps the closest.

  “Nothing to live for?”

  Abe shrugged. “I’m not saying that. Do I want to die? No. But if I go, I’m gone. No regrets.”

  “Worse things than dropping dead. You could have a stroke and wind up paralyzed.”

  Abe pointed at the floor. “For that I’ve got a basement full of solutions.” Then he pointed to Jack. “And a friend who’ll help me cut short any unseemly lingering.”

  “Swell.”

  Offing Abe. He couldn’t imagine it.

  “So enough already with the morbid talk.” Abe flattened his copy of Long Island Newsday on the scarred counter and took another bite of his donut. “I need to know what happened in the world whilst I slept.”

  Jack sighed and pulled the Post from the stack of papers. He turned to the sports section. The Mets were in a hitting slump. Again.

  “Nu,” Abe said after a moment. “Here’s an interesting story. Yesterday this doctor’s house burned to the ground in Monroe.”

  “That’s interesting? I mean, I’m sorry for the guy and all, but houses burn every day.”

  “If you’d let me finish, you might know why it’s interesting.”

  Jack glanced at Abe. He usually wasn’t cranky in the morning. He hadn’t finished his first donut yet, so maybe his blood sugar was low. But that didn’t mean Jack would cut him any slack.

  “You don’t need to finish. If it happened in Monroe, it’s automatically interesting.”

  Weird little town, Monroe. Really weird. If Jack never saw it again, he wouldn’t miss it.

  “You want to hear or not?”

  Mimicking his accent, Jack gave an elaborate Abe-style shrug and said, “So speak already.”

  “Turns out he was invaded by current patients and people who wanted to be his patients.”

  “And they burned down his house? Why? He forget how to spell oxycodone?”

  “No. They thought he could heal with a touch.”

  Jack’s glazed sour cream donut stopped halfway to his mouth.

  “Whoa-whoa-whoa! Heal with a touch?”

  “That’s what it says. I remember reading something about him in People not too long ago.”

  “You read People?”

  Jack didn’t know why he was surprised. Abe read everything.

  “I should spend my days not knowing who’s pregnant and by whom? Anyway, the article interviewed some of his patients who said they’d been healed by his touch.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “ ‘No comment,’ I believe.”

  The story sounded too familiar. Walt Erskine from Jack’s hometown had been rumored to be able to heal people with a touch, but he’d kept pretty much to himself. And
wore gloves all the time, even in summer. Jack vaguely remembered an incident with a woman with a deformed baby—

  He stiffened. Wait a sec. Back in the spring . . . the paper had said Walt had died . . . in Monroe.

  Abe’s eyebrows rose. “Nu?”

  One guy who supposedly could heal dies and then another guy in the same town develops a similar rep. Coincidence, or . . . ?

  “Nothing. Just thinking.”

  Abe bent again to his Newsday. “Thinking is good . . . to a point.”

  Abe started on a second donut; Jack bit back a remark. He’d given it his best shot. Time to back off. He flipped toward the front of the paper and stopped when a column header caught his eye: CULTure WARS.

  “Tsk-tsk-tsk. Looks like those mean old Kickers and Dormentalists are still at it.”

  A photo of yesterday’s melee—Jack was relieved to see that he’d ducked out of frame before it was taken—was followed by an article on the ongoing conflict.

  “So I read,” Abe said. “But the real war is online. The Kickers have been hacking all the Dormentalist sites and either crashing them or changing the content.”

  “Changing the content how? Somehow having Dormentalism make sense?”

  “No, more like posting pictures of naked adolescent boys.”

  Jack frowned. “Ah. The Luther Brady connection.”

  “Yes. It’s getting ugly. The Dormentalists are recruiting fewer and fewer new shnooks and keep on losing existing shlemiels to the Kickers, and the Kickers are rubbing their faces in it.”

  Jack nodded. “And since the Kickers are far less centralized, they’re harder to strike back at.”

  “Exactly. Especially since they’re anti-Internet.”

  “Does anybody see a contradiction here? They say they’re anti-Internet, but they have hackers who can breach the Dormentalists’ firewalls. What’s up with that?”

  “You want I should explain these people? Why they don’t like the Internet, I have no idea.”

  “Well, according to the book, the Kicker goal is to become ‘dissimilated,’ which has something to do with ‘kicking free’ from society. Maybe they see the Internet as something that assimilates everything.”