The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  “It’s me, Abe.”

  “Who else could it be at this hour?”

  “Did you get everything?”

  “Just got in the door. No, I didn’t get everything. Got the timed incendiary bombs—a crate of twelve—but couldn’t get hold of any incendiary bullets before tomorrow noon. Is that soon enough?”

  “No,” Jack said, bitterly disappointed. He had to move now.

  “I got something you might use as a substitute, though.”

  “What?”

  “Come down and see.”

  “Be there in a few minutes.”

  Jack hung up and gingerly peeled the torn, blood-soaked shirt from his back. The pain there had subsided to a dull, aching throb. He blinked when he saw the liverish clots clinging to the fabric. He had lost more blood than he had thought.

  He got a towel from the bathroom and gently held it against the wound. It stung, but the pain was bearable. When he checked the towel half a minute later, there was blood on it, but very little of it fresh.

  Jack knew he should shower and clean out the wound, but was afraid he’d start it bleeding again. He resisted the temptation to examine his back in the bathroom mirror—it might hurt worse if he knew how bad it looked. Instead, he wrapped all his remaining gauze around his upper chest and over his left shoulder.

  He went back to the bedroom for a fresh shirt and for something else: He knelt next to the bed, gently unclasped Kolabati’s necklace and removed it. She stirred, moaned softly, then was quiet. Jack tip-toed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  In the living room he clasped the iron necklace around his throat. It gave off an unpleasant, tingling sensation that spread along his skin from head to toe. He didn’t relish wearing it, nor borrowing it from Kolabati without her knowledge, but she had refused to remove it in the ship, and if he was going back there he wanted every edge he could get.

  He slipped into the fresh shirt as he dialed the number of Abe’s daughter’s apartment. He was going to have to be out of touch with Gia for a while and knew his mind would rest easier after confirming that everything was cool in Queens.

  After half a dozen rings, Gia picked up. Her voice was tentative.

  “Hello?”

  Jack paused for an instant at the sound of her voice. After what he had been through in the past few hours, he wanted nothing more than to call it quits for the night, hop over to Queens and spend the rest of the time until morning with his arms around Gia. Nothing more would be needed tonight—just holding her.

  “Sorry to wake you,” he said. “I’m going out for a few hours and wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

  “Everything’s fine,” she said hoarsely.

  “Vicky?”

  “I just left her side to answer the phone. She’s fine. And I’m just reading this note from Abe explaining that he had to go out and not to worry. What’s going on?”

  “Crazy stuff.”

  “That’s not an answer. I need answers, Jack. This whole thing scares me.”

  “I know. All I can say right now is it has to do with the Westphalens.” He didn’t want to say any more.

  “But why is Vicky…oh.”

  “Right. She’s a Westphalen. Someday when we have lots of time, I’ll explain it to you.”

  “When will it all end?”

  “Tonight, if things go right.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Naw. Routine stuff.” He didn’t want to add to her worries.

  “Jack…” She paused and he thought he detected a quaver in her voice. “Be careful, Jack.”

  She would never know how much those words meant to him.

  “Always careful. I like my body in one piece. See you later.”

  He didn’t hang up. Instead he depressed the plunger for a few seconds, then released it. After checking for the dial tone, he stuffed the receiver under the seat cushion of his chair. It would start howling in a few minutes, but no one would hear that… and no one could call here and awaken Kolabati. With luck, he could take care of Kusum, get back here and replace the necklace without her ever knowing he had taken it. And with considerably more luck, she might not ever know for sure that he had anything to do with the fiery explosion that took her brother and his rakoshi to a watery grave.

  He picked up his variable frequency beeper and hurried down to the street, intending to head immediately for the Isher Sports Shop. But as he passed the alley, he paused. He had no time to spare, yet he could not resist entering it to see the remains of the Mother rakosh. A jolt of panic shot through him when he saw no corpse in the alley. Then he came upon the smoldering pile of ashes. The fire had completely consumed the Mother, leaving only her fangs and talons. He picked up a few of each—they were still hot—and shoved them into his pocket. There might come a day when he would want to prove to himself that he had really faced something called a rakosh.

  21

  Gia cradled the phone and thought about what Jack had said about all this being over tonight.

  She fervently hoped so. If only Jack weren’t so evasive about everything. What was he hiding? Was there something he was afraid to tell her? God, she hated this! She wanted to be home in her own little apartment in her own bed with Vicky down the hall in hers.

  Gia started back for the bedroom and then stopped. She was wide awake. No use trying to go back to sleep just yet. She pulled the bedroom door closed, then searched through the kitchen for something to drink. The liberal amounts of MSG routinely used in Chinese cooking never failed to make her thirsty. When she came across the box of tea bags she grabbed them. With the kettle on to boil, she spun the television dial looking for something to watch. Nothing but old movies…

  The water started to boil. Gia made a cup of tea and sugared it, filled a tall glass with ice, and poured the tea over the ice. There: iced tea. Needed some lemon, but it would do.

  As she approached the couch with her drink she caught an odor—something rotten. Just a whiff and it was gone. There was an odd familiarity about it. If she could catch it again she was sure she could identify it. She waited but it didn’t return.

  Gia turned her attention to the television. Citizen Kane was on. She hadn’t seen that one in ages. It made her think of Jack… how he’d go on and on about Wells’ use of light and shadow throughout the film. He could be a real pain when you just wanted to sit and watch the movie.

  She sat down and sipped her tea.

  22

  Vicky shot up to a sitting position in bed. “Mommy?” she called softly. She trembled with fear. She was alone. And there was an awful, pukey smell. She glanced at the window. Something was there… outside the window. The screen had been pulled out. That’s what had awakened her.

  A hand—or something that looked like a hand but really wasn’t—slipped over the windowsill. Then another. The dark shadow of a head rose into view and two glowing yellow eyes trapped her and pinned her where she sat in mute horror. The thing crawled over the ledge and flowed into the room like a snake.

  Vicky opened her mouth to scream out her horror but something moist and hard and stinking jammed against her face, cutting off her voice. It was a hand, but like no hand she had ever imagined. There only seemed to be three fingers—three huge fingers—and the taste of the palm against her lips brought what was left of her Chinese dinner boiling to the back of her throat.

  As she fought to get free, she caught a fleeting close-up glimpse of what held her—the smooth, blunt-snouted face, the fangs showing above the scarred lower lip, the glowing yellow eyes. It was every fear of what’s in the closet or what’s in that shadowed corner, every bad dream, every night horror rolled into one.

  Vicky became delirious with panic. Tears of fear and revulsion streamed down her face. She had to get away! She kicked and twisted convulsively, clawed with her fingernails—nothing she did seemed to matter in the slightest. She was lifted like a toy and carried to the window—

  —and out! They were twelve floors up! M
ommy! They were going to fall!

  But they didn’t fall. Using its free hand and its clawed feet, the monster crawled down the wall like a spider. Then it was running along the ground, through parks, down alleys, across streets. The grip across her mouth loosened but Vicky was clutched so tightly against the monster’s flank that she couldn’t scream—she could barely breathe.

  “Please don’t hurt me!” she whispered into the night. “Please don’t hurt me!”

  Vicky didn’t know where they were or in what direction they were traveling. Her mind could barely function through the haze of terror that enveloped it. But soon she heard the lapping sound of water, smelled the river. The monster leaped, they seemed to fly for an instant, and then water closed over them. She couldn’t swim!

  Vicky screamed as they plunged beneath the waves. She gulped a mouthful of foul, brackish water, then broke the surface choking and retching. Her throat was locked—there was air all around her but she couldn’t breathe! Finally, when she thought she was going to die, her windpipe opened and air rushed into her lungs.

  She opened her eyes. The monster had slung her onto its back and was now cutting through the water. She clung to the slick, slimy skin of its shoulders. Her pink nighty was plastered to her goosefleshed skin; her hair hung in her eyes. She was cold, wet, and miserable with terror. She wanted to jump off and get away from the monster, but she knew she’d go down under that water and never come back up.

  Why was this happening to her? She’d been good. Why did this monster want her?

  Maybe it was a good monster, like in that book she had, Where the Wild Things Are. It hadn’t hurt her. Maybe it was taking her someplace to show her something.

  She looked around and recognized the Manhattan skyline off to her right, but there was something between them and Manhattan. Dimly she remembered the island—Roosevelt Island—that sat in the river at the end of Aunt Nellie and Grace’s street.

  Were they going to swim around it and go back to Manhattan? Was the monster going to take her back to Aunt Nellie’s?

  No. They passed the end of the island but the monster didn’t turn toward Manhattan. It kept swimming in the same direction downriver. Vicky shivered and began to cry.

  23

  Gia’s chin dropped forward onto her chest and she awoke with a start. She was only half an hour into the movie and already she was nodding off. She wasn’t nearly as wide awake as she had thought. She flicked it off and went back to the bedroom.

  Fear hit her like a knife between the ribs as soon as she opened the door. The room was filled with a rotten odor. Now she recognized it—the same odor that had been in Nellie’s room the night she had disappeared. Her gaze shot to the bed and her heart stopped when she saw it was flat—no familiar little lump of curled-up child under the covers.

  “Vicky?” Her voice cracked as she said the name and turned on the light. She has to be here!

  Without waiting for an answer, Gia rushed to the bed and pulled the covers down.

  “Vicky?” Her voice was almost a whimper. She’s here—she has to be!

  She ran to the closet and fell to her knees, checking the floor with her hands. Only Vicky’s Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case was there. Next she crawled over to the bed and looked under it. Vicky wasn’t there either.

  But something else was—a small dark lump. Gia reached in and grabbed it. She thought she would be sick when she recognized the feel of a recently peeled and partially eaten orange.

  An orange! Jack’s words flooded back on her: “Do you want Vicky to end up like Grace and Nellie? Gone without a trace?” He had said there was something in the orange— but he had thrown it away! So how had Vicky got hold of this one… ?

  Unless there had been more than one orange in the playhouse!

  This is a nightmare! This isn’t really happening!

  Gia ran through the rest of the apartment, opening every door, every closet, every cabinet. Vicky was gone! She hurried back to the bedroom and went to the window. The screen was missing. She hadn’t noticed that before. Fighting back a scream as visions of a child’s body smashed against the pavement flashed before her eyes, she held her breath and looked down. The parking lot was directly below, well lit by mercury vapor lamps. There was no sign of Vicky.

  Gia didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. All she knew right now was that her child was missing and she needed help. She ran for the phone, ready to dial the 911 emergency police number, then stopped. The police would certainly be more concerned about a missing child than about two old ladies who had disappeared, but would they accomplish anything more? Gia doubted it. There was only one number to call that would do her any good: Jack’s.

  Jack will know what to do. Jack will help.

  She forced her shaking index finger to punch in the numbers and got a busy signal. She hung up and dialed again. Still busy. She didn’t have time to wait! She dialed the operator and told her it was an emergency and she had to break in on the line. She was put on hold for half a minute that seemed like an hour, then the operator was back on, telling her that the line wasn’t busy—the phone had been left off the hook.

  Gia slammed the receiver down. What was she going to do? She was frantic. What was wrong at Jack’s? Had he left the phone off the hook or had it been knocked off?

  She ran back to the bedroom and jammed her legs into a pair of jeans and pulled on a blouse without removing her pajamas. She had to find Jack. If he wasn’t at his apartment, maybe he was at Abe’s store—she was pretty sure she remembered where that was. She hoped she could remember. Her thoughts were so jumbled. All she could think of was Vicky.

  Vicky, Vicky, where are you?

  But how to get to Jack’s… that was the problem. Finding a cab would be virtually impossible at this hour, and the subway, even if she could find a stop nearby, could be deadly to a woman alone.

  The Honda keys she had seen earlier! Where had they been? She had been cleaning in the kitchen…

  She ran over to the flatware drawer and pulled it open. There they were. She snatched them up and ran out into the hall. She checked the apartment number on the door: 1203. Now if only the car was here. The elevator took her straight down to the first floor and she hurried out into the parking lot. On the way in this afternoon she had seen numbers on the asphalt by each parking space.

  Please let it be here! she said to God, to fate, to whatever was in charge of human events. Is anybody in charge? asked a small voice in the back of her mind.

  She followed the numbers from the 800’s up to the 1100’s, and there up ahead, crouched like a laboratory mouse waiting timidly for the next injection, sat a white Honda Civic.

  Please be 1203! Please!

  It had to be.

  It was.

  Almost giddy with relief, she unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat. The standard shift on the floor gave her a moment’s pause, but she had driven her father’s old Ford pickup enough miles in Iowa as a teenager. She hoped it was something you never forgot, like riding a bike.

  The engine refused to start until she found the manual choke, then it sputtered to life. She stalled twice backing out of the parking space, but once she got it rolling forward, she had little trouble.

  She didn’t know Queens but knew the general direction she wanted to go. She worked her way toward the East River until she saw a “To Manhattan” sign and followed the arrow. When the Queensboro Bridge loomed into view, she slammed the gas pedal to the floor. She had been driving tentatively until now, reining her emotions, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled intensity, wary of missing a crucial turn. But with her destination in sight, she began to cry.

  24

  Abe’s dark blue panel truck was parked outside the Isher Sports Shop. The iron gate had been rolled back. At Jack’s knock, the door opened immediately. Abe’s white shirt was wrinkled and his jowls were stubbly. For the first time in Jack’s memory, he wasn’t wearing his black tie.

  “What?” he said, scr
utinizing Jack. “You run into trouble since you left me at the apartment?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “Bandage on your hand and you’re walking funny.”

  “Had a lengthy and strenuous argument with a very disagreeable lady.” He rotated his left shoulder gingerly; it was nowhere near as stiff and painful as it had been back at the apartment.

  “Lady?”

  “It’s stretching the definition, but yeah—lady.”

  Abe led Jack toward the rear of the darkened store. The lights were on in the basement, as was the neon sign. Abe hefted a wooden crate two feet long and a foot wide and deep. The top had already been pried open and he lifted it off.

  “Here are the bombs. Twelve of them, magnesium compound, all with twenty-four-hour timers.”

  Jack nodded. “Fine. But I really needed the incendiary bullets. Otherwise I may never get a chance to set these.”

  Abe shook his head. “I don’t know what you think you’re going up against, but here’s the best I could do.”

  He pulled a cloth off a card table to reveal a circular, donut-shaped metal tank with a second tank, canteen-sized, set in its middle; both were attached by a short hose to what looked like a two-handed raygun.

  Jack was baffled. “What the hell—?”

  “It’s a Number Five Mk-1 flamethrower, affectionately known as the Lifebuoy. I don’t know if it’ll suit your purposes. I mean, it hasn’t got much range and—”

  “It’s great!” Jack said. He grabbed Abe’s hand and pumped it. “Abe. You’re beautiful! It’s perfect!”

  Elated, Jack ran his hands over the tanks. It was perfect. Why hadn’t he thought of it? How many times had he seen Them?

  “How does it work?”

  “This is a World War Two model—the best I could do on such short notice. It’s got CO at two thousand pounds per square inch in the little spherical tank, and eighteen liters of napalm in the big lifebuoy-shaped one—hence the name; a discharge tube with igniters at the end and an adjustable nozzle. Range is up to ninety feet. You open the tanks, point the tube, pull the trigger in the rear grip, and foom!”