Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies

by F. Paul Wilson

  "'All those years?' I thought you were a New Yorker."

  "I was. And am again. Born and raised. But at eighteen I left for USC and stayed away for a dozen years."

  She didn't tell him that she'd looked into the University of Hawaii because it was the farthest she could get from New York and that house on Thirty-eighth Street and still be in the United States. But USC had offered her a better financial package, so she'd settled for California.

  The waiter arrived.

  "You've got to try the shrimp in green sauce," Matthews said. "Best thing on the menu—if you like garlic."

  She ordered that, plus a Diet Pepsi. He ordered a beer.

  While they waited, he quizzed her about her West Coast years, and she found herself relaxing as she talked about herself. As long as he didn't ask her about her life before that. Premed, medical school, the residencies… grueling years, but good ones. She'd left New York one person and arrived in California as another. The new Alicia had no past, owed nothing to no one. As she'd stepped off the plane, she'd been reborn as a being of her own creation.

  She used the arrival of their meal—a metal crock filled with plump pink shrimp nestled in a lime-green sauce—to change the subject.

  "But enough about me," she said. "What about Floyd Stevens?"

  "Taste first," Matthews said as he spooned a generous portion onto her plate. "You don't want to ruin a good meal with talk about scum."

  Alicia bit back a sharp retort. She hadn't come for the food, she'd come for information, dammit. Instead she forked a shrimp in half and tasted it. God, it was good. Incredibly good. Quickly she ate the other half. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.

  "So," he said. She looked up and found him watching her intensely. "What do you think?"

  "Heavenly," she said. "So good, in fact, that nothing you can tell me can ruin it."

  He sighed. "Okay. Here's what I learned: Seems this isn't the first time Pretty Boy Floyd has been caught with his hands on a child. They weren't easy to find, but I dug up three past complaints about him."

  Alicia's spirits jumped. "Then, he's got a record—a history of pedophilia. How the hell did we ever allow him in?"

  "Hang on here. No record. The complaints were all dropped."

  "Dropped? All of them?"

  He nodded, chewing slowly. "Seems he's pretty well-off financially. Made a lot of money on Wall Street in the eighties and retired as a young millionaire with lots of time on his hands and a yen for kids."

  Good as the meal was, Alicia found her appetite waning. "He buys his way out."

  "Or threatens his way out, like he's trying to do with you. He's got a shark for a lawyer. Nasty SOB who loves to go for the throat."

  "In other words, those weren't just empty threats."

  "Afraid not."

  "You're really making my day."

  "Sorry. Just thought you should know what you're up against."

  "I guess I already knew. Fineman called yesterday."

  "What he say?"

  "Pretty much what you overheard. Told me I could expect to spend the next three to five years in and out of courtrooms, burning up every penny I earn in legal fees, then spending much of the rest of my working life paying off the punitive and pain-and-suffering damages he expected the court to award his client. Of course, I could avoid all that if I saw the light, realized how mistaken I was, and withdrew my complaint."

  "What a sweet guy. Goes to prove lawyers get the clients they deserve."

  Alicia leaned back and fought a wave of depression as a string of rationalizations raced through her brain: Kanessa hadn't been done any physical harm, and she didn't have enough self-awareness to have suffered any long-term psychological damage. And at least Floyd Stevens was out of the Center for good, so the kids there were safe from him. Maybe he'd been hurt and frightened enough by the beating to keep his hands to himself from now on.

  The fact that she was allowing these thoughts to exist depressed Alicia even more.

  "You okay?" Matthews asked.

  "No."

  "Know what you're going to do?"

  Alicia stared at him. "What do you think I'm going to do?"

  He met her gaze. "I haven't known you very long, but I can't see you doing anything else but hanging in there."

  The sudden surge of warmth for this virtual stranger took Alicia by surprise. There'd never been a chance that she'd cave in—on something else, maybe, but never on anything like this—and he'd recognized that. For some unfathomable reason, she found herself smiling.

  "How could you know that?"

  "I don't know. I just sense it. It's part of what I find so attractive about you."

  Uh-oh. There it was, out in the open, flopping around on the table. She chose to ignore it.

  "You don't think I'm crazy?" she said.

  "No. I think you're principled."

  She wished it were principles. She wished it were that simple.

  And then he reached across the table and covered her hand with his.

  "And I want you to know that I admire you for it. And you should also know that you're not alone in this. There's still a few things I can do."

  "Like what?"

  "I learned a few things in Vice. One of them was that these pedophiles don't change their spots. You can't cure them. A stretch in the joint, years of couch time with an army of shrinks, nothing changes them. The minute they think nobody's watching them—or sometimes even if they suspect they're being watched—they're out on the prowl, hunting."

  "Compulsive behavior." Alicia knew all about it.

  "Right. And that can work to our advantage."

  Our? When had it become his problem too?

  Easy, she told herself. He wants to get this guy as much as you do. Don't get your back up. He wants to help. Let him.

  She wondered why she found that so hard to do. Maybe because she'd been on her own for so long, taking no help from anyone, making all her own decisions, solving all her problems by herself. Was that why an offer of help seemed almost like… an intrusion?

  "How?"

  He smiled. "Leave that to me."

  Alicia straightened and found herself smiling. "You know, Will, I think I'm getting my appetite back."

  Oh, no. Had she just called him "Will?" Where had that come from?

  But it was true. She was hungry again. And she had to admit, it felt good to know she had someone on her side.

  They finished off the shrimp and green sauce, argued over who paid, with Will winning because he had longer arms and had snagged the check. They parted at the front door with Will promising to keep in touch.

  Alicia was halfway back to the Center before she realized she'd never got around to telling him about her serious long-term relationship with that up-and-coming importer, Joseph Hermann.

  4.

  Before sifting through the pile of "While You Were Out…" message slips piled on her desk when she got back to the Center, Alicia checked her personal voice mail. She had one message.

  "This is Benny. Call me." He left a number.

  Her pulse quickened. The arsonist. She closed her office door and called the number immediately.

  "Yeah?" said the same voice.

  She heard traffic noises in the background. He was no doubt at a pay phone.

  "Is this Benny? I'm returning your call."

  "Yeah. This is about the Murray Hill place, right?"

  "Right."

  "Yeah. I can do that."

  "Good. But I need more than that." Jack's comment about a fire leveling the whole block gnawed at her. "I don't want it to spread."

  "No prob. You're dealing wit' a pro, here. The inside'll cook. It'll be done to a turn, crisped to ash before it shows outside. The water boys'll be there by then, and if they ain't, I'll call 'em myself. And that'll be it. A surgical strike. With no one the wiser."

  "You're sure? Absolutely sure? And no one will get hurt?"

  "Guaranteed. Piece a cake, honey. You'll be count
in' your money in no time."

  Benny obviously thought she was doing this for the insurance. Let him.

  "Great," she said.

  "But I wanna be countin' mine tonight. Like we agreed, half up front, half the morning after. In cash, know what I'm saying?"

  "I know."

  Benny's fee would just about clean her out. Was it worth it? Did she really want to do this?

  Yes.

  "Where do we meet?"

  5.

  Alicia stood on a chair and stared out at the night through one of her skylights. She faced northeast. Toward Murray Hill.

  Benny had said he'd do the job tonight.

  "I'm workin' another job farther uptown," he'd said.

  "But why wait? Your place is empty and ready to go. Piece a cake."

  Another job waiting… arson sounded like a booming business.

  And then the police scanner she'd bought on her way home this afternoon squawked behind her. Something about shots fired near Madison Square Garden. Not what she wanted to hear.

  Smoke reported from a house, on East Thirty-eighth.

  That was what she was waiting for.

  She knew she'd never see the flames or smoke from here, but something drew her to the window anyway. She'd stay here, squinting into the darkness until the alarm came through on the scanner. Then she'd run downstairs, snag a cab to Murray Hill, and stand there on Thirty-eighth Street, watching the flames burn that house to the sidewalk.

  A tremor ran through her body and she wobbled atop the chair. She steadied herself against the skylight frame and closed her eyes. Her frazzled nerves were stretched to the breaking point. She wasn't cut out for this.

  God, what have I done? I actually hired someone to burn down the house. Am I out of my mind?

  Sometimes she thought so.

  And after finally finding time to read the will today, she wondered if madness ran in the family. Leo Weinstein had mentioned in passing that it was "rather unusual," but she hadn't realized just how unusual.

  Having read it, she knew the answer to Jack's question as to why the people she hired wound up dead but she remained unharmed.

  And now she was convinced more strongly than ever that the only solution was to destroy the house.

  Then she'd be free of Thomas's ankle-biting lawyers. And if insurance money came of it, she'd donate it to the Center.

  And her world would be free of that house and all it represented.

  6.

  "All right," Kenny said as he came down the steps. "He's stowed in the trunk. What next?"

  Sam Baker stood in a cone of light in the basement of the Clayton house and wiped the bloody blade of the filleting knife on a rag. He wanted to take a chunk out of Kenny and make him eat it for screwing up tonight. But Kenny was family, his older sister's kid, a broad-shouldered twenty-five-year-old with his mother's red hair, and you didn't scar up family, not even when they deserved it.

  He'd punish Kenny and his partner another way.

  "A number of things are next, Kenny. The first one is docking you and Mott five percent of your bonus."

  Kenny's eyes widened. "Five percent? What the fuck for?"

  "For letting that torch slip by you."

  "Shit, man, we caught him, didn't we?"

  "Yeah, after he was already inside and setting up his goodies. If you hadn't smelled the gasoline, this whole place'd be up in smoke, and we'd all be out of a sweet gig." Baker pointed the knife at Kenny's chest. "He shouldn't have got in in the first place."

  "Guy must be a magician. We never saw him, and I swear we weren't goofing off."

  "Swear all you want, but don't expect any sympathy from the rest of the crew. If this place had gone up, they'd have lost a hundred percent of their bonuses. You too. So maybe this'll keep you on your toes during your next shift."

  "That sucks, Sam."

  "Don't feel so bad. I'll see that it goes to Grandma."

  Kenny made a disgusted face. "Yeah, right. Think she'll remember to send me a thank-you note?"

  Suddenly furious, Sam grabbed the front of Kenny's shirt and jerked him close. Family or not, he was ready to do a tap dance on his nephew's head.

  "You watch your tone when you mention your grandmother, kid. Got that?"

  Kenny looked away and nodded. "Sorry. I didn't mean it."

  Sam released him. "I hope not. Now, lug the rest of this accelerant upstairs and wait for the others."

  As Kenny stomped up the stairs, Baker looked around the cellar and shook his head. Too close. Too damn close. He'd damn near shit his pants when Kenny had called to say they'd caught a firebug in the house. He'd run over and found this weasel-faced wimp tied to a chair in the basement. The guy had been carrying a couple of gallons of accelerant in quart bottles stashed in pockets inside his overcoat.

  Hadn't taken long to break him down. Amazing how persuasive a filleting knife could be. Remove a couple of wide strips of skin and the words tended to pour out. The torch said some broad had hired him. Someone who fit the Clayton babe's description to a tee.

  Shit!

  Didn't that bitch know when to quit? What did it take to scare her off?

  Baker had been so pissed, he'd gone a little crazy. Grabbed the nearest pistol and started bashing away. Softened the torch's skull real good. He was out cold. Maybe he'd never wake up.

  Baker had considered calling Kemel, but changed his mind. Little ol' Ahab the Ay-rab was turning out to be something of a wimp. Look how bent out of shape he got over that itty-bitty car bomb. Probably work himself into a pretzel if Baker told him how he planned to take care of the torch.

  Kemel just didn't get it. You don't play footsy with problems—you eliminate them. That way they don't come back to haunt you.

  Like this firebug.

  This guy had been taught his lesson—maybe permanently. But that wasn't enough. Baker wanted to send the Clayton babe another message. Her PI splattered on the street hadn't done it. Her lawyer blown to pieces right in front of her hadn't done it. Maybe the third time would be a charm.

  But he wasn't doing this one alone. He was gathering all eight of his crew for this. With the body count rising, it was time to take out a little insurance. Get everybody involved. Raise the stakes all around.

  Baker knew these were tough, stand-up boys. Not of the caliber of the SOG teams he'd accompanied into Laos and Cambodia in the early seventies but they knew their stuff, all veterans of mercenary ops in Central America, Africa, and the Gulf. Over the years he'd used them when he'd hired out to the various players in Medellin and Cali to do their dirty work along the drug routes in Central America.

  But now the Mexicans had pretty much taken over the trade, and they preferred to use their own boys when they needed muscle.

  The Mideast was the place. Saudi Arabia, especially. Plenty of money to spend, but no infrastructure. And feeling pretty paranoid after what Iraq did to Kuwait. His contacts over there kept telling him they didn't want or need mercenaries, but Baker knew different. Every Saudi he'd met thought he should be a prince. No one wanted to do the dirty work. That was why the country was full of Koreans and Pakistanis, imported to do all the menial work. If your Mercedes broke down, there was no one to fix it. But so what? You bought another one. And as for soldiering, why put your ass on the line when you can hire someone else's ass to take your place?

  Baker wasn't getting any younger. He was tired of shopping himself around. His lion's share of the bonus when this job was done would put his finances on an even keel and pay up his mother's nursing home bills, but he wasn't about to spend the rest of his life sitting around and watching the tube. He needed a reason to get up in the morning, and Saudi Arabia looked to be a bottomless well of steady, low-risk paramilitary work, waiting to be tapped. If he showed this Iswid Nahr group Muhallal worked for that he could get things done, that he was the man, he'd be set for the rest of his working life.

  But Baker believed in his own version of Murphy's Law: No matter how deep you'v
e buried it, never underestimate the ability of shit to find a fan.

  He wanted the whole crew in on tonight's dirty work. They could look on it as a sort of bonding ritual… a sort of baptism of blood.

  Baker smiled. Not blood… a baptism of fire.

  After which they'd be more than comrades in arms. They'd be accomplices.

  And the Arab? Baker would tell Kemel Muhallal about it later.

  7.

  Yoshio stood by the lamp in Kemel Muhallal's second bedroom and stared across the courtyard at his own apartment.

  He had seen Muhallal leave and had sneaked over to do a quick search. Nothing. He had opened and thoroughly searched every drawer, every closet, every corner, every possible hiding place, and had found nothing unusual.

  And now he stood where Muhallal and sometimes his superior, Khalid Nazer, stood and studied something almost every night. What? What could interest them so? And why did they always gaze at it here, under this lamp that was never turned off?

  Was that the key? The lamp?

  Yoshio reached under the shade and found the knob. He twisted it, and the lamp turned off. He twisted it again, and the bulb glowed once more.

  Just a lamp.

  Nazer or Muhallal must have taken the object with them. Whatever it was that fascinated them so was not here now, so that was the only answer. Was it so precious that they did not dare leave it in the apartment? Perhaps he could intercept one of them and take it from him… make it look like a mugging…

  But no… too risky. They might get suspicious… might guess a third party was involved here…

  Yoshio sighed and headed for the apartment door. A wasted trip. All he could do was keep watch, just as he had been doing for months.

  So frustrating. He wished something would happen. And soon.

  8.

  Alicia had given up peering through the skylight. She'd dropped into her reading chair and sat among her mending trees and plants, staring at the scanner.

  But no word of a fire in Murray Hill.

  Had Benny the arsonist scammed her? He didn't set fires, he just told people he did. Then he took the money and ran.