Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies

by F. Paul Wilson

  She put the car down again, this time facing away from the wall. As soon as its wheels hit the floor, it turned a one-hundred-eighty-degree arc and headed toward the wall, butting its nose three inches or so to the left of where it had ended up a minute ago.

  Jack was about to tell her they didn't have time to play with toys, whether they belonged in her room or not, but something about the little car's persistence in running up against that wall made him hesitate.

  "That's the seventh—no, eighth time it's ended against that wall," she said. "No matter which way it's pointing when I set it down, eight out of eight times that's where it ends up."

  "No kidding?"

  Jack bent and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Nothing special: a remote control toy car stripped down to its a metal undercarriage, with four wheels, a motor, steering mechanism, battery compartment, and an aerial.

  The wheels were still spinning, so he put it down and pointed it toward Alicia. It zipped around and once again wound up against the wall.

  "That's nine out of nine," she said.

  Jack was interested now. "Where's the rest of it?"

  "Here." She handed him the black plastic body.

  "No," he said. "Where's the remote, the little box that controls the steering?"

  "Never saw anything like that."

  He checked out the plastic body. Apparently someone had torn it off the chassis, probably looking to see if anything was hidden inside. He snapped the two pieces back together.

  "Looks more like some sort of jeep than a car," Alicia said.

  Jack checked out the tiny logo across the rear hatch.

  "A 'Sports Utility Vehicle,' as they're known. But this is a real upscale Jeep. This here's a Land Rover."

  "A what?"

  Jack looked up and saw Alicia on her feet, staring wide-eyed at the toy.

  "A Land Rover. They're British and—"

  "The will," she said. "It mentions a rover—twice… in those crazy poetry quotes." She snapped her fingers and looked at the ceiling. "What were they? 'Clay(ton) lies still, but blood's a rover' was one. And the other… the other went, 'Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?'"

  Jack felt a tingle of excitement as he sensed pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. Maybe "the key that points the way" wasn't a key at all. Maybe it was something that simply pointed the way.

  He placed the toy on the floor again and watched it do its thing, winding up nose-on against the wall in that same spot.

  This little "rover" was sure as hell pointing the way to something.

  "What thy quest indeed," he said. "Wait here."

  He trotted back to the bedroom, grabbed the sledgehammer and one of the crowbars. For a moment he considered hammering a hole in one of the pieces of plywood blocking the windows to allow him a peek at the guard car out front, but thought better of it. The racket might attract too much attention.

  "What are you going to do?" Alicia said as he returned to her room.

  "Something in this wall is attracting our little friend there. Hang onto him while I find out what."

  He lifted the sledge and swung it sidearm at the wall.

  8.

  The phone rang just as Kemel was finishing his evening prayers.

  "Someone's in the house," Baker's voice said. "We think it's that guy the broad hired. I'm goin' over there now."

  Alarm shot through Kemel like a jolt of electricity. How could this be? Just yesterday she had offered to sell and he had agreed to her price. Why would she send someone to invade it tonight? Unless…

  Unless she knows something… unless she has guessed why the house is so valuable and has sent her man to find it.

  Kemel closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The air duct! Someone had been in there after all—Alicia Clayton's man. And he must have heard something.

  "How did this happen?"

  "He used some kind of knockout gas on my guys. They just woke up and called me. They think he's still in there."

  "I'm glad you called."

  "Not like I have much choice."

  Kemel could hear the hurt pride in Baker's voice, but that was too bad. After last week's abduction fiasco, Kemel had put the mercenary on a short leash. He was to keep Kemel apprised of every development as it happened and was to take no action—do absolutely nothing—without first clearing it with Kemel. The operation was too close to successful completion to risk a setback from Baker's heavy-handed tactics. In fact, if Kemel had not needed ongoing security for the house, he would have fired Baker last week.

  "But time's a-wasting," Baker said. "I'm headin' over now. If it's the same guy from the van, I want to be there."

  "I want no action taken until I arrive."

  "I may not have a choice."

  "Nothing until I am present. Is that clear?"

  "Clear," Baker said in a tight voice. "But I won't take responsibility for anything this guy does before you get there."

  "I don't think that will be an issue since you are going to pick me up and we will arrive together."

  "You're up in the Seventies. That'll take too long."

  "I will be waiting out front," Kemel said, and hung up.

  9.

  Jack used the sledge gently at first, for fear that he might damage whatever was hidden inside. But he quickly discovered that this was an old, solid, wet plaster wall, and he was going to have to put some muscle into it. It took a lot longer than he'd planned, but finally he had a good-sized hole clear through to the other side.

  Alicia peered over his shoulder. "Find anything?"

  "Nothing inside this wall but… wall." He turned and looked at the toy in her hand. "But then, why…?"

  And then it hit him.

  "Oh, hell."

  Jack took the little Rover from Alicia and placed it in the hall on the other side of the wall. It wheeled across the floor and ended up against the wall on the far side of the hall.

  "What's on the other side of that wall?" Jack said.

  "Thomas's room."

  Jack carried the truck into Thomas's room—in no better shape than Alicia's—and set the truck on the floor there. It ran across the room and butted against the far wall.

  Jack watched it in dismay. "Damn thing wasn't attracted to the wall back there. It just wants to go uptown. So much for enigmatic clues in wills." And then a thought struck. "Or maybe it only wants to go as far as the front yard."

  Swell. Even if that were the case, they couldn't exactly haul out picks and shovels and start digging up the front yard.

  They'd already wasted too much time on that little piece of junk. But at least they had the key.

  "Let's get out of here."

  The truck kept running, spinning its wheels as it nosed against the wall. Jack resisted the impulse to drop-kick it down the hall, and picked it up instead.

  "You're taking that with you?"

  He turned off the motor and tucked it inside his coat.

  "Yeah."

  "Why?"

  "I'm not sure."

  And he wasn't. But sensed he shouldn't toss it away. Too many aspects of this crazy situation converged on the little truck—"Rover" in the will and on its hatch, and the way it always ran in the same direction, "pointing" uptown. Jack wasn't through with it yet.

  10.

  At last! Alicia thought as they headed downstairs. We're finally getting out of this place.

  And they'd found nothing.

  She began turning off the lights as they went.

  "Don't bother," Jack said. "No use trying to hide the fact that we've been here—Thomas and his Arab buddy'll know as soon as they see that smashed wall."

  They stepped out the back door, and Alicia jumped and yelped as a voice barked.

  "Hold it right there!"

  She turned and saw two hulking figures standing at the corner of the house. Enough light filtered in from the street to reveal the guns in their hands. Then the beam from their flashlight found her face, nearly blinding h
er.

  "Hands up—both of you!"

  The guards from the car?

  "Jeez, what a jerk I am," Jack muttered as he clasped his hands on top of his head. "Damn gas wore off."

  "This is my house!" Alicia said, squinting into the light.

  "Back inside," the voice said, waggling the flashlight as he spoke. "Both of you. We've got some people coming who'll want to talk to you two."

  What are they going to do to us? she wondered as fear coiled through her intestines. Torture us? What will they put us through before they believe we didn't find anything?

  "Quit stall—"

  The voice was cut off by a phut! sound—two of them. And then the light beam left her eyes, and she saw the two figures crumpling to the ground. The flashlight rolled, and the beam washed over the bulging, staring eyes and blood-leaking nose of one of the fallen faces.

  Alicia screamed and felt Jack ducking into a crouch, pulling her down with him. She saw his pistol in his hand, aimed at the corner of the house.

  "Are… are they dead?" Alicia whispered.

  "Sure as hell looks like it." His gun never stopped moving, ranging this way and that.

  "You shot them dead, just like that?"

  He stopped moving his gun and held it up in front of her for an instant. "You see a silencer? This was holstered when those guys went down. Somebody else got them."

  "Somebody else? But weren't they the guards from out front?"

  "The same."

  "Then who—?"

  "Damned if I know. Yesterday your brother's Arab friend mentioned being afraid of whatever it was he wanted from this place falling into 'the wrong hands.' I think this means we may have a third player in this game."

  A trilling sound made her jump.

  "What's that?" Alicia said, her fingertips digging into Jack's upper arm where she clutched it.

  The sound repeated, coming from one of the corpses.

  "Sounds like a cell phone. Someone's calling one of them."

  Jack looked as if he was about to go find the phone and answer the call.

  "Let's get out of here," Alicia said.

  "No alley on the other side, is there?" Jack said.

  She shook her head—the house was flush against its neighbor on the west side.

  "Then we'll have to escape through the house. It's safer than stepping into that alley."

  She couldn't argue with that. And for once in her memory, it felt good to step through that door.

  As she led him through to the front, she heard Jack curse himself all the way.

  "I let them wake up! What a damn stupid thing to do. Careless idiot. Could have got us both killed."

  He stopped when they reached the front door. He unlocked it, then slowly, gently pulled it open a crack.

  Alicia peeked over his shoulder. The guard car sat at the curb, engine still running, the doors closed. Jack stuck his head out and checked the front yard.

  "Looks clear," he said. "Let's go."

  He pulled the door open and guided her onto the front stoop.

  "Get moving and keep moving. Don't run but walk fast—real fast—to your right. We'll take the long way around to the car."

  Alicia started walking, just as he'd said, but then the terror of hearing a phut! and ending up like those two guards took hold. Repressing a scream, she began to run.

  11.

  "Damn!" Sam Baker said and jabbed his thumb at the end button. "Why don't they fuckin' answer?"

  He dropped the phone on the seat between him and the Arab and concentrated on driving. Mott and Richards were two of his better men, but they'd got snookered by the Clayton broad's muscle. They'd been groggy when they first called in, but seemed to be coming around pretty fast. By the time they hung up they were almost a hundred percent and heading into the house to see if the guy was still there.

  What Baker hoped was that they'd caught the guy and were too busy rearranging his face and innards to answer the phone.

  If it's the guy from the van, he thought, save a piece for me.

  His kidney still ached from that punch.

  But Baker was getting uneasy. After three calls, you'd think one of them would pick up the goddamn phone.

  If this operation went south it would be his ass. He'd be blamed, and that meant kissing the bonus and a regular gig in Saudi Arabia good-bye. And it wouldn't be his fault, dammit!

  His unease grew as he turned onto Thirty-eighth and accelerated up the block toward the Clayton house. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

  "Look!" Muhallal said, pointing through the windshield. "That is Alicia Clayton!"

  Baker squinted at the figure coming down the front steps of the house and hurrying toward the sidewalk. Sure as hell looked like her. And then he saw the guy following right behind her—

  "That's him!" he said. "That's the son of a bitch from last week—the one I told you about!"

  Rage burst like a hollow point in Baker's brain. He gunned the engine and the car leaped forward.

  "No!" Muhallal shouted. He grabbed Baker's arm. "No! Stop the car! I do not wish them to know we are here!"

  "No way! I owe that motherfu—"

  "Stop immediately or you are fired!" Muhallal said.

  Baker knew from the Arab's tone that he meant it. Shit. He eased up on the gas pedal and watched the two figures hurry away along the sidewalk.

  "But they've been in the house," he said, so pissed his hands were twitching on the steering wheel. "They probably stole something! Don't you want it back?"

  Baker didn't give a furry rat's ass about what they might've taken. All he wanted was to get his hands on that rotten lousy—

  "If they stole a "thing" Muhallal said, "then yes, of course I want it back. And I will get it back. But if they are walking away with information—information that I do not have—then I want that even more."

  "I don't get it." He wished he knew what the hell this was all about.

  Muhallal pointed through the windshield at the street ahead. "Follow them. But do not let them see you. If he takes her home, we will follow him to where he lives and learn what he knows. If they drive somewhere else, then we must know where they go. We must not let them get away."

  "Don't worry about that," Baker said, easing the car into motion. "Where she goes, we go."

  "You are so sure?"

  "Yep. Real sure." He couldn't help but grin. "That little ride we took her on last week:—you know, the 'idiotic stunt' you hated so much? It wasn't completely worthless. I didn't tell you at the time, but I planted a tracer in the bottom of that shoulder bag she always carries. No place she can go that we can't find her."

  The Arab didn't comment.

  What's the matter? Baker thought. Camel got your tongue?

  He picked up the cell phone.

  "Who are you calling?" the Arab said.

  "The guys who were supposed to keep them out of the house."

  Still no answer. He hung up after the sixth ring.

  If Mott and Richards were busy working someone over, it was the wrong guy—the right guy was walking up the street.

  This could be bad. Very bad.

  Baker dialed Kenny's number. He might need some backup on this. Ahab the Ay-rab sure as shit wasn't going to be any help.

  But who else in his crew to call? Hell, call them all. Get every damn one of them involved. Have them bring the tracking electronics and come loaded for bear.

  Some serious ass gonna get kicked tonight.

  12.

  Yoshio waited until Kemel Muhallal and his mercenary were at the end of the block before he pulled away from the curb and followed. He had been expecting them, but had hoped the Clayton woman and her investigator would be gone by the time Muhallal arrived.

  But the Arab had spotted them and now was following.

  Yoshio wondered if he would be forced to intervene again.

  He had seen the two guards regain consciousness and stagger from their car—the driver had leaned against a fende
r and vomited onto the pavement. He watched them call in and knew that Alicia Clayton had very little time left to find whatever she was looking for. As the pair drew their weapons and stalked toward the rear of the house, he'd debated what to do: Allow them to catch her and take possession of what she might have found? Or stop them and let her escape?

  He chose the latter.

  It had been almost too easy. The two guards had been so intent on the woman and her ronin that they'd ignored their rear. A quick shot to the head for each from Yoshio's silenced .22 was all it had taken. Then he had retreated to his vantage point to wait.

  And calculate the death toll. Counting Alicia Clayton's first investigator, her lawyer, and that arsonist Yoshio had seen Baker and his men immolate, these two tonight brought the number of deaths connected with Ronald Clayton's secret to 252—at least that he knew of. How many more to come?

  He wondered if the secret was worth it. Otherwise, Kaze Group was paying him for nothing.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he played through various scenarios in his head. If only he could be sure the Clayton woman had found some clue, then his course would be clear: Kill Muhallal and Baker, and close in on her. Clean and simple… but disastrous if she had nothing. He'd have revealed his presence for no gain.

  Of course, he already might have done that by killing those two men back on Thirty-eighth Street, but he felt their deaths would probably be blamed on the Clayton woman's ronin. At least Yoshio hoped they would. His job so far had been made so much easier by the fact that no one knew of his existence.

  He watched Baker hanging well back as he followed a white sedan. Yoshio followed Baker, wondering when he would have to choose.

  The ronin's Chevrolet headed east, then uptown to the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, where it crossed into Queens.

  Leaving town. Interesting. That might be the sign he'd been waiting for. But shortly after he followed them onto the Long Island Expressway, heading east, the decision whether or not to act was made for Yoshio: a dark van pulled in front of Baker's car. The same van used in the aborted abduction last week. The driver waved an arm out the window. Baker flashed his high beams.