Hosts

by F. Paul Wilson

  "No!" Her blue eyes were wide in her ashen face. "You can't… you must be mistaken!"

  "I wish I were."

  "But that looks like modeling clay."

  Jack lay the C-4 on the floor and reached back under the table. He found the little clock, ripped it free of its securing tape, and held it up.

  "And here's the timing device."

  He placed the clock on the kitchen counter, found a carving knife, and chop-severed the wires to its two dangling detonators, scarring the Formica in the process. Had to be done. Blasting caps can do some mean damage on their own.

  Kate had risen from the chair. She eyed the timer like she might a snake. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.

  "I know," Jack said. "Who and why, right?"

  She could only nod.

  "Let's think about that," he said.

  Possibilities were buzzing through Jack's head like a swarm of killer bees. He retrieved the brick of C-4. Holding that in one hand and the timer in the other, he did his thinking out loud.

  "Here's the situation: We've got two people living in this apartment at the moment, one of them acting real strange. The other resident and her brother hear the strange one say some weird things, things they maybe weren't supposed to hear. The strange one's cult leader arrives out of nowhere and removes her from the premises. A couple of hours later someone calling himself a phone repairman shows up, maneuvers himself into being alone in this room, then leaves. Immediately after that we find a bomb. Let's guess who the target might be."

  Kate slumped back into the chair, shaking her head. "No. I can't believe it. Jeanette would never—"

  "She's not really Jeanette anymore, is she. But for your sake let's give her the benefit of the doubt and say that she may not have known. But that doesn't change the fact that someone wants you, and perhaps me as well, out of the way. Permanently."

  Someone wanted to kill his sister. Even the hint of such a thing should have sent him into a wall-punching rage. But the brick of army-issue C-4 in his hand cooled him, chilled him. Reminded him of a pair of brothers he'd been hired to deal with a few years ago. What were their names…?

  Kozlowski. Right. Stan and Joe Kozlowski. They'd put the arm on somebody who hired Jack to take the arm off. And he had. Found the K brothers' stash and torched it.

  The stash had been chock full of C-4 bricks exactly like this one. Lots of domestic bombers made their own; not hard to do if you don't mind working with red nitric acid. The international set tended to favor

  Semtex, usually of Czech origin. But the K brothers had built their rep with ultra-reliable U.S. military-grade C-4. Word was that Joe K had hijacked a truckload in the nineties, enough to stock them up for decades. Jack was sure that other bombers had sources for army C-4, but still… this olive-drab wrapped brick bothered him.

  Could I be the target?

  Didn't seem possible. This wasn't his place. And the Kozlowskis had vanished. With just about every law enforcement agency in the US looking for them, they'd gone to ground and no one had seen or heard from them in years. Everything else pointed to Holdstock and his cult, but Jack couldn't bring himself to get on that train just yet.

  "What do we do?" Kate said.

  Good question. He looked at the little travel clock. The LED display had been disabled. Why? Only reason he could think of was so the glow from the numerals wouldn't give away the bomb's location.

  Which could mean the bomb had been timed to go off later, after all the lights were out. Later… when odds were highest that the occupants would be home and in bed.

  But what time had it been set for? The answer might be important.

  Jack stepped to the window and looked down at the street. Watched the cars and the pedestrians cruising through the fading light. Someone down there might be the bomber; then again, the bomber might be miles away. But Jack would bet that, come the moment of the blast, the bomber—or the one who'd hired him—would be nearby, watching, waiting. Because this amount of C-4 was gross overkill. Irrational. Something more than simple murder going down here. Jack could all but feel the raw emotion radiating from the brick of plastique in his hand.

  He turned to Kate. "Will you be all right if I leave for a little while?"

  "Do you have to go?" He could tell from her eyes that she didn't want to be alone here.

  "I think so. It could be important."

  "Okay. Just don't be long."

  "I won't." He'd disappeared on her once; he wouldn't again. "By the way, you haven't noticed anything around the apartment about escape routes during a fire have you?"

  He needed to find a way to leave unseen.

  18

  "Nu? You're thinking maybe the Kozlowskis?"

  The innards of the travel alarm clock lay spread out between them on Abe's work bench. The Isher Sports Shop was officially closed but a call to Abe had brought him back. Since disassembling a bomb timer was not something either of them wanted a curious passerby to witness through the store window, Abe had suggested they move to the basement.

  "That's just it," Jack told him. "I don't think it. It's against all logic. But my gut keeps saying otherwise."

  "So listen. A man shouldn't ignore his guderim."

  They sat in a cone of light, surrounded by Abe's true stock in trade—things that fired projectiles or had points and sharp edges or delivered blunt trauma. Unlike the chaotic arrangement on the upper floor, these items were carefully shelved and neatly racked.

  Jack watched as Abe's stubby but nimble fingers resoldered the tiny wires from the display to the circuit board. Jack was no good with electronics. He could use the equipment, but the innards baffled him.

  "There!" Abe said as the display lit with the time.

  "Neat," Jack said. "Now check the alarm."

  Abe pressed a button and 3:00 appeared.

  "Three A.M.," Jack said with a sick coil in his stomach. If he hadn't found this today, tomorrow he'd have awakened without a sister. "The son of a bitch."

  "You have a next step in mind?"

  "Not yet."

  Abe stared at him. "You don't look so good. You feeling all right?'

  Did it show? He felt tired and achy. Irritable too.

  "I'm okay. Nothing that can't be cured by a good night's rest and finding the guy who made this."

  "Well, while you're figuring how to do that, I should tell you that I ordered your new back-up pistol. Should be here in a few days."

  "I don't know, Abe. I'm having second thoughts about giving up the Semmerling."

  "Listen, schmuck, a .45 that small stands out too much for a guy who shouldn't be noticed. Like a signature, that pistol."

  "Wait," Jack said as a thought detonated in his skull.

  "What?"

  "Just stop talking a minute." Realizing he'd snapped, he added, "Please."

  Like a signature… like all his jobs, Jack had tried to work his fix on the Kozlowskis from the sidelines, looking to move in, cripple them by blowing their stash, and then take off without ever making direct contact. But it hadn't worked that way. They'd shown up at their farm when they were supposed to be in the city and he'd had to shoot his way out. He'd used his Glock mostly, but he'd needed the Semmerling at one point. The Kozlowskis had seen the Semmerling, and seen his face…

  And if they read the papers… and saw mention of a tiny .45… and decided to follow the reporter who claimed he'd been in touch with its owner…

  "Damn him!" Jack pounded the workbench with his fist.

  "Who? What?"

  "Sandy Palmer! He damn near got Kate killed! I ought to wring his scrawny neck!"

  He explained to Abe.

  "Possible," Abe said, nodding. "Very possible."

  "What am I going to do about him?"

  "The reporter? I think maybe you should worry about the Brothers K first, don't you?"

  "Them I can handle—especially now that I know who I'm dealing with. But Palmer… I think he sees me as some sort of cryptofa
scist comic book character. He was quizzing me about Nietzsche today—can you beat that?"

  "Nietzsche? Have you ever read Nietzsche?"

  "No."

  "Don't try. Also Sprach Zarathustra? Unreadable."

  "I'll take your word." He pounded the bench top again. "What a nightmare. Palmer's like a junkie—he'll keep biting my ankles until I lose it and strangle him or he slips up and exposes me. He thinks he's got this idea that I can make his career. Thinks he wants to be a great journalist, but what he really wants is to be a famous journalist."

  Abe shrugged. "A product of the Zeitgeist. But listen: sounds to me like he admires you. If he sees you as some sort of comic book hero, then maybe you should play to that. Comic book heroes have boy sidekicks, don't they?"

  "You mean, if I'm Batman, let him think he's Robin?"

  "More like that boy reporter who was always tagging along after Superman." Abe snapped his fingers. "What was his name? Timmy…"

  "Jimmy Olsen."

  "Yeah. Get Jimmy Olsen's focus off you and onto something else."

  "Like what?"

  Abe shrugged. "I should know? You're Repairman Jack. Me, I'm just a lowly merchant."

  "Yeah, right."

  At least it was an approach, a possible way out of this mess. But Jack didn't have the faintest idea how to make it work. Yet. This would take thought. In the meantime, he had to deal with the Kozlowskis.

  "Okay, lowly merchant. Show me your wares. I've got a feeling I'm going to need some specialized equipment to help me through the night…"

  SATURDAY

  1

  "It's quarter to three, Jack. Aren't you ever going to sleep?"

  Exhausted, Kate leaned in the doorway of the bedroom. Jack was a silhouette against the window overlooking the street.

  "Not tonight, I'm afraid."

  He turned toward her and she jumped when she saw two glowing green spots where his eyes should have been. Then she remembered the strange headgear he'd donned before turning out the lights and mumbling something about night vision.

  He'd brought it back from his trip, coming and going via the roof somehow. He'd been gone almost two hours—the longest two hours of her life. When he'd returned he'd said almost nothing, and seemed even grimmer than when he'd left. He didn't look good. Pale, a glassy cast to his usually clear eyes. She chalked it up to stress. More than enough of that going around. She wondered how she looked to Jack. Probably worse.

  At least the bomb was gone. He'd said he'd left it back at his place.

  "Can I make you more coffee?"

  He lifted his mug. "I'm set, thanks. Why don't you go lie down, close your eyes, and try for some sleep."

  "Someone tried to bomb us! Someone wants us dead! How can I sleep?"

  "I've got the watch. Nothing's going to happen while I'm here, I promise you. You're tired; sleep will come if you let it. Trust me."

  She did trust him—more than anyone. And she was desperately tired. She needed sleep but even more she needed the escape it offered from the gnawing anxiety that had seeped into her.

  She stepped back into the bedroom and crawled under the covers; she lay flat on her back, folded her hands between her breasts, and closed her eyes.

  I'll pretend I'm dead, she thought. Why not? That's what someone wants.

  Lord, what a thought. What had happened to her life? Facing the fact that she wasn't the all-American soccer mom she'd always thought herself to be had been tough, but she'd finally come to accept being bent in a straight world. She'd thought her life was turning topsy-turvy then, but that was nothing compared to this past week.

  And poor Jeanette… where was she now? What was she doing?

  Are you thinking of me, Jeanette? she asked the dark. I think of you constantly. Does a single thought of me ever cross your mind? Or are you so taken with this cult that nothing else matters?

  And Kevin and Elizabeth… she'd been away from them too long… had to get back to them… she's…

  … floating…

  No. Not floating. Flying. She has multiple transparent wings jutting from her shoulder blades, vibrating in a buzzing blur, propelling her through a hive-like structure, a glowing golden maze of myriad stacked hexagonal tubes that stretches away in all directions, reaching into infinity.

  And in the air about her, a hum, myriad voices joined in singing a single note.

  As she flies on she sees that the tubes are not empty. People within them, faces staring out at her, strangers, but calling her name.

  Kate… Kate… Kate…

  Who are these people? There seem to be millions of them, but with only half a dozen different faces. She's never—

  And then Kate recognizes Jeanette reaching for her from one of the tubes, smiling, calling her name. Kate turns toward her, but as she nears, Holdstock lunges from an adjacent tube, clawing for her. Kate veers away and comes face to face with another Jeanette… and another… thousands of Jeanettes calling her name, the sound so loud, deafening.

  Kate… Kate… Kate…

  She flees, soaring through the hive at blinding speed, zigging and

  zagging, dodging this way and that until she sees an opening in the wall. She flashes through into the outer darkness. It's cold and lonely-out here, especially after the warmth and light of the hive, but darkness or no, she knows she must keep going, must flee those voices that never tire of calling her name.

  Kate… Kate… Kate…

  The voices slow her, pull her back, prevent her from reaching escape velocity. Finally her outward momentum ceases. For a single heartbeat she pauses, suspended between the hive and open space. Then she begins falling backward. She turns and sees the hive from away and above. It's blue and brown and cloud swirled…

  It's Earth…

  2

  "Fuck!" Joe shouted. He pushed back in the passenger seat and began kicking the dashboard. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

  "Easy, Joe."

  Stan checked his watch again: 3:14 and no explosion.

  "He must have found it!"

  "Think about that, Joe. You think he'd still be up there if he found a whole block of C-4 in his apartment? No way. He'd be heading for the hills."

  "So you're sayin' I fucked up, is that it?"

  Stan heard the menace in his brother's tone. Had to tread carefully. Lots of pride at stake here. Better simply to lob the question back.

  "Joe, no rig you've ever made has ever misfired, right?"

  "Right."

  "But something did go wrong tonight. What? What's different about tonight?"

  "Nothin'! I made the simplest damn fucking rig ever! I always keep in my head what you told me when we first started out: Keep it simple—the more bells and whistles, the more chances for a malfunction. So I had no bells and whistles. And I used two detonators instead of one, just for insurance."

  "You said you disabled the display. Could that—?"

  "Naw, I triple checked it, reconnecting and disconnecting. The clock advanced each time. The alarm stayed set for three. The rig was sweet. He found it. I tell you, Stan, the fucker found it."

  Stan didn't want to mention Joe's scarred-up hand and how he was pretty sure that was why his rig had failed. Hard to solder fine wires when one of your hands looks like melted wax.

  "So let's go back to my question: what's different about tonight?"

  "I told you: Nothin'!"

  "But there is: how you're burning up. Every time we've done a job it's been business, pure and simple. Never emotionally involved. Never knew the people on the receiving end. But tonight's not like that. We want this guy. And when you get emotions involved, things go wrong."

  "That wasn't it, Stan. I—"

  "How big a hard-on you got for this guy, Joe? Think about it."

  Joe sat silent, staring out the windshield. Finally he shook his head.

  "Shit." His voice was laden with disgust. "I fucked it up."

  "It's all right," Stan told him. "The night's not over yet." He started the c
ar. "You get out and wait here. Watch the place while I go cook up something."

  My turn now, he thought. And this time no mistakes.

  3

  Jack sat huddled under a blanket, fighting to keep his eyes open. Four-thirty-five and he felt miserable. Must have picked up a flu of some sort. Great time to get sick.

  First he'd been wracked by chills, and just when he'd reached the point where he feared he'd never be warm again, he'd broken out in a drenching sweat, so profuse he'd had to snag a towel from the bathroom to dry off.

  The aftermath was weakness and lethargy. Too weak to keep standing at the window, so he'd pulled up a chair. Down the street, to the left, his Viper-1 night goggles had spotted a Taurus pulling away at 3:20 or so, leaving a man standing in the deep shadows of the sidewalk. But even at maximum magnification he remained a featureless blur.

  A Kozlowski blur, Jack was sure.

  This was why he'd remained on watch: for a moment like this, to confront the bomb setter face to face.

  Problem was he was in no shape to confront anyone. An arthritic old lady in a wheelchair would be a challenge right now. The Kozlowskis would mop up the street with him.

  All he could do was watch and wonder. He knew the man in the shadows was watching the apartment house door; but where had the car gone? What was the driver up to?

  And then the Taurus was back.

  Jack stiffened. When had that happened? He flipped up the night goggles and checked his watch: 4:50. Must have dozed off. Damn!

  There, almost directly below, a man crossing the street, moving away. Getting into the driver side of the Taurus.

  Jack's heart began hammering. Where'd he come from? Had he been in the building? Set another bomb, a bigger one, in the lobby maybe?

  He watched the Taurus. It stayed put. Good sign. A bomb in the lobby big enough to kill the people in a third-floor apartment would take out half the block. But their car was parked in the blast zone.

  That meant a smaller bomb, if any. But where?